Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface to the 100th Edition of *Hototogisu* As *Hototogisu* was reaching its 100th edition, I took the opportunity while proofreading to read it again after a long interval. It is a young master's novel. Had it remained a simple tale, that would have sufficed, but the flaws are endless—the cheap theatrics of Chijiiwa and Yamaki cobbled together to forcibly enliven scenes, the superfluous additions like that Ms. Ogawa. I felt compelled to address this "100th edition" designation more thoroughly. Yet rewriting it now seemed too troublesome, so in the end I confined myself to mere proofreading.

In the midst of reading it for the first time in ten years, I unexpectedly recalled something. That was the evening when this novel was conceived. It was already twelve years ago—back when I was renting a room in a house called Yanagiya in Zushi, Sagami Province—that a certain woman came to convalesce after illness, bringing with her a single young boy. It was midsummer, and seeing her at a loss with every inn completely full, after consulting with my wife, we decided to offer one of the two eight-tatami rooms we had rented. As it was summer, the partition between them was merely a single thin bamboo screen—if wind could pass through, so could conversations. Over about a month’s time, we had grown quite close. She was a woman in her mid-thirties who had known hardship—not the Ms. Ogawa of *Hototogisu*—and proved an exceptionally compassionate storyteller. It was a serene, slightly overcast evening in late summer; with the boy gone out to play, as the woman, my wife and I engaged in casual conversation, she suddenly began recounting a certain heartrending true tale. By then, those in the know were already aware, but to me it remained my first hearing of “Namiko’s” story. That Namiko had been divorced due to tuberculosis; that Takeo had grieved; that Lieutenant General Kataoka had angrily taken her in; that he had built a convalescent room for the ailing woman; that he had taken Namiko on a farewell trip to Kyoto and Osaka; that he had rejected the funeral flowers sent by the Kawashimas—these alone were the factual elements within her account.

The woman spoke earnestly while pinching her nose.

I leaned against the bedpost and stared vacantly. My wife sat with her head bowed. The day slipped into dusk before we knew it. The dim interior of an old country house made only the speaker's yukata appear white. She was recounting the pathos of her deathbed—*“They say those were her words, you know—‘I’ll never… never be born a woman again’”—* but as she began to speak them, the woman finally broke into sobs and let her story end there.

Something like lightning coursed through my spinal cord. The woman soon regained her health and returned to the capital, leaving that evening’s conversation behind as a parting gift.

Autumn in Zushi grows lonely. The impression of the story never faded. Morning and evening, the waves sent forth their mournful tones; when standing on the shore bathed in desolate autumn light, the phantom figure would materialize before one’s eyes. Compassion had grown excessive, becoming anguish. He had no choice but to take action. Thus it was that this novel *Hototogisu* came to be—taking the bare bones of her story and adding my own embellishments, I drafted an unpolished work which was serialized in the *Kokumin Shimbun* and later published in book form by Min'yūsha. As for *Hototogisu*'s flaws—those are due to my own lack of talent. Yet if there are passages that nonetheless stir readers' emotions, it is because "Namiko," who pleaded her case through the lips of that woman during a summer evening in Zushi, now addresses you dear readers herself. In short, I had become nothing more than the telephone wire.

February 2, 1909 (Meiji 42) / Once Musashino, now under Tokyo Prefecture

In Kasuya no Sato, Chitose Village, Kita-Tama District

Tokutomi Kenjiro, Authored by

Book One

1-1

A woman gazed at the evening scenery through opened shoji screens on the third floor of Senmei in Jōshū Ikaho. She was eighteen or nineteen years old. Her hair was arranged in an elegant marumage chignon, and she wore a small-patterned crepe hifu jacket fastened with a grass-green cord. A pale, slender face with slightly narrowed space between the eyebrows—though one might call the chilly gauntness around her cheeks a flaw, her slender form exuded demure dignity. She was not the plum blossom that proudly withstands the north wind with a single sturdy bloom, nor the cherry blossoms that transform into butterflies and dance through misty springs, but rather an evening primrose emitting its faint fragrance in summer twilight—such was the woman one might appraise.

As the spring sun dipped westward—distant ranges from Nikko to Ashio and the Echigo border, nearby peaks of Onoko, Komochi, and Akagi all ablaze with floral hues of sunset—even the raucous cries of crows flying from the enoki tree below took on a golden resonance. Then two billowing clouds emerged from Akagi's slopes. The woman on the third floor absently watched their course until the end. The plump, lovely clouds that seemed worthy of being tenderly embraced in both hands slowly departed Mount Akagi's peak and flowed majestically toward Ashio, fluttering through the unobstructed sky like golden butterflies side by side. But as the sun set and chilly twilight winds arose, the two cloud fragments now fading rose-pink were blown apart vertically, each tracing separate paths through the darkening evening sky for a time. The lower one gradually thinned until its form vanished without trace, while the remaining fragment turned ashen gray and wandered hazily through the air,

At last, mountains and sky alike faded into monochrome dusk, leaving only the face of the woman standing on the third floor pale in the twilight.

1-2

“Young Mis— Oh dear, what am I saying? My tongue slips again, ohohohoho.” “Um, Madam, I have just returned.” “Oh my, it’s pitch dark.” “Madam! Where are you?”

“Hohohoho, I’m here.”

“Oh my! There you are.” “Do come inside at once.” “You’ll take chill.” “Has the master still not returned?”

"I wonder what could have kept him?" she said as she slid open the shoji screen and stepped inside. "If need be, we could tell the front desk to send someone to meet him."

“That is indeed so.” While speaking, an old woman over fifty groped for a match, struck it, and lit the lamp. Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed on the stairs as the inn’s maid came up.

"Oh my, pardon me. "The master is taking his time at a most leisurely pace." "Well... we have just now sent a young man to meet him." "He should be returning presently." "—A letter—" "Oh! A letter from Father—if only he would return soon!" The woman with the marumage hairstyle turned over the envelope's address, gazing at it with palpable nostalgia. "Um, regarding the master's letter—" "I do wish to hear its contents soon indeed." "Ohohohoho, I'm certain he must have written something most amusing!"

The maid closed the door, added charcoal to the brazier, and left; whereupon Iku stored away her cloth-wrapped bundle in the cupboard and came over. "It truly is freezing! It’s quite different from Tokyo, isn’t it?" “Since cherry blossoms bloom in May here.” "Granny, do come closer." “Thank you.” As she spoke, the old woman gazed intently at her face. “It feels like a dream... When I see you with your hair done up in that traditional married women’s chignon, sitting there so properly, I can hardly believe you're the young mistress this Granny raised." "When the late Mistress passed away, you clung to me crying 'Mother! Mother!'—it feels as though it were only yesterday." Tears streaming down her face, she continued: "At your bridal procession too—oh Madam—how overjoyed the late Mistress would have been to see your splendid appearance!" and wiped her eyes with her underrobe sleeve.

As if drawn inward herself, she bowed her head; only the ring on her left hand held over the brazier blazed brilliantly. After a moment, the old woman lifted her face. “Forgive this old woman for going on like this again. “Ohohoho! As I grow old, I’ve become so prone to complaining, you see.” "Ohohohoho! Young Mis— Madam, you have endured so many hardships until now." "You have endured so admirably." “From now on, it will be nothing but auspicious occasions—the master is such a kind gentleman—”

“Welcome back, my lord.”

The maid’s voice resounded at the stairway entrance.

1-3

“Ahh, I’m exhausted, exhausted!” He discarded his tabi socks and straw sandals, briefly nodding to the two who had come to greet him as he reached the corridor’s top step. The twenty-three- or twenty-four-year-old Western-suited man looked back at the young lantern bearer. “No need—thank you for your trouble.” “These flowers are a bother, but could you have them soaked in hot water?” “My, how lovely!” “Truly magnificent azaleas!” “Master, where did you pick these?” “Beautiful, aren’t they?” “Look—there are yellow ones too.” “The leaves resemble sasanqua leaves, see?” “I picked these thinking to have Namiko arrange them tomorrow morning.” “Well then… I’ll head straight to the bath.”

*

“Truly, the Master is so vigorous! Military gentlemen are indeed different, aren’t they, Madam?” Madam carefully folded the overcoat, gently kissed it while hanging it on the kimono stand, and merely smiled without a word. The thundering footsteps on the stairs faded beyond the shoji screen, and in came the stalwart man from earlier, exclaiming, “Ah, what a relief!” “Oh, Master, have you already finished bathing?” “I’m a man. Ahahaha!” Laughing heartily, his wife adjusted the boldly striped robe she had awkwardly pulled over her head as he sat cross-legged on the zabuton cushion with a “Pardon me,” stroking both cheeks with his hands. His close-cropped head, plump like a chestnut weevil, bore a sun-browned face akin to a ripe peach—with thick brows above lively eyes, and beneath the nose, the faint shadow of a caterpillar-like mustache—yet still retaining traces of boyishness in places, making him a man who invited smiles.

“You have a letter.” “Ah, it’s from your father-in-law.” The stalwart man adjusted his posture slightly, cut open the envelope, and as he withdrew its contents, a separate letter fell out.

"This is Namiko's—hmm, seems unchanged... Hahaha! Don't be absurd... There appears to be a story here." With a smile, he rolled up the finished letter and set it aside. "He sends his regards to you as well." "'Since we'll be moving locations, tell her to take care not to aggravate her chronic condition,' said Namiko, glancing at the old woman who was bringing in the meal." "Oh my, is that so? I humbly thank you for this kindness." "Come on, food! Food! Today I had just two rice balls while walking nonstop all day—I'm absolutely famished." "...Ha ha ha!" "What kinda fish is this? It's not even ayu..."

“Was it called yamame trout... Granny?” “Is that so? Delicious! Really delicious! I’ll have seconds of that!” “Ohoho! What an early riser you are, Master!” “Naturally! Today I climbed from Haruna up Sōmagadake, then scaled Futatsudake, and when I came down to Byōbu-iwa, there were people waiting to meet me.”

“Did you walk that much?” "But the view from Sōmagadake was splendid." "I wish I could show it to you." “On one side lies a boundless plain with the Tone flowing way out there.” "On the other side—mountains upon mountains—and Fuji just barely peeking out above them was truly marvelous." "If I could've composed a proper poem up there, I'd have given Hitomaro himself a run for his money!" “Ahahaha!” “Another helping of this too!” "Is the view truly so splendid?" “Oh, how I would have loved to go see it!”

“Hehehe. “If you could climb it, I’d give you the Golden Kite Medal. “That mountain’s sheer—you’ve got to haul yourself up ten iron chains dangling down the face. “Me? I was tempered at Etajima—still a man who can dangle from masts or ropes at a moment’s notice! Easy for me, but someone like you’s probably never touched real dirt in Tokyo!” “Oh, you...!” With cheeks flushing sweetly: “But I did practice gymnastics at school...”

“Hehehe.” “That Peers’ School gymnastics training won’t cut it!” “Right, right—when was it? When I went to observe, there was a koto or something twanging away, and on top of that, they were singing that ‘All the Nations Upon the Earth’ song or whatever. The girls were holding fans, standing up, squatting down, spinning around—I thought it was dance rehearsal, but turns out that was their gymnastics!” “Ahahaha!” “Oh, what a wicked tongue you have!”

“Right, right! That time you stood alongside Yamaki’s daughter—with your hair done in taregami style, wearing what was it called... grape-colored hakama trousers, dancing with such poise—that was you, Namiko, wasn’t it?” “Ohohoho! What a thing to say! Are you acquainted with that Mr. Yamaki?” “Yamaki here—my late father looked after him, so he still comes around now and then, you know. Ha ha ha! Since Namiko admitted defeat, she’s gone quiet, hasn’t she?” “Such talk!” “Ohohohoho! You mustn’t quarrel so, Master and Mistress! Come now—here’s some reconciliation tea for you. Ohohohoho!”

II

The young man provisionally referred to as Takeo in the previous account—formally known as Navy Sub-Lieutenant Baron Kawashima Takeo—had just last month celebrated his wedding to Namiko, eldest daughter of Army Lieutenant General Viscount Kataoka Takeshi, a general whose fame resounded throughout the realm through an auspicious matchmaker. Having obtained a brief respite from duties, he arrived in Ikaho four or five days prior accompanied by his bride and Iku, the elderly maidservant dispatched from her parental household.

Namiko parted from her biological mother at the age of eight. At eight years old—that distant past—she could no longer recall her mother's features clearly, but remembered how she always wore a gentle smile. On her deathbed, Mother had called her close, grasping her small palm with emaciated hands: "Namiko, I must go far away now. Be good—cherish Father dearly—show kindness to little Komako. In five or six years..." Her voice broke as tears streamed down, then asked through sobs: "Will you remember Mother when I'm gone?" Even now, she could never forget how those trembling fingers had stroked her hair—then still cut thick and straight across her forehead, not yet grown past her shoulders. "...In five or six years—" she trailed off as tears streamed down her face, then asked through her weeping, "Will you remember Mother when I'm gone?" Even now, Namiko could never forget how those trembling fingers had stroked over and over her black hair—then still cut thick and straight across her forehead, not yet grown past her shoulders—an image carved deep into memory's recesses, never fading through passing days.

About a year passed, and the current mother arrived. After that, everything changed beyond recognition. Her late mother, having come from a distinguished samurai family, conducted all matters with proper decorum—yet even so, one could sometimes hear the maidservant remark how rare it was to see a married couple so affectionate. Though the current mother too came from an unimpeachable samurai lineage, having studied in England from youth and acquired both a masculine demeanor and thoroughly Westernized sensibilities, she set about transforming everything—methodically erasing each lingering trace of her predecessor that might stir remembrance. Though she would debate Father on every matter without restraint, he would laughingly dismiss it, often saying "Very well, very well—I surrender!" Yet on one occasion during evening drinks with his favorite adjutant Namba, when Mother came and joined them at the table, Father fixed her with a sharp look before bellowing laughter: "Now then, Mr. Namba—an educated wife may sound fine in theory, but I tell you she'll make you suffer for it! Ahahaha!" Even Namba, faced with the mother’s presence, found himself at a loss for proper greetings and merely fidgeted with his cup; afterward, he reportedly admonished his own wife not to let their daughters overindulge in books—insisting that graduating from higher elementary school was more than sufficient.

From early childhood, Namiko had been exceptionally sociable and bright; though not quite composing verses about incense burner peaks and snow-laden blinds, she already showed remarkable wit at three years old—taking off her own hat to place upon her grandfather’s head while being held by her nurse at the entranceway. The young heart, yearning to grow, was like tender spring shoots. Even if once buried under snow, should it escape being trampled down, then naturally when the thaw came, it would sprout forth in verdant green. The sorrow Namiko felt upon parting from her loving mother was unchildishly profound; yet had the days to come but shone brightly upon her, she would have grown without hardship. When first seeing this current mother—her hair styled in a Western bun, eyes slightly upturned and mouth large, with perfume wafting about as one drew near—even Namiko had momentarily flinched; yet being naturally affectionate, she would have approached this maternal figure with trust. But the stepmother, driven by her own obstinate resolve, pushed the child away. Aided by her self-centered nature unaccustomed to worldly ways—her pride in education, groundless suspicions, and jealousy—rather than treating the eight- or nine-year-old child with the consideration befitting an adult, she left the girl no harbor to moor her heart, and the chill of loneliness seeped deep within. Ah, to not be loved is misfortune; to be unable to love is an even greater misfortune. Namiko had a mother she could not love, a sister she could not love. Though there remained her father, the nursemaid Iku, and an aunt who was her biological mother’s elder sister—no matter what was said, her aunt remained an outsider; Iku was but a servant. Even these two lived under her mother’s constant scrutiny; any kindness shown or received between them only bred mutual suspicion and came to naught. Her father alone—her father alone—overflowed with paternal love, yet even that Lieutenant General Father found himself constrained in her mother’s presence; when considered, this too became an expression of his affection. Thus before Mother he would scold her out of necessity, while in private showed silent yet profound care—this father’s unseen struggle the astute Namiko fully grasped. Ah, how joyous yet unbearable! Though her heart overflowed with resolve to be ground to dust for Father’s sake, to act noticeably made Mother take offense as if her domain were invaded—a pain too keen to bear. Yet when she restrained herself, veiling her light and affecting reserved indifference to words, others deemed her spiteful or dull-witted—a cruelty beyond measure. There were times when over some minor mistake, she would be subjected to a relentless tirade delivered in torrential Choshu dialect armed with British-trained logic—attacks that not only targeted herself but obliquely mocked her late mother as well. Biting her lip in frustration, she would nearly retort only to fall silent upon glimpsing Father's shadow on the veranda. Other occasions found her weeping behind window curtains when subjected to baseless suspicions, murmuring "How cruel you are" through stifled sobs. A father there was. A father there was. A beloved father there was. However, for a girl whose world was her home, one mother outweighed five fathers. With a mother like this—with a mother like this—over ten years, habits would surely take root, and luster would fade. "Truly, she lacks any refreshing qualities—an oddly tenacious creature," Madam would constantly revile. Ah, whether planted in a clay pot or a Korean or Chinese pot, a flower remains a flower—it should not have to wait for sunlight. Namiko was indeed a flower in the shade.

Thus when the marriage arrangement with the Kawashima family was settled and the bridal procession completed, Namiko breathed a sigh of relief; her father the Lieutenant General, her stepmother, her aunt, and Iku—each in their own way—also breathed sighs of relief. Though old Iku had constantly muttered how "Madam (Namiko's stepmother) dotes on gaudy trinkets herself yet ugh—buys nothing but plain things for our young mistress," and though she'd fretted over the sparse bridal trousseau—weeping while insisting "If only Her Late Ladyship were here"—Namiko stepped through her family's gate with eager lightness. When she considered that unknown freedom and joy lay ahead, even the sorrow of parting from her father felt somewhat eased; thus she went forth with eager steps.

III-I

The path stretching over one ri from Ikaho to Mizusawa Kannon wound like a serpent along the flanks of bald mountains, save for two places where it plunged into valleys formed by mountain clefts before clawing its way upward—a road one could traverse even with eyes closed. Below, from Akagi, the Jōmō Plain spread out in full view. This area was an expanse of grassland where in springtime, from earth blackened by field burning emerged young shoots of miscanthus, bush clover, balloon flowers, and patrinia—sprouting forth as if laying down a carpet—while beautiful wildflowers bloomed profusely amidst them. Coin-vine adorned with cotton-like caps and spindly bracken stood here and there, such that should one set foot there, they would forget the very length of spring days.

Takeo and his wife, taking advantage of today’s fine weather to gather bracken, had come here after lunch accompanied by Granny Iku and a maid from the inn. Having busily gathered bracken for some time and seeming to have grown slightly weary, they had the maid spread out the blanket she’d been carrying on a soft patch of grass. Takeo flopped down fully clothed in his boots, while Namiko slipped off her straw sandals and settled gracefully onto the blanket, brushing her knees two or three times with a peach-colored handkerchief.

“Oh, how soft!” “It seems rather extravagant.” “Ohohoho! Young mistr— Oh dear, pardon this old woman—how radiant you look, mistress! And to hear you sing those songs so beautifully—it’s truly been ages, you know!” Iku peered happily at Namiko’s profile. “I’ve sung so much I’m getting parched.” “I didn’t bring any tea,” said the maid as she unwrapped the furoshiki cloth and produced summer oranges, bagged dry sweets, and boxed rolled sushi.

“What? With this, we don’t need tea,” said Takeo as he took a knife from his pocket and began peeling an orange. “What do you think, Namiko? Impressed by my skills?” “You do say such things!” “Master’s gathering has tree ferns mixed in ever so plentifully,” interjected the maid. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re just making excuses.” “Hahaha.” “Today is truly delightful.” “Isn’t the weather splendid?”

“What a beautiful sky—so vividly blue, it truly makes me want to weave it into a kosode,” said Namiko. “It would become a sailor’s uniform even better,” Takeo retorted. “Oh, what a lovely fragrance! Could it be from these wildflowers? Ah, a skylark is singing!” “Now that we’ve filled our bellies with sushi,” Granny Iku declared to the maid, “let’s gather another bundle’s worth!” She resumed bracken-picking with vigor. “You must leave some behind—she’s a spry old crone after all! Don’t you agree?”

“Truly spry I am!” “Namiko, not feeling weary?” “Not in the slightest today—never have I known such joy!” “Ocean voyages show you grand sights true enough, but a mountain vista like this? Different breed altogether.” “Clears your very soul!” “Look leftward—see those white walls flashing?” “That’s Shibukawa where we lunched coming up.” “And here—this azure ribbon? The Tone River.” “There’s Bando Taro himself—see him?” “Then that hulking mass—Akagi lording over all—smoke rising yonder? That teeming swarm below? Maebashi.” “What?” “That silvery needle far off?” “Aye, Tone’s current that.” “Ah, haze swallows the distance.” “Was fetching binoculars for you.” “Though haze-blurred horizons hold their own charm.”

Namiko sighed softly as she let her hand rest on Takeo’s knee. “Oh, how I wish we could stay like this forever!”

Two yellow butterflies grazed past Namiko’s sleeve and fluttered away; then came the rustling sound of trampled grass as a hat-wearing silhouette suddenly descended before the couple’s eyes.

“Takeo-kun.” “Oh! Chijiiwa-kun? Why are you here?”

3-2

The newly arrived guest appeared to be twenty-six or twenty-seven. He wore an Army lieutenant’s uniform. For a military man, he was an uncommonly fair-skinned handsome man. Regrettably, there lingered something inexplicably rustic about his mouth area, while his eyes—gleaming like black crystal—instilled discomfort in those he fixed his gaze upon, a flaw indeed. This was Chijiiwa Yasuhiko, Takeo’s cousin—a man then serving as a subordinate in the General Staff Office despite his reputation for competence. “That was sudden—you must be startled.” “Truth is, I had business in Takasaki yesterday and stayed over. This morning I came as far as Shibukawa, but when I heard Ikaho was just a stone’s throw away, I figured I’d drop by for a bit of fun.” “Then when I went to the inn and heard you all were out bracken-gathering for amusement, I asked for directions and came here.” “Well, I’d have to head back tomorrow.” “Seems I’ve come to intrude.” “Ha ha.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.—Did’ya go by my place after that?” “Stopped in yesterday mornin’. Your aunt’s keepin’ well enough,” he said, those black crystal eyes slicing toward Namiko. “Though she kept carryin’ on ’bout how you two must be comin’ home any day now.—No word from Akasaka way neither.” The flush that’d been creepin’ up Namiko’s cheeks burned proper crimson now, her gaze fallin’ to the ground.

“Now that reinforcements have arrived, we won’t lose now! If the Army and Navy unite, even a million-strong women’s army would be nothing to fear! What’s this? These ladies here have been bullying poor old me all by myself—‘You’re not gathering enough bracken!’ ‘That’s not even bracken you picked!’—their nagging has been driving me mad!” Takeo gestured with his chin toward the old woman and maid who had just arrived.

“Oh, Mr. Chijiiwa—what brings you here?” exclaimed the old woman in surprise, wrinkling her nose slightly. “I’m the one who sent a telegram earlier to call for reinforcements.” “Ohohoho, you say such things! Oh, right—well, you’ll be returning tomorrow, I see. Well then, since you mention returning, Madam—and as we must prepare dinner—we’ll take our leave now, if you’ll excuse us.” “Yeah, that’s fine, that’s fine. Since Chijiiwa-kun’s here too, we’ll prepare a hearty feast. With that in mind, come hungry! Ha ha ha ha ha! What? Namiko, you’re returning too? Well, why don’t you stay? So you're running away because you're losing your allies, huh? Don’t worry, I won’t bully you at all. Ha ha ha ha!”

Persuaded to stay, Namiko remained behind while Iku departed with the maid after gathering luggage items like the bracken bundled in blankets. Afterward, the three gathered bracken for some time, then—as the sun still rode high—visited Mizusawa Kannon, returned to where they had earlier collected bracken to rest awhile, and gradually commenced their homeward journey. The setting sun streamed resplendently from Monogusari-yama's shoulder, the path-flanking grasslands ablaze with yellow-green hues while solitary pine shadows stretched long across the terrain here and there. When eyes opened, distant mountains lay quietly bathed in sunset glow while evening smoke rose sporadically at their bases. From far beyond came plaintive cries of grass-laden oxen being scolded, filling the sky.

Takeo walked alongside Chijiiwa while conversing, with Namiko following behind them. The three walked slowly, having just finished crossing the ravine and ascended the slope to emerge onto a path resplendent with sunset light.

Takeo came to an abrupt halt.

“Oh, darn it! I forgot my walking stick. Well, we just rested there earlier. Wait here—I’ll dash off to get it. Now Namiko, you stay put. It’s right there. I’ll come running back at full speed.” Takeo forcibly restrained Namiko, placed the handkerchief-wrapped bracken on the grass, and hurried down the slope until he disappeared from view.

3-3

After Takeo had left, Namiko stood silently about a ken away from Chijiiwa. Before long, Takeo’s figure—having crossed the valley and scaled the far slope—appeared small in the distance, only to vanish instantly toward the horizon. “Namiko.” Namiko, who had been gazing into the distance, involuntarily shuddered when called by a voice near her ear. “Namiko.” He took a step closer. Namiko stepped back two or three steps and reluctantly raised her face, but when she was fixedly stared at by those black crystal eyes, she averted her gaze.

“Congratulations.”

She remained silent, her ears flushing crimson up to their tips. “Congratulations.” “No, congratulations.” “But there’s someone out there who isn’t celebrating, you know.” “Heh heh heh heh.” Namiko hung her head and kept poking at the grass roots with the tip of her maroon Western umbrella that she was using as a cane. “Namiko.” Like a squirrel entwined by a snake, she now had no choice but to raise her face. “What is it?” “Money for a baron really does make things better, doesn’t it?” “Heh heh heh heh, well, congratulations indeed.”

“What are you saying?” “Heh heh heh heh, if noble families have money, even fools can get married. Without money, no matter how much you’re adored, they won’t even spit in your direction. See? That’s today’s ‘princesses’ for you.” “Heh heh heh heh, but you’re not like that, are you now, Namiko-san?”

Even Namiko's face twisted in fury as she glared fixedly at Chijiiwa. "What on earth are you saying? "How rude! Try saying that again in Takeo's presence." "How rude!" "Without even manfully consulting your father, you had the audacity to send me such an impertinent love letter…… From now on, I shall show absolutely no mercy."

“What did you say?” Chijiiwa’s forehead darkened; biting his lip, he took a step or two forward. Suddenly, a neighing voice rose from below, and the upper half of a horse and rider appeared from the slope above.

“Ha ha ha! Pardon the intrusion. Ha ha ha!” The elderly horseman in his sixties removed his face covering while glancing suspiciously back at the pair again and again as he passed by.

Chijiiwa remained standing, unmoving. The lines on his forehead had slightly deepened, and a cold smile alone floated at the corners of his tightly pressed lips. “Heh heh heh heh. If it’s such a nuisance, you can give it back.” “What are you referring to?” “What do you mean ‘what’? The thing you so despise!” “There isn’t any.” “What do you mean there isn’t?” “I burned that filthy thing to ashes.” “It’s finally come to this, hasn’t it? You’re absolutely certain there were no other witnesses?”

“There isn’t any.” “So it’s finally come to this?” “How rude!” Namiko’s indignant glare met the ferocity of his pitch-black eyes, and unable to endure the discomfort, she shuddered and averted her gaze into the distance. At that precise moment, Takeo’s figure appeared at the slope entrance across the valley. His face glowed jujube-red in the sunset light.

Namiko let out a sigh of relief.

“Namiko-san.” Chijiiwa, undeterred, pursued Namiko’s evasive gaze as it darted about. “Namiko-san,” he said, “let me make this clear—keep it secret. Everything stays secret, understand? From Takeo-kun, from your parents. Otherwise”—he shot lightning-like glances at her face—“you’ll regret it, mark my words.” While drilling her with those electric stares, Chijiiwa turned away and bent to pluck clusters of wildflowers growing nearby.

With loud footsteps and swinging his walking stick, Takeo came up the slope. “Pardon me, pardon me. “Ahh... That was rough—been running nonstop. “But I did have my walking stick. “Namiko—what’s wrong? You look deathly pale!”

Chijiiwa inserted the violet flowers he had just plucked into the decorative cord on his chest, “Oh, Namiko-san here thought you’d gotten yourself lost since you took so long—she was terribly worried, I tell you! Ha ha ha ha!” “Ah ha ha ha!” “I see.” “Well then, shall we get going?”

The three silhouettes walked side by side, dragging through the roadside grass as they made their way toward Ikaho.

Part 4-1

In a corner of the second-class compartment on the 3 PM upbound train departing Takasaki, taking advantage of the empty compartment, Chijiiwa Yasuhiko sat with his shoes still on, legs stretched across the seat, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette while reading the newspaper. He roughly flung aside the newspaper, “Idiot!” He angrily stamped out the cigarette that had fallen from between his teeth as he spoke, spat out the window, then stood motionless for a while before clicking his tongue irritably. Pacing the compartment’s full length two or three times, he returned to his seat. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes. His jet-black eyebrows formed a straight line.

*

Chijiiwa Yasuhiko was an orphan. His father had been a samurai retainer from Kagoshima who fell in battle during the Restoration War; his mother perished in what was then called kakuran—cholera—in the summer when Yasuhiko was six years old, leaving the six-year-old orphan to be taken in by his aunt—his father’s sister. His father’s sister was none other than Kawashima Takeo’s mother. Though his aunt did feel some pity for Yasuhiko, his uncle considered him nothing but a nuisance. When Takeo sat in ceremonial positions wearing Sendai-hira hakama trousers, Chijiiwa—forced to cower in inferior seats clad in worn Kokura hakama—realized early that unlike Takeo, who abounded with parents, wealth and status, he himself must navigate the world entirely through his own fists and wits, thus coming to despise Takeo and resent his uncle.

He perceived that the path of worldly success had two routes—front and back—and swore that in any situation he would take the shortcut and advance. Thus even while attending the Military Academy under his uncle’s shadow—during the time his classmates fretted over exams and grades—Chijiiwa vigilantly cultivated connections with seniors from his hometown, selectively associating only with those who might advance his interests. While others clutched their diplomas and sighed in relief, he had already leveraged his connections to infiltrate the inner sanctum of the Army’s brain trust: the General Staff Office. There he perched in an enviable position—blowing smoke through idle banter while occasionally overhearing matters of national import—even as his former classmates were scattered among various companies, burdened with drills and marches.

The next step was marriage. Just as monkeys descend to water through linked hands, so too does a man rise through advantageous connections—this truth he had long perceived. Though no registrar of marriages, he mentally tallied alliances: a certain baron wed to a marquis's daughter; a scholar-official married into a count's family; a tycoon made adoptive father to a count's heir; a marquis's son secretly betrothed to a financier's daughter. Even as he counted these matches on hidden fingers, his strategic gaze had already settled upon Lieutenant General Kataoka's household. As for Lieutenant General Kataoka, though he was then on the reserve list, his martial renown remained undiminished throughout the land, His Majesty’s favor most splendid, magnanimous in bearing—truly a general who might be called the nation’s bulwark. Having long discerned the general’s unspoken yet weighty influence across the land, Chijiiwa sought even the slightest advantage to gradually draw near, deftly ingratiating himself with the household as well. His eyes immediately fixed a glare upon the first daughter, Namiko. First, because he had swiftly discerned that the Lieutenant General's affection naturally flowed most deeply toward Namiko; second, because he had observed that the current Mrs. Kataoka naturally disdained Namiko and wished to dispose of her through any available match at the earliest opportunity; and third, because his own thoughts were mingled with approval of Namiko's modest and noble character—thus he had targeted that person. Observing the situation, while the Lieutenant General was a man of such broad temperament that his joys and angers rarely showed on his face—making it difficult to gauge what thoughts lay beneath—he had indeed secured a place in Mrs. Kataoka’s good graces. The second daughter, named Komako, was a spirited fifteen-year-old girl who was particularly on friendly terms with me. Beneath them were two children born to the current Mrs. Kataoka, but these lay outside consideration. Here remained the elderly servant Iku, who had served since the time of the previous wife and stayed on through the Lieutenant General’s intervention even when the kitchen staff underwent major replacements after the current Mrs. Kataoka’s bridal procession. This woman persistently attended Namiko’s side, her lack of favor toward me proving an obstacle—but no matter, Chijiiwa thought, if only he could conquer Namiko herself. He had waited about a year for an opportunity, but now growing impatient, one day in the confusion of post-banquet drunkenness, he boldly sent her a love letter sealed in a double envelope with its address disguised in feminine script, deliberately using the postal service.

On that very day, he had been suddenly dispatched to a distant location on official orders; when he returned after over three months, to think that during his absence Namiko had already married my cousin Kawashima Takeo through the matchmaking of a certain House of Peers member Kato—a match that should have rightfully been mine! Chijiiwa, having suffered an unexpected defeat, in a fit of rage tore to shreds the tomozome crepe he had bought in Kyoto as a souvenir—having imagined receiving a favorable reply in this way—and flung it into the wastebasket. However, Chijiiwa was not a man to ever lose sight of himself in any circumstance; he swiftly rallied his remaining forces after defeat. What was truly vexing was that if even a single detail about that love letter were to leak from Namiko to the Lieutenant General or Takeo, he risked losing crucial advantages. Given that Namiko was someone who could be approached, he thought it unlikely she would reveal anything, yet still felt uneasy. Seizing the opportunity of having business in Takasaki, he discreetly visited the Takeo couple staying in Ikaho and proceeded to sound them out.

The most detestable thing was Takeo—

*

Hearing “Takeo, Takeo” called nearby, Chijiiwa jolted his eyes open; peering out the window revealed the train had just arrived at Ageo Station. The station attendant passed by calling “Ageo! Ageo!” “Idiot!” Cursing himself alone, Chijiiwa stood and paced the compartment two or three times. He shuddered as though trying to shake something from his heart before returning to his seat. A sneer’s shadow clung to both eyes and lips.

The train departed Ageo once more, speeding like a gale through several stations until reaching Oji. As gravel crunched beneath feet on the platform, five or six people noisily crowded into the second-class compartment. Among them was a man over fifty wearing a complete Ichi-raku ensemble with a white crepe silk heko obi from which a rock-solid gold chain glittered, his right hand fingers bearing a thick gold ring, ruddy face marked by sharply drooping eye corners and a prominent reddish-black mole beneath his left eye—as he took his seat, their gazes suddenly met.

“Well, Mr. Chijiiwa.” “Ah, this is…” “Where were you headed?” As he spoke, Red-Black Mole stood and sat beside Chijiiwa. “Takasaki.” “Returning from Takasaki, are you?” He glanced at Chijiiwa’s face and lowered his voice slightly. “Are you pressed for time? If not, how about sharing supper?” Chijiiwa nodded.

4-2

Were one not to see "Yamaki Hyōzō's Detached Residence" inscribed on the gate of this riverside villa near Hashiba Crossing, they might mistake the architecture for that of a certain rendezvous house—its Shimada-style paper screens casting elegant shadows through acoustically sealed lattices. Alternatively, in a second-floor room where crimson carpets lay spread as if awaiting scattered flower cards, deliberately eschewing electric lamps' vulgarity in favor of that familiar Japanese-Western hybrid lantern placed amidst disordered cups and dishes, sat cross-legged Chijiiwa and another—the man with the reddish-black mole whose identity required no questioning: none other than the household's master, Yamaki Hyōzō.

They had dismissed any attendants—no woman waited at their side. Before Red-Black Mole lay a small notebook spread open, with a pencil placed beside it. Addresses and official titles were meticulously noted alongside numerous names, with various symbols added in pencil. Circle. Square. Triangle. The character 'イ'. The character 'ハ'. Numbers such as 5, 6, 7. Or Roman numerals. Some had dots applied. Some had been erased and marked with 'ikiru' notations.

“Well now, Mr. Chijiiwa.” “Once you’ve settled that matter, notify me the moment it’s finalized—no missteps permitted.” “No concerns—it’s already reached the minister’s desk.” “But with rivals maneuvering daily, we must spread the usual incentives without restraint.” “This one here—a cunning fox.” “We’ll need a firm bit for this stallion,” said Chijiiwa, jabbing his pencil at the ‘1’ in his ledger.

“Well now, how about this?” “That one’s impossible to negotiate with. I don’t know him well myself, but they say he’s an extremely stubborn bastard. We’ll have to approach him directly with bowed heads—mishandle this, and we’ll botch it.” “True, the Army has its reasonable men, but there’s no shortage of smooth operators either. Last year when supplying uniforms to the division—our usual method worked well enough, thank goodness. What was it he said...ah yes, that red-bearded colonel! Kept nitpicking every damn thing, so I sent my clerk with the usual gift box. ‘You fools!’ he roars—‘Think I take bribes? This insults a military man’s honor!’ Would you believe it? Kicked the box clean across the room! The usual setup—dried sweets on top, silver coins underneath—no wonder he lost it! Maple leaves scattering, snow falling—like a rainstorm filling the entire tatami room. Then that bastard really flew into a rage—‘Disgusting!’ ‘I’ll expose you!’—what a cursed hassle! Finally wrangled it to conclusion, but having such gentlemen around turns everything into idiotic complications. Speaking of complications—someone like Mr. Takeo here follows the same pattern. Truly impossible to negotiate with. Just the other day—”

“But Takeo can afford to act stubborn and self-righteous because his father amassed a fortune worth tens of thousands.” “A man like me has only his own two hands—” “Ah, I’d completely forgotten,” said Red-Black Mole, glancing at Chijiiwa’s face as he pulled five ten-yen bills from his pocket. “We’ll settle the rest later—consider this cab fare.” “I’ll take this without ceremony.” He swiftly gathered the bills and stuffed them into his inner pocket. “But Mr. Yamaki—”

“?” “What’s the fuss? No seed sown means no harvest!” Yamaki forced a wry smile. Chijiiwa tapped Yamaki’s shoulder. “A shrewd operator indeed—what a waste! Should’ve at least made him an accounting bureau chief!”

“Hahaha! Mr. Yamaki—Kiyomasa’s dagger cuts sharper than some brat’s three-shaku-three-sun blade!” “Well said—but you’d better be extra cautious in Kakigarachō. An amateur like you will bungle it for sure.” “Oh, it’s just a down payment—” “Well then—once we ascertain the situation in the coming days—oh, it’s safer to board the carriage after it’s been dispatched.” “In that case—my wife would come out to greet you properly, but my daughter can’t be parted from her.” “Miss Yutaka? Is she sick?”

“Well now... how to explain it.” “She’s been laid up sick this past month, so the wife brought her out to this house.” “Ah now Mr. Chijiiwa—a man shouldn’t go saddling himself with wives and brats.” “Money flows freest when you’re footloose.” “Hah!”

Having been seen off by the master and a maid at the entrance, Chijiiwa departed from Yamaki's villa.

4-3

Having finished seeing off Chijiiwa, as Yamaki turned to return to the inner quarters, a sliding door in the distance whispered open. A fair-skinned woman over forty entered—her hair thin and straight, two front teeth jutting out impudently—and took a seat beside Yamaki.

“Has Mr. Chijiiwa already left?” “Just saw him off. How’s Yutaka?”

The buck-toothed woman’s face grew even longer as she said, “Husband, really... “She’s utterly impossible.—Ken, you go over there.” “Today again—whenever something didn’t sit right with her, she went throwing teacups and ripping kimonos. Couldn’t be managed at all.” “Really—for an eighteen-year-old—”

“It’s truly Sugamo now.” “She’s impossible.”

“This isn’t the time for your jokes, I tell you. But she’s pitiable—truly pitiable! Today again—you—she went on like that to Takeo. That hateful Mr. Takeo is absolutely awful—last New Year I knitted him socks, then sewed handkerchief borders, then made woolen gloves and arm warmers too! Why, this New Year I even knitted a red wool shirt—all at my own expense! And without so much as a thank-you, he goes and marries that plain-faced, mean-spirited Miss Namiko who puts on airs! He’s truly awful—awful awful awful awful! I’m a Yamaki woman—you think I’d lose to some Namiko? Awful awful awful awful I say! And there she was crying like this—you hear me? She’s that dead set on him—ahhh, I want to fix this somehow, I tell you!”

“Don’t spout nonsense! No weak troops follow a strong general. You truly are Yutaka’s mother through and through. Now, even as new peers, the Kawashimas have substantial wealth, and Takeo’s no fool—didn’t I strain every nerve to get Yutaka wed there? But it came to nothing. With the marriage properly concluded, everything’s reset to zero. Unless Namiko dies or they divorce, there’s no path forward! Instead of this idiocy, cut your losses already! What matters now is finding sense to marry her elsewhere—you fool!”

“What do you mean ‘fool’?” “Well I’m not sharp as you now, am I?” “At your age, swapping women like tabi socks—” “Startin’ your fancy speeches again—can’t stand it!” “You’re a proper ass!” “There you go bristlin’.” “What’s that? I’m her father—course I dote on Yutaka! ’Stead of yappin’ uselessness, I mean to find her some fine place to live easy all her days.” “Come then Osumi—let’s go lecture ’er proper-like.”

And so the couple, keeping each other company, made their way along the corridor to the detached room where their daughter Yutaka resided.

As for this Yamaki Hyōzō—where exactly he hailed from remains unclear—he now ranked among those known in society as so-called gentleman merchants. In his early days of rising prominence, Takeo’s late father had extended him no small measure of support; thus it was said he still frequented the Kawashima household. Some claimed this too stemmed from the Kawashimas being among the wealthiest of the new peers, though such an assessment seemed unduly harsh. He maintained his main residence in Shibazakura River Town and kept a villa by Hashiba’s ferry crossing; though once engaged in usury, he now focused primarily on army contracts and other government projects, having enrolled his eldest son in a Boston commercial school while his daughter Yutaka until recently attended the Peers’ School. As for how he came by such a wife—a Kyoto woman whose sole distinction lay in that designation, deemed so remarkably homely that many marveled at Yamaki’s forbearance—the truth revealed a spirited woman deserving adjectives like “coquettish,” keeping residences in various locales where she awaited Yamaki’s rotational visits, a circumstance his wife perceived with vague awareness.

4-4

On the floor lay a koto, a gekkin, a large doll in a glass case, and similar objects. In one corner stood an elegant lady's desk; nearby rested a full-length mirror. One might have taken this for the chamber of some noble princess—yet at the room's center lay a silk futon where sprawled a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old girl, her Shimada coiffure disheveled like bundled corn silk. Though her pale complexion might have been deemed charming, the excess flesh beneath her cheeks hung perilously close to collapse. Her perpetually agape mouth formed a slack cavern, while puffy lids forced her eyes open by mere two or three tenths of an inch—their gaze veiled as if by spring mist, as though the deep slumber of past lives remained unbroken even now.

As the woman who had been given some instruction left while stifling a laugh, Yutaka hurled a parting "Idiot!" at her retreating back, then impatiently kicked off her hifu jacket. She grabbed the large photograph from the alcove—one showing many female students wearing hakama—and stared with thread-like eyes that never blinked. Soon she began vigorously scratching at what appeared to be one particular face in the image. Still not satisfied with this, she clawed crisscross marks across that face with her nails.

The sound of a sliding door opening.

“Who’s there? Is that Take?” “Yeah, it’s Take—the bald-headed Take.”

Laughing as they settled by the pillow were Yamaki and his wife. The daughter frantically hid the photograph and lay there neither fully sitting up nor lying down. “How are you feeling, Yutaka?” “Any better?” “What did you just hide?” “Let me see it. Come on, show me.” “When I tell you to show me—” “What’s this? This is Miss Namiko’s face! You’ve clawed it up something fierce!” “Rather than this nonsense, you’d have shown more sense doing some midnight curse ritual!”

“You’re at it again with that nonsense!” “Well then, Yutaka—you’re Yamaki Hyōzō’s daughter, aren’t you? Show some backbone! Show that Yamaki daring! Rather than wasting yourself on that tight-fisted fool—this lopsided pining without even a rival—listen here! Use your wits to land a Mitsui or Mitsubishi heir! No—better still! A general’s son! A prime minister’s boy! No—higher yet! Foreign royalty! What good’s such a piddling scrap of grit? How about it, Yutaka?”

Though Princess Yutaka would freely throw tantrums before her mother, even she restrained herself before her father. She lay prostrate and gave no answer.

“Well then, Yutaka—do you still pine for Mr. Takeo?” “What a vexing Miss Konami!” “Speaking of Konami—how’s about we whisk you off to Kyoto for diversion?” “I tell ya—it’ll be grand!” “If temples like Gion and Kinkaku-ji bore you stiff, we’ll traipse through Nishijin and have ’em drape you in three-layered robes!” “Eh? Sweeter than botamochi falling into that gaping maw of yours!” “You’ve been cooped up too long yourself—take Yutaka promenading, eh Osumi?”

“So you’re comin’ along too, are ya?” “Me? Don’t talk nonsense—in the middle of all this busyness!” “Well then, I s'pose I'll hold off too.” “Why? No need to put on such a show of obligation. Why?”

“Oh ho.” “Why?”

“Oh ho ho ho ho.” “What an unsettling way to laugh! Why?” “Because I’d be worried leavin’ you home alone.” “Don’t talk nonsense! Who’d say such things before Yutaka? Yutaka, everything Mom says’s lies—don’t take it serious.” “Oh ho ho! No use flappin’ yer gums ’bout it now!” “Quit the nonsense. More ’portant—Yutaka, keep yer mind open—wide open. Wait and nectar’ll flow. Somethin’ real interestin’s gonna pop up soon!”

5-1

On a Saturday afternoon in mid-June when chestnut blossoms bloomed within the grounds of Lieutenant General Kataoka’s estate in Akasaka Hikawa-cho, the master Viscount Lieutenant General Kataoka Takeshi—dressed in a flannel summer kimono with a mouse-gray crepe heko obi—settled heavily into his study chair. He lacked but five years to reach fifty. His forehead showed slight balding, while thick graying spread through his temples. His frame weighed twenty-two kan; even an Arabian steed of exceptional quality was said to serve beneath this General’s command. Shoulders swelled mightily enough to engulf his neck; a double chin merged seamlessly into his chest; an An Lushan-style belly protruded voluminously; bull-like thighs threatened mutual chafing with every step. Complexion stood decisively reddish-black; nose thick; lips full; beard sparse; eyebrows thin. Yet within this hulking frame dwelt eyes narrow yet softly luminous—resembling an elephant’s—and a mirthful air perpetually hovering about lips ever verging on laughter; thus did he strikingly embody an ineffable charm tinged with comicality.

One autumn year, it is said, the Lieutenant General—disguised—had lived hunting in mountain villages. When he requested a bowl of bitter tea at a mountain hut where an old woman dwelled alone, she scrutinized his appearance intently. “That’s quite the build you’ve got there. “D’ya manage to bag even a single rabbit?” The Lieutenant General smiled gently. “Not a single one.” “Even if you go ’round killin’ like that, how’s that s’posed to be proper work?” “With that build of yours, ye should try day labor—fifty ryō’d be no trouble at all!” “Fifty ryō a month?” “No! Yearly.” “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it, so ya should take up day labor.” “I’ll take care of ya whenever ya need it.”

“Well, that’s mighty kind of you. I might come asking for your help again.” “Do it, do it. With that build of yours, killing’s a waste of good brawn.”

This was recounted as one of those heartwarming anecdotes that occasionally circulated among the Lieutenant General's close associates. To unknowing eyes, he might well have appeared thus. But to those who understood him truly—this General whose mountainous frame weighed twenty-two kan and whose perpetually serene countenance stood unshaken as great cliffs—they who relied on him as an iron bulwark in times of crisis knew his very presence must have steadied the roiling hearts of three armies.

On the table near his elbow sat a slender bamboo plant arranged in a warrior’s stance, potted in a blue-ground Koji ware vessel. High overhead hung a portrait of Their Majesties. On a wall further below hung a plaque inscribed "Seinin". The seal was Nanshū. There were books on the shelf. On the mantelpiece and on the triangular shelf in the corner lay seven or eight photographs of Japanese and foreigners—some in military uniforms, others in civilian attire. The grass-green curtains were drawn tight, and all six windows facing southeast were thrown open wide. To the east, looking beyond the valley town teeming with people and clustered houses below, from the verdant heights of Reinanzaka one could see the tip of Atago Pagoda emerging about a foot above. A kite wheeled above it. To the south lay a garden where chestnut blossoms spilled forth in bloom. Through its gaps, the ginkgo treetops of Hikawa Shrine appeared as if raising blue spears.

The early summer sky viewed through the window shone a vivid blue like pale yellow silk. Amidst refreshing green leaves everywhere, eggshell-white chestnut flowers bloomed in thick clusters across every tree, their forms reflected against the azure sky as though painted there. The branch extending near the window—contrary to its rugged appearance—bore leaves that filtered sunlight into hues of emerald, jade, and amber through their translucent glow. Amidst these leaves, clusters of untrimmed flowers swayed from bending boughs. Though no wind blew, each tremor of air carried their fragrance whispering into the study, while pale violet shadows danced across the pages of Current Status of the Siberian Railway held in the master's left hand, slipping through the window's threshold.

The master closed his narrow eyes for a moment, sighed deeply, then slowly opened them again to fix his gaze upon the booklet.

Somewhere, the rattling sound of a well pulley—like beads scattering—had been heard, then ceased once more. The afternoon stillness filled the entire estate.

Two mischief-makers seized their chance in the stillness. From a door left ajar about a foot, they quietly inserted their heads and then pulled them back. The sound of stifled laughter swirled outside the door. One mischief-maker was a boy of about eight. He wore a knee-length sailor suit and lace-up boots. The other mischief-maker appeared to be five or six years old, wearing a purple arrow-patterned summer kimono with a crimson obi, her hair cascading loosely down to her eyes. The two mischief-makers lingered awhile outside the door until, no longer able to contain themselves, they pushed it wide open with all four hands in unison. Charging through in a single surge, they effortlessly surmounted the newspaper-bundled fortress lying mid-room and advanced straight toward the Lieutenant General's chair—the sailor-suited boy seizing the mountainous right knee, the parted-hair girl claiming the left.

“Father!”

5-2 “Oh, you’re back?” With a voice that seemed to rise effortlessly from the depths of his ample belly, the Lieutenant General smiled warmly, his weighty hand patting the sailor-suited boy’s shoulder on the right while stroking the kimono-clad girl’s bangs on the left. “How were your exams? Did you finish them?” “I—I got an A in arithmetic, Father!” “Father! The teacher praised my embroidery today!”

The girl with parted hair pulled out a kindergarten craftwork from her pocket and placed it on the Lieutenant General’s lap. “Well now, this looks splendidly done!” “And then...I got Bs in calligraphy and reading—all my other subjects were Cs—and I lost to Tōto Minakami.” “I’m so frustrated I can’t stand it!” “Study harder—what was today’s moral training lesson about?” The sailor-suited boy grinned broadly as he said: “Today Father we learned about Kusunoki Masatsura! I adore Masatsura!” “Who’s greater—Masatsura or Napoleon?”

“Both are great.” “I love Masatsura, Father, but I like the navy even more.” “Since Father’s in the army, I’ll join the navy!”

“Ha ha ha ha! So you’ll become Brother Kawashima’s disciple?” “But Brother Kawashima’s just a lieutenant! I’m gonna be a lieutenant general!” “Why not become a general?”

"But you're a lieutenant general too, Father." "A lieutenant general is greater than a lieutenant, right, Father?" "Whether lieutenant or lieutenant general, those who study are admirable." "Father! Father, I'm telling you, Father!" said the girl with parted hair, using the Lieutenant General's captured knee as a teetering platform while bouncing up and down. "Today you must listen to a wonderful story—the tale of the rabbit and the turtle! Shall I tell it? Let me try—Once there was a rabbit and a turtle—Oh! Mother's here!"

As the grandfather clock struck two in the afternoon, there entered a tall woman of thirty-eight or thirty-nine. The front hair of her Western-style chignon was cut short, curled, and parted in two across her prominent forehead. Her slightly large eyes—tilted upward at the corners—held a certain severity in their gaze. Her foundation was a deep black lightly applied, while the teeth that occasionally showed between her lips gleamed with a brilliance polished to blinding whiteness. Her attire consisted of a striking figured silk summer kimono paired with a black satin maruobi sash, while gold rings set with gemstones of evident worth adorned her fingers on both hands.

"You're indulging them again, Father." "Oh, it's nothing—I was just inquiring about their school marks." "Now then, time for Father's studies." "All of you—out to play!" "I'll take you exercising later!"

"Oh, I'm so happy!" "Hurray!" The two children excitedly entwined themselves, clinging together as they tumbled out of the room—no sooner had they left than another distant "Hurray!" echoed through the halls. "Brother, wait for me!" came a faint cry from afar. "No matter how often I remind you, you remain far too soft with them." The Lieutenant General smiled faintly. "Not at all—children thrive best when shown affection." "But you—they say 'stern father, gentle mother,' yet you insist on coddling them endlessly! Everything's turned topsy-turvy—I'm left perpetually scolding them alone, forced into playing the villain by myself!"

“Now now, there’s no need to mount such hasty attacks. Do go gently—my dear teacher should first take your seat there. Ha ha ha ha!” Chuckling, the Lieutenant General stood and took the aged Royal Third Reader from the table. Swallowing a mouthful of spittle, he began reading in peculiar English tinged with a Satsuma accent. The woman listening intently—the wife—persistently corrected his pronunciation errors. This constituted the Lieutenant General’s daily regimen. The Viscount who had risen as a mere warrior during the upheavals of the Meiji Restoration—driven by martial urgencies that left no leisure for foreign language study—had upon becoming a reservist last year finally gained some respite, seizing this opportunity to assail English first. His instructor was his readily available wife Shigeko. As daughter to an eminent Chōshū samurai who had long studied in London, her English mastery reportedly surpassed that of most men. Indeed, this wife steeped in London’s smog prioritized Western customs in all matters, striving to manage household affairs and educate the children precisely as she’d observed abroad—yet circumstances largely defied her intentions: servants privately mocked her maladaptation, children naturally cleaved to their indulgent father alone, and her husband’s inveterately gracious Eastern manner in all things became the very seeds of her discontent.

Just as the Lieutenant General, after immense struggle, finished reading a page and was about to commence translation, the door swung open to reveal a girl of about fifteen with flowing hair adorned by a red ribbon. She giggled softly at the comical sight of the Lieutenant General holding the small reader in his large hands. “Mother, Aunt from Iidamachi has arrived.” With a wrinkle between her brows so faint it seemed both present and not, she glanced briefly at the Lieutenant General’s face.

The Lieutenant General slowly rose to his feet, moved the chair aside, and said, “Please show them in here.”

5-3

“Excuse me.”

The woman who entered appeared to be about forty-five or forty-six years old, a lady of refined bearing—perhaps due to eye trouble—wearing water-blue glasses. There was something about her face that resembled someone seen on the third floor at Ikaho—one might think this natural. This was Kiyoko—sister to Lieutenant General Kataoka’s deceased first wife, wife of Viscount Katō Toshiaki (a member of the House of Peers), and the very couple who had arranged Namiko’s marriage into the Kawashima household as matchmakers. The Lieutenant General stood up cheerfully to offer a chair, while slightly adjusting the window curtain facing the seat,

“Please, make yourself comfortable. It’s been far too long since we last met. I imagine your husband remains as busy as ever. Ha ha ha ha!” “He’s practically a camel driver—never puts down his pruning shears, you see. Ho ho ho ho. Although it’s still too early for irises, my prized Korean pomegranates are in full bloom and the roses still remain, so I earnestly requested that you come admire them—please do. Ho ho ho ho.—Please do bring Kiichi-san and Michi-chan along,” said the water-blue glasses, turning toward Mrs. Kataoka.

To speak frankly, the Viscountess did not particularly care for water-blue glasses. Differences in education, disparities in temperament—these went without saying—but it was the elder sister of the deceased wife—this presence that perpetually lingered in her mind—that had taken root as the seed of her discontent. She who sought to occupy her husband the Lieutenant General’s heart solely and wield matriarchal authority throughout the household now found the elder sister of the deceased wife making frequent intrusions—not only did this woman conjure visions of the departed spouse before her husband’s eyes, but Namiko too—though never voicing it—treated these visits as lingering remnants of the past to be avoided, while Granny Iku extended sympathy. Though not Zhuge Liang risen from the grave, this shadow of the departed one contested her influence at every turn—a most disagreeable state of affairs. Now that Namiko and Granny Iku had finally departed—the abolition of this domestic extraterritoriality bringing some semblance of ease—still whenever she saw that water-blue-glassed face, it seemed as though one risen from the grave emerged to contend with her for her husband’s affection, vie for authority as household mistress, and challenge even the educational methods and domestic policies she had painstakingly established—leaving her perpetually ill at ease.

The water-blue glasses took out a jar of sweets from an Ezō brocade-patterned cloth bag.

“It’s something I received—for Kiichi-san and Michi-chan.” “Are they still at school? I don’t see them around, hmm?” “Ah, I see.” “And this one’s for Komako.” Then she gave a hydrangea hairpin to the girl with the red ribbon who had brought the tea. “How terribly kind of you, as always—they’ll be absolutely delighted,” said the Viscountess while placing the aforementioned bottle on the table. Just then a maid arrived to announce that a lady from the Red Cross Society wished to see her, whereupon the Viscountess nodded and withdrew from the room. As she was leaving, she beckoned to the girl who had followed her out and whispered something. Doubling back and leaving behind the girl eavesdropping from behind the window curtain, the Viscountess proceeded along the corridor toward the parlor. Komako of the red ribbon—now fifteen years old and likewise born to the deceased wife—found herself doted upon by the Viscountess, in stark contrast to her sister Namiko who was shunned. The Viscountess—who had mistakenly perceived Namiko’s reserved timidity as mere spiteful stubbornness—took delight in finding that her younger sister’s somewhat spirited nature aligned with her own temperament; partly as a slight against the elder sister and partly to demonstrate society that even a stepchild could be loved, she naturally sought an ally in the younger sister against the father’s affections lavished upon the elder.

As a trait of strong-willed people, there are those who carry out their own will without regard for others' opinions in certain matters, yet they prove unexpectedly fragile and overly concerned with others' evaluations. After all, to gather both fame and profit while doing as one pleases yet still desiring to be well-regarded—this is the way of selfish people. Such people alone naturally delight in flattery. Though the Viscountess—of manly disposition and Western education—yielded no defeat even to her husband the Lieutenant General whose commands could shake heaven and earth in debate, she who was loveless found no allies; in her desolate heart, she secretly took pleasure in those who naturally resorted to flattery—this in stark contrast to him who everywhere made friends and was cherished by all he met. The servants—those who were inarticulate—were eventually dismissed, while those skilled in flattery came to be employed; young Komako did not necessarily despise her sister, but once she realized that criticizing her sister pleased her stepmother, she ultimately developed a habit of tattling—and not just once or twice did she make Granny Iku frown. Thus even now after her marriage, Elder Sister had served as nothing less than a spy for her stepmother.

Leaning close to the second window along the eastern veranda, the girl with the red ribbon listened intently as her father's laughter—booming forth from his belly—alternated with her aunt's refined chuckles; their voices gradually lowering to hushed tones until fragmented whispers of "mother-in-law" and "Namiko-san" reached her ears in disjointed bursts, compelling her to tilt her head and strain closer still to catch every word.

5-4

“Four hundred provinces and more rise up! A hundred thousand cavalry and more—what fear have they? For in Kamakura dwell stalwart sons!” The sailor who had been approaching while stamping his feet rhythmically quickly spotted the red-ribboned girl lingering on the veranda. Though she repeatedly covered her mouth with her hands and shook her head while waving—desperately signaling him to stop—he paid no heed. “Sis! Sis!” he called as he ran up to her. “What’re you doing?” he pressed. When she kept shaking her head, he demanded “What? What?” At this, the red-ribboned girl scowled and blurted out “You’re so annoying!” then pulled a face, hunched her shoulders, and hurried away.

“Hey, she ran away! Hey!”

Shouting thus, the sailor entered Father’s study. The sailor grinned broadly upon seeing the guest’s face and, while giving a slight bow, promptly clung to Father’s knee. “My, Mr. Kiichi—you’ve grown so much since I last saw you.” “Do you go to school every day?” “So you got top marks in arithmetic?” “You’ve studied very hard indeed.” “Please do come visit Father, Mother, and Aunt Kiyoko’s place soon.” “What about Michi?” “Oh, I see.” “Right—Aunt Kiyoko brought these for us!” “Happy? Ahahaha!” he said, brandishing the sweet jar. “Where’s Mother?” “Still with her guest?” “Go tell her Aunt Kiyoko’s about to leave.”

While seeing off the departing child, the master lieutenant general stared fixedly at the water-blue-glassed face: "Then regarding Iku's matter—let us settle it thus and avoid causing friction—yes, let us hope so. Well, truth be told, I myself thought it'd be better if such matters didn't exist—wasn't going to pursue it—but Namiko kept insisting, and she herself had made such earnest requests... Ah yes, ah, ah—I humbly ask for your understanding." Mid-conversation, Viscountess Shigeko entered and, casting a glance toward the water-blue glasses, said: "Are you leaving already? Unfortunately, there was a visitor—no, they've just left. Oh, it's just another discussion about the charity event. It's not as if it'll amount to anything anyway. Truly, I've been such a poor host today—please do give my regards to Chizuko-san. Since Namiko left us, you've quite stopped coming to visit, haven't you?"

“I’ve been feeling somewhat unwell these past few days—hence my neglect in visiting anyone—well then,” she said, taking up her Ezō brocade-patterned cloth bag and slowly rising. The lieutenant general gradually rose to his feet. “Since I’m heading out for exercise anyway—why don’t we all go? Come now, Kiichi and Michi—off we go!”

Having seen off the departing guest, Viscountess Shigeko settled into the parlor armchair, scanning the charity event prospectus while beckoning Komako over. “Komako, what were they discussing?” “Well, Mother, I didn’t quite catch it all, but it seemed to be about Iku.” “Oh? “Iku?” “You see, Kawashima’s elderly mother has been suffering from rheumatism in her shoulders, making her terribly cross lately.” “And then Iku told Sister in her own room—‘Madam, why does the retired lady here fly into such rages? It must be so trying for you. But she’s old anyway—won’t last much longer,’ she said something like that.” “She truly is an imbecile, that Iku, Mother!”

“She never does anything worthwhile, no matter where she goes. What a bothersome old crone.” “And then Mother—right then the old lady passed by the veranda and heard everything! Oh she was absolutely livid, you know—” “Serves her right!” “She got so angry that Sister grew worried and went to consult Auntie in Iidamachi.” “To Auntie!?” “But Sister always goes running to Auntie about everything!” The viscountess gave a bitter smile.

“And then?” “And then, Father said he’s sending Iku to be the villa caretaker, you know.” “I see,” she said, furrowing her brow even deeper. “Is that all?” “And then, I was about to hear more, but just then Kiichi-san came—”

Six-One

Takeo’s mother—whose given name was Okei—was fifty-three that year. Though occasionally afflicted by rheumatism, she otherwise enjoyed robust health and could easily walk from her residence in Kōjimachi Kamibanchō to Shinagawa’s Tōkai-ji Temple where her late husband lay entombed. She weighed nineteen kan, and among women of ducal, marquisial, comital, viscountal, and baronial rank, her build was said to rival that of a sekiwake wrestler. Yet this corpulence had in fact developed only five or six years after her husband Michitake’s death from illness; before that time she had been gaunt and pallid, appearing almost sickly. Hence some likened her to a rubber ball that swelled up with bubbling expansion once released from the hand compressing it.

Her late husband had been a minor castle-town samurai of Nara Domain; when Okei married into his family, they conducted a wedding slightly more elaborate than Lord Toyotomi's own. He rose through the tumult of the Restoration, recognized by Ōkubo Toshimichi (Kōtō) to serve long years as magistrate across provinces, and for a time his name as tandai commissioner did not go unheard in society. Moreover, his defining traits of willful obstinacy proved a liability, leaving him with few friends in the Meiji government; among those scarce companions was Viscount Katō, who had mediated Namiko’s marriage. After Kōtō's death, he found himself unable to realize his ambitions and passed from this world. There were those who said that even his attainment of the baron title was in truth owed to the advantage of his noble birth. Thus the obstinate, self-willed, hot-tempered Michitake would ever resentfully vent his grievances into his wine cup. Stacking five large cups each holding three gō of sake high, his face turning crimson like a red demon as he strode into the prefectural assembly with shoulders thrown back—it was said few council members could maintain their composure in his presence. That must indeed be the case.

Thus, the Kawashima household perpetually existed under martial law, its members living out their days in constant fear and trembling, as though dwelling beneath a great tree without a lightning rod in summer. From childhood, Takeo alone—who had believed his father’s lap to be his dance floor and that none could surpass his father as a playmate—had been spared; as for all others, from Lady Keiko down to the servants and even the pillars of the parlor, there was none who had not tasted the master’s iron fist. Even Yamaki, now an esteemed merchant known throughout society, had frequently received this benefaction with profound gratitude—though considering such trifling gifts as profitable transactions, he would often present himself to receive them, thinking, "Why, it’s practically free income tax!" Given these circumstances, should the master be in ill humor, even the kitchen mice would fall silent—a thunderous roar would suddenly resound from the inner quarters, causing thick-eared maids to drop their kitchen knives, while officials visiting on business would first circle to the back door to inquire about the day’s weather forecast.

For Madam Okei, having been married these thirty years, this was no ordinary hardship. When she first married into the family, the presence of her father-in-law and mother-in-law had prevented her from fully perceiving her husband’s temperament; yet after both parents-in-law passed away in quick succession and his true nature became starkly apparent, even Madam found herself struck to the core. At first, Madam had attempted to resist five or six times, but upon realizing it was futile, she ceased to struggle—either submitting in the Han Xin style or else adopting the foremost principle of the Thirty-Six Stratagems by fleeing. In time, she came to grasp the rhythm of things somewhat, reducing three matters to two, yet her husband’s temperament remained unaltered with the passing years. In his final three or four years particularly, his grievances fanned by forced drinking flared into rages that burned like flames—even Madam, though twenty years of this had steeled her, found herself overwhelmed. Though she had a son named Takeo and silver now streaked her temples, she forgot even these anchors. The glory of being called governor’s wife and baroness meant nothing; surges of thought came—why not exchange this torment to become a gravekeeper’s wife and live out her days in peace? Yet while such notions simmered, thirty careless years slipped by until she saw that unfeeling husband Michitake lying supine in his coffin, eyes closed. Though she sighed in relief, unfeigned tears still fell pattering down.

Tears spilled, but she breathed a sigh. With that breath, her vigor too was spent. During Michitake’s lifetime, his wife—who had been eclipsed by his hulking frame and booming voice to the point of near invisibility—now emerged from the inner chambers and swelled rapidly to fill every corner of the house. All who had seen Madam perpetually hunching her shoulders and making herself small beside her master were utterly astonished. To be sure, Western scholars posit that the longer a couple remains together, the more their appearances and temperaments come to resemble each other’s; indeed, judging by Madam’s recent demeanor—her thick eyebrows twitching as she fixed her gaze upon others with pipe in hand, the coarseness in her bearing, and above all her irascibility so akin to the late Baron’s—there were those who said she had become the man’s very image.

There exists such a thing as avenging a wrong from Edo in Nagasaki. "Worldly affairs generally amount to settling Edo grudges in Nagasaki," a representative of the opposition party today delivered an impassioned speech in the Diet, vigorously attacking the government. While most commendable, when one learns that half his fiery spirit stemmed from last night's bitter encounter with a moneylender at home, the admirable quality diminishes by half. Thus does a low-pressure system in the South China Sea bring floods to Gifu and Aichi; thus does Tuscarora's fall send tsunami waves to Sanriku; thus did Motonao channel his bitter frustration over unrequited love into drafting "official proclamations that serve no practical purpose." The universe is mere equilibrium—all things seek their balance. "In this pursuit of equilibrium," declared Dr. Human Nature, "petty men behave like miserly debt-collectors—impatiently demanding 'repay today, return tomorrow' through their own efforts—whereas great men entrust all accounts to the Bank of Heaven, single-mindedly laboring within their appointed stations."

However, ordinary mortals seek equilibrium before their eyes, and in that pursuit—following the laws of physical motion as water flows downward—they move toward the path of least resistance. Thus Widow Kawashima too—after thirty years of endurance, having dammed and dammed the floodgates of forbearance—flung them open even before her husband’s coffin lid had closed, letting everything burst forth at once. The one person feared in the world had departed to a distant realm where no matter how he stretched his fist, it could no longer reach her head. Her silence until now had not been due to lack of spirit; with the hauteur of one declaring "I yet live though my husband perishes," she began indiscriminately pressing those around her to repay debts accumulated unwittingly over time—principal compounded with interest. While his tantrums had been troublesome, there was something oddly satisfying about them coming from a man of heroic temperament; but when Madam—lacking his substance—lashed out with petty spite and unchecked willfulness, it proved nothing but senseless cruelty, leaving the servants weeping more bitterly now than they ever had under the late Baron.

Namiko’s mother-in-law was precisely this sort of person.

Six-Two When she changed her marumage bridal coiffure to the agemaki style, there were still moments like being mistakenly addressed as "Young lady, allow me to escort you at your convenience" by rickshaw men; yet once she grew accustomed to servants calling her "Mistress" without faltering in response, the bride’s heart began to settle somewhat, and through the misty haze of bashfulness and maidenly timidity, her demeanor gradually came into clearer view. Every household has its own customs—though this needs no explaining to you—but do not carry your natal home’s ways like a burden into your new one. Kataoka Namiko dies today; henceforth let there be none but Kawashima Namiko. These words, earnestly admonished by her father in his study just before she donned her bridal robes to board the carriage, she had not forgotten. Yet upon arriving, she found the differences in family customs were not so significant after all.

Might their assets even surpass those of her natal home? Among the newly ennobled families, they were counted as foremost—such was the colossal fortune Takeo’s father had amassed during his long tenure as prefectural governor. Yet whereas her natal home basked in her father the Lieutenant General’s nationwide renown—his social connections remaining extensive despite retirement, his influence still ascending like the morning sun—here in this household following Takeo’s father Michitake’s death, most who had relied upon him in life naturally kept their distance. With few relatives, scarce acquaintances, and a widow ill-suited to win hearts presiding over a young heir still too junior in rank to restore family prestige—circumstances rare even among houses of their station—the Kawashima fortunes resembled water grown stagnant. At her natal home, her stepmother flaunted Western tastes—though skilled in household economy, she practiced frugality in peculiar ways that drew maids’ whispers like “Her Ladyship doesn’t even know how to give proper gifts.” Yet that military-affiliated household generally favored ostentation in all matters. Here, however, old-fashioned—nay, provincial—customs prevailed. What might charitably be called adherence to tradition was in truth the widow’s unchanging temperament: tastes and logic still milled from the same rice she’d pounded herself since youth. She suffered headaches unless handling every trifle personally, employing as steward one Tanizaki—an honest soul who’d served like a footman during her late husband’s time—whom she made calculate monthly firewood bundles and charcoal sacks down to the last. Even when Takeo occasionally returned home urging “Mother, you needn’t bother—order sweets from Fūgetsu if you like,” she’d still be seen devouring hand-made country-style yōkan with gusto. Thus even Granny Iku’s accompaniment of Namiko drew constant snipes—“Great houses simply differ—let’s hope Master Takeo never stoops to handling dinnerware!”—making clear Iku’s exclusion stemmed from more than mere eavesdropping beyond paper screens.

Though she may have seemed clever, for an eighteen-year-old bride suddenly thrust into a household with utterly foreign customs, it was only natural that she found herself bewildered at every turn. However, Namiko, taking her father’s admonitions as her guiding principle, suppressed herself and steeled her resolve to conform entirely to the household’s ways. The opportunity to test that resolution came swiftly. Not long after returning from Ikaho, Takeo embarked on a long ocean voyage. Though she had steeled herself for the frequent absences inherent to being a military man’s wife, the separation arriving so soon after their wedding proved gut-wrenching—leaving her in those first days as though the jewel had been snatched from her palm, utterly unable to focus on anything.

Father had been thoroughly delighted when first meeting him during the marriage negotiations; now that I had joined him in wedlock, I truly came to understand why. Magnanimous yet manly, refreshingly kind without a trace of vulgarity—it truly felt like being beside Father in his youth. Come to think of it, even the way he shook his shoulders while striding about and his childlike laughter perfectly mirrored Father's. Ah, how blissful! As Namiko devoted herself wholeheartedly, Takeo too found his new wife utterly endearing. Feeling as though his solitary existence had gained not just a spouse but even a younger sister, he tenderly repeated "Namiko-san" while caring for her. Though their vows had not yet seen three moons, such was their bond—as if souls acquainted since lives past—that even this brief parting planted seeds of endless heartache in both their breasts. Yet Namiko found no leisure to linger in sorrowful separation. Not long after Takeo's departure, her mother-in-law's chronic rheumatism flared violently, exacerbating her customary fits of temper; with Iku sent back to her family home, opportunities to test her endurance multiplied particularly.

There were those who wrote that new students, though mercilessly bullied by upperclassmen at first, would later become upperclassmen themselves and find their greatest pleasure in tormenting incoming freshmen. A mother-in-law who still recalls the vulnerability of removing her bridal hood should in principle have no cause to torment her daughter-in-law—yet such is human wretchedness. Once the bridal bloom fades and she assumes the mother-in-law title, when a suitable daughter-in-law arrives, self-indulgence emerges until she unwittingly becomes the very image of that mother-in-law she so intensely despised until recently. "That's it—the collar overlap should be four sun folded back like this. No, not that way! Hand it here! Twenty years old and already playing Her Ladyship so well, heh heh heh"—the mocking voice and piercing gaze belonged to one who herself had been scolded thus as a twenty-year-old bride. Ah, how terrifying I find myself now! Yet mothers-in-law capable of such self-aware reform remain rare exceptions. More common are those who repay eye for eye, tooth for tooth—the so-called Edo mothers-in-law avenging their grievances through Nagasaki brides—unknowingly seeking equilibrium within their own lifetimes through this endless cycle. Namiko’s mother-in-law was also one such person.

Tempered by a Western-style stepmother, Namiko was now being honed by an old-fashioned mother-in-law. Because the ailing elder frequently summoned maids for errands, she would insistently intervene—"I’ll handle it"—but being unaccustomed, her efforts fell short of expectations. Her mother-in-law would thank her only to deliberately berate the servants in that customary booming voice—a sound which, even to ears long inured to a decade of her stepmother’s eloquent barbs, now struck with startling freshness. At first this lasted but briefly; later, the edge of that temper began turning directly upon her. After Iku left, there remained none to offer comfort. At times she almost felt herself slipping back into former shadows of obscurity, but upon returning to her room and beholding the stalwart naval officer’s visage in the silver photograph frame upon her desk, surges of joy and longing and nostalgia would well up within her. Gently taking it in hand, she would gaze hungrily, kiss it, press it to her cheek, and whisper as if he stood present: "Please come home soon." For her husband’s sake she deemed any hardship a delight; casting self aside, she attended upon her mother-in-law.

Seven-One

Perspiring freely in 99-degree Hong Kong heat, I write to inform you. As previously mentioned in my last letter, matters have proceeded as reported up until our departure from Sasebo. Now after departing Sasebo, we've had consecutive days of clear skies with heat scorching like furnace flames—even we men of our maritime nation grew somewhat weary. Though eight or nine among my fellow officers and crewmen were struck by sunstroke, I remain in perfect health, having not once troubled the sickbay. As you well know, this blackened countenance of mine has been thoroughly roasted by the equatorial sun's fierce rays, transforming me into a veritable charcoal-faced fellow. Today I briefly went ashore with colleagues and visited a barber in town, where upon chancing to see myself in the mirror, I startled even my own self. The mischievous colleagues teased, "How about taking a color-tinted photograph to send to your bride?" which I found quite amusing. The journey proceeded under clear skies as previously described (though we did endure one monsoon assault), with the entire crew cheering "Banzai!" as we dropped anchor in this bay yesterday at dawn.

Your recent letter was received in Sasebo, which I have perused repeatedly. Mother’s rheumatism—her chronic ailment these many years—hath become truly grievous. However, since you are in attendance this year, I am greatly relieved. I humbly beseech you to devote your utmost care in my stead. Given that during her illness her condition is particularly unfavorable, I can well imagine that you, Namiko, must be exerting yourself in various ways. I trust Aunt Kiyoko of Akasaka remains unchanged as well, I humbly submit. Is Uncle Katō still not letting go of his pruning shears?

I hear Granny Iku hath returned. Though I know not why this hath come to pass, it is truly a regrettable matter. Should there be correspondence from Namiko, pray convey my most earnest regards; I humbly beseech you to inform Granny that upon my return, I shall bring abundant souvenirs for her. She is truly a delightful woman whom I hold most dear; her return to Aunt Kiyoko of Akasaka doth sorely grieve me. I imagine you too must be feeling rather lonely and inconvenienced by various matters. Do Aunt Kato and Miss Chizuko visit you from time to time? I hear Chijiiwa hath been visiting from time to time. We indeed have few relatives, and as Chijiiwa is one of those scarce kin, Mother naturally hath come to rely upon him. Though you may treat him with due consideration, it shall stand as an act of filial devotion to Mother. As he is a man of both talent and fortitude, he may yet prove a dependable ally in times of need. (Omitted)

In Hong Kong

July [Day] Takeo

Madam Namiko

I humbly beseech you to read the separate sheet (omitted) to Mother. We shall remain anchored here for four or five days to procure provisions, then proceed via Manila to Sydney in Australia; from there through New Caledonia and the Fiji Islands to San Francisco; and thence via Hawaii back to Japan. My return is likely to be in autumn, I humbly submit. Leave the letters at the San Francisco Japanese Consulate and have them dispatched.

～～～～～～～～～～ In May past I was with Namiko in Ikaho, gathering bracken for our delight; now I find myself in Sydney of Australia's southern hemisphere, gazing up at the stars of the Southern Cross and recalling those days. Strange is this world in which we live. During my previous training ship’s long voyage, I inevitably suffered occasional seasickness; yet this time I find myself astonished to remain hale and hearty without illness or mishap. However, this time an emotion I recall not from years past doth cling to me. On nights during my naval watch, when gazing up at southern skies where diamonds seem scattered across jet-black emptiness from my solitary post on the bridge, an ineffable feeling arises—your form flickers before my eyes (pray do not laugh at this effeminacy)—I humbly submit. Before my colleagues I may recite verses about longing for home and distant campaigns with perfect composure—(pray do not laugh)—yet your photograph ever lies hidden within this man’s inner pocket. Even now as I write this letter, the visage of the one reading this missive—leaning her cheek upon her hand at that desk beneath the banana plant’s shade in our home’s six-tatami room—appears vividly before me (omission).

In Sydney Harbour, there are many who enjoy yacht rides—couples, families, and strangers not mingling with others. When someday we achieve success and fame, and both I and Namiko have become white-haired elders, why settle for mere yachts? I shall build a 5,000-ton steamship, become its captain, and with our children and grandchildren as crew, plan to embark on a voyage around the world. When that time comes, we shall come to this Sydney as well, and I shall recount to white-haired Namiko the dreams of an ardent naval lieutenant from decades past (omitted).

In Sydney

August [Day] Takeo

Madam Namiko

Seven-Two From Hong Kong on the fifteenth of last July came your jade-like missive—how slow the hands that deliver them!—which I have reverently perused again and again and again. That the fierce heat has caused you no harm gladdens me beyond measure, beyond measure. Here, your honored mother’s illness has greatly abated of late; I pray and pray this news may set your heart at ease. As for myself, each day passes in trifling loneliness. Mindful of your absence, I strive to comport myself in ways pleasing to Mother, yet this clumsy self achieves naught but blunders—unaccustomed as I am to such duties—leaving me sorely perplexed. My sole comfort lies in counting the days until your swift return, when I may once more behold your hale countenance. Thus do I live, humbly submitting this account.

Aunt Kiyoko of Akasaka remains unchanged in circumstances, and recently we have all moved to the villa in Zushi. The Katō family has also all gone to Okitsu, thus Tokyo has become quite lonesome. Iku too has come to Zushi and is attending to her duties without incident. When I conveyed your kind message, she shed tears of joy; I humbly relay her deepest gratitude and beseech you to graciously accept it. I now find myself regretting my insufficient studies in various matters. As household management is a woman’s fundamental duty—a truth Father often admonished me about while I resided at home—I resolved to devote myself earnestly to it. Yet in my shallow understanding as a woman, I idly assumed such skills could be acquired at any time, only to now confront countless vexations: matters I should have learned but neglected, things I have forgotten. Though your kind encouragement regarding English studies compels me to strive diligently, I deem it improper to remain seated solely at my desk, lest it displease Mother’s sensibilities. For the present, I humbly beseech you to permit me to focus foremost on mastering household affairs above all else.

Though it brings me profound shame to confess, in moments when loneliness and sorrow become unbearable, I find myself yearning—again and again and again—to see you, wishing for wings to fly to your side. Each night and day I reverently take out your photograph and that of your ship to gaze upon them. Though I once carelessly overlooked subjects like World Geography in school, now I retrieve long-forgotten maps and trace your ship’s presumed course with a pencil—here today, there tomorrow and the day after. Ah! Were I born male, I might have become a sailor to remain ever at your side—such futile thoughts arise unbidden, and though I chide myself for them, each day finds me sinking deeper into reverie. Even weather reports in newspapers—which I never heeded before—now consume my attention; though I know your current location lies beyond their scope, when gales are forecasted, anxiety grips me most fiercely. I implore you—implore you—to guard your precious health… (text omitted)

From Namiko

Longing

Mr. Takeo [...] Lately your figure appears in my dreams each night—truly, truly making each day feel like a thousand autumns. Last night too, we went gathering bracken in Ikaho aboard your ship, when suddenly someone intervened between us. Your form grew distant, and as I seemed to fall from the vessel into nightmare's grip, Mother awakened me—whereupon I calmed my pounding heart, humbly submitting this account. Though I know these words to be mere complaints, they yet weigh upon my mind—all the more making your return feel endlessly distant. Each day I gaze upon the eastern skies, thinking only of your homecoming. Though I know not whether our letters may cross paths, this missive I humbly send to be held at Honolulu, Hawaii [...]

October [Day] From Namiko

Longing, longing, longing.

Mr. Takeo

To you,

Middle Volume

One-One

Just as the alcove clock struck eight in the evening, the Kawashima widow looked up from within the kotatsu,

“Eight o’clock—they should’ve been back by now.” While muttering this, she deliberately extended her plump hand to pull the tobacco tray closer, took two or three puffs in quick succession, and listened intently. Though in Yamate, on this night during the New Year’s period, carriages came and went east and west; next door, perhaps there was a lottery underway—young men and women whispered incessantly, their bursts of laughter at times ringing as clearly as if held in one’s palm. The widow clicked her tongue. “What on earth are they up to? Tch. Whenever they go to Akasaka, it’s always like that… Takeo being Takeo, Namiko being Namiko, her family being her family. Young people these days are impossible like this!”

As she tried to adjust her seated position, her chronic rheumatism flared up in its usual sore spot. Grimacing with an “Ouch! Ouch!”, she banged the edge of the tobacco tray in a burst of temper and shrilly called—“Matsu! Matsu!”—summoning the maid. At that moment, a belated cry of “Welcome home!” rang out spiritedly as two carriages clattered through the gate. The maid came running in New Year’s finery with her hem trampled open, clasping her hands as she asked “You called?” only to be scolded—“What are you loitering for? Go to the front entrance at once!”—and withdraw in flustered retreat; in that same moment of passing,

“Mother, I’ve returned home.” Following Takeo—who entered with a spirited voice as he swept aside the entryway curtain while removing his gloves—Namiko handed her overcoat and Azuma coat to the maid, then demurely took her seat beside her husband and folded her hands properly.

“Mother, you’ve prepared such an abundance.” “Ohhh, you’re back.” “You took your sweet time, didn’t you?” “Well today, you see, when we stopped by the Katō residence, they suggested going to Akasaka together since it was conveniently along the way—so Mr. Katō, Aunt, Miss Chizuko, and the rest of us, five in total, went out.” “In Akasaka too we rejoiced greatly—fortunately there were no other guests, and the conversation flowed so freely that we ended up staying late—ah, how flushed I’ve become!” Pressing cheeks that glowed like ripened peaches, she drank down in one gulp the tea the maid had brought.

“Is that so.” “That must have been lively enough.” “Things remain unchanged in Akasaka too, I suppose... Nami?” “Yes, I humbly request your continued kindness—though I have not yet paid a visit—having received various gifts, I offer my deepest gratitude.” “Speaking of gifts—that... Well... Ah, this one!” Namiko passed forward the tray she had been holding out and placed it before her mother. On the tray lay a pair of pheasants with snipes and quails piled high.

“Is this from the hunt? What a bounty—there’ll be feasting aplenty.” “Well, Mother, I hear this time there was an exceptionally large hunt—they ended up returning on New Year’s Eve itself.” “They were just about to have these sent over today.” “And they say wild boar may come tomorrow—” “Wild boar?—They caught wild boar?” “I was indeed three years your senior, Nami.” “He was always such a vigorous man from way back.” “Why, Mother, they say he remains extraordinarily robust—camping in the mountains with bonfires for two or three nights at a stretch.” “Still fully intends not to be outdone by younger men—carries himself with such pride.”

“That’s right—when Mother’s rheumatism acts up, there’s nothing to be done.” “Illness is the worst thing there is—oh, it’s nearly nine already.” “Change your clothes and rest.” “Oh—and today, Takeo.” “Yasuhiko came and—”

Takeo, who had started to rise, showed a somewhat uneasy expression, and Namiko too suddenly pricked up ears.

“Chijiiwa?” “It seemed he had some business with you—” Takeo considered for a moment. “Is that so? I too must—if it’s not too pressing—have business with him. Tell me, Mother—he didn’t come to borrow money while I was away, did he?” “Why? There’s no such thing—why do you ask?” “Well—I’ve heard a few things myself—so we’ll meet eventually—” “Oh, that’s right—and then that Yamaki came—”

“Ha, that Yamaki fool?” “That fellow came and—oh, right—they’re holding a feast on the tenth, so he insists you must come.” “He’s such a bothersome man.” “Just go.” “Don’t ya remember yer father’s debt o’ kindness?” “But—” “Oh, don’t say such things and just go—well then, I suppose I’ll retire.”

“Well then, Mother, good night.” “Then Mother—I shall go change now.” The young couple proceeded together to the living room. With the maid assisting, Namiko removed her husband’s Western clothes and draped over him two layers of padded Ryukyu silk; then Takeo casually tied a white crepe heko obi high around his waist and settled heavily into the armchair. Having brushed the dust from the Western garments and hung them on the clothes rack in the adjoining room—after instructing the maid to “have tea prepared and waiting”—Namiko entered her husband’s study.

“You must be exhausted.” Blowing blue cigar smoke while looking through the New Year’s cards and visiting notes that had arrived that day, Takeo looked up, “Nami-san, you’re the one who must be worn out—oh, how lovely!”

“Huh?” “Why, you’re every inch the beautiful bride.” “Why—you mustn’t say such things!” Her face flushed crimson under the dazzling lamplight as she averted her gaze—her complexion, normally pale to the point of bluish-white, now faintly tinged with cherry-blossom pink—while her glossy round chignon gleamed like a mirror. There stood Namiko bathed in lamplight—the plover-patterned hem of her kimono, the round obi of white tea-colored threads over black lining, the forget-me-not collar clasp carved from jasper (which Takeo had brought back from America)—her expression blending four parts shyness with six parts smile, radiating such loveliness that even as his own wife, Takeo found her appearance utterly exquisite.

“When you change into a kimono like this,” said Takeo, his eyes tracing her silhouette against the lamplight, “I still feel like you’re the bride who came just yesterday.” “If you say such things—I’ll have to leave!” “Hahaha! I won’t say it again, I promise! You don’t have to run off like that.” “Ohoho, I shall go change now.”

Part One, Section Two

Takeo had departed on a long voyage in early summer last year, not long after their wedding. Though due to return in autumn, when he reached San Francisco an issue arose requiring machinery repairs, causing him to miss his scheduled homecoming and ultimately delaying his return until the end of the old year. Today being the third day of the New Year, he accompanied Namiko from the Katō family to visit her parental home, combining New Year’s greetings.

Takeo’s mother, being old-fashioned and rather averse to Western things, would never have imagined sleeping on beds or eating with spoons. Yet even she had permitted her son some extraterritorial privileges: their ten-tatami living room could indeed be called Japanese-Western fusion—green carpet spread over straw mats, a table with a few chairs, Chinese-style landscape paintings hung in the alcove. Above the lintel hung a portrait of his late father Michitake, while an unopened book chest and shelves of Western volumes were banished to a corner. In the main alcove stood his father’s cherished Bizen Kanemitsu sword; on staggered shelves rested an officer’s cap and dual-lensed spectacles; from the alcove pillar hung a naval dagger. Among the numerous photo frames hung in rows were those of the warship he had served on, and one showing a great many young men in uniform, likely from his time at Etajima. On the table too were displayed two or three photographs. Seated side by side were his parents, with a five- or six-year-old boy leaning against his father’s knee—a memento from Takeo’s early childhood. The cabinet card portrait of a single figure in military uniform was her father, Lieutenant General Kataoka. The master, though young and rough in manner, kept his writing desk impeccably ordered—not a speck of dust lingered in any corner—and moreover, the early-blooming plum branches arranged with such artistry in the ancient bronze vase revealed that a warm heart, meticulous care, and skilled hands frequented this room. Truly, the master—bathed in the fragrance of plum blossoms beneath the bronze vase—smiled within the heart-shaped silver photo frame. The lamplight thoroughly illuminated every corner of the room, and the charcoal fire in the brazier cast reddish-purple flames upon the green carpet.

Many are the joys in this world, but surely one of the purest was to return safely from a long journey, change out of travel clothes into the comfort of everyday wear, stretch one’s legs before the hearth in the living room while listening to the night storm howling outside the window, and hear the familiar creaking of the clock. How much more so when his aged mother remained hale and his new bride grew ever dearer. Takeo, having inhaled the fragrant cigar smoke and sunk into the comfort of the armchair in blissful intoxication, was now savoring this very pleasure.

The sole shadow was the name of Chijiiwa Yasuhiko—heard earlier from his mother’s lips and now seen among the visiting cards. Today Takeo heard disturbing news concerning Chijiiwa. On a certain day last December, someone sent a postcard addressed to Chijiiwa at the General Staff Office where he worked. At that time Chijiiwa being absent, a colleague happened to glance at it—only to find it was a demand letter from a notorious moneylender with loan amounts and terms conspicuously written in red ink. Not only that, but confidential information from the General Staff Office had occasionally leaked to unexpected quarters allowing speculators to profit. Moreover there was someone who had seen Chijiiwa at the stock exchange—a place he should not have been. In any case with clouds of various suspicions now looming over Chijiiwa，it was none other than a certain general heading the General Staff Office—on familiar terms with him—and his father-in-law Lieutenant General who had advised that Chijiiwa must henceforth exercise caution and discipline himself accordingly.

“He’s such a troublesome man.” Having muttered this to himself, Takeo once again gazed at Chijiiwa’s visiting card. Moreover, Takeo at that moment could not remain long bound by such unpleasantness. Having resolved there was no need to confront the matter directly, his heart had already returned to present joys when Namiko—having changed clothes—entered cheerfully with black tea she had prepared herself. “Oh, black tea! This is a godsend.” Rising from the chair, he sat cross-legged by the brazier,

“Where’s Mother?” “She is resting now.” While urging him to drink the hot tea and still gazing at her husband’s flushed face, she asked, “Is your headache troubling you? Even though you can’t drink alcohol, since Mother insists on it so much.” “Ah—today was truly pleasant, Nami-san. Your father’s stories were so entertaining that I ended up overindulging in alcohol I usually dislike. Hahaha, you really do have a wonderful father, Nami-san.”

Namiko smiled gently and cast a fleeting glance at Takeo’s face. “And besides—” “Huh? What’s that?” With an exaggerated look of surprise, Takeo deliberately widened his eyes. “I don’t know, ohoho.” Her face flushing crimson, she averted her gaze and twisted her ring. “Well now, this is something—when did you become such a master of flattery, Nami-san? At this rate, even a collar clasp would come cheap! Hahaha!” She pressed her cheeks—now rose-pink from the brazier’s warmth cupped in her palm—and let out a small sigh,

"Truly—your mother must have been feeling so terribly lonely all this time. When I think you'll soon return to duty, I just can't bear how quickly the days pass." "If you stay cooped up inside all the time, I bet by the third day even you'd be saying, 'Won't you go out for some exercise?'" "Oh my, after such talk—shall I pour you another cup?" He took a sip of the black tea she had poured and offered, tapped the ash from his cigar against the rim of the brazier, and contentedly surveyed his surroundings.

“After six months being rocked in a hammock, coming home to find even a ten-mat room feels almost too spacious—everything’s perfect from top to bottom. It’s paradise, Nami-san. Ah—it feels like we’re playing at a second honeymoon.” Indeed, these days—having parted soon after their wedding and now reunited after half a year apart—it was as though they were reliving their newlywed days anew, their hearts filled with the joy of New Year’s arrival once more.

The conversation did not cease for a time. The two of them, entranced, did nothing but smile at each other. The fragrance of plum blossoms drifted faintly around where the two sat facing each other by the brazier.

As if suddenly remembering, Namiko raised her face.

“Are you going to Yamaki’s?” “Yamaki? Well, since Mother insists—I suppose I must go.” “Hoho, I’d like to go too.” “Go right ahead—let’s go together.”

“Hohoho, let’s not.”

“Why?” “Because it’s frightening.” “Scared?” “Of what?”

“Because I’m being resented, hohoho.”

“Being resented?” “Resent? You mean Nami-san?” “Hohoho, there is—there is someone who resents me.” “Miss Yutaka…”

“Hahaha, what are you—silly. That foolish girl is truly hopeless, Nami-san. I wonder if there’s anyone who would take a girl like that. Hahaha.”

"Mother said that since Mr. Chijiiwa keeps such close company with that Mr. Yamaki, it would be advantageous for him to take Miss Yutaka as his wife."

“Chijiiwa?—Chijiiwa?—That man’s truly a nuisance.” “I knew he was underhanded, but I never imagined facing such suspicion.” “Soldiers these days—and I’m one myself—are truly despicable.” “Not a shred of samurai spirit remains—they’re all money-grubbing.” “Now, I’m not saying we must live in poverty.” “Cutting waste, building savings, securing against emergencies—that’s only proper.” “Don’t you agree, Nami-san?” “But when men sworn to be the nation’s shields start loan-sharking on the side, pilfering soldiers’ rations, and colluding with contractors for dirty profits—isn’t that beyond forgiveness?” “And gambling—utterly vile.” “Some colleagues skulk about doing it—makes my skin crawl.” “They know only bootlicking superiors and preying on inferiors.”

Namiko listened with rapt intensity to the inexperienced naval lieutenant as he raged against imagined enemies before him; swelling with pride at his fervor, she found herself wishing he might soon become Minister of the Navy or Chief of the Naval General Staff to reform the naval culture. "That must indeed be so." "Well, I don't know the full details myself, but when Grandfather served as Minister, people would come with all sorts of requests and gifts." "Grandfather considered such things strictly forbidden—he'd say what could be done would be done without asking, and what couldn't be done couldn't be done even if asked. Yet no matter how often he refused them, they kept coming with new pretexts." "And Grandfather would laugh and say this was why everyone wanted to become officials."

“That’s right—the army and navy are no different. It’s a money-driven world, isn’t it, Nami-san?—Oh, it’s already ten o’clock.” Just then, he glanced back at the chiming pillar clock. “How quickly time passes!”

Part Two, Chapter One

The estate of Yamaki Hyōzō in Shibazakura River Town was not exceptionally large by any measure, yet it enclosed a portion of Nishikubo Hill beyond the town’s edge. Within its grounds lay a garden where water pooled among artfully placed stones—paths winding through high points and bridges spanning low ones—with maples, cherries, pines, and bamboos planted in picturesque disorder. Here stood stone lanterns; there rose an Inari shrine; and deeper within, an unexpected gazebo. Visitors marveled that such a garden could exist within these gates—a mirage of vast sums amassed through Yamaki’s corruption and built upon further deceit.

The time was already past four in the afternoon, when the cries of evening crows could be heard near and far. With the commotion of the drawing room at his back, a man in a haori coat and hakama trousers trampled his garden clogs along the faintly sunlit path of the artificial hill as he made his way upward. This was Takeo. Unable to silence his mother’s words, he had attended Yamaki’s banquet today, but sitting among unfamiliar guests, he found no pleasure in forced toasts he disliked. After various entertainments concluded in dubious shirabyōshi dances and the gathering descended into a raucous free-for-all—finding this utterly irritating, he wished to depart quickly—but Yamaki persistently pressed him to stay, and since he had not yet attended Chijiiwa’s banquet (which he felt compelled to visit once it reached its peak), he reluctantly remained. Then, slipping away from his seat, he let the cool evening breeze soothe his burning ears as he wandered toward deserted paths.

A few days after Takeo returned home from receiving a warning about Chijiiwa from his father-in-law, the Lieutenant General, an unfamiliar man carrying an alligator-skin briefcase suddenly visited the Kawashima residence. He presented a promissory note and demanded the unexpected repayment of three thousand yen. The borrower listed on the promissory note was indeed Chijiiwa Yasuhiko in both name and handwriting, while the guarantor's name had clearly been signed as Kawashima Takeo—and to compound matters, it even bore his official seal. According to the creditor’s account, the contract deadline had already passed, yet the borrower had failed to fulfill his obligations; moreover, he had suddenly relocated his residence without notice. When visiting his office, they were told he had been away on official duty these past few days, making it impossible to secure a meeting. Thus, having no alternative, they had come here to press their claim. The promissory note had followed proper procedures; furthermore, upon examining the retrieved correspondence, the handwriting was unmistakably Chijiiwa’s. Startled by the unexpected turn of events, Takeo pressed for details—only to find that neither his mother nor steward Tasaki had any recollection of being consulted about such a matter, nor any memory of lending out the official seal. Combining these rumors with the facts before him, Takeo deduced most of the situation. Coinciding with that very day, Chijiiwa had sent a letter requesting to meet at Yamaki’s banquet the following day.

Though Takeo had intended to merely glimpse Chijiiwa's face—to ask what needed asking, say what needed saying, then depart swiftly—Chijiiwa failed to appear. Exhaling his churning resentment through cigar smoke, Takeo climbed the cliff path, circled a bamboo thicket, and upon seeing the ivy-shrouded gazebo, momentarily sat down. Just then, the clatter of clogs sounded from a side path—and there he found himself face-to-face with Yutaka. Observing her—the Taka Shimada-style coiffure, the three-layered violet crepe kimono with pine-bamboo-plum motifs at the hem—the more resplendent her attire became, the more glaringly her flaws stood revealed; yet she herself seemed blissfully unaware of the absurdity. Narrowing her already slender eyes even further,

“Oh, here you are!”

Though Takeo could have stood firm against thirty-centimeter cannons, this unforeseen enemy assault left him chilled to the core. Pulling a grimace, he hurriedly rallied his composure and attempted to withdraw—only for her to come scrambling after him in panic. "You."

“What is it?” “Father said he’d show you round the garden himself, so...”

“A guide?” “I don’t need a guide.” “But...”

“It’s easier for me to walk alone.”

He had thought repelling her this fiercely would drive away even the most formidable foe, yet undeterred, she clung to him—

“You needn’t run away like this.” Takeo didn’t even furrow his brows in bewilderment. As for Takeo and Yutaka’s history—long ago when Takeo’s father governed a certain prefecture, Yutaka’s father Yamaki, who was under his jurisdiction, frequently visited their home. As children they occasionally met, and Takeo, then eleven or twelve, would often hit Yutaka to make her cry while laughing at her—yet even through her tears she clung to him. Years passed, places changed, and people grew; even now that Takeo had taken a new wife, Yutaka still harbored futile affection for the rowdy young master of yore—now known as Baron Kawashima. Though the brash naval officer wasn’t entirely oblivious to this, he had adopted a policy of avoiding dangerous proximity during his rare visits to the Yamaki residence—yet today found himself ambushed in a predicament he could neither prevent nor escape.

“Running away?” “I have no reason to run away.” “I’ll go where I please.” “You’re being unreasonable!” Takeo found it absurd, ridiculous, annoying, and infuriating—each time he tried to leave he was stopped, each attempt to escape met with clinging persistence—until in a secluded corner of the garden where no pitying eyes could witness them, he found himself reenacting a scene from the Shin Hidaka River tale. Then suddenly, an idea struck him. “Has Chijiiwa not arrived yet? Miss Yutaka, would you go check for me?”

“Mr. Chijiiwa won’t come unless it’s dusk.” “Does Chijiiwa come here often?” “Mr. Chijiiwa came yesterday too—he was talking with Father late into the night in the back parlor.” “Hmm, I see—but he might have come already. Could you go check?” “I don’t want to!” “Why?!” “But you’ll just run off, won’t you? No matter how much I hate it—just because Namiko is beautiful—you shouldn’t push people away like that!”

In skies that would not even yield rain should one lower their guard—with a hundred schemes exhausted—Takeo tried to flee in great strides when— "Young lady! Young lady!"

And the maid came calling and detained Yutaka. Seizing this opportunity, Takeo quickly circled the thicket, hurried twenty or thirty steps away, and let out a relieved breath— "What a troublesome woman!" Muttering to himself, he headed toward the sitting room—a sturdy fortress where he need not fear another ambush.

Part Two-Two

As the sun set and guests departed, leaving only the daytime commotion lingering in the kitchen, Yamaki—having discarded his haori and hakama—entered the secluded small parlor along the corridor while carrying a tobacco tray and shuffling unsteadily. His balding forehead steamed as if about to emit vapor, made to glisten all the more by the lamplight as he collapsed into a seated position, “Young master, Mr. Chijiiwa—I apologize for keeping you waiting; that was rude of me.” “Ha ha ha ha! Thanks to you, today’s gathering was quite the success… Or rather—young master, you’re weak! Forgive my bluntness, but you’re weak! Unbecoming of a military man.” “Your father—now he was something else.” “Even an old man like Yamaki Hyōzō—ah well, a shō or so of sake? Ha ha ha ha! No problem at all!”

Chijiiwa fixed his black crystal eyes on Yamaki. "You’re looking quite well. Mr. Yamaki, you’re making a profit, aren’t you?" "Profitable? Ha ha ha ha! No—when you say profitable," said Yamaki, finally managing to light his ash-caked pipe and taking a drag, "well now, about that—I hear this time that ○○○○ is being put up for sale. Truth is, I’ve been discreetly looking into the situation. Since the other party’s in a tight spot themselves, we might settle things surprisingly cheap. "The business side looks very promising. As mixed residence in the interior progresses, things get increasingly tricky—but how about it, young master? Even under Mr. Tasaki’s name would do. Why not generously contribute twenty or thirty thousand?" "I’ll make sure you turn a profit!"

His drunken words—unchanged from his true nature—flowed smoother than wine. Chijiiwa cast a sidelong glance at Takeo sitting in stony silence. “○○○○—the one in Aomono-chō, wasn’t it? I heard that venture turned quite profitable for a time.” “Ah—we fumbled the profitable part,” said Yamaki, “but get it right and it’ll be a gold mine!” “What a waste,” Chijiiwa remarked. “But what can a pauper like me do? Takeo—why not shoulder this burden yourself?” Takeo—who from the moment he sat down had remained utterly silent, displeasure unconcealed across his brow—now stirred with heightened disgust as he fixed Chijiiwa and Yamaki with eyes brimming equally with contempt.

“I’m obliged for your consideration, but someone like me—who could become fish bait or a target for shrapnel and high-explosive shells any moment—has no need to chase wealth. Forgive my bluntness, but rather than invest thirty thousand yen in some company or other, I’d sooner contribute to a seamen training fund.”

Takeo’s face as he coldly declared—Chijiiwa glanced at it fleetingly and signaled Yamaki with his eyes, “This may sound self-serving, Mr. Yamaki, but let’s table that discussion and begin with my matter first.” “Since Mr. Kawashima has consented as requested—do you have the seal?”

He took out a single-page document resembling a deed and placed it before Yamaki. It was only natural that clouds of suspicion now gathered around Chijiiwa. Since last year, he had exploited his position's advantages to serve as both strategist and informant for Yamaki—not only sharing profits but boldly diverting public funds in an attempt to amass wealth in Kakigarachō—only to swiftly incur losses exceeding five thousand yen. He extorted Yamaki and drained his savings to obtain two thousand yen, yet still faced a three-thousand-yen deficit. Though their sole relatives, the Kawashima family, were wealthy and not entirely dismissive of the widow's standing, Chijiiwa—knowing his aunt's miserly nature that would begrudge even a sigh if asked for funds—saw that open appeals would prove futile. To temporarily patch over the crisis, he committed forgery by counterfeiting Takeo's joint seal, securing a high-interest loan of three thousand yen to obscure traces of embezzled public funds. As deadlines loomed and matters deteriorated until even his own government office sent collection notices, he now had no choice but to persuade Takeo—freshly returned home—to borrow this three thousand yen to repay that debt, intending to redeem Takeo's name with Takeo's own money. He had previously visited Takeo but failed to meet him; then, being away on official duties for days, he remained unaware the moneylender had already approached Takeo's household.

Yamaki nodded, rang the bell to summon the vermilion inkpad box, briefly scanned the document, and taking out his personal seal from his breast pocket, stamped it beneath his name as guarantor. Taking it up, Chijiiwa placed it before Takeo, "Well then—the deed's right here. So when can you collect the money?"

"I have the money here." "Here?—Spare me your jokes." "I have it.—Three thousand yen—delivered in full."

He took out something wrapped in paper from his pocket and hurled it before Chijiiwa. Startled, he picked it up and unfolded it—Chijiiwa's face flushed crimson, then turned ashen. His teeth ground together violently. There before him lay the deed he had been certain still rested in the moneylender's grasp. After making Tasaki investigate the affair, Takeo had ultimately paid the three thousand yen under that dubious name. "No—this is—"

“Are you saying you have no recollection?” “Admit your guilt like a man!” Chijiiwa, who had until now dismissed Takeo as a mere child only to find himself thoroughly outmaneuvered, bit his lip as though to tear it off, a furnace of resentment blazing within him. Yamaki started in shock, his pipe drooping limply as he stared mutely at their faces. “Chijiiwa, I’ll speak no more of this. Out of kinship, I’ll bring no suit over the forged seal. The three thousand yen is paid—the moneylender’s postcard won’t reach the General Staff Office. Rest assured.”

Thoroughly humiliated, Chijiiwa rubbed his seething chest. Though his spirit lunged at Takeo, his mind retained just enough clarity to recognize the time for explanations had passed. He abruptly changed his demeanor. "Well, you—when you put it that way, I'm truly ashamed. The fact is, it was unavoidable—" "What was so unavoidable?" "Where could there possibly be a need to borrow at such exorbitant rates that you'd become not just morally bankrupt but an outright criminal under the law?"

“Now listen here—the truth is I was in dire straits and needed money with nowhere to borrow from. Had you been around, I’d have consulted you straightaway, but you know how awkward it’d be to approach your aunt about such things! Though I knew full well it was wrong—wrong I tell you—I figured I’d clear the debts first since I had some prospects last month, then come clean properly afterward—”

“Don’t talk nonsense. If you intended to make a clean confession, why would you try to secretly borrow another three thousand yen?”

As Takeo leaned forward with razor-edged intensity, Yamaki scrambled to intervene— “Now now, young master—do calm yourself! I may not grasp the particulars, but we’re only talking two or three thousand yen here! And between relatives like yourselves—you must let this go! Eh, young master?” “Mr. Chijiiwa’s clearly in the wrong—dead wrong—but you must let this pass! Young master!” “If this affair becomes public knowledge, Mr. Chijiiwa’s career will be finished!” “Young master...” “That’s precisely why I paid the three thousand! Didn’t I say I won’t press charges?” “Yamaki—this doesn’t concern you! Stay out of it!—I won’t take legal action—but mark this day! Our ties are severed!”

Now that matters had reached this point and there was nothing left to fear, Chijiiwa—having steeled his resolve—shifted his demeanor once more to mockery. "Severing ties?—Not that I'm particularly sad about it—"

Takeo's eyes flashed like flames.

"You can cut ties for all I care—but you expect me to pay up? Coward!" "What?"

Sobered by the furious energy of both parties, Yamaki—unable to endure any longer—stepped between the two men. “Young master! Mr. Chijiiwa! N-now, now—calm yourselves! At this rate we’ll get nowhere—here now—w-wait—just wait!” he implored incessantly, patching this way and mending that between them. Restrained, Takeo fell silent for a moment before fixing his gaze intently on Chijiiwa’s face. “Chijiiwa, I have nothing more to say. Since childhood, I grew up with you like brothers, and in both ability and age regarded you as an older brother. I had intended for us to continue supporting each other—to do my utmost for you as well. Until now, I had truly believed such betrayal unthinkable. But you sold me out completely—betraying me concerns one man alone, yet you went even further—no, I’ll say no more. I won’t ask how the three thousand yen was spent. Let me say one final thing out of past kinship: people’s eyes and ears are swift—you’re being watched. Do nothing to disgrace a military man’s honor. Since your kind values nothing beyond money, my words may mean little—but show at least some shame. We shall meet no more. I’ll give you the three thousand yen anew.”

While sternly declaring this, Takeo took the document before his knees and tore it to shreds, discarding it. He rose abruptly and stormed into the adjoining room with such force that he sent Yutaka—who had apparently been hiding there eavesdropping all along—tumbling over. Leaving a startled “Huh?!” in his wake, he marched out toward the entrance with heavy footsteps.

Yamaki and Chijiiwa, dumbfounded, exchanged glances. “Still actin’ the young master, huh?” “But Chijiiwa-san—three thousand yen for severance? I’d say you’ve made quite the profit there.”

Staring at the scattered fragments of the fallen document, Chijiiwa bit his lip in silence.

Part Three-One

The cold that Namiko had suddenly caught in early February and once shaken off relapsed after she stayed up late one night hastening to complete her mother-in-law's undergarment, and now on this fifteenth day of February, she still found herself unable to feel well enough to rise from her bed.

This year's cold—truly this year's cold—surpassed all remembered winters that people had lamented year after year. Day after day, the raging north wind pierced to the marrow and gnawed at the bones even when bringing neither snow nor rain, until the healthy fell ill and the ill perished, while newspaper advertisements framed in black borders multiplied ever more. This cold, which would have been harsh enough without worsening Namiko's transient ailment, aggravated her condition; though no distinct new symptoms emerged, she merely passed day after day with a leaden head and vanished appetite.

After the clock struck two with a crisp resonance akin to a cicada’s shrill cry, all sound ceased for a time, leaving only the seconds ticking onward—a rhythm that paradoxically deepened the silence. The unseasonably radiant sky of early spring, its pale azure expanse partitioned by four-paneled shoji screens, brimmed with leisurely sunlight that suffused every inch of the paper partitions. The excess light filtered through the paper to dance flickeringly upon the fingertips knitting black Scotch stockings as Namiko lay gazing upward, and upon the disheveled hair drifting across her pillow whiter than snow. On the left shoji screen, the spindly shadow of a nandina tree draped over a hand-washing basin in a downward cast, while on the right, the vivid silhouette of an old plum tree’s gnarled branches crisscrossed vertically and horizontally—though its shadow bore mostly buds and flowers sparse enough to count, one could discern spring’s lingering youth. Perhaps welcoming the warmth at the southern edge, the shadow of a cat’s head cast upon the waistboard—having leapt toward winged insects that had emerged in today’s unseasonable heat only to miss its catch and fall with a thud—appeared utterly indifferent to its failure as it leisurely set about licking its own paw, while the shadowed head nodded repeatedly. Namiko, who had been watching this scene with a faint smile, furrowed her brows at the glare of sunlight, closed her eyes, and sank into a reverie—then slowly turned onto her side, smoothing the half-knitted stockings as she began moving the needles back and forth once more.

With heavy, thudding footsteps along the veranda, a shadow resembling a stunted guardian deity crept along the shoji screen.

“How’s yer feelin’?”

And sitting by the pillow was the mother-in-law. “I am feeling quite well today. I can get up now, but——” Putting aside her knitting and smoothing her disheveled collar as she tried to sit up, Namiko was restrained by her mother-in-law. “Th-that ain’t right, that ain’t right. We ain’t strangers—no need for formalities.” “N-now, now, now—you’re doing your knitting again. That won’t do.” “A patient’s job is to rest, right, Namiko?” “When it comes to Takeo’s affairs, you go forgetting everything.” “That won’t do.” “Get yerself well soon——”

“I’m truly sorry—just lying here…” “Th-that’s bein’ too formal with me, don’t you think? I hate that sorta thing!” Do not lie—she who constantly muttered about how today’s brides lacked courtesy toward their parents-in-law—did she not secretly count herself fortunate that her own daughter-in-law differed from them? Ever since her days in her parents’ home, though she had never spoken of it aloud, Namiko had privately harbored dissatisfaction with her stepmother’s thoroughly Westernized and brisk manner, and in matters of the family’s customs, she naturally possessed a certain old-fashioned refinement.

The mother-in-law, as if suddenly remembering something,

“Oh, it seems a letter came from Takeo—what did he write?”

Namiko pulled out a letter from among those she had placed beside her pillow and handed it to her mother-in-law while— "He is sure to come this Sunday, they say." “Is that so?” After reading through it in one go and briskly rolling it back up, she said, “A change of air ain’t needed for healing.” “Try movin’ yer body in this cold—that’s how even hale folk catch sickness.” “Colds cure themselves if you stay abed proper.” “Takeo’s young yet.” “Makin’ a ruckus ’bout changin’ doctors and movin’ for convalescence.” “In our day, we never took to bed with bellyaches—nor lay in ten days after birthin’.” “World moves forward, folk grow weaker, I tell ye.” “Hahaha.” “Told Takeo to write—‘No need frettin’ with Mother here’—hahahaha, there!”

Though her mouth laughed, her eyes bore a tinge of displeasure as the mother-in-law departed—her retreating figure, “I beg your pardon.” Sitting up to see her off, Namiko let out a faint sigh.

Though the notion of a parent envying their child seemed inconceivable, since her husband’s return, Namiko had become aware of an unfamiliar tension emerging between herself and her mother-in-law—a shift in their relationship’s very nature. Takeo, having come back from his long naval voyage and witnessed how gaunt she had grown, had—despite his typically brusque masculine sensibilities—discerned the toll her lonely vigil had exacted. His consequent attentiveness only deepened, a development that did not escape Namiko’s keen perception as she noted her mother-in-law’s thinly veiled resentment. There were moments when the path of filial duty—or what her mother-in-law called such—and the path of love branched so sharply that they could not be walked concurrently, a conflict that gnawed secretly at Namiko’s heart.

“My lady, Miss Katō has come to visit.” At the maid’s call, Namiko opened her eyes wide. Joy spread across her brow even before she fully saw the entering guest. “Ah, Chizuko! You’ve come!”

3-2 "How are you today?" Pushing aside her wisteria-colored crepe headscarf and cloth bundle, the girl who approached Namiko’s bedside wore the Shimada hairstyle of seventeen or eighteen, her slender figure wrapped in a dark-blue twill azuma coat. With crescent-shaped eyebrows arched gracefully and resolute black eyes dominating her features, she radiated a crisp clarity of spirit. This girl was Chizuko—eldest daughter of Namiko’s aunt, Viscountess Katō. Namiko and Chizuko were first cousins once removed with barely a year between them. From kindergarten days they had been closer than blood sisters—so much that Namiko’s younger sister Komako would sometimes protest: “Sister, you only ever care about Miss Chizuko! I hate it!” Even after Namiko married into the Kawashima household—when other school friends naturally drifted away—Chizuko instead delighted in their new proximity and visited often. During Takeo’s long naval voyages abroad, when loneliness and sorrow weighed heavily on Namiko’s heart, it was Chizuko’s frequent visits—more than even Takeo’s burning letters—that brought her solace.

Namiko smiled, “Today I’m feeling much better, but my head still feels heavy, and I’m troubled by this occasional cough.” “Is that so?—It’s cold, isn’t it.” After briefly acknowledging the maid who respectfully offered a floor cushion, she sat down close beside Namiko. Holding her hand—its ring’s gemstone sparkling—over the paulownia-wood brazier, she pressed her rosy-hued cheek.

“And Aunt—and Uncle—are they both well?”

“Oh, they’re doing well.” “They’re terribly worried because it’s so cold—since the season is what it is—and said if you feel even slightly better, you should go somewhere like Zushi for a change of air. Why, just last evening Mother and I were discussing it, you know.” “Is that so? “They’ve been saying the same thing from Yokosuka too…” “From Brother?” “Is that so?” “Then you should relocate for your recovery soon.” “But I’m sure I’ll get better soon anyway.” “But you really have to be careful with the colds going around these days.”

Just then, the housemaid brought black tea and offered it to Chizuko. “Kan? “What about Mother?” “A guest?” “A guest? Who is it?” “Is it someone from home?” “Chizuko, you’ll stay longer today, won’t you?” “Kan, do prepare something nice for Miss Chizuko.” “Hohohoho! Since I’m making a hundred temple visits, I can’t keep accepting all these treats.” “Wait now!” While saying this, she took out a small bundle wrapped in a silk cloth. “This aunt here loved ohagi rice cakes—it’s just a small portion—but if there are guests, we can save some for later.”

“Oh, thank you.” “Truly… thank you.” Chizuko took out some red mandarin oranges as she continued, “Aren’t they pretty? These are my present. “But they’re too sour to be any good.” “My, how lovely! Could you peel one for me?”

As Chizuko peeled and handed it over, [Namiko] eagerly sucked on it, brushing back the strands of hair that fell across her forehead—brushing them back again. “It must be bothersome for you.” “Wouldn’t it be better to tie it up loosely?” “Okay? Let me just tie it up for you.” “I’m fine as I am.” Retrieving a comb from the well-acquainted dressing table in the adjacent room, Chizuko began to gently run it through her hair. “Oh, right! Yesterday’s alumni reunion—you got the invitation, didn’t you—was so much fun!” “Everyone sends their regards, you know.” “Hohohoho! Even though it’s only been a year since we left school, thirty-one are already married!” “It’s so amusing—Ms. Okubo, Ms. Honda, and Ms. Kitakoji have all started wearing traditional married women’s chignons, and they look so oddly like proper wives now that it’s hilarious.” “Does that hurt?” “Hohohoho! I thought it was some kind of story, but it’s all just them bragging about themselves, you know!” “Oh right, then the debate about living separately from in-laws started up! Ms. Kitakoji argued that living together is best because even though she’s utterly hopeless at household management, her mother-in-law is wonderfully kind to her. On the other hand, Ms. Okubo became the champion of separate living since her mother-in-law is such a nag—it was hilarious!” “Then, when I stirred things up, Chizuko here—the ‘kan’ part is odd—said she couldn’t join the conversation because she’s still an outsider. Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”

“Not at all—that does sound amusing.” “Hohohoho! Everyone bases it on their own experiences.” “Since each situation differs after all, one can’t make sweeping generalizations.” “Don’t you agree, Chizuko?” “Auntie once said something similar, didn’t she?” “If there are only young people around, they’ll become self-centered—it’s truly so. One mustn’t neglect the elderly.”

Having received instruction from her Lieutenant General father and naturally cultivating an aptitude for household management, Namiko—from her days in her parental home—had observed her stepmother’s domestic administration from the sidelines, quietly forming her own convictions. That she believed she could skillfully manage a household once becoming its mistress was no notion conceived in a day’s time. Yet upon marrying into the Kawashima family and discovering all affairs held in the Regent Dowager’s grasp—finding herself positioned like a crown princess possessing status but no true authority—she temporarily reined in her ambitions and submitted to her mother-in-law’s rule. In those moments when she stood perplexed between parent and spouse, privately grieving her constrained ability to tend her husband as she wished, Namiko even questioned whether her stepmother’s favored theory of separate living—once dismissed as incompatible with Japanese tradition—might contain unexpected validity. Yet paradoxically, this very doubt fortified her secret determination to never forsake her original resolve.

Chizuko—who had spent ten years under a stepmother’s roof and was now nearing a year’s experience by her mother-in-law’s side—could scarcely fathom the depths of her cousin’s hidden intentions. Tying the ends of her tripartite coiffure with a white ribbon, she peered into Namiko’s face and lowered her voice. “Have you been unwell again lately?” “But ever since I fell ill, she has been so kind to me.” “But... if Mother disapproves of me doing so much for Takeo, that would be a problem!” “So you see—in this house Mother reigns as Empress—so I’m forever being lectured that I must value her above myself or anyone else…… Oh—let’s speak no more of this.” “Oh, this feels wonderful. Thank you.” “My head feels lighter now.”

While saying this, she ran her hand over the tripartite coiffure that had been arranged. Even she must have felt the fatigue—Namiko closed her eyes.

Putting away the comb and wiping her hands with paper, Chizuko stood before the dressing table, opened a small box, and placed it on her palm—

“No matter how many times I look at it, this collar clasp is beautiful.” “Brother truly does treat you so well.” “Take Brother—my fiancé Toshitsugu (the one set to be adopted into our family, currently at the Foreign Ministry)—he keeps insisting! ‘A diplomat’s wife must master languages,’ he lectures—‘Study French! German is essential!’ It’s exhausting!” “Hohohoho! I can’t wait to see you in a married women’s chignon—though I’ll miss the Shimada style.”

“Oh, stop!” Though her beautiful brows furrowed, no betraying smile reached lips like a budding rose. “Ah, really—Ms. Hagiwara, you know—she graduated a year before us—”

“That’s the one who married into the Matsudaira family, right?” “Oh! That person—she got divorced yesterday, I heard.” “Divorce? What happened?” “Well, you see—she was in her in-laws’ good graces, but Mr. Matsudaira came to dislike her.” “They didn’t have any children?” “There was one child. But you see—Mr. Matsudaira grew to dislike her, and lately he’s been keeping mistresses and paramours while acting violently all the time—so Ms. Hagiwara’s father became furious and said he couldn’t leave his daughter with such a heartless man, and finally took her back home, they say!”

“How pitiable… Why would he grow to dislike her so? It’s truly heartless.” “It makes one furious.—If their positions were reversed, it might still be tolerable—but to be cherished by in-laws yet despised by one’s own husband until matters come to this… That must be agony beyond words.” Namiko sighed.

“Even when we attend the same school, sit in the same classrooms, and read the same books—they all scatter to the winds in the end, don’t they? Who can say what becomes of anyone.—Chizuko, let’s always stay close and support each other in the days to come.” “How lovely!” Their hands naturally joined together. After a moment, Namiko smiled,

“When I lie here like this, you know, I end up thinking about all sorts of things. Hohohoho! No—don’t laugh! In a few years’ time—there’ll be a war with some foreign country, Japan will win—and then your brother will become Foreign Minister and go negotiate the peace terms, you see. Then Takeo will be Commander-in-Chief of the Fleet, lining up dozens of warships in their harbors, you know...”

“And then my uncle in Akasaka becomes army commander, while Father pushes through hundreds of millions of yen in military appropriations at the House of Peers...” “Then I’ll go out with you, Chizuko, holding up a Red Cross flag.”

"But with this weak body, I couldn't possibly do it. Hohohoho!”

“Ohohohoho!” Even as she laughed, Namiko suddenly began coughing and clutched the right side of her chest. “You must have spoken too much.” “Does your chest hurt?” “When I cough sometimes, you know, it radiates here, and becomes unbearable.” While saying this, Namiko’s eyes gazed at the dimming sunlight filtering through the shoji.

Part 4-1

A mere five days after Yamaki returned to his lodgings that night—thoroughly humiliated by Takeo in the inner sitting room while tucking into his chest a resentment that burned like fire—Chijiiwa was suddenly transferred from the General Staff Office to a certain regiment attached to the First Division.

In every life there comes at least once such a period—when all endeavors miss their mark; when one feels as though Heaven itself has singled them out to rain down lash after lash of chastisement without respite; that proverbial time of “misfortune compounding misery.”

Since last year, Chijiiwa had steered his boat into this treacherous strait; even now, he could discern no clear passage through its waters. Namiko had already been taken by Takeo. Whenever he dabbled in speculation, he met with repeated failures; whenever he borrowed at high interest, he suffered disgrace; he was humiliated by Takeo, who treated him like a vulgar fool; and now his sole familial connection—the Kawashima household—had been severed. In the end, even his position in the General Staff Office—which he had clung to as his sole shortcut to success, vowing never to leave even in death—was stripped away without a single word of notice, reducing him to an officer in a division he had until recently regarded as no better than beasts of burden. Chijiiwa—his pride wounded like a lamed leg—could no longer protest now, enduring even the stench of horse dung he might clutch were he to collapse, as he shamefully complied with the drills and marches. Yet this blow profoundly agitated him: though he who had always maintained a calm "self" when facing adversity now found that whenever he reflected on his plight up to this point, a bellyful of resentment surged upward more violently than raging flames.

It was Chijiiwa’s present plight: having set foot upon the ladder of success—that ascent which would surely grant him the glittering crown of fame and profit—and already climbed a step or two, he had been abruptly kicked down. Who was it that kicked me down? Chijiiwa suspected that Lieutenant General Kataoka had at least partially intervened, based on Takeo’s passing remark and the fact that the general heading the General Staff Office shared an inseparable bond with the lieutenant general. He also found it strange that Takeo—who had always been indifferent to money—would fly into such disproportionate rage over three thousand yen (even accounting for the forged seal matter), and suspected Namiko had dredged up old grievances to poison Takeo against him. The more he dwelled on it, the more his suspicions hardened into facts; those facts fed oil to the flames of his wrath—resentment from failed romance, frustration over career setbacks, disappointment, discontent, jealousy—all these malignant feelings swirled like fire around Lieutenant General Kataoka, Namiko, and Takeo. The very Chijiiwa who had always prided himself on his cold intellect—who mocked the folly of those who grew heated with emotion and lost sight of calculations—now found his mind deranged by this string of defeats. So thoroughly had his reason unraveled that unless he found some outlet to vent this bellyful of venomous resentment, he felt his own five-foot frame—Chijiiwa Yasuhiko himself—would be the first thing torn asunder.

Revenge, revenge—to suck the blood of those he deemed good-hearted yet detestable in this world, savoring the sensation as one smacked their lips over a morsel of their cheek. Revenge, revenge—ah, how was he to exact revenge? How was he to discover an explosive trap to blow the detested Kataoka and Kawashima families to smithereens, then from a safe distance pull the string and, while gazing upon the spectacle of those he loathed—their hearts torn, entrails rent, bones shattered, brains dashed—live out his days in blissful contentment? This was the problem that had ceaselessly occupied Chijiiwa’s mind day and night since January.

In mid-March, when plum blossoms scattered like snow, one day Chijiiwa Yasuhiko set out for Shinbashi to welcome a certain old classmate with whom he had been closely acquainted—transferred from the Third Division to Tokyo. As he was exiting the waiting room, he happened to encounter a tall woman—accompanied by a girl of fifteen or sixteen—emerging from the ladies’ waiting room for noblewomen.

“What an unexpected encounter this is!”

Bringing Komako along, Viscountess Kataoka Shigeko stood there. For an instant, Chijiiwa's complexion changed upon seeing her expression and instantly transformed. Though his resentment lay with Lieutenant General Takeshi and Namiko, he had already resolved there was at least no need to regard her as an enemy. Chijiiwa bowed respectfully and smiled, "I've been remiss in keeping in touch." "How cruelly you've neglected me." "No—I did mean to pay my respects, but pressing duties kept me occupied—where might you be headed today?"

“Oh, just to Zushi—and you?” “Oh, I merely came to meet an acquaintance—is Zushi for your convalescence?”

“Oh, you still don’t know? —We’ve had a patient come up.”

“A patient? Who would that be?” “Namiko.”

Just then, as the bell rang and people streamed toward the ticket gate like a tide, the girl tugged at her mother’s sleeve.

“Mother, we’ll be late.” Chijiiwa swiftly snatched the seasonal travel bag from the viscountess’s hands and walked beside her. “That—what is it? Is her condition serious?” “Ah... It’s settled in her lungs at last.” “Her lungs?—Consumption?” “Oh, the hemorrhaging became dreadful, so we moved her to Zushi just recently.” “Today’s merely a visit.” As he spoke, Chijiiwa took the travel bag from her grasp. “Well then—goodbye. I’ll return directly. Do come call sometime.”

Watching the opulent cashmere shawl and flowing hair adorned with a crimson ribbon vanish into the distant first-class cabin, Chijiiwa turned to leave—a terrifying smile rising to his lips.

Part 4-2 Each time the physicians visited, though they refrained from voicing it aloud, they acknowledged how her symptoms grew increasingly pronounced. Despite exhausting every means to arrest its progress—though imperceptible to the eye—Namiko’s illness intensified daily until by early March, it had undeniably entered tuberculosis’s initial stages. The mother-in-law—who had boasted of her robust health to scorn modern youths’ frailty while ignoring relocation suggestions—now witnessing Namiko’s repeated hemoptysis before her eyes, was after all startled; and upon hearing the terrifying contagion risk, became frightened into sending Namiko off to her family home in Zushi, Sagami Province—the Kataoka family villa—accompanied by a suitable nurse as physicians recommended. Tuberculosis! The heart of a lone traveler standing in a boundless field, beholding jet-black storm clouds looming overhead—this was none other than Namiko’s heart, waiting in dread for her illness. Now that terrifying silence had shattered—amid roaring thunder, flashing lightning, black winds howling and white rain lashing—Namiko stood at the storm’s heart, thinking only to stake her life on swiftly breaching this tempest’s crushing siege. Even so—how utterly terrifying that first blow had been! March 2nd—a day now etched in memory as crueler than all others—had dawned with deceptive calm. Having long abandoned flower arrangement’s solace yet resolved to gather blossoms for her mother-in-law’s vase during her husband’s rare visit, she entreated him to break off a fragrant red plum branch. Sitting near the garden’s edge selecting stems, she was suddenly seized by suffocating chest tightness. Her head swam dizzily as crimson mist swirled before her eyes—then before she knew it, she cried out and vomited vivid scarlet blood wrenched from her lungs! At that very moment—as she thought Ah, finally!—from nowhere she glimpsed my grave’s distant shadow.

Death—! In days past when life seemed bitter to her, there had been times when Namiko thought there was no joy in living and no sorrow in dying. But now—loving human life all the more—she found her own so precious that she wished to live a thousand years. So pitiable that one might think her beyond compassion, yet her resolve to conquer her illness burned all the fiercer; each time her spirits sank, she would rouse herself—tending to her recovery with such diligence that she ended up urging her physicians onward.

With Takeo stationed just across the bay at Yokosuka Naval Base—stealing moments to visit frequently—her father’s letters, her aunt’s solicitations, and Chizuko’s visits arrived without cease; while at the villa, Iku—the old nurse expelled from the Kawashima household last summer after long service—now reunited through this very illness that ought to have been lamented, grew so endeared to Namiko that even her affliction brought joy, attending upon her with redoubled devotion where possible. The diligent old servant devoted himself wholeheartedly to his duties. Having left behind the capital’s harsh spring chill, Namiko—now immersed in Shōnan’s warm air—drank daily of nature’s nurturing sunlight and absorbed the warm human kindness surrounding her until both her spirits and heart grew naturally tranquil. Twenty days having passed since relocating—her hemoptysis ceased and coughing somewhat abated—the physician who came twice weekly from Tokyo to examine her rejoiced at the disease’s arrested progression, though stopping short of declaring recovery; he now permitted cautious hope of convalescence provided she avoided severe mental agitation and maintained restful adherence to the curative regimen.

Part 4-3

Though the blossoms in the capital still lingered shy of full bloom, around Zushi the mountain cherries had begun flowering among fresh-leafed hills, while helpless white clouds draped themselves over peak after peak on a Saturday in early April. From morning onward, a drizzling spring rain shrouded sea and mountains alike in monochrome mist, making the already endless day feel interminable. Come evening, the downpour intensified—winds howled violently, shoji screens rattled fiercely, and Sagami Bay’s raging waves roared like myriad horses galloping. Every seaside home barred its doors; not a single lamplight pierced the gloom.

At the Kataoka family villa, Takeo—who should have arrived early that day but had been unavoidably detained by official duties—came braving the stormy darkness after nightfall. Having changed clothes and finished dinner, he now leaned against the desk reading a letter. Across from him sat Namiko sewing a beautiful pouch, pausing her needle at intervals to gaze at her husband and smile before listening to the storm's roar and sinking quietly into thought. Her lustrous black hair, arranged in a coiled updo, held a single sprig of mountain cherry blossoms still bearing their leaves. Between them stood a single-legged table where a peach-shaded lamp burned steadily, casting pale crimson light beside a white porcelain vase housing a mountain cherry branch that remained silent as snow—the spring of its homeland mountains, from which it had parted that morning, must now exist only in dreams.

The storm’s roar clamored around the house. Takeo rolled up the letter and put it away. “Father-in-law must be deeply concerned. Since I’ll be returning to Tokyo tomorrow anyway, I’ll stop by Akasaka on my way back.” “You’re coming tomorrow? In this weather! But Mother must be waiting for you. I want to go too!” “Namiko!!! Don’t be absurd! I’d sooner die than allow that! Consider yourself in exile a while longer.” He laughed heartily.

“Ho ho ho, I could endure such exile for a lifetime—do have a smoke.” “Do I look that desperate for one? Let’s not go there. But in exchange, I’ll smoke two days’ worth on the day I come and the day I leave.” He laughed heartily. “Ho ho ho, in that case, as your reward, I’ll bring some nice sweets right now.” “That sounds delightful. That must be a gift from Chizuko.—Let me see, that’s turning into something splendid, isn’t it?”

“These days are so interminably long—I’ve been making this for Mother—but no, it’s quite all right. I’m just idling my time away with it.” “Ah, somehow I feel so refreshed. Let me stay up a little longer—like this, I don’t seem ill at all!” “Why—Dr. Kawashima’s here after all! Ha ha ha!” “But truly—Namiko’s complexion has improved lately.” “You’re practically ours now.”

At this moment, from the adjoining room came the old woman Iku, bearing a sweets bowl and tea tray in both hands.

“What a terrible storm this is, my lady.” “If the master weren’t here, ne~ my lady, you wouldn’t get a wink of sleep tonight.” "The young lady from Iidamachi has returned to the capital—even the nurse has gone back for a while—how terribly lonely it must be today, ne~ my lady." “Old servant Mohei is here though.”

“I wonder how those aboard ships feel on a night like this.” “But those who worry about the people aboard must feel even sadder!” “Not at all,” said Takeo, having finished his tea and devoured two or three Chinese-style buns from Fūgetsu in one breath. “Not at all—this storm’s still manageable. But when you hit a major typhoon in the South China Sea for two or three days straight, that really takes its toll.” “A four-thousand-some-ton warship tilts thirty or forty degrees, and these mountain-like waves come crashing over the deck one after another—when the ship starts groaning like that, it’s not exactly pleasant, you know.”

The wind grew ever more violent, and the rainstorm hurled pebble-like torrents against the shutters. Namiko closed her eyes. Iku shuddered. The conversation among the three had lapsed, and only the sound of the storm remained dreadful. “Alright, let’s stop with this gloomy talk,” said Takeo. “On a night like this, we should brighten the lamp and have a cheerful conversation instead. It’s warmer here than in Yokosuka—look how much the mountain cherries have already bloomed.” Namiko gently stroked the cherry blossom petals arranged in the porcelain vase. “The old man brought these from the mountains this morning. Aren’t they lovely? But with this storm, the ones still on the slopes must have scattered terribly by now. How truly noble they are! Oh yes—earlier I came across this poem by Rengetsu: ‘How enviable—blooming freely as they will, then scattering so refreshingly, these cherry blossoms!’ Isn’t it beautifully composed?”

“What?” “Scattering so refreshingly?” “I—well, I think we Japanese get too caught up in admiring scattering things—flowers and whatnot. There’s purity in that, sure, but overdo it and it becomes a flaw.” “Even in war, dying quick means defeat. Better encourage some stubbornness—tenacity, endurance.” “So yours truly—I made this poem:” “Listen up—first try’s bound to be daft! ‘Tenacious,’ eh? Don’t you laugh! ‘Though folks call me tenacious’—how joyous are long-blooming double cherry blossoms! Ha ha ha! Nashimoto goes barefoot!”

"My, what an amusing poem this is, ne~ my lady?" “Ha ha ha ha! With Granny’s seal of approval, this poem’s now officially certified as a masterpiece!”

As their conversation lapsed once more, the sounds of wind and rain grew fiercer still, joined by crashing waves, until the house resembled nothing so much as a boat adrift upon the open sea. Iku stood to fetch more hot water from the iron kettle. Namiko held the thermometer she had tucked away up to the lamp, showing her husband with a look of triumph that tonight’s fever ran no higher than usual, then returned it to its case. For a time, she gazed absently at the cherry blossoms on the table before suddenly smiling—

“It’s already been a year, hasn’t it? I remember it so clearly—when I rode out in the carriage that time, the household members came out to see me off. I wanted to say something, but the words just wouldn’t come out.” “Ho ho ho.” “Then when we crossed Tameike Bridge, the sun had already set—it being the fifteenth night—and a perfectly round moon rose. As we ascended that Sannō slope, right at the peak of cherry blossom season, petals came fluttering, fluttering through the carriage window like a blizzard—ho ho ho. Cherry blossom petals had settled in my chignon, and just as we were about to alight, Auntie noticed and plucked them out for me.”

Takeo rested his cheek on his hand at the table. "About a year's passed already—time flies." "Before you know it, we'll be celebrating our silver anniversary." "Ha ha ha ha! The way you kept your composure back then—ha ha ha! Just remembering it cracks me up." "How did you ever maintain such perfect composure?" "But ho ho ho—you maintained perfect composure too as the young lord." "Ho ho ho! My hands shook so terribly I couldn't hold the sake cup at all." "It's grown quite lively in here, hasn't it?" said Iku, smiling as she reentered with the iron kettle. "This old woman hasn't felt so refreshed in ages." "Being together like this reminds me of last year in Ikaho."

“Ikaho was such a joy!” "How about the bracken hunting? A certain someone’s legs were quite heavy, weren’t they?"

“But you rush so much,” Namiko smiled. “The bracken-picking time draws near. “Namiko, get well soon so we can have another bracken-hunting competition!” “Hohoho, you’ll surely have recovered by then.”

4-4

The next day stood in stark contrast to last night's violent storm, presenting weather of remarkably fine clarity.

Having decided to return to Tokyo in the afternoon, Takeo took Namiko out during the warm, windless morning hours for exercise; passing through the sand dunes behind Hara Hara Pine from the villa's rear entrance, they emerged onto the beach.

“What lovely weather! I never imagined it would turn out this nice.”

“It’s truly splendid weather. “Izu looks close enough to chat with, doesn’t it?” The two stepped onto parched sand, leaving behind fishermen noisily hauling nets ashore in the day’s calm and children gathering shells, then walked along the crescent-shaped beach toward increasingly deserted stretches.

Namiko began as if suddenly recalling: “Darling... How is Mr. Chijiiwa faring?” “Chijiiwa?” “That bastard’s beyond redemption.” “Haven’t laid eyes on him since.” “Why ask?” Namiko hesitated briefly. “No—well—this may sound odd, but last night I dreamt of Mr. Chijiiwa.”

“Chijiiwa’s dream?” “Well. “I had a dream where Mr. Chijiiwa and Mother were talking about something.” “Ha ha ha ha! That’s quite the imagination you’ve got there! What were they discussing?” “I couldn’t make out the words, but Mother kept nodding repeatedly.” “—Miss Chizuko mentioned seeing that person walking with Mr. Yamaki, so that must’ve inspired such a dream.” “Tell me truthfully... There’s no possibility of Mr. Chijiiwa visiting our home, is there?”

“That’s impossible. It couldn’t happen.” “Mother’s furious with Chijiiwa too, you know.”

Namiko involuntarily let out a sigh. “Truly, having fallen ill like this, Mother must surely find me detestable.” Takeo was struck through the chest. For his ailing wife—though unspoken—ever since Namiko fell ill and took to her bed, Takeo had found his mother’s disposition worsening with each return to the capital; admonished that if contagion was feared he should keep his distance from Zushi altogether, the culmination of their various veiled complaints escalated into slander against her family, and even when attempting the slightest appeasement, he was reviled as a fool who shielded his wife and defied his parent—incidents that had already occurred not once or twice.

“Hahaha! You worry about all sorts of things, Namiko. That’s impossible! Let’s focus on your recovery and arrange leave next spring—then we three can go see Yoshino’s cherry blossoms with Mother—Ah! We’ve come this far already. You must be tired. Shouldn’t we head back soon?”

The two stood where the beach ended and the mountain rose.

“Let’s go all the way to Fudō, come on—I’m not tired at all. I could even walk to the West!”

“Alright then, hand me that shawl. “The rocks are slippery. Here, grab on tight.” Takeo helped and guided Namiko along a narrow path that followed the rocks at the mountain’s base, pausing frequently to rest as they went a little over a hundred meters before arriving beneath the Shara Shara Falls. Beside the waterfall stood a small Fudō hall. Five or six pine trees, spindly and stretching from the cliff, leaned out over the sea at an angle. Takeo swept the rock clean, spread the shawl for Namiko to rest on, then sat down himself and hugged his knees. “What a calm!”

The sea was indeed calm. The sky near noon stretched clear and azure to its zenith without a cloud; the uniformly blue sea glistened white here and there like kneaded silk, not a single discernible ripple across its vast expanse. Both the sea and mountains, bathed in the spring sun, slept peacefully. “You!”

“What?” “Will I recover?” “Huh?” “My illness.” “What are you saying? What do you mean you won’t recover? You’ll recover. You’ll definitely recover.”

Namiko leaned against her husband’s shoulder. “But what if I never recover? I do think that sometimes.” "My biological mother also passed away from this illness, and—" “Namiko, why are you saying such things today of all days?” “You’ll be fine. You’ll recover.” "The doctor also says you’ll recover, doesn’t he?" “Right, Namiko? Isn’t that so?” “Well—Mother had that illness—or maybe not—but you’re not even twenty yet.” “And since it’s still in the early stages, you’ll recover no matter what happens.” “Look at our relative Ōkawara—you know him—he lost his right lung, and even after the doctor gave up on him, he’s still lived fifteen years!” “If you just have the spirit to recover by all means, you’ll surely recover.” "The reason you won’t recover is because you don’t love me." “If you love me, you’ll surely recover.” “What are you going to do if you don’t recover?”

Takeo took Namiko’s left hand and pressed it to his lips. On her hand, the diamond-studded ring that Takeo had given before their marriage shone brilliantly. The two fell silent for a time, not speaking. A single white sail that had emerged from the direction of Enoshima glided across the sea surface.

Namiko smiled through tear-clouded eyes. “I’ll recover. I’ll surely recover—Ahh, why must humans die?!” “I want to live!” “I want to live a thousand years, ten thousand years!” “If we die, let it be together!” “Right? The two of us!”

“If Namiko dies, I won’t go on living either!”

“Really?” “I’m so happy! Right? The two of us!” “But Mother is here, and you have your duties—even if you mean to think that way, you couldn’t act freely, could you?” “Then I alone must go on ahead and wait, mustn’t I? When I die…will you sometimes remember me?” “Hm? Hm? You?”

Takeo wiped away his tears and stroked Namiko’s black hair. “Ah, let’s stop this kind of talk already. Focus on recovering and get better completely—right, Namiko? Let’s both live long lives and hold our golden wedding anniversary!”

Namiko gripped her husband’s hands tightly with both of hers, leaned into him, and as her hot tears fell onto Takeo’s knees, declared: “Even if I die, I am your wife! No matter what anyone does—even if I fall ill, even if I die—until the farthest reaches of the future, I will be your wife!”

5-1

When Chijiiwa heard of Namiko’s illness at Shinbashi Station, the smile that rose to his lips was a triumphant hymn of his heart toward the sudden appearance of a clue to an insoluble conundrum he had long sought to unravel. The weakness of the detested Kawashima and Kataoka families truly lay in Namiko; her lung ailment amounted to heaven itself granting Chijiiwa Yasuhiko an opportunity for revenge. With the disease being contagious and fatal, Takeo frequently absent from home—what obstacle could exist to merely uttering a word between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, causing their bond to rupture without lifting a finger? Once accomplished, I shall withdraw at once, thereafter watching from afar as they wound each other and writhe in their tumultuous life-and-death drama. Having indeed thought thus, Chijiiwa relaxed his slightly furrowed brow.

He knew his aunt’s temperament well. As much as Takeo was angry with me, he knew well that his aunt bore no such anger toward me. He knew well that his aunt always regarded Takeo as a child and rather relied more on me—Chijiiwa—whose mind was seasoned beyond his years in worldly matters. Moreover, he knew well that this aunt—who had few relatives and acquaintances, who scolded people away yet felt insecure within—being dissatisfied with the young couple, desired allies. Thus, without yet advancing a single soldier, he had determined that his operational plan would assuredly succeed.

Chijiiwa, who already had his plan fully formed, further persuaded Yamaki to periodically visit the Kawashima household and have him investigate their circumstances, while also hinting at his own—Chijiiwa’s—supposedly profound remorse and resolve. Namiko’s illness had persisted for two months without significant improvement when, at April’s end—having heard of his aunt’s increasingly foul disposition, with Takeo absent and steward Tasaki away on household business—Chijiiwa seized upon the opportunity to suddenly pass through the gates of the Kawashima residence one night, a threshold he had long refrained from crossing. He arrived just as his aunt sat alone with Takeo’s letter before her, deep in contemplation.

5-2

“No progress at all.” “Money spent, two or three months gone with no improvement—what a mess, eh Yasu-san? Times like these need proper kin to consult... but that Takeo’s still a child—” “You must understand, Aunt—your humble nephew wouldn’t intrude like this without cause. But to the late uncle and aunt who showed me kindness, and to Takeo himself—I can’t stand idle while this continues.” “This is nothing less than the Kawashima family’s ruin we’re facing—that’s why I’ve come to speak plainly. Aunt, you know full well how fearsome this consumption is—how often a wife’s sickness infects her husband and destroys whole households! I fret over Takeo’s health night and day—unless you warn him properly, this will end in catastrophe.”

“That’s just how it is. “I dreaded that myself—told Takeo time and again not to go to Zushi, not once but twice over! But wouldn’t he listen? See here—” She produced the letter, thrusting it forward. “Doctors this, nurses that—that fool cares for nothing but his wife!” Chijiiwa smirked. “Now Auntie, that’s going too far. A couple can never be too close. “With her being ill, shouldn’t Takeo-kun stand firmer than ever?”

"But even so, just because your wife falls ill, that's no reason to neglect your parents!" Chijiiwa sighed indignantly. "Ah, this is truly a vexing matter. Just when Takeo-kun had finally secured a good wife and you could at last feel relieved, Aunt—this happens straightaway. Yet the Kawashima family's survival truly hangs in the balance now—tell me, has there been any formal communication from Namiko-san's family?" "Greetings? Pah! Greetings? That insolent stepmother came bearing some trifling gift and offered nothing but excuses—that's their notion of a greeting! They did come two or three times from the Katō household, but—"

Chijiiwa heaved another deep sigh. “In times like these, her family ought to show some consideration—to foist their sickly daughter upon you and carry on as if nothing’s amiss…” “But this is a world where egoism sits enshrined at its core, Aunt.” “Exactly.”

“That’s all well and good, but what worries me is Takeo-kun’s health.” “If something were to happen, that would spell ruin for the Kawashima family—and there’s no telling when it might spread in the meantime.” “Even so, when it comes to a married couple, Aunt couldn’t very well build a fence around them—”

“That’s it.” “But if we leave things as they are, it will lead to a crisis for the Kawashima family.” “Exactly.” “A parent’s duty isn’t merely to indulge their child’s every whim—sometimes making a child weep can be an act of mercy. And even when young people seem resolute, their minds often shift unexpectedly after a little time passes.” “That’s it.” “A little pity or sympathy cannot be exchanged for the family’s critical matter.”

“That’s it.” “And if by any chance she were to bear a child, that would be utterly—” “No—that’s it.” Rather than watching his aunt lean forward and nod deeply in agreement, Chijiiwa struck his mental knee and abruptly shifted the conversation. He had not only observed how swiftly the poured-in medicine circulated but had also realized that a seed had already taken root in his aunt’s heart—though still shrouded in lingering reservations on all sides, its breakthrough from the soil to sprout, grow, bloom, and bear fruit was merely a matter of time—and that time would not be long.

Takeo's mother, who was no villain at heart, did not despise Namiko even if she couldn't bring herself to love her. Though their households and upbringings differed, Namiko had tried to efface herself to accommodate her mother-in-law—a fact even Keiko had to acknowledge. She even detected shared sensibilities in certain matters, and though critical in speech, privately admitted her own bridal efforts had never matched such devotion. Yet when Namiko's month-long malaise culminated in that dreaded diagnosis—tuberculosis—when Keiko witnessed the horror of her hemoptysis firsthand, when treatments consumed time and money without yielding recovery, something took root in her heart—an impulse indistinguishable between disappointment and revulsion. As Keiko dwelled on this while nursing her growing resentment, she felt each layer of her many concerns dissolve away, leaving that single thought to swell daily with fearsome vigor.

Chijiiwa, having clearly traced the meandering paths of his aunt’s mind, now began making periodic visits from this point onward, artlessly scattering droplets of fine rain and whispers of light wind to loosen her reservations and nurture those sprouting thoughts as he waited for the situation to ripen toward its inevitable culmination. By the time faint murmurs about Chijiiwa’s comings and goings to the Kawashima residence—timed to Takeo’s absences—had begun seeping beyond their walls, he had already perfected the fundamentals of his performance. Even while withdrawing from the stage, he announced to Yamaki the imminent drama soon to erupt between them, raising a toast beforehand to celebrate its arrival.

6-1

In early May, as the ship Takeo was aboard was about to depart from Kure for Sasebo and then turn back northward to join the Combined Fleet’s exercises near Hakodate—a mission that would deny him any opportunity to return home for roughly forty to fifty days—he briefly returned to the capital for one night under the pretext of bidding farewell while gauging his mother’s mood. Lately, as though something were perpetually lodged between her back teeth, his mother—whose mood never improved no matter when he returned—tonight wore an uncharacteristically beaming face, had the bath heated, and zealously urged Takeo to partake of his favorite Satsuma stew, scarcely refraining from serving it herself. Takeo, who by nature paid little heed to trivial matters, found his mother’s uncharacteristically formal demeanor puzzling—or so he thought—but given that no child, regardless of age, fails to feel joy at being doted upon by a parent, and given Takeo’s heightened longing for his mother since losing his father, he felt heartened by her improved mood and cheerfully partook of the late-night meal. Afterward, as he soaked in the bath listening to the pattering rain that had begun to fall, he envisioned how wonderful it would be if only Namiko would recover quickly and be there in Zushi—where he had stopped by earlier that day—awaiting his return. In this pleasantly dazed state, he emerged from the bath, casually threw on the maid’s everyday robe that had been laid out, rubbed his forehead against the back of his cigar-clutching right hand, and then—just as his mother entered the eight-mat parlor.

Mother—who was having her shoulders massaged by a maid while smoking Kokubu tobacco through a long-stemmed pipe—looked up and said, “Oh, you’ve come up early.” “Hohohohoho! Your father used to say just that—here, sit on that cushion.—Matsu, since the tea things are prepared, go make some tea,” she added, standing up herself to retrieve the sweets box from the tea shelf.

“It’s as if I’m a guest here.” Takeo inhaled a puff of his cigar and, blowing out blue smoke, smiled faintly.

“Takeo, you’ve come back.—Truth is, I’ve got a bit of a matter to discuss—been thinkin’ I absolutely needed you home.” “Well, you’ve come back—what perfect timing.” “Zushi—didja stop by there?” He knew full well how his mother detested frequent visits to Zushi, yet he couldn’t bring himself to utter such a blatant falsehood. “Well, I did stop by for a bit.” “Her complexion has started to improve.” “She felt terribly sorry to you, Mother, and was deeply worried.”

"Is that so?" Mother stared fixedly at Takeo's face. Just then, as the maid brought the tea utensils, Mother took them, "Matsu, you go over there." "Th-that sliding door—close it properly—"

6-2 She poured tea with her own hands and offered it to Takeo, drank some herself, then calmly took up her pipe. Mother deliberately began to speak.

“I’ve grown quite weak, Takeo.” “Last year’s rheumatism left me thoroughly weakened.” “Just yesterday I went to visit the grave, and my shoulders and hips still ache.” “Growing old makes everything feel so uncertain—Takeo, you must take care of your health and avoid falling ill.” Tapping cigar ash against the brazier’s edge, Takeo looked up at his mother’s plump yet undeniably aged forehead and said, “I’m always away, and you’re the one managing everything like a prime minister—I just hope Namiko stays healthy too.” “She’s always saying she wants to get better soon so she can ease your burdens, Mother.”

“You may think so, but that illness ain’t just any illness.” “But she’s gotten much better. It’ll get warmer soon enough—and she’s still young.” “Well, an illness is an illness—if it goes well, fine, Takeo—but didn’t the doctor say Namiko’s own mother died of tuberculosis too?” “Well, they did say that, but—” “This illness gets passed down from parent to child, don’t it?”

"Well, you say such things, but Namiko’s was entirely brought on by a cold." "Oh, come now, Mother—it’s all a matter of caution. They talk of contagion and heredity, but in truth, it’s not nearly as dire as they say." "In fact, Namiko’s father is such a healthy man, and her sister—that Komako—she doesn’t have a trace of lung disease either." "Humans aren’t as weak as doctors make them out to be, hahahaha!" "This is no laughing matter," said Mother while tapping out her pipe.

“Of all illnesses, this one’s truly terrifying, Takeo." “You must know this already—that Governor Tōgō, you remember, the one whose child you often quarreled with—well, his mother died of tuberculosis in April two years back. Then at the end of that same year, Mr. Tōgō himself also died of tuberculosis, see? And now recently, his son—worked as some engineer or other—he too passed away from tuberculosis. There.” “All their mothers passed it on to ’em." "There are still several more such cases." “So I’m tellin’ ya, Takeo—this illness ain’t somethin’ you can let your guard down with—let your guard down, and it’ll turn serious, I tell ya.”

Mother set aside her pipe, edged her knees forward slightly, and peered at Takeo’s profile as he listened in silence. “The truth is, I’ve been meanin’ to discuss somethin’ for some time now—” After hesitating slightly, she stared fixedly at Takeo’s face, “It’s about Namiko—” “Huh?” Takeo raised his face.

“How ’bout we take Namiko back—what d’ya think?” “Take her back? How exactly would you take her back?”

Mother did not take her eyes off Takeo’s face. “To her family home.”

“To her family home? You’d have her recuperate there?” “She can recuperate there—just take her back—” “For recuperation, Zushi would be better. At her family home there are children—if you’re having her recuperate there, then this house would be far preferable.” Sipping her now-cold tea, Mother said in a slightly trembling voice, “Takeo—you’re not drunk—are you pretending not to understand?” Staring fixedly at her child’s face: “What I’m saying is—take Namiko back to her family home—that’s what.”

“Send her back? … Send her back? —So it’s divorce!!” “Now your voice rises overmuch, Takeo.” She stared fixedly at her trembling son. “Divorce. Aye—divorce.” “Divorce!” “Divorce!! — Why?” “Why? As I’ve said—’tis the nature of her illness.” “Because of consumption… you mean to cast her out?” “You’d divorce Namiko?”

“That’s right—’tis a pity, but—” “Divorce!!!” The cigar that slipped from Takeo’s hand fell into the brazier and billowed thick smoke. A lone lamp burned steadfastly as night rain pattered against the windowpanes.

6-3

While repeatedly burying the smoldering cigar into the ashes, Mother leaned forward slightly.

“Now, Takeo—this might come sudden-like, so don’t go gettin’ all shocked now—I’ve turned this over nights on end, so you’ll listen proper.” “Mind—I’ve no quarrel with Namiko herself, and since she’s dear to you, ’tisn’t spite drivin’ this divorce talk—but when all’s weighed, that illness—” “The illness is mending.” Takeo shot back sharply, lifting his gaze to meet his mother’s eyes.

“Now, listen to what I have to say. Her condition may not be bad at present,” she continued, “but I’ve heard straight from physicians that this illness may improve temporarily but will worsen again—flaring up with heat or cold—and there’s hardly a soul who’s recovered from tuberculosis—the doctors themselves say so. Even if Namiko doesn’t die now, mark my words—she’ll surely worsen again before long. Before long, it’ll infect you—mark my words—you know that, Takeo? It’ll infect you—if a child’s born, it’ll infect the child—it’s not just Namiko! Our precious master—you—and our important heir would both become consumptives—die off—and then see—the Kawashima family’d be ruined! Mark this—through your father’s pains, this Kawashima house His Majesty himself graciously raised up—it’ll be destroyed in your time! Now ’tis true—Namiko’s pitiable, you’re suffering sorely—’tis no pleasure for me as your mother to say this—hard it is—but when all’s said, the illness is the illness. However pitiable Namiko may be, she can’t replace you as master—nor replace the Kawashima house. Use your wits and resolve yourself here!”

As Takeo listened in silence, the face of his ailing wife who had visited him that day rose vividly in his heart.

“Mother, I can’t do that.”

“Why’s that?” Mother’s voice rose slightly. “Mother, if you do this now, Namiko will die!” “She might die—but Takeo, I can’t bear losing you! I can’t bear losing the Kawashima house!” “Mother, if you truly care for me, please try to understand my heart.” “This may sound strange coming from me, but I truly cannot do such a thing.” “Though I’m still inexperienced and fall short in many ways, I’ve always treated you well—and you’ve treated me kindly too. To cast aside someone who’s done nothing wrong just because she’s ill… I simply cannot.” “Tuberculosis isn’t incurable—she’s already improving.” “If she doesn’t recover and must die regardless… Mother, please let her die as my wife.” “If the illness becomes dangerous, I’ll cut off all contact. I’ll take every precaution.” “I’ll do whatever it takes to ease your worries.” “But divorce—no matter what—I cannot do it!”

“Heh heh heh, Takeo—you harp on about nothing but Namiko! Do you not care if you die? Is destroying the House of Kawashima acceptable to you?” “Mother speaks only of my health, but what value lies in a long life built on such heartless betrayal?” “To violate human compassion and abandon moral duty will never bring good to this family.” “It brings neither honor nor glory to the House of Kawashima.” “No matter what—I refuse! I absolutely will not consent to a divorce!”

Though Mother had anticipated some resistance, having encountered fiercer opposition than expected, her volatile temper surged through her chest—veins standing out at her forehead, temples twitching, the hand clutching her smoking pipe trembling violently—until she finally suppressed these tremors and forced a faint smile. “Th-there’s no need to get so worked up. Just… calmly consider it.” “You’re still young and don’t know the ways of the world—they often say, you know, ‘Sacrifice the lesser to save the greater.’” “Right?” “Namiko’s the lesser insect—you—the Kawashima family’s the greater one.” “’Tis a pity for them too, poor Namiko—but isn’t it all ’cause the illness is dire?” “Even if folk think ill of it, ’tis better than lettin’ the Kawashima line die out, right?” “What’s more—you go on about ingratitude and heartlessness—but such cases abound in society.” “If they don’t suit the family’s ways—divorce; no children—divorce; bad illness—divorce.” “That’s the world’s way, Takeo.” “No ingratitude nor heartlessness in it—just how things are done.” “When a bride falls ill like this—her parents’ home should take her back.” “Since they’ll bring it up anyhow—we may as well say it first—what’s wrong or shameful there?”

“Mother, you keep invoking ‘the world’ this and ‘the world’ that, but there’s no law saying we must commit wrongs just because others do.” “Divorcing someone over illness belongs to bygone days.” “If that’s truly the law of today’s world, then today’s world deserves destruction—it must be destroyed.” “You focus solely on our side, Mother—do you imagine the Kataokas would feel content having their bride returned simply because she fell ill after they went to such lengths?” “How could Namiko ever lift her face to return?” “Suppose our positions were reversed—if I had tuberculosis and Namiko’s family reclaimed her deeming it dangerous—would that sit well with you?” “It’s precisely the same.”

“No, that’s different.” “Men and women aren’t the same—surely you know that?” “It’s the same.” “By both reason and human feeling—it’s the same.” “It may sound odd coming from me, but isn’t this when Namiko’s hemoptysis has finally stopped and she’s starting to recover? To do this now would be like making her cough up blood again.” “Namiko will die.” “She’ll certainly die.” “Even strangers couldn’t bring themselves to do such a thing—Mother, are you ordering me to kill Namiko…?”

Takeo involuntarily let his hot tears stream down onto the tatami mats.

6-4

Mother sprang to her feet, snatched a mortuary tablet from the Buddhist altar, returned to her seat, and thrust it before Takeo's eyes.

“Takeo! Just because I’m a woman—your mother—you think nothing of me! Go on, say it again before your honored father! Go on, say it! Look upon the mortuary tablets of our ancestors! Go on—say it again, you unfilial wretch!”

She glared fixedly at Takeo and began striking the brazier’s rim with her pipe in rapid succession. Even Takeo finally flushed with agitation. “Why am I unfilial?” “Why? What kinda ‘why’ d’ya mean?!” “A whelp who sides with his wife ’stead of heeding his parent—ain’t that unfilial!” “You’d neglect the very body your parents reared and wreck our ancestral house—ain’t that unfilial!” “Unfilial! Takeo—you’re unfilial! A damned unfilial wretch!” “But human compassion—”

“Still spouting duty and compassion?!” “Do you value your wife over your parents?!” “You imbecile!” “What’re you saying?! Wife, wife, wife—you go on and on about your wife! What’re ya gonna do about your parents?!” “No matter what you do, you only talk about Namiko!” “Unfilial wretch!” “I’ll disown you!”

Takeo bit his lip, squeezing out hot tears as he said, “Mother, that’s going too far.” “What’s ‘too much’?” “I have never—never—harbored such a careless heart.” “Can’t you feel that sincerity, Mother?” “If that’s how it is, why won’t you listen to what I say?” “Huh? Why won’t you divorce Namiko?” “But that—” “But enough o' that!” “Now, Takeo—is your wife more important, or your parent?” “Huh?” “Is the family what matters?” “Namiko—? You fool!”

With the force of striking the brazier, the tobacco pipe's stem snapped with a crack, and its bowl flew through the air to thud against and tear through the sliding door. At that instant, someone on the other side of the door gasped and gulped audibly before speaking in a quivering voice: “Pardon this intrusion—I beg your leave.”

“Who? —What’s this?”

“Ah! “The telegram…” The sliding door opened; Takeo took and looked at the telegram; the housemaid, meeting the mistress’s glare, nearly shrank into herself as she hastily withdrew—all within barely two minutes. Yet in this moment, the heat between the two subsided, and for a while mother and son sat silently facing each other.

The rain poured down again like a waterfall. Mother finally spoke. Her eyes still flashed with anger, yet her words carried a hint of moisture. “Now, Takeo. “When I say this, I ain’t doin’ nothin’ bad for your sake, understand? “You’re my only one. “To see ya rise in the world and hold healthy grandchildren—that’s my only joy, y’know.”

Takeo, who had been silently lost in thought, slightly raised his head.

“Mother—anyway, I too—” While holding out the telegram, he said, “As you see here, my departure’s been rushed—I must return to my ship by tomorrow evening at the latest. I'll return in about a month. Until then, I beg you—keep tonight’s conversation from everyone. No matter what happens, please wait until I return.”

＊

The next day, Takeo further secured his mother's assurance, visited her attending physician to solemnly entrust Namiko's care, and arrived in Zushi via the afternoon train.

When he alighted from the train, the sun had set and the fifth-day moon hung in a pale violet sky. Crossing Nogawa Bridge, the sandy path led into a dim pine forest. As he pressed through the forest and glimpsed the well sweep standing black against the evening sky, an unexpected plucking sound reached his ears. “Ah—she’s playing the koto…” he thought, his heart wrenching as if being torn from his chest, and he stood wiping tears outside the gate for some time. That day, feeling better than usual in her longing for her husband’s return, Namiko had taken out the koto she had long left untouched and begun to play.

When questioned about his unusual complexion, Takeo merely explained it away as having stayed up late. At the dinner table they had been waiting for as promised, Namiko sat facing her husband, but neither touched their food. Masking her unease with a lonely smile, Namiko herself rebuttoned her husband's loosened coat and meticulously brushed it down; but when the hour for the last train approached, she clung to Takeo's hand as he reluctantly stood to leave.

“Are you leaving already?” “I’ll come back soon. Take care of yourself too, Namiko. Get well properly.”

They firmly gripped each other's hands. When he stepped out to the entranceway, the old woman Iku adjusted his shoes while his servant Mohei—intending to escort him to the station with a handbag in his left hand—lit a lantern and stood waiting even though the moon was out.

“Well then Granny,” said Takeo with forced cheerfulness—his voice cracking slightly—“I leave everything concerning Madam in your hands.” He turned toward Namiko standing pale at the entranceway: “I’ll return soon.” “Please come back quickly,” she whispered through trembling lips. Takeo nodded once—a sharp military gesture—and stepped through the gate into darkness illuminated only by Mohei’s swaying lantern light. After ten paces he glanced back over his shoulder: there stood Namiko framed against lamplit shoji screens—her white shawl slipping unnoticed from thin shoulders—waving her handkerchief like surrender flag while calling out again: “You must return soon!” “I will!” His reply carried hoarse urgency across moonlit sand: “Namiko—don’t let night air chill you! Go inside now!”

But when he looked back two or three times, the white figure appeared dimly; yet soon as the path curved, that form vanished from sight. Thrice more “Please come back soon.”

Only a choked sob followed, yearning after the lingering echo of that voice. When he looked back, the shadow of the crescent moon hung cold upon the pine trees.

Part Seven, Chapter One With the spirited announcement of "I'm home," Yamaki—who had just stepped down from a two-person rickshaw at the entrance—took a quick bath, then settled cross-legged on a plush zabuton cushion, his back to the alcove displaying early-blooming irises. He exuded the air of one finally gaining control of affairs. Though his face—greedy yet listless as he poured drinks—appeared cheerless, he seemed oddly pleased. After a sidelong glance at his wife Sumi and draining three or four cups, he examined the newspaper extra under lamplight that the maid had brought.

“Hmm, Korea... The Donghak rebels grow increasingly rampant... And now Qing China has dispatched troops...” “Now things are getting quite interesting!” “With this, our nation will dispatch troops—it’ll turn to war—now we’ll make a killing!” “Sumi, it’s a pre-celebration—you have a drink too.”

“D’you really think there’ll be war?” “Bound to be.” “Splendid! Marvelous! Truly splendid!” “Ah, but enough of that—Sumi, met Chijiiwa today. That little matter’s progressing nicely, eh?” “Well now... Is that so?” “Has the Young Master consented then?”

“Well, Takeo hasn’t returned yet, so there’s been no discussion or agreement—but Namiko’s coughed up blood again.” “The dowager’s at her limit now—they say she means to force it through before Takeo comes back.” “If we get Chijiiwa to give one more push, it’ll hold firm.” “Once Takeo returns, forcing it through will be nigh impossible—that’s why the dowager aims to settle everything before he does.” “Once that’s done, it’ll be ours through and through.” “Now then—wife! Pour.”

“Poor Ms. Namiko…” “You’re such a contrary woman! First you want us to push Ms. Namiko aside for poor Yutaka’s sake, and now that it’s nearly done, suddenly it’s poor Ms. Namiko who deserves pity! Enough of this foolishness—what matters now is our scheme to install Yutaka as her replacement.” “But you—divorcing Ms. Namiko while he’s away… Mr. Takeo—the young master won’t agree to that, will he now—?”

“Well, Takeo’ll be furious when he returns, but once the divorce goes through, there’s nothin’ he can do even if he rages.” “Besides, Mr. Takeo’s a filial son—once the dowager waterworks start flowin’, he’ll just have to swallow it.” “That’s settled then. Now ’bout Princess Yutaka—once Mr. Takeo’s temper cools off, we’ll barge in under some ‘etiquette trainin’ with room ’n board’ pretext.” “Nah, looks tough but it’s easy.” “Just gotta keep the old bat sweet.” “Once Yutaka becomes Baron Kawashima’s missus—love’ll conquer all—and I’ll be playin’ father-in-law while managin’ their fortune since that soft boy can’t.” “Downright peculiar—no, bothersome role really—but what’s a man to do? Now ’bout Yutaka—”

“You should’ve had your meal by now.” “Ah, enough of that. It’s a pre-celebration for taking and giving.—Now about Yutaka—you need to discipline her more or we’ll be in trouble. If she keeps throwing tantrums every day like that, it’ll be a real problem once she goes over there. Even if she’s supposed to be a Kannon-like mother-in-law, acting like that’d make anyone lose their patience!”

“Well then, you—the disciplinin’ ain’t just my responsibility alone now.” “But you always—” “Now, I detest such excuses.” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha.”

“Actions speak louder than words—I’ll discipline her myself. Now, call Yutaka here.”

Part Seven, Chapter Two

“Young Mistress, if you’d kindly come to the inner room.”

At the sound of Take the housemaid sliding open the fusuma and calling out, Yutaka—who had just finished her evening makeup yet lingered before the mirror—turned around unhurriedly.

“Okay.” “I’m coming now.—Hey Take, this part here…” Stroking her sideburns, [she asked,] “It’s not a bit disheveled here, is it?” “No, it’s not disheveled at all. “Ohohohoho.” “Your makeup turned out splendidly!” “Hohohoho!” “I’m utterly enraptured.” “Oh stop it with your flattery!” As she spoke, she peered into the mirror and smiled coyly. Take cleared her throat and took hold of her sleeve, swallowing a mouthful of saliva as she did so. “Young Mistress, they’ve been waiting impatiently.”

“Alright, I’m coming now.”

Finally steeling herself, she left the mirror with a resolute posture, scurried through several rooms, and entered her father’s study.

“Oh, Yutaka. “I was waiting.” “Come here, come here.” “Now then, do the pouring instead of your mother.” “Whoa! That’s a rough way to set down the sake flask!” “That doesn’t suit a young lady who’s trained in tea ceremony and flower arranging!” “Yes, yes—that’s right, place it in a mountain shape!” Already flushed with drink, Yamaki downed several more cups despite his wife’s attempts to stop him. “Now Sumi, our Yutaka’s all dolled up like a proper lady here. “Her complexion’s fair—her figure’s comely.” “At home she’s nothing special, but out in society, a bit of flattery does nicely.” “The only flaw is she’s got her mother’s slight buck teeth—”

“You!” “If you raise your eye corners three-tenths more, your womanly charm’d improve—” “You!” “Now Yutaka—what’re you puffing up for? Pout like that and your ladylike airs’ll droop. No need for such glum looks, eh Yutaka? Got news to please you. Come now—pour your payment cup! Pour!”

Downing in one gulp the brimming sake cup she had poured for him, “Now Yutaka—your mother and I were just talking—you know already—it’s about Takeo—” Like a discontented horse lying in an empty stall catching the scent of spring grass, Yutaka suddenly raised her head and pricked up both ears.

“Because you went and scratched that photo, even Namiko ended up cursed—” “You!” Mrs. Sumi knit her eyebrows a third time. “Now we’re getting to business.” “Anyway, since Namiko’s illness has worsened, they’ll be divorcing.” “No—they haven’t broached it with them yet, and Namiko herself doesn’t know—but mark my words, it’ll happen soon.” “Once that’s settled, we’ll start pushing for the replacement—no—wait—both me and Mother want to slot you right into Namiko’s place.” “Not immediately, mind—for now, we’ll have you enter as a housemaid—don’t gawk like that—consider yourself a probationary candidate under the guise of learning decorum. We’ll plant you in the Kawashima household—we’ll sweet-talk the dowager, see? There—you follow?”

Yamaki took a breath and looked alternately between his wife and daughter.

“Now then, Yutaka.” “It might be a bit early—but there’s something I need to tell you.” “As you know, that Mr. Takeo’s mother—the dowager—is famous for her temper, selfishness, and stubbornness—wait, I shouldn’t speak ill of your mother like that—anyway, just like this mother of yours sitting here—she’s not a kind soul either.” “But she’s no demon or snake—still human through and through.” “Master her rhythms, and you could handle even a demon’s daughter-in-law or snake’s wife.” “What’s to it? Were I a woman, I’d have that dowager soft as tofu within two days.” “Bragging aside—truth is, even such an old crone’s manageable if you know how.” “Now listen sharp—when you infiltrate their house as housemaid-cum-wife candidate, first: quit lazing. Rise at dawn—old bats wake early—forget all else. Serve the dowager’s every whim.” “Hear me?” “Second—no more puffing up when crossed. Yield to everything.” “Hear me?” “Yield when scolded. Yield to impossible demands. Yield doubly when right.” “That’s how they’ll bend—what they call ‘losing to win.’” “Never show anger—got it?” “Third—early to say, but mark this—once wedded, never grow too close to Mr. Takeo.” “In private do as you please—but publicly mind appearances.” “Suck up to the dowager—cling tight—then slight your man before her just enough to seem harmless.” “Oddly enough—mothers-in-law sour when couples dote.” “A jealous streak—pure selfishness.” “Or they fear neglect when spouses bond too close—so they reckon.”

“Miss Namiko may have partly failed there.” “Being too close—whoa, don’t scowl like you’re sprouting horns, Yutaka—that’s exactly where you’d lose, I tell you.” “Now then, listen carefully—you must make sure the mother-in-law feels that this woman is truly her daughter-in-law, not her son’s wife.” “Most quarrels between mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law happen because the young couple’s too close—it makes the mother-in-law feel isolated.” “Listen well—you must think of yourself as the dowager’s daughter-in-law.” “Once the dowager’s kicked the bucket and gone to her reward, you can clamp onto Mr. Takeo’s neck and dangle off him all you like for all I care.” “But in front of the mother-in-law, you mustn’t even glance sideways at Mr. Takeo.” “There’s more, but I’ll tell you that when the time comes to move in.” “These three articles are quite troublesome, but you want to become Mr. Takeo’s beloved wife, don’t you? Patience is what’s important, you hear?” “You’ll start practicing tonight—no waiting until tomorrow!”

In the midst of these words, the sliding door opened, and the maid Take announced, “A reply is required.”

and presented a letter in a woman’s hand. Yamaki opened the envelope and skimmed its contents, flaunting the letter before his wife and daughter’s eyes as he declared— “How’s this? The Kawashima dowager demands your immediate presence!”

Seven-Three

Two weeks after Takeo departed for fleet exercises, and a few days before the Kawashima family sent a letter summoning Yamaki, Namiko—convalescing in Zushi—suffered another bout of hemoptysis and urgently called for a physician. Fortunately, the hemoptysis ceased after a single occurrence, and the physician assured her that there would be no immediate danger, but this news did not fail to greatly agitate Takeo’s mother.

A few days later, the rarely seen outside her gate, the corpulent form of the Kawashima dowager passed through the entrance of the Katō residence in Iidamachi. On the night when mother and son had clashed over the divorce issue, the mother—having witnessed Takeo’s demeanor grow harsher than she had anticipated—had indeed made a promise to remain silent until his return at his request. Yet even were she to wait until then, she realized Takeo’s heart would not easily change; rather, with time’s passage, the bonds of his affection would only grow harder to sever, and unforeseen obstacles were certain to arise. Thus she deemed it more expedient to settle matters swiftly while her son remained absent, yet despite possessing both his verbal pledge and these considerations—resolved though she was in mind—she still had not taken measures decisive enough to satisfy Chijiiwa, who kept coming to prod her at intervals. When word reached her of Namiko’s renewed hemoptysis, the mother resolutely visited the Katō household that had once arranged the marriage.

Though living practically within spitting distance of Banchō and Iidamachi, the Kawashima dowager—who had scarcely shown her face since first coming to formalize the marriage arrangement—now paid this sudden visit. Even as she politely ushered her guest into the parlor, Mrs. Katō felt her heart constrict before hearing a word of what brought her here. That the very hands which once bound the Kataoka and Kawashima families together now demand that thread be severed! With what countenance and through what lips could such words be uttered? Mrs. Katō now scrutinized her guest’s appearance as if seeing her anew. When she looked, there was the same obese physique as ever—thick hands clasped on knees, flesh showing no sagging, eyes unblinking, the Satsuma dialect spilling from her mouth flowing without hesitation—this was neither jest nor madness, but rather deliberate calculation; and as Mrs. Katō realized this, her astonishment transformed into indignation that struck at her heart. Faced with outrageously self-serving arguments and insults that nearly crossed into outright abuse—all while regarding Namiko, whom she thought of as her own daughter, as teetering on the precipice of life’s fortunes—she first questioned, then reasoned, attempted to placate and implore. Yet none of it reached the ears of the other party, who only pressed her own agenda—indeed, it became clear that she viewed the matter as resolvable simply by conveying their position to Namiko’s natal family. As she listened, images arose and swirled within her breast—her ailing niece’s face, the deathbed of her late sister (Namiko’s birth mother), the Lieutenant General’s heartbreak—until overwhelmed by pitiful yet infuriating tears that came unbidden, the lady steeled her countenance and declared that while the Katō household had indeed supported the union of both families, such an unjust and heartless act they could never abet—without even consulting her husband, she firmly refused and resolutely rejected the proposal.

Takeo’s mother, who had stormed out of the Katō residence in indignation, sent a letter that very night to summon Yamaki. (It seemed even the honest Tasaki could not unravel the matter.) At that very moment, with the master away—as Viscountess Katō and Chizuko, torn between confusion, anger, and sorrow, found their hearts torn three ways—Takeo’s mother, though her words suggested otherwise, could not believe this reflected Takeo’s true intentions. While they inquired about his ship’s location and dispatched urgent messages, the mother, growing ever more impatient, resolved to negotiate directly. By the time she had ordered Yamaki as her envoy, his carriage had already reached the Kataoka residence’s gate.

Eight-One As Yamaki’s carriage entered through the gate of Lieutenant General Kataoka’s residence in Akasaka Hikawa-chō, a gallant-looking general astride a chestnut horse happened to be emerging. Startled by the sudden clatter of the approaching vehicle, the horse reared up on its hind legs. Without needing to trouble his groom, the mounted general tightened the reins and effortlessly settled the steed. After tracing a single circle with his horse, he trotted away with a rhythmic clatter of hooves. Having watched this splendid display of martial horsemanship, Yamaki—now approaching the lieutenant general’s imposing entrance—felt uncharacteristically intimidated despite his long experience navigating powerful households. Though he had merely scratched his head when summoned by the Kawashima family and entrusted with this mission last night, now that he actually stood before these gates, this man who prided himself on great courage found his gall still insufficient, regretting that his face had not yet grown thick enough.

A calling card was presented once, an attendant came out twice, and Yamaki was ushered into the parlor. On the table lay a map of Qing China and Korea spread out alongside an uncleaned ashtray with matchsticks and cigarette butts—all but recounting the prior visitor’s discussion. Indeed, with the Donghak Peasant Rebellion, reports of Qing China’s military dispatch, and rumors of our own mobilization following one after another—in these days when the nation’s attention had converged entirely on the Korean issue—even the master, Lieutenant General, found himself so occupied with reserve duties that he could scarcely imagine finding time to pick up that English reader again.

When Yamaki sat back in his chair, his eyes darting restlessly about the room, footsteps like distant thunder gradually drew near until finally a mountainous figure entered slowly and took the seat of honor. The moment Yamaki recognized the lieutenant general, he leapt up in such haste that he kicked over the chair behind him with a loud crash. "Ah! How dreadfully careless of me!" he cried out, frantically righting the furniture before proceeding to bow deeply two, three, four times in rapid succession toward his host. His profuse apologies no doubt included remorse for this latest blunder.

“Please, have a seat. “You must be Mr. Yamaki—I knew your name.” “Haah! This being our first meeting... I am Yamaki Hyōzō—a most incompetent fellow (bowing at every phrase, the chair creaking loudly with each obeisance, forcing a smile as if under orders)... I humbly beg your continued favor...” After exchanging unavoidable pleasantries and three or four remarks about Korea—the lieutenant general then changed tack and inquired about Yamaki’s purpose.

Yamaki attempted to open his mouth and first swallowed a mouthful of saliva; having swallowed that mouthful, he swallowed another, then a third time tried to speak only to gulp down another mouthful. He found it strange that his ever-smooth and nimble tongue, which he always boasted of, would today alone stubbornly stiffen.

Eight-Two

Yamaki slightly opened his mouth,

"The truth is, today I have come as the Kawashima family’s representative." As if declaring it unexpected, the lieutenant general fixed his incongruously narrow eyes—seemingly mismatched with his massive build—upon Yamaki’s face. “What?” "In truth, the Kawashima dowager was to come herself—but well, here I am in her stead." "I see." Yamaki repeatedly wiped the sweat beading on his forehead. "The truth is, Mrs. Katō was to have made this request herself, but due to certain circumstances—I have humbly come in her stead."

“I see.” “And your request?” “The crux of the matter is—though I hesitate to speak of it—in truth, this concerns Madam Namiko of the Kawashima household—” The master lieutenant general’s eyes remained unblinking as they fixed upon the speaker’s face for a long moment.

“What?” “Regarding Madam Namiko—this is truly a most difficult matter to broach—as you’re well aware, concerning that particular illness of hers, we at Kawashima have been profoundly concerned. Though recently there’s been some slight improvement—well, congratulations might be in order—” “I see.” “For us to raise such a matter is truly beyond presumptuous—an utterly selfish entreaty—but given Madam’s condition... As you know, the Kawashimas have no proper family besides their sole male heir Takeo-sama. The dowager grows increasingly anxious—though it pains me beyond measure to say—that should this illness... while contagion remains rare... one cannot entirely dismiss the risk... and were anything to befall Takeo—the Kawashima master—their lineage would face extinction. Not that extinction itself would be unwarranted, but considering... given the illness being what it is...”

As Yamaki Hyōzō stammered through his words, sweat streaming down his forehead under the lieutenant general's silent scrutiny, the latter raised his right hand. "Very well." "Understood." "In other words—since Namiko's condition has turned critical—you want us to take her back? Is that it?" "Very well." "Understood." Nodding, he placed his smoldering cigar in the ashtray and crossed his arms. Yamaki wiped his brow with relief, like someone pulled from quagmire by an unseen hand.

“That is correct. It is truly a difficult matter to broach, but... I beg you to kindly bear with us regarding this point—” “So Takeo has already returned, I take it?” “No—he has not yet returned, but of course this is with his full knowledge, so I beg you not to take offense—”

“Very well.” The lieutenant general nodded. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes for a moment. Thinking matters had progressed more smoothly than anticipated, Yamaki secretly smiled to himself as he looked up—only to feel an instinctive awe when gazing upon the lieutenant general’s countenance, eyes closed and lips sealed like a slumbering statue. “Mr. Yamaki.” The lieutenant general opened his eyes wide and scrutinized Yamaki’s face intently. “Haah!” “Mr. Yamaki—do you have children?”

Yamaki, unable to immediately grasp the intent of this question, bowed repeatedly as he replied, “Haah! I have but one unworthy son—and a daughter—and I humbly beg for your continued favor—” “Mr. Yamaki, children are precious things.” “Haah?” “In fact—it’s settled. Understood. Please inform the Kawashima dowager: ‘We will take Namiko back today, so rest assured.’ You’ve had quite the trouble as their messenger.” Whether Yamaki rejoiced at fulfilling his mission or privately lamented its cruelty, he bowed five or six—no, seven or eight times in rapid succession before flusteredly rising to his feet. The master lieutenant general escorted him to the entrance, then upon returning to his study, snapped the door shut with finality.

Chapter 9-1

At the villa in Zushi, after Takeo’s departure, the days grew ever longer for Namiko in her ailing solitude, each one endured with mounting anxiety and helplessness until over a month had passed—now the wheat had been harvested, and the mountain lilies were in bloom. After the recent hemoptysis had once left her disheartened, Namiko found herself fortunate that—just as the doctor had said—no marked weakness followed. A letter from her husband in Hakodate had recently arrived informing her of his impending return. Though she had not recovered enough to startle him with her condition, she reassured herself that she was at least no worse off than before the bleeding episode. Meticulously following the doctor’s instructions regarding medicine, exercise, and health precautions—she counted off the days until her husband’s return. Yet for these past four or five days, with correspondence from Tokyo having abruptly ceased—no word from the Banchō residence, her family home, nor even a postcard from her aunt in Iidamachi—the matter weighed vaguely on her mind. Now, in the idleness of the long daylight hours, as Namiko trimmed the lower leaves of mountain lilies she had arranged, the elderly maid Iku entered carrying a water pitcher.

“Hmm, Granny, there’s been no word at all from Tokyo.” “What could be the matter?” “That is indeed so, isn’t it? There’s been no change in the situation, I suppose.” “The master will surely arrive soon.” “Even as we speak, someone may come at any moment.” “How truly beautiful these flowers are, hmm, Madam?” “If only the master would return before these blossoms fade, hmm, Madam?”

Namiko gazed at the mountain lilies in her hand and said, “How beautiful. But we should have left them on the mountain—it feels cruel to cut them!” As they conversed, a carriage drew near to the villa gate—one carrying Viscountess Katō. The day after rejecting the Kawashima widow’s demand, unable to quell her unease, she had sent a carriage to the Kataoka residence with an urgent message. There she learned that an envoy from the Kawashima family had already come for direct negotiations, secured the lieutenant general’s consent, and departed. Her plan to wait for Takeo had come to naught; shocked and lamenting, she resolved at least to fetch her niece—for the lieutenant general had reasoned that leaving her there might invite unforeseen incidents should word spread—and immediately set out for Zushi.

“Oh! Well… We were just speaking of that very thing.” “Truly—how about that, Madam? Granny’s words have come true, haven’t they?” “Namiko, how are you faring? Has nothing changed since then?” The aunt’s eyes fleetingly brushed Namiko’s face before veering aside. “I am recovering.—But Aunt, what troubles you? You look dreadfully pale.”

“Me? Oh, just a slight headache.” “Must be the season.—Have you heard from Takeo, Namiko?” “The day before yesterday—from Hakodate.” “He wrote he’ll return soon—though no fixed date yet.” “Mentioned bringing a souvenir too.” “Oh?” “Late—isn’t he?—already—what time is—” “Two o’clock!” “Aunt, why so restless?” “Do stay awhile.” “And Chizuko?”

“Ah, please handle that.” Even as she spoke, Katō Kiyoko accepted the tea Iku brought but left it undrunk, sinking into contemplation. “Please rest at ease, Madam. I’ll go check on the accompaniments for tea.” “Yes, do that.” The aunt glanced at Namiko’s face with a start before looking away again. “Now then. We can’t tarry today. Namiko—I’ve come to bring you home.” “What? Bring me home?” “Your father wishes you to come—there’s a matter about your illness to discuss with the doctor. The Banchō residence has consented too.”

“Consultation?” “What could it be?” “It’s about your illness—and also… Father says it’s been so long since he’s seen you.”

“Is that so?” Namiko looked puzzled. Iku also appeared doubtful. “But will you be staying tonight, Madam?”

“No—the doctor had been waiting over there, and it’s best we go before nightfall—we must take the next train at once.” “What?!”

The old woman was startled. Though Namiko found it all hard to comprehend—with her aunt making the request, her father summoning her home, and her mother-in-law having given consent—she prepared as instructed. "Aunt, what has you so lost in thought? The nurse needn't come along—since we'll be returning soon."

The aunt stood up and adjusted Namiko’s obi while smoothing her collar. “Do take her along—it would be inconvenient otherwise.”

*

By around four o'clock, the preparations were complete, and three rickshaws waited at the gate. Namiko stood wearing a sheer summer kimono of breathable silk with a navy satin maru obi, her hair arranged in an agemaki chignon adorned with a single gardenia blossom, clutching a leather-brown Western parasol in her right hand as she suppressed a cough into a white silk handkerchief. “Granny, I’ll just be going out for a bit. “Ahh, it’s been so long since I’ve returned to the capital. “And then—the summer kimono—just needs a little more—oh, never mind, let’s do that when I return.”

Unable to contain herself, the aunt hid her steadily falling tears behind her Western parasol.

**9-2**

The abyss of fate waited silently for people. People unknowingly walked toward their fate. Even if one claimed ignorance, as they drew near, all came to sense a certain ominous chill—such is the nature of things.

Spurred by her aunt’s summons and the joy of reuniting with her father, Namiko had embarked on her return to the capital without probing the details—yet from the moment she boarded the rickshaw, her heart began to pound violently. The more she thought about it, the more things refused to make sense. Though her aunt had dismissed it merely as a headache, Namiko sensed she was deeply concealing something unusual about her demeanor. Yet with others present in the train compartment, she found herself unable to press for answers. By the time they reached Shinbashi Station, only these dark suspicions swirled through her chest, and she had nearly forgotten even the long-awaited joy of returning to the capital.

After all other passengers had alighted, Namiko—supported by the nurse and following her aunt—was walking leisurely along the platform when, while passing through the ticket gate, one of the army officers standing conversing in the distance suddenly turned his gaze their way and locked eyes with Namiko. Chijiiwa! He measured her from head to toe in one sweeping glance, offered an excessively polite nod—and laughed. That glance and laugh resonated eerily in her chest, leaving Namiko feeling as if icy water had been poured over her head. Even after boarding the waiting carriage, she felt a chill unrelated to her illness.

The aunt remained silent. Namiko also remained silent.

The setting sun that had been shining through the carriage window sank below the horizon, and as they arrived at the estate in Hikawa-chō, the twilight faintly carried the fragrance of chestnut blossoms. At both sides of the gate, cart stands could be seen; at the side entrance shone lamplight, and voices could be heard. They appeared to be bringing in various items. While sensing something was amiss, Namiko was helped down from the carriage by her aunt and the nurse to find Viscountess Kataoka standing at the entrance, a maid holding a lamp beside her.

“Oh! How quickly this was done. “Thank you for your trouble,” the Viscountess’s eyes darted from Namiko’s face to Viscountess Katō. "Mother, you seem well... And Father?" “Ah, in the study.” Just then, amid the lively voices of children shouting, “Sister’s here! Sister’s here!” the two young siblings came running out, paid no heed to their mother’s scolding of “Quiet down!” and clung to Namiko from both sides. Komako also came out following behind.

“Oh, Michiko, Kiichi. “How are you both? “Ah, Komako.” Michiko, pulling at her sister’s sleeve, said, “I’m so happy! You’ll be staying at this house forever now, won’t you, Sister?” “All your belongings have arrived too!” Namiko gasped soundlessly, and the Viscountess, her aunt, the maid, and Komako all fixed their gazes upon her face.

“Huh?” Namiko’s astonished eyes glanced past her stepmother’s face to her aunt’s, then instantly fixed upon the assortment of belongings piled so densely in the room beside the entrance that it seemed cramped. It was indeed my chest of drawers—left at my husband’s home! My trunk! My vanity! Namiko trembled violently. As she was about to collapse, she grabbed her aunt’s hand tightly. Everyone wept. With heavy footsteps echoing, the figure of Father—the Lieutenant General—appeared. “F-Father!!” “Oh, Nami.” “I was waiting—” “You’ve come back.”

The lieutenant general clasped Namiko—trembling violently—against his broad chest. Half an hour later, the house fell silent. In the lieutenant general’s study, father and daughter alone—just as on that day when she had left this house after hearing his parting admonition, never to return—Namiko knelt sobbing at her father’s knee, while he slowly stroked the back of his coughing daughter.

**10**

“Extra!” “Extra!” After the newspaper seller passed by with the clamorous jangling of his bell, shouting “Extra! Extra on the Korean Incident!”, a single rickshaw rattled through the gate of the Kawashima residence in Banchō. Takeo had just returned.

Though Takeo would surely be enraged upon his return, victory ultimately belongs to whoever strikes first. Seizing the moment on the very day Yamaki brought auspicious news, Takeo’s mother had decisively sent back her daughter-in-law’s chests and all furnishings to the Kataoka household. However cruel it might seem—after all, one cannot leave a festering tumor unattended—cutting it off brought peace of mind. These past few days, her uncharacteristic cheerfulness stood in stark contrast to the young couple’s servants, who could only regard it as both pitiable and absurd. All this time, they had been anxiously thinking that even for such a filial son, matters would hardly settle smoothly once the young master returned—and now that Takeo had indeed come home, their fears materialized. The letter from Baroness Katō Kiyoko urgently reporting the situation had failed to reach him en route, and since his mother had not informed him of it, Takeo—having no way of knowing—hurried back as soon as he arrived in Yokosuka and obtained leave.

The middle-aged servant who had just come from the inner quarters beckoned to the maid who was preparing tea,

“Hey, Matsu. The master doesn’t seem to know a thing about it. He even brought souvenirs for the mistress!” “It’s truly awful, isn’t it? What world has a mother-in-law who’d divorce the mistress while the master’s away? If you imagine yourself in the master’s place, no wonder he’d be furious! That old hag!”

“There’s no old hag more detestable than that one.” “Stingy, stubborn—her whole purpose is scolding people, that one, even though she doesn’t know a blessed thing.” “Well, of course—she used to dig up sweet potatoes in Satsuma back in the day.” “I’ve gotten so sick of living in this house, I can’t stand it another moment.” “But Master is still Master, isn’t he? For him to not know a thing about his own wife being divorced—isn’t that as outrageous as the July Spear Incident?”

“But—that’s only natural, isn’t it? The master was far away, after all. No one—unless they’re some lowly maid—would think to kick out their own daughter-in-law without even consulting their precious son first. And the master’s still young, you know. Truly, the master is pitiable—but the mistress is even more so. I wonder how she’s faring right now... Ugh, dreadful—Look! The old hag’s started hollering! Matsu, if you don’t hop to it, that crone’s gonna take her temper out on us again!”

In the inner room, the mother-son exchange grew increasingly heated. "But I told you repeatedly back then!" "And not a single letter—acting without permission—it’s truly unforgivable!" "Absolutely unforgivable." "Today when I stopped by Zushi again—Nami wasn’t there! When I asked Iku, she said she’d returned to Tokyo for some business." "I thought it strange, but never imagined you would—truly heartless—" "That was my failing." "My failing, so here I am apologizing as your parent, aren’t I?" "It’s not that I’m saying Nami’s at fault—you’re simply too attached—"

“Mother cares only about your own well-being, giving no thought to honor, reputation, or feelings. This is too much.” “Takeo—are you a man or not?” “You’re no woman.” “Even making your parent apologize—you’re still pining for Nami, aren’t you?” “Still pining?” “Still pining?” “But this is too much—truly too much!” “Too late for ‘too much’ now.” “They’ve already agreed—everything’s been neatly taken back.” “What’ll you do now?” “Keep actin’ like some sniveling woman, and either I’ll bear the shame or your manhood won’t stand!”

Takeo listened in silence, biting his lower lip as if to refuse. Suddenly springing up, he crushed to splinters the basket of stored apples he had brought back for his sick wife. "Mother, you've killed Namiko! And on top of that, you've killed me too." "I'll never lay eyes on you again."

＊

Takeo immediately returned to the warship in Yokosuka.

The tensions in Kansan grew increasingly urgent; by mid-July, the government council had decisively resolved to open hostilities with Qing China. On the eighteenth day of that same month, Vice Admiral Kabayama was newly appointed as Chief of the Naval General Staff, while the Combined Fleet flagship Matsushima—aboard which Takeo served—received orders to assemble at Sasebo with other vessels under its command. With reckless abandon, even if his body became a target for cannonballs, Takeo charged westward alongside the warship.

＊

From the very day after Namiko’s return, Lieutenant General Kataoka Takeshi personally oversaw the selection of a sunny, quiet area within the estate grounds where he had constructed for Namiko an annex comprising one eight-tatami room, two six-tatami rooms, and one four-tatami room. He summoned the elderly nursemaid Iku from Zushi to reside there with Namiko. In September, he officially resumed active duty by imperial order. One evening, having called his wife Shigeko to his study and earnestly entrusted Namiko’s care to her, he departed on the thirteenth of that month for Hiroshima Imperial Headquarters in attendance upon the imperial standard. The following month, he left for the Liaodong Peninsula in close succession with Generals Ōyama and Yamaji.

Enemies and allies alike who had pursued their fates in our wake, those vanished souls and these resentments—all were momentarily engulfed in the great vortex of the Sino-Japanese War.

Part II

Chapter 1

September 16, Meiji 27 (1894), at 5:00 PM. Our Combined Fleet, having completed battle preparations, departed from the Taechongang Estuary and advanced northwestward. It was precisely to seek out the enemy fleet said to have been sighted near the Yalu River Estuary while escorting transport ships and to decide supremacy in a single battle. With Yoshino as its flagship, the First Flying Squadron—comprising Takachiho, Naniwa, and Akitsushima—took the vanguard position. With Matsushima as flagship, the main force consisting of Chiyoda, Itsukushima, Hashidate, Hiei, and Fusō followed, while the gunboat Akagi and the Saikyō Maru—carrying the Chief of the Naval General Staff under the pretext of military observation—trailed behind them. The twelve armored warships formed a single column, departing the Taechongang Estuary at 5:00 PM, then advanced through the Yellow Sea’s tides like a coiling dragon. Eventually, the sun sank into the sea, and the moon of the seventeenth day of the eighth lunar month rose in the east. The ships raced through the moonlight, churning golden and silver waves.

In the officers’ anteroom of the flagship Matsushima, dinner had long since concluded. Those bearing duties such as the deputy watch officer had departed some time ago, yet five or six men remained, their conversation now reaching its peak of liveliness. They had closed the portholes to prevent any firelight from leaking out, trapping warmth within—even without this, the ruddy faces of those in their vigorous youth burned all the more crimson. On the table lay four or five coffee cups, dessert plates mostly cleared away, with only a single trembling slice of castella left forlornly wondering which young officer would devour it.

“The Army’s probably taken Pyongyang by now,” remarked a compact lieutenant resting his cheek on his hand as he scanned the group. “But what about us? It’s downright unfair if you ask me.” The plump purser smiled faintly from his corner. “It’s all just theater—over as soon as the curtain rises anyway.” “Consider the lengthy intermission part of the entertainment.” “That’s exactly the problem with your leisurely attitude!” snapped the lieutenant. “We’ve been playing cat and mouse with the Beiyang Fleet long enough. If we miss them again this time, I say we charge straight into Bohai Bay and give those Taku Forts a proper shelling—I’ve had my fill of this waiting game!”

"That would be like trapping ourselves like rats in a sack. What if our retreat is cut off?" The one who interjected earnestly was a certain candidate midshipman. “What? Cut off our retreat? That’s precisely what I want! But sadly, your Beiyang Fleet isn’t that agile. Not to nitpick, but this encounter seems rather uncertain again. I’m truly at my wit’s end with the Chinese and their endless patience.”

At that moment, the sound of approaching footsteps drew near, and a tall lieutenant stood at the entrance. The compact lieutenant looked up. “Navigator! What’s happening? Can’t see anything?” “Just the moon,” he replied. “Once inspections are done, you should all get some rest to preserve your fighting spirit.” As he spoke, he bit into the last piece of castella left on the dessert plate. “Hmm... strange how being out on deck... makes one astonishingly hungry. Orderly! Bring more sweets.” “You really pack it away, don’t you,” said a lieutenant in a red shirt with a smile.

“Pray tell, how about you?” “Is it not indeed our privilege as heroes of the officers’ anteroom to eat sweets and rail against the old guard? —What say you, gentlemen? The men are all restless with anticipation for tomorrow, complaining they can’t sleep a wink.” “If we fail under these circumstances, it’s truly not the soldiers’ fault—it’s their fault.” “As for courage, I have not the slightest doubt.” “What we need is composure and courage—steadfast composure and courage.” “Lack of methodology is problematic,” declared the senior deck officer among this group.

"Speaking of lack of methodology, the __th Division Officer is truly astonishing," interjected another man. "His diligence is extraordinary, but no matter how much soldiers may cherish their lives, the extent to which he’s practically hanging a sign here saying ‘Lives for Sale’ strikes me as rather excessive." "Ah, Kawashima! When was it now? Yes—during the Weihaiwei bombardment, he executed such a perilous maneuver." "If they made Kawashima commander-in-chief—not that he’s the __th Division Officer—he might well declare he’ll lead the fleet into Bohai Bay, bypass Taku altogether, sail up the Baihe River, and take Old Man Li alive!"

"Moreover, things have changed completely from before." "He flies into terrible rages now." "Once when I made a little joke about Baroness Kawashima, he turned black with anger—I nearly got his iron fist that time." "Truth be told, I fear the __th Division Officer's punch more than Zhenyuan's thirty-centimeter guns." "Ha ha ha! There must be some reason behind this. Red Shirt—you're close with Kawashima. You must know the secret, eh?" The navigator looked at the red-shirted lieutenant they called Garibaldi.

Just then, an orderly arrived bearing a plate of sweets heaped high, and the conversation in the officers’ anteroom was abruptly severed.

I: II

The 10 PM inspection concluded; those without immediate duties retired to sleep, while we took up our respective posts. With loud voices and firelight prohibited, both the upper and lower decks fell silent, as though devoid of any human presence. Apart from the voice of the navigation officer issuing commands to the helmsman, there was only the smokestack's smoke billowing white and swelling under the moon, churning spiral waves, and the ceaseless roar of the engines filling the ship like the beating of a great heart. On the moonlit white forebridge, there were two human figures. One stood motionless at the left end of the bridge. The other walked quietly, trailing a shadow blacker than ink, stopping after five steps, turning back after ten.

This was Kawashima Takeo. As this ship's __th Division Officer, he stood his four-hour auxiliary watch on the bridge alongside the duty navigation officer. Having now reached the bridge's right edge, he raised his binoculars to survey the vessel's perimeter. Finding nothing of note, he lowered his right hand and stood gripping the railing with his left. From the forward gun battery came two officers whispering beneath the bridge before disappearing into shadowed darkness. The deck lay silent beneath a cooling wind as the moon sharpened its brilliance. Peering past the sentry's writhing shadow at the bow toward the sea, he saw only faint island silhouettes to port and the lead ship Akitsushima—now visible, now hidden in moonlight—leaving solitary shadows upon waters that stretched white under the moon across the Yellow Sea. Watching sparks surge once more through smoke-traced arcs, he gazed upon an autumn night sky where stars scattered above the mainmast held a pale swath of Milky Way flowing faintly white from sea to distant sea.

*

The moon had changed three times. Three moons had waxed and waned since Takeo had kicked his seat and taken his leave from his mother. In these three months, through how many varied realms had his existence passed? His heart was stirred by the storms of Kansan; at Sasebo’s harbor, his gut was wrenched by the parting song—“Now, for our nation’s sake, I depart far away”; his fists clenched at the Imperial Rescript of War Declaration; at Weihaiwei’s bombardment, he received his baptism by fire—and one startling event after another arose to shock his mind and eyes, leaving him scarcely a moment to think. He felt remorse; because of this, Takeo—without dwelling on that which threatened to consume his heart entirely—had barely managed to maintain his composure. In this time of national crisis—when he was but a mere grain in the vast sea—how could the life, death, rise, or fall of one Kawashima Takeo possibly matter? He thus admonished himself, veiled that pain, followed the path of duty, and summoning courage born of despair, applied himself to warfare. He truly regarded death as lighter than dust.

Yet on those uneventful nights atop the bridge, during sweltering Korean Sea summers when hammock-bound dreams proved elusive, waves of anguish would surge like relentless tides, threatening time and again to rend asunder even a stalwart man’s breast. Time had passed. Now the time had passed when indistinguishable feelings—shame, fury, grief, resentment—had boiled in his bowels; only a single deep-seated anguish remained, gnawed at my heart unknown to others. Mother had written that after sending two letters and packages, she awaited the day of his safe return. Takeo, contemplating that even his elderly mother must feel lonely at her side, apologized for his harsh words of that time and sent word praying for her health. Yet an indissoluble mass of resentment remained deep, deep in the recesses of his heart, and what accompanied his nightly dreams in the hammock—of annihilating the Beiyang Fleet and perishing in battle—was the visage of a certain ailing figure wrapped in a snow-white shawl.

With no word from her, three moons had passed. Is she still alive... or not? May she be alive. Just as there is not a day I forget, so too must there be no day she does not think. Did we not vow to live and die together?

Takeo thus thought. He remembered their final meeting - that dim evening in Zushi beneath the fifth-day moon clinging to pines, where now was she who had seen him off at the gate, calling out "Please come back soon"? As he gazed into his memories, it seemed the figure wrapped in a white shawl might step forth from the moonlight at any moment. "Even if tomorrow brings battle with the enemy fleet and I become cannon fodder," Takeo thought, "then all this world shall pass like a fleeting dream." He remembered his mother. He remembered his deceased father. He remembered his time years ago at Etajima. And thus his heart returned once more to the ailing one,

* “Kawashima.” When his shoulder was tapped, Takeo, startled, abruptly turned his back to the moon. The one who had startled him was the navigation officer. "What a splendid moon. I can hardly believe we're heading to war, can you?" Nodding in response, Takeo quietly wiped away his tears while raising his binoculars.

The moon shone white over the Yellow Sea, with nothing to obstruct the view.

1-3

The moon set, the night brightened into purple, and September 17th arrived.

Around past six in the morning, the fleet had already advanced near Ocean Island and first dispatched the gunboat Akagi to Tōtō Bay on the island to investigate the presence of enemies, but it returned and reported the bay empty. The fleet continued advancing further, viewing Ōjikashima and Kojikashima obliquely as they reached off Daikozan. At eleven in the morning, as Takeo, having left the officer’s cabin where he had gone on business, was just about to step through the hatchway, a voice came from the upper deck:

“There they are!” At the same moment, the sound of footsteps hurriedly crisscrossing reached his ears. With his heart pounding, the foot poised to step onto the ladder came to an abrupt halt. Just then, a sailor passing beneath the ladder also stopped short and locked eyes with Takeo. “Squad Leader Kawashima—have the enemy ships been sighted?”

“Oh, seems so.” With those abrupt words, Takeo hurriedly ascended to the deck while vainly trying to suppress his turbulent heart. Figures darted past each other, whistles blared, signalmen busily hoisted signal flags, many sailors stood gathered at the bow, and on the bridge—the Commander-in-Chief, Captain, Executive Officer, Staff Officers, and all other officers—each with lips sealed and gazes fixed, stared out at the distant sea beyond the ship. Following their gaze northward to where the Yellow Sea met the sky, faint black streaks rose like threads—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, even ten lines.

This was indeed the enemy fleet. An officer standing on the bridge took out his pocket watch and looked at it. “We have an hour and a half to spare. Once preparations are complete, we should first get something in our stomachs.” The man standing at the center nodded. “You’ve been kept waiting.” Having said, “Gentlemen, I’m counting on you all,” he twisted his beard.

Before long, the battle flag was hoisted high atop the main mast, swaying gently, and several trumpet blasts resounded throughout the ship from the bridge. As they moved to their stations, figures of crew members crisscrossed through the ship's interior like a woven tapestry—those climbing to the masthead, descending to the engine room, heading to the torpedo room, entering the infirmary, moving to starboard and port, hastening to the stern and ascending to the bridge—signaling that each specialized unit had swiftly fulfilled its function through coordinated movements, thus completing battle preparations without delay. Just as noon approached with combat imminent, the order for lunch was issued.

Takeo, having assisted the squad leader and directed his subordinate gunners to quickly finish loading the starboard rapid-fire gun, entered the junior officers' mess a little late to find all his colleagues already gathered, the clatter of chopsticks and plates resounding. Petty Officer Tanshō grew solemn, the deck officer kept wiping sweat from his brow as he hungrily devoured his meal with downcast eyes, and the young cadets glanced occasionally at others' faces while determined not to fall behind as they refilled their plates. The one who suddenly clattered his chopsticks down and stood up was none other than the Red Shirt Lieutenant.

“Gentlemen, your courage in calmly eating lunch with the enemy before us—it rivals even Tachibana Muneshige’s! Whether we’ll all make it to tonight’s dinner remains uncertain. Let us shake hands in farewell!” Before the lieutenant had finished speaking, Takeo—seated beside him—seized his bare hand and shook it vigorously two or three times. Instantly, the entire group rose, hands clasping and being clasped as two or three dishes clattered beneath the table. A lieutenant with a bruised left cheek gripped the junior military doctor’s hand—

“If I get wounded, please go easy on me. “This here’s the bribe!” he shook it four or five times. The group, who had cackled with laughter, suddenly turned serious once more. One left, then two left, until all that remained was the disarray of empty dishes.

At 12:20, when Takeo, bearing orders from the squad leader and having matters to discuss with the executive officer, ascended the forward bridge, our fleet had already formed a single column formation. Approximately 4,000 meters ahead, the four ships of the First Mobile Unit advanced at the forefront, followed by the six ships of the main force with our Matsushima leading the way, while Akagi and Saikyōmaru followed along the port side of the main force. The battle flag fluttered high atop the main mast against the azure sky, the funnel's smoke swirled blackly upward, and the bow cleaved through the sea, white waves churning high on both sides. Officers, some raising binoculars and others gripping the hilts of their long swords, stood facing the wind on the bridge.

Gazing far out to the northern sea, what had earlier appeared as mere wisps of smoke floating like single hairs between water and sky now thickened minute by minute until the enemy fleet seemed to surge forth from the ocean itself—first visible as smoke, then needle-thin masts faintly visible, followed by smokestacks, hulls, and finally the dotted shadows of flags atop their masts coming into view. The Dingyuan and Zhenyuan—conspicuously prominent and linked together—formed the center; the Jingyuan, Zhiyuan, Guangjia, and Jiyuan fortified the left wing; while the Laiyuan, Jingyuan, Chaoyong, and Yangwei fortified the right wing. To the west, further smoke could be seen from the Pingyuan, Guangbing, Zhendong, Zhennan, and six torpedo boats.

The enemy deployed in line abreast while our fleet formed a single column, advancing toward the enemy's center in a T-shaped formation. Just as they reached a point ten thousand meters from the enemy position, our vanguard unit abruptly turned course to port and charged straight toward the enemy's right wing. As the vanguard turned to port, our fleet swayed left like a dragon lashing its tail, transforming both formations from a T-shape into a figure-eight configuration—they deployed horizontally while we advanced diagonally toward their right wing, forming a vast compass shape. They pressed forward, we pressed forward, until six thousand meters lay between us. At this moment, billowing white smoke swirled up from the forward turret of the Dingyuan, positioned at the center of the enemy formation, and two thirty-centimeter shells roared through the air before plunging into the sea off the port side of our vanguard unit. The waters of the Yellow Sea reared up in shock.

一の四

Yellow Sea! The Yellow Sea, which last night lay white beneath the floating moon, today too dipped nonchalantly into clouds, bore island shadows upon its surface, cradled the dreams of slumbering gulls, and stretched serene as a painting—now became a scene of carnage. Descending from the bridge, Takeo headed to the starboard rapid-fire gun battery. There, the squad leader peered through binoculars toward the enemy, while his subordinate gunners—petty officers and below—had mostly stripped off their jackets, their brawny arms tanned dark by the sea wind now exposed in sleeveless shirts, some having tightly wrapped their midsections with white cotton cloth. They waited in silence, poised for the command. At this moment, our vanguard unit was already about to finish passing before the enemy while firing haphazardly at their right wing, and Matsushima, leading our main force, approached the enemy at full speed. When he took up his binoculars and gazed into the distance, the Dingyuan and Zhenyuan—anchoring the enemy's center—had surged ahead to form the vanguard, their line-abreast formation now at a slight obtuse angle. As the distance steadily closed, the two vessels' forms grew increasingly distinct even from afar. Suddenly recalling how he had once seen those two ships at Yokohama’s docks in years past, Takeo gazed at them with redoubled curiosity. They were indeed the same two ships from back then. But now, belching black smoke, churning white waves, and opening their gunports as they advanced relentlessly toward us—like ferocious beasts charging forward—he felt not fear but an irrepressible loathing welling up into hatred within his heart.

Suddenly, a thunderous roar resounded far out at sea as something went *whoosh* through the air, grazing Matsushima's main mast before plunging into the water and sending up a spray column some six meters high. Takeo felt an indescribable chill run from the crown of his head down his spine but immediately steadied himself. When he looked to see how the others fared, the line of gunners clustered at the gun breech wavered once then stood motionless. As the ship advanced further, three, four, five enemy shells flew in rapid succession—one smashed into the launch boat hanging on the port side while all others sent up towering columns of water around Matsushima.

“Squad Leader, isn’t it time yet?” Takeo shouted, unable to contain himself any longer. The clock was about to strike one. The words “Four thousand meters” spread across the starboard side and along the ship’s entire length—sights were adjusted and firing ropes gripped. The awaited trumpet blast sounded. At the command “Fire!”, beginning with our thirty-two-centimeter main gun, the starboard cannons unleashed their first volley toward the enemy ships. The ship shuddered, smoke billowing in massive vortices along its flank.

As if in response, a massive shell fired by either the Dingyuan or Zhenyuan roared terrifyingly through the sky, grazing about two inches above the smokestack before plunging into the sea. Some of the gunners involuntarily ducked their heads.

The squad leader looked back and barked, “Who was it? Who was it? Bowing like that?” Takeo, along with the cadets and gunners, burst out laughing. “Now, fire!” “Steady, steady—fire!” The starboard-side guns fired in rapid succession. The 32-centimeter main gun roared, shaking the ship. The following ships fired in unison. Suddenly, an enemy time-fused shell exploded near the battery, and Takeo—one of the gunners who had just been carrying a shell to the breech—was thrown backward with a thud. He tried to rise but collapsed again, blood gushing copiously over his trousers. Most of the gunners turned to look at him.

“Who was hit? Who was hit?” “Nishiyama! It’s Nishiyama! Nishyama!”

“Is he dead?” “Fire!” The squad leader’s voice rang out, and all the gunners crowded around the guns.

Takeo swiftly had the handlers carry away the dead and turned to reclaim his position when the squad leader noticed his trousers.

“Kawashima-kun, are you injured?” “Nah, that’s just splatter from before.” “Oh, I see. Now, avenge what just happened!”

The cannons roared ceaselessly, and the ship raced ahead at full speed. Our main force, tracing a great arc against the enemy's line-abreast formation while both firing and advancing, had by just past 1:30 already semicircled the enemy and rounded their right wing, now poised to emerge at their rear. The first battle had ended, and the second battle was now about to begin. The starboard guns of the Matsushima fell silent for a moment, and the officers and gunners wiped the sweat pouring from their brows. At this moment, observing the formations of both forces: our vanguard unit had swiftly fired indiscriminately at the enemy's right flank, harassing Chaoyong and Yangwei until they were rendered combat ineffective, then turned about to strike alongside the main force at the enemy's rear. Within our main force, Hiei—unable to keep pace due to inferior speed—boldly charged alone through the enemy's center in a desperate fight to break through, only to withdraw beyond the combat zone due to fire damage. Saikyō Maru likewise sought to escape danger by retreating beyond the perimeter, while Akagi—left stranded before the enemy—struggled valiantly with its 600-ton frame to pierce through multiple encirclements single-handedly, attempting to follow in Hiei's wake. And thus, the four ships of the vanguard and the five ships of the main force maintained their orderly formation without breaking ranks.

Observing the enemy's position, Chaoyong burned while Yangwei had lost combat effectiveness; their right wing fell into disarray as three ships from the left wing broke formation to pursue our Hiei and Akagi, while their reinforcement torpedo boats remained isolated on one flank. Then, before our forces could circle around their rear, the Dingyuan, Zhenyuan, and several other ships suddenly swung their bows around, shifting into a column formation as they valiantly advanced toward our main force. The second battle now began.

Our main force, upon seeing Saikyō Maru's "Akagi and Hiei in Danger" signal, immediately dispatched the swift four-ship vanguard to repel the three enemy vessels trailing Akagi and Hiei. While executing this, the five-ship unit maintained its single column formation, tracing a great serpent's eye around the enemy ships—which had also formed columns—as they advanced and fired. By just past half past two, they had fully encircled the enemy fleet and reached their forward position. At this moment, our vanguard unit scattered the three enemy ships trailing Hiei and Akagi in a single engagement; pursuing the fleeing vessels to drive them into the enemy’s main formation, they launched a unified attack from afar. Thus, our main force's vanguard unit, having precisely surrounded the enemy fleet at the center, now sought to attack by pinching from both left and right.

The third fierce battle now began. The fleets of both sides—our navy's elite and the enemy's main naval force—having gathered together, charged past one another at full speed, intermingling as they clashed. As though two dragons were coiling about a great whale, the waters of the Yellow Sea churned into a field of foam.

Part One of Five

Our main force to the right and the vanguard unit to the left surrounded the enemy fleet at the center, closing in for the attack. The battle now reached its fiercest pitch. As the battle's fury intensified, Takeo increasingly lost himself. In his school days when engrossed in baseball during decisive moments that would determine victory or defeat, he had forgotten his body's position—it felt as though some invisible force from the heavens pulled him about. Now he sensed no difference from those times. Except for intervals when the fleet disengaged and reoriented toward the enemy, or when the ship swung about to face portside toward them while starboard knew brief lulls, ceaseless commands were shouted; sweat streamed down every face yet went utterly unnoticed. Enemy shells aimed at the flagship converged solely upon Matsushima—iron plates split, wooden boards scorched, blood smeared the deck—yet none registered this carnage. The gunfire of friend and foe synchronized with heartbeats; even a momentary pause made ears ache from the sudden silence as their very beings drifted in bloodshed's fever. Thus did the gunners ignore whizzing enemy shells—loading with firing-range precision intensified by battle's heat—aiming, pulling lanyards, firing and reloading; extinguishing fires before they spread, transporting shells without orders, removing casualties instantly. Hands moved autonomously, feet worked instinctively; scarcely awaiting officers' commands, the combat machinery operated seamlessly without pause.

When he opened his eyes through swirling layers of gray smoke that blanketed sky and sea in tenfold and twentyfold whirls, the unexpected masts and naval ensigns of friend and foe faintly appeared here and there; nearly every second, deafening roars shook the sea as shells collided midair and exploded, while the waters ceaselessly erupted in columns threatening to boil over.

“Joyous! Dingyuan’s burning!” With a voice hoarse yet strained to its limits, the squad leader shouted. Through a gap in the smoke, they saw yellow fumes swirling about the bow of the enemy flagship flying the Yellow Dragon Flag—enemy soldiers scurrying like ants across its deck. Takeo and all gunners roared in triumph as one.

“Now, do it! Destroy them!”

With fierce momentum, the cannons fired all at once. Attacked from both flanks, the enemy fleet collapsed and scattered. Chao Yung, engulfed in flames, had already sunk first; Yang Wei, severely damaged, had fled; Zhiyuan too was about to go under; Dingyuan had caught fire; and Laiyuan suffered a conflagration. The enemy fleet, unable to endure any longer, finally abandoned Dingyuan and Zhenyuan, scattering in all directions to flee. Our vanguard unit promptly pursued after them. The main force's five ships prepared to attack the remaining Dingyuan and Zhenyuan.

The fourth battle began. The time was precisely three o'clock; Dingyuan's bow burned ever fiercer, with yellow smoke billowing up in great plumes, yet still she did not flee. Zhenyuan too valiantly protected her flagship; the two great ironclads advanced toward us like towering mountains. Our main force's five ships now raced at full speed around the enemy's perimeter, circling them time and again to unleash volleys, circling once more to loose another salvo. Cannonballs poured down upon the two vessels like rain. Yet like lightly armored Saracen horsemen wheeling about to shoot at Crusaders in plate mail, most shells striking their heavy armor were deflected, bursting uselessly beyond their hulls. At 3:25 PM, our flagship Matsushima drew precisely alongside the enemy flagship. Takeo—watching our rapid-fire shells strike true against her flank only to ricochet and explode vainly like fireworks—could no longer endure his fury. Gritting his teeth, he struck his sword's hilt with his right hand as if to shatter it,

“Squad Leader, this is intolerable.” “Ah... Look at that!” “Goddamn it!”

Squad Leader, his eyes bloodshot, stamped the deck. “Fire! Fire at the deck! Fire!” “What’s that?!” “Fire!” “Fire!” Takeo too strained his voice. The gunners, teeth clenched, indignantly fired in rapid succession with fierce momentum. “Another one!” At the same moment as Takeo’s shout, a thunderous explosion shook the entire ship; in the gun battery, what seemed like a volcanic eruption—though perceived belatedly—sent debris scattering like rain. Struck by this, Takeo fell heavily.

Two thirty-centimeter high-explosive shells fired by enemy ships had pierced through the very center of the gun battery and detonated. “Damn it!” Takeo shouted as he sprang up, only to collapse heavily back onto his haunches. He now felt excruciating pain in his lower body. As he fell, all he saw around him was a sea of blood, flames, and flesh. The Squad Leader had vanished. The gun battery had become a cavernous space through which something blue shimmered. This was the ocean. Between the agony and an indescribably foul stench, Takeo’s eyes refused to shut. The groans of men. The crackle of burning matter. Then voices cried out: “Fire! “Fire!” “Man the pumps!” someone shouted. Simultaneously came the pounding of running footsteps.

Suddenly, Takeo felt hands pulling him up. As hands touched his legs, boundless pain reverberated through his skull; he instinctively cried "Ah!" and arched back—a crimson mist swirled before his eyes, closing them, and gradually he lost consciousness.

Part Two, Chapter One

In Hiroshima, where the Imperial Headquarters was stationed, by mid-October the First Division had already departed for the Kinzhou Peninsula, only to be followed by the Second Division's robust soldiers who packed Hiroshima to bursting. Moreover, with the provisional parliament about to convene, six hundred representatives came streaming from the east. Everywhere, silk hats and rickshaws intermingled with the clatter of swords and hoofbeats, making one feel they were witnessing the bustle of Kyoto during the Restoration era once more here in Sanyo. The Ōtemachi-dōri thoroughfare—known as the city’s hub—had placards bearing “His Highness the Chief of the General Staff,” “Prime Minister Itō of the Cabinet,” and “Lieutenant General Kawakami of the Army.” From the area bearing solemn lodging notices, descending through Nichōme and Sanchōme, every house displayed posted notices reading “Required Floor Space for Requisition: XX Tatami Mats, X Ken,” while most residences bore paper tags recording officers’ and NCOs’ names along with troop designations and numbers—evidence of soldiers overflowing from temporary barracks that could no longer contain them. Amidst this, newly hung signs reading "XX Canteen Office" and "XX Laborer Affairs Office" saw figures bustling in and out, while at one storefront workers hurriedly packed Ramune bottles into large boxes, and at another shop nearby, young men toiled over packing biscuits into mountainous stacks. Through these gaps rushed a general on horseback hastening toward the Imperial Headquarters, followed by a journalist’s carriage racing toward the telegraph office—a pencil tucked behind his ear—then came another from the station direction bearing a long sword wrapped in yellow-dyed cotton and a leather satchel, crossing paths with sun-blackened men in tattered summer uniforms freshly disembarked from Ujina. On this side, an elder statesman—recognizable from newspaper photo supplements—drove past deep in thought, while laborers set to depart soon hummed tunes as they loitered about. Across the way, soldiers sharpening swords at a veranda sang northern-accented military marches, their voices harmonizing with the coquettish strains of a Hiroshima folk song drifting over the river.

A house displaying a large sign spanning over six feet that read "Official Army Supplier," along with two or three other signs hung across three sides of its entrance, had piles of coarsely made blankets and winter gear-like items stacked from its front entrance out to the street. There, a manager-like man busily directed five or six young workers in packing when a man in his fifties—slightly balding with drooping outer eye corners and a prominent reddish-black mole below his left eye—hurriedly emerged from the rear after seeing off a guest. Having finished giving instructions to the manager, he was about to reenter when his eyes caught a carriage skillfully passing by outside the gate.

“Mr. Tasaki… Mr. Tasaki!”

Though the call did not reach his ears, as he was about to pass by unheeding, a young man called out to stop him, and the carriage returned to the gate. The passenger in the carriage was a man in his fifties with a ruddy and swarthy complexion, his beard lightly streaked with white. He wore a black silk crepe haori and a somewhat worn Nakayama cap of the same color, resting a medium-sized suitcase at his feet. Recalled and wearing a puzzled expression that shifted to surprise upon seeing the master standing at the entrance, he removed his hat while— “Why, if it isn’t Mr. Yamaki!”

“Mr. Tasaki, what an unusual encounter. When on earth did you arrive?” “I intend to return to the capital by this train,” said Tasaki as he got out of the carriage and, threading his way through scattered straw mats and ropes, approached the entrance. “Returning to the capital? And where exactly have you been all this time?” “Ah, I went to Sasebo just the other day and am now on my way back.” “Sasebo? Mr. Takeo—visiting the master?” “Ah, to visit the master.” “This is outrageous! To visit the master yet blow right past us both coming and going—truly outrageous! That daughter of mine—utterly thoughtless! And my wife’s no better—not a single postcard has come from either of them!”

“Well, I was in a hurry.” “But you could’ve at least dropped by on your way! Anyway, just get inside for now. Send the carriage back. It’s fine—there’s something to discuss. So what if you miss one train? By the way, Mr. Takeo—how was the master’s injury? Truth is, I heard ’bout the injury back then too—figured I gotta go pay my respects proper-like. But y’know how it goes—just when I was fixin’ to visit, the whole First Division was ’bout to ship out any day. Got absolutely swamped, so ended up just sendin’ a get-well letter instead.” “Ah, I see. It didn’t reach the bone then—the thigh area. Hmm, I see.” “Anyway, the young are a blessing. Us old folks, y’know—even a splinter in the finger takes a week or two to heal—but the master’s young, so anyway, it’s a right blessin’. The retired master must be relieved as well.”

Tasaki, half-rising, took out his pocket watch and checked the time, attempting to rise from his seat when Yamaki stopped him.

“Ah, never mind that.” “Since it’s a fortunate opportunity, there’s something I’d like to present to the retired master.” “Take the night train.” “If you take the night train, there’s still quite some time.” “Let’s take care of some business first, then go somewhere to talk over drinks.” “Hiroshima’s fish are truly exquisite, I assure you.”

His words would prove more enticing than any dish.

Part Two, Chapter Two

The autumn sunset flowed along the Ten’an River, dyeing golden the shoji screens of a certain pavilion overlooking its waters. While the upper floor seethed with a commotion loud enough to make one want to flee—some social gathering of Diet members from both houses—the lower private room remained where not even maidservants approached, two men called Yamaki and Tasaki talking over raised cups. This Tasaki had served as steward since the time of Takeo’s father and still commuted daily from his nearby home to the Kawashima household, faithfully attending to every matter. Though lacking the ability to manage affairs with deftness, this man’s redeeming quality was his absence of schemes to pilfer the main house’s income and line his own pockets—so Takeo’s father had always said. Thus having received no small trust from both the Kawashima widow and Takeo, this time too, by the widow’s command, he had traveled all the way to Sasebo to visit his master’s injury.

Yamaki set down his cup and stroked his forehead. "Truth is—even if I went back to the capital, I'd only stay a day before returning to Hiroshima. So such news hadn't reached me." "In that case, Miss Namiko's condition must've worsened considerably since then?" "Indeed, it turned rather dire." "But well, being for the Kawashima family's sake, they said it couldn't be helped." "Ah, I see. She's improved somewhat lately—gone to Zushi for convalescence, has she?" "But that illness—looks better or worse, it's a death sentence regardless." "Speaking of Takeo—the young master—is he still cross?"

When he removed the lid of the bowl, the aroma of matsutake mushrooms rose, and as he sipped appreciatively at the broth with glistening beads of sea bream fat floating upon it, Tasaki wiped his beard.

“Well, that’s precisely where the issue lies.” “If you trace it back, it was all for the family’s sake—unavoidable really—but I say, Mr. Yamaki, handling everything without consulting the master during his absence shows the retired mistress let her willfulness go too far.” “Truth be told, I did try proposing we wait until the master’s return, but given her disposition—once she sets her mind on something, she’ll see it through regardless—it ended as you see.” “To the point where I’d say it’s only natural the master wouldn’t take kindly to it.” “And the one put out by all this was that Mr. Chijiiwa—I hear he’s already been dispatched to Qing China now.”

Yamaki narrowed his eyes sharply at your face. “Chijiiwa! Hah—that man was recently dispatched to the front, but precisely because he’d become familiar with my countenance, he kept coming to beg for money even while stationed there—a real nuisance.” “A thick-skinned man.” “He said, ‘Since I might die in the war, think of this as condolence money and give me a farewell gift—but if I survive, I’ll definitely bring back the Golden Kite Medal,’ and conned a hundred ryō out of me before leaving.” “Hahaha! By the way, once Mr. Takeo’s injury has healed, will he be returning to Tokyo for the time being?”

“Well, it seems he himself intends to return to the battlefield as soon as he recovers.” “Still spouting that spirited nonsense of his,” “But Mr. Tasaki—he must come back to Tokyo at least once and make peace with the retired mistress, don’t you think?” “Who knows how attached he was, but Miss Namiko’s already divorced from him—and she’s the healthy one here! He can’t possibly take back someone terminally ill anyway. What’s done is done—he ought to patch things up with his mother sooner rather than later.” “Eh, Mr. Tasaki?”

With a worried look, Tasaki said, “The master is as honest as they come—even if the retired mistress was at fault, he seems to believe his own conduct wasn’t without reproach either. And since I visited him this time—well, the retired mistress’s sentiments have been conveyed—so there’s no need for reconciliation or such matters, but still—” “Arranging a match during wartime may seem odd, but he must take a new wife soon regardless,” said Yamaki. “What do you think—even if the master reconciles with the retired mistress, he still won’t forget Miss Namiko, will he? Young people often cling to stubbornness at first, but when someone new arrives, they inevitably grow affectionate after all.”

“Well, it seems the retired mistress has considered that matter as well, but—”

“Are you suggesting it would prove difficult?” “Well, given that the master is such a single-minded man, it’s hard to say for certain.” “But this was done for the family’s sake—for the master’s sake—you see, Mr. Tasaki.”

The conversation paused for a moment. Upstairs, as the speeches seemed to be coming to an end, applause rang out frequently. The evening sun on the shoji screens faded slightly, and the trumpet's call struck a chill in the air. Yamaki cleansed his cup and offered it anew to Tasaki while— "By the way, Tasaki-kun—my daughter's been under your care, but she's a troublesome one. Hasn't managed to win over the retired mistress yet, has she?"

After Namiko had departed and more than a month had passed, Yamaki placed his daughter Otoyo into the Kawashima household under the pretense of etiquette training so that she might receive the widow's personal tutelage.

Tasaki smiled. He must have recalled something.

Part Two, Chapter Three

Tasaki smiled.

The Kawashima widow frowned.

On the day Takeo had stormed out in indignation, his mother glared at his retreating figure and shouted.

"You unfilial wretch!" "Do whatever the hell you want!"

The mother knew Takeo had always been filial and never hesitated to comply with her will. Knowing this full well—and aware his love for Namiko was by no means shallow—she believed that when filial duty and marital love proved irreconcilable, he would cast aside that affection without hesitation and choose piety. Convinced of this—though not blind to her own excessive decisiveness—she nevertheless divorced Namiko through unilateral action, all while declaring it for family and Takeo’s sake. When Takeo’s fury erupted beyond expectation, his mother first grasped her miscalculation and simultaneously understood that a mother’s vaunted absolute authority over her child was mere illusion. She who had once watched her son’s devotion flow toward Namiko with veiled displeasure now saw even a mother’s love, prestige, and kindness fail against a dying woman’s hold. Feeling her authority crumble—as though Namiko had wholly stolen her son—she raged at Takeo while vilifying Namiko relentlessly, even after the latter’s return to her natal home.

There was yet another thing that intensified her anger. Though she did not clearly recognize in which corner of her heart the wrongness of her own actions lay, a faint wisp of that suspicion had begun to drift. Was there not a shred of reason at the core of Takeo’s fury? Had my actions overstepped my rightful bounds and encroached upon that child in any way? On sleepless nights, alone in the inner room, she would gaze at the lamplight’s shadow cast upon the ceiling, her thoughts drifting unbidden—until it seemed a voice whispered from somewhere: Your errors, your sins—and she felt her heart grow all the more disordered. The strongest thing in the world is a heart that believes itself to be right. What is most infuriating is when—whether by others or by something within one’s own heart—one’s faults are laid bare, forcing one to kneel in repentance before one’s conscience. Press on a tender spot, and even a beast will howl. If one becomes aware of one’s own faults, people grow angry. Takeo’s mother found her irrepressible rage further inflamed by this, until she came to perceive that Takeo must surely be furious and Namiko worthy of contempt. Takeo kicked over his seat and stormed out. Day after day, he did not come to apologize for his offense, nor did he send any letter of contrition. The mother, with venting her pent-up turmoil as the only path available, indulged her anger and barely consoled herself. She raged at Takeo, raged at Namiko, raged as she recalled that time, raged as she contemplated the future, raged at her sorrow, raged at her loneliness, raged again at the futility—until finally, worn out from raging and raging, she managed to sleep through the night.

At the Kawashima household, the retired mistress—already formidable in ordinary times—had been burning with even fiercer rage lately. The veteran maids had begun packing their belongings several times when the Korean Incident erupted, sending extra editions about Pungdo and Asan flying through the streets. The mother had raged countless times at her wayward son for leaving for war without even a farewell letter, yet when she heard how others behaved—mothers sending encouraging gifts and letters, elderly women traveling from rural areas to bid their sons goodbye—here was a child enraged at his parent and a parent resentful of her child, not a single note exchanged between them. He in the battlefield, she in the imperial capital, each nursing a hard lump of resentment in their hearts. Though never consciously acknowledged, a faint dread whispered: *What if this separation becomes permanent?* In the end, Takeo's mother finally broke her pride through relentless cursing and sent two consecutive letters to her son at the front.

In reply, a letter from Takeo arrived from the battlefield. More than a month after the letter’s arrival, a telegram came from the Sasebo Naval Hospital reporting Takeo’s injury. The mother’s hand that had taken the telegram trembled uncontrollably. Though she soon learned the injury was not life-threatening, she still dispatched Tasaki all the way to Sasebo to assess his condition.

Part Two, Chapter Four After Tasaki returned from Sasebo and reported in detail on Takeo’s condition, the mother felt some relief as she stroked her chest. However, she now thought it best to wait for his full recovery to see his face at least once, and once the war concluded, to quickly secure a second wife for Takeo. Thus she would—firstly—sever Namiko from Takeo’s thoughts, secondly preserve the Kawashima lineage, and thirdly—in the deepest recesses of her heart—obliterate the guilt over her past actions toward Takeo that had been somewhat excessively harsh? —she intended to obliterate.

The matter of quickly securing a second wife for Takeo had already arisen in his mother’s heart even before the day they had resolved to divorce Namiko. For this purpose, she had turned over in her mind the not-so-numerous marriageable daughters among their acquaintances and relatives, but finding none suitable, she was still lost in thought when Yamaki suddenly inserted his daughter Otoyo into the Kawashima household under the pretense of etiquette training. Though Takeo’s mother was no fool, she was not entirely unaware of Yamaki’s ulterior motives. Nor was she unaware that Otoyo was not necessarily a woman of both wisdom and virtue. But a drowning person will grasp at straws. The mother, struggling to secure a wife for Takeo, took Otoyo in on a trial basis, seizing upon Yamaki’s wish.

The result of the trial was as though Tasaki were smiling. Neither examiner nor examinee was satisfied, ending with them becoming an outlet for the maidservants’ frustrations. First came peace; next came light scattering of pellets from a small-caliber hunting rifle; finally emerged the terror of siege cannons. This was the method the Kawashima widow employed against all. Namiko too had never been spared that experience. And the more sensitive her nerves and keener her perceptions grew, the swifter she had felt that pain. Now Otoyo was being subjected to it as well. Given her underlying nature—transforming through passivity—that rendered even flying pellets as mere beans roasting in some distant house to her impassive face, those siege cannons had to be deployed more swiftly than usual.

Her mind drifted like perpetual spring haze—her heart free of any worldly concerns, the boundary between self and others blurred beyond distinction. Often her very being seemed to dissolve, merging with flora and fauna; had she stood in the garden on a vernal eve, both body and spirit might have melted into the mist, too insubstantial to grasp. Yet even this Otoyo, upon first awakening to love's self-awareness, began understanding true hardship. From the moment she rubbed sleep from her eyes each dawn, they ordered her about endlessly—culminating in scoldings and bellows. Though she swallowed most slanderous whispers without comprehension, even Otoyo's transcendental detachment couldn't withstand the siege cannons' relentless barrage; were this not her beloved's household, she'd have fled long ago. Yet between her father's warnings and the lectures heard during rare returns to Sakuragawa-cho, she valiantly dug in before those cannons, enduring each passing day. At breaking points she'd think: Love proves so cruel—never again shall I love. Pitiable Otoyo became both safety valve for the Kawashima widow's turbulent heart and plaything for household servants; awaiting her unseen beloved with self-restraint and perseverance unknown since birth.

Since Yutaka’s arrival, Takeo’s mother had added yet another vexation to her troubles. The lost gem was grand, and the woman who left was wise. Though there was no one to compare her to, since Yutaka had come and been kept close at hand, nothing she did met with approval; yet despite Takeo’s mother’s firm resolve to close off her heart, she found herself unwittingly recalling that person from the past whom she had scolded and reviled. The woman who radiated light—though her words were few and her demeanor modest, her appearance was not so striking as to dazzle the eyes—had nevertheless, despite their unfamiliarity, keenly grasped her moods and responded with tact, her commendable earnestness of spirit met with such foul revilement whenever she grew carried away. Yet deep down, she had even secretly acknowledged that for her age, that woman was remarkably perceptive. Now, with Yutaka of the same age before her eyes, unavoidable comparisons arose, and in every matter, she found herself recalling the very person she wished not to think of. Thus, whenever daily displeasures arose, beside this human incarnation of spring haze called Yutaka—who sat with narrowed eyes and an ever-agape mouth—there would materialize a pale-complexioned young woman with jet-black hair and modest demeanor, her clever eyes raised to intently gaze at her own face as if asking “How does this suit you?” At such visions, Takeo’s mother would tremble involuntarily. “But it’s not as if her illness has worsened!” she argued repeatedly, yet that strange thing welling up in her chest—which she took for anger—only grew until at last she raised her voice and lashed out at Yutaka.

Thus, when Yamaki had explicitly proposed to Tasaki at a Hiroshima establishment that his daughter Yutaka become Takeo's second wife, the relationship between the Kawashima widow and Yutaka grew more precarious than the Sino-Japanese conflict of last June—the crisis hung by what is called a hair's breadth, poised between eruption and containment.

Part Three, Chapter One

Awakened by the sound of a small bird near his pillow, Takeo opened his eyes. Reaching out from the bed, he drew back the window curtain—and there, the morning sun, having just left the distant mountains, poured brilliantly through the glass pane. The mountains were still veiled in white morning mist, but the autumn sky had already cleared to a deep blue, vividly setting off the crimson branches of a cherry tree before the window that looked as though dyed. Two or three small birds perched among the treetops, chirping to one another as they hopped from branch to branch. Suddenly, as if by mutual agreement, they peered through the glass window—meeting eyes with Takeo, who had raised his upper body halfway—then startled, took flight. In the gust from their wings, a single yellow cherry leaf fluttered down.

Takeo smiled faintly at having been roused by those little messengers of dawn—then winced slightly as he settled against his pillow，a lingering pain still troubling him．Having finally arranged himself on the bed，he closed his eyes．

The morning was still, with no sound to trouble the ears. A rooster crowed; a boatman's song could be heard in the distance. Takeo opened his eyes and smiled, then closed them again and sank into thought.

＊

Takeo had been wounded in the Yellow Sea and admitted to the naval hospital in Sasebo; nearly a month had now passed since then. At that time, struck by flying fragments from an enemy’s large howitzer shell that had burst amid their battery position, he collapsed backward with a thud, momentarily losing consciousness from the violent pain. Yet despite the severity of his injuries, both leg wounds had fortunately avoided bone damage, leaving only minor burns elsewhere. The squad leader had been blown apart; his colleagues perished in battle; scarcely any of his gun crew emerged unscathed. Amid this carnage, he alone miraculously survived and was transported to this naval hospital. Initially his fever raged fiercely—even delirious in bed, he would curse enemy ships with hands clenched like weapons and shout “Squad Leader!”, startling the medical staff. But being a robust youth with non-critical wounds, aided by autumn’s cooling weather, his fever gradually abated. Recovery progressed smoothly without abscesses; now over a month later though lingering pain remained, he’d reached the stage of sneaking from carbolic-stench wards into crisp autumn gardens—only to earn scoldings from naval doctors. Now he waited single-mindedly for medical clearance—all that remained was swift return to battlefronts.

The life he had cast aside as lighter than dust was miraculously prolonged; as the fever subsided, the pain lessened, and his appetite returned, a will to live began to stir within him unconsciously, and with it arose worldly cares. Cicadas shed their shells, but humans cannot shed themselves; thus, the threads of memory severed by the fever of battle could not help but be stirred up once more as his body partially healed and his mind returned to its usual state. Yet, just as a grave illness often renews one’s constitution, the experience of having narrowly faced death across a mere sheet of paper had given Takeo’s memories a different kind of vividness. The fierce battle, along with the extraordinary events and sensations that had occurred in succession before and after it, had shaken his heart like a storm. Although the storm had passed, its aftermath still lingered in the sea of his heart, and the rising memories naturally assumed a different form. Takeo did not resent his mother; instead, he enshrined Namiko in the altar of his heart as if she were a wife no longer of this world. Each time he thought of her, it was like hearing a distant elegy from far fields—a nostalgic sorrow he came to know.

Tasaki came to visit. Through him, Takeo learned of his mother’s recent circumstances and faintly gleaned news of Namiko’s current situation. (Fearing it would distress Takeo, Tasaki had deliberately avoided mentioning Yamaki’s daughter.) Upon hearing about Namiko, Takeo shed tears. Even after Tasaki left, the visage of the ailing woman from the Shonan villa—where pine winds whispered lonesomely—alternated with memories of the Battle of the Yellow Sea in Takeo’s nightly dreams. A few days after Tasaki returned eastward, a package arrived at Takeo’s quarters from an unknown origin.

＊

Takeo was now thinking of that matter.

Part Three, Chapter Two Takeo was thinking of this.

It had occurred one week prior. Takeo threw aside the newspaper he had grown tired of reading, yawned on the bed, and gazed out the window. The officer who had shared his room had been discharged the day before, leaving him alone in the ward.

The hour approached twilight; the sickroom grew dim as autumn rain cascaded like a waterfall beyond the window. Perhaps they were administering electric treatment to the patient in the adjacent room. The incessant buzzing blended with the rain, compounding the desolation within. Without conscious intent yet attuned to the sound, Takeo turned his eyes toward the window where lashing rain streamed down glass panes—the garden beyond appeared and vanished in patches through waterlogged twilight. Takeo, who had been gazing vacantly into space, abruptly pulled the blanket from his head.

About five minutes passed, and then came the sound of someone entering. “A package has arrived for you.” “…Are you resting?” When he raised his head, standing beside the bed was the hospital orderly. He stood holding an oil-paper bundle and carrying a heavy box tied crosswise. “A package?” Tasaki had only just returned a few days ago—who could have sent this?

“Oh, the package. Where’s it from?” The sender’s name that the orderly could read was one he had never heard before. “Could you open it for me?” When he untied the oilpaper wrapping, there was newspaper; when that was removed, a purple bundle emerged. Unwrapping it revealed a flannel summer kimono; a soft silk-lined garment; a white crepe obi; snow-white tabi socks; a wide-sleeved underrobe designed for easy wear; and a silk-floss shoulder quilt—likely intended to prevent bedsores during prolonged bedrest. What lay inside the box? Untying the straw rope exposed an abundance of particularly large Nashi pears and fresh bananas that seemed ready to spill out. Takeo’s heartbeat quickened abruptly.

“Isn’t there a letter or anything inside?” He shook it and shifted things about, but not even a scrap of paper remained.

“Hand me that oil-paper.” The moment he took the wrapping paper and saw the brushstrokes that had written his own name, he felt his chest tighten. Takeo recognized that brushwork. It was her. It was her. Who else could there be but her? With each stitch of the sewn garment—though no trace remained—did he not see the very tears that could have poured forth in a thousand streams? Could he not see the trembling in those characters, written despite her illness? Unable to wait for the person to leave, Takeo wept openly.

＊

The spring that had never run dry now flowed anew, and Takeo felt his boundless love surging forth in torrents. By day he thought of her; by night he dreamed of her. Yet the world proved less free than dreams. Takeo had always believed—had convinced himself—that not even death could sever the bond between them. How much less could mere societal formalities achieve what death could not? But when he tried to manifest that conviction, he found those very formalities and rituals standing as an insurmountable barrier between aspiration and reality. Whatever the world might decree, she remained eternally his wife. Yet Mother had divorced her in his name, and her father had reclaimed her on her behalf. Before society's eyes, their bond lay severed. Once recovered, should he return east to confront Mother, visit Namiko to bare his heart, and bring her home again? However much he might delude himself, Takeo knew no action could be taken—or even permitted—under the weight of societal obligation and appearances. Such efforts would only widen the rift between him and Mother beyond repair. He had already tasted the bitterness of defying her.

Living in the vast cosmos yet finding even his love bound by unexpected shackles, Takeo burned with frustration but knew no path to liberation; spending day after day in helpless anguish, he could only console himself—and through that self-consolation comfort Namiko in his heart—by clinging to the belief that she remained his wife in both life and death.

This morning too, upon waking from a dream, what Takeo thought was this.

That morning, after the military doctor came as usual, examined him, and left with satisfaction that the wound was finally nearing complete recovery, a letter arrived from his mother in Tokyo. In the letter, she wrote that with Tasaki having returned, they felt somewhat relieved, and as there were also matters she wished to discuss, he should make arrangements to return to Tokyo as soon as the doctor permitted. Things she wanted to discuss! Could it be anything other than what he most detested and feared? Takeo could find no answer.

Takeo did not return to the capital in the end.

In early November, scarcely had Takeo heard that the Matsushima—the warship wounded alongside him in the Yellow Sea—had completed repairs and departed for the front when, having barely obtained his physician’s approval, he requested passage on a transport vessel and returned to join the fleet anchored in Dalian Bay.

On the day before departing Sasebo, Takeo mailed two letters. One was addressed to his mother.

IV-I

When autumn winds first began to blow, from early September—when none remained at Zushi save those convalescing after all summer visitors had returned to the capital—until now here in early November, there was a lady who would choose warm, windless days to take leisurely walks along Zushi's shore, accompanied by fifty-odd maids. Emaciated beyond emaciation, her shadow cast upon the sand a fragile, pitiable form—the net-hauling fishermen and daily beach-walking convalescents had all grown accustomed to the sight, yet never failed to bow their heads whenever they encountered her. Without anyone particularly intending it, they had come to dimly know of her circumstances.

This was Namiko. A life not worth regretting—coldly yet enduring—reached the point of seeing this year’s autumn winds once more.

＊

In early June, Namiko had been taken back to the capital by her aunt; from the day after she received this unforeseen decree, her illness rapidly worsened until she could no longer distinguish past from present, her chest constricted as she coughed up crimson heart's blood, the doctor fell silent, the family frowned, and she herself awaited death morning and night. Her life now hung by the merest thread. Namiko gladly awaited death. Death proved quite welcome. This body, having fallen into abyssal darkness without a moment to think—what joy was there, what purpose, that she should prolong her life in this world? Whom to resent, whom to yearn for—such thoughts had no room to take form. Only the terrifying, loathsome darkness enveloping her remained, and she thought solely of escaping this state as soon as possible. Death was truly the only path left. Namiko waited impatiently for death. Her body suffered on the sickbed; her heart had already flown beyond this world. Whether today or tomorrow, once the bonds of this body were severed, she would look down upon a world not worth regretting, her soul flying through the vast skies to heaven, there to weep her fill and speak her heart at her beloved mother’s knee—thus, what she awaited was truly death’s envoy.

Alas, she could not even entrust death to her own heart. Day after day she waited for "today" to arrive, only to see each pass in vain; when over a month had gone by, her illness began to abate against her will, and after two months grew lighter still. The life she had resolved to discard was dragged back into this world once more, leaving Namiko a soul condemned to weep over her wretched fate. Namiko stood truly confounded. Was she not one who understood life should be cherished and death feared? For what purpose did she call physicians? For what purpose swallow medicines? For what purpose struggle to prolong this existence she held so cheap?

But there was her father’s love. Morning and evening he visited her sickbed, personally administered medicine, and directed the construction of a secluded villa where she might convalesce in tranquil peace—striving by all means to keep her alive. Whenever she heard his footsteps or saw his joyful, benevolent face by her sickbed, Namiko could not help but feel tears—not of resentment—spontaneously trickling down her cheeks; finding herself unable to recklessly yearn for death, she instead strove to convalesce for her father’s sake. There was yet another. Namiko could not doubt her husband. Even if the seas were to dry up and the mountains crumble, she who had firmly believed in her husband’s love knew that not a single aspect of this recent matter resided in his heart. When her illness had somewhat abated and she faintly heard news of Takeo, she felt her conviction stamped ever more firmly with this confirmation and found herself somewhat comforted. Of course, she did not know how things would proceed from here, and even if this illness were to heal completely, she could not help but feel that the bond once severed could never be rejoined; yet still, their hearts communicated through the darkness, and telling herself that no one could ever shatter this love, she secretly found solace.

Thus, her father’s love and this faint hope, combined with the renowned physician’s exhaustive treatments, once more bound the jade-like thread of her life that had been on the verge of snapping; from early September onward, Namiko—accompanied by Iku and a nurse—returned to convalesce at the villa in Zushi.

IV-II

Since coming to Zushi, her symptoms improved slightly, and amidst the quiet surroundings, her heart too found some peace. On afternoons when the sea sounded distant, she would recline her freshly bathed form in an armchair listening to birds' pure calls in a trance—it felt exactly as it had during those vanished spring days spent here, when she would imagine her husband might come visiting from Yokosuka at any moment. Life at the villa differed little from April and May of that year. With Iku and the nurse as companions, she kept strictly to her daily regimen—medication at fixed hours, temperature checks, following prescribed routines—passing time beyond these duties by composing poetry and arranging autumn flowers as her sole diversion. Once or twice weekly, the doctor came from Tokyo to examine her. Two or three days each month brought visits from her aunt, Chizuko, or occasionally her stepmother. Her two young siblings longed for their ailing sister and often begged their mother, but she—disdaining the illness and disliking their attachment to Namiko—would only rebuke them into silence. Though old schoolmates sent letters upon learning of her circumstances, most offered scant comfort despite elegant phrasing, leaving them largely unread. She waited impatiently only for Chizuko's visits. The news she longed to hear came chiefly through Chizuko.

Since the severing of ties, the Kawashima family had gradually grown distant. In contrast to the face of the man hundreds of miles to the west crossing her heart day and night, Namiko did not think of his mother at all. It was not that she did not think of her unintentionally; rather, she had striven not to think of her. Each time her mind chanced upon that mother-in-law, a terribly bitter thought would seethe up within her—a thought she herself found frightening to suppress—threatening to throw her spirit into strange disorder; Namiko would shake it off again and again, turning her heart to other matters. When she heard that the Yamaki woman had entered the Kawashima household, even she could not remain undisturbed. Moreover, believing this to be something my beloved must never know, she forcibly steered her mind toward him. Her body lay ill in Shonan, while her heart ceaselessly turned westward.

Are not the two people she loved most in this world now serving in the Sino-Japanese War? Her father, Lieutenant General Kataoka, had proceeded to Hiroshima under the Imperial Standard shortly after Namiko came to Zushi, and was now heading toward distant Liaodong. Though she wished to see him off at least to Shinbashi, her father restrained her, urging repeatedly that she take care of herself and come fully recovered to greet him on his day of triumphant return. Takeo had immediately headed for the battlefield after that incident and was now said to be aboard the flagship of the Combined Fleet. With autumn rains and winds leaving him unscathed—how was he faring now in fulfilling his combat duties? Her heart raced over land and sea day and night; Namiko, though considered useless to the world, read newspapers with a leaping heart, praying daily for the Imperial Army's successive victories, her father's safety, and Takeo's enduring fortune in battle.

By the end of September, news of the Yellow Sea victory arrived, and several days later among the wounded list Namiko found Takeo's name. Namiko did not sleep a wink that night. Fortunately, her aunt in Tokyo who understood her feelings—having somehow obtained this information—informed her that Takeo's injury was not critically severe and he was currently hospitalized in Sasebo. Though relieved of life-and-death fears, now contemplating him and all they might have shared, fresh resentment at her ungovernable circumstances welled up again, stifling her heart. Merely because our marital bond was formally severed—while our hearts still commune—he lies wounded westwards while I sicken eastwards. Not only can we not visit each other, but even openly sending a single get-well postcard exceeds my power. Tormented by these thoughts with no outlet yet unable to suppress her heart's longing, Namiko between illness bouts sewed clothes for him with Iku's help while gathering his favorite items. Concealing her name, she sent them afar to Sasebo hoping even one ten-thousandth part of her breaking heart's feelings might reach him.

Weeks came and went, and in mid-November, a letter postmarked Sasebo came into Namiko’s hands. Namiko clutched the letter tightly and wept.

IV-III

Chizuko and her younger sister Komako, who had come visiting from Saturday evening, departed this morning. After the brief liveliness faded, the house returned to its usual silence. Behind clouded paper doors, Namiko sat alone facing a photograph of her deceased mother hung by the bed.

Today, the nineteenth of November, was the death anniversary of her deceased mother. With no one to restrain her, Namiko took out her mother’s photograph from the keepsake box and hung it by the bed, laid the slightly wilted white chrysanthemums that Chizuko had brought as an offering before it, served tea in the afternoon, and listened to Iku’s tales of old—but now both Iku and the nurse had withdrawn, leaving Namiko alone before the photograph. Ten years had already passed since she had parted from her mother. For ten years, not a single day had gone by when Namiko forgot her deceased mother. Yet these days, her nostalgia had intensified to an unbearable degree, and in everything she did, she thought of her mother. The father she longed for was now far away in Liaodong. Though her stepmother resided nearby in Tokyo, the barrier between them remained as it had always been, and unwelcome words still reached her ears. If only my deceased mother—if only my deceased mother had lived safely through the years—I could have told her of those sufferings, confided these sorrows, and found this frail body’s overwhelming burdens somewhat lighter to bear. Yet from beneath the thought of why she had abandoned me and departed, tears welled up, and the photograph grew hazy as if veiled by mist.

Though it felt like yesterday, when she counted on her fingers, ten years had passed. It was in the spring of that year that Mother had passed away. I was eight, my sister five—back then she still spoke in broken phrases, now look how she’s grown!—dressed in matching sakura-patterned dawn-pink kimonos. How delighted we were when Father praised us for looking so beautiful together—me on the right, my sister on the left, Mother between us—as we rattled along in the carriage to have this very photograph taken at Suzuki Studio in Kudan. And isn’t this the very portrait now hanging here? When I think on it, ten years have passed like a dream—Mother has become this photograph, and I...

Though I had resolved not to dwell on my own fate, the bleakness of my present circumstances had regrettably manifested itself vividly before my eyes. The more I contemplated it, this self devoid of any joy or hope became enveloped in layer upon layer of black clouds, and this eight-mat room transformed into what felt like a death cell where not a sliver of sunlight could penetrate.

Suddenly, the pillar clock resounded through the house, striking two o'clock in the afternoon. Startled, Namiko stood in the next room as if fleeing; there was no one here, but voices of Iku and the nurse conversing could be heard from the back. Listening absently, Namiko exited the room, stepped down into the garden, opened the lattice gate, and went out to the beach.

The sky clouded over. Though autumn, clouds drifted dreamily; the sea scowled jet-black. The air was terribly still—not a gust of wind, not a single wave stirred; as far as the eye could see, not a sail remained on the sea.

Namiko walked step by step along the beach. Today there were no fishermen hauling nets, nor any sign of strollers taking exercise. A girl of about ten years or more, singing while gathering shells with a child on her back, noticed Namiko and bowed her head with a smile. Namiko managed a faint smile. She continued to think absently and walked on with her head bowed. Suddenly Namiko came to a halt. The beach ended and rocks rose up. There was a narrow path along the rocks; following it would lead to the Fudo waterfall. The place where Namiko had been led by her husband this spring.

Namiko took that path and proceeded.

IV-IV

Having reached the base of Fudo Shrine, Namiko brushed off the rock and sat down. This spring too she had sat upon this very rock—with her husband. That day had been serenely clear in springtime—a pale azure sky cloudless above, the sea shining brighter than any mirror. Now autumn’s gloom hung heavy—the sky filled with misshapen clouds—the sea swelling darkly up to the very rock where she sat below—its dread-filled black surface unbroken by even a single sail’s shadow. Namiko took out a letter from her breast pocket. The letter held but two or three lines in rugged script—yet those words surpassed thousands in making Namiko’s longing unbearable. “There has not been a single day when I have not thought of Namiko.” Each time she read this line—her chest tightened anew—her yearning feeling as though it might tear her apart—a pain that pierced through her very being.

Why must this world be so unjust? Though I pine and yearn for my husband—wishing to die more from longing than illness—while he holds me in such tender regard, why then has our marital bond been severed? Does not my husband’s heart, poured into this letter more fervently than lifeblood itself, reside within these very pages? Did we not sit side by side upon this very rock this spring and swear our love for all eternity? The sea knows it well. The rock too bears witness. Given this, why has the world so wantonly torn us apart? Beloved husband—cherished husband—this spring upon this rock...this very rock...

Namiko opened her eyes. Her form sat alone upon the rock. The sea lay silent before her, while behind, only the faint sound of the waterfall could be heard. Namiko covered her face and muffled a sob. Through feebly emaciated fingers, tears pattered down onto the rock. Her chest was in turmoil, her head grew increasingly feverish, and her thoughts darted wildly in all directions, weaving the past before her eyes like a shuttle. Namiko recalled the time this past spring when her husband had helped her to this rock, the onset of her illness, their carefree days in Ikaho, and their wedding night. When she had been taken back to the capital by her aunt; when she had parted from her mother long ago; her mother’s face, her father’s face, her stepmother, her sister—countless faces passed before her mind’s eye like lightning bolts. Namiko further recalled one old friend she had heard about from Chizuko the day before. She had been two years older than Namiko and married a year earlier to a certain Western-educated count—renowned even among the daimyo aristocracy as a talented man—yet failed to win her in-laws’ favor. Though she bore a child, her husband grew to dislike her, keeping a mistress at home while indulging in the pleasure quarters outside. They divorced this past spring, and she had recently died of illness, or so it was said. "She was abandoned by her husband and died; I am torn from the husband I love and weep." When she thought of this manifold world—his sorrows and her own bitterness—Namiko gazed at the ever-darkening sea and heaved a deep sigh.

The more she dwelled on it, the more disordered her thoughts became, until Namiko felt the world had grown too narrow to contain her very being. Though born to a family wanting for nothing, I parted from my beloved mother at eight years old, spent a decade shrinking under my stepmother's gaze, and just when I thought my father could finally rest easy with my good marriage settled—though never winning my mother-in-law's favor, this self that would brave fire and water for my husband—unexpectedly contracted grave illness. Before I could rejoice at even slight recovery, being told to die felt like merciful judgment; though existing as one who loved and was loved by my husband, we were ruthlessly torn apart, ending as those who cannot be called husband and wife. If I was destined for such misfortune, why was I ever born into this world? Why did I not die together with Mother? Why did I come to marry my husband? Why, when this illness first struck, did I not die in my husband’s arms? Why—why did I not collapse and die right there in that moment when I heard that terrifying pronouncement? My body bears an incurable disease; my heart longs for the one I cannot be with. For what purpose should I linger in this world? Even if this illness were cured, if I cannot be with you, I will die of longing—I will die.

I will die. For what joy should I linger in this world?

Unable to wipe away her falling tears, Namiko gazed intently at the sea’s surface. When toward Izu Ōshima she saw clouds, ink-black and swirling, suddenly billow up in clustered masses, an indescribably mournful sound descended from the distant heavens, and the surface of the great sea rippled in an instant. A gust of wind blew forth. No sooner had the wind grazed past her temples than a mass like snow appeared at the center of the pitch-black sea and surged forth like galloping horses, crashing against the rock where Namiko sat as if to shatter it. The vast Sōyō Sea, in less than a moment, boiled up with thousands upon thousands of waves like a raging cauldron.

Making no attempt to avoid the spray scattering like rain, Namiko gazed intently at the water’s surface. Beneath those waters lies death. Death may perhaps be freedom. Rather than suffer through this world bearing my illness, would it not be better to become a spirit and stay by my husband’s side? My husband is now in the Yellow Sea. Even if it lies far away, these waters too connect to the Yellow Sea. Farewell—let my body vanish like foam upon this sea, and my soul shall go to my husband’s side.

Namiko firmly tucked Takeo’s letter into her breast pocket, swept back her wind-tousled hair, and stood up.

The wind howled furiously down from the boundless heavens; Namiko barely managed to stand. When she looked up, clouds raced across the sky chasing one another, and the sea—as far as the eye could see—boiled white with waves and foam. Sakurayama across the bay wailed, shaking its pines like a mane. The wind roared, the sea bellowed, the mountains resounded, and the vast noise filled heaven and earth.

Now, now—now is the time for this thread of life to be severed. Guide me, Mother. Forgive me, Father. Nineteen years of dreams—now, at last—

Pulling her collar closed and kicking off her footwear, Namiko now leapt toward the spot where the crashing waves broke against the rock, churning white foam.

At that moment, a voice cried out from behind, and Namiko was suddenly seized and held back.

Part 5-1

“Granny. Please have the tea ready. It’s nearly time for her to arrive.” Having said this, Namiko slowly turned to look at Iku. Iku was tidying up the area while remarking, “She truly is a kind person, isn’t she ee? Though fancy her being a Christian ee.” “Ah, so she is a Christian after all.” “But I never would’ve imagined someone like that being a Christian. And to think she’s cut her hair so short as well.”

“Why?”

“But you know, among Christians they don’t cut their hair even when their husband dies—instead they doll themselves up more and start hunting for a new marriage match right away!” “Ohoho, where did you hear such things, Granny?” “No, it’s true ee! In that faith even young girls get mighty impertient—it’s true ee! There was this girl in my relative’s neighbor’s house—such a quiet thing she was at first—but once she started going to that faith’s school ee! Come Sundays, even when her mother said ‘I’m busy today—lend a hand,’ she’d just march off to that church! Then she started carping—‘The school’s clean but our home’s filthy!’ ‘Mother’s so stubborn!’ And though she went to that school ee, she couldn’t write a proper receipt! Make her sew? She’d spend all day twiddling underrobe sleeves! Tell her to boil daikon for supper? She’d plunk the radish on the board and stand there gawping with a kitchen knife!” “Her parents are now regretting ever sending her to such a school ee.” “And that girl declared she’d never marry any husband making less than two hundred fifty yen a month!” “Isn’t it appalling ee?” “She was such a gentle girl before—how’d she end up like that ee?” “Must be Christian magic ee!”

“Ohoho,” “Even so, that does sound troublesome.” “But really, since there are both good and bad aspects, you can’t judge without knowing them well.” “Don’t you agree, Granny?”

Tilting her head slightly as if to say she didn’t quite understand, Iku gazed up at Namiko intently. “But you must stay away from Christianity, I beg you.”

Namiko smiled.

“Are you saying I must not speak with that person?” “If all Christians were like that one, it would be well enough, wouldn’t it ee? But—” “But…”

Iku fell silent. Speak of the devil—a shadow had clearly appeared upon the western shoji screen.

“Pardon me for coming through the garden entrance.”

A slender, gentle woman’s voice rang out, and beyond the shoji that Iku hurriedly rose to open stood a petite woman in her fifties. Appearing older than her years, her abundant white hair cropped short, she wore a black hifu coat. Thin and haggard in appearance, she might at first glance have seemed somewhat gloomy, yet her eyes held a warm light, and a natural smile played about her delicate lips. The person Iku had just been speaking of was none other than this woman. But there was more: this was also the one who had fortuitously stopped Namiko from becoming mere water debris at Fudō Shrine’s edge over a week prior.

If one does not trumpet their name with fanfare, those unaware will never hear it; yet those who do know them find themselves bathed in the overflowing light from their very being—unable to forget such a person long after meeting them, as they say. Her name was Ogawa Kiyoko; she lived near Meguro with many orphaned girls, taking pleasure in gathering and nurturing the numerous souls abandoned by the roadside as mother to one large family. Having come to this place at last month's end to recuperate from pleurisy-ravaged health, she happened to be at Fudō Shrine that fateful day where she seized Namiko from death's grasp—handing her over to Iku who had arrived flustered while searching for her mistress—thus naturally opening a path of communication between them.

Part Five-2 Iku, who had brought tea and was about to take her leave, looked somewhat startled. “Oh, you’ll be returning to the capital tomorrow. Oh my... It’s such a shame—just when we were becoming acquainted.” The elderly woman, while enveloping Namiko in her gentle gaze, “I too would wish to stay a little longer—to converse with you and see your condition improve before returning—but—”

While saying this, she took out a small book from her pocket, “This is a Bible—you have not yet had the chance to read it, I presume.”

Namiko had not yet read such a book. Her stepmother had been known as a believer during her studies in England, but upon returning home, she left behind that faith along with that Bible, her old shoes, and scrap paper in her London lodgings.

"Yes, I have not yet had the honor of seeing it." Iku still hesitated to leave, her eyes round as she intently watched the book in the elderly woman’s hands. The secret of this trick must lie within those pages, she likely thought. “From now on, if you read this... book when you’re feeling well, I believe it will surely benefit you.” “Had I been staying a little longer, we might have shared many conversations—but today, before parting, I wish to tell you how I came to read this book.” “You aren’t feeling fatigued, are you?” “If need be, please do not hesitate to rest.”

Namiko, who had been listening intently, raised her face.

“No, I’m not tired at all. “Please, do tell me your story.” After replacing the tea, Iku then stood up.

The Indian summer afternoon was quieter than night. The sound of the sea was distant, and the pine shadows cast upon the shoji remained still. Only the distant, clear sound of small birds could be heard. Through the eastern glass-paned shoji, the autumn sky stood clear and high, while Sakurayama—dyed in a tapestry of autumn hues—seemed to burn in the afternoon sun. The elderly woman slowly sipped her tea, bowed her head to stroke the knee of her coat, then looked up to gaze at Namiko’s face as she quietly began to speak. "A person’s life seems long yet is short, seems short yet is long."

“My father was a hatamoto—a direct retainer of the shogun—from rather distinguished circles. It has long since passed into another’s hands—you may know of it—across Koishikawa Suidō Bridge, a short way further on, there is a place where a large enoki tree grows; I was born in that mansion. When I was twelve, my mother passed away. My father was so devastated that he did not take a second wife, so as a child, I took care of various household chores. Then, after arranging a marriage for my brother, I too entered into the Ogawa household—a retainer family of slightly higher status—at twenty-one years of age, a time when you had not yet been born.”

“I too was raised according to the Onna Daigaku teachings and believed myself second to none in endurance, but when actually confronted with such circumstances, I found many trials that cut bitterly to the core.” “With the times being what they were, my husband was seldom at home. There were my parents-in-law and his two sisters—they later married—so I essentially served five masters. This brought anxieties unknown to others.” “My father-in-law proved manageable, but my mother-in-law was exceedingly difficult to serve. In truth, there had been another bride before me who fled home within half a year—it seems improper to speak so of the deceased, but she was rough-natured, domineering, and sharp-tongued—the sort who’d ‘strike your back to make you swallow,’ as the saying goes.” “I thought I’d endured all I could bear, yet still there were moments when my patience failed—when I’d weep behind folding screens, be scolded for red eyes and weep anew, often recalling my departed mother.”

During this time, the turmoil of the Meiji Restoration began. “The whole of Edo was like a boiling pot, you know. My husband, father, and younger brother were all with the Shōgitai in Ueno; on top of that, my father-in-law was gravely ill, and I was with child. I was truly beside myself with worry.” “Then Ueno fell; my husband made his way from Utsunomiya all the way to Hakodate; my father vanished without a trace; my younger brother was killed in battle at Ueno, and his family disappeared as well; my father-in-law finally succumbed to illness—and amidst all this, I gave birth. Everything became like a dream: our stipend was revoked; our household possessions were seized; I had to take my mother-in-law and one elderly servant, carrying my infant child across Hakone to settle in Shizuoka—it was as though I lived through a terrifying nightmare.”

At this moment, a nurse entered and, after bowing politely and finishing offering medicine to Namiko, departed. Having closed her eyes briefly, the elderly woman opened them and continued her account. "The hardships of former shogunate retainers in Shizuoka defy description—this being when even the Tokugawa family had fallen low, and respected men like Mr. Katsu smoldered in back-alley hovels. Though receiving three fuchi stipends for our former five-thousand-koku status felt undeserved—I say this with shame—we couldn't even afford a single block of tofu then. Worse still, my mother-in-law remained accustomed to luxury, so I truly agonized." "So I gathered women and children from town to teach writing and sewing, working late into the night at paid labor." "That was manageable enough, but my mother-in-law grew ever harsher—blaming me for the turmoil of the times in ways that cut cruelly—and with my husband absent (after Hakodate he'd been imprisoned awhile) and my father's whereabouts unknown...there were days I thought death preferable. Yet I kept persevering—over and over." "Truly during those years I aged ten years in one."

"In the midst of this, my husband was summoned to join the army, and crossing Hakone once more, we returned to Tokyo—yes, that Tokyo—in the spring of Meiji 5." "The following spring, my husband was ordered on an overseas assignment." “We no longer had the daily worries of morning and evening, but my mother-in-law’s disposition remained entirely unchanged—though that was manageable, I simply could not discover any trace of my father’s whereabouts.” "In the autumn after my husband had gone abroad—on a day of heavy rain—I went to visit an acquaintance in Koishikawa and was about to return home in a carriage hired from that household." "The day was fading into dusk amid a fierce storm of rain and wind. Huddled inside the carriage hood, I listened as the rickshaw puller trudged onward with squelching steps—squelch-squelch-squelch-squelch—his rounded bamboo hat and wrinkled, tung oil-coated rain cape doing little against the downpour. Rain dripped-dripped-dripped from his raincoat; the lantern’s flame flickered weakly across the road. Now and then, he heaved heavy sighs as he pulled." "Just as we reached Suidō Bridge, the lantern suddenly went out." "The rickshaw puller lowered the shafts and said, 'Madam, I’m terribly sorry, but there are Dutch sticks—matches—under the seat here.'" "'The wind was so fierce I could hardly hear, but his voice sounded strange—so I took out a match, struck it toward the footboard, and in that flickering light, when I saw the rickshaw puller’s face—Father—it was you!'"

The old woman covered her face involuntarily. Namiko burst into tears. From the next room came the sound of stifled sobs.

5-3

Wiping her eyes, the elderly woman continued speaking. “How strange that we could exist in the same Tokyo yet remain unaware of each other.” “Then I accompanied Father to a nearby soba shop. When I inquired about his circumstances, I learned that after Ueno fell he had wandered through various places—working as a writing instructor, falling ill—and now relied on a former retainer running an extremely small plant nursery in a corner of Komagome, while he himself pulled rented rickshaws every day like this.” “Joy and sorrow and shame all welled up within me—I could hardly speak.” “After that—well—that evening my father gave me some money and we parted ways.”

The night had grown quite late. "When I returned your mother-in-law was lying in wait—her anger and resentment so intense it was pitiful—and she accused me as though I had committed some unspeakable act." "'Clutching my chest,' I confessed about Father—if only she might pity me—but it became an unbearable humiliation! Overcome with frustration and shame,'I resolved then:'I cannot stay in this house another moment! To Father’s side!' After Mother-in-law retired,I quietly changed clothes.At my child’s bedside—six years old,sleeping—I wrote farewell notes.Suddenly,the child stretched out her right hand asleep:'Mother don’t go!'" "That day leaving her at Koishikawa must have haunted her dreams.As I stared at her sleeping face transformed into my husband’s likeness,I dropped my brush weeping." "'Then why recall? Childhood bedtime tales Mother told about brides enduring mothers-in-law.Suddenly remembered:"Ah,endure alone resolves all peacefully"—You weary?'"

Namiko, listening with every fiber of her being, needed no reply—she merely raised her tear-streaked face. Iku sipped freshly prepared tea, and the elderly woman resumed her account. "After that, I made various apologies to my mother-in-law—but given such circumstances, I simply couldn’t manage to take Father in or support him financially." "So—well—I discreetly sold off personal belongings—not that there were many—but that couldn’t last long either. I turned to my husband’s acquaintances, you see, and there happened to be a foreign ambassador’s wife who fancied learning the koto. After making various excuses to my mother-in-law, I began teaching her several times a month—this allowed me to ease Father’s burdens somewhat. Over time, I grew close with this lady—a rare gentle soul—who would often chat in broken Japanese. One day she said, ‘Read this,’ and gave me a book." "That was, you see, the Gospel of Matthew—the first Japanese translation of it at that time—which appears at the beginning of this Bible." "I started reading it, but it was full of such peculiar things that I simply set it aside."

“Then, the following spring, my mother-in-law suddenly had a stroke. She had been a strong-willed woman, but now she became like a child—terribly lonely—and if I even stepped away for a moment, she would immediately call out ‘Kiyo! Kiyo!’ As I sat by her side, swatting flies while watching her face as she slept peacefully, I thought—why had I ever resented her even once when she would end up like this? If possible, I wanted to make her healthy again—and so I spared no effort, but it was all in vain.”

“Shortly after my mother-in-law passed away, my husband returned to Japan. Then, just as we were about to take him in—perhaps because Father felt relieved—he suddenly fell ill and within a mere two or three days slipped away as though into sleep. ‘I met the daughter I thought I’d never see again in this life,’ he said, ‘she treated me with kindness—there’s no one as blessed as myself.’ —But I couldn’t do even a tenth of what I wished for him. Even now, whenever I remember, there isn’t a time I don’t think how I’d want to bring him back to life and let him know all the joy he deserved.”

Then my husband gradually rose in status, my child grew up, and I found life considerably easier—yet what worried me was my husband’s heavy drinking—a common habit among military men. "Even now it remains true—but back then especially—men were more dissolute. Though my husband did improve somewhat after his travels to the West, it was still a source of shame, and I worried endlessly." “Even when I gently voiced my concerns—you would just laugh and pay no heed.”

"In the midst of this, the Ten Years' War broke out, and my husband—who was a colonel in the Imperial Guard—was called to serve. After that, my child came down with scarlet fever, and I was constantly by their side day and night. It was the night of April 18th. Since my child had improved slightly and was resting peacefully, I had all the maids retire for the night. As I sat sewing by my child’s pillow in the light of the andon lamp, I unwittingly began to doze off. When my consciousness started fading, I sensed someone’s presence—a figure sitting by my child’s pillow. ‘Who could that be?’ I wondered—and when I looked—oh! It was my husband, still in his military uniform, drenched in blood and deathly pale—Ah! At the sound of my cry, I jolted awake and looked around, but there was no one there. The andon lamp’s flame flickered dimly while the child slept peacefully. I was drenched in cold sweat, my heart pounding violently—"

From the very next day, the child suddenly took a turn for the worse, and finally passed away that evening. "It all became like a dream—and as I held that small body, the telegram arrived announcing my husband had been killed in action."

The speaker fell silent, the listener held her breath, and the room became still as water.

After some time had passed, the elderly woman began to speak again. "After that, I was completely consumed—as if the sun and moon had both sunk at once—plunged into utter darkness. When I thought all my endurance had only led to this wretched state, I wished my illness would never heal—indeed, I fell gravely ill right afterward—but whether fortunately or unfortunately, my condition gradually improved." My illness had improved, but for me, the world had become utterly empty, and I was merely existing. "In time, following an acquaintance’s advice, I closed up my house and ended up staying at their residence for a while." While convalescing, I was idly tidying up tools when one day, upon opening a chest of drawers, a book emerged from beneath the layered garments of my deceased child. Upon glancing, I realized it was the Bible given to me years ago by the foreign ambassador’s wife. I found myself gazing at it without truly reading when a certain passage struck me in this peculiar, resonant way—I’ve marked it here in this book—and even after moving to my acquaintance’s residence, I would read it from time to time. "As I read on, it felt akin to when someone lost on a mountain path hears a rooster’s crow somewhere, or how a faint light might pierce through on a pitch-black night." "The ambassador’s wife who had given me that book had already returned to her home country. While wanting to discuss it with someone, through an acquaintance’s arrangements, I took a position as a dormitory supervisor at a newly established girls’ school—which turned out to be founded on Christian principles. Among the teachers was a young couple—truly devoted individuals—and they became my guides." "Since those guides taught me the basics and I entered this path, sixteen years have now passed. Truly, this book has become my staff—I have not let it leave my side for a single day." "Since believing in the immortality of the soul, the world I had thought ended with death expanded; since coming to know the Heavenly Father, losing my parents felt like gaining a greater parent; since hearing of love's workings, losing my child made me feel as though I had gained many children; and since being taught about hope, even endurance became accompanied by joy—"

"The circumstances that led me to read this book are roughly as I’ve described." Having said this, the elderly woman stared intently at Namiko’s face, "To tell the truth, I had vaguely heard about your circumstances, and since I would see you from time to time on the shore like that, I often thought I must visit you—but now that we have grown close so suddenly, it is truly regrettable that we must part again so soon." "However presumptuous this may sound, I simply cannot regard you as someone I met only recently." “Please take good care of yourself—do keep your patience, now, and never give way to despair—when your spirits allow, do read this book—even after I return to Tokyo, I shall think of you morning and evening.”

*

The elderly woman departed for Tokyo the following day. However, that gifted book remained ever at Namiko’s side.

If she thought of how there existed people in this world who still retained such sincerity as to comfort others despite enduring similar misfortunes, if she thought of how there existed someone in this vast world—neither mother nor aunt—who still cherished thoughts of her, then Namiko found herself somewhat comforted; and whenever she recalled the life story she had heard, she would open that single book—a gift imbued with heartfelt devotion.

Book Six, Part One

The Second Army captured Port Arthur on November 22.

“Mother! Mother!” While holding the newspaper，Chizuko hurriedly called her mother. “What is it? You must speak more quietly.” “You must speak more quietly.”

Glared at through the pale blue glasses, her face flushing crimson in an instant, Chizuko let out a soft giggle before turning serious again, “Mother! He’s dead—that Chijiiwa!” “What?! Chijiiwa!” “That Chijiiwa!” “How?” “Killed in action?” “His name’s listed among the officers killed in action.—Serves him right!” “Must you always be so vulgar?” “I see.” “So that Chijiiwa was killed in action?!” “But he actually died in battle, didn’t he, Chizuko?”

“Serves him right!” “Someone like him would’ve just been in the way if he’d stayed alive!”

Viscountess Katō fell silent for a moment, sinking into deep thought. "If even in death there's not a single soul who would weep for you, life truly has no meaning, Chizuko." "But Granny Kawashima will cry.—Mother, about the Kawashimas—Miss Yutaka has run off with someone!"

“Is that so?” “Yesterday, she started something again—crying and saying ‘I can’t stay in this house anymore!’—and then she just up and left! Hohohohoho, I would’ve loved to see that scene!”

“No matter who goes there, things will never settle in that household—wouldn’t you say, Chizuko?”

Mother and child looked at each other, and words failed them.

*

Chijiiwa had perished.

About twenty days had passed since Chizuko and her mother had conducted that exchange when a fragment of remains and a single letter arrived at the desolate Kawashima household. The remains were Chijiiwa’s; the letter was Takeo’s. Several passages have been excerpted from it. Two days after the fall of Port Arthur, as docks and vessels were transferred to the fleet's control, several officers and men disembarked, and I too went ashore. As it was after a fierce battle, the horrific scene was beyond description [text omitted]. Passing before the temporary field hospital, I suddenly noticed someone being carried upon a stretcher. He was covered with a blue blanket, his face draped with white cotton cloth; from beneath that cloth, the visible area around his mouth and jaw seemed all too familiar, and upon inquiring, I learned this was Lieutenant Chijiiwa. I trust you can imagine my surprise at that moment. When I removed the covering, his complexion was pale, teeth clenched fiercely. The wounds consisted of one in the lower abdomen and two others—all bullet injuries sustained during the Isugayama Battery attack—and though he retained sensation until morning, he ultimately expired. Upon further inquiries with his colleagues, I learned that while considered ill-reputed in peacetime, he performed admirably during combat; indeed, during the Kinchow assault he had led troops in scaling the South Gate first, and acquitted himself commendably this time as well. However, he often committed acts unbecoming an officer during ordinary times, amassing gold beyond his station even amid campaigns. Previously at Pixiziwo, despite His Excellency the Army Commander’s strict orders, he requisitioned supplies and inflicted cruel treatment upon locals—conduct warranting disciplinary action [text omitted]—yet his battlefield death must be deemed a stroke of fortune for him.

As you are well aware, Mother, he had committed numerous acts of impropriety, and while he had indeed caused me considerable trouble—and while I had already resolutely severed all ties with him—I bore no resentment toward his corpse; when I recalled how we had once grown up like brothers, I found myself shedding tears despite myself. Therefore, having received permission, I cremated him and hereby send you his remains. I humbly entreat you to inter them in a fitting manner. [Text omitted]

The encounters Takeo had experienced in Port Arthur were not limited to this; there was one incident he deliberately omitted from his account.

6-2

The fact that Takeo had omitted from his written account was as follows.

On the day he encountered Chijiiwa’s corpse, Takeo had returned alone, belatedly, toward the pier. The sun had set. The glinting bayonets of sentries at the barracks gate, the clatter of officers' horseshoes, officers reprimanding non-commissioned officers, Qing subjects standing aghast, military personnel crisscrossing every which way—as he wove his way through these, five or six army laborers were gathered around a bonfire. “It’s terribly cold, ain’t it?” “When we get back home, all I want is a drink with some tuna and green onions.” “Yoshi, you’ve gone and grabbed somethin’ nice again, ain’t ya?!”

The army laborer called Yoshi, having likely looted it, was wearing a splendid purple satin vest.

“Haven’t seen Genkō. “He’s swaggering around in a fox fur coat that must’ve cost four hundred ryō!” “Gen, huh? “That bastard’s got damn strong luck—ain’t no one like him.” “Hiroshi wins at gambling, lazes around yet still gets rewards—bullets don’t even graze him.” “That bastard’s got all the luck.” “Me? At Dalian Bay I got cleaned out and ended up with just this single lined jacket.” “Damn beast! Can’t even get decent loot—this is really pissing me off!” “Looting’s all well and good, but you gotta be careful.” “Just now when I carelessly stepped in, he must’ve thought I came to kill him—damn Qing soldier jumped out sudden-like from behind a barrel with his sword drawn, and I was this close to sayin’ goodbye to this world.” “Just then some soldiers came along and the Qing bastard croaked right quick.” “I was scared the life outta me!”

“What a damn fool Qing soldier he was!” “He ain’t been killed enough yet.”

Since not many days had passed since the fall of Port Arthur, indeed, it was no small number of Qing soldiers who, having hidden in civilian homes, were discovered and killed for resisting.

Hearing a conversation he had no intention of overhearing, Takeo felt a faint stirring of discomfort as he gradually approached the pier. The area was sparsely populated, with lights few and far between; on one side lay the dark shadow of arsenal buildings lined in rows across the ground, while on the other stood street lamps casting a dim moonlit-night glow upon the earth, where a gaunt dog sniffed the ground as it went.

Takeo walked along the shadows of this building, his eyes instantly fixing on two figures walking ahead some twenty ken away. Their silhouettes were unmistakably those of Japanese Army officers. One was burly, the other slender; walking together, they appeared engaged in conversation. Takeo thought one of them seemed vaguely familiar. Suddenly, Takeo noticed another figure sneaking along the building's shadow between himself and those two. His heart throbbed strangely. Though obscured by the structure's darkness, this shadow within shadows advanced one step and paused, took two steps and peered ahead—unmistakably pursuing the officers while closing the distance. As a gap between houses admitted streetlamp light, Takeo recognized the figure as a Qing man. Simultaneously, he glimpsed something flashing in the man's hand. Heart racing, Takeo stealthily quickened his pace to follow them.

Just as the two men walking ahead reached the edge of town, the black shadow that had been moving through the darkness broke violently from the gloom and pursued them. When Takeo, startled, began running after them, the Qing assailant had already closed to within six or seven ken; his right hand rose, the pistol barked, and the slender man collapsed with a thud. As the other man turned in shock and tried to pull the trigger for another shot at his companion, Takeo—charging headlong—raised his fist and struck his right arm with a “Break!” The pistol fell. Startled and enraged, the man lunged at him, but Takeo wrestled to strike him down. As the burly man came running to assist Takeo, our soldiers—startled by the pistol shot—came rushing in scattered groups and immediately kicked down and subdued the Qing assailant who was more than Takeo could handle alone. As Takeo, drenched in sweat from the momentary struggle, emerged from the throng, the burly man who had helped lift the fallen one came toward him.

At that moment, the light from the streetlamp illuminated Lieutenant General Kataoka’s face precisely.

Takeo involuntarily cried out. “Ah! Your Excellency!” “You?!” Lieutenant General Kataoka and his adjutant had been returning from some destination when, regrettably, they became targets of a Qing subject.

The adjutant’s wound was severe, but the lieutenant general had not sustained even a minor injury. Takeo had unintentionally saved his father-in-law.

＊ When this news reached Namiko from some unknown source，Iku was overjoyed， “You see? “The divine bond remains unbroken. “Devote yourself fully to recuperation. “Come now—let us both strive for your recovery!” Namiko smiled a lonely smile.

Namiko smiled a lonely smile.

Book Seven, Chapter One

Amidst the war, the year passed and dawned, becoming Meiji 28. From January to February, Weihaiwei fell and the Beiyang Fleet perished; by late March, the Penghu Islands in the south had already come under our possession, while in the north our great army advanced like the tide until not a single enemy horseman could be seen east of the Liao River. Subsequently, peace envoys arrived; by mid-April, news of the peace treaty’s conclusion had spread far and wide, followed by rumors of the Triple Intervention and the return of Liaodong. At the end of that same May, His Majesty the Commander-in-Chief returned in triumph, and the war abruptly ceased as though a great roc had folded its wings.

After collecting Chijiiwa's remains in Port Arthur and rescuing Lieutenant General Kataoka from peril, Takeo participated in the attack on Weihaiwei and the occupation of Penghu Island far to the south. Then, in early June, when his ship was temporarily scheduled to return triumphantly to Yokosuka, he finally returned to Tokyo after a long absence and entered the gate of his long-unseen home. Reflecting on it, over a year had already passed since that June day when he had stormed out after parting from his mother. Having passed through the brink of life and death many times over, the old discomfort remained unsoftened, its traces undiminished; how often had his thoughts flown homeward during those rainy days at Sasebo Hospital and those freezing nights off Weihaiwei Harbor?

When he returned after a year and looked around, the household showed no changes whatsoever, save for the unfamiliar face of the maid who had come out at the sound of his carriage. Mother had grown fat as usual and, claiming her rheumatism had flared up, remained in bed all day. Tasaki came day after day as was his custom, waited in a six-mat room, attended to his administrative duties as always, and departed at the appointed hour. The daily affairs, as if cast in a mold—everything seen and heard remained exactly as they had been the previous year. Takeo felt as though he had gained hope only to lose it. After meeting his mother for the first time in a year, bathing in the long-unused family bath, sitting comfortably atop piled-high futons, facing his favorite dishes, then laying his weary head upon a black velvet pillow—not a fishing pillow—yet finding no sleep until the clock near his pillow struck twelve, his eyes only grew keener, and he felt a sharp pain deep within his heart.

A year's time had mended the rupture between mother and son. Or at least, it hadn't truly mended—only given that appearance. Even his mother had welcomed her only child with evident joy. Takeo too felt he'd unburdened himself by meeting her. Yet from the moment they faced each other, both recognized no true reconciliation had occurred between them. He didn't ask about Namiko; she didn't speak of her. His silence stemmed not from unwillingness to inquire, nor hers from ignorance of his desire to know—but rather because both consciously avoided this perilous subject. Knowing they avoided it made their interactions falter like severed conversation, leaving them perpetually ill at ease in each other's presence.

The gift from Sasebo Hospital, that incident at Port Arthur—even without these, there had never been a moment he could forget her—yet upon returning to this house where past and present coexisted, every object he saw bore traces of her visage, and Takeo found his heart strangely agitated. Where could she be now? Did she not know he had returned? Though thoughts might span a thousand miles, the Kataoka household—now severed by broken ties—lay less than a ri away yet felt as distant as the sun; though her aunt’s house stood near enough to answer a call, what right had he to go inquire about her circumstances? When he thought back to last May—how he had stopped by Zushi to bid farewell before departing for fleet exercises—he had never imagined it would be their final parting. That time when she saw him off at the villa gate and called, “Please come back soon”—her voice still lingered in his ears, but now to whom could he say, “I’ve returned”?

As Takeo, continuing to dwell on these thoughts, went down to Zushi one day while visiting Yokosuka and wandered toward that villa, the front gate stood closed. Thinking mournfully that she must have returned to the capital, he entered through the back gate and found an old man alone plucking weeds in the garden.

Book Seven, Chapter Two At the sound of Takeo’s approaching footsteps, the old man slowly turned around; no sooner had he seen him than he appeared somewhat surprised, removing his headband and bending slightly at the waist while— “Ah, you’ve come. When did you return, Master?” “I returned two or three days ago. You’re still as spry as ever, old man.” “Oh, it’s nothing—ah, this old man can’t manage things proper-like no more—ah, I’m ever so grateful for your kindness, Master.” “So, old man—have you been away from here for quite some time now?”

“Oh no, not at all, Master. Until last month, the mistress—er, the young lady—that is, the honored invalid and her nursemaid were here, and since then this old man has been keeping watch over the place for you.” “So she returned to the capital last month... Then she’s in Tokyo now.” Takeo muttered to himself. “Yes, that’s correct. “Before you returned from Qing, she had already gone back to Tokyo, Master.” “Ah, then it seems she went to Kyoto with you, Master, and I don’t believe she’s returned to the capital yet.”

“Kyoto? Then her condition must have improved.” Takeo muttered to himself again. “So when did she go?” “Four or five days ago—” started the old man, but suddenly recalling the current circumstances and fearing he might have overstepped, clamped his mouth shut. Perceiving this, Takeo involuntarily flushed.

The two faced each other in silence until finally, perhaps moved by pity, the old gardener spoke up. “Let me open up the house for you. Master, won’t you come in for some tea and rest awhile?” “Don’t trouble yourself. I merely stopped by while passing through.” With this curt reply, Takeo wandered through the villa he’d once frequented. Though maintained well enough to avoid ruin—doors firmly shut, water basins dry—the garden ran wild with unchecked growth. Lush foliage choked the paths, fallen plums dotted the ground, and what few roses remained on the overgrown lawn had already shed half their petals, their faint perfume saturating the air. No trace of human presence lingered—only the relentless drone of cicadas in the pines behind the house.

Takeo hurriedly bid farewell to the old gardener and departed, head hung low.

Five or six days later, Takeo left home once more and embarked on a distant southern expedition. After returning home for ten-odd days, while his fellow officers reveled in the festivities of their triumphant return, Takeo passed his days in gloom. Even the home he had missed so dearly while far away held no joy upon his return, and in the end, Takeo found nothing to fill the void in his heart. His mother, too, was aware of this, yet no trace of her bitter feelings surfaced naturally in her words. Takeo, too, had come to recognize that his mother was aware of this, yet whenever they conversed directly, he felt as though something stood between them. Thus, while there was no rupture between mother and son as before, Takeo lamented that now, a year later, he felt even more distant from his mother than he had been—and yet found himself powerless to prevent this growing estrangement. Mother and son parted coldly.

Originally scheduled to depart from Yokosuka, an obstacle arose as departure neared that caused a one-day delay in plans; thus Takeo resolved to board from Kure instead, and on June tenth he rode the Tokaido Line train as a solitary and desolate figure.

Book Eight, Chapter One

A party of three who had just emerged from Uji’s Obaku Temple Complex. A portly gentleman who appeared to be in his fifties, dressed in Western attire and carrying a gold-topped cane; a young lady of about twenty holding up a black satin parasol; and behind them followed a woman in her fifties who seemed to be a maid, carrying a traditional cloth bag.

As the three emerged, the three rickshaws that had been waiting at the gate came rattling up, and the old gentleman turned to look at the lady holding the parasol.

“What fine weather. How about taking a short walk?” “Let’s walk.”

"Might you not be fatigued?" the maid interjected politely. "Alright, a short walk would do us good." "Well then, if we grow tired, we can ride. For now, I suppose taking a leisurely stroll would be fine." With three rickshaws following behind, the three of them began to walk slowly. Needless to say, this was Lieutenant General Kataoka’s party. Yesterday, having lodged in Uji after departing Nara, they viewed Byodoin Temple and paid respects at the historic Sen no Shiba; today, they intend to travel from Yamashina Station toward Otsu.

Lieutenant General Kataoka had triumphantly returned from Liaodong in May. One day he summoned Namiko's attending physician to his study for a confidential discussion, and two days later took Namiko and her maid Iku with him to Kyoto without ceremony. Having selected a quiet riverside inn as their base, he shed his military uniform for civilian clothes, avoided public appearances, declined social invitations, and spent ten-odd days indulging in leisure—daily escorting Namiko wherever she wished, from visiting exhibitions and historic temples to purchasing textiles in Nishijin and buying souvenirs at Kiyomizu. For a time, society lost track of the lieutenant general's whereabouts, leaving Namiko sole possessor of her father's company.

"Leaving Obaku behind meant entering Japan's tea country." Though peak harvest season had long passed, occasional breezes carried the earthy scent of roasting leaves from drying hearths, while scattered figures of women picking second-flush tea still dotted the landscape. The fields between tea plots glowed amber with ripened wheat, their stillness broken by crisp sickle-snaps cutting through the air. When she looked up, Washū's mountains dissolved into summer haze on the horizon as white sails materialized upon the Uji River, gliding through seas of wheat-tips. From a distant village where only rooftops pierced the vista came a rooster's languid midday cry drifting across the plains, while overhead floated wisps of cloud tinged lavender at their sun-seared edges - weightless and ephemeral. Namiko sighed.

Suddenly, from the field path on the left emerged two peasants who appeared to be a married couple, deep in conversation. Having just finished their midday meal, they were likely heading out to work in the fields. The man carried a sickle at his waist, while the woman wore a white cloth around her head with blackened teeth, clutching a large earthenware teapot. Upon encountering the group, the woman paused to observe them briefly before scurrying after her husband who had walked ahead, whispering something in his ear. Both turned back—the woman flashing a smile that revealed her beautifully blackened teeth—before continuing their conversation and disappearing down a path along the field bank where briar roses spilled over the edges.

Namiko’s eyes followed their retreating figures. The bamboo hats and white towels gradually sank into the yellowing wheat and soon vanished from sight—when suddenly, from beyond the field, "My man's a Masamune, I'm but a rusted blade—Though he may break, I'll never shatter..." The plaintive singing voices scattered across the open field.

Namiko lowered her head. Her father, the lieutenant general, turned to look at her.

“You must be tired. Here...”

With these words, he took Namiko’s hand.

Book Eight, Chapter Two

The lieutenant general, holding Namiko’s hand, "How swiftly time flows, Nami. "Nami, my dear—do you recall? When you were small, you’d ride upon my back and kick-kick at your father’s sides like so. "That’s right—’twas when you were five or six." "Ohohohoho! Indeed it was!" "When His Lordship would carry you thus, the Young Mistress would often fuss so! "—Why, even now one can scarce imagine how envious others must be!" Iku chimed in airily. Namiko simply smiled with a lonely air.

Namiko simply smiled with a lonely air. “Komako... “I’ll bring Komako a whole bunch of souvenirs to make up for it. “Hey, Nami. “Miss Chizuko must be more envious than Komako—she did want to come here once.”

“Indeed it is. “If Miss Katō were to join us, how lively it would be! Truly, for someone like me to be allowed such rare sightseeing—ah, what was that called? The river we crossed earlier was the Uji River, the famous firefly viewing spot, and that must be Komazawa where Miyuki met her fate.” “Hahahaha! Iku, you’re quite the scholar. No—the world changes something fierce. When I was young, traveling from Osaka to Kyoto meant taking those thirty-koku boats—packed in like sushi rolls. No—when I was twenty, after escorting Saigō Takamori and Arimura—Kaieda and Priest Gesshō—to Osaka, an urgent matter came up where I had to go. They came chasing after me in such haste I hadn’t a single coin. In the end, I covered my face and ran barefoot—’twas nighttime—along the riverbank from Fushimi clear to Osaka. Hahahaha! It’s hot, isn’t it, Nami? You’ll tire yourself out. Why not ride a bit more?”

When Iku beckoned to the lagging carriage, it came clattering over. The three boarded. “All right, let’s get going.” The carriage gradually cut through the wheat fields and pierced through the tea plantations as it headed toward Yamashina.

Gazing at the white hair on her father’s neck before her, Namiko sank into thought. Parted from her husband and bearing an incurable disease—should she call this excursion with her father joyful, or think it mournful? If one were to call me unfortunate—I who had exhausted all hope and joy in this world while awaiting death not far off—then it would not be hard to fathom the heart of my father who dwelled on such a me. Whenever Namiko thought of her father’s boundless love, she grieved that in her current state there was no way to console him in return—nothing but being consoled herself. In these days when father and child, forgetting the world and withdrawing from others, passed their time in farewell diversions as just the two of them, she at least sought to return to her childhood days—taking initiative in sightseeing excursions herself—and had even selected unnecessarily ornate Chinese brocade, useless for one whose ephemeral form would soon vanish, as a future memento for her sister.

When sorrow for Father filled me, it was my husband Takeo I yearned for. He who had saved Father from peril at Port Arthur—no one had brought word of him since. Though my thoughts soared and dreams reached out, where in this world might he now be? To see him—just once while breath remained, only once—this craving consumed me, making that ill-omened folk song I'd heard earlier echo in my ears, summoning before my eyes the image of that peasant couple speaking tenderly, until even these wind-catching sleeves—coarse cloth meant for joy now swaddling grief—filled me with bitter resentment—

Pressing welling tears into the handkerchief, she bit her lip to stifle sobs—only for an ill-timed cough to dampen it repeatedly.

The lieutenant general turned around with a concerned air. "I'm quite all right." Namiko formed a faint smile.

*

They arrived at Yamashina and boarded the eastbound train. The first-class compartment was otherwise empty; Namiko sat beside the open window, while her father sat some distance away, spreading out a newspaper. Meanwhile, belching smoke and shaking the earth, the Kobe-bound train came from the east and drew alongside their train just as it was about to depart. The sound of train doors opening and closing, the crunch of gravel underfoot on the platform as station workers shouted "Yamashina! Yamashina!" in the distance were heard simultaneously with the steam whistle's blast, and their train began slowly moving forward. Sitting beneath the open window, Namiko gazed idly at the departing train. Just as she came before that second-class compartment, she exchanged glances with a Western-suited man leaning against the window.

“Oh—you!” “Namiko!”

This was Takeo. The train was about to pass.

Like one gone mad, Namiko stretched herself out the window and threw the violet handkerchief she held in her hand.

“It’s dangerous, my lady!” Iku, startled, firmly gripped Namiko’s kimono sleeve. Still holding the newspaper, the lieutenant general stood and peered out the window. The train passed five yards—ten yards. Namiko, perilously stretched upward as she turned back, saw Takeo waving the handkerchief wildly and shouting something. Instantly the rails curved around the mountainside. Beyond both windows lay nothing but verdant wooded slopes. The silk-rending shriek from behind must have been that very train now speeding west.

Namiko covered her face and bowed her head onto her father's lap.

Nine–One

On the evening of July seventh, many people had gathered at the residence of Lieutenant General Kataoka, all speaking in hushed tones. Miss Namiko’s condition had taken a critical turn. From what had originally been scheduled as a month-long Kyoto excursion, when the lieutenant general and his son had abruptly returned in late last month, even those who were not physicians and came out to greet them at the entrance could not help but notice that Namiko’s condition had deteriorated considerably. Indeed, when the physician conducted his examination, he involuntarily altered his countenance. Within less than a month, not only had her illness suddenly worsened, but they had also detected notable abnormalities in her heart. From this point onward, lamps burned late into the night at the Kataoka household while physicians came and went without pause; even the Viscountess—who had been meant to depart for her summer retreat by month’s end—found herself compelled to postpone her plans for a time.

The skilled doctors' treatments proved ineffective, Iku's daily and nightly prayers went unanswered, and the illness grew worse with each passing day. Several episodes of hemoptysis—with heart spasms occurring between them—left her mostly lapsing into dazed delirium after bouts of severe pain, her weakness increasing each day more than the last, each tomorrow more than today. Each night when Lieutenant General Kataoka came to her bedside, sleepless from hearing her cough, Namiko would offer a faint smile and speak clearly while suppressing her labored breath—yet when drowsiness overtook her, she ceaselessly called Takeo's name.

*

The day that had been cautioned by the doctors as critical—today and tomorrow—had turned to evening. Though every room was lit with lamps, there was none speaking loudly, and the hush was so profound it seemed no people were present at all.

Having finished administering a subcutaneous injection and needing to keep quiet for a while, the two women who had come from the annex via the corridor leaned against the chairs in the small sitting room. One was Viscountess Katō. The other was the old woman who had once saved Namiko by the Fudō Shrine. Since parting last autumn, they had not met for some time; Namiko had entreated her father to send for her.

“For all your kindness—thank you.” “My niece kept saying she must meet you once to express her gratitude—now that she has met you, her wish is fulfilled.” Viscountess Katō slightly parted her lips. As if at a loss for words, the old woman merely sighed and bowed her head. After a short while, she lowered her voice. “So... where might he be now?”

"I hear he has gone to Taiwan." “Taiwan!” The old woman sighed deeply once more. Viscountess Katō barely suppressed her welling tears. "Since that is not the case—and I think exactly as you see—I shall manage public appearances however I can and would let him bid farewell... But no matter what one says, he only just arrived in Taiwan yesterday or today, and being aboard a warship unlike others—"

At that very moment, Mrs. Kataoka entered. Having cried her eyes red, Chizuko entered hurriedly behind her and called to her mother.

Nine–Two

The day ended. In the eight-mat room of the annex newly built last summer, the faint light of a candlestick glowed as a large bed was placed. On those snow-white sheets, with eyes closed, Namiko lay. After nearly two years of illness, her already emaciated frame had grown thinner still—every bit of flesh fallen away, every bone exposed—her pallid face grown all the more translucent while only her jet-black hair alone retained its former luster, gathered into a long braid that cascaded over her pillow. At the bedside, a white-clad nurse occasionally moistened Namiko’s lips with a brush dipped in red wine mixed with ice. On this side, alongside another nurse now, Iku—eyes sunken and cheeks hollow—bowed her head and rubbed her legs. The room stood profoundly silent, save for the sound of Namiko’s breath—suddenly growing urgent, then abruptly fading—that alone could be heard.

Suddenly exhaling a long breath, Namiko opened her eyes and let out a faint voice. “Aunt…?” “I’m here.” With these words, Viscountess Katō quietly entered and pulled the chair the nurse offered even closer to the sickbed.

“Were you able to sleep at all?” “...What?” “I see.” “Then—” While glancing at the nurse and Iku, “Leave us for a moment.” Having dismissed the three, her aunt drew her chair closer still, smoothed back the stray hairs clinging to Namiko’s forehead, and studied her face intently. Namiko likewise studied her aunt’s face. After a moment, with a shuddering sigh, Namiko extended her trembling hand and withdrew a sealed letter from beneath her pillow.

“This… deliver it… after I’m gone.” While wiping away her streaming tears, Viscountess Katō then wiped the tears falling from beneath her glasses and securely placed the letter in her bosom,

“I’ll deliver it. I’ll make sure to hand it directly to Takeo myself.” “And then... this ring...” She placed her left hand on her aunt’s knee. The ring on her fourth finger, shining brilliantly, was the one Takeo had given her during their newlywed days in the spring two years prior. When she had been made to leave the previous year, though she had sent back all things belonging to that household, she alone could not bear to part with this one cherished possession. “I will—take this—with me.” Suppressing freshly welling tears, Viscountess Katō simply nodded. Namiko closed her eyes. After a short while, she opened them again.

“How is he… I wonder?” “Takeo must have already arrived in Taiwan by now and is surely thinking of you here in every way. If only he were nearby, we could manage somehow—yes, even though Father says so—Namiko, your heartfelt devotion—I will surely—I’ll make certain the letter reaches him.” A faint smile rose to Namiko’s lips, but at once a flush spread across her colorless cheeks; her chest heaved, scalding tears streamed down as she gasped a painful breath,

“Ah, it’s agonizing!” “It hurts!” “I—I’ll never—never be born a woman again.” “Ahhhh!” Gathering her brows and clutching her chest, Namiko writhed. Clutching the hand of Viscountess Katō—who urgently called for the physician while attempting to administer red wine—Namiko half-rose up, then with a life-shortening cough that wrung her lungs, vomited forth a goblet of crimson blood. Dazedly, she collapsed onto the sickbed.

Together with the physician, they all entered.

9-3 The physician calmly called the nurse and administered emergency measures. He gave instructions and had the glass window near the bed opened.

Cool air streamed in like a rush of water. The faintly brightened backs of the pitch-black trees suggested the moon was likely about to rise.

With Lieutenant General at the head, the viscountess, Viscountess Katō, Chizuko, Komako, and Iku gradually gathered around the bed. A breeze wafted in, stirring the locks of Namiko’s hair as she lay like one already dead; the physician kept watch over the patient’s face while taking her pulse, and the paper-wrapped candle in the nurse’s hand by his side fluttered restlessly. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. In the desolate room, a faint sigh could be heard, and Namiko’s lips moved slightly. The physician personally poured a spoonful of red wine into her mouth. A long sigh once again resounded through the desolate room,

“Let us return―let us return―I beg you―Mother―she comes―she comes―Ah! Still―here―”

Namiko’s eyes snapped open.

As if the moon rising over the edge of the woods cast a single shaft of faint light, illuminating Namiko’s vacant face.

The physician signaled to the Lieutenant General with his eyes and retreated to a corner. The Lieutenant General advanced and took Namiko’s hand,

“Namiko, have you come to? It’s your father. Everyone’s here.” “It’s your father—everyone’s here.”

Namiko's eyes, which had been fixed on the sky, gradually shifted to meet her father's tear-blurred gaze. "Father... please take care of yourself."

While shedding tears in streams, Namiko faintly moved her right hand and grasped her father’s hand that was holding her left. “Mother.”

The viscountess stepped forward and wiped Namiko’s tears. Namiko took her hand. “Mother… Forgive me… I beg your pardon.” The viscountess’s lips trembled; without uttering a word, she covered her face and retreated. Viscountess Katō, while comforting the weeping Chizuko, alternately stepped forward to clasp Namiko’s hand; Komako too approached and knelt by her sister’s bedside. With a quivering hand raised, Namiko stroked her sister’s bangs.

“Koma-chan… goodbye…” When she began to speak and drew a labored breath, Komako—trembling—poured a spoonful of red wine between her sister’s lips. Namiko opened eyes that had been shut and gazed about. “What of Kiichi… and Michi-chan?”

The two children, by Viscountess Katō's arrangement, had already departed for their summer retreat since the beginning of the month. Namiko nodded faintly and drifted into a faint trance. At this moment, Iku, who had been immersed in tears at the far end of the seating, suddenly raised herself and tightly clasped Namiko’s limp hand in both of hers. “Granny...” “Y-Young Mistress… Granny will go with you too—” After they had the sobbing Iku move slightly aside, it became still as water. Namiko closed her mouth and eyes, and the shadow of death gradually began to envelop her face. The Lieutenant General advanced further.

"Nami—is there nothing you wish to say? “Hang on!” Called back by a nostalgic voice, her barely opened eyes fixed upon Viscountess Katō. Viscountess Katō took Namiko’s hand, “Namiko, I’ll take care of everything. “Rest easy and go to your mother’s side.”

A faint smile rose to her lips—and in the blink of an eye, her eyelids closed as she breathed her last, as though falling asleep.

The moonlight streaming in illuminated the pale face, and a faint smile still lingered upon the lips. However, Namiko remained in eternal sleep.

*

Three days later, Namiko was laid to rest at Aoyama Cemetery. Given Lieutenant General Kataoka's wide social circle, mourners filled the grounds in great numbers, with many of Namiko's former schoolmates bidding farewell through veils of tears. Those privy to fragments of the truth felt their hearts wrenched seeing the Lieutenant General standing by the coffin with secret tears, while even uninformed attendees found their sleeves dampened by the sight of elderly nursemaid Iku - lost to her grief - clinging to the coffin as she wept and lamented. Though summer reigned, diverse floral tributes arrived in abundance for the departed young gentlewoman in her prime. Among these, only the offering delivered by a man past forty wearing haori and hakama met rejection at the Lieutenant General's gate. Upon its arrangement hung a tag inscribed: "From the House of Kawashima".

Part 10-1

More than four months had passed.

On an afternoon past four o'clock, when frost-tinged nandina shadows lay long across the garden, Widow Kawashima—who had grown even fatter than before—slowly slid open the shoji screen and emerged onto the veranda. Approaching the water basin, she clicked her tongue at its emptiness. "Matsu—Take." At her summoning voice, one came running hurriedly from the garden entrance and the other from the veranda. Panic appeared on their faces. "What are you lot doing?" "Didn't I tell you just the other day?" "L-Look at this!"

Taking the ladle and clattering it in the empty basin, the two maids turned pale and held their breath. "Hurry it up!" At this thunderclap by their ears, they turned even paler and scurried away. Widow Kawashima muttered under her breath as she washed her hands in the newly brought water. Just as she moved to enter, another servant came in and gave a respectful bow. "What?"

“A gentleman by the name of Mr. Yamaki—”

Before the servant could finish speaking, a sneer mingled with discontent spread across Widow Kawashima's broad face. To tell the truth, ever since Yutaka had fled back last autumn, Yamaki's visits had naturally grown infrequent. Having learned that Yamaki had reaped tens of thousands in profits from last year's war onward, Widow Kawashima grew increasingly resentful of his conduct. Each time she lectured her servants about the imperative of never forgetting kindnesses received, she implicitly held up Yamaki as her exemplar. And yet in the end, habit prevailed.

“Show him in.” Yamaki, who was soon ushered into the mansion, repeatedly raised and lowered his ruddy, dark-complexioned face. “Mr. Yamaki—it has been an age.” “Ah, Madam Dowager—I must humbly apologize for my prolonged absence. I had fully intended to pay my respects sooner, but what with post-war business matters keeping me constantly on the move... First and foremost, allow me to congratulate you on your continued good health.” “Mr. Yamaki—you made quite the killing in the war, did you not?”

“Heh-heh-heh, think nothing of it—well, thanks to your esteemed influence, er, various matters... heh-heh-heh-heh.” Just then, a maid entered bearing an armful of gifts wrapped with ceremonial paper cords.

“For the guest—” she said, placing them in the center of the room before withdrawing. The widow cast a sharp glance at the items on the stand, and a somewhat satisfied smile appeared on her face. “This is truly unfortunate in so many ways. Oh ho ho ho.” “Oh, it’s nothing worth mentioning.” “Ah—well—or rather, I must beg your pardon for the belated mention, but Take—His Lordship the Young Master has been promoted to captain, I hear, with medals and imperial grants conferred upon him. In fact, I happened to see it in the newspaper just the other day—congratulations.” “And where might His Lordship be now—in Sasebo, perhaps?”

“Take, you mean?” “Takeo returned yesterday.” “Oh? Yesterday? “He returned yesterday?” “Oh my, well now—truly, you’re in good health as ever?” “He’s still such a child—it’s quite troublesome. “Oh ho ho ho, he went out this morning and still hasn’t returned.” “Oh? That... “First of all, his return must be a great relief to you.” “Or rather, when I speak of relief—it is truly regrettable that Lord Kataoka’s loss came so swiftly.” “I hear it has indeed been over a hundred days since—but with that illness being utterly beyond help, Madam Dowager, your discernment was truly remarkable.”

Widow Kawashima puffed out her cheeks. "As for her, I was truly troubled," she said. "Spends money freely, quarrels with my own son—and in the end, they call me a demon hag! What a worthless daughter-in-law she turned out to be, eh Mr. Yamaki?" "When I heard she'd died, I sent Tasaki to the funeral with flowers—or so you'd think I did," she continued bitterly. "But gratitude? They sent every last bloom back instead!" Her voice sharpened like a whetstone. "Downright rude, wouldn't you say, Mr. Yamaki?" When news of Namiko's death first reached her, even Widow Kawashima had felt an uneasy twinge—but when every condolence blossom she'd dispatched on impulse came rejected without exception, all softer sentiments washed away like ink in rain, leaving only the bitter dregs of slighted pride.

“Oh, that—that’s going too far! No—Madam Dowager—”

The maid presented a bowl of tea; smooth lips moistened. "Since last year, we have been indebted to your longstanding kindness—but my daughter Yutaka is to be married off soon—" "Yutaka getting married? Well now—and the groom?" "The groom holds a Bachelor of Laws degree and currently serves as section chief in the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce's XX Department—you may know him—a Mr. XX. Mr. Chijiiwa had previously mentored him—ah, speaking of Mr. Chijiiwa—how regrettable about that promising young man."

A shadow grazed the widow’s brow. “War is a hateful thing, Mr. Yamaki—so what day is this wedding?” “The day after tomorrow has been hastily set—Madam Dowager, if you would graciously honor us with your presence—for if the Madam Dowager of the Kawashima family were to attend, heh heh heh, it would elevate the standing of we humble ones immeasurably—please do come—my wife was supposed to attend as well, but, well, she’s rather occupied—Take—Young Master as well, if you please—”

The widow nodded. At that moment, glancing at the floor-standing clock that had just struck five, "Oh, it's already five o'clock—the days are short, aren't they?" "What could Takeo be up to?"

Part 10-2

A naval officer holding white chrysanthemums entered the communal cemetery from the direction of Aoyama Minami-chō.

The sky was as clear as if for an autumn harvest festival, and the afternoon sunlight filled the cemetery. Autumn here too saw crimson-glowing cherry leaves fluttering down, while tea chrysanthemums blooming along the partition hedge released their faint fragrance. Where incense smoke curled upward, the muted calls of small birds lingered unseen. After the sound of a carriage passing through Kogai-cho faded into silence, the loneliness grew all the more profound. Only the distant clamor of the capital city resonated with this solitude, blending reality and dreams to play out life’s mournful elegy in unison.

Through gaps in the living hedge, glimpses of clothing flickered until a woman of twenty-seven or eight emerged, eyes reddened, leading a boy of about seven in a sailor suit by the hand. As they passed the naval officer and walked five or six steps beyond him, “Mom, that man’s also in the navy, right?” The child’s voice carried through the air. The woman pressed her handkerchief to her face and hurried away. Unaware of this exchange, the naval officer paused repeatedly as if pondering his path while reading fresh tombstones, until he suddenly arrived before a burial plot in the first-class cemetery where pines mingled with cherry trees. He nodded once and stopped before shaking the latch of a small gate in the hedge—it yielded smoothly to his hand. A timeworn stone monument stood directly ahead. The officer stepped briskly inside and surveyed his surroundings before positioning himself before a newer tombstone at the side. Pine branches formed emerald canopies above the grave marker while yellowing cherry leaves tinged crimson lay scattered about its base. Recently erected wooden memorial tablets stood clustered around it like vigilant guardians. Upon the tombstone shone six characters inscribed with fresh ink vigor: “The Grave of Namiko Kataoka.” The naval officer stared at these words and stood motionless as stone.

After a considerable while, his lips trembled, but the sobs did not escape his clenched teeth.

*

Takeo returned yesterday. Five months prior at Yamashina Station, he had met the person now lying beneath this tombstone; aboard a ship bound for Taiwan, upon receiving Viscountess Katō's letter, he had learned that Namiko no longer lived. Having returned just yesterday, today he visited Viscountess Katō and grieved with her over it until past noon, and now he had come here. Takeo stood before the tombstone and, forgetting himself, wept for a while. The visions of three years floated alternately through his tearful haze. Their wedding day; their excursion to Ikaho; their vow by Fudō shrine; their evening farewell at Zushi villa; their final meeting at Yamashina that day—these memories flashed through his mind like lightning. *Come back soon, I beg you!* The words still rang in his ears, but when he had returned that first time, she was already no longer his wife; and now that he had returned again, she was no longer among the living.

"Ah, Namiko! Why did you have to die!" He spoke without thinking, and tears welled up anew like a spring. A gust of wind swept overhead, and cherry leaves fluttered down against the tombstone. Suddenly coming to his senses, Takeo wiped his tears, approached the base of the tombstone, removed the slightly withered flowers from the vase, inserted the white chrysanthemums he had brought, personally swept away the fallen leaves, rummaged through his inner pocket, and took out a letter.

This was Namiko's final letter. What must have been in his heart when he received and read it today from Viscountess Katō's hands? Takeo opened the letter. The once-beautiful kana script showed no trace of its former elegance; the characters had faded with age, the ink blurred until one might doubt it was her writing—and could he not see the mottled remnants of tear stains lingering there? Knowing my end draws near, I leave these words behind. Though I believed we would never meet again in this life, through heaven's mercy came that unforeseen reunion—how overjoyed I was, how overjoyed—yet confined within the train carriage, unable to convey anything as my heart desired. Truly, truly, so much remains unspoken.

The scene from that time when I writhed at the train window and threw the violet handkerchief now floated vividly before my eyes. Takeo did not raise his eyes. Before him stood only the tombstone. In this transient world where naught goes as we wish, I bear no resentment for what fate has wrought; though my body may decay into dust, my soul shall forever linger by your side—

“Father, someone has come,” rang out a child’s clear voice nearby. Immediately following, the same voice— “Father! Kawashima’s brother—” cried a boy of about ten named Takeo as he ran up holding flowers.

Startled, Takeo—still clutching Namiko's final letter—wiped his tears and turned, finding himself face to face with Lieutenant General Kataoka standing at the tomb's entrance. Takeo bowed his head. In an instant, his empty hands were seized. When he looked up, he met the tear-filled eyes of Lieutenant General Kataoka. "Takeo, I too have suffered!" As their hands gripped one another's, both men's tears fell drop by drop beneath the tombstone.

After a moment, the lieutenant general wiped away his tears. Takeo tapped a shoulder and “Takeo, even though Namiko has died, I’m still your father-in-law." "I’m counting on you, you hear?" “The road ahead is long.—Ah, it’s been too long, Takeo! Let’s go together and hear all about Taiwan at a leisurely pace!”