Pathway to Japanese Literature

At the Beginning of the 100th Edition Volume of Hototogisu As Hototogisu was reaching its 100th edition, I took the opportunity during proofreading to read it again after a long while. It is a young master’s novel. If it had remained a simple tale, that would be one thing, but the cheap theatrics of Chijiwa and Yamaki—hastily cobbled together to artificially enliven scenes—and the superfluous additions like a certain Ms. Ogawa make its flaws too numerous to count. I also feel compelled to do more about the acclaim surrounding this 100th edition. However, rewriting it now would be troublesome, so I ultimately limited myself to just proofreading this edition.

While reading it after a decade, I unexpectedly recalled something—the evening when this novel was conceived. It had been twelve years prior, when I was renting a room at a house called Yanagiya in Sōshū Zushi, that a woman arrived bringing a young boy for convalescence after illness. It was midsummer; seeing her despair at every inn being fully booked, my wife and I decided to offer one of our two eight-tatami rooms. With summer’s thin bamboo screen partition letting through both breeze and voices, over a month we grew close—she being thirty-four or thirty-five, seasoned by hardship (not Hototogisu’s Ms. Ogawa), a compassionate storyteller of depth. One overcast late-summer evening with the boy out playing, during our casual talk between women and myself, she suddenly began recounting that bitter truth—the story of “Namiko,” then known to some but new to me: how Nami-san was divorced for tuberculosis; how Takeo-kun grieved; how Lieutenant General Kataoka angrily reclaimed her; built a convalescence room; took her to Kyoto-Osaka as farewell; returned Kawashimas’ funeral flowers—these being all its facts. The woman spoke earnestly while pinching her nose.

I leaned against the pillar and stared blankly. My wife had her head bowed. Before we knew it, the day had ended. The interior of the old country house grew dim, and only the speaker’s yukata remained visible as a pale shape. Speaking of the pathos of her final moments—“They say you said—‘Never again will I be born a woman’”—but as she began to recount this, the woman finally choked back sobs and fell silent. Something like electricity coursed through my spine.

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 fades.

Morning and evening, the waves sent their mournful sounds, and when one stood on the desolate autumn-lit shore, the figure of that shadowless person would appear vividly before one’s eyes. Pity had gone too far and become pain. I had to do something about it. So I took the bare bones of that story, added my own fictional flesh to it, drafted an unpolished novel which I submitted to the Kokumin Shimbun newspaper, and later published as a book through Min'yūsha—this very novel Hototogisu.

Now, if Hototogisu’s flaws stem from my own inadequacies, yet there are passages that nonetheless stir readers’ emotions, it is because "Namiko"—who made her appeal through a woman’s voice on that summer evening in Zushi—now speaks directly to you, dear readers. In short, I became nothing more than a telephone "wire."

February 2, 1909. Former Musashino, now under Tokyo Prefecture.

In Kasuya no Sato, Chitose Village, Kitayama District

Authored by Tokutomi Kenjiro

Part I

Chapter 1

On the third floor of Senmei in Ikaho, Joshu, a woman gazed at the evening scenery through opened shoji screens. She was eighteen or nineteen years old. Her hair was arranged in an elegant marumage chignon, and she wore a komon crepe hifu fastened with a grass-green obi.

A fair, slender face—the space between her eyebrows slightly narrow, her cheeks somewhat gaunt—a feature one might call a flaw, yet her slender form exuded a grace and unassuming demeanor. She was not the plum blossom that proudly blooms alone against the north wind’s fury, nor the cherry blossom that transforms into butterflies dancing through spring’s misty haze—but rather the evening primrose, its fragrance faintly perfuming summer’s twilight dusk: such was the woman one might describe.

As the spring sun dipped westward, bathing the distant mountains of Nikko, Ashio, and the Echigo border—and the nearby peaks of Onoji, Komochi, and Mount Akagi—in its resplendent evening glow, even the raucous crows taking flight from the enoki tree below seemed to caw with a golden hue. Then two billowing clouds emerged from Mount Akagi’s ridge. The woman on the third floor idly watched their path. The clouds—plump and lovely enough to be cradled gently in one’s arms—slowly departed Mount Akagi’s peak and fluttered side by side across the unobstructed sky like golden butterflies, flowing gracefully toward Ashio. Yet as the sun sank and a chill twilight wind arose, the two clouds now faded to rose hues, torn asunder by gusts above and below. For a time, they traced separate paths through the darkening evening sky—the lower one thinning until its shadow vanished without a trace, while the remaining fragment dulled to gray and wandered hazily through the void—

At last, when mountains and sky had all faded to a single hue, only the face of the woman standing on the third floor remained pale in the gathering dusk.

Chapter 2

“Young Mistress—Oh my, what am I saying? My tongue slipped again. Ohohohoho.” “Ah, Madam, I have just returned.” “Oh my, it’s pitch black in here.” “Madam, where ever are you?” “Ohohohoho, I’m right here.” “Oh my, well, over there—” “Please come inside quickly.” “You’ll catch a chill.” “Has Master Takeo still not returned?” “What could have delayed him?” she said, sliding open the shoji screen and stepping inside. “Perhaps you should tell the front desk to send someone to meet him.”

“That is correct, madam.”

Saying this while gropingly striking a match to light the lamp was a woman over fifty.

Just then, footsteps sounded on the stairs as the inn’s maid came up.

“Oh my, I do apologize.” “Master Takeo is taking his time quite leisurely.” “…Yes, um—we’ve just now sent a young man to meet him.” “He should be returning shortly.” “There’s a letter—” “Oh—Father’s letter! If only he would return soon!” The woman with the marumage chignon turned over the envelope and gazed at it longingly. “Ah, this letter from His Lordship—” “I do hope to hear about it soon.” “Ohohohoho! I’m sure His Lordship must be saying something amusing again.”

The maid closed the door, added charcoal to the brazier, and left; then the old woman put away the furoshiki bundle in the cupboard, stood up, and came over this way,

“It’s truly chilly! It’s quite different from Tokyo, isn’t it?” “Well, you know—it’s the sort of place where cherry blossoms bloom in May,” came the reply. “Nurse, do come closer over here.” “Thank you,” said the old woman, gazing intently at her face. “It feels like a dream... When I see you sitting so properly with your marumage so elegantly arranged, I can hardly believe you’re the same young lady this old nurse raised.” Tears began to fall as she continued, “When Her Ladyship passed away—oh, how you clung to me crying ‘Mother! Mother!’—it feels as though it were only yesterday.” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her underrobe. “At your bridal procession too—oh my dear—how overjoyed Her Ladyship would have been to see you in all your splendid finery!”

She too bowed her head as if drawn inward, and only the ring on her left hand held over the brazier shone brilliantly. After a moment, the old woman raised her face. “I beg your pardon for bringing up such things again.” “Ohohohoho! When you get old, you do become prone to grumbling, you know.” “Ohohohoho! Young Mis—Madam, you’ve endured so much hardship up until now, haven’t you?” “You have truly endured so well.” “Oh my, from now on it will be nothing but auspicious occasions—Master Takeo is such a kind man—”

“Master has returned.”

And the maid’s voice resounded at the stairway entrance.

Chapter 3

“Ahh, I’m exhausted, exhausted!” Having stripped off his tabi socks and straw sandals, he gave a brief nod to the two who had come out to greet him. The twenty-three- or twenty-four-year-old man in Western clothes came up the corridor, then turned to look back at the young lantern bearer. “No need for that—thank you for your trouble. Though it’s a bother, could you put these flowers in hot water for me?” “My, how beautiful!” “Oh my! These are truly splendid azaleas! Master, where ever did you pick these?” “Aren’t they pretty? Look—there’s a yellow one too. The leaves resemble rhododendron, don’t they? I thought I’d have Nami-san arrange them in the morning, so I broke them off and brought them here... Well then, I’ll go take my bath now.”

* “Truly, Master Takeo is so full of vigor! Military gentlemen are indeed quite different from others, aren’t they, Madam?”

Madam carefully folded the coat, gently kissed it, and hung it on the clothes rack, all while smiling silently without a word. The footsteps that had been thundering up the stairs ceased outside the shoji screen, and in came the strapping young man from earlier with an "Ah, what a relief!"

“Oh, Master Takeo—have you already finished bathing?” “Because I’m a man!” he laughed heartily as his wife, looking somewhat abashed, pulled on her large-striped haori. “Pardon me,” he said, sitting cross-legged on the zabuton cushion and stroking his cheeks with both hands. His close-cropped head, plump as a chestnut weevil, bore a sun-browned face like a ripe peach—thick eyebrows framing lively eyes, a faint caterpillar-like mustache beneath his nose—yet still retaining a boyish softness in places, making him a man who invited a smile.

"You have a letter." “Ah, it’s from your uncle.” The strapping young man quickly adjusted his posture, opened the envelope, and as he took out its contents, a separate enclosure fell out.

“This one’s yours, Nami-san—hmm… Seems there’s no change… Ha ha ha ha! Don’t be absurd… Sounds like they want to have a talk.” With a chuckle, he finished reading the letter, rolled it up, and set it aside. “He sends his regards to you too.” “Since we’re in a new place, please remind me to take care so my chronic condition doesn’t flare up,” Nami-san said, glancing at the old woman bringing the meal. “Oh, is that so? Thank you kindly.”

“Alright, food! Food! Since I walked all day with just two rice balls today, I’m absolutely starving!” “Ha ha ha!” “What kind of fish is this?! It’s not even a sweetfish…” “Was it called yamame trout—don’t you think, Nurse?” “Oh? “Delicious! Really delicious! I’ll have another helping of that!” “Hohoho! My, how swiftly Master eats!”

“Of course it is! Today I climbed from Haruna up Sōmagatake, then scaled Futatsudake, and when I came down to Byōbu-iwa, I met the welcoming party.” “Did you really walk all that way?” “But the view from Sōmagatake was splendid. I wish I could have shown it to you, Nami-san. On one side was a boundless plain with the Tone River flowing far in the distance—on the other were mountains upon mountains, and having Fuji peeking out just above them was utterly marvelous. If I could’ve composed a poem, I would’ve tried my hand against Hitomaro himself! Ha ha ha ha! Here’s another helping coming up!”

“Is the scenery truly that splendid?” “I truly would have loved to go see it!” “Heh heh heh.” “If you could climb up there, I’d award you the Golden Kite Medal.” “That’s one steep mountain—you have to climb by hauling yourself up ten chains hanging down!” “As for me, I’ve got a body hardened at Etajima—so even now I’m a man who can hang from masts or ropes at a moment’s notice. No trouble at all. But you, Nami-san—you’ve probably never even set foot on Tokyo’s soil!” “Oh, saying such things!” Smiling brightly with a flushed face, she said, “But I did gymnastics at school too—”

“Heh heh heh.” “That Peers’ Girls’ School gymnastics won’t cut it!” “Right, right—when was it? When I visited, there was a koto or something plinking away, and while they sang that ‘All the Nations on This Earth’ tune, the girls were waving fans, standing up, squatting, spinning around—I thought it was dance practice! Turns out that was your gymnastics!” “Ha ha ha ha!” “Oh, you’re being so wicked!”

“Right, right. That time when you were lined up with Yamaki’s daughter—wearing your hair down in that style, what was it called… Ah yes, wearing grape-colored hakama and dancing with perfect composure—that was definitely you, Nami-san, wasn’t it?” “Hohohoho! What a thing to say! Do you know that Mr. Yamaki?” “Yamaki here—my late father looked after him, so he still comes around even now. Ha ha ha ha! Since Nami-san admitted defeat, she’s gone quiet, hasn’t she?” “Such words!”

“Ho ho ho ho!”

“You mustn’t carry on with such marital squabbles.” “Now now, here’s tea for making up. Hohoho.”

II

The stalwart young man previously alluded to was one Naval Lieutenant Baron Kawashima Takeo, who had just last month, through an excellent matchmaker, celebrated his nuptial rites with Namiko—eldest daughter of Army Lieutenant General Viscount Kataoka Takeshi, a general whose name resounded across the realm. Having now obtained a brief respite from duty, he had arrived in Ikaho four or five days prior, accompanied by his bride and the elderly maidservant Iku, who had been assigned from her family home. Namiko parted from her biological mother at the age of eight. As it was when I was eight years old, I do not clearly remember my mother’s appearance, though I do recall that she always seemed to have a smile on her face, and how on her deathbed she called me close, clasping my small hand in her emaciated one as she said: “Nami, Mother has to go far away now. Be a good girl, take care of Father, and be kind to Komako. In five or six years…” “In five or six years…” she trailed off, tears streaming down her face, then asked, “Will you remember Mother even after I’m gone?” Even now, the memory of her stroking and stroking my black hair—then still thickly cut straight across my forehead—is carved deep into my mind, a recollection never absent from a single day.

About a year passed, and her current mother arrived. From that point onward, everything became utterly transformed. Since Namiko’s late mother had come from a distinguished samurai family, her every manner was marked by propriety—yet even so, Namiko would sometimes hear maidservants remark that such a harmonious couple as her parents had been was rare. Her current mother also came from a distinguished samurai family; however, having studied in England from an early age while cultivating both masculine assertiveness and Western affectations, she set about transforming everything with systematic fervor—as if methodically erasing all lingering traces of her predecessor. Though she argued with Father over every matter without restraint—he would habitually laugh it off while saying “Very well! I concede defeat!”—there came an evening when he shared drinks with his favorite adjutant Nanba while Mother sat at the table too; Father fixed her with a sharp glance before letting out a dry chuckle and declaring: “Now Nanba—mark my words! An educated wife brings nothing but misery! Ha ha ha!” Even Nanba—confronted by Mother’s presence—could only fidget awkwardly with his cup; afterward he reportedly admonished his own wife not to let their daughters read beyond what was necessary—insisting higher elementary school graduation sufficed entirely.

From early childhood, Namiko had been remarkably sociable and clever—though not quite composing verses about snow on Incense Burner Peak at the sight of rolled-up blinds, she had shown such quick wit from the age of three that while being held by her nurse at the entranceway to bid farewells, she would take off her own hat and place it atop her grandfather’s head. The young heart, stretching and straining to grow, was like the tender shoots of spring. Even if once buried under snow, should they remain untrampled, naturally they would grow verdant when the snow melted. Though Namiko’s sorrow at parting from her beloved mother had been deeper than any child’s, had the days that followed but shone upon her, she would have grown without hardship. When Namiko first beheld her new mother—her hair done up in a Western-style bun, a cloud of perfume wafting about her as she drew near, with her slightly upturned eyes and large mouth—even she could not help but falter somewhat. Yet affectionate as Namiko was, she might well have grown attached even to this mother figure; however, the stepmother, driven by her own obstinate resolve to interpose herself, pushed the child away. Hand in hand with her scholarly pride, suspicion, and jealousy—traits of a self-absorbed woman unaccustomed to motherhood—she treated the eight- or nine-year-old child not as a beloved daughter but as if she were a rational adult to be managed. Thus did the girl find no shore to cling to, and the chill of loneliness seeped into her very bones. Ah, to be unloved is misfortune; to be unable to love is misfortune still greater. Namiko had a mother she could not love, a sister she could not love; though she had her father, nurse Iku, and her aunt—her birth mother’s elder sister—no matter what was said, her aunt remained an outsider, Iku a servant. Even these relationships were under her stepmother’s constant scrutiny: any attempt to show kindness or receive it only resulted in mutual favoritism that proved counterproductive. Her father—yes, her father alone had been filled with boundless love for her, yet even he, a lieutenant general, found himself constrained in her mother’s presence; when she considered this too, it became yet another facet of his paternal affection. Thus her father—compelled to admonish her in her stepmother’s presence yet privately offering sparse but tender words of care—had endured unrecognized struggles; this the clever Namiko fully discerned. Ah, how joyous yet unbearable! she thought, her heart overflowing with resolve to sacrifice herself utterly for her father’s sake. Yet if she acted with even a hint of awareness, her stepmother took bitter offense as though her domain had been trespassed; while if she concealed her light and restrained herself to appear indifferent and taciturn, she was instead scorned as spiteful or dull-witted—a cruelty beyond endurance. At times, over some minor error, she would be harangued in a torrent of fluent Choshu dialect wielded with British-trained logic—not only herself but even her deceased mother obliquely disparaged—and though resentment would nearly compel her to bite back, the glimpse of her father’s shadow on the veranda would seal her lips; or again, when subjected to baseless suspicions too cruel to bear, she would weep behind the window curtain, murmuring “How could you, Mother?” A father she had—so they say. A father there was. A father she had—a beloved father. Yet for a girl whose home was her world, one mother outweighed five fathers. That mother—that mother being as she was—over ten years would develop habits and lose her luster. “She hasn’t a shred of decency—just an annoyingly persistent creature,” Madam would constantly rail. Ah, whether planted in a clay pot or a Korean or Annamese porcelain pot, a flower remains a flower—how could any not need sunlight? Namiko was indeed a flower in the shade.

Thus, when the marriage arrangement with the Kawashima family had been settled and she had entered the bridal palanquin, Namiko let out a breath of relief; her father the lieutenant general, her stepmother, her aunt, and Iku—each of them too let out their own breaths of relief.

Even as old nurse Iku—who had always muttered, “Madam loves flashy things for herself yet buys nothing but plain, dreary items for you, Young Lady”—worried over the scantiness of the bridal preparations and tearfully pleaded that “if only the late Madam were here…,” Namiko eagerly departed through her family’s gate. If she thought that freedom and joy—unknown to her until now—awaited ahead, then even the sadness of parting from her father felt somewhat eased, and so she went forth eagerly.

III-1

The stretch of over one ri from Ikaho to Mizusawa Kannon was a single road that wound its way like a serpent along the midslope of a bald mountain; save for two places where it descended into valleys formed by splits in the mountainside only to climb back up again, it was a path one could walk even with closed eyes. Below, from Akagi, one gazes out over the Jōmō Plain. This expanse was an unbroken grassland where, come springtime, from the blackened soil left after field-burning, young shoots of susuki grass, bush clover, bellflowers, maidenflowers, and other plants would sprout forth as if spreading a carpet of verdure. Among them, beautiful wildflowers burst into bloom—cotton-capped plants here, slender bracken ferns there—until one could forget the lingering length of spring days upon setting foot in this place.

Takeo and Namiko, taking advantage of today’s fine weather to gather bracken, came here after lunch accompanied by the elderly nurse Iku and a maid from their lodging. After gathering ferns for some time and appearing slightly fatigued, they had the maid spread the blanket she carried over a soft patch of grass. Takeo plopped down still wearing his boots, while Namiko removed her hemp-soled sandals and, brushing her knees two or three times with a peach-colored handkerchief, settled gracefully onto the blanket.

“How wonderfully soft!” “It feels almost too precious to use, doesn’t it?” “Hohoho, Young La— Oh dear, forgive this old woman! Madam’s cheeks have gained such a lovely bloom now!” “And to think it’s been ages since you last graced us with those songs of yours!” Iku peered at Namiko’s profile with evident delight. “I’ve sung so much my throat’s gone quite dry.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring any tea,” said the maid as she unwrapped the furoshiki and took out summer mikan, bagged dry sweets, and boxed rolled sushi.

“No need for tea when we’ve got this!” said Takeo, taking a knife from his pocket and peeling a mikan. “How about it, Nami? Aren’t you impressed with my deftness?” “You do say such things!” “Master, there’s plenty of fern mixed in with what you’ve gathered,” interjected the maid. “Don’t be ridiculous! You’re just making excuses.” “Ha ha ha.” “Today has been truly delightful.” “What splendid weather!”

“What a beautiful sky! So vividly blue—it truly makes one want to weave it into a small-sleeved kimono.” “It would suit a sailor’s uniform even better.” “What a wonderful fragrance! Is this the fragrance of flowers? Oh, a skylark is singing!” “Well now, since we’ve had our sushi and filled our bellies, let’s gather another round, shall we? Come along, maid!” urged old nurse Iku, setting the lodging’s maid into motion before resuming her bracken gathering. “You’d better leave some behind—quite the spry old woman, aren’t you, Nami?”

“I am indeed spry.” “Nami, aren’t you getting tired?” “No, I’m not tired at all today—this is the first time I’ve ever felt so happy!”

“When you go on ocean voyages, you see splendid views—but a vista from mountains this high is something else.” “It’s truly refreshing!” “Look—over there to the left, those white walls glinting? That’s Shibukawa where we had lunch with you on our way.” “And this blue ribbon here? The Tone River.” “You can’t tell that’s Bando Taro over there, can you?” “Now see how Akagi’s rugged ridges jut out—smoke rising there—and that hive of activity below? Maebashi.” “What?” “That silvery needle way yonder?” “Right—still the Tone’s current after all.” “Ah, the haze blurs everything ahead now.” “Should’ve brought the binoculars, Nami.” “Though maybe the murk makes it more intriguing—like peering through life itself.”

Namiko gently laid her hand on Takeo’s knee and sighed.

“I do wish we could stay like this forever!”

After two yellow butterflies had fluttered away, brushing past Namiko’s sleeve, a rustling sound of trampled grass arose, and a shadowy figure wearing a hat suddenly appeared before the couple.

“Takeo.”

“Oh! Chijiwa?” “What brings you here?”

三の二

The newcomer was around twenty-six or twenty-seven. He wore an army lieutenant’s uniform—a fair-skinned handsome man, unusual among military men. Regrettably, there lingered something vaguely rustic about his mouth’s contours, while his eyes—gleaming like black crystal with sharp intensity—stirred discomfort in those he fixed with his gaze: a flaw indeed. This was Yasuhiko Chijiwa, Takeo’s cousin—a man who, though then but a junior officer in the General Staff Office, was already spoken of as one of competent skill.

“Coming out of nowhere—you must be startled.” “Actually, I had some business in Takasaki yesterday and stayed over, then came to Shibukawa this morning. But since I heard Ikaho was just a stone’s throw away, I thought I’d drop by for a bit of fun.” “Then when I went to the inn and heard you were off on some bracken-gathering outing, I asked for directions and came here.” “Well, I’ve got to leave tomorrow.” “Seems I’ve come to intrude.” “Ha ha.”

“You’re being ridiculous! So—did you go to the house after that?” “I stopped by yesterday morning. Aunt is also in good health. But she kept grumbling that you both would likely be returning soon—and there’s been no change on the Akasaka front either.” Those black-crystal eyes of his glinted sharply as they fixed upon Namiko’s face.

Her already flushed cheeks had turned a deeper crimson since earlier, and Namiko looked down. “Alright! Now that reinforcements have arrived, we won’t lose anymore! If the Army and Navy unite, even a million-strong women’s army would be nothing to fear. Oh, it’s nothing—these ladies here have been teasing me alone since earlier: ‘You’re not picking enough bracken!’ ‘What you gathered isn’t even bracken!’ Picking on me till I’m at my wit’s end!” Takeo jabbed his chin toward the old nurse and maid who had just arrived.

“Oh! Mr. Chijiwa—what brings you here?” the old nurse exclaimed in surprise, her nostrils wrinkling slightly. “I’m the one who sent a telegram earlier to call in reinforcements!” “Ohohoho, you do say such things! Ah, well then—you’ll be returning tomorrow, I see. Well, you see—about returning, Madam—as we must prepare dinner, we shall take our leave ahead of you.” “Yeah, that’s fine. Since Chijiwa’s here too, we’ll whip up a feast. So come hungry! Ha ha ha ha ha! What? You’re leaving too, Nami? Oh, just stay here, won’t you? You’re running away because you’ve lost your ally, huh? Don’t worry—I won’t tease you at all. Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Persuaded to stay, Namiko remained behind, while Iku and the maid gathered the blankets and bracken that would become their luggage and departed. Afterward, the three gathered bracken for a time, then—as the sun still rode high—visited Mizusawa Kannon, returned to where they had earlier gathered bracken to rest awhile, before at last beginning their homeward journey.

The sunset blazed brilliantly from Monobiki Mountain’s shoulder; on both sides of the path, the grasslands’ yellow-green hue burned intensely, while here and there the shadows of lone pines stretched long across the earth. Gazing out, the distant mountains lay quietly bathed in sunset light as evening smoke rose from their foothills. The mournful lowing of grass-laden oxen plodding in the far distance filled the sky, their cries persisting even when scolded.

Takeo walked alongside Chijiwa, talking as they went, and from behind them, Namiko followed. The three walked slowly, having just finished crossing the ravine, climbed the slope, and emerged onto a path bathed in dazzling evening sunlight. Takeo abruptly stopped in his tracks. “Oh, damn it!” “I forgot my cane.” “No need—it’s right where we rested earlier.” “Wait here for me—I’ll dash over and get it. Oh, Nami, you should just wait here, all right?” “It’s right there.” “I’ll come running at full speed.”

With that, Takeo firmly 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 in silence about six feet away from Chijiwa. Before long, Takeo’s figure—having crossed the valley and climbed the distant slope—appeared small, only to vanish once more into the far-off direction.

“Namiko-san.”

Namiko, who had been gazing into the distance, involuntarily shuddered when a voice near her ear called out to her.

“Namiko-san.”

He took a step closer. Namiko retreated two or three paces and reluctantly lifted her face, but finding herself pinned by those obsidian eyes staring unblinkingly at her, she turned aside. “Congratulations.”

She remained silent, her face flushing crimson to the tips of her ears. “Congratulations.” “Oh no, congratulations.” “But there’s someone out there who isn’t celebrating, you know.” “Heh heh heh.” Namiko hung her head and kept digging at the roots of the grass with the tip of her maroon Western umbrella, which she had been using as a cane.

“Namiko-san.” The squirrel, now entwined by the snake, had no choice but to raise its face. “What do you mean?” “Money and a baronry—still good things after all.” “Heh heh heh heh. Oh no, congratulations.” “What are you saying?” “Heh heh heh heh heh. If you’re from a noble family with money, even a fool can get married. But without money, no matter how much you’re loved, they won’t even spit in your direction. Right? That’s today’s princesses for you.” “Heh heh heh heh. But you’re not like that at all, are you, Namiko-san?”

Even Namiko’s face contorted in fury as she glared fixedly at Chijiwa. “How dare you say such things!” “How rude. Go ahead and say that again in Takeo’s presence.” “How rude.” “How dare you send me such an insolent love letter without even consulting my father like a proper man… From now on, I will show you no mercy whatsoever!”

“What was that?” Chijiwa’s forehead turned ashen; biting his lip, he took a step or two forward. Suddenly, a whinnying voice arose beneath their feet, and from halfway up the slope, a rider on horseback came into view. “Heh heh heh! “Pardon the intrusion~.” “Heh heh heh!” went the man over sixty on horseback, removing his cheek cover while glancing back suspiciously at the pair again and again as he passed by. Chijiwa remained standing, unmoving. The lines on his forehead had slightly deepened, and a sneer floated at the edge of his tightly closed lips.

“Heh heh heh. If it’s such a bother to you, give it back.”

“Regarding what?” “What do you mean by ‘what’? You’re the one who hates such things!” “There isn’t any.” “Why isn’t there any?” “I burned that filthy thing.”

“So it’s come to this. “You’re absolutely certain no one else saw it?” “No one did.”

“So it’s come to this?” “How rude.” Namiko’s wrathful gaze, met by the ferocity of his pitch-black eyes, shuddered with unbearable discomfort as she averted her eyes far away. Just at that moment, Takeo’s figure came into view at the mouth of the distant slope across the valley. His face—a single point glowing jujube-red in the evening sun—flickered.

Namiko let out a sigh of relief. “Namiko-san.” Chijiwa, undeterred, pursued Namiko’s eyes as they darted about everywhere. “Namiko-san,” he said, “let me make one thing clear: keep it secret—everything secret. Understand? Not a word to Takeo-kun or your parents.” “If you don’t—you’ll regret it.” While directing a lightning-like gaze at Namiko’s face, Chijiwa turned his body and, stooping, gathered the nearby wildflowers.

Takeo came up the slope with loud footsteps, swinging his cane. “Sorry, sorry! “Ugh, this is rough—I’ve been running nonstop.” “But I did have the cane.” “Hmm—Nami-san, what’s wrong? You look terribly pale.”

Chijiwa, while tucking the violet flowers he had just picked into the ornamental cord on his chest, “Oh, it’s just that Namiko-san here thought you’d gotten yourself lost since you took so long—she was terribly worried, you know. Ha ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha ha! “Is that so.” “Come now, shall we head back?”

The three shadowed figures walked side by side, their shadows trailing along the roadside grass as they made their way toward Ikaho.

Part 4-1

In the corner of the second-class compartment of the 3:00 PM upbound train departing from Takasaki, taking advantage of the absence of others, with his shoes still on and legs stretched out across the seat, smoking rolled tobacco while reading a newspaper—this was Yasuhiko Chijiwa.

Roughly throwing down the newspaper,

“Idiot!” He angrily stomped out the rolled tobacco that had fallen from between his teeth as he spoke, spat out the window, and stood motionless for a moment before clicking his tongue sharply. Pacing the full length of the compartment two or three times, he returned to his seat. He folded his arms and closed his eyes. His pitch-black eyebrows drew together in a straight line.

*

Yasuhiko Chijiwa was an orphan.

His father was a Kagoshima domain retainer who fell in battle during the Restoration War; his mother perished in what was then called cholera during the summer when Yasuhiko was six—thus, the six-year-old orphan was taken in by his aunt, his father’s sister. His father’s sister was none other than Takeo Kawashima’s mother. Though his aunt did pity Yasuhiko somewhat, his uncle considered him a nuisance. When Takeo donned his Sendai-hira hakama to take his place at ceremonial gatherings, Chijiwa—clad in a worn-out Kokura hakama and relegated to the lower seats—had long since realized that unlike Takeo, who overflowed with parents, wealth, and status, he must navigate the world solely through his own fists and wits. Thus did he resent Takeo and begrudge his uncle.

He perceived that the path of life had two roads—one overt and one covert—and vowed that in every circumstance, he would take the shortcut to advance. Thus, even during his time at the Army Officers’ School under his uncle’s shadow, while his classmates fretted over exams and grades, Chijiwa diligently cultivated connections with influential seniors from his hometown, carefully selecting only those whose association might benefit him. By the time his peers clutched their diplomas and sighed in relief, he had already leveraged his connections to infiltrate the General Staff Office—the very brain of the Army. While other graduates were assigned here and there to companies, harried by drills and marches, Chijiwa nestled into an enviable position beneath the General Staff’s eaves, idly blowing smoke rings amid casual banter where even matters of national import might reach his ears.

Now, what remained was marriage. He had long since perceived that just as monkeys descend to water by linking hands, so too does a man rise in the world through advantageous ties. Though no family registry official, he tallied in secret: a certain baron wed to a marquis’s daughter; a scholar-cum-high-ranking bureaucrat married into a count’s house; a tycoon made adoptive father to a count’s heir; even a marquis’s son taking a financier’s daughter as bride—and with these calculations flickering behind his eyes, his gaze now fixed itself upon the household of Lieutenant General Kataoka. As for Lieutenant General Kataoka, though at the time he was in the reserves, his valiant name was known throughout the land; graced with the august favor of His Majesty and magnanimous in character, he was a general who could truly be called a bulwark of the nation. Having long perceived this general’s unseen yet weighty influence across the land, Chijiwa sought even the slightest advantage, gradually drawing near and adroitly ingratiating himself even with the household’s inner quarters. His eyes immediately glared at the first daughter, Namiko. Firstly, because he had swiftly perceived that her father, the Lieutenant General, naturally showered his deepest affection upon Namiko; secondly, because he had discerned that the current Mrs. Kataoka inherently distanced herself from Namiko and seemed eager to sever any ties at the earliest opportunity; and thirdly, because his own regard for Namiko’s modest and noble character mingled with approval—thus had he set his sights upon her. Observing this situation, while Lieutenant General Kataoka—being a magnanimous man whose joys and angers did not easily show on his face—was difficult to read in his thoughts, he had indeed secured a place in Madam’s regard. The second daughter’s name was Komako; a spirited girl of fifteen or so was particularly on good terms with me. Beneath them were two children born to the current Mrs. Kataoka, but these lay outside the matter at hand. Here was an elderly maidservant named Iku, who had served since the time of the previous Mrs. Kataoka and alone remained through the great upheaval of the inner staff following the current madam’s marriage—retained by the Lieutenant General’s intervention. This woman clung steadfastly to Namiko’s side, her lack of favor toward me proving an obstacle. Yet Chijiwa reasoned: *What of it? If I could just breach Namiko’s own defenses…* He had bided his time for nearly a year, but growing impatient, seized upon a day when wine-loosened daring after a banquet emboldened him to send her a love letter—double-sealed, addressed in feminine script, deliberately posted through official mail.

Ordered away on sudden distant duty that very day, when I returned after over three months—to find that during my absence, Namiko had already wed my cousin Takeo Kawashima through the mediation of a certain House of Peers member, Kato, of all people! Chijiwa, having suffered an unexpected blunder, in his fit of rage tore to shreds the tomozome chirimen crepe he had bought in Kyoto as a souvenir—which he had imagined would accompany a favorable reply—and flung it into the wastebasket.

However, Chijiwa was not a man to ever completely lose himself in any situation; he immediately rallied his defeated troops. What vexed him was the fear that if even a single detail of that love letter were to leak from Namiko to Lieutenant General or Takeo, he might lose a crucial advantage. Though he thought it unthinkable that Namiko—discreet as she was—would divulge it, lingering doubts remained; thus, seizing the opportunity of his errand to Takasaki, he discreetly visited Takeo and his wife during their stay in Ikaho and sounded them out.

Damn that Takeo—

*

“Takeo… Takeo,” someone seemed to whisper near his ear—Chijiwa jerked his eyes open and peered through the window to find the train already stopped at Ageo Station. A station attendant called “Ageo! Ageo!” as he hurried past. “Idiot!”

Cursing himself alone, Chijiwa stood up and paced the train compartment two or three times. Shuddering as if trying to shake off something clinging to his heart, he returned to his seat. A shadow of a sneer surfaced in both his eyes and lips. The train departed Ageo once more and raced like a gale, passing several stations before arriving at Ōji—at which time five or six people crushed the gravel of the platform underfoot and noisily crowded into the second-class compartment. Among them was a man in his fifties wearing a full Ichi-raku ensemble with a white silk crepe heko obi from which a thick gold chain glittered, a hefty gold ring adorning his right finger, his ruddy face marked by sharply drooping eye corners and a prominent dark-red mole beneath his left eye—and as he settled into his seat, their eyes met abruptly.

“Well, Mr. Chijiwa.” “Well, this is…” “Where were you headed?” While speaking, the man with the dark-red mole stood up and sat down beside Chijiwa. “Ah, to Takasaki.” “Returning from Takasaki?” After briefly studying Chijiwa’s face and lowering his voice slightly: “In a hurry?” “If not—care to join me for supper?”

Chijiwa nodded.

Part 4-2

Were one not to see the gate of a riverside villa near Hashiba Crossing marked "Yamaki Heizō's Villa," one might have mistaken its architecture for that of a certain rendezvous house—its soundproofed walls resonating faintly, its elegant shoji screens reflecting scenes suited to a geisha's parlor, or else a second-floor room where crimson carpets might appropriately lie strewn with scattered hanafuda cards. Here, deliberately avoiding electric lights' crudeness in favor of the customary Japanese-Western lamp, amidst disarrayed cups and plates, sat cross-legged Chijiwa and another man whose dark-red mole left no question: this could only be Yamaki Heizō, master of the household.

He had dismissed them; there was no woman attending nearby. Before the man with the dark-red mole lay a small notebook spread open, a pencil placed beside it. Addresses and official titles were meticulously noted alongside numerous names, and above these, various symbols were added in pencil. Circle. Square. Triangle. The character イ. The character ハ. Numbers such as 5, 6, 7. Or Roman numerals. Dots scattered here and there. There were also instances where something had been erased and relabeled as イキル.

“Well then, Mr. Chijiwa. Once you’ve settled on that candidate, notify me immediately when it’s finalized—no mistakes, I trust?” “It’s secure—the proposal has already reached the Minister’s desk.” “But with rivals campaigning nonstop, we’ll need to aggressively distribute those materials too.” “Now this fellow here—he’s a slippery one.” “We’ll have to clamp a bridle on him tight,” said Chijiwa, jabbing his finger at the top name in his notebook.

“Hey now, what d’you make of this?” “That one’s impossible to deal with.” “I don’t know him well myself, but they say he’s damn stubborn.” “You’ll have to go at ’em straight on, groveling proper-like.” “Screw it up and you’ll be done for.” “Ah, the Army’s got its reasonable sorts too, but Christ there’s no shortage of thick-skulled bastards who won’t listen.” “Last year when we supplied uniforms to the division—using our usual method—most went through smooth enough.” “What was his name again? Red-Bearded Colonel? Bastard kept finding fault till we sent the clerk over with that sweets box.” “Top layer’s candies, bottom’s silver coins—bloody disaster.” “Like maple leaves scattering in snowfall—whole damn room raining silver.” “Then the prick flies into a rage—‘Bribes? A military man’s honor!’—kicks the box clean across the floor.” “Took ages to smooth things over. These self-righteous types make everything ten times harder.” “Speaking of headaches—Takeo’s cut from the same cloth. Can’t get through to him at all.” “Just t’other day—”

“But Takeo’s old man built up a fortune worth tens of thousands, so even if he’s stubborn or honest, he can afford to do as he damn well pleases. But as for someone like me—” “As for someone like me, I’ve only got my own two hands to rely on—”

“Ah, I’d completely forgotten,” said the man with the dark-red mole, glancing briefly at Chijiwa’s face as he pulled five ten-yen bills from his pocket. “We’ll settle the rest later—for now, take this for carriage fare.” “I’ll gratefully accept this.” Quickly gathering them and tucking them into his inner pocket, he added, “But Yamaki-san—” “?” “Well, seeds you don’t plant won’t sprout!” Yamaki gave a wry smile. Chijiwa tapped his shoulder. “He’s a crafty one—what a waste! Should’ve at least made bureau chief!”

“Ha ha ha ha! Mr. Yamaki—Kiyomasa’s dagger cuts deeper than a child’s three-foot-three!” “Well said—but you’d better be careful in Kakigarachō. An amateur will botch it for sure.” “Oh, it’s just a small sum—” “Well then, I’ll let you know as soon as things become clear—oh, it’s safer to board the carriage after it’s been dispatched.” “Well then—my wife would come out to greet you, but my daughter won’t let her go.” “Otoyo-san? Is she sick?”

“Well, you see... it’s just that...” “She’s been ill for about a month now, you see, so my wife brought her to this house.” “No, Mr. Chijiwa—one shouldn’t go around having wives and children and such.” “Making money is best done when you’re single.” “Ha ha ha ha!”

Seen off by the master and the maid all the way to the entrance, Chijiwa departed from Yamaki’s villa.

4-3

After seeing Chijiwa off, as Yamaki was returning to the inner quarters, a sliding door in the distance slid open smoothly, and a fair-skinned woman in her forties—with thin, straight hair and two front teeth that impolitely protruded—entered and took a seat beside Yamaki.

“Has Mr. Chijiwa already left?” “I just chased him off. How’s Otoyo?” The bucktoothed woman’s face grew even longer. “Really, dear... I’m at my wit’s end with her too.—Ken, you go over there.” “Today again—if somethin’ didn’t sit right with her, she’d go throwin’ rice bowls or tearin’ up kimonos. There was no handlin’ her.” “And she’s eighteen years old, for heaven’s sake—” “She’s truly Sugamo material now.” “What a pain she is.”

“Dear, this is no time for such jokes.” “But she’s so pitiful—truly pitiful! Today again, dear—you said that to Takeo, didn’t you?” “Takeo’s just horrible—a cruel, cruel, cruel man! Last New Year’s I knitted him socks! Then I hemmed handkerchiefs! And wool gloves! Arm warmers! Why—this New Year’s I even knitted a red wool shirt with my own money! And he marries that plain-faced, mean-spirited Namiko instead! Horrible—horrible! I’m Yamaki’s daughter—you think I’d lose to Namiko? Horrible!” And there she was—crying all this to you!” “She’s so fixated... Oh, I wish I could help her, dear.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. There are no weak soldiers under a valiant general. You are indeed Otoyo’s mother after all. Well, even the Kawashimas—being new peers—have considerable wealth, and Takeo isn’t a complete fool either. I went to great lengths to get Otoyo involved, didn’t I? But it didn’t work out. Once the wedding was properly concluded, everything went back to square one. Unless Namiko dies or they get divorced—there’s no other way! Instead of that foolishness, you should just give it up! What’s crucial is having the sense to marry her off elsewhere, you fool!”

“What do you mean ‘fool’?!” “Well, I’m not clever like you, am I now?” “At your respectable age, flittin’ between this woman and that like changin’ socks—” “If you start such an eloquent tirade, I’ll be in trouble.” “You’re really such a fool—.” “You’re gettin’ worked up so easily.” “Come on—even I—Otoyo’s my child—how could I not love her? So ’stead of you just spoutin’ such nonsense all the time, I’m thinkin’ of findin’ her a respectable place where she can live comfortable-like for the rest of her life.” “Come on, Osumi—let’s go. We’ll both try givin’ her a little talk.”

And so the couple proceeded along the corridor to the detached room where their daughter Otoyo resided.

As for Heizō Yamaki—who might he have been? Though his origins remain unclear, he was now known as one of those so-called reputable businessmen of society. In the early days of his rise to prominence, he had received no small amount of support from Takeo’s father—now deceased; thus, Yamaki was said to still frequent the Kawashima household even now. There were those who claimed this was solely because the Kawashima family ranked among the wealthiest of the new peers, but such an assessment would have been excessively harsh. He maintained his main residence in Shibazakura River Town and possessed a villa by the crossing at Hashiba; in the past, he had engaged in high-interest lending, but now he primarily made his living through contracts with the Army and other government ministries. He had enrolled his eldest son in a commercial school in Boston, America, and until quite recently had his daughter Otoyo attend the Kazoku Girls’ School. As for how and when Yamaki had come to have his wife—some said it was simply because she was a woman from Kyoto, despite her exceeding ugliness, that Yamaki endured her—but in truth, his wife was not unaware that women of such elegance as to warrant adjectives like “vivacious” resided here and there, taking turns awaiting Yamaki’s visits.

4-4

On the floor were placed a koto, a lute-like gekkin, a large doll in a glass case, and other such items. In one corner stood a beautiful lady’s desk; on this side was a full-length mirror. One might have mistaken this for the abode of some noble princess—yet there lay a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old girl in the center of an eight-tatami room, sprawled sideways atop a silk quilt. Her Shimada hairstyle, disheveled as if bundled corn silk, cascaded wildly about her. Though her fair complexion and plumpness might have been deemed charming, the excess flesh around her cheeks now sagged perilously close to collapse. Her slightly agape mouth formed a perpetual cavernous hollow, as though sealing it shut were too tedious a task. Beneath faint brows that seemed barely there, eyes veiled in spring mist—pried open with effort by two or three parts of the surplus flesh above and below—stared vacantly, as though the long slumber from a past life had yet to lift even now.

As the woman who had been told something and was suppressing a laugh stood to leave, hurling a single “Idiot!” at her retreating back, the other woman impatiently kicked off her haori, snatched the large photograph—in which many schoolgirls in hakama were captured—from the alcove, and stared at it with eyes like threads that didn’t so much as blink. Soon she began flicking her nails repeatedly at what appeared to be one particular face. Still not satisfied with that, she began scratching vertical and horizontal marks over that face with her nails.

The sound of a sliding door opening. “Who? Take? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s Take—bald-headed Take!”

Laughing as they sat down by the pillow were her father, Yamaki, and her mother. The daughter, flustered, hurriedly hid the photograph and lay there in a posture that seemed neither permitted to rise nor properly recline. “How are you feeling, Otoyo? Feeling any better? What did you just hide? Just show me. Come on, show me. If you won’t show me this—” “What’s this? Isn’t this Namiko-san’s face? You’ve really scratched it up, haven’t you! Rather than doing this, you’d show more sense praying at a shrine in the dead of night to curse someone!”

“You’re at it again with such nonsense!” “Well then, Otoyo—you’re Heizō Yamaki’s daughter, aren’t you? Show some backbone! Show that Yamaki grit! Better to set your sights on snagging a Mitsui or Mitsubishi heir than pining after some tightfisted fool in a one-sided tragedy—no, scratch that! Use that head of yours to land a general’s son or the prime minister’s boy! Hell, why not aim for a foreign prince while you’re at it? What’s the use of such chicken-heartedness? Well, Otoyo?”

Though Princess Otoyo threw tantrums left and right before her mother, even she seemed to hold back in her father’s presence. She remained prostrate, offering no reply.

“Well then, Otoyo—do you still long for Mr. Takeo?” “Oh, that troublesome Konami Oryō.” “Speaking of Konami Oryō—hey Otoyo, why don’t we go to Kyoto or somewhere for a change of pace?” “Now that’d be fun!” “If you don’t wanna see Gion Temple or Kiyomizu-dera or Chion-in or Kinkaku-ji Temple, we’ll head to Nishijin and pick out an obi or three-layer robes.” “How ’bout it? Sweeter than rice cakes fallin’ in your open mouth!” “You haven’t been out much either—take Otoyo strollin’, won’tcha Osumi?”

“You comin’ along too, ain’t ya?” “Me? Don’t talk nonsense—not with how busy I am!” “Then I s’pose I’ll pass too.”

“Why? You’re puttin’ on quite the show of obligation.” “Why?” “Oh ho.” “Why’s that?” “Oh ho ho ho ho.” “What a creepy way to laugh.” “Why’s that?” “I’d be worried ’bout you bein’ home all alone, see.” “Don’t talk nonsense. Who’d say such things in front of Otoyo? Otoyo, everything Mom’s sayin’ is all lies—don’t take any of it to heart.” “Oh ho ho ho. No matter how much ya try talkin’ yer way outta this, it ain’t gonna work, ’cause—see?”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Instead—Otoyo, keep your mind open—wide open. Good things come to those who wait. Before long, something real interesting’s gonna happen, I tell ya!”

Chapter Five, Part One

On a Saturday afternoon in mid-June, when chestnut blossoms bloomed within the grounds of Lieutenant General Kataoka’s estate in Akasaka Hikawa-chō, the master of the house—Viscount Lieutenant General Takeshi Kataoka—settled heavily into his study chair, clad in a flannel single-layer kimono and a mouse-gray silk heko obi. He could not be far from fifty. His forehead showed slight balding, while frost-like hair had begun to thicken at his temples. His physique weighed twenty-two kan; it was said that even a prized Arabian steed would labor beneath the general’s command. His shoulders jutted forward, engulfing his neck; his double chin merged seamlessly into his chest; his rotund belly, reminiscent of An Lushan’s infamous girth, swayed with each movement; and his bull-like thighs threatened to chafe against each other as he walked. His complexion was boldly ruddy and dark; his nose broad; his lips thick; his beard sparse; his eyebrows likewise thin. Yet these eyes—slender and gently gleaming, utterly unlike his hulking frame and resembling an elephant’s—alongside a mirthful air that perpetually hovered about his lips as though he might burst into laughter at any moment, vividly depicted an ineffable charm and a taste for the comical.

One autumn year, it is said, when the lieutenant general went incognito to spend his days hunting in a mountain village and requested a bowl of bitter tea at a hut where an old woman lived alone, the old woman scrutinized his appearance intently, “What a large build you have!” “Did you manage to catch even a single rabbit?” The lieutenant general smiled gently and said, “I didn’t catch any at all.” “Even if you went around killin’ critters like that, how’s that s’posed to be a proper trade?” “With that build of yours, why don’tcha try day labor? Fifty ryō’d be no trouble at all, I tell ya!” “Per month?”

“Nah! Per year.” “There’s nothin’ wrong with it, so take up day labor, I tell ya!” “Whenever ya need it, I’ll take care o’ ya.” “Oh, that’s very kind of you.” “I might come to ask for your help again.”

“Go ahead and do it, go ahead and do it. With that big build o’ yours, ’s a shame to be killin’ critters like that.”

This was said to be a fine anecdote that occasionally circulated among the lieutenant general’s acquaintances. To unknowing eyes, it must have appeared precisely so. But to those who understood—this general, a great mountain immovable by worldly trifles, his grand bearing an iron fortress in times of crisis—his twenty-two-kan frame like a small hill and ever-serene countenance would surely have calmed even the most turbulent hearts across the three armies. On the table near his elbow stood a slender bamboo arranged in a warrior’s stance, planted in a blue-ground Koji-ware pot. High above hung portraits of Their Majesties. Lower down on the far wall was a framed inscription reading *“Achieving Benevolence,”* its seal bearing Nanshū’s name. A book rested on the shelf. Along the hearth’s edge and upon a triangular corner shelf lay seven or eight photographs—some of domestic figures, others foreign; some in military uniforms, others in civilian dress.

Verdant curtains were drawn back, and all six windows facing southeast stood cheerfully open. To the east, beyond the valley town teeming with people and houses that lay below, one could glimpse the tip of Atago Tower—about a foot of its spire—emerging from the verdant heights of Rendantai. A black kite circled above it. To the south was a garden where chestnut blossoms bloomed in profusion. Through those gaps, the ginkgo treetops of Hikawa Shrine appeared as though raising blue halberds.

The early summer sky, viewed from the window, shone a deep blue like pale gold silk. Amidst the refreshing green leaves that pleased the eye, egg-white chestnut blossoms bloomed lushly across every tree, their reflection against the azure sky as though painted. The branch extending near the window—contrary to its rugged form—bore leaves that shimmered translucent in hues of green jade, blue jade, and amber where sunlight struck them. Amidst these leaves, shoulder-like clusters of flowers swayed gently, weighing down the branch in full bloom. Though no wind stirred, with each quiver of the air their fragrance stole softly into the study like a whispered secret, while pale violet shadows danced flickeringly across the pages of *The Current State of the Siberian Railway* held in his left hand, cast from the window’s threshold.

The master closed his narrow eyes for a moment and sighed, then slowly opened them again and fixed his gaze upon the booklet. Somewhere, the clattering sound of the well-pulley—like beads scattering—was heard, but then ceased again.

The afternoon's stillness filled the entire residence. Suddenly, two mischief-makers sought to exploit an opening. They stealthily poked their heads through the door left ajar about a foot, then withdrew them again. The sound of stifled laughter swirled outside the door. One mischief-maker was a boy of about eight. He wore a sailor suit that reached his knees and lace-up boots. The other mischief-maker was probably around five or six years old, wearing a single-layer kimono in purple arrow-patterned fabric with a red obi, her hair cascading down to just above her eyes. The two mischief-makers lingered awhile outside the door, but now as though unable to contain themselves pushed it open in unison with four hands, charged in together, effortlessly scaled the newspaper rampart lying mid-room, advanced straight upon the Lieutenant General’s chair—the sailor-suited boy to the right, the parted-hair girl to the left—and seized both knees of the hill-like Lieutenant General,

“Father!”

5-2

“Oh, you’re back?” With a soft, high-pitched chuckle that seemed to well up from the depths of his ample belly, the lieutenant general smiled warmly and—using his weighty hands—patted the sailor-suited boy’s shoulder to his right and stroked the parted-hair girl’s bangs to his left.

“How about your quiz? Did you manage them?” “Me… me… Father, I got an A in arithmetic!” “Father! Today, my sewing was really good, and the teacher praised me!” The parted-hair girl took out a kindergarten craftwork from her pocket and placed it on the lieutenant general’s lap.

“Oh, now this is splendidly done!” “And then, in calligraphy and reading I got Bs, but everything else was Cs—I ended up losing to Mizukami.” “I’m so frustrated I can’t stand it!”

“Study you shall—what was today’s ethics lesson about?”

The sailor-suited boy smiled cheerfully and said, “Today, Father, it was about Kusunoki Masatsura. I love Masatsura! Who is greater—Masatsura or Napoleon?” “Both are admirable.” “I, Father, I really like Masatsura, but I like the navy even more. Since you’re in the Army, Father, I’m going to join the Navy!” “Ha ha ha! So you’ll become a disciple of Kawashima’s elder brother?” “But Kawashima’s elder brother is just a lieutenant, you know. I’m gonna be a lieutenant general!”

“Why not aim for general?” “But Father, you’re a lieutenant general too.” “A lieutenant general is greater than a lieutenant, right, Father?” “Whether one’s a lieutenant or a lieutenant general, it’s those who study that are admirable.” “Father! Father, I’m talking to you, Father!” said the parted-hair girl, using the lieutenant general’s captured knees as a teetering platform as she bounced up and down. “Today, you’ve got to listen to a fun story! That rabbit and turtle story! Should I tell it?—Once there was a rabbit and a turtle—Oh! Mother’s here!”

As the grandfather clock struck two in the afternoon, in came a tall woman of thirty-eight or thirty-nine. Her front hair—cut short and crimped in Western style—lay parted over her high forehead. Her somewhat large eyes slanted slightly upward with an air of severity. Over her dark complexion lay a veil of powder; teeth that rarely showed between her lips gleamed with polished brilliance. She wore a striking unlined kimono of figured silk paired with a wide black satin obi—on both hands glittered jeweled gold rings whose value needed no explanation.

“You’re clinging to Father again, aren’t you?” “What do you mean? I was just hearing about their school grades. Now—it’s time for your father’s practice. Everyone, go play outside! Go play! We’ll go out for exercise later!” “Oh, I’m so happy!” “Hurray!”

The two children gleefully left the room—tangling with each other, jostling, now leading now following—and soon came a cry of “Hurray!” A distant voice called out, “Brother, me too!” “No matter how much I say, Husband, you still indulge them.”

The lieutenant general smiled. “Oh, it’s not like that—children ought to be cherished, I say.” “But you—as they say in the proverb, ‘strict father, kind mother’—since you do nothing but dote on them, it’s all turned upside down. I’m left scolding them day in and out—I alone play the villain here.” “Now now, no need to assail me so fiercely all at once.” “Do go gently—Professor, you ought to take your seat there first. Ha ha ha ha!”

Laughing to himself, the lieutenant general stood up, took the worn-out *Royal Third Reader* from the table, swallowed a mouthful of saliva, and began reading aloud in English tinged with a strange Satsuma accent. The woman listened quietly—Madam kept correcting his pronunciation errors. This was the lieutenant general’s daily routine. The Viscount—who had risen as a mere soldier during the upheaval of the Meiji Restoration and been too consumed by life’s relentless demands to study foreign languages—now found himself, after becoming a reservist the previous year and gaining some leisure time, launching an assault upon English at this very juncture. His instructor was none other than Madam Shigeko, his wife close at hand. She was the daughter of a renowned samurai scholar from Chōshū and had studied in London for many years; her command of English was said to surpass that of most men. Indeed, Madam—steeped in London’s soot—zealously sought to impose Western customs on all matters: household management, children’s education, everything she had witnessed abroad. Yet her efforts largely strayed from her intentions. Servants secretly mocked her inability to adapt to their world; the children naturally gravitated toward their magnanimous father; and above all, her husband’s unflappably Eastern demeanor in all things became the very seed of Madam’s discontent.

Just as the lieutenant general, after immense effort, finished reading a page and was about to begin his translation, the door swung open to reveal a girl of about fifteen with flowing hair tied with a red ribbon. She giggled softly at the comical sight of the lieutenant general’s large hands clutching the small reader. “Mother, Aunt from Iidamachi has arrived.”

“I see,” she said, furrowing her brows so deeply that the wrinkles seemed both visible and yet too profound to behold, while stealing a glance at the lieutenant general’s face. The lieutenant general rose deliberately, shifted the chair aside, and said, “Please show them this way.”

5-3

“Pardon the intrusion.”

The one who entered was a refined woman who appeared to be forty-five or six; perhaps owing to eye trouble, she wore pale blue glasses. Her face somehow resembled the person seen on the third floor at Ikaho—as indeed it should have.

This was Kiyoko—sister to Lieutenant General Kataoka’s deceased first wife—wife of Viscount Toshiaki Katō, Member of the House of Peers; serving as matchmakers who had wedded Namiko into the Kawashima household, this was precisely that couple.

The lieutenant general amiably stood up to offer a chair and, while slightly drawing up the window curtain facing it, “Please, do sit down.” “I must apologize for my prolonged absence.” “Your husband remains as occupied as ever, I presume?” “Ha ha ha ha!” “You’re exactly like a camel handler—those pruning shears never leave your grip.” “Ho ho ho.”

“Though it’s still early for irises, my prized Korean pomegranates are in full bloom, and the roses still linger—so please do come and admire them. You know, I’ve been asked to convey this most earnestly.” “Ho ho ho.” “Please do bring along Mr. Kiichi and Michi-chan,” said the pale blue glasses, turning toward Mrs. Kataoka.

To speak frankly, the Viscountess did not much care for pale blue glasses. The differences in education and temperament were, of course, a given, but it was the sister of the deceased wife—this presence lingering constantly in her heart—that became the seed of her discontent. She, who sought to monopolize the lieutenant general’s heart alone and assert her authority as sole mistress of the household, now faced the frequent visits of his deceased wife’s sister—a presence that not only evoked the image of the departed wife before his eyes but also stirred Namiko, who unspokenly resented this as a vestige of the past, and Nurse Iku, who harbored sympathy akin to that for the late Zhuge Liang. Though not his equal in strategy, this shadow of the departed one now pitted itself against her in every matter, rendering her profoundly disquieted. Now that Namiko and Nurse Iku had at last departed—bringing a semblance of relief akin to the abolition of extraterritoriality—still, whenever she saw that face behind pale blue glasses, it felt as if summoning a specter from the grave to vie with her for her husband’s affection, contest her authority as mistress, and undermine the educational methods and household policies she had painstakingly established, leaving her perpetually ill at ease.

The pale blue glasses took out bottled sweets from an Ezō brocade Shingen bag. “It’s something I received—for Kiichi and Michi-chan.” “Are they still at school? I don’t see them here.” “Oh, I see.” “And this is for Komako-san.” And then she gave a hydrangea hairpin to the red-ribboned girl who had brought the tea. “You’re always so very kind—how delighted they’ll be!” said the Viscountess as she placed the 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 excused herself and withdrew from the room. As she exited the room, she beckoned to the girl who had followed her out from behind and whispered something. Stepping back and leaving the girl eavesdropping on the conversation from behind the window curtain, the Viscountess made her way along the corridor toward the parlor.

Komako of the red ribbon, now fifteen and likewise born of the deceased wife, found favor with Madam—in stark contrast to her alienation of the elder sister Namiko. Having misconstrued Namiko—taciturn and timid in all matters—as nothing more than a stubborn, spiteful creature, Madam took pleasure in how her younger sister's somewhat spirited temperament resembled her own. Partly to slight the elder sister, partly to demonstrate to society that even a stepchild could be loved—with such motives at play—she naturally aligned herself with the younger sister against the father's affections showered upon the elder.

As for the nature of strong-willed people like myself—while there are those who will act as they please without a thought for others’ opinions—they may yet prove unexpectedly fragile and fret over their reputation. After all, to gather both fame and profit, do as one pleases, and yet still wish to be well-regarded by others—this is the way of the selfish. Such people naturally delight in flattery. The Viscountess—a masculine-styled, Western-educated woman whose debating prowess could make even her husband, the Lieutenant General (whose authoritative voice could shake the realm), yield no victory—stood in stark contrast to him: while he made friends wherever he went and was cherished by all who met him, she, bereft of love and allies in her desolate heart, naturally gravitated toward those who fawned upon her. Even among the servants, those who were inarticulate were eventually dismissed, and smooth-tongued flatterers came to be employed. Young Komako did not necessarily despise her sister, but once she realized that criticizing her sister pleased her stepmother, she developed a habit of tattling—and this caused Nurse Iku to frown more than once or twice. Even now that her sister had married and left, she continued to serve as a spy for her stepmother.

Leaning into the shadow of the second window along the eastern veranda, she listened: at times her father’s laughter—booming from the belly—and her aunt’s dignified laughter alternated in her ears, but gradually their voices lowered to a hushed tone. Fragments like “stepmother” and “Namiko-san” drifted intermittently through the air, and the red-ribboned girl strained her ears all the more intently.

5-4

“Four hundred provinces rise as one—what fear have we of a hundred thousand enemy horsemen? For Kamakura has its men!”

The sailor who had approached earlier, stomping his feet in rhythm, quickly spotted the red-ribboned girl lingering on the veranda. Though she frantically covered her mouth with her hands and shook her head while waving at him—urging discretion—he paid no heed. “Sis! Sis!” he called out, running up to her. “What are you doing?” he pressed. When she kept shaking her head, he persisted: “What? What?” At this, the red-ribboned girl scowled and blurted loudly, “You’re so annoying!” Then, with a huff, she shrugged her shoulders and hurried away.

“Aye! She’s gone! Aye!” While shouting, the sailor entered his father’s study. No sooner had he seen the guest’s face than he broke into a grin and, bowing his head slightly, promptly clung to his father’s knee. “Oh my, Mr. Kiichi—you’ve grown so much since I last saw you.” “Do you go to school every day?” “Oh, you earned top marks in arithmetic?” “You’ve studied very hard indeed!” “Please come visit Father, Mother, and Auntie’s place soon.” “Where’s Michi?” “Oh, I see.” “That’s right—Auntie gave us something like this!” “Happy now? Ahahahaha!” he said, showing the jar of sweets. “Where’s Mom?” “Is she still here?” “Go and say that Aunt is about to leave.”

While seeing off the departing child, Lieutenant General Takeshi stared fixedly at the face behind pale blue glasses, “So regarding Iku’s matter—having settled it that way, let us pray it does not cause friction—yes, let us pray so.” “To be honest, I myself thought it would be better if such a situation didn’t exist—in fact, I was inclined not to do it—but Nami kept insisting, and she herself earnestly pleaded… Ah, well… Ah… Ah… I must ask this of you.”

Viscountess Shigeko, who had entered mid-conversation, glanced at the pale blue glasses and said, “Are you leaving already?” “Unfortunately, there was a guest—no, they’ve just left now.” “Oh, it’s just another charity meeting consultation.” “It probably won’t come to anything anyway.” “I’ve been a terrible host today—please give my regards to Ms. Chizuko—though ever since Nami left, you haven’t come to visit at all, have you?” “I haven’t been well these past few days, so I’ve neglected to visit anywhere—well then,” she said, taking her Shingen bag and slowly rising to her feet.

The Lieutenant General also slowly rose to his feet. “Well, let’s walk that far as exercise—no, let’s go all the way! Look, Kiichi and Michi are going out for exercise too!”

Having seen off those departing, Viscountess Shigeko settled into an armchair in the parlor and, while scanning the charity meeting prospectus, beckoned to Komako. “Komako-san, what were they discussing?” “Well, Mother, I didn’t quite grasp it all, but it seemed to be about Iku.” “Oh? Iku…” “Iku…” “Takeo’s elderly mother has rheumatism in her shoulder, you see, so she’s been terribly irritable lately.” “And then—Iku told Sister in her room: ‘Madam, why does the retired lady here have such dreadful fits of temper? It must be so trying for you. But she’s old—it won’t be much longer anyway,’ or so she said.” “Iku really is foolish, Mother.”

“Wherever she goes, she never does anything good.” “What a troublesome old woman she is, don’t you think?” “And then, Mother—just at that moment, the old mother happened to pass by the veranda and overheard everything, and oh, she was absolutely furious!” “Serves her right!” “She got angry, so Sister got worried and consulted Aunt in Iidamachi.” “To Aunt!?” “But Sister always consults Aunt about everything!”

The viscountess gave a wry smile. “And then?” “And then, you know, Father said he’s sending Iku to be the villa caretaker.” “I see,” she said, her brow darkening further. “Is that all?” “And then, I was still asking about it when Mr. Kiichi arrived—”

6-1

Takeo’s mother, whose name was Okei, was fifty-three this year. Though she occasionally suffered from rheumatism, she was otherwise in perfect health, and it was said she could easily walk from her residence in Kōjimachi Kami-Nibanchō to Shinagawa Tōkai-ji, where her late husband lay at rest. Her weight was nineteen kan; among women of duke, marquis, count, viscount, and baron ranks, her physique was indeed likened to that of a sekiwake. However, this enlargement had in fact occurred five or six years after her former husband Michitake had passed away; prior to that, she had been emaciated with a pallid complexion, said to resemble a sickly person. Thus, there were those who likened her to a rubber ball that, once released from the hand that had compressed it, swelled up puffingly.

The late husband had been a minor samurai of Niwa Domain; when Okei married into the family, they held a wedding slightly grander than those of common townspeople. But encountering the storms of the Meiji Restoration, he rose to prominence, recognized by Ōkubo Kōtō to serve long as magistrate across regions, and for a time, his name as governor became renowned in the world. Moreover, his inherent stubbornness and obstinacy had accumulated consequences, leaving him with few friends in the Meiji government; Viscount Katō, who had arranged Namiko’s marriage, was among those scarce companions. After Kōtō’s death, he ended his days without ever realizing his ambitions. There were those who said that even his attainment of the rank of Baron was in fact due to his fortunate birth. Therefore, Michitake—a stubborn, selfish, hot-tempered man—would always resentfully vent his grievances into his wine cup. He would stack five large three-gō cups one after another, becoming like a red demon as he swaggered into the prefectural assembly, leaving few councilors with any color in their faces. That does indeed seem likely.

Thus, the Kawashima household existed perpetually under martial law, the family living as though dwelling beneath a great tree devoid of lightning rods through summer days, their lives passing in ceaseless trepidation. Save for Takeo—who from childhood had believed his father’s lap to be his dance floor and that none in the world could surpass his father as a playmate—there was none, from Lady Keiko down to the servants and even the pillars of the parlor, who had escaped tasting the master’s iron fist. Even Heizō Yamaki, now known to society as a gentleman merchant, had often received this “gift” and been humbled by it. Yet considering such trifling bestowals as mere profit-making boons—“Why, it’s practically cheap income tax!”—he would frequently pay his respects to partake of them. Given these circumstances, whenever His Lordship’s mood turned foul, even the mice in the kitchen fell silent. A thunderous roar from the inner quarters would send thick-eared maids fumbling their kitchen knives, while officials with business at the private residence would first circle to the back entrance to inquire about that day’s weather forecast.

For Lady Okei, who had endured thirty years by her husband’s side, this was no ordinary hardship. When she first married into the family, the presence of her parents-in-law had allowed those early days to pass without her fully perceiving her husband’s temperament. Yet not long after both in-laws died in succession—confronted with her husband’s true nature laid bare—Lady Okei found herself utterly devastated. At first, five or six times, she attempted mild resistance, but upon realizing its futility, ceased to fight—either surrendering Han Xin-style by prostrating herself or fleeing as per the foremost of the Thirty-Six Stratagems. Over time, she learned to somewhat grasp the rhythm, reducing three incidents to two—yet her husband’s temperament remained unchanged with the years. In his final three or four years, it grew especially fierce—grievances stoking forced drinking’s flames, rage burning like fire—until even Lady Okei, tempered by twenty years of such trials, could no longer endure it. Though she had a son named Takeo and white streaks now mingled in her hair, she forgot all pride in being called “the governor’s wife and Baroness.” At times thoughts surged: *Why not exchange this torment for life as a gravekeeper’s wife?* Yet before she knew it, thirty careless years had passed—and when she saw her unfeeling husband Michitake lying motionless in his coffin, eyes closed and face upturned, she finally exhaled... only for unfeigned tears to spill forth in quiet drops.

Tears spilled forth, but her breath caught. Along with her breath, her vigor too ran out. 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 timidly from the inner quarters and swelled to dominate the entire household before their very eyes. Those who had seen the wife perpetually hunching her shoulders and shrinking beside her husband were utterly astonished. To be sure, Western scholars claim that the longer couples remain together, the more they come to resemble one another in both appearance and temperament. And indeed, from the way the widow now carried herself—twitching her thick eyebrows, pipe in hand, staring fixedly at others’ faces—her coarse bearing and above all her temper led some to declare her none other than the late Baron himself reborn.

There is such a thing as revenge served cold. "The affairs of this world are generally such that one avenges a wrong from Edo in Nagasaki. An opposition party Diet member today delivered a passionate and vehement speech in the Diet and vigorously attacked the government. While this was all very splendid, the truth was that half of his fiery zeal stemmed from resentment incurred the previous night at home—being hounded relentlessly by a moneylender—a revelation that diminished the admirable quality of his actions by half. Thus did the low-pressure system in the South China Sea cause floods in Gifu and Aichi; thus did the sinking of the Tuscarora bring tsunami waves upon Sanriku; thus did Motonao vent his frustration over unrequited love in 'useless treatises.' The universe is mere equilibrium; all things seek their balance. 'Thus, in seeking this equilibrium: petty people act like misers hounding debtors for daily repayments—fretting over "return it today, repay it tomorrow"—while so-called great people entrust all accounts to Heaven’s Bank and single-mindedly earn their keep,' declared Dr. Human Nature.

However, ordinary people seek balance immediately before their eyes, and in that pursuit—like water flowing downward according to the laws of physical motion—they gravitate toward the path of least resistance. Therefore, even Widow Kawashima—after thirty years of endurance, having held back and held back the floodgates of forbearance—burst them open all at once even before her husband’s coffin lid had closed.

The one person she had feared in this world had now departed to a distant realm where no fist he might raise could ever reach her head. Her silence until now was not due to lack of spirit; with a look that declared "Though my husband perishes, I endure," she began indiscriminately demanding repayment from those nearby for debts unintentionally amassed—interest compounding upon interest. Even in her fits of temper—whereas the late Baron, for all his irascibility, had been a man of heroic mold whose vexing nature paradoxically held a redeeming edge—Her Ladyship’s outbursts, devoid of such strength yet incomprehensibly petty, resentful, and self-indulgent, proved merely senselessly harsh, leaving the servants weeping more than they ever had under the late Baron.

Namiko’s mother-in-law was exactly this kind of person.

6-2 When she had changed her marumage chignon to the age-maki style, there were still moments like being mistakenly addressed as “Young Lady, allow me to accompany you at your convenience” by a rickshaw driver. But once she grew accustomed to servants calling her “Madam” without hesitation in her responses, the bride’s heart began to settle somewhat, and the scene around her—veiled in a mist of bashfulness and maidenly shyness—gradually came into clearer view. Household customs vary with each family—this needed no explaining to you—but do not go bearing your parental home’s ways into theirs. “Namiko Kataoka dies today; henceforth, remember there is none but Namiko Kawashima.” These earnest words her father had imparted when summoning her to his study just before she donned her bridal robes to board the carriage were not forgotten. Yet upon arriving, she found the differences in household customs were no trivial matter.

Their assets might even have surpassed those of her parental home. Among the newly ennobled families, the Kawashimas were counted foremost; during his long tenure as prefectural governor, Takeo’s father had amassed a vast fortune. Yet while in her parental home her father the Lieutenant General’s renown resounded throughout the land—and though now in the reserves, his social connections remained extensive and his rising influence vigorous—here, following the death of Takeo’s father Michitake, most who had relied upon him in life had naturally distanced themselves. With few relatives and scarcely any acquaintances besides, compounded by the widow’s unlikable nature and the fact that the heir who ought to revive the family’s standing was still young and held a lowly official rank—a rare circumstance for such a house—the family’s fortunes had come to resemble still water. At her parental home, her stepmother favored Western extravagance—though oddly practiced frugality in peculiar areas, drawing servants’ whispers like “Madam doesn’t even know how to give proper gifts”—yet military social circles generally prioritized ostentation. Here, however, the household clung to old-fashioned, almost rustic traditions: what might charitably be called “time-honored propriety” but was in truth the widow’s unchanging tastes and logic, as if she’d ground her own rice since time immemorial. She insisted on handling everything herself, down to making her steward—a straightforward man named Tasaki, who’d served her late husband like a footman—calculate monthly firewood bundles and charcoal bales. Even when Takeo occasionally returned and said, “Mother, you needn’t bother—just order sweets from Fūgetsu,” she’d stubbornly press homemade country yōkan into their hands to be voraciously devoured. Nurse Iku, who’d accompanied Namiko, would snipe, “Great households are simply different—if only Takeo would demote her rank already,” making it clear her disdain stemmed from more than just eavesdropping beyond the shoji screens.

Though she may seem clever, an eighteen-year-old bride suddenly thrust into a household with entirely different customs would naturally find herself perplexed in every matter—and who could blame her? Yet Namiko, recalling her father’s admonitions at this very moment, steeled her resolve to suppress herself and conform completely to the household’s customs. The opportunity to test that resolve came in an instant.

Not long after returning from Ikaho, Takeo embarked on a long voyage. Though prepared for frequent absences as a military man’s wife, this separation so soon after their wedding wrenched her heart so fiercely that in those moments she could scarcely attend to anything, as though the jewel from her palm had been snatched away. Father had declared himself utterly delighted when first meeting him during the marriage arrangements—and now that I had come to live alongside him, I truly understood why. Magnanimous and manly, refreshingly kindhearted without an ounce of vulgarity—truly like being beside my youthful father. Indeed, from the way he swung his shoulders and stomped about as he walked to his childlike laughter that mirrored Father’s exactly—Ah, how wonderful!—I attended to him with single-minded devotion. Takeo too found his newfound wife endlessly endearing; feeling as though his only-child self had gained even a sister alongside her, he tenderly called out, “Nami-san, Nami-san.” Though their bond had not yet spanned three months, having grown as intimate as if they’d known each other since a past life, even this brief separation became for them both seeds of boundless heartache. However, Namiko had no time to dwell on their prolonged separation. Not long after Takeo’s departure, her mother-in-law’s chronic rheumatism flared up violently, and her usual temper grew especially fierce; after Iku was sent back to her family home, opportunities to test patience multiplied particularly.

There were those who wrote that new students, though mercilessly bullied by their seniors at first, would later become seniors themselves and find their greatest pleasure in tormenting the next generation of newcomers. A mother-in-law who herself remembered the vulnerability and helplessness of shedding her bridal hood ought not, by any moral obligation, torment her daughter-in-law—yet such was the baseness of human nature. Once the bride’s bloom faded and she gained the title of mother-in-law, a suitable new bride arrived in turn. Selfishness emerged, and before she knew it, she became the very mother-in-law she had so utterly detested until just years prior. From scornful laughter—“There there, that collar overlap should be four sun folded back—no, not like that! Hand it here! Twenty years old and supposedly a proper bride, heh heh heh”—to glaring eyes, [she embodied the cycle]: “I too was scolded just so as a twenty-year-old bride, yet how terrifying I’ve become without reforming myself!” Mothers-in-law capable of such self-awareness remained rare exceptions. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth—this world teemed with those who, through Nagasaki brides avenging Edo mothers-in-law’s wrongs, unwittingly sought equilibrium within their own lifetimes. Namiko’s mother-in-law was also one of those people.

Tempered by a Western-style stepmother, Namiko was now being honed by an old-fashioned mother-in-law. Because the ailing old woman frequently summoned maids for trivial tasks, she would insist, “I’ll take care of it,” forcibly assuming duties unfamiliar to her—only to perform them unsatisfactorily. Then Keiko, having thanked her with icy courtesy, would deliberately berate the servants in her usual thunderous voice—a sound that struck even ears long inured to a decade of her stepmother’s eloquent cruelties with fresh harshness. At first this lasted but briefly; later, the edge of that temper turned squarely upon her own flesh. After Iku’s departure, there remained no one to offer comfort. At times she nearly felt herself slipping back into the shadows of former days—but returning to her room and seeing the stalwart naval officer’s visage in the silver photo frame upon her desk, waves of joy, longing, and nostalgia would surge within her. Gently lifting it, she would gaze as if to devour the image, kiss it, press it to her cheek, and whisper as though he stood before her: “Please come home soon.” For my husband’s sake, I consider any hardship a joy; discarding myself, I serve my mother-in-law.

7-1

While sweating profusely, I write to you from Hong Kong, where it is ninety-nine degrees Fahrenheit. As I had already detailed in my previous letter regarding matters up to our departure from Sasebo. Now, after departing Sasebo, we had consecutive days of clear skies with heat so scorching that even we men of our divine maritime nation found it somewhat taxing. Indeed, eight or nine of my fellow officers and crewmen had been struck by sunstroke. However, I remained in excellent health and had not once troubled the sickbay. As you know, this blackened man had been thoroughly roasted by the equatorial sun’s blazing heat, transforming into a full-fledged dark-faced fellow. Today, I went ashore with some colleagues and visited a barber in town, where upon catching sight of myself in the mirror, I startled even my own self. Those mean-spirited colleagues teased, “Say, why not take a color-tinted photograph and send it to your *bride*?”—which proved quite amusing indeed. The journey proceeded under clear skies as described above (though we did endure one monsoon attack), and with a chorus of *Banzai* cheers, we dropped anchor in this bay yesterday morning, I report.

Your recent letter was received in Sasebo, which I have read and reread with great care. Mother’s rheumatism—her long-standing ailment—has truly become a troublesome matter. However, this year, with you attending to her, I too am greatly reassured. I humbly beseech you to continue tending to her with utmost care in my stead. Given that her condition is particularly poor during her illness, I can well imagine that you must be enduring various hardships. I trust that the one in Akasaka has also seen no change [in her condition], I humbly submit. Is Uncle Katō still not letting go of his pruning shears?

I hear that Nurse Iku has returned. Though I do not know why this came about,I must say it troubles me deeply. Should you write any letters[to others],pray convey my warmest regards;and do tell her I shall bring many gifts for the nurse upon my return. She remains ever so delightful—a woman of great charm—and thus her return to Akasaka saddens me. You must feel quite lonely and burdened,I imagine. Does Aunt Katō or Chizuko call upon you at times? Chijiwa visits occasionally,I hear. With our family so lacking in kin,Mother naturally leans on him as one of our few relations. To treat him kindly counts among my filial duties toward her. He possesses both wit and fortitude—a man we may rely upon when crisis strikes. (Omitted)

Hong Kong July, Takeo

Dear Nami

I humbly request that you read the enclosed document (omitted) to Mother. We will anchor at this port for four or five days to purchase provisions and other supplies, then proceed via Manila to Sydney, Australia; from there through New Caledonia and the Fiji Islands to San Francisco; and finally via Hawaii to return home, as scheduled. Our return is likely to be in autumn.

Have the letters left at the San Francisco Japanese Consulate and dispatched.

～～～～～～～～～～ (Previous text omitted) Last May found us in Ikaho gathering bracken ferns for solace, yet now I stand in Sydney of the southern hemisphere, gazing up at the stars of the Southern Cross and reminiscing of that time. Strange indeed is this world. During my previous training ship voyage, I inevitably experienced seasickness from time to time; yet this time, I find myself astonished at how hale and hearty I remain without illness. However, emotions I had never known in previous years now cling to me. During night watches at sea, when I stand alone on the bridge gazing up at the southern sky—like diamonds scattered across pitch-black velvet—indescribable feelings well up within me, and your form flickers before my eyes (pray do not laugh at my sentimentality). Before my colleagues I may compose verses about homesickness and distant campaigns while maintaining a composed facade (pray do not laugh), but your photograph has been nestling in a certain person’s inner pocket all this time. Even now as I write this letter, I see before me the visage of one who will lean against the desk in the shade of the banana plant in our six-mat room, reading this very missive (omission).

In Sydney Harbor, there are many people—married couples, families—sailing yachts for leisure, keeping strictly to themselves. When someday I have achieved success and fame, and both Nami-san and I have become white-haired old folks, I shall not merely settle for a yacht—no, I will build a five-thousand-ton steamship, become its captain, and plan to embark on a world voyage with our children and grandchildren as crew members, I report. At that time, we shall come to this Sydney as well, and I shall recount to my white-haired Nami-san the dreams of a hot-blooded naval lieutenant from decades past (omitted).

Sydney

August, Takeo Namiko-sama

7-2

I have read and reread your cherished missive dispatched from Hong Kong on July 15th—its arrival so long delayed that I read it again and again in anxious repetition. How profoundly grateful I am to learn that even amidst such fierce heat, you remain wholly unaffected—this brings me boundless joy. Here at home, Her Ladyship Mother-in-law’s condition has improved considerably of late; I pray this news may bring you peace of mind. As for myself, I spend each day in mundane solitude. Though I earnestly strive to attend to Mother-in-law’s comfort during your absence, this inept one finds every task beyond my capacity. Misstep follows misstep, leaving me utterly distraught. My sole consolation lies in counting the days until your return, when I may once more behold your healthy countenance.

In Akasaka, there have been no notable changes, but since the other day, everyone has moved to the villa in Zushi, and the Katō family has also all gone to Okitsu, leaving Tokyo quite deserted. Nurse Iku has accompanied us to Zushi and continues her duties without incident. When I conveyed your kind message, she herself shed tears of joy; I humbly ask that you please accept her deepest gratitude. Now that I reflect upon myself, I deeply regret my past negligence in various studies. Though Father always admonished me that household management is a woman’s foremost duty—and since residing at home, I resolved to devote myself earnestly to this—my shallow woman’s mind led me to idly assume such matters could always be attended to later. Thus, I find myself now distressed by countless realizations: had I but learned that skill then, or remembered this task now. Even your kind instruction regarding English studies has been something I strive to pursue with utmost determination. Yet if I were to sit perpetually at my desk, I fear it might displease Honorable Mother-in-law’s sensibilities. For the time being, I shall first and foremost apply myself to mastering domestic affairs. I humbly beg your gracious understanding in this matter.

Though it shames me deeply to confess this weakness, when these feelings seize me—when loneliness and sorrow leave no refuge—I find myself yearning with unbearable urgency to see you again, so desperately that were wings mine, I would fly to your side this very instant. Each night I take out your photograph and the image of your warship, gazing until my eyes grow dim. Though at school I heedlessly overlooked world geography, now I retrieve long-discarded maps and trace with my pencil where your vessel might be today—here? Or here tomorrow? Ah, had I been born male, I might have become a sailor to remain ever at your side! Such futile fancies arise unbidden, and though I chastise myself for them, still I sink daily into these broodings. Even weather reports in newspapers—which I never glanced at before—now consume me; though knowing full well you sail far from these winds, whenever storms are warned, my heart grows heavy with dread. Oh please—I implore you—guard your precious health above all else… (text omitted)

From Nami Dearest

Takeo-sama

～～～～～～～～～～ (Text omitted) Lately, night after night, your figure has entered my dreams, and truly, each day feels like a thousand autumns as I endure this longing. Last night too, we were together on your warship gathering bracken ferns in Ikaho when suddenly someone stepped between us—your figure grew distant, and seeing myself fall from the ship into nightmare’s grip, I was awakened by Honorable Mother-in-law; thus did I barely calm my trembling heart. Though I know these are but foolish complaints, somehow they weigh upon me, and all the more does your return feel agonizingly distant. With nothing else to cling to, I gaze each day upon the eastern skies awaiting your homecoming. Though I cannot say whether this letter might miss you en route, I send it to be held in Honolulu, Hawaii. (Text omitted)

October，From Nami

Beloved, beloved, beloved

Takeo-sama

To You

Middle Volume

1-1

Glancing from within the kotatsu at the alcove clock that had just struck eight o'clock in the evening, the Kawashima widow— “Eight o’clock—they ought to be back by now, but…”

Muttering this, she languidly extended her plump hand, pulled the tobacco tray closer, took two or three puffs in quick succession, and pricked up her ears. Even in Yamanote, during the New Year nights when carriages came and went in all directions, the neighboring house seemed to host a lottery drawing—the voices of young men and women whispered incessantly, and bursts of laughter rang out so clearly they might have been cupped in one’s hand. The widow clicked her tongue. “What are they up to?” “Tsk.” “Whenever we go to Akasaka, it’s always like that… Takeo being Takeo, Nami being Nami, and her family being her family.” “Young people these days are impossible with this!”

Attempting to adjust her knees, she inadvertently aggravated her rheumatic pain—*ow, ow*—and with a pained grimace, struck the edge of the tobacco tray in a fit of temper before shouting shrilly, “Matsu! Matsu!” to summon the maid.

At that moment, a hearty “Welcome home!” rang out belatedly as two carriages rattled through the gate. The maid—her New Year’s finery’s hem trampled open as she rushed in—clasped her hands and asked, “Your orders?” only to be scolded with “Quit dawdling! Hurry to the main entrance!” Flustered, she retreated; and in her place— “Mother, I’m home.” Following Takeo, who entered with a dignified voice that seemed to clear the way as he removed his gloves, Namiko handed her coat and Azuma coat to the maid before demurely taking her seat beside her husband and folding her hands.

“Mother, you’ve prepared so much.” “Ohhh, you’re back.” “You took your sweet time, didn’t you?” “Well, today—you see—we stopped by the Katōs’, and since it was right on the way to Akasaka, they suggested we all go together. So Mr. Katō, Auntie, Chizuko-san too—five of us in total—ended up going out.” “In Akasaka too, there was such delight—fortunately no other guests were about—and the conversation grew so lively that we stayed late without realizing. Ah, I’m drunk!” He pressed his cheeks—now flushed like ripe peaches—and gulped down the tea the maid had brought in one breath.

“Is that so? It was quite lively and pleasant. Everything’s still the same in Akasaka too, right, Nami?” “Yes, I must convey their kind regards—though I have yet to pay my respects… We were given various gifts, for which I offer my deepest gratitude.”

“Speaking of souvenirs, Nami—that… yes, this one, this one!” Takeo took the tray that Namiko was offering, passed it along, and set it before his mother. On the tray were a pair of green pheasants and a heap of snipe and quail. “Are these from the hunt? What a bounty—they’ll make quite the feast.” “Well, Mother, I hear this time it was an exceptionally big hunt—they ended up returning on New Year’s Eve itself. They were just about to have it brought over today. They say wild boar will come tomorrow as well—”

“Wild boar? —Were they able to catch any?” “I was indeed three years his senior once, Nami.” “He’d always been so vigorous from way back.” “Oh come now, Mother! They say he camped out two or three nights this time too—keeping a bonfire going in those mountains.” “Still swears he won’t let youngsters outdo him—puffs up like a rooster about it.” “That’s how it goes—not like me with this rheumatism acting up.” “A body’s worst enemy’s its own ailments.—My stars, nearly nine already.” “Go change your clothes and rest.” “Oh—and today now—” “Chijiwa came—”

Takeo, who had begun to rise, changed his expression to one of visible unease, and Namiko too suddenly pricked up her ears.

“Chijiwa?” “It seemed he had some business with you—” Takeo paused briefly. “I see. I also have… urgent… business with him. Tell me, Mother—while I was away, he didn’t come to borrow money or anything like that, did he?” “Why? —There’s no such thing— Why do you ask?”

“Well—I’ve heard a few things myself—so I’ll meet him sooner or later—”

“Oh right—and then that Yamaki came.” “Hah—that Yamaki fool?”

“That one came and—oh right—on the tenth, he’s hosting a feast, so he insists you must come.” “He’s such a nuisance.” “Go and oblige him.” “You should remember your father’s debt, shouldn’t you?” “But―” “Oh, don’t say that—just go and oblige him. Well then, I suppose I should retire.”

“Well then, Mother, good night.” “Well then, Mother, I shall go change now.” The young couple passed through to the parlor together. With the maid assisting her, Namiko removed her husband’s Western suit and draped him in a two-layered padded garment of Ryukyu silk. Takeo casually tied his white crepe heko sash high at his waist and settled into the armchair. Brushing dust from the Western clothes and hanging them on the clothes rack in the adjoining room, Namiko instructed the maid to prepare tea before entering her husband’s parlor.

“You must be exhausted, dear.” Blowing blue cigar smoke, Takeo—who had been reviewing the New Year’s cards and name cards that arrived that day—abruptly looked up, “You must be exhausted, Nami-san—how beautiful!”

“Huh?” “I mean my beautiful bride.” “Oh, no—saying such things!” Her face flushed crimson; averting her eyes from the lamp’s harsh light, her normally pale, almost bluish-white complexion now softly tinged cherry-blossom pink, her glossy marumage hairstyle shone like a mirror. In her wave-and-plover-patterned kimono hem, layered black kimono with a pale tea-colored maru obi of seven silk threads, and jasper-carved forget-me-not brooch at her collar (which Takeo had brought back from America this time), her figure stood radiant in the lamplight—a blend of four parts shyness and six parts smile—and Takeo, though she was his own wife, could not help but marvel at her beauty.

“When you change into your kimono like this, Nami-san, I still think of you as the bride who just arrived yesterday.” “Oh, no—if you say such things, I’ll run away!” “Ha ha ha ha—I won’t say it anymore, I won’t.” “You don’t have to run away like that, you know.” “Ohoho, I shall go change now.”

Part One of Two

Takeo had set out on an overseas voyage shortly after their wedding at the beginning of last summer and was supposed to return in autumn, but upon arriving in San Francisco, an issue arose requiring repairs to the machinery, causing him to miss his scheduled return and only arrive back in Japan at the end of the old year. On this third day of the New Year, he accompanied Namiko from the Katō family to her parents’ home, combining it with New Year’s greetings.

Takeo’s mother, being old-fashioned and rather averse to Western ways, would never have imagined sleeping on a bed or eating with a spoon. Yet even she had granted her young master some extraterritorial privileges in his ten-mat parlor—a space one might call a blend of Japanese and Western styles. Over tatami mats lay a green carpet; a table with two or three chairs stood nearby, while a Chinese-style landscape painting adorned the alcove wall. In the lintel space hung a portrait of his late father Tōtake, while an unopened book chest and a shelf of foreign volumes were banished to a corner. Dominating the main alcove was his father’s cherished Bizen Kagemitsu sword, its blade gleaming. On a staggered shelf sat an officer’s cap and binoculars; against the alcove pillar leaned a dagger. Among the numerous photo frames hung in rows were those of the warship he had served aboard, while those showing a great many young men in uniform were likely from his time at Etajima. On the table as well were displayed a few photographs. In one, his parents sat side by side, while a five- or six-year-old boy leaning against his father’s knee was a memento of Takeo’s childhood. The cabinet card solo portrait in military uniform was that of his father-in-law, Lieutenant General Kataoka. Though the master was young and rough-mannered, his study stood in immaculate order—not a speck of dust lingered in any corner—and what’s more, a branch or two of early-blooming plum arranged with exquisite taste in an old bronze vase demonstrated that a warm heart, meticulous care, and seasoned hands frequented this room. Indeed, the master, bathing in the fragrance of plum blossoms beneath the bronze vase, smiled within the heart-shaped silver photo frame. The lamplight illuminated every corner of the room without exception, and the charcoal fire in the brazier cast a reddish-purple flame upon the green carpet.

Though the world held countless forms of pleasure, few compared to this: returning safely from a long journey, exchanging travel-worn garments for the comfort of everyday clothes, stretching one’s legs before the parlor hearth while listening to the night storm howling beyond the window—and hearing the familiar creak of a clock. This was joy perfected. How much more so with Mother hale and hearty and his new bride all the more beloved! Inhaling the fragrant aroma of his cigar and rapturously settling his body into the armchair’s comfort, Takeo now partook in this very pleasure.

The sole shadow was the name of Chijiwa Yasuhiko, heard earlier from his mother and now seen among the visiting cards. Today Takeo had heard abominable things concerning Chijiwa. It was said that on a certain day last December, someone had sent a postcard addressed to Chijiwa at the General Staff Office where he worked. At the time, Chijiwa happened to be absent, and a colleague—without particular intent—had glanced at it, only to find it was a loan demand from a notorious moneylender, with the amount and terms conspicuously written in red ink. Not only that, but confidential information from the General Staff Office had occasionally leaked through unexpected channels, allowing speculators to profit. Moreover, there were those who had seen Chijiwa at an improper stock exchange. In any case, since a cloud of various suspicions had descended upon Chijiwa, it was none other than Lieutenant General Kataoka—his father-in-law, who was on familiar terms with a certain general heading the General Staff Office—who had advised that Chijiwa must now exercise caution and discipline himself.

“He’s such a troublesome man.” After muttering to himself in this way, Takeo stared once more at Chijiwa’s calling card. Moreover, Takeo in his current state could not long remain constrained by unpleasantness. Having resolved there was no need to confront him directly just yet—his heart already returning to its present joy—Namiko entered the room beaming with a pot of tea she had prepared herself after changing clothes.

“Oh, black tea! This is most welcome.” Leaving his chair, he sat cross-legged by the brazier, “Where’s Mother?” “She has retired for the evening.” While urging him to drink the hot tea and gazing at her husband’s flushed face, she asked, “Are you suffering from a headache? Even though you can’t drink alcohol, since Mother insists on it so much,”

“Oh, it’s nothing—today was truly enjoyable, Nami-san. Since Father-in-law’s stories were so engaging, I ended up overindulging in liquor I usually avoid. Ha ha ha ha, you really do have a wonderful dad, Nami-san!” Namiko smiled warmly and cast a fleeting glance at Takeo’s face. “Moreover, you—” “Huh? What’s that?” With an exaggerated look of surprise, Takeo deliberately widened his eyes. “I wouldn’t know, ohoho.” Her face flushed crimson; she looked down and twisted her ring.

“Well now, this is quite something! When did you become so good at flattery, Nami-san? In that case, even collar stays would be cheap by comparison! Ha ha ha ha!” She pressed her cheeks—now flushed a rosy hue—against the palm she held over the brazier. Letting out a small sigh, “Truly... Mother must have been so terribly lonely all this time. When I think you’ll soon have to return to duty, I can hardly bear how quickly the days pass.”

“If you were to stay cooped up inside all the time, by the third day even you’d have to say, ‘Won’t you go out for a bit of exercise?’ now, wouldn’t you?” “Oh! Such words—would you like another cup?”

Taking a sip of the black tea she had poured and offered, he gently tapped the ash from his cigar against the rim of the brazier and glanced contentedly around the room, “After being rocked in a hammock for over half a year, coming home to a ten-mat room that’s so spacious it feels wasteful—everything’s just perfect, like paradise itself, Nami. Ah, it’s almost like we’re having a second honeymoon.” Indeed, these days—now reunited after six months apart so soon after their wedding—were like repeating the newlywed days of yore; they felt as though they had been transported back to that New Year’s moment.

Their conversation ceased for a time. The two of them sat entranced, doing nothing but smile at each other. The plum fragrance drifted faintly around where they sat facing one another by the brazier.

Namiko raised her face as if suddenly remembering. “Are you going to Yamaki’s?” “Yamaki? Well, since Mother insists on it—I suppose I have no choice but to go.” “Hoho, I would like to go as well.” “Of course you should go—let’s go together.” “Hohoho, let’s not.”

“Why?” “It’s frightening, you see.” “Scary? What’s scary?”

“Because I’m resented, hohoho.” “Resented? Resent *you*, Nami-san?” “Hohoho, there *is* someone who resents me… Miss Otoyo…” “Ha ha ha—what nonsense! That foolish girl’s hopeless, Nami-san. Who’d ever take someone like her? Ha ha ha.” “Mother said since Chijiwa associates closely with Yamaki, he ought to take Otoyo as his wife.”

“Chijiwa?—Chijiwa?—That man’s nothing but trouble.” “I knew he was cunning, but I never thought he’d face such accusations.” “No—military men these days, myself included—we’re truly despicable.” “Not a shred of samurai honor remains—they’re all chasing wealth.” “Not that I believe officers must live in poverty, mind you.” “Trimming wasteful expenses, building lasting assets, securing your household against emergencies—that’s only sensible.” “Right, Nami-san?” “But when those who claim to be the nation’s defenders—loan-sharking on the side, pilfering soldiers’ rations, colluding with contractors for dirty profits—isn’t that utterly indecent?” “And then there’s the gambling.” “Some of my own comrades skulk about doing it—makes my skin crawl.” “Those wretches today know only how to grovel to superiors and rob those below.”

Listening with rapt attention to the still-inexperienced naval lieutenant who raged against imaginary foes before him, Namiko swelled with pride and admiration, wishing he might soon become Navy Minister or Chief of the Naval General Staff to reform the entire service. "That must truly be so, wouldn't you agree?" "Well... I don't know all the particulars myself, but when Father served as minister, people would come bearing all manner of requests... and gifts." "Father considered such dealings strictly forbidden. He'd say what could be done would be done without asking, and what couldn't remain undone even if begged—yet still they came time and again, inventing pretexts to press their offerings." "And Father would laugh ruefully—'With this,' he'd jest, 'anyone would covet a government post!'"

“That’s right—the Army and Navy are no different. It’s a money-driven world, Nami-san—oh, it’s already ten o’clock?” Just then, as the grandfather clock chimed clearly, he glanced back at it. “How quickly time passes!”

Part Two, Chapter One

The residence of Heizō Yamaki in Shibazakura River Town was not exceptionally vast, yet it incorporated a section of Nishikubo Hill beyond the town’s edge. Within its garden lay pooled water and placed stones, paths winding through high ground and bridges spanning low, maples, cherries, pines, and bamboos artfully scattered about. Here stood stone lanterns; there, an Inari shrine; and deeper within, an unexpected gazebo—all so astonishing within these gates that one might marvel. Yet this garden was but a mirage of ill-gotten gold, amassed through vice and built through corruption by Yamaki himself.

The time was already past four in the afternoon, when the caws of evening crows could be heard near and far. Turning his back on the commotion in the banquet hall, a man in haori and hakama clattered up the faintly shadowed garden path in his wooden geta. This was Takeo. Unable to refuse his mother’s insistence, he had attended Yamaki’s banquet that day—yet seated among strangers and forced into unwelcome toasts, he found no pleasure in it. The various entertainments culminated in dubious shirabyōshi dances and the gathering’s descent into a raucous free-for-all—an utterly detestable affair—and though Takeo longed to depart at once, Yamaki’s persistent entreaties to stay—coupled with his own need to confront Chijiwa before the banquet’s climax—left him no choice but to remain. Stealing away from his seat, he wandered toward deserted paths, letting the cool evening breeze soothe his burning ears.

A few days after Takeo had returned home from receiving a warning about Chijiwa from his father-in-law Lieutenant General Kataoka, an unfamiliar man suddenly visited the Kawashima household carrying a crocodile-skin briefcase. He produced a document and demanded the unexpected repayment of three thousand yen. The borrower named on the document was none other than Yasuhiko Chijiwa—both in name and handwriting—while the guarantor’s name was unmistakably signed as Takeo Kawashima, and to top it all off, his registered seal was stamped upon it. According to the creditor’s account, the contractual deadline had already passed, yet the borrower had failed to meet his obligations; moreover, he had abruptly moved to an unknown location, and upon visiting his office, they learned he had been away on official duties for days. With no means to secure a meeting, they had no choice but to come here. The promissory note had followed proper procedures, and upon examining the exchanged letters they had produced, the handwriting was unmistakably Chijiwa’s. Startled by this unexpected development, Takeo inquired into the details, but neither his mother nor steward Tazaki recalled being involved in any such discussion or ever having lent their seals. Recalling rumors and piecing them together with these facts, Takeo deduced the gist of the matter. As it happened, that very day Chijiwa had sent a letter requesting to meet at Yamaki’s banquet the following day.

Chijiwa—whom Takeo had resolved to confront at first sight, to demand answers and speak his mind before promptly departing—had yet to arrive. Venting the churning grievances in his chest through cigar smoke, Takeo climbed the cliffside path, circled a thicket of pale bamboo, and paused at the ivy-shaded gazebo to sit awhile. Just then, from a side path to his left came the clatter of geta sandals—and there stood Otoyo. When he looked upon her elaborate Takashimada coiffure and three-layered wisteria crepe kimono adorned with pine-bamboo-plum motifs at the hem—the more resplendent her attire grew, the more glaringly its incongruities stood revealed—it seemed even she herself remained oblivious to how laughable she appeared. Her narrow eyes narrowed all the more,

“There you are!” Even if he could stand as a target for a thirty-centimeter cannon, Takeo—chilled by this unexpected enemy assault—pulled a sour face and began regrouping his forces to retreat, only to be hurriedly pursued. “You...”

“What is it?” “Father said I should guide you around and show you the garden.” “A guide? I don’t need a guide.” “But…” “I prefer to walk alone.” He thought repelling her so fiercely would drive away even the staunchest foe, yet undeterred, she clung to him relentlessly. “You needn’t run away like that.” Takeo did not so much as furrow his brows in bewilderment. The connection between Takeo and Otoyo dated back to when his father had governed a prefecture and Yamaki—her father—being under his jurisdiction, frequently visited their household. As children, they occasionally met; Takeo, then eleven or twelve, would often hit Otoyo until she cried, laughing as he did so, while she, still weeping, clung to him nonetheless. As years passed and people grew older—even now that Takeo had taken a new wife—Otoyo still harbored futile affection for the once-rowdy young master who now styled himself as Baron Kawashima. The brash naval officer, though not entirely unaware of this, had adopted a policy of steering clear of danger whenever visiting Yamaki on rare occasions. Yet today, to his dismay, he found himself ensnared in an ambush-like scheme with no means of escape.

“Running away?” “I have no reason to run away.” “I’ll go where I want to go.” “You’re being unreasonable!” Takeo found it all at once absurd, ridiculous, vexing, and infuriating. Each time he tried to leave, she blocked his path; each time he sought to escape, she clung to him tighter. In this pitiful spectacle unfolding in a secluded corner of the garden—a scene straight out of a tragic play—he suddenly hit upon an idea. “Has Chijiwa not arrived yet? Miss Otoyo, go check for me.”

“Mr. Chijiwa won’t come unless it’s sunset.” “Does Chijiwa come sometimes?” “Mr. Chijiwa came yesterday too—he and Father were talking late into the night in the inner sitting room.” “Hmm, I see—but he might have arrived already. Could you go check for me?” “I don’t want to!” “Why?!” “But you’ll just run off, won’t you? No matter how much I say I don’t want to—just because Namiko-san is beautiful, you shouldn’t push people away like that!”

Under a sky threatening rain yet withholding it should one lower their guard, Takeo—having exhausted every stratagem—was about to make his escape with great strides when—

“Young Lady, Young Lady!”

The maid called out as she approached and detained Otoyo. Seizing this moment, Takeo swiftly circled around the thicket, retreated twenty or thirty paces at a brisk walk, and let out a breath of relief. “What a troublesome woman.”

Muttering to himself, he headed toward the main house—an impregnable fortress where no second assault need be feared.

2-2

As the sun set and guests departed, leaving only the daytime commotion lingering in the kitchen quarters, Master Yamaki—having discarded his haori and hakama formal attire—entered the secluded inner sitting room via the corridor, unsteady footsteps carrying a tobacco tray. His bald forehead glistened all the more under the lamplight with steam seemingly about to rise from it as he slumped down like crumbling earth.

“Young Master, Mr. Chijiwa—my apologies for keeping you waiting.” “Hahaha! Thanks to you all, today’s gathering was a resounding success… But Young Master—you’re too soft—pardon my bluntness—too soft for a military man.” “A man of my stature? Now that was something!” “Though I’m getting on in years—Heizō Yamaki? Hahaha! A shō or so of sake’s no trouble at all!”

Chijiwa fixed his black crystal eyes on Yamaki. “You’re looking quite well, Mr. Yamaki. Business is booming, isn’t it?” “Profitable? Hahaha! Well, speaking of profits—” Yamaki finally lit his ash-covered pipe, took a drag, and continued: “You see, I’ve been quietly looking into that ○○○○ property they’re putting up for sale. Since the seller’s in a tight spot, we might settle for a surprisingly low price. The business prospects are looking extremely promising! As we gradually approach mixed residence in the interior, it’s getting quite intriguing—how about it, Young Master? Even under Mr. Tazaki’s name would do, so why not splurge twenty or thirty thousand yen? I’ll make sure you rake it in!”

His drunken words—unchanged from his true nature—flowed smoother than the liquor itself. Chijiwa cast a sidelong glance at Takeo sitting rigidly silent. “The ○○○○ in Aomono-cho, wasn’t it? I heard that venture turned quite profitable for a time.” “Ah yes—they botched what should’ve been easy gains,” said Yamaki. “But get it right, and it’ll be a goldmine!” “What a waste.” Chijiwa’s lips twisted in mock sympathy. “Not that a pauper like me can help matters. How about you shoulder this one, Takeo?” Takeo had sat motionless since first taking his seat, undisguised displeasure etched between his brows. Now his features contorted with visceral disgust as he fixed both men with eyes equally charged against schemer and profiteer alike.

“I appreciate your kindness, but someone like me—who could become fish food at any moment or a target for shrapnel and howitzer shells—has no need to make money.” “Forgive my bluntness, but rather than invest thirty thousand yen in that certain company or whatnot, I would sooner donate it to a seamen training fund.” Takeo’s face, having coldly declared—Chijiwa glanced sidelong at it and exchanged a look with Yamaki— “Mr. Yamaki, this may seem self-serving, but let’s set that aside for now and start with my matter.” “Since Mr. Kawashima has agreed, as requested earlier—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 a cloud of suspicion hung over Chijiwa. He had, since the previous year, exploited the conveniences of his position to act as both advisor and spy for Yamaki, not only sharing in the profits but also boldly diverting official funds in an attempt to seize a fortune in Kakigarachō—only to incur a loss of over five thousand yen in an instant. Having shaken down Yamaki and scraped the bottom of his savings to obtain two thousand yen, there still remained a three-thousand-yen shortfall. Though the Kawashima family—their sole relatives—were wealthy and not entirely ungenerous toward the widow, Chijiwa, who knew his aunt’s miserly nature that begrudged even a sigh when parting with money, discerned that pleading openly would never resolve matters. To temporarily patch over the crisis, he now committed the crime of forging Takeo’s joint seal, securing a high-interest loan of three thousand yen to obscure the traces of misused official funds. As the deadline loomed and matters reached the point where even his own government office began sending reminder postcards, he now had no choice but to persuade Takeo—who had just returned to Japan—to borrow these three thousand yen, repay those three thousand yen, and use Takeo’s own money to redeem Takeo’s name. Previously, he had visited Takeo but failed to meet him; afterward, having been away on official duty for two or three days, he was still unaware that the moneylender had already approached Takeo’s household.

Yamaki nodded, rang the bell to have the seal paste box brought over, skimmed through the document, and—taking out his registered seal from his breast pocket—stamped it beneath his name as guarantor. Taking it up, Chijiwa placed it before Takeo, “Well then—the document’s right here. So when can you get the money?”

“The money is here with me.” “Here?—Enough with your jokes.” “I have it. Then—three thousand yen, I have indeed handed over.” From his pocket, he took out something wrapped in a sheet of paper and threw it before Chijiwa.

Picking it up in shock and flattening it out, Chijiwa’s face flushed crimson, then turned ashen. He gritted his teeth hard. He now beheld before his very eyes the document he had been utterly convinced was still in the moneylender’s possession. After having Tazaki investigate the matter, Takeo had finally paid the suspiciously named three thousand yen. “No, this is—”

“Have you no recollection?” “Face your crime like a man.” Chijiwa—who had until now dismissed Takeo as a mere child—found himself thoroughly outwitted, his chest ablaze with indignation and resentment as he bit his lip to stifle a curse. Yamaki stared slack-jawed at their faces, his pipe drooping forgotten in his hand.

“Chijiwa, I’ve nothing more to say. For our kinship’s sake, I’ll never sue over the forged seal. The three thousand’s paid—the moneylender’s postcards won’t reach the General Staff Office. Rest assured.” Utterly humiliated, Chijiwa rubbed his seething chest. Though fury urged him to lunge at Takeo, his mind retained just enough clarity to recognize excuses were futile. He abruptly shifted his demeanor.

“No—when you put it that way, I’m mortified—truly, there was no way out—” “What do you mean ‘no way out’? Where in this world does one need to sink to borrowing usurious loans—becoming not merely a moral reprobate but an outright criminal?”

“Now hear me out,” “The truth is—it was a pressing matter. I needed money but had nowhere to borrow.” “Had you been here, I would’ve consulted you without hesitation—but you know how difficult it’d be to bring this up with Auntie.” “Even so—it was urgent—I felt wretched about it—truly wretched—but last month I actually had some prospects, so I thought I’d confess everything after settling it all—” “Don’t talk nonsense.” “If you truly meant to confess honestly, why try to secretly borrow another three thousand yen?”

As Takeo leaned forward with a fierce glare, Yamaki hurriedly— “Now, now, Young Master, please calm down—I may not know all the details, but it’s only two or three thousand yen, and considering you’re family—surely you can overlook this—eh, Young Master?” “Mr. Chijiwa is in the wrong, terribly wrong—but please, Young Master.” “If this matter becomes public, Mr. Chijiwa’s career will end here.” “Eh—Young Master.” “That’s why I’ve paid the three thousand yen—I’m telling you I won’t file a lawsuit or anything.” “Yamaki—this doesn’t concern you; stay out of it.—I won’t [take legal action], but as of today, we’re through.”

Now that matters had reached this point and there was nothing left to fear, Chijiwa—having steeled his resolve—shifted his demeanor back to mockery. “Severing ties?—Not that I’m particularly sad about it—” Takeo’s eyes flashed like flames. “I don’t care if *you* cut ties—but now *you’re* demanding *I* pay up?” “Coward!” “What?” Yamaki—whose drunkenness had partly sobered under the escalating fury of both parties—could no longer endure it. He stepped between them, urgently mediating: “Young Master! Mr. Chijiwa! N-now, now, now—calm yourselves! At this rate, nothing will be resolved!—Here now, wait—now, now, wait!” as he busily patched this way and smoothed that.

Restrained and momentarily silent, Takeo stared fixedly at Chijiwa’s face. “Chijiwa, I have nothing more to say. “Since childhood, I grew up with you like brothers, and in truth, I considered you my elder both in talent and age. “I had thought that from now on we would support each other—that I would do my utmost for you as well. “In truth, until now I had utterly believed such a thing unthinkable. “But I was truly betrayed for your sake—selling me out may be one man’s affair, but you’ve gone even beyond that—no, I won’t say more. I won’t ask how you spent the three thousand yen. “But for the sake of our past bond, I’ll give you one last warning: people’s eyes and ears are swift—you’re being watched. Do not do anything that would disgrace a military man. “Since you think nothing matters more than money, there’s no point in arguing—but have some shame. “Then I won’t see you again. “The three thousand yen—I’ll give it to you again.”

With a stern declaration, Takeo took the documents before him and tore them to shreds, casting them aside. Abruptly standing up and moving toward the next room with such force, he knocked over Otoyo—a woman who had apparently been hiding there and eavesdropping since earlier. With a startled “Huh?!” left behind, his heavy footsteps thudded toward the entrance and departed. Yamaki and Chijiwa, left dumbfounded, exchanged glances. “Still the same spoiled young master, isn’t he?” “But Mr. Chijiwa—three thousand yen for severance pay was quite a nice profit.”

Staring at the scattered fragments of the torn documents, Chijiwa bit his lip in silence.

Part 3-1

In early February, Namiko had abruptly contracted a cold that once subsided, but after staying up late one night in her haste to finish her mother-in-law’s undergarments, it relapsed; now, on February 15th, she still did not feel well enough to rise from bed.

The cold of this year—though people habitually lamented each winter’s chill as “the coldest yet”—truly surpassed all memory. Day by day, the raging north wind pierced marrow and gnawed bone, even on days unaccompanied by snow or rain. The hale fell ill; the ill perished; newspaper columns swelled with black-bordered notices. The unrelenting cold exacerbated Namiko’s incipient illness—though no distinct new symptoms arose—leaving her to pass day after day with a leaden head and appetite lost.

After the clock struck two with a crisp resonance as if a cicada were crying out, all sound ceased for a time, and only the ticking seconds added to the stillness. The unseasonably radiant sky of early spring, stretching in pale azure, was partitioned by four paper screens; yet the leisurely sunlight suffused every corner of the translucent barriers. The excess light filtered through the paper to dance and flicker upon Namiko’s fingertips—knitting black Scotch socks as she lay gazing upward—and upon her disheveled hair drifting across a pillow whiter than snow. On the left shoji screen, the spindly shadow of a nanten plant draped over the basin, its reflection hanging downward; on the right, the gnarled branches of an old plum tree intersected vividly—though their sparse buds were few enough to count, one could perceive spring’s early arrival. Perhaps drawn by the southern veranda’s warmth, the shadow of a cat’s head appeared upon the waistboard. A winged insect, roused by the day’s unseasonable heat, leapt toward it—only to miss its mark and fall with a thud—yet the cat continued licking its paw as if it hadn’t a care in the world, its shadowed head nodding repeatedly all the while. Namiko, smiling as she watched this scene, furrowed her brows at the glare of the sun, closed her eyes, and drifted into a reverie; then, presently, she turned onto her side, smoothing the half-knitted sock as she tested it, and once more began moving her needles to and fro.

Heavy footsteps thudded along the veranda as a squat, guardian-like shadow traced its way across the shoji screen. “How are you feeling?”

And sitting by her pillow was her mother-in-law. “I’m feeling much better today.” “I can get up, but――” Setting aside her knitting and smoothing her disheveled collar, she attempted to rise, but her mother-in-law restrained her, “N-no, that won’t do—that won’t do! “We ain’t strangers—no need for formalities!” “N-now, n-now—knittin’ again! That ain’t good.” “A patient’s job is restin’, right, Nami?” “Wame here—when Takeo’s business comes up, she forgets everythin’.” “That won’t do.” “You’ve gotta rest up quick—”

“I’m truly sorry—doing nothing but resting like this…” “Th-that’s bein’ too formal, I tell ya.” “I just can’t stand that!” She was lying—this woman who constantly grumbled about modern brides showing insufficient respect to their in-laws. Did she not secretly count herself fortunate that her daughter-in-law’s conduct differed from theirs?

Ever since her days in her family home, though she never spoke of it aloud, Namiko had secretly harbored dissatisfaction with her stepmother’s thoroughly Westernized briskness; in matters of household decorum, she naturally possessed an old-fashioned refinement. The mother-in-law, as if suddenly recalling something, “Oh, seems a letter came from Takeo—what’d he write?”

Namiko pulled out a letter from among those placed by her pillow and handed it to her mother-in-law as she...

“He is sure to come this Sunday.” “Is that so?” After reading through it, she neatly rolled up the letter. “Change of climate for recovery ain’t worth a thing. “Try movin’ yer body a bit in this cold—that’s how even healthy folks end up sick.” “A cold’ll heal right up if ya stay in bed.” “Takeo’s young.” “He’s makin’ such a fuss—changin’ doctors and pushin’ for some climate cure.” “When we were young, we never stayed abed with a stomachache—why, after childbirth, we didn’t rest ten days!” “As society advances, everyone just grows weaker, I tell ya.” “Ha ha ha!” “I’d told Takeo to write that—‘Since his mother’s here, he shouldn’t go worryin’!’ Ha ha ha ha! Well then—”

Though her mouth laughed, her eyes bore a somewhat displeased hue—the retreating figure of the mother-in-law,

“Pray excuse me.”

Sitting up to see her off, Namiko let out a faint sigh.

Though the idea of a parent envying their child seemed unthinkable, since her husband’s return, Namiko had sensed an unfamiliar tension rising between herself and her mother-in-law. When Takeo came back from his long voyage and saw how gaunt she had grown, even his rough masculine sensibilities grasped the toll his absence had taken—and his increased solicitude only made the mother-in-law’s bitter resentment more apparent to Namiko’s keen eyes. At times, she privately agonized over how filial piety—as her mother-in-law defined it—and the path of love diverged into roads that could not be walked together.

“Madam, Lady Katō’s young lady has come to visit.”

At the maidservant’s call, Namiko snapped her eyes open. Joy rose instantly to her brow even before she could fully see the entering guest. “Oh, Chizuru! You’ve come!” 3-2 “How are you today?” Pushing aside her wisteria-colored crepe hood and drawstring cloth bag, the girl who approached Namiko’s bedside—seventeen or eighteen years old, wearing her hair in the Shimada style—had her slender figure wrapped in a navy twill coat. With gentle crescent eyebrows and dignified dark-lidded eyes, she radiated an air of crisp composure. The eldest daughter of Namiko’s aunt, Viscountess Katō—the one called Chizuru—was this girl. Namiko and Chizuru were first cousins with a one-year age difference. From the time they attended kindergarten, they had been so close that even real siblings could not compare—there were times when Namiko made her sister Komako say, “Sis only ever gets along with Chizuru—I hate it!” Thus, even after Namiko married into the Kawashima household, while her other classmates naturally kept their distance, Chizuru—on the contrary, delighted in its proximity—frequently came to visit. During Takeo’s absence on his long voyage, what consoled Namiko—whose heart was desolate with many sorrows—aside from Takeo’s impassioned letters, were Chizuru’s frequent visits.

Namiko smiled. “Today I’m feeling much better, but my head still feels heavy, and I’m troubled by this occasional cough.” “Oh? —It’s cold, isn’t it.” After briefly glancing at the maidservant who had respectfully presented a floor cushion, she sat down close beside Namiko. Holding her hand adorned with a glittering ring over the paulownia brazier, she pressed her cheek flushed with a rosy hue. “How are Auntie and Uncle?” “Oh, they’re doing well.” “They’re terribly worried because it’s so cold—and given the season, they said if you feel even a bit better, you should go to Zushi for a change of climate. Just last evening, Mother and I were discussing it.”

“Oh?” “They also said the same thing from Yokosuka…” “From your husband?” “Is that so?” “Then you should move to a different climate soon.” “But I’m sure I’ll get better soon enough.” “But you really must be careful with the colds going around these days.”

Just then, the maid brought black tea and offered it to Chizuru. “Kane?” “Where is Mother?” “A guest?” “Yes—who is it?” “Are they from the country?” “O-Chizuru, you’ll stay awhile today, won’t you?” “Kane, prepare something nice for O-Chizuru.” “Hohohoho! Since I’m making my hundredth visit, I can’t possibly keep accepting all these treats.” “Wait a moment!” Saying this, she took out a small cloth-wrapped bundle and said, “Auntie here loves ohagi, doesn’t she? There’s only a little, but—we’ll save those for later.”

“Oh, thank you. Truly…… thank you so much.” Chizuru took out red tangerines as she said, “Isn’t it lovely? This is my gift.” “But they’re too sour to be any good.” “How lovely! Please peel one for me.”

As Chizuru peeled and handed it to her, she eagerly sucked it up, brushing back the hair spilling onto her forehead again and again. “Your hair must be bothersome like this. “Wouldn’t it be better to tie it up loosely?” “Here, let me just tie it up for you.” “—It’s fine as it is.”

Retrieving a comb from the mirror stand in the adjoining room she knew well, Chizuru began to gently comb her hair. “Oh right! Yesterday’s class reunion—you did get the invitation, didn’t you—was quite lively, I tell you.” “Everyone sends their regards, you know?” “Hohohoho! It’s only been a year since we left school, yet San-ichi is already married!” “It’s so strange—Ms. Okubo, Ms. Honda, and Ms. Kitakoji have all tied their hair in marumage, and they look oddly like proper married ladies—it’s just hilarious!” “Does it hurt?” “Hohohoho! I thought there’d be some interesting stories, but they were all just boasting about themselves!” “Oh yes—then the whole debate about living with in-laws started! Ms. Kitakoji insists living together is best because her mother-in-law dotes on her despite her being hopeless at housekeeping... while Ms. Okubo champions separate homes since hers nags constantly! How absurd!” “Then when I tried joining in, they said—‘O-Chizuru here’s still an outsider’—doesn’t that term sound odd?—‘so she can’t contribute.’ Don’t you think that was rather harsh?”

“No—that must have been quite amusing.” “Hohohoho! They all base things on their own experiences!” “Since situations differ case by case, one can’t make blanket statements, I suppose.” “Don’t you agree, Ms. Chizuru?” “Auntie once said something similar too, didn’t she?” “It’s true what they say—surround yourself only with youth and they’ll grow willful. We mustn’t treat our elders carelessly.”

Namiko, who had not only received teachings from her father, the Lieutenant General, but also naturally cultivated an interest in household management, had long harbored private convictions while observing her stepmother’s governance during her time in her parental home. Her belief that she would one day become the mistress of a household and skillfully order its affairs was no fleeting notion. However, when she came to the Kawashima family as a bride and saw that all affairs rested solely in the hands of the regent dowager—herself occupying the position of a crown princess who held the status but none of the authority—she temporarily restrained herself and stood under her mother-in-law’s dominion. At times when she found herself caught between parent and child, secretly lamenting her inability to devote herself fully to her husband as she wished, Namiko would occasionally doubt whether her stepmother’s cherished argument for parent-child separation—which she had once deemed incompatible with Japanese customs—might not contain some grain of truth after all. Yet paradoxically, this very suspicion only strengthened her resolve to hold fast to her original convictions.

Chizuru—who had spent ten years under her stepmother and was now nearing a year of experience by her mother-in-law’s side, yet still struggled to fully grasp her cousin’s hidden intentions—tied the ends of her tripartite hairstyle with a white ribbon, peered into Namiko’s face, and lowered her voice: “Are you still feeling unwell these days?” “But she’s been so kind to me since I fell ill.” “But… the fact that Takeo does so much for me—it’s troubling how Mother disapproves!” “So in this house, Mother reigns supreme as our empress—I’m constantly told I must value her above myself or anyone else…… Oh, let’s not speak of such things anymore.” “Oh, that feels wonderful. Thank you.” “My head feels lighter.”

While saying this, she tried stroking her hair that had been arranged into three parts. Indeed feeling fatigue, Namiko closed her eyes.

Putting away the comb and wiping her hands on paper, Chizuru stood before the mirror stand. She opened the lid of a small box and placed it on her palm. “No matter how many times I look at this collar clasp, it’s so beautiful.” “Your husband truly is so thoughtful.” “As for my brother-in-law—this Shunsuke fellow who’s set to become my adopted son-in-law and currently works at the Foreign Ministry—he keeps hounding me that to be a diplomat’s wife, I must master languages! ‘Study French,’ ‘German is absolutely essential’—it’s so tiresome!”

“Hohohoho! I can’t wait to see you in a marumage, Ms. Chizuru—though the Shimada style does have its charms.” “Oh, stop!”

Her beautiful brows furrowed, yet a betraying smile played upon lips like budding roses. “Oh, right! Hagiwara-san—she graduated a year before us—” “That would be the one who married into the Matsudaira family, wouldn’t it?” “Oh yes—I heard she was divorced yesterday!” “Divorced? What happened?” “Well... she was in her in-laws’ good graces, but Mr. Matsudaira took a dislike—” “Didn’t they have children?” “There was one child.” “But you see—Mr. Matsudaira started keeping mistresses and lovers recently, behaving so violently that Ms. Hagiwara’s father grew furious. He said he couldn’t leave his daughter with such a heartless man and finally took her back.”

“How pitiful! —Why would he dislike her? That’s truly cruel.” “It’s infuriating, isn’t it?—It’d be better if it were reversed, but even when favored by her in-laws, being despised by her husband and ending thus… how utterly unbearable it must be.”

Namiko let out a sigh. "Even though we went to the same school, sat in the same classrooms, and read the same books—look how we've all scattered like fallen leaves, with no way of knowing what will become of us.—Ms. Chizuru, let's always stay close and help each other in times to come, won't we?" "I'm so happy!"

Their hands naturally joined together. After a moment, Namiko smiled, "When I lie down like this, you know, I think about all sorts of things. Ohoho! Don’t laugh at me! In a few years from now—a war will break out with some foreign country, Japan will win—and then your brother-in-law will become the Foreign Minister and go over there to negotiate peace! Then Takeo will be the fleet’s commander-in-chief, lining up dozens of warships in their harbor…"

“Then Uncle Akasaka would be the army commander, and my father would have the House of Peers approve budgets of billions of yen…” “In that case, I’ll go out with you, Ms. Chizuru, holding up a Red Cross flag!” “But with this weak body, I couldn’t do it. Hohohoho!”

“Ohohoho!”

From beneath her laughter, Namiko suddenly coughed and clutched her right chest. "It must be because we talked too much." "Does your chest hurt?" "When I cough sometimes, it resonates here unbearably."

As she spoke, Namiko’s eyes gazed at the sunlight filtering through the shoji screens as it swiftly dimmed.

Part Four, Chapter One

A mere five days after Yamaki—having been thoroughly humiliated by Takeo in the inner parlor—returned to his lodgings while folding into his chest a resentment that burned like flames, Chijiwa was suddenly transferred from the General Staff Office to a regiment attached to the First Division.

In every person’s life, there comes a time—at least once—when all endeavors miss their mark, and one feels as though the heavens have singled them out for divine chastisement raining down lash after lash without respite—a period known as "adding insult to injury." Since last year, Chijiwa had steered his boat into these treacherous straits, yet even now he could discern no clear passage through them. Namiko had already been taken by Takeo. Whenever he ventured into speculation, he met repeated failures; whenever he borrowed at exorbitant interest, he suffered disgrace; and he had been humiliated like a base commoner by Takeo—whom he had dismissed as a mere child—severing his last familial connection to the Kawashima house. In the end, even his position in the General Staff Office—that sole shortcut to advancement which he had vowed never to relinquish even in death—had been stripped from him without so much as a word of notice, reducing him to an officer in a division he had until now regarded as no better than cattle or horses. With his wounded leg rendering protest impossible, Chijiwa shamelessly clung to the stench of horse dung rather than resist as he complied with drills and marches. Yet this blow struck him so profoundly that even he—who had always faced adversity unflustered, maintaining a calm sense of self—now felt fury more violent than raging flames surging upward from the pit of his being whenever he reflected on all that had transpired.

At the very moment when Chijiwa had set foot upon the ladder of advancement—that ladder he was certain would lead him to grasp the glittering crown of fame and profit—and had already climbed a step or two, he was suddenly kicked down to his present state. Who had kicked him down? From Takeo’s passing remarks and the fact that the general heading the General Staff Office shared an intimate friendship with Lieutenant General Kataoka, Chijiwa suspected that the lieutenant general had at least partially intervened. He also found it suspicious that Takeo—who had always been indifferent to money—had grown excessively angry over a mere three thousand yen, even accounting for the matter of the forged seal, and suspected that Namiko had dredged up past grievances to slander him to Takeo. The more he dwelled on it, the more his suspicions swelled into facts, and the facts fueled his raging fury. Resentment from his failed love, bitterness over setbacks in his pursuit of glory, disappointment, discontent, jealousy—all these malignant emotions rose like flames encircling Lieutenant General Kataoka, Namiko, and Takeo. Even Chijiwa, who had always prided himself on his cold intellect and laughed at the folly of those who grew heated with passion and forgot their calculations, now found his mind unhinged by relentless defeats. Unless he found an outlet to spew the venom festering within him—directed at whom, he knew not—he felt that his very self—Yasuhiko Chijiwa’s five-foot frame—would shatter into pieces.

Revenge, revenge—to suck the blood of those he deemed virtuous yet detestable in this world and savor the sensation of smacking his lips over a morsel of their flesh. Revenge, revenge—ah, how should he exact revenge? How could he discover an explosive pit to blast the detested Kataoka and Kawashima families—piled high with grievances—into smithereens? If only he could pull the string from a safe distance and, while gazing upon the spectacle of those he loathed—their hearts pierced, bowels torn, bones shattered, brains smeared—dying even as they lived, savor a drink in delight. This was the problem that had ceaselessly occupied Chijiwa’s mind day and night since January.

In mid-March, when plum blossoms scattered like snow, one day Chijiwa went to Shinbashi to welcome a certain old classmate with whom he had been closely acquainted—one who had been transferred from the Third Division to Tokyo. As he was leaving the waiting room, he happened to encounter a tall-statured woman leading a girl of fifteen or sixteen—emerging from the noblewoman’s waiting room. “What a rare pleasure this is!”

Accompanied by Komako, Shigeko Kataoka, the Viscountess, stood motionless. In an instant, Chijiwa’s complexion—having shifted upon reading her expression—underwent a complete transformation. Though he harbored resentment toward the Lieutenant General and Namiko, he had already determined that this woman at least need not be treated as an enemy. Chijiwa bowed with exaggerated deference, a smile playing on his lips. "I must apologize for neglecting to pay my respects." "You’ve been quite thorough in cutting me off, haven’t you?" "Not at all—I had every intention of calling upon you, but pressing duties kept me occupied—might I inquire where you’re bound today?"

“I’m just going to Zushi—and you?” “Oh, I’ve come to meet a friend—is Zushi for your recuperation?” “Oh, you weren’t aware yet? —We have a patient now.” “The patient? Who might that be?” “It’s 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.” Chijiwa promptly snatched the seasonal bag from the Viscountess’s hands and led them along as they walked.

“That is—what do you mean? Is her condition quite serious?” “Ah… It’s finally reached her lungs.” “Lungs? —Tuberculosis?” “Ah... She had a severe hemoptysis episode, so just the other day we took her to Zushi.” “Today’s just a visit.” As he spoke, Chijiwa took the seasonal bag from her hands. “Well then, goodbye. I’ll return shortly—do come for a visit sometime.” Watching the figures adorned with an opulent cashmere shawl and long hair tied with a crimson ribbon disappear into the distant first-class waiting room, as he turned to leave, a terrifying smile curled upon Chijiwa’s lips.

Part Four, Chapter Two

Each time the doctors visited, though they refrained from voicing it aloud, they acknowledged how her symptoms grew increasingly pronounced. Despite exhausting every means to arrest its progress, Namiko’s illness—though invisible to the eye—intensified day by day until, by early March, it had unmistakably entered the initial stage of tuberculosis. The mother-in-law—who had always flaunted her robust health to mock the frailty of modern youth and dismissed any talk of relocation—could not help but be alarmed when she now witnessed Namiko’s repeated hemoptysis firsthand. Upon hearing the terrifying risk of contagion, she finally relented and sent Namiko to her family’s villa in Zushi, Soshu Province—the Kataoka estate—accompanied by a nurse as the doctors recommended.

Tuberculosis!

The heart of a lone traveler standing on an endless plain, gazing up at the pitch-black storm clouds looming overhead—this was Namiko’s own heart, quivering as she awaited the inevitable approach of her illness. Now that the dreadful silence had shattered, she stood amid roaring thunder and flashing lightning, buffeted by howling gales and lashing rain, her sole desire to risk her life and break through the tempest’s suffocating siege. Yet how brutal that first assault had been! On March 2nd—a day she would never forget—Namiko had felt unusually well that morning. Seeking to revive her long-abandoned solace of flower arranging, she asked her husband—who had just returned home—to snap off a fragrant red plum branch for her mother-in-law’s vase. Sitting near the garden’s edge to select blossoms, she suddenly felt her chest constrict and her head swim. A crimson haze swirled before her eyes; before she knew it, she cried out and vomited bright red blood that seemed wrung from her very lungs—that moment! At that instant—as the thought *Ah, it’s come!* flashed through her—she glimpsed the distant shadow of her own grave emerging from nowhere.

Ah, death! There had been times when she viewed existence as bitter—when life held no joy and death no sorrow—but now that she understood the preciousness of human life, Namiko clung ever more fiercely to her own, yearning to live for a thousand generations. So wretched did she feel that her resolve to conquer her illness intensified; whenever her spirits flagged, she would rouse herself and tend to her condition with unrelenting diligence—urging even the physician himself when necessary. Though Takeo, stationed in nearby Yokosuka, stole moments to visit frequently; though letters from her father and visits from her aunt and Chizuko arrived without pause; though Nurse Iku—who had been dismissed from the Kawashima household last summer after long service—now returned to the villa, reuniting with Namiko in such a way that even the lamentable nature of her illness became a source of solace; still, Iku attended to her with redoubled devotion. The diligent old servant performed his duties with meticulous care. Having left behind the capital’s harsh spring chill to immerse herself in Shonan’s balmy air, Namiko absorbed each day the nurturing sunlight that cherished all living things and drew warmth from the human kindness surrounding her, until both her spirit and heart grew naturally unburdened. Two weeks had now passed since her relocation; her hemoptysis had ceased and her coughing somewhat abated. The physician who came twice weekly from Tokyo—though stopping short of declaring her cured—rejoiced that the disease showed no progression, conceding that if she could avoid severe mental agitation henceforth, maintain tranquility, and persist in her convalescence, hope of recovery remained.

Part Four, Chapter Three

Though the flowers of the capital were still a touch early, around Zushi, wild cherries had begun to bloom among mountains clad in young leaves, and peak after peak bore unbearably white clouds—it was the first Saturday of April. Today, from morning onward, a drizzling spring rain shrouded sea and mountains alike in monochrome mist—a day that already felt interminable grew longer still. Come evening, the drizzle swelled into a downpour; winds rose fiercely, rattling sliding doors with violent clamor, while Sagami Bay’s enraged waves roared like ten thousand galloping horses. The seaside village locked its doors tight, not a single lamplight spilling through.

At the Kataoka family villa, Takeo—who should have arrived early that day but had been unavoidably detained by official duties—came through the storm-darkened night. Now changed out of his wet clothes and having finished dinner, he leaned against the desk reading his letters. Facing him, Namiko sewed a beautiful pouch, pausing her needle at times to gaze at her husband and smile, then listening to the storm’s roar before sinking back into quiet contemplation. In her green hair styled in an *age-maki* updo, she had tucked a single wild cherry blossom with its leaves still attached. Between them stood a single-legged table where a peach-shaded lamp burned steadily, casting pale crimson light. Beside it, a branch of wild cherry blossoms arranged in a white porcelain vase remained silent as snow, uttering not a word. The blossom must have been dreaming of spring in its native mountains from which it had parted that morning.

The howling wind and rain swirled around the house, raging noisily. Takeo rolled up the letter. “Your father must be terribly worried. Since I’m returning to Tokyo tomorrow anyway, I’ll stop by Akasaka.” “You’re coming tomorrow? In this weather! —But your dear mother must be waiting for you as well. I want to go too!” “Nami-san!!! That’s absurd! I absolutely refuse to allow that! Just consider yourself in exile a little while longer. Ha ha ha ha!”

“Hohoho, if this is exile, I could endure even a lifetime of it—you, please have a cigarette.” “Do I look like I want some? Oh, let’s not. Instead, I’ll smoke two days’ worth on the day before coming and the day after returning.” “Ha ha ha ha ha!” “Hohoho, in that case, as a reward, I’ll bring some nice sweets now.” “That sounds delightful. That’s probably a souvenir from Miss Ochizuru—let me see, you’re making something splendid, aren’t you?”

“Lately the days have been so unbearably long that I thought I’d make something for Mother—but no, it’s all right. I’m just idling the time away.” “Ah, somehow I feel so refreshed. Do let me sit up a bit more—when I’m like this, I don’t seem ill at all, do I?” “Dr. Kawashima is here looking after you—ha ha ha ha!” “But truly, Nami-san’s complexion has improved lately.” “You’re already in our grasp now!”

At that moment, the elderly woman Iku emerged from the adjoining room, bearing a sweets bowl and tea tray in both hands. “What a dreadful tempest this is.” “If the Master weren’t here—oh Madam—I couldn’t sleep a wink tonight.” “The young lady from Iidamachi has returned to the capital—even her nurse went back temporarily—how desolate she must feel today, don’t you agree, Madam?” “Though old Shobei remains...” “How must those aboard ships fare on such a night?” “Yet those who wait ashore suffer greater anguish!”

“Nah,” said Takeo, finishing his tea and devouring two or three Chinese-style buns from Fūgetsu in one breath. “Nah, this storm’s still manageable. But if you hit a real tempest in the South China Sea—one that lasts two or three days—it’ll knock the wind outta you. When a four-thousand-some-ton warship tilts thirty or forty degrees, and mountain-like waves keep crashing over the deck, and the hull creaks and groans—it’s not exactly pleasant, you know.” The wind howled ever fiercer, and the rainstorm burst against the shutters like a barrage of pebbles. Namiko closed her eyes. Iku trembled.

The conversation among the three lapsed for a time, and only the sound of the wind and rain was fierce. “Alright, let’s put an end to this gloomy talk.” “On a night like this, let’s brighten up the lamp and have a cheerful talk.” “It’s warmer here than in Yokosuka, isn’t it? The wild cherry blossoms are already blooming like this.”

Namiko lightly stroked the cherry blossom petals arranged in the porcelain vase. “An old man brought these down from the mountains this morning. Aren’t they lovely? But with this rain and wind, those in the mountains must have scattered quite a bit. How truly noble they are! Oh yes—earlier in Rengetsu’s poems there was one like this: ‘How enviable—blooming freely as they please, then scattering so refreshingly, these cherry blossoms.’ Isn’t it beautifully composed?”

“What? “Scattering so refreshingly?” “I—well, I think we Japanese cherish things scattering too much, whether flowers or anything else. It’s fine as a pure ideal, but carried to extremes, it becomes unhealthy.” “In war too—dying quickly means defeat! We ought to encourage more stubbornness, tenacity... endurance.” “So I—ah well—composed this verse.” “Now listen—it’s my first attempt so laugh if you must—though folk may call it obstinate: ‘How joyous persists the double-flowered cherry’s bloom!’ Ha ha ha! ‘Nashimoto Barefoot’ indeed!”

“My, what an amusing poem that was, don’t you think, Madam?” “Ha ha ha ha! With Nurse’s seal of approval, this one’s officially a masterpiece now!”

As their conversation lulled once more, the howling wind and rain grew even more intense, the roar of the waves joining in until the house resembled a boat adrift on a vast sea. Iku stood to refill the iron kettle with hot water. Namiko held up the thermometer she had been using to the lamplight, examining it briefly through the light. With an expression of modest triumph, she showed her husband that tonight's fever had not risen as high as usual before slipping the instrument back into its case. For a time, she gazed absently at the cherry blossoms on the table—then suddenly smiled.

“It’s already been a year, hasn’t it? I remember it so clearly—when we departed by carriage and the family came out to see us off, I wanted to say something but simply couldn’t find the words.” “Ohohoho.” “Then when we crossed Tameike Bridge, the sun had already set—it was the fifteenth night, you see—and a perfectly round moon rose. As we climbed that Sannō Slope during peak cherry blossom season, petals came fluttering through the carriage window like a veritable snowstorm! Hohoho! When we were about to alight, Aunt noticed blossoms caught in my hair and plucked them out for me.”

Takeo rested his cheek on the table. “A year’s already passed—how 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! It’s still so funny to remember! How on earth did you maintain such poise?” “But hohohoho—you were keeping up such proper composure yourself as the young master,” Namiko countered. “Hohohoho—my hands shook so terribly I couldn’t hold the sake cup at all!” “My, how lively it’s become!” Iku reentered beaming with the iron kettle. “This old woman hasn’t felt so refreshed in ages. When we’re all together like this, it feels just like our time in Ikaho last year.”

“Ikaho was so wonderful!” “How about that bracken hunting? A certain someone’s legs were rather heavy, weren’t they?” “But you rush too much, you know,” Namiko smiled.

“It’ll soon be bracken season. Nami, get better soon so we can have another bracken-hunting competition!” “Hohoho, I’ll surely be better by then.”

4-4

The following day dawned with astonishingly fine weather, standing in stark contrast to last night’s tempest.

Having decided to return to Tokyo in the afternoon, and aiming to take exercise during the warm, windless morning hours, Takeo took Namiko with him, passing through the Harahara Pine sand dunes from the villa’s back entrance until they emerged onto the beach. “What lovely weather! I never imagined it would turn out this nice, did you?” “It’s truly fine weather. Doesn’t Izu look close enough that we could almost have a conversation?” They stepped onto the parched sand, leaving behind fishermen busily hauling in their nets during today’s calm and children gathering shells, then walked along the crescent-shaped beach toward increasingly deserted stretches.

As if suddenly remembering something, Namiko said, “Say, you… that—how is Mr. Chijiwa doing?”

“Chijiwa? He’s an utterly unscrupulous bastard. Haven’t seen him once since then—why do you ask?” Namiko paused briefly. “No… you know, this may sound strange, but I had a dream about Mr. Chijiwa last night.” “A dream about Chijiwa?”

“Well… “I had a dream where Mr. Chijiwa was talking with Mother about something.” “Ha ha ha ha! That’s quite something! What were they talking about?” “I don’t know what they were discussing, but Mother kept nodding repeatedly.” “Since Miss Ochizuru mentioned having seen that person and Mr. Yamaki walking together, I must have had such a dream.” “Say… you… Mr. Chijiwa wouldn’t be coming around our house, would he?”

“That’s not possible—it shouldn’t be possible. Mother’s furious about Chijiwa too, you know.”

Namiko involuntarily let out a sigh.

“Truly, having fallen ill like this, Mother must surely find me disagreeable, don’t you think?”

Takeo felt a sudden pang in his chest. Though unspoken to his ailing wife, since Namiko had fallen ill, each time Takeo returned to Tokyo his mother’s disposition had grown increasingly sour; admonished to avoid Zushi altogether for fear of contagion, their indirect complaints escalated into slander against her natal family, and when he dared even slightly to mediate matters by defending his wife against his parent’s ire, he was denounced as a reprobate—incidents that had occurred more than once or twice.

“Ha ha ha ha! You worry about all sorts of things, Nami. There’s no way that would happen! Focus on recovering properly, and come spring I’ll arrange leave—the three of us can go see Yoshino’s cherry blossoms or something—Ah! We’ve already come this far. You must be tired. Shouldn’t we start heading back soon?”

The two stood where the beach ended and the mountains began. “Let’s go all the way to Fudō Falls, okay?—No, I’m not tired at all.” “I could even make it all the way to the West!”

“Alright then, give me that shawl. The rocks are slippery—here, hold on tight!” Takeo helped Namiko along a narrow path winding through rocks at the mountain’s base, pausing frequently to rest as they walked a little over one *cho*, until they reached beneath the Shara-shara Falls where water whispered down. Beside the waterfall stood a small Fudō hall. Five or six spindly pine trees stretched from the cliffside, leaning diagonally toward the sea. Takeo swept debris from a rock, spread the shawl for Namiko to sit on, then settled beside her and hugged his knees. “What perfect stillness!”

The sea was indeed calm. The midday sky stretched cerulean clear to the zenith without a cloud; the azure sea shimmered white here and there like kneaded silk, and not a single crease marred the horizon’s expanse. Both sea and mountain, bathed in the spring sun, were peacefully slumbering.

“Darling!” “What is it?”

“Do you think I’ll recover?”

“Huh?” “My illness.” “What are you saying? If you don’t recover, what are we supposed to do? You’ll recover—you will recover!” Namiko leaned against her husband’s shoulder. “But sometimes I wonder… what if I never recover? My real mother died from this illness too—” “Nami, why must you say such things today? You’ll be fine—you’ll recover. The doctor says you’ll recover too, doesn’t he? Right, Nami? Isn’t that so? Now, Mother had that illness—or maybe not—but you’re not even twenty yet, are you? And since it’s early stages, no matter what happens, you’ll recover. Look—that relative of ours, Ōkawara? The one who lost his right lung? Even after doctors gave up on him, he lived fifteen more years! If you just have the resolve to recover no matter what, you will recover! If you don’t recover, it means you don’t love me! If you love me, you should recover! What are we supposed 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 her before their marriage shone radiantly. The two of them fell silent for a time, not speaking. A single white sail that had come forth from the direction of Enoshima glided over the sea surface.

Namiko smiled through tear-clouded eyes. “I will recover. I will surely recover— Ah—why must humans die?! “I want to live!” “I want to live for a thousand years—ten thousand years!” “If we die, let it be together!” “Right? Together!” “If you die, Nami, I won’t go on living either!”

“Really?” “I’m so happy! Right? Together!” “But you have Mother to consider, and your duties—even if you wish for it, you won’t be free to act on such thoughts, will you?” “So when that time comes, I’ll have to go ahead and wait alone, right?—If I die… will you remember me sometimes?” “Huh? Huh? Darling?” Takeo wiped away his tears while stroking Namiko’s black hair. “Ah, let’s stop this talk already.” “Get well soon, recover quickly—right, Nami? Let’s live long together and celebrate our golden anniversary!”

Namiko gripped her husband’s hand tightly with both hands, leaned in close, and as her hot tears fell in a steady stream onto Takeo’s lap, she cried, “Even in death, I will be 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!”

Five: Part One

When Chijiwa heard of Namiko’s illness at Shinbashi Station, the smile that rose to his lips was first a triumphant cheer in his heart—for here, suddenly, lay the beginning of a solution to the insoluble problem he had long sought to unravel yet found himself unable to. The linchpin of both the detested Kawashima and Kataoka families indeed lay in Namiko; her lung ailment was nothing less than heaven itself granting Yasuhiko Chijiwa an opportunity for retribution. With the disease being a contagious and fatal scourge, and Takeo often absent from home—what obstacle could there be to sowing but a single word between mother-in-law and wife, then watching their bond rupture without lifting a finger? If the plan succeeded, I shall withdraw at once; thereafter, I need only watch the spectacle of them wounding one another and suffering through life and death. Chijiwa, having thought thus, slightly relaxed his displeased frown.

He knew his aunt’s temperament well. He knew well that while Takeo was furious with him, his aunt harbored no such anger. He knew well that his aunt always regarded Takeo as a child and instead frequently relied on my—Chijiwa’s—head, which was more seasoned in worldly affairs than my years would suggest. Moreover, he knew well that his aunt—who had few relatives or close acquaintances and, despite berating others, felt inwardly insecure—wished for allies in the young couple, dissatisfied though she was with them. Thus, without advancing a single soldier, he had determined that his strategic plan would undoubtedly succeed.

Chijiwa, who already had a fully formed strategy in mind, further enlisted Yamaki to visit the Kawashima household periodically, tasking him both with gathering intelligence on their situation and subtly hinting at his own—Chijiwa’s—supposedly profound remorse and resolve. By late April—when Namiko’s illness had persisted for two months without significant improvement and reports of the aunt’s worsening temper had reached him—Chijiwa seized his opportunity: with Takeo absent and steward Tazaki away on household business, he abruptly crossed the threshold of the Kawashima residence one night after a prolonged absence. He arrived precisely as the aunt sat alone with Takeo’s letter spread before her, immersed in deep contemplation.

Five: Part Two

“No, there’s been absolutely no progress.” “Money keeps gettin’ spent—it ain’t like two or three months pass an’ things improve any—such a bother, ain’t it now, An-san? Times like these, you’d want sturdy kin to consult with… but Takeo’s still just a child—”

“That is precisely why, Aunt—your nephew would not normally presume to come here like this—but I cannot remain silent any longer toward the late uncle and aunt who showed me such kindness, nor toward Takeo-kun.” “This is nothing less than a crisis for the Kawashima family—which compels me to come here with a heavy heart—but Aunt, tuberculosis is such a dreadful disease! As you well know, it’s all too common for a wife’s illness to infect her husband and bring ruin upon an entire household. I’m desperately worried about Takeo-kun myself. If you don’t caution him soon, Aunt, this could lead to catastrophe.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it? I’m terrified of that too, so I keep tellin’ Takeo not to go to Zushi—but he just won’t listen! You see—” She took out a letter and showed it while saying, “Doctors this, nurses that—the idiot cares about nothing but his wife!”

Chijiwa smirked. "But Aunt, that's unreasonable. A married couple can never be too close." "If she's ill, shouldn't Takeo-kun be all the more steadfast?" "But even if his wife's sick, that don't give him cause to disrespect his parents!" Chijiwa heaved a weighty sigh. "No, this truly is a dire predicament." "Just when Takeo-kun had secured such an admirable wife and you could finally breathe easy, Aunt—this happens. Yet the Kawashima family's survival hinges precisely on this moment. Tell me—has there been any communication from Nami-san's family?"

“Greetings? Hmph! Greetings? That high-and-mighty stepmother shows up with some paltry gift and flimsy excuses—that’s her idea of ‘greetings’.” “They came two or three times from the Kato household, mind you—” Chijiwa heaved another weighty sigh. “At a time like this, her family ought to show some consideration—but to dump their sickly daughter on you and act like all’s well? The nerve.” “But then again, this is a world where self-interest sits enshrined as its chief deity, Aunt.” “Ain’t that the truth.” “All that aside—what truly concerns me is Takeo-kun’s health.” “Should anything befall him, it would mean utter ruin for the Kawashima family—and who’s to say when contagion might strike?” “Though of course, when it comes to husband and wife, Aunt—you can hardly build a fence between them yourself—”

“That’s right.” “But if we leave things as they are, it’ll spell disaster for the Kawashima family.” “Exactly.” “A parent’s duty isn’t just to do as their child says—sometimes making them cry becomes an act of mercy. Besides, even when young people seem set in their ways, they often change their minds surprisingly fast with time.” “That’s right.” “A bit of pity or sympathy can’t be weighed against the household’s survival.”

“Oh, that’s right!” “And if by chance they were unable to have children, that would truly be utterly—” “No, that’s just it!” Rather than watching his aunt lean forward and nod deeply, Chijiwa struck his mental knee and abruptly shifted the conversation. He recognized not only how swiftly the poured-in medicine had begun to circulate, but also that within his aunt’s heart-field, a seed had already fallen—and though still shrouded by lingering reservations, the time required for it to break through that soil, sprout, grow, bloom, and bear fruit was merely a matter of days—days he perceived would not, by their very momentum, be long in number.

Takeo’s mother, not truly evil at heart, did not hate Namiko even if she could not love her. Despite differences in family customs and upbringing, Namiko had striven to abandon herself and harmonize with her mother-in-law—a fact even the mother had come to recognize. Moreover, sensing in certain aspects a shared sensibility with her own, though she voiced criticism, there were moments when she secretly thought that even in her own days as a bride she had never matched such devotion. Yet after Namiko’s month-long lingering illness was finally branded with tuberculosis’s dreaded name—after witnessing firsthand the terror of hemoptysis and seeing no marked recovery despite considerable expense and time—the mother became aware of something sprouting in her heart’s depths: a conviction she could not name as either disappointment or aversion. As she dwelled on him and pondered this matter—all while an unpleasant emotion brewed within—Takeo’s mother felt each layer of lingering reservations blanketing her dissolve away until that conviction grew daily with astonishing force.

Chijiwa had clearly discerned the path his aunt’s mind had taken; from this point onward, he would visit from time to time, scattering droplets of light rain and whispers of a gentle breeze to loosen those lingering reservations and nurture their growth, all while biding his time until the situation neared its decisive moment. By the time vague rumors of Chijiwa’s occasional visits to the Kawashima household—timed to Takeo’s absences—had begun to circulate beyond their walls, he had already mastered the essence of his role. Even as he withdrew prematurely from the stage, he proclaimed to Yamaki the imminent drama that was soon to unfold between them, raising a toast in advance.

Six: Part One

In early May, as the ship Takeo was aboard prepared to depart from Kure for Sasebo before turning northward to join the Combined Fleet’s exercises near Hakodate—a voyage that would deny him any homecoming opportunity for forty or fifty days—he briefly returned to Tokyo to bid farewell and pay his respects to his mother overnight. His mother, who had lately carried herself as though something were perpetually lodged between her back teeth—her mood invariably sour whenever he visited—now wore an uncharacteristically beaming smile. She ordered the bath heated and personally busied herself urging Takeo to partake of his favorite Satsuma stew with near-ceremonial earnestness. Takeo, who by nature seldom dwelled on minutiae, found her uncharacteristically formal demeanor puzzling—or so he fleetingly mused. Yet what child of any age does not delight in parental doting? Having lost his father, Takeo cherished his mother all the more intensely, and her improved spirits filled him with quiet joy. After contentedly finishing supper, he bathed while listening to rain begin pattering outside. Soaking in warmth, he envisioned Zushi—where he had stopped earlier that day—and wished only for Namiko’s swift recovery so she might await his return there whole again. Emerging from the bath in blissful languor, he carelessly donned a maid’s plain work robe, rubbed his forehead with the cigar-clutching back of his right hand, and—as his mother entered the eight-mat parlor—

His mother—having her shoulders massaged by a maid while leisurely smoking Kokubu tobacco through a long rao pipe—raised her eyes. “Oh, you’ve come up early!” “Hohohoho! Father was just saying the same thing—but—you sit right there on that cushion. Matsu—Wajō can take over now. Go make tea,” she said, rising to fetch the sweets bowl from the tea cabinet. “Why, it’s as if I’m a guest!” Takeo took a drag from his cigar, exhaling blue smoke as he smiled faintly.

Takeo took a drag from his cigar and, exhaling a wisp of blue smoke, smiled faintly. “Takeo, you’ve come home at last. Truth is, there’s a matter I need to discuss—I’ve been wanting you to come back for this very reason.” “Well, since you’ve come back, it’s quite convenient.” “Zushi—did you stop by there?” Though Takeo knew full well his mother detested frequent visits to Zushi, he couldn’t bring himself to voice such a transparent lie.

“Ah… I did stop by for a moment.” “...Her complexion seems to have improved quite a bit.” “She felt so terribly sorry toward you, Mother, and was deeply worried.”

“Is that so?”

His mother stared fixedly at Takeo’s face.

Just then, as the maid brought in the tea utensils, his mother took them, “Matsu, go over there.” “Shut that—that sliding door properly—”

Six: Part Two

She poured tea with her own hands and offered it to Takeo, drank some herself, then slowly took up her pipe. Mother slowly began to speak. “Well now, Takeo, I’ve grown quite weak myself. “Last year’s rheumatism left me badly enfeebled. “Just yesterday I visited the graves—my shoulders and hips still ache from it. “Growing old makes everything feel so precarious—it’s dreadful, Takeo. You must take care of yourself and avoid falling ill—do you hear me?”

Tapping cigar ash into the edge of the brazier, Takeo looked up at his mother’s plump yet undeniably aged face and said, “I’m always away, and you’re the prime minister handling everything here—though I do wish Nami were well enough to help. She’s always saying she wants to get better soon and ease your burden, Mother.” “Well, you may think so,” his mother replied, “but the illness is what it is.” “But she’s improved considerably,” Takeo insisted. “The weather’s getting warmer gradually, and after all, she’s young.”

“Well, given that it’s such an illness, things may turn out fine if all goes well, Takeo—but didn’t the doctor say that Namiko’s own mother also died of tuberculosis?” “Ah, they did say that, but—” “Doesn’t this illness pass from parent to child?” “Ah, you may say that, but Namiko’s was entirely brought on by a cold.” “Oh come now—it’s all about your caution! They go on about contagion and heredity, but it’s not truly so dire as they claim.” “After all, Namiko’s father is in such robust health, and her sister—that Komako—doesn’t have a hint of lung trouble.” “Humans aren’t as weak as doctors make them out to be—hahaha!”

“No, this is no laughing matter,” his mother said, vigorously tapping her pipe. “Among all illnesses, this one is truly dreadful, Takeo. You must know this—that Governor Togo’s family, the one whose child you used to quarrel with often—well, his mother died of tuberculosis in April two years back. Then that same December, Governor Togo himself passed from the same illness, you see? And their son—an engineer somewhere, I hear—recently succumbed to it too. All those mothers caught it. There are countless such stories. So I tell you, Takeo—this illness brooks no carelessness. Let your guard down, and disaster will follow.”

Mother set aside her pipe, edged her knees slightly forward, and peered at Takeo’s profile as he sat silent and listening. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been wanting and wanting to discuss this for some time now—”

After hesitating slightly, she stared intently at Takeo’s face, “It’s about Nami—” “What?”

Takeo looked up. “As for Nami—how about having them take her back?” “Take her back? How exactly would we take her back?” Mother, not taking her eyes off Takeo’s face, said, “To her parents’ home.” “To her parents’ home? Have her recuperate at her parents’ home?” “She can recuperate there if she must—just have them take her back—” “Zushi is better for recuperation. At her parents’ home there are children, and if we’re to have her recuperate there, this house would be a far better option.”

Sipping her now-cold tea, Mother said in a slightly trembling voice, “Takeo, you’re not drunk—quit feigning ignorance.” Staring unblinking at her son’s face, she continued, “What I mean is—Nami—we’re returning her to her parents’ home.” “Returning? …Returning? —You mean divorce?!” “Now your voice rises too high, Takeo.” Her gaze remained fixed on Takeo’s trembling form. “Divorce—yes, precisely divorce.” “Divorce! Divorce?! —Why would you do this?” “Why? As I’ve said repeatedly—the illness itself demands it.”

“Because it’s tuberculosis… you’re saying we should divorce her?” “Divorce Nami?” “Yes, it’s a pity, but—” “Divorce!!!”

The cigar that slipped from Takeo’s hand fell into the brazier and sent up a violent plume of smoke.

A single lamp burned steadily as the night rain pattered against the window.

6-3

Mother kept burying the smoldering cigar into the ashes while leaning forward slightly.

“Now, Takeo—this isn’t some trifling matter, so don’t go getting shocked on me. I’ve thought this through night after night before bringing it up, so you’d best listen proper with that in mind.” “Now, I’ve no particular complaints about Nami myself—and you’re fond of her too—so it’s not like I’m pushing for this divorce out of spite, you understand? But no matter what you say, the illness is what it is—” “The illness is improving.” Takeo said quickly and looked up firmly at his mother’s face.

“Now, listen to me.” “It may not be bad at present,” she continued, “but I’ve heard from doctors that this illness might improve temporarily only to worsen again—heat or cold could trigger it anew any moment. They say there’s scarcely a soul who’s ever truly recovered from tuberculosis. Even if Nami doesn’t die now, she’s bound to take a turn for the worse—mark my words.” “Before long, it’ll infect you—I guarantee it, Takeo.” “It’ll infect you, you’ll father children, it’ll spread to them—this isn’t just about Nami! Our precious master—you—and the heir’s precious children becoming consumptives and dying—just imagine! The Kawashima family will be ruined!” “Listen well—this Kawashima family, which your late father devoted himself to building and His Majesty the Emperor himself honored by elevating us, will collapse in your generation! Yes, Nami is pitiable, you’re suffering terribly, and it pains me as a parent to say this—but no matter what, the illness remains! I can’t trade Nami’s plight for you, my son, nor for the Kawashima family! Use your judgment—you must resolve yourself and act decisively here!”

In Takeo’s heart, as he listened in silence, the face of his ailing wife who had visited him that day rose vividly. “Mother, I cannot do this.” “Why not?” Mother’s voice sharpened. “Mother, if you force this now, Nami will die!” “She may die—but Takeo, I treasure your life! I treasure the Kawashima family!” “Mother, if you truly care for me, then understand this heart of mine.” “However strange it may sound—in truth, I cannot comply.” “Our marriage remains new, with inevitable shortcomings. But to cast aside one who cherishes you—who shows me such kindness—who bears no fault at all... merely for falling ill... I cannot!” “Tuberculosis isn’t incurable—she’s already improving.” “If recovery proves impossible—if she must die—then let her die as my wife.” “We’ll sever all contact if the illness threatens you—take every precaution.” “All shall be done to ease your worries.” “But divorce—this I will never permit!”

“Heh heh heh, Takeo. You keep going on about Nami—do you not care if you die? Is ruining the Kawashima family acceptable to you?” “Mother keeps harping on my health, but what’s the use of living long if you commit such heartless, faithless acts?” “Defying human compassion and abandoning moral duty will never benefit this family.” “It brings neither honor nor glory to the Kawashima name.” “I will not consent to divorce—I absolutely refuse!”

Mother, who had anticipated resistance but encountered fiercer opposition than expected, felt her habitual irritability surging through her chest—her forehead veins bulging, temples twitching, and pipe-clutching hand trembling violently—before finally suppressing these reactions and forcing a thin smile. “N-now, no need to get so agitated. Just... consider this calmly.” “You’re still young and don’t grasp how the world works—as they say, sacrifice the lesser to save the greater.” “Hmm?” “Nami is the lesser—you and the Kawashima family are the greater.” “It’s regrettable for them too, and Nami is pitiable enough—but the illness itself is the true evil.” “No matter what others think, isn’t this better than letting the Kawashima line perish? Agreed?” “You speak of injustice and cruelty, but society teems with such cases.” “Divorce when incompatible with family customs; divorce for childlessness; divorce for grave illness.” “This is society’s law, Takeo.” “There’s nothing unjust or heartless here.” “When such illnesses strike, ’tis only proper for the bride’s family to reclaim her.” “If they’ll suggest it eventually anyway, where’s the shame in us proposing it first?”

“You keep harping on ‘society this, society that,’ but there’s no rule saying we must follow society’s wrongdoings!” “Divorcing someone over illness belongs to bygone days!” “If that’s truly society’s law now, then society deserves destruction—no, demands destruction!” “You only consider our side—do you think the Kataokas would rejoice having their painstakingly wed daughter returned ill?” “How could Nami face them if cast out?” “What if our positions reversed—if I had consumption and her family reclaimed her as dangerous? Would that sit well with you?” “It’s no different!”

“No, that’s different. “Men and women aren’t the same, are they?” “It’s exactly the same. “By both reason and human feeling, it’s the same. “It might sound strange coming from me, but isn’t this precisely when Nami’s hemoptysis has finally stopped and she’s starting to recover? To do this now would truly be like forcing her to spit blood anew. “Nami will die. “She’ll certainly die. “Even strangers couldn’t bring themselves to do such a thing—are you... telling me to kill Nami?”

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

6-4

Mother abruptly stood up, took down a mortuary tablet from the family altar, returned to her seat, and thrust it before Takeo’s eyes.

“Takeo! Just because I’m your mother, you think nothing of me! Come, say it again before your father! Go on, say it again! Behold the mortuary tablets of our ancestors! Come now, say it once more, you ungrateful wretch!!”

She glared at Takeo and continued striking the rim of the brazier with her pipe. Even Takeo finally showed a hint of agitation. “Why am I unfilial?” “Why? What’s all this ‘why’ nonsense?!” “You who only take your wife’s side and refuse to heed your parent’s words—aren’t you an unfilial wretch?!” “You who neglect the body your parents raised and destroy the house of our ancestors—aren’t you an unfilial wretch?!” “Unfilial wretch! Takeo—you are an unfilial wretch! A most unfilial wretch!” “But human feelings—”

“Still going on about moral duty and human compassion?” “Do you value your wife over your own mother?” “You fool!” “What are you saying?! Wife, wife, wife—you keep going on about her! What about your parents?!” “No matter what I say, you just keep going on about Nami!” “You ungrateful wretch!” “I’ll disown you!” Takeo bit his lip as he forced back hot tears. “Mother, that’s going too far.” “What’s ‘too far’?”

“I would never—never—harbor such a careless heart. Can’t that heart reach you, Mother?” “Then why won’t you listen to what I say? Huh? Why won’t you divorce Nami?” “But that—” “No buts! Now, Takeo—is your wife more important, or your parent? Well? The family’s honor? Nami—? Oh, you fool!” With the force of her strike against the brazier, the pipe’s bamboo stem snapped clean through, its metal bowl soaring through the air to rip through the fusuma screen. At once came a sharp gasp from behind the torn screen—someone swallowing hard—followed by a quavering voice: “Pardon... I beg your pardon.”

“Who? What is it?” “Um—! A telegram…” The fusuma slid open; Takeo took the telegram and scanned it; the maid, having met the mistress’s glare, seemed to shrink into herself as she hastily retreated—all within barely two minutes. Yet in that moment, the heat between them subsided slightly, and for a time mother and son sat facing each other in heavy silence.

The rain poured down once more like a waterfall. Mother finally opened her mouth. Her eyes still flashed with anger, but her words carried a certain moisture. “Listen, Takeo.” “Even if I say all this, I ain’t doin’ it outta spite against you.” “You’re my only son.” “To see you rise in the world and hold healthy grandchildren—that’s what would’ve been my joy.”

Takeo, sunk in silent thought, slightly raised his head.

“Mother, in any case, I—” While showing the telegram, he continued: “As you see here, my departure has been suddenly moved up—I must return to my ship no later than tomorrow.” “I’ll be back in about a month.” “Until then, please keep tonight’s discussion confidential from everyone.” “No matter what occurs, please wait until I return.”

＊

The next day, Takeo obtained his mother’s assurance, visited the attending physician, earnestly entrusted Namiko’s care, and arrived in Zushi via the afternoon train.

When he alighted from the train, the sun had set, and the five-day-old moon hung in a pale purple sky. Crossing Nogawa Bridge, he followed the sandy path into a dim pine forest. As he emerged from the woods and glimpsed the blackened well sweep towering against the evening sky, an unexpected twanging sound reached his ears. "Ah—she's playing the koto..." The thought clawed at his heart like talons tearing through flesh. Takeo lingered outside the gate for some time, wiping away his tears. That day, feeling somewhat stronger than usual, Namiko had taken out the koto she had long neglected and played it while awaiting her husband.

When his unusual complexion was questioned, Takeo deflected it solely as being due to having stayed up late. At the dinner table they had prepared for their appointed meeting, Namiko sat facing her husband, but neither of them touched their food. Namiko, hiding her unease behind a lonely smile, reattached her husband's loosened coat buttons herself and carefully brushed it down; but as the time for the last train approached, she now clung reluctantly to Takeo's hand as he stood up. “Darling, are you leaving already?”

“I’ll be back soon. You take care too, Nami—make sure you get better.” They gripped each other’s hands tightly. When he stepped out to the entrance, Nurse Iku adjusted his shoes, and his servant Mohei—ready to accompany him to the station with a handbag in his left hand—waited holding a lantern despite the moonlight. “Then, Nurse, I leave Madam in your care. Nami, I’ll be back.” “Do come back soon.” Takeo nodded and stepped through the gate, treading the lantern light Mohei cast. After walking a dozen paces, he turned back to look—Namiko stood at the gate with her white shawl draped over her shoulders and Nurse Iku beside her, waving her handkerchief as she called out, “Darling, please come back soon.”

“I’ll be back soon—Nami, you’ll catch a chill from the night air! Get inside now!”

However, when he glanced back two or three times, her white figure remained dimly visible; but soon the path curved, and that form too vanished from sight. Only three times. “Please come back soon.” he could only choke back sobs as he followed that fading voice.

When he looked back, the shadow of the crescent moon hung coldly upon the pines.

Chapter Seven, Part One

With the vigorous prelude of “welcome back” still echoing, Yamaki—who had earlier descended to the entrance with two companions—soaked in an early bath before settling cross-legged on a plush cushion, the tokonoma alcove behind him adorned with early-blooming irises. His demeanor radiated an air that seemed to declare, *Now things are finally tilting my way.* Though his greedy countenance suggested disinterest in being served drinks, Yamaki nevertheless appeared thoroughly pleased. After darting a glance at his wife Osumi’s face and downing three or four cups in quick succession, he examined the newspaper extra brought by the maid under the lamplight.

“Hmm, Korea... The Tonghak rebels grow ever more rampant... What’s this—the Qing has dispatched troops...” “Well now, things are getting quite interesting!” “With this, our country will dispatch troops—it’ll turn into war—now I’ll make a killing!” “Osumi, it’s a pre-celebration—you have a drink too.”

“Do you really think there’ll be a war?” “It will. Splendid, splendid, truly splendid.” “Splendid—no, wait, Osumi—I met Chijiwa today about that matter of ours—seems it’s progressing nicely.” “Well now, is that so?” “So the young master’s agreed then?” “Nah, Takeo ain’t back yet—no discussions or agreements. But Namiko coughed up blood again.” “The dowager’s at her limit—they say she’ll push through with it before Takeo returns.” “Get Chijiwa to nudge things once more and it’s sealed.” “Once Takeo comes back, pushing through’ll be tough—so the dowager means to settle everything before then.” “Once that’s done, it’s ours for the taking.” “Come now, Madam—pour the drinks!”

“Poor Namiko, isn’t she?” “You’re such a fickle woman. First you wanted us to have Namiko step aside out of pity for Otoyo, and now that it’s nearly done, you take pity on Namiko! Let’s end this foolishness—the crucial plan now is to install Otoyo as her replacement.” “But divorcing Namiko while he’s away… The young master—Takeo—would never consent to that, would he now?”

“Well, Mr. Takeo will surely be furious when he returns, but once the divorce is finalized, there’ll be nothing he can do no matter how angry he gets. Besides, Mr. Takeo is filial—once the dowager puts on a show of tears, well, he’ll just have to swallow his grief and accept it. That matter settled—now for Princess Otoyo’s crucial step. Once Takeo’s flames have cooled a little, we’ll force her into their household under some pretext like ‘a manners apprenticeship with room and board.’ Nah, what seems difficult is actually easy. It’s all about keeping the dowager in good humor. Once Otoyo finally becomes Baroness Kawashima and her love’s fulfilled, I’ll naturally take on the father-in-law role—and since Mr. Takeo’s such a pampered young master, I’ll have to manage the Kawashima family’s assets myself. Most peculiar—no, a strange role I’ve taken on, bothersome it is—but well, can’t be helped. Now, about Otoyo…”

“You ought to eat your dinner now.” “Well enough. It’s a pre-celebration of taking and giving. Now about Otoyo—if you don’t discipline her better, there’ll be trouble. If she keeps throwing daily tantrums like that, it’ll cause real problems once she goes over there. Even if your mother-in-law were Kannon herself, that behavior would try anyone’s patience!”

“But then, you—discipline isn’t something I can manage alone, you know.” “You always—” “Now that’s the sort of excuse yours truly can’t abide!” “Ha ha ha ha ha!” “Actions over arguments—I’ll handle the disciplining myself!” “Now—call Otoyo here.”

Chapter Seven, Part Two

“Young Mistress, you’re requested in the inner chambers for a moment.” At the sound of Matsu the maid sliding open the fusuma and calling out, Otoyo—who had just finished her evening makeup yet still lingered before her mirror—turned around leisurely, “Okay.” “I’m coming now.—Hey, Matsu—this part here...” [stroking her sideburns] “Isn’t this part just a little disheveled?” “No, it’s not the slightest bit disheveled.” “Ohohohoho!” “Your makeup has turned out splendidly!” “Hohohoho!” “I’m simply dazzled!”

“Oh, stop it! Don’t say such flattering things!” While speaking, she peered into the mirror once more and smiled gently.

Matsu cleared her throat, took hold of her sleeve, and swallowed hard, "Young Mistress, they’ve been waiting impatiently for you!"

“Alright, I’m coming now.”

Finally steeling herself, she stepped away from the mirror and scurried through several rooms before entering her father’s study.

“Oh, Otoyo. “I was waiting.” “Come here, come here!” “Go ahead and pour the drinks in Mother’s place.” “Whoa, that’s a rough way to set down the sake decanter.” “That’s no way for a young lady who’s even studied tea ceremony and flower arranging to act!” “That’s right, that’s right—it should be placed in the Yamagata style!” By now thoroughly flushed and merry, Yamaki downed several more cups despite his wife’s protests. “Hey, Osumi—when our Otoyo dollies herself up like this, she’s quite the beauty, ain’t she?" “Her complexion is fair—her figure is comely.” “At home she’s nothing special, but out in society, a little flattery does wonders.” "The only pity is she takes after Mother and has slightly buck teeth—"

“You!” “If you raised the corners of your eyes just a bit more, your feminine charm would improve—” “You!”

“Hey, Otoyo—what are you sulking about? If you sulk, your ladylike charm will diminish. There’s no need to make such a gloomy face, Otoyo. There’s something that’ll make you happy. Now pour me a cup for the story fee—pour!” Having had her pour the cup to the brim, he downed it in one gulp, “Hey, Otoyo—I was just talking with your mother about this, and you know it already—it’s about Mr. Takeo—”

Like a disgruntled horse lying in an empty stall catching the scent of fresh spring grass, Otoyo suddenly lifted her head and pricked up her ears. “Since you went and scratched that photograph, even Miss Namiko has been cursed—”

“You!” Mrs. Osumi frowned for the third time.

“Now we’re getting to the main point. In any case, since Miss Namiko’s illness has taken a turn for the worse, well, it’s going to end in divorce. No, we haven’t negotiated with them yet—Miss Namiko doesn’t know about it either—but in any case, it seems likely to happen soon. Now once that matter is settled, we’ll start pushing our replacement—no, let me put it this way: both Mother and I want to slot you in, so to speak, as Miss Nami’s successor. Well, it’s not like we can move immediately—so for now, you’ll go in as a maid—now don’t look so shocked—think of yourself as a trainee bride, a probationary apprentice in manners, to infiltrate the Kawashima household. We’ll have the dowager arrange it—no, let me put it this way—”

After taking a breath, Yamaki looked from his wife to his daughter and back again. “No, let me put it this way, Otoyo. “It might be a bit early—but there’s something I need to tell you. “As you well know, that Mr. Takeo’s mother—the dowager—is a notorious hothead, a willful woman, stubborn as they come—wait—can’t have you badmouthing Mother now—anyway, she’s not some gentle soul like this mother of yours sitting right here. “But she’s not a demon or a snake—she’s still human after all. “If you can just grasp her rhythm, you could become even a demon’s bride or a serpent’s wife. “Ah, that dowager—if I were a woman, I’d have her soft as tofu within two days of being by her side. “Not that I need to brag, but in truth, even an old crone like that’s no trouble if you handle her right. “Now listen carefully, Otoyo—when you finally infiltrate their household as a maid and prospective bride candidate, first off, you can’t laze around like you do now. Get up early—old folks wake up quick—and above all else, attend properly to the dowager’s needs. “Now listen carefully. “Second—you can’t keep sulking at every little thing like you do now. You’ve got to yield completely. “Now listen carefully. “Even if they scold you, yield. Even if they make unreasonable demands, yield. If you give way, give way all the more—you hear? “Then they’ll come around, you see—this is what they call yielding to conquer. “Never lose your temper—you hear? “And third—this might be a bit premature, but I’ll say it while I’m at it—even if the wedding goes off without a hitch, you hear? You must never get too chummy with Mr. Takeo. “What’s it matter what happens in private? But you’d better pay close attention to appearances, you hear? “With your mother-in-law, you gotta get real chummy—stick close as can be—and with your husband, you’d better badmouth him just enough in front of her that it doesn’t come off poisonous. “Strange as it may seem—you’d think a mother-in-law would be happy her son and his wife get along so well—but in truth, if they’re too close, she won’t like it one bit. “Well, a kind of jealousy—selfishness, I suppose.”

“Otherwise, if the couple gets along too well, naturally the mother-in-law’ll feel neglected—or so she figures.” “Miss Namiko might’ve tripped up there herself.” “Too close—Whoa! Don’t make that horn-sproutin’ face! Listen here, Otoyo—that’s exactly where you’ll lose, like I said.” “Now mark this—you gotta make sure that dowager feels ‘This woman’s truly my daughter-in-law, not my son’s wife.’” “Most mother-in-law squabbles start ’cause the young couple’s too cozy, makin’ the old woman feel left out.” “Get this through your head—you’re the dowager’s daughter-in-law first.” “Once that old bat kicks the bucket, clamp onto Mr. Takeo’s neck and swing from him all day for all I care.” “But in front of Her Dowager Highness? Not so much as a sideways glance at Mr. Takeo!” “There’s more, but I’ll school you when we storm the gates.” “These three rules are a pain, but you’re the one itch in’ to be Takeo’s missus! Grit your teeth!” “Start drillin’ tonight—no waitin’ for dawn!”

As he spoke, the sliding door opened, and Take the maid announced, “A reply is required.”

and she presented a letter in a woman’s hand. Yamaki, having opened the envelope and quickly skimmed its contents, waved the letter before his wife and daughter. “How about this? The Kawashima dowager demands I come at once!”

Seven-Three

Two weeks after Takeo had departed for fleet exercises—and several days before the Kawashima family would send 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 them there was no immediate cause for concern; yet this news delivered no small shock to Takeo’s mother. After an interval of two or three days, the imposing figure of Widow Kawashima—who rarely left her gate—stepped through the gates of the Katō residence in Iidamachi.

On the night when mother and son had clashed over the divorce issue, Takeo’s mother—having seen his demeanor grow fiercer than she anticipated—reluctantly agreed to remain silent until his return as requested. Yet even were she to wait until then, Takeo’s heart would not easily change; rather, with each passing day, the bonds of his affection would only grow harder to sever, and she foresaw unforeseen obstacles likely arising. Thus seizing upon her son’s continued absence, she concluded that swift resolution would be wiser; yet bound by both her prior verbal commitment and present considerations, she found herself unable to take decisive action sufficient to satisfy Chijiwa, who kept pressing her with periodic visits. When news came of Namiko’s renewed hemoptysis, his mother resolutely visited the Katō family who had originally arranged the marriage.

Though Widow Kawashima had been living practically within spitting distance of Banchō and Iidamachi, she had scarcely shown her face since first coming to formalize the marriage arrangement years prior. As Baroness Katō—aware this sudden visit could signify nothing ordinary—courteously ushered her into the parlor, the baroness felt her heart pierced even before hearing the matter’s substance. To think she now demanded—with the very hand that had once bound together the Kataoka and Kawashima families—that this connecting thread be severed! "What countenance, what mouth could possibly speak such words?" Baroness Katō now gazed intently at her guest’s demeanor as if seeing it anew. As she looked upon that unchanging corpulent build—the thick hands clasped on her knees, skin unyielding, eyes unblinking, the Satsuma dialect flowing from her lips without a trace of hesitation—it was neither jest nor madness but unmistakably deliberate calculation. The shock now transformed into indignation that pierced her breast. Though the other woman’s selfish arguments and insults already rose to her throat, Baroness Katō—who regarded Namiko as her own daughter at this life-altering juncture—barely swallowed them down. She questioned, reasoned, soothed, and pleaded, yet not a word reached the ears of her interlocutor, who only pressed her own agenda. Instead, the baroness’s appeals were dismissed as tedious prattle, while the other party made it plain that matters would be settled simply by relaying the demand to Namiko’s parents. As she listened, images flooded her breast—her ailing niece’s face, the deathbed of her late sister (Namiko’s biological mother), the heartbreak of Lieutenant General Kataoka—swirling and scattering until helpless, infuriating tears welled up unbidden. Resolutely recomposing herself, the baroness declared that while her house had indeed supported the union of both families, such an unjust and heartless act of assistance could never be rendered; without even consulting her husband, she firmly rejected the request and cast it aside.

Takeo’s mother, who had stormed out of the Katō residence, sent a letter that very night summoning Yamaki. (It seemed even the earnest Tasaki could not resolve the matter.) At this very moment—with the master absent—Baroness Katō and Chizuruko agonized in threefold turmoil of confusion, anger, and sorrow. Yet rather than believe Takeo’s true intentions aligned with his mother’s words, Takeo’s mother instead grew ever more impatient. Between ascertaining his warship’s location and dispatching urgent messages, she resolved to negotiate directly without delay—and thus Yamaki’s carriage, charged with her mission, had already reached the gates of the Kataoka residence.

Eight-One

As Yamaki’s carriage passed through the gates of Lieutenant General Kataoka’s residence in Akasaka Hikawa-chō, a gallant general astride a chestnut horse happened to emerge. Startled by the clatter of the rushing vehicle, the horse reared up on its hind legs. Without troubling the groom, the general on horseback tightened the reins and effortlessly steadied the mount. Then, tracing a single arc, he trotted away with a rhythmic clop-clop of hooves. Having watched the splendid warrior depart and composed his voice before the lieutenant general’s imposing entrance, Yamaki—a man well-acquainted with navigating powerful households—found himself uncharacteristically daunted. Though he had merely scratched his head when summoned to the Kawashima residence last night and entrusted with this mission, now facing this actual situation, the boldness he had proudly considered formidable proved meager, and he lamented that his face still lacked sufficient thickness.

A business card was presented once, a student came out twice, and Yamaki was ushered into the parlor. On the table lay spread a map of Qing and Korea, its single sheet accompanied by an uncleared ashtray holding matchsticks and tobacco remnants—together they nearly conjured the substance of the prior discussion. Indeed, in these days when national attention focused wholly on the Korean issue—with the Donghak Peasant Rebellion, reports of Qing military mobilization, and rumors of Japanese forces being dispatched following in succession—the Lieutenant General, though in the reserves, naturally found himself occupied with numerous matters, and could hardly be expected to have leisure enough to pick up that English textbook of his again.

As Yamaki sat in the chair, restlessly darting his eyes about, footsteps like distant thunder gradually drew near, until at last a man resembling a small mountain entered unhurriedly and took his place in the seat of honor. Yamaki, upon recognizing the lieutenant general, hurriedly stood up—in his haste, he kicked over the chair he had been sitting on behind him with a thud. "Ah! My blunder!" he exclaimed, flustered as he hurriedly righted it, then bowed two, three, four times in rapid succession toward the master with profusely deferential bows. His apology for the present carelessness was likely part of that as well.

“Please, do sit down.” “You must be Mr. Yamaki—I had been aware of your name.” “Ah! A pleasure to make your acquaintance... I am Heizō Yamaki, a most clumsy fellow—” (With each phrase he bowed, and with each bow his chair creaked loudly, his smile straining as if obeying orders) “—I humbly beg your continued patronage...” After exchanging a few unavoidable pleasantries and three or four remarks about Korea—the lieutenant general shifted the conversation and inquired about Yamaki’s purpose.

Yamaki tried to open his mouth but first swallowed a gulp; having swallowed, he swallowed another; a third time he tried to speak—and swallowed once more. He found it strange that his tongue—which he had always prided on its smooth-talking fluency—should today alone become so stubbornly faltering.

Eight-Two

Yamaki slightly opened his mouth. “The fact is, today I have come as the Kawashima family’s representative.” As if taken aback, Lieutenant General Kataoka fixed his narrow eyes—unbefitting his large frame—upon Yamaki’s face. “What?” “The fact is, the Kawashima dowager was to come herself—but well, it ended up being me who has made the visit.” “I see.” Yamaki wiped away the sweat that had been persistently beading on his brow. “In truth, we had intended to request a discussion through Baroness Katō—but due to certain circumstances… it has fallen to me to make the visit.”

“Understood.” “And your business?” “The matter in question is—though I hesitate to say it—in truth concerns Madam Namiko of the Kawashima family—” Lieutenant General Kataoka’s eyes remained unblinking as they fixed upon the speaker’s face for a long moment.

“What?” “Regarding Madam Namiko—though I must say this is truly a difficult matter to broach—as you’re well aware, concerning her illness, we at Kawashima have been deeply concerned. While she’s shown some improvement of late—ah, congratulations are in order—” “I see.” “For us to raise such a matter is truly improper—though this request is exceedingly presumptuous—given Madam’s condition being what it is. As you know, the Kawashimas have no other family to speak of, and among male heirs, there’s only Master Takeo himself. The dowager has grown gravely concerned—this is profoundly difficult to voice—though it may seem entirely self-serving… should contagion… well, such things are rare, but one can’t say there’s no risk… If—heaven forbid—misfortune befell Takeo… the Kawashima line would face extinction. Not that extinction itself would be unwarranted, but… in any case… we must beg your understanding… given Madam’s condition being what it is—”

Yamaki, stammering and rushing his words as sweat streamed from his brow with each phrase, had his face scrutinized by the master lieutenant general, who listened in silent contemplation; now raising his right hand,

“Very well.” “Understood.” “In other words, since Nami’s illness is grave, you’re saying we should take her back.” “Very well.” “Understood.”

He nodded, placed the cigar smoldering near his hand into the ashtray on the table, and crossed his arms. As if pulled free from a quagmire he had stumbled into, Yamaki let out a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his brow. “That is correct.” “Though it pains me to broach such matters… I beg you will not take offense—” “So—has Takeo returned yet?” “No, he has not yet returned—though rest assured this matter proceeds with his full knowledge. I most humbly entreat your understanding—”

“Very well.”

The lieutenant general nodded. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes for a moment. Yamaki, who had secretly smiled to himself—This went more smoothly than expected—raised his eyes. Gazing up at the lieutenant general's countenance—eyes closed and lips sealed as though asleep—he could not help but feel a flicker of awe. "Mr. Yamaki."

The lieutenant general opened his eyes wide and scrutinized Yamaki’s face intently. “Hah?” “Mr. Yamaki, do you have children?”

Unable to grasp the intent of this question, Yamaki bowed repeatedly. “Huh? I have my unworthy son—and a daughter—and I humbly beg your continued favor—” “Mr. Yamaki, children are precious treasures.” “Huh?”

“No, never mind. “Understood. “Tell the Kawashima dowager this: We will take Nami back today, so please rest assured. “You’ve had a difficult task as messenger.” Whether Yamaki rejoiced at fulfilling his mission or lamented it as pitiful, he bowed five or six—no, seven or eight times in quick succession before flusteredly rising to his feet. The lieutenant general escorted him to the entrance, then returned inside and shut the study door with a sharp clack.

Chapter Nine: Part One

At the villa in Zushi, after Takeo’s departure, Namiko found each day stretching endlessly before her—a frail body enduring anxious solitude until over a month had passed, bringing the season when wheat fields stood harvested and mountain lilies bloomed. Though the hemoptysis of days past had once shaken her resolve, fortune granted that no marked decline followed—just as the doctor had predicted. Then came her husband’s letter from Hakodate announcing his imminent return. Determined not to alarm him by worsening beyond her state before the hemoptysis, she steeled herself—meticulously following medical regimens of medicine and exercise while counting down days on her fingers until his homecoming. Yet these past four or five days, with all word from Tokyo having abruptly ceased—no postcards arriving from Banchō residence, her parents’ home, or even her aunt in Iidamachi—Namiko felt an inexplicable disquiet. Now, as she trimmed lower leaves from mountain lilies to arrange them—a diversion against the long daylight hours—Nurse Iku entered bearing a water pitcher.

“Nurse, there hasn’t been any word from Tokyo at all.” “What could be happening?” “That’s true indeed. There must be no change in circumstances.” “He should arrive any day now.” “Even as I say this, someone might come at any moment.” “What truly lovely flowers these are, aren’t they, Madam?” “If only Master Takeo would return before these wilt—wouldn’t that be splendid, Madam?”

Namiko gazed at the mountain lilies in her hand and said, “They’re beautiful. But perhaps it would have been better to leave them on the mountain—it’s so pitiful to cut them!”

As the two conversed, a carriage drew near the villa’s gate. The carriage carried Baroness Katō. The day after rejecting the Kawashima widow’s demand, Baroness Katō—still troubled—had entrusted her concerns to a messenger and sent a carriage to the Kataoka residence, where she learned that the Kawashima family’s envoy had already arrived with startling haste for direct negotiations, secured the lieutenant general’s consent, and departed. Her plan to await Takeo’s return now lay in ruins, leaving her both shocked and despairing; yet at the very least, to retrieve her niece (for the lieutenant general had reasoned—*If we leave her unattended, unforeseen consequences may arise. Regardless, let us summon her back under our care*), she had immediately set out for Zushi.

“Oh! We were just talking about that!” “Goodness me... What do you say, Madam? Wasn’t this old woman correct after all?” “Nami, how are you feeling? Has there been any change since then?” The aunt’s eyes briefly grazed Namiko’s face before veering sideways. “I’m recovering well—but Aunt, what’s wrong? You look terribly pale.”

“Me? Oh, it’s just a slight headache.” “It must be due to the season.—Have you heard from Takeo, Nami?”

"The day before yesterday—from Hakodate. 'He said he'll return very soon—though no exact day is fixed yet. He wrote about bringing a souvenir.' 'Oh? Late—isn't it—already—what time is it? Two o'clock already!' 'Aunt, why are you so restless? Do stay awhile. How is Miss Ochizuru?' 'Ah—give her my regards.' Accepting the tea Iku brought but leaving it undrunk, she sank into contemplation."

“Please take your leisure. “Madam, I’ll just go check on the side dishes.” “Ah, please go ahead and do that.”

Baroness Katō glanced at Namiko’s face as if startled, then averted her eyes while— “Don’t.” “We can’t linger today.” “Nami—I’ve come to bring you home.”

“Huh? You’re here to take me?” “Ah, Father wants you to come for a bit—there’s also a small matter to discuss with the doctor about your illness—and the Banchō household has already consented.” “A consultation?” “What could it be?” “—The illness consultation matter, you see, and also—Father hasn’t seen you in so long.” “Is that so?”

Namiko looked puzzled. Iku too wore a doubtful expression. "But will you be staying tonight?"

“No—the doctor’s waiting over there too, and it’s better to go before dark. We’ll take the next train at once.” “What?!” The old woman stared in shock. Though Namiko couldn’t make sense of it all—her aunt making the request, her father summoning her, her mother-in-law having consented—she nevertheless prepared to leave as directed. “What are you pondering so deeply, Aunt? The nurse needn’t come along—we’ll be returning soon anyway.”

The aunt stood up and adjusted Namiko’s obi while straightening her collar. “You should take her along; it would be inconvenient otherwise.”

*

By around four o'clock, preparations were complete, and three rickshaws had gathered at the gate. Namiko wore a sheer summer kimono of breathable omeshi silk fastened with a navy figured-satin maru obi, her hair styled in an agemaki updo adorned with a single gardenia blossom. She held a leather-brown Western-style umbrella in her right hand while pressing a white silk handkerchief to her lips to suppress an escaping cough. "Nurse, I'll be going out for a bit. Ah~ It's been so long since I've returned to Tokyo. And then—um—the summer kimono... Just a little more—oh, never mind. Let's take care of it when I get back."

Unable to contain herself any longer, the aunt pressed her softly falling tears into the Western-style umbrella.

Nine, Part Two

The pit of destiny waits in silent readiness for humankind. People tread unwittingly along their destined paths. That is to say, though unaware, all come to sense a certain chill as they draw near—such is the immutable way of things.

Namiko—who had embarked on her return to the capital without deeply questioning the particulars, buoyed by the joy of her aunt’s summons and meeting her father—found her heart growing restlessly agitated from the moment she stepped into the carriage. The more she dwelled on it, the less sense it made—her aunt’s abnormal demeanor, which she had dismissed with mere talk of headaches, now seemed to conceal something grave. Yet with others present in the train car, pressing for answers proved impossible. By the time they reached Shinbashi, only these shadowy doubts churned in her chest, all but erasing the joy of her long-awaited return to the capital.

After all the others had alighted, Namiko—assisted by her nurse and following her aunt—walked slowly along the platform. As they passed through the ticket gate, one of the army officers standing there conversing suddenly turned this way, and for a moment his eyes met Namiko’s. Chijiwa! He measured Namiko from head to toe with a glance, deliberately nodded in greeting—and laughed. That glance, that laugh—they resonated eerily in her chest, leaving Namiko feeling as though cold water had been poured over her head. Even after she had climbed into the waiting carriage, it was not her illness that made her shudder so.

The aunt did not speak. Namiko too fell silent.

The evening sun that had been shining through the carriage window set as they arrived at the mansion in Hikawa-cho, where twilight faintly carried the fragrance of chestnut blossoms. Inside and outside the gate, carts and a hoist were visible; lamplight spilled from the side entrance, and voices of people could be heard. They seemed to be bringing in various items. While Namiko wondered what was happening, she was helped down from the carriage by her aunt and nurse to find Baroness Kataoka standing at the entrance with a maid holding a lamp beside her.

“Oh, how prompt! You’ve done well,” said the Baroness, her eyes darting from Namiko’s face to Baroness Katō. “Mother, you look well... And Father...?” “In the study.” Just then, amid boisterous cries of “Sister’s here! Sister’s here!”, her two younger siblings came running out. Though their mother chided them—“Be quiet!”—they paid no heed, clinging to Namiko from either side. Komako followed close behind.

“Oh, Michiko! Kiichi! “How are you two?” “Ah, Komako!” Michiko, tugging at her sister’s sleeve, said, “I’m so happy! You’ll be staying at this house forever now, won’t you? "And all your furnishings have arrived too!” Namiko drew a sharp breath without a sound; the Baroness, her aunt, the maid, and Komako all fixed their gazes upon her face. “Huh?”

Namiko’s startled eyes darted from her stepmother’s face to her aunt’s, then instantly fixed upon the assortment of furnishings piled so high they seemed to fill the room beside the entrance. _That’s my wardrobe—the one I left at my husband’s house!_ _My trunk!_ _My dressing table!_ Namiko trembled violently. She nearly collapsed, clutching her aunt’s hand in a death grip. Everyone burst into tears. With heavy footsteps, the figure of Father Lieutenant General appeared. “F-Father!!”

“Oh, Nami. “I was… waiting.” “You’ve… come back.”

The lieutenant general pulled the violently trembling Namiko into his broad chest and embraced her. Half an hour later, the house fell completely silent. In the lieutenant general’s study, father and daughter alone—just as when she had heard his parting admonition on the day she left this house vowing never to return—Namiko knelt sobbing at her father’s knee, and the lieutenant general slowly stroked the back of his daughter racked by coughing.

Ten

“Extra! “Extra! The Korean incident!” Following behind a newspaper vendor clamorously hawking “Extra! Extra! The Korean incident!” came a single rattling rickshaw entering through the gate of the Kawashima residence in Banchō. Takeo had just returned.

Though Takeo’s return might provoke anger, victory ultimately belongs to whoever strikes first—and so his mother had acted decisively. On the very day Yamaki brought auspicious news and returned, she declared “good deeds brook no delay” and sent back every last wardrobe and belonging of her daughter-in-law to the Kataoka family. Cruel though it was, she reasoned it no different from excising an unendurable boil for peace of mind. These past two or three days, her cheerfulness—unseen in recent times—stood in stark contrast to the young couple’s servants, who could neither call it pitiful nor absurd. They had been anxiously thinking that even for such a filial son as their master, matters would hardly settle smoothly once he returned—and now Takeo had indeed come home. The urgent letter from Baroness Katō had crossed paths en route, and since his mother had not sent word of it, Takeo—having no way of knowing—hurried home as soon as he arrived in Yokosuka and obtained leave.

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

“Hey, Matsu! The master doesn’t seem to know anything about it at all. He even brought souvenirs for the Madam.” “It’s such a mess, isn’t it? What kind of mother in this world would divorce her son’s wife while he’s away? If you put yourself in the master’s position, you’d be furious too. You heartless witch!” “There’s no old hag more detestable than that one. She’s stingy, unreasonable—scolding folks is her whole purpose in life, even though she doesn’t know a damn thing. Of course that’s how she is, y’know—she used to dig up sweet potatoes in Satsuma back in the day. I’ve grown thoroughly sick of being in this house.”

"But the master's no saint either. Not knowing a thing about his own wife being divorced—that's too cruel even for July's piercing spear!" "But that's impossible! He was far away, after all. No decent person—not some lowly maid—would dream of casting out a daughter-in-law without consulting their precious son! And the master's still young, you know. Truly pitiful—the master is pitiful, but the Madam even more so! I wonder how she fares now... Oh drat—look! The old hag's begun her shouting! Matsu, hustle along or she'll take it out on us again!"

In the back room, the mother and son’s exchange grew increasingly heated.

"But I told you so clearly back then! And not only that—you didn’t even send a single letter and acted without permission! It’s truly cruel. Today when I stopped by Zushi again, Nami wasn’t there. When I asked Iku, she said she’d returned to Tokyo for some reason. I thought something was wrong, but I never imagined you would do such a thing—it’s truly unforgivable—" "It was my fault. I was wrong, so here I am apologizin’ as your parent, ain’t I? It’s not like I’m saying Nami did anything wrong—it’s just that you care for her so much—"

“You only care about your own health—you don’t consider honor, dignity, or feelings at all! This is outrageous!” “Takeo—are you a man? “You’re not some woman. “Even making your parent apologize—you still just miss Nami, don’t you? “Do you miss her that much? “Do you miss *her* that much—” “But this is too much—it’s truly too much!” “You keep saying ‘too much,’ but it’s already after the festival—isn’t it? “They’ve consented and neatly taken her back—it’s done. “What would you have us do now? “If you keep behaving like a woman—will you bring shame upon your parent, or fail to stand as a man?”

Takeo listened in silence, biting his lower lip as though refusing. Suddenly he sprang to his feet in fury and stomped the basket of apples he had brought back for his sick wife into splinters,

“Mother, you killed Nami—and on top of that, you have killed this Takeo too.” “I will never see you again.”

＊

Takeo immediately returned to the warship in Yokosuka.

The situation in Kansan grew increasingly urgent; by mid-July, the government council had decisively resolved to open hostilities with Qing China. On the eighteenth of that same month, Vice Admiral Kabayama was newly appointed as Chief of the Naval General Staff, and the combined fleet flagship Matsushima—aboard which Takeo served—received orders to lead other vessels in assembling at Sasebo. “Let this reckless life become a target for cannonballs,” Takeo charged westward with the ship, headlong and unyielding.

*

From the very next day after Namiko’s return, Lieutenant General Takeshi Kataoka personally directed the selection of a sunny, quiet spot within the estate grounds. There, specifically for Namiko, he built a detached house comprising one eight-tatami room, two six-tatami rooms, and one four-tatami room. He then summoned the elderly nurse Iku from Zushi and had her reside there together with Namiko. In September, having finally received orders to return to active duty, he summoned his wife Shigeko to his study one evening and earnestly entrusted Namiko’s care to her; then, on the thirteenth of the same month, he proceeded to Hiroshima Imperial Headquarters in attendance upon the imperial standard, and the following month, departed for Liaodong in succession with General Ōyama and Lieutenant General Yamaji.

Enemies and allies alike—those whose fates we had pursued step by step, those vanished souls, these lingering resentments—all were momentarily swept into the great whirlpool of the Sino-Japanese War.

Part II

Chapter 1

On September 16, 1894, at 5:00 PM, our Combined Fleet, having completed battle preparations, departed from the mouth of the Taedong River and advanced northwestward. Having sought out the enemy fleet—reported to have been sighted near the mouth of the Yalu River while escorting transport ships—they now aimed to decide supremacy in a single battle. The First Flying Squadron—comprising Yoshino as flagship, Takachiho, Naniwa, and Akitsushima—was positioned at the forefront as vanguard. With Matsushima as flagship, the main fleet—Chiyoda, Itsukushima, Hashidate, Hiei, and Fusō—followed in succession, while the gunboat Akagi and Saikyō Maru, carrying the Chief of the Naval General Staff under the guise of military observation, trailed behind them. Forming a single column of twelve warships, they departed the Taedong River mouth at five in the afternoon and advanced through the Yellow Sea’s tides like a coiling dragon, stretching and contracting as they went. Before long, the sun sank into the sea; the moon of the seventeenth day of the eighth lunar month rose in the east; and the ships raced through the moonlight, churning golden and silver waves.

In the officers’ wardroom of the flagship *Matsushima*, dinner had been swiftly concluded. Those bearing duties—the officer of the watch and others—had departed long before, yet five or six remained still, their conversation likely growing lively. Having closed the portholes to prevent any firelight from leaking out, the warmth became trapped inside, and the already flushed faces of the vigorous young men grew even ruddier. On the table lay four or five coffee cups; the dessert plates had been mostly cleared, leaving only a single slice of castella cake trembling apprehensively as if wondering which young officer might devour it next.

“The Army might’ve already taken Pyongyang,” remarked a compact, sharp-featured ensign, resting his cheek on his hand as he surveyed the group. “But what about us? Is this not an instance where one must declare such unfairness utterly egregious?” The corpulent sub-lieutenant smiled faintly from his corner. “After all, it’s just a play that’ll be over as soon as the curtain rises. The long intermission is also quite an amusing diversion.” “It’s because you say such laid-back things that we’re stuck in this mess!” retorted the ensign. “We’re sick to death of this cat-and-mouse game with the Beiyang Fleet. If we miss encountering them again this time, I swear—we ought to charge straight into Bohai Bay and blast a cannonball or two at the Taku Forts! My patience will snap!”

“That would be like walking into a sack—what if they cut off our retreat?” The earnest interjection came from a cadet. “Cut off our retreat?” “That’s exactly what we want!” “But your precious Beiyang Fleet lacks the agility for such maneuvers.” “Not to be critical, but I doubt we’ll even sight them this time.” “The Chinese and their infernal patience will be the death of me.” At that moment, footsteps echoed as a tall lieutenant appeared in the doorway.

The short-statured ensign looked up. “Hey Navigator—how about it? Can you see anything?” “Just the moon,” he said. “Once inspections are done, everyone should turn in and preserve their fighting spirit.” Biting into the remaining slice of castella on the dessert plate, he added, “Hmm... Strange... Being out on deck... really stirs up an appetite. —Orderly! Bring more snacks!” “You do eat rather a lot,” remarked the lieutenant in the red shirt with a smile.

“Let me ask you—how about you? Eating sweets and berating the old guard—isn’t that precisely the privilege of us heroes in the wardroom? —What do you say, gentlemen? The men are all so eager for tomorrow they can’t sleep a wink! If we fail now, it’s truly not the soldiers’ fault—it’s their fault.” “As for courage,” retorted the lieutenant in the red shirt, “I haven’t a shred of doubt. What we need is calm courage—calm courage.” “Recklessness is unacceptable,” interjected the senior deck officer.

“Speaking of recklessness, that Number __ Division Officer is truly something to behold,” interjected another. “His diligence is commendable, but even granting that soldiers must value their lives, I must say the man’s zeal borders on recklessness—as if he’s hung a sign declaring ‘Lives Sold Cheaply Here!’” “Ah, Kawashima! When was it again... Oh right, during the Weihaiwei bombardment—he pulled off such a reckless move back then.” “If they made Kawashima commander-in-chief—though he’s no mere division officer—he might lead the fleet into Bohai Bay, bypass Taku entirely, sail up the Baihe River, and declare he’ll capture Old Man Li alive!”

“Moreover, his demeanor has become completely different from before, hasn’t it?” “He gets really angry, you know.” “I once teased him about Baroness Kawashima, and he turned absolutely livid—I nearly got a fist to the face.” “I’d actually fear that Number __ Division Officer’s fist more than Zhenyuan’s thirty-centimeter guns.” “Ha ha ha! I think there must be some reason behind this—Red Shirt, since you’re close with Kawashima, you probably know the secret, don’t you?”

The navigator looked at the face of the red-shirted lieutenant known as Garibaldī.

Just then, an orderly arrived bearing a dessert plate piled high with sweets, and the conversation in the officers’ wardroom was abruptly cut short.

Part 1-2

The 10 p.m. inspection concluded; those without immediate duties retired; I took up my respective posts; and with loud voices and firelight prohibited, both the upper and lower decks fell silent, as if utterly devoid of people. Apart from the navigator’s voice commanding the helmsman, there remained only the smokestack’s smoke billowing white into the moonlit sky, churning spiral waves, and the ceaseless thrum of engines—like the beating of a great heart—filling every corner of the ship.

On the forward bridge, bathed in white moonlight, stood two figures. One stood motionless at the left end of the bridge. The other moved with quiet footsteps, dragging a shadow blacker than ink—halting after five paces, turning back after ten.

This was Takeo Kawashima. As the Number __ Division Officer of this ship, he stood watch on the bridge for four hours as deputy officer alongside the duty navigator. He now reached the right end of the bridge, raised his binoculars, and scanned the ship’s surroundings, but finding nothing of note, lowered his right hand and stood gripping the railing with his left. Two officers from the direction of the forward gun battery passed beneath the bridge, whispering in low voices, then vanished into the dark shadows. The deck lay silent under a cool breeze, while the moon grew ever more brilliant. Anticipating the stirring shadow of the sentry at the bow, he gazed out at the sea. To port lay faint island mountains and the dim silhouette of their lead ship *Akitsushima* advancing through the moonlight—beyond this lone vessel stretched only the moonlit waters of the Yellow Sea. As he watched the sparks—mingling once more with smoke—rise vigorously and disappear, the autumn night sky arching high above the main mast, strewn with stars, held a pale Milky Way: a faint white stream flowing from sea to sea.

*

The moon had changed three times.

Since Takeo had stormed out after confronting his mother, three moons had waxed and waned.

In these three months, through how many manifold boundaries had his life and being passed! His heart had raced with Kansan’s stormy campaigns; at Sasebo’s docks, grief had wrenched his gut at parting songs of “departing far for our nation’s sake this season”; he had clenched his fists at the imperial edict of war; received his baptism by fire in Weihaiwei’s bombardments; and startling events had piled upon shocking sights until scarcely a moment remained for him to think. Profoundly burdened—for this reason, Takeo found himself unwittingly dwelling on matters that threatened to consume his very heart, barely maintaining his composure. At this critical moment for the nation—when he was but a mere grain in the boundless sea—what significance could the life, death, rise, or fall of Takeo Kawashima himself possibly hold? He thus reprimanded himself; concealing that pain, he followed the path of duty, summoning the courage of despair as he devoted himself to the campaign. He truly considered death lighter than dust.

Yet on those uneventful nights atop the bridge—sultry summer nights over the Yellow Sea when sleep in his hammock proved elusive—time and again a tide of anguish would swell forth as if to rend this stalwart chest asunder. Time had passed. Now that time had passed—the time when emotions indistinguishable between shame, fury, grief, and resentment had churned within him—only a single deep-seated anguish remained, festering unseen as it eroded his heart. After that incident, Mother twice sent letters and packages, expressing her hope for the day he would return safely. Takeo, recognizing that even his aged mother must feel lonely without him by her side, apologized for his harsh words from that time and sent word praying for her health. Yet an unyielding mass of resentment—unraveled yet unmelting—remained deep within his heart’s core, and what accompanied his nightly dreams in the hammock of annihilating the Northern Fleet and meeting glorious death was the visage of a certain ailing figure wrapped in a snow-white shawl.

All communication ceased，and three moons passed．

Was she still alive? Or was she gone? She must be alive—she had to be alive! Just as there was never a day I forgot her memory—not one single dawn—so too had there never been a day when her thoughts strayed from mine! Had we not sworn our oath—to share life’s breath and death’s cold hand together?

Takeo thought thus. He further recalled their final meeting. Beneath the fifth-day moon clinging to pines, on that dimly lit evening in Zushi—where now was she who had stood at the gate to see him off, calling “Please come back soon”? When he gazed deeply into memory, it seemed the figure wrapped in a white shawl might step forth from the very moonlight at any moment. “If tomorrow I should engage the enemy fleet and become cannon fodder,” Takeo thought, “then all this world will pass as but a fleeting dream.” He recalled his mother. He recalled his deceased father. He recalled his time years earlier at Etajima. Thus his heart returned once more to the ailing one.

*

“Lieutenant Kawashima.”

Startled by a tap on his shoulder, Takeo abruptly turned away from the moon. The one who had startled him was the navigator.

“What a splendid moon. It hardly feels like we’re heading to war.”

Nodding in response, Takeo secretly brushed away tears as he raised his binoculars. The moon shone white over the Yellow Sea, nothing obscuring the view.

1-3

The moon set, the night brightened into purple dawn, and September 17th had come. Shortly past six in the morning, the fleet had already advanced near Ocean Island, first dispatching the gunboat *Akagi* to Entō Bay on the island to investigate for enemy presence, but it returned reporting the bay empty. The fleet continued its advance further, catching oblique glimpses of Ōjikashima and Kojikashima as it arrived off Ōkoyama. At eleven in the morning, as Takeo exited the officers’ room where he had attended to business and was about to step onto the hatchway, a voice cried out from the upper deck—

“Spotted!” Simultaneously came the sound of boots clashing in urgent crosscurrents. With his heart pounding, Takeo’s foot froze mid-step on the ladder. A sailor passing below likewise halted abruptly, his eyes meeting Takeo’s. “Squad Leader Kawashima—enemy ships sighted?” “Yeah, looks like it.” Takeo brushed past him, vainly steadying his turbulent heart as he hurried topside. Figures darted across the deck; whistles shrieked; signalmen frantically hauled up signal flags. Sailors clustered at the bow while on the bridge above stood the commander-in-chief, captain, executive officer, staff officers, and all ranks of officers—lips sealed and gazes fixed—peering across the distant sea where the Yellow Sea’s waters met the sky. Following their sightlines northward, faint black streaks rose like threads—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten in all.

This was indeed the enemy fleet.

An officer standing on the bridge took out his pocket watch from his sleeve and checked it. "We have an hour and a half. Once preparations are complete, you should all get some food in your stomachs," he said. The man standing at the center nodded. "Thank you for your patience during this wait, gentlemen. I'm counting on you all," he concluded while twisting his beard.

Soon the battle flag was hoisted high atop the main mast, swaying gently, and several bugle calls rang out from the bridge, resounding throughout every corner of the ship. As they moved to their stations, crewmen's figures wove through the ship’s interior like a tapestry—some climbing mast platforms, others descending to the engine room, heading to the torpedo room, entering sickbays, moving starboard, portside, sternward, climbing to the bridge—signaling the immediate coordination of every movable part until battle preparations stood complete without delay. Just as noon approached, with battle imminent, the order for lunch was issued.

Having assisted the squad leader and directed his gun crew to swiftly complete loading the starboard rapid-fire guns, Takeo entered the officers’ mess slightly belatedly to find all his colleagues already gathered, the clatter of chopsticks and clink of plates filling the air. The short-statured lieutenant grew solemn-faced, the deck officer kept wiping sweat from his brow while eating with downcast eyes, and the young cadet intermittently glanced at others’ faces as he competitively refilled his plate. Suddenly clattering down his chopsticks and rising was the Red Shirt Lieutenant.

“Gentlemen! To dine so calmly with the enemy before us—your valor rivals even Tachibana Muneshige’s! Whether we’ll all gather for tonight’s supper remains doubtful. Let us exchange farewell handshakes!”

No sooner had he spoken than Takeo, seated beside him, grabbed his bare hand and shook it two or three times. At the same time, the entire group stood up en masse, grasping and being grasped by hands, and two or three dishes clattered down from under the table. A certain lieutenant with a bruise on his left cheek took the junior military doctor’s hand, “If I get wounded, do go easy on me.” “Consider this your bribe.” and shook it four or five times. The group, which had been roaring with laughter, instantly turned solemn once more. One departed, then two, until in the end only the disarray of empty dishes remained.

At 00:20, Takeo, bearing orders from his squad leader and having matters to discuss with the executive officer, ascended to the forward bridge. There, the fleet had already formed into a single column: the four ships of the First Mobile Unit advanced at the forefront some four thousand meters ahead, followed by the six ships of the main force with Matsushima leading the way, while Akagi and Saikyō Maru trailed along the port side of the main force. The battle flag fluttered high atop the towering main mast against the azure sky, smokestacks billowed pitch-black plumes upward, and the prow split the sea, sending white waves surging high along both sides. Officers—some raising binoculars, others gripping the hilts of their long swords—stood facing the wind on the bridge.

When gazing far out to the northern sea, the smoke that earlier had appeared like a wisp floating between sea and sky grew thicker with each passing minute, as if the enemy fleet were welling up from the depths—first came visible smoke, then faint mast tips like needlepoints, followed by smokestacks, then hulls, until finally the flags' silhouettes atop masts emerged as scattered dots. The exceptionally prominent Dingyuan and Zhenyuan stood linked at the center; Jingyuan, Zhiyuan, Guangjia, and Jiyuan formed the left wing; Laiyuan, Jingyuan, Chaoyong, and Yangwei comprised the right wing. To the west appeared further smoke—the Pingyuan, Guangbing, Zhendong, and Zhennan accompanied by six torpedo boats.

The enemy deployed in a single horizontal line while our fleet formed into 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 abruptly turned course to port and charged headlong toward their right wing. As the vanguard turned leftward, our fleet swayed like a dragon lashing its tail, transforming the formations from a T-shape into a figure-eight pattern—the enemy maintaining their horizontal line while we advanced diagonally toward their right flank, forming a vast compass-like arc until both sides closed to six thousand meters apart. At that moment, white smoke swirled into a vortex from the bow turret of the *Dingyuan* anchored at the enemy's center, and two thirty-centimeter shells roared through the air before crashing into the sea off our vanguard's port side. The waters of the Yellow Sea reared up in shock.

Part 1-4

Yellow Sea!

The Yellow Sea—which last night had glowed white under the moon, today casually tinted with clouds, bore island shadows, and cradled the dreams of slumbering gulls in painterly serenity—had now become a hellish battleground. Descending from the bridge, Takeo headed to the starboard rapid-fire gun battery. There, the squad leader stood raising binoculars toward the enemy, while his gun crew—petty officers and below—had mostly shed their jackets, their sea-tanned muscular arms bared in sleeveless shirts above waists wrapped tight with white cotton against the salt wind. They waited in silence for orders. At this moment, our vanguard was completing its pass before the enemy while raking their right wing with fire, and Matsushima at the head of our main force closed on them at full speed. Through his binoculars, Takeo saw Dingyuan and Zhenyuan anchoring the enemy center—those same two ships he remembered from Yokohama’s piers years past—now surging forward at an obtuse angle across their battle line. As distance dwindled, their silhouettes sharpened against the horizon. A sudden recollection gripped him—those very hulls he’d once seen moored peacefully now vomited black smoke, churned white wakes, and yawned open gunports as they advanced like ravening beasts. Not fear swelled his chest, but visceral loathing—a hatred thick as bile.

A thunderous roar erupted far out at sea as something whizzed through the air with a whoosh, grazing the Matsushima's main mast before plunging into the water and sending up a column of spray some twenty feet high. Takeo felt an indescribable chill course from the crown of his head down his spine but immediately steadied his stance. When he looked around to assess the others, the line of artillerymen clustered at the gun breech swayed once then held firm. The ship pressed forward relentlessly as three, four, five enemy shells came flying in rapid succession—one smashed a lifeboat suspended on the port side while the others sent towering columns of water shooting up around the Matsushima.

“Squad Leader—not yet?” Unable to endure any longer, Takeo shouted. The hour was just about to pass one o’clock. The word “four thousand meters” spread throughout the starboard and the entire length of the ship; sights were adjusted, and trigger lines gripped. The awaited bugle call rang out. At the command “Fire!”, our 32-centimeter main gun—alongside all starboard artillery—spewed forth their first volley at the enemy ships. The ship shook, and along its sides, smoke swirled up in a massive vortex.

As if returning fire in kind, a massive shell from either the Dingyuan or Zhenyuan shrieked through the air before plunging into the sea mere inches above the smokestack. Two or three gunners instinctively ducked their heads. “Who was that?” barked the squad leader as he wheeled around. “Who’s bowing out there?” Takeo, along with the cadets and gunners, erupted in laughter. “Now—fire!” “Steady… steady—Fire!” The starboard guns unleashed a rapid barrage. The 32-centimeter main cannon roared violently enough to shake the entire ship. Following vessels joined the fusillade in unison. Then an enemy time-fused shell detonated near their battery. Takeo—who’d been hauling ammunition to the breech moments earlier—crashed backward onto the deck. He tried pushing himself up only to collapse again as blood gushed across his trousers. Most gunners glanced your way.

“Who’s that? Who’s that?” “It’s Nishiyama! Nishiyama, it’s Nishiyama!”

“Is he dead?”

“Fire!” The squad leader’s voice rang out, and all gunners swarmed around the artillery piece. Takeo swiftly had the handlers remove the dead crewman and was turning back to his station when the squad leader’s gaze locked onto his trousers. “Kawashima—you’re wounded!” “Nah, just some spray from before.”

“Right.” “Now—let’s pay them back for that hit!”

The cannons fired without cease; the ship raced at full speed. Our main force, carving a vast arc against the enemy's horizontal formation while firing as it advanced, had swept around half their position and rounded their right flank by just past 1:30—now poised to emerge at their rear.

The first battle had ended, and the second was now about to commence. The starboard guns of the *Matsushima* fell silent for a time, and the officers and gunners wiped their profuse sweat. At this moment, observing the formations of both sides: our vanguard had swiftly rained fire upon the enemy’s right flank, harassing Chaoyong and Yangwei until they were rendered combat ineffective, then wheeled about to strike at the enemy’s rear alongside our main force. Within our main force, the *Hiei*—unable to maintain speed with the fleet—boldly charged alone through the heart of the enemy formation, fighting desperately to carve a path until flames forced its withdrawal from the battle zone. Meanwhile, the *Saikyō Maru* likewise sought to escape danger by retreating beyond the perimeter, while the *Akagi*—left isolated before the enemy—struggled valiantly with its mere 600-ton frame to breach the encircling forces and follow in the *Hiei*’s wake. Meanwhile, the vanguard’s four ships and the main force’s five ships maintained their orderly formations without disruption.

Looking toward the enemy, Chaoyong burned while Yangwei had lost combat effectiveness; their right wing lay in disarray as three ships from their left wing broke formation to pursue our Hiei and Akagi, their supporting torpedo boats isolated on one flank. Meanwhile, the Dingyuan and Zhenyuan—along with several other ships—swung their bows around abruptly rather than letting us circle behind them, shifting into column formation as they advanced valiantly toward our main force.

The second battle now began. Our main force, upon seeing the *Saikyō Maru*’s signal—“*Akagi* and *Hiei* in Danger”—immediately dispatched the swift four-ship vanguard to drive off the three enemy vessels pursuing *Akagi* and *Hiei*. While maintaining their single column formation, the five-ship squadron traced a great coiled serpent around the enemy’s own column formation—advancing and firing relentlessly—until, as the clock neared half past two, they fully encircled the enemy fleet and reached their near side. At this moment, our vanguard scattered the three enemy ships pursuing Hiei and Akagi in a single engagement, chased the fleeing vessels into the enemy’s main formation, and launched a coordinated assault from the far side. Thus, our main force and vanguard now enveloped the enemy fleet at the center and prepared to strike from both left and right.

The third fierce battle now began. The combined fleets of both sides—our navy’s elite and the enemy navy’s main force—which had gathered clashed at full speed, crisscrossing and intermingling as they fought. As though two dragons were coiling about a great whale, the waters of the Yellow Sea boiled into a field of foam.

Ichi no Go Our main force to the right and vanguard to the left enveloped the enemy fleet at the center, poised to encircle and strike. The battle now raged at its fiercest. As the combat's fury mounted, Takeo lost all sense of self. In his school days, whenever baseball had consumed him during those pivotal moments when victory hung in the balance, he would forget his position on the field—his very body seeming pulled by invisible strings from the heavens. Now he felt no different. Save for moments when the fleet disengaged only to charge anew, or when the vessel swung about to face the enemy with its port side—leaving starboard briefly idle—the crew remained deafened by ceaseless orders. Sweat streamed down their faces unnoticed. Enemy shells targeting the flagship converged solely on the Matsushima—iron plates sheared apart, wooden timbers charred, blood staining the deck—all went unheeded. The cannonades of both sides thundered in sync with their heartbeats; any brief lull left them unnerved by the sudden silence—their very beings now buoyed by battle's fever. Thus did the gunners ignore the hail of enemy fire. With firing-range precision amplified by combat's fervor, they loaded, aimed, yanked lanyards, and reloaded—dousing flames before they spread, fetching shells unbidden, removing casualties mid-chaos—all without awaiting orders. Hands moved autonomously; feet operated independently. The combat machinery hummed without pause, seamless in its operation.

When they opened their eyes through gaps in the gray smoke blanketing sky and sea in tenfold swirling layers, the unexpected masts of friend and foe with their naval ensigns faintly appeared here and there. Nearly every second, thunderous roars shook the sea as shells collided mid-air and exploded, while waters ceaselessly erupted in geysers that seemed to boil over. “Yes! The Dingyuan’s on fire!” The squad leader shouted with a hoarse, worn-out voice. Through breaks in the smoke, they saw yellow smoke swirling into vortices at the bow of the enemy flagship flying the Yellow Dragon flag, where enemy soldiers scurried and clamored like ants.

Takeo and the gunners all shouted in triumph in unison. "Now—do it! Take ’em down!" With fierce momentum, the cannons fired all at once. Pincered from both left and right, the enemy fleet crumbled. Chaoyong had already been the first to catch fire and sink; Yangwei, already severely damaged, fled; Zhiyuan too was about to go under; Dingyuan had fires breaking out; Laiyuan also suffered from conflagrations. The enemy fleet, unable to endure any longer, finally abandoned all but Dingyuan and Zhenyuan, scattering in complete disarray. Our vanguard immediately gave chase to their aftermath. The main force’s five ships turned to attack the remaining Dingyuan and Zhenyuan.

The fourth battle had now begun. The time was precisely three o'clock; the bow of the *Dingyuan* blazed ever fiercer, yellow smoke billowing up in great clouds—yet still she did not flee. The *Zhenyuan* too valiantly protected the flagship—the two great ironclads stood like towering mountains before us. Our main force's five ships now dashed at full speed around the enemy's perimeter—circling repeatedly to rain haphazard fire, circling again to unleash another volley. Cannonballs poured down upon the two ships like rain. Like lightly armored Saracen warriors on swift steeds wheeling to shoot at heavily armored Crusader knights, many shells that struck were deflected by the two ships' thick armor, exploding uselessly outside their hulls. At 3:25 p.m., our flagship *Matsushima* came precisely alongside the enemy flagship. Takeo—who had watched their rapid-fire shells strike true against the enemy's hull only to ricochet off and explode uselessly outside like fireworks—could no longer contain his fury. Gritting his teeth, he struck the hilt of his sword with his right hand as if to shatter it,

“Squad Leader, this is intolerable! Ah… Look there! Damn it all!” The squad leader’s eyes blazed crimson as he pounded the deck. “Fire! Target their deck—the deck! What’s your delay?! Fire!” “Fire!” Takeo rasped, his voice raw. The gunners—jaws locked in fury—unleashed a relentless barrage from their cannons. “Again!” As Takeo’s cry pierced the din, a thunderclap explosion rocked the warship. Before anyone could register the volcanic blast erupting within their gun battery, shrapnel showered down like steel rain—and Takeo crumpled to the deck with a sickening crash.

Two 30-cm large high-explosive shells launched by the enemy ship had pierced through the very center of the gun battery and exploded.

“Damn it!” Shouting, Takeo leapt up—only to collapse again with a heavy thud. He now felt intense pain in the lower half of his body. As he fell, he saw nothing but blood, fire, and flesh all around. The squad leader was nowhere to be seen. The gun battery had become like a cave, its gaps revealing something blue-green that wavered. This was the sea. The pain and an indescribably dreadful stench made Takeo’s eyes refuse to close. Voices groaned. Things crackled as they burned. Then came shouts: “Fire! “Fire!” “Get the pumps ready!” Running footsteps pounded closer.

Suddenly, Takeo felt hands pulling him. As hands touched his legs, boundless pain reverberated through his skull, and he instinctively cried "Ah!" as he arched backward—a crimson haze swirled before his eyes, and gradually he lost consciousness.

Part Two, Chapter One

In Hiroshima, where the Imperial Headquarters was located, by mid-October, though the First Division had already departed for the Jinzhou Peninsula, following them came the robust men of the Second Division crowding into Hiroshima; moreover, with the Provisional Diet about to convene, six hundred representatives arrived one after another from the east—top hats and rickshaws intermingled everywhere with the clatter of swords and hoofbeats, evoking a sense of witnessing once more the bustling atmosphere of Kyoto during the Restoration era here in Sanyo. Ōtemachi Street, known as the city’s main thoroughfare, bore solemn lodging signs reading “His Imperial Highness the Chief of the General Staff,” “Prime Minister Itō of the Cabinet,” and “Lieutenant General Kawakami of the Army”—from this area bearing dignitaries’ placards down to 2- and 3-chōme, every door displayed notices stating “Required Floor Space for Requisition: XX Tatami Mats, X Rooms.” Most houses had paper tags listing officers’ and non-commissioned officers’ names alongside soldiers’ unit numbers and troop counts—evidence of troops overflowing from temporary barracks already filled beyond capacity. Between these hung new signs for “XX Canteen Office” and “XX Laborer Affairs Office,” their doorways busy with figures rushing in and out. At one storefront, workers frantically packed Ramune bottles into large crates; at another nearby shop, young men sweated over biscuit boxes stacked mountain-high. Threading through this bustle came a general galloping toward Imperial Headquarters on horseback—followed by journalists with pencils tucked behind ears racing in rickshaws toward the telegraph office—then others: a man from the station direction carrying a sword wrapped in turmeric-dyed cotton and a leather satchel; a sunburned figure in tattered summer clothes likely just disembarked at Ujina; on this side, an elder statesman recognizable from newspaper supplements sped past in his carriage deep in thought, while laborers awaiting imminent departure hummed tunes and loitered; across the way, soldiers sharpening swords on a veranda sang gruff northern military ballads that mingled with the alluring strains of Hiroshima-bushi folk songs drifting over the river.

A house displayed a sign over six feet wide reading "Official Army Supplier," along with two or three other placards hung across its entrance’s three sides. From the front entrance to the street, rough-made blankets and winter gear were piled mountain-high. There, a head clerk directed five or six young men busily packing goods when an old man in his fifties—slightly balding with drooping eye corners and a shrewd reddish-black mole beneath his left eye—emerged hurriedly from the back after seeing off a guest. Having finished instructing the clerk, he was about to reenter when his gaze suddenly caught a carriage skillfully passing beyond the gate.

“Mr. Tazaki… Mr. Tazaki.” The call failed to reach his ears, and he would have passed by undisturbed, but when a young man summoned him back, the carriage wheeled around to the gate. The passenger appeared to be in his fifties, his complexion ruddy-darkened, his cheek beard flecked with strands of white. He wore a black silk haori and a Nakayama cap of matching hue—neither garment new—while a medium-sized suitcase sat upon the carriage’s kicked-up step. Recalled thus unexpectedly, his look of bewilderment shifted to greater astonishment upon seeing Mr. Yamaki standing at the entrance—all while he doffed his cap.

“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Yamaki!”

“Well now, Mr. Tazaki—what a rare sight! When on earth did you get here?”

“I’m planning to return to Tokyo on this train,” Tazaki said as he alighted from the carriage and wove through scattered straw mats and ropes toward the entrance. “Returning to Tokyo? Where exactly were you visiting, and when?” “Ah, I recently went to Sasebo and am now on my way back.” “Sasebo? Visiting young master Takeo?” “Yes, to see the young master.” “Outrageous! To visit the young master yet pass by without stopping both ways—utterly inexcusable! That daughter of mine—utterly hopeless! And the retired gentleman here—not a single postcard from either of them!”

“Well, I was in a hurry.” “But you could’ve at least stopped by briefly on your way there! Anyway, just come in. Send the carriage back. It’s fine—there’s something to discuss. So what if you miss one train? Not a problem, right? Now then—about Mr. Takeo... How’s the young master’s injury?” “Truth is, when I heard about his injury back then, I thought I ought to visit—but no sooner had the idea come than... Well, with the First Division about to deploy imminently, I was swamped, you see—ended up just sending a get-well letter.” “Ah, so it didn’t damage the bone? The thigh... I see.” “Youth’s a blessing, eh? For us old folks, even a splinter takes weeks to heal—but the young master... Well, being young... Truly fortunate.” “The retired gentleman must be relieved too.”

Tazaki, who had been half-risen from his seat, took out his watch and checked it, and as he made to stand up fully, Yamaki stopped him.

“Well, it’s fine. Taking advantage of this fortunate opportunity, I also have something I’d like to give to the retired gentleman. Take the night train. If it’s the night train, there’s still plenty of time. Let’s finish up some business, go somewhere, and talk over a drink. Hiroshima’s fish is truly delicious, I tell you!” The tongue’s savor surpassed even the dishes’ flavor.

Part Two, Chapter Two

The autumn evening sun flowed over the Ten'an River, dyeing the shoji screens of a riverside pavilion golden. While upstairs roared with commotion from what seemed to be a fellowship meeting of Peers and Representatives members, by contrast, the small private room below held no attending maids—only two men called Yamaki and Tazaki conversing as they raised their cups. This Tazaki had served as steward since Takeo's father's time and still commuted daily from his nearby home to the Kawashima residence, faithfully tending to every need. While lacking clever administrative skills, his virtue lay in having no inclination to embezzle household funds for personal gain—this being what Takeo's father would often remark about him. Thus deeply trusted by both the Kawashima widow and Takeo, he had now again journeyed all the way to Sasebo at the widow's command to visit their master's injury.

Yamaki set down the cup he’d been holding and stroked his forehead. “Well now, truth be told—even were I to return to the capital, ’twould only be for a single night’s stay before hastening back to Hiroshima again. Such matters hadn’t reached my ears either.” “Then might I ask—after that affair, did Ms. Namiko’s condition worsen quite severely?” “Aye, ’twas rather dreadful indeed.” “Still, ’twas all for the Kawashima family’s sake—what must be done cannot be helped.” “Ah, so her state has improved of late? She’s gone to Zushi for recuperation then?” “But that illness—no matter how it seems to mend—remains a death sentence through and through.” “Speaking of—Takeo... nay, the young master—does his anger still burn?”

Removing the lid from the bowl, Tazaki relished the broth—its rising aroma of matsutake mingling with floating pearls of sea bream fat—as he wiped his beard. “Well now, that’s just it.” “To put it plainly, while it was all done out of necessity for the family’s sake—but really, Yamaki, acting without any consultation while the master was away shows even the retired gentleman indulged his whims a bit too much.” “In truth, I did try suggesting we wait until the master’s return, but given his disposition—once he sets his mind to something, he’ll see it through regardless of objections—it ended up turning out that way.” “To be honest, I think it’s only natural that the young master wouldn’t find this amusing.” “And the one who caused trouble—that Mr. Chijiwa—I believe I heard he’s already departed for Qing China.”

Yamaki fixed you with a sharp look. “Chijiwa! Hah—that man was recently deployed, but precisely because he knew my face all too well, he kept pestering me for loans throughout his stay here—it was quite a nuisance.” “He’s a thick-skinned man, I tell you.” “Since I might die in the war,” he said, “think of this as my incense offering and give me a farewell gift! But if I survive, I’ll definitely bring back a Golden Kite Medal!” And with that line, he made off with about a hundred ryō. “Hahaha! By the way, once Takeo-kun’s injury heals, will he be returning to the capital for now?”

“Well, it seems he himself intends to return to the battlefield as soon as he recovers.”

“He’s still full of vigor, I see.” “But Mr. Tazaki—he must return to the capital at least once and reconcile with the retired gentleman, mustn’t he?” “I don’t know how attached he was—but when it comes to Ms. Namiko, their marital ties are already severed. And given that she’s in good health—it’s not as if he could possibly take back someone afflicted with a terminal illness now! Well—what’s done is done—I think he ought to reconcile with his parent without delay.” “You know, Mr. Tazaki...”

With a concerned look, Tazaki said, “The young master being as upright as he is—even if the retired gentleman was at fault, it seems he believes his own actions weren’t entirely blameless either." "Besides, my visit this time has at least conveyed the retired gentleman’s sentiments, so there’s no need for formal reconciliation—but—" “A wartime marriage arrangement may seem odd—but you’ll be welcoming the new mistress soon regardless, I suppose.” “What do you think—even if the young master reconciles with the retired gentleman, he still won’t forget Ms. Namiko, will he?” “Young men often cling to stubbornness at first, but when a fresh face arrives, they inevitably grow fond of her in time.”

“No, it seems the retired gentleman has considered that matter as well, but—” “You think it would prove difficult?” “Well, given that the young master is such a single-minded man, it’s hard to predict.” “But it’s for the family’s sake—for the young master’s own good—you understand, Mr. Tazaki.”

The conversation paused for a time.

Upstairs, the speeches seemed to be nearing their end; enthusiastic applause rang out repeatedly. The evening sun’s glow on the shoji screens had dimmed slightly; the trumpet’s call sounded cold to the ear.

Yamaki cleansed his cup and offered it anew to Tazaki. "By the way, Mr. Tazaki—my daughter has been under your care, but she's quite a handful. I suppose she hasn't quite won the retired gentleman's favor yet?"

After Namiko had left, a little over a month had passed when Yamaki placed his daughter Otoyo in the Kawashima household under the pretext of etiquette training so that she might receive direct edification from the Kawashima widow.

Tazaki smiled. He must have recalled something.

Part Two, Chapter Three

Tazaki smiled.

The Kawashima widow frowned.

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

“You ungrateful wretch! “Do whatever you please!” The mother knew Takeo had always been filial, never hesitating to comply with her will. Knowing this—and fully aware his love for Namiko ran deep—she nonetheless believed he would abandon that love without hesitation when forced to choose between filial duty and marital devotion. Convinced of this—though privately doubting if her actions were overly decisive—she divorced Namiko unilaterally, all while claiming it was for family and Takeo’s sake. When confronted with Takeo’s unexpectedly fierce fury, his mother realized her miscalculation and understood a mother’s authority held no absolute power over her child. She who had once watched her son’s love flow toward Namiko with displeasure now saw even maternal affection, authority, and kindness could not rival a dying woman’s hold. Feeling her authority crumble—as though Namiko had wholly stolen her son—she raged at Takeo and continued vilifying Namiko long after she returned to her parents’ home.

There was yet another thing that intensified her rage. Though she did not fully recognize—even dimly—in which corner of her heart the wrongness of her own actions lay, a faint suspicion of it lingered nonetheless. Had there not been a shred of reason in the depths of Takeo’s fury? Had there not been a single instance where my actions overstepped my rightful bounds and encroached upon that child? On sleepless midnights, gazing alone at the shadow of a lamp cast upon the inner room’s ceiling while unconsciously pondering, she would seem to hear a whispering voice from somewhere—Your error... your sin...—only to feel the tumult in her breast grow fiercer still. The strongest thing in the world is a heart that believes itself to be right. What proves most infuriating is when one’s faults are laid bare—whether by others or by something within one’s own breast—compelling one to kneel in repentance before one’s conscience. Prick a pressure point, and a wild beast will roar. When one becomes aware of one’s own faults, anger arises. Takeo’s mother, because of this, found her irrepressible rage swelling further still, increasingly convinced that Takeo ought to be furious and Namiko deserved contempt.

Takeo kicked his seat and stormed out. Day after day, he did not come to apologize for his wrongdoing, nor did he send any letter of apology. As the sole means to vent the turmoil in her breast, his mother indulged her anger, finding scant comfort in doing so. She raged at Takeo, raged at Namiko, raged as she recalled that time, raged as she contemplated the future, raged in her sorrow, raged in her loneliness, raged again at her helplessness—and through this endless raging, she finally found sleep in the exhaustion of her fury.

At the Kawashima residence, the retired widow—already formidable in ordinary times—now burned fiercer than ever in her recent fits of temper. While the long-accustomed women servants were midway through packing their belongings once more, news of the Korean crisis broke, and extra editions proclaiming Pungdo and Asan flooded the streets. The mother had raged time and again at that unscrupulous wretch who hadn’t sent a single farewell letter before departing for war. Yet hearing how others behaved—old women journeying from the countryside to bid their sons farewell, mothers sending gifts and letters to encourage their children—while here a son raged at his parent and a parent fumed at her child, not one note exchanged between them; he on the battlefield and she in the imperial capital, each nursing a lump of resentment... Takeo’s mother, though not consciously thinking *What if this becomes our final parting?*, yet faintly sensing it nonetheless, finally broke her resolve. Cursing relentlessly, she sent two consecutive letters to her son at the front.

In response came Takeo’s reply letter from the battlefield. More than a month after this reply had arrived, a telegram from Sasebo Naval Hospital brought news of Takeo’s injury. The hand that took this telegram—even his mother’s hand—trembled violently. Though she soon learned the wound posed no mortal threat, she nevertheless dispatched Tazaki to distant Sasebo to ascertain his condition.

Part Two, Chapter Four

When Tazaki returned from Sasebo and reported in detail on Takeo’s condition, his mother felt somewhat relieved, yet she still thought it best to wait for his full recovery to at least see his face, and that once the war concluded, it would be advantageous to quickly secure a second wife for Takeo. Thus, first to sever Namiko from Takeo’s thoughts, second to perpetuate the Kawashima lineage, and third—deep within the recesses of her heart—to atone for her own past actions toward Takeo that had been somewhat excessive? she sought to obliterate her guilt.

The matter of securing a second wife for Takeo had already surfaced in his mother’s heart even before the day they resolved to divorce Namiko. For this purpose, she privately considered the limited number of marriageable young women among acquaintances and relatives, yet finding none suitable, she became conflicted—precisely when Yamaki abruptly placed his daughter Otoyo into the Kawashima household under the pretext of etiquette training. Even 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. Yet a drowning soul will clutch at straws. The mother, struggling to secure a wife for Takeo, took advantage of Yamaki’s wish and tentatively took in Otoyo.

The results of the trial were such that Tazaki might have smiled. Neither examiner nor examinee was satisfied, ending up as mere outlets for the maidservants' frustrations. First came peace; next came a small-caliber hunting gun scattering pellets lightly; finally emerged the terrifying siege artillery. This was the method the Kawashima widow employed against all people. Namiko too had once tasted that experience. And the more sensitive her nerves and keen her perceptions became, the more swiftly she had felt that pain. Otoyo too was now being subjected to that experience. Thus that underlying nature—which transformed through inaction, where even scattered pellets seemed no more consequential than beans roasting in some household—compelled the siege artillery to be deployed more swiftly than ever before.

Her mind, ever serene like trailing spring haze, held not a single worldly concern within her breast—so indistinct was the boundary between self and others that often her very individuality seemed to dissolve, merging at once with plants and creatures. Had she stood in the garden on a spring evening, both spirit and body might have melted into the mist beyond retrieval. Yet this Otoyo, who might have vanished like vapor at a touch, now that love had awakened her to herself, began for the first time to comprehend hardship. From the moment she rubbed her sleepy eyes and rose, she was ordered about for this and that, culminating in rebukes and shouts. Though malicious gossip was generally swallowed whole without being understood, even the serenely detached Otoyo found herself unable to withstand the relentless barrage of siege artillery, and had it not been for the house of her beloved, she would surely have fled long ago. Nevertheless, between her father’s admonitions and the lectures she occasionally heard upon returning to her parents’ home in Sakuragawa-cho, she valiantly held her ground before the siege artillery, enduring day after day. At times, when she could bear it no longer, she thought: Love is such a painful thing—never again will I love anyone. Pitiable Otoyo was made into a safety valve for the Kawashima Widow’s oft-turbulent heart, became the daily diversion for the household servants, and—bereft even of a glimpse of her beloved’s face—awaited an uncertain future with self-restraint and patience unparalleled since her birth.

Since Otoyo’s arrival, Takeo’s mother had added a new vexation to her troubles. The lost jewel was irreplaceable, and the woman who left was wise. Though there was no one fit for comparison, now that Otoyo had entered her close service, Takeo’s mother found nothing satisfactory in anything she did; despite barricading her heart resolutely, she would often recall that very person she had once scolded and reviled. Though this woman who held an inner radiance spoke little and moved with quiet grace—her appearance lacking the showy beauty that might dazzle at first glance—she had nonetheless, despite their strained relationship, keenly intuited Takeo’s mother’s moods and shown quick-wittedness, her earnestness above all commendable. Even as the widow had seized upon this to heap foul abuse upon her, she had at times secretly admitted in her heart that one so young possessed remarkable perceptiveness. Yet now, with Otoyo of the same age before her eyes, comparisons arose unbidden, and against her will, she found herself recalling at every turn the very person she wished not to remember. Thus, whenever daily vexations arose, Takeo’s mother would tremble involuntarily—for beside her sat one called Otoyo, a human-shaped wisp of spring haze with narrowed eyes and an agape mouth, while in her mind’s eye there now lingered a pale-complexioned young woman of quiet grace, her hair jet-black and intelligent eyes gazing intently as if to ask, “How does this suit you?” “But it’s not as if I’m holding her illness against her!” she protested time and again, yet that peculiar something welling up in her breast—which she took for anger—would not subside. In the end, she would once more raise her voice and lash out at Otoyo.

Thus, when Yamaki had unambiguously proposed to Tazaki at an inn in Hiroshima that his daughter Otoyo become Takeo’s second wife, the relationship between the Kawashima Widow and Otoyo grew more perilous than Sino-Japanese relations in June past—whether they would expel or be expelled, the crisis hung by the proverbial thread.

Part Three, Chapter One

Awakened by a small bird’s song near his pillow, Takeo opened his eyes. Reaching out from his bed, he drew back the window curtain—and there, the morning sun having just parted from the distant mountains streamed brilliantly through the glass pane. Though the mountains remained pale with morning mist, the autumn sky had already cleared to a deep azure, vividly setting off the crimson-tipped branches of a cherry tree before the window 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 pane. Their eyes met Takeo’s face—he had propped himself halfway up—and startled, they flew off in a gust of wings that sent a single yellow cherry leaf fluttering down.

Takeo smiled at realizing *those birds had been my morning heralds*, then as he tried to rest his head on the pillow，he winced slightly as if pained somewhere. Having finally settled himself on the bed，he closed his eyes.

The morning was quiet, with no sounds to trouble the ear. Roosters crowed; boat songs were heard in the distance. Takeo opened his eyes and smiled, then closed them again and thought.

*

Takeo had been wounded in the Yellow Sea and admitted to the naval hospital at Sasebo, where over a month had now passed since his arrival. Struck by shrapnel from an enemy howitzer shell that exploded at the battery's center, he had collapsed into a sitting position with a thud, momentarily losing consciousness from the agony. Yet despite the excruciating pain, both leg wounds had miraculously avoided bone damage, leaving only minor burns elsewhere. His squad leader had left no identifiable remains. Comrades lay dead across the battlefield. Among his subordinates, scarcely any artillerymen emerged unscathed. Yet through this carnage, he alone had survived to be transported to the naval hospital. Initially his fever raged so fiercely that in delirium he would brandish imaginary halberds while cursing enemy ships and crying out for his squad leader, startling the medical staff. But being a robust young man with non-critical injuries aided by autumn's cooling weather, the fever gradually abated. His recovery progressed smoothly without suppuration until now—over a month later—when despite lingering pain, he'd reached the stage of sneaking from carbolic-steeped wards into gardens bathed in autumn light, earning only the military doctor's reprimands. All that remained was swift return to the front; he could do nothing but await the physician's consent.

The life he had abandoned as lighter than dust had been miraculously prolonged; as his fever subsided, his pain lessened, and his appetite returned, a will to live—unbidden—stirred within him, and with it arose earthly cares. Cicadas shed their shells, but since humans cannot shed themselves, the threads of memory that had been severed by the fever of battle’s delirium inevitably began to unravel once more as his body somewhat healed and his mind returned to its usual state. Yet just as a grave illness can renew one’s constitution, the experience of having faced death across the mere thickness of a sheet of paper had renewed Takeo’s memories in an altogether different manner. The fierce battle and the extraordinary events and sensations that had occurred successively before and after it had tossed and battered 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 took on a different form. Takeo did not resent his mother. He had enshrined Namiko in the shrine of his heart as a wife now lost to the world, and whenever he thought of her, it was as if he were hearing a mournful ballad from distant fields—a peculiar, wistful sorrow would rise within him.

Tazaki came to visit. Through him, Takeo learned of his mother’s recent circumstances and gained a vague sense of Namiko’s current state. (Fearing to distress Takeo, Tazaki had deliberately avoided mentioning the matter of Yamaki’s daughter.) Takeo wept upon hearing about Namiko, and even after Tazaki’s departure, the image of the ailing woman in the Shonan villa with its desolate pine winds alternated each night with scenes from the Battle of the Yellow Sea in Takeo’s dreams.

A few days after Tazaki had returned east, a package arrived at Takeo’s bedside from unknown origins.

*

Takeo was now thinking of that matter.

Part Three, Chapter Two

This was what Takeo was thinking.

This had happened a week earlier. Takeo threw down the newspaper he had grown tired of reading and, while yawning on his bed, 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 was dimly lit, and beyond the window, autumn rain fell in torrents like a waterfall. Perhaps they were turning on the electric light for the patient in the next room. The incessant buzzing blended with the rain, further deepening the desolation within the room. Listening without intent yet attuned to that buzzing, his eyes turned toward the window—there, wind-driven rain streamed down the glass in torrents, and the drenched twilight garden appeared mottled through the downpour before vanishing again.

Vacantly staring, Takeo suddenly threw off the blanket from his head.

About five minutes passed, and there came the sound of someone entering. “Your package has arrived. “…Are you asleep?” When he lifted his head, there stood the orderly beside his bed. He stood holding an oil-paper bundle, a weighty box tied crosswise hanging from his hand.

"A package?" Not many days had passed since Tazaki's return—who could have sent this? "Ah, the package. Where's it from?" The sender's name that the orderly could read was unfamiliar. "Could you open this for me?" When he untied the oilpaper wrapping, there was newspaper; unwrapping that revealed a purple bundle. Inside lay a flannel summer kimono, a soft silk-lined garment, a white crepe sash, snow-white tabi socks, and a roomy underrobe designed for easy wear—the silk-floss shoulder futon clearly meant to prevent bedsores during long convalescence. What was in the box? Untying the straw cord exposed an overflow of his beloved large snow pears and pristine bananas. Takeo's heartbeat suddenly quickened.

“Isn’t there a letter or anything inside?” Though he shook and sifted through its contents, not even a scrap of paper remained. “Let me have that oilpaper for a moment.” The moment he took the wrapping paper and saw the traces of the brush that had written his name, his chest tightened involuntarily. Takeo recognized that handwriting.

It was her. It was her. Who else could it be but her? In every stitch of those sewn garments—could one not see a thousand streams of tears truly poured forth, though no trace remained? Could one not see the trembling in these characters written through her ailing efforts?

Unable to wait for the man to leave, Takeo broke into manly sobs.

* The spring that had never dried now burst forth anew, and Takeo felt his boundless love surging in torrents. By day he longed for her; by night he dreamed of her. But the world was not as free as dreams. Takeo had always believed—had always known—that not even death could sunder what bound them. How much less could society's petty formalities? Yet when they tried to make their bond real, those very formalities rose like an insurmountable wall between hope and reality. No matter what the world might do, she would always be his wife. Yet Mother had divorced her in his name, and her father had reclaimed her in her stead. Before society's eyes, their bond was severed. Wait for recovery, return eastward once more—meet Mother, visit Namiko to speak his heart, bring her back again? However he might deceive himself, Takeo knew such an act—attempted under society's notions of obligation and appearances—could neither succeed nor should be tried; he saw clearly that failure would only drive Mother and himself further apart than before. He had already tasted the bitterness of defying Mother.

Living in this vast universe yet finding even his love bound by unexpected shackles，Takeo burned with frustration but knew no path to freedom; day after day he languished in helpless torment，finding scant solace only in clinging to the conviction that she would remain his wife in life and death，thus barely managing to console both his heart and hers. This morning too，upon waking from a dream，what Takeo thought was this.

That morning, after the military doctor came as usual to examine him and left having expressed satisfaction that his wounds were progressing toward full recovery, a letter arrived from his mother in Tokyo. In it she wrote of feeling somewhat relieved now that Tazaki had returned, adding that since there were matters she wished to discuss, he should arrange to return to Tokyo as soon as the doctor permitted. The things she wants to discuss! Could it not be the very thing he most detests and fears? Takeo could not help but worry. Takeo ultimately did not return to the capital.

In early November, scarcely before hearing that his warship Matsushima—which had been damaged alongside him in the Yellow Sea—had completed repairs and departed for the front, Takeo obtained the barest medical clearance, secured passage on a transport vessel, and returned to join the fleet anchored in Dalian Bay.

The day before departing Sasebo, Takeo sent two letters. One was addressed to his mother.

Four-One

When autumn winds first began to blow and summer visitors had departed for the capital—leaving none but those recuperating from illness—from early September until now in early November, there was a lady who would stroll along Zushi's shore during chosen hours when the sun warmed and winds stilled, accompanied by more than fifty maidservants. Her figure, emaciated through progressive wasting away, cast a slender shadow upon the sand—a shadow as pitiable as her gaunt form. The net-hauling fishermen and convalescents who walked the beach daily had all grown accustomed to this sight, yet never failed to bow their heads whenever they encountered her. Without anyone in particular having spread the word, they had come to be dimly aware of her circumstances.

This was Namiko. Her unwanted life, coldly lingering still, had now come to see this year’s autumn winds once more.

*

At the beginning of last June, Namiko was taken back to the capital by her aunt; from the day after she received an unforeseen pronouncement, her illness rapidly worsened until she lost all sense of time, wracked with chest pain as she coughed up crimson blood. The doctors fell silent; her family frowned in dismay; and she herself awaited death morning and night. Her life now hung by the merest thread. Namiko gladly awaited death. Death was most welcome. This body that had fallen into the abyssal darkness without a moment to think—what joy could there be, what purpose could there be—that it should linger on in this world? Whom to resent, whom to yearn for—such thoughts had no chance to take form. There was only the terrifying, loathsome darkness surrounding her, and she could think of nothing but escaping this abyss as soon as possible. Death was indeed the sole path forward. Namiko could no longer endure waiting for death. Her body suffered on the sickbed, while her heart had already flown beyond the world. Whether today or tomorrow—when these bodily bonds finally snapped—she would look down upon this unlamented world, her soul soaring through endless skies to heaven, there to weep her fill and speak her heart at last upon her beloved mother’s lap; thus did she await death’s envoy in truth.

Alas, she could not even claim death as her own. Today—today—the day she had awaited had passed in vain countless times; over a month slipped by, and against her own will, her illness slightly abated; after two months, it grew lighter still. The life she had resolved to abandon was once more dragged back into this world, and Namiko again became one who must weep at her ill-fated lot. Namiko was verily perplexed. Was she not a being who knew life should be cherished and death feared? For what purpose do they summon doctors? For what purpose must I take medicine? For what purpose do they try to sustain this unwanted life?

Yet there was her father’s love. Morning and evening he visited her sickbed, personally administered medicine, oversaw the construction of a secluded retreat where she might convalesce in peace, and resolved by any means to keep her alive. Whenever she heard her father’s footsteps and each time she saw his joyful, benevolent face at her sickbed, Namiko could not prevent tears—not of resentment—from spilling unbidden down her cheeks; nor could she bear to idly wish for death. Thus did she strive to convalesce for her father’s sake. There was yet another reason. Namiko could not bring herself to doubt her husband. Even if the seas were to dry up and mountains crumble, she who firmly believed in her husband’s love knew that not one part of this recent matter had existed in his heart. When her illness had somewhat abated and she faintly heard news of Takeo—feeling her conviction being further sealed—she found herself somewhat comforted. Of course she did not know how things would unfold from here, and though she sensed that even should her illness be cured, the bond once severed could never be rejoined, still their hearts communed in the unseen depths—and whispering to herself that no one could ever shatter this love, she found secret solace.

Thus her father’s love and this faint hope, combining with the exhaustive treatments of eminent physicians, bound together the fraying thread of her life that had nearly snapped; and from early September onward, Namiko—accompanied by Iku and a nurse—returned once more to convalesce at the villa in Zushi.

Four-Two

Since coming to Zushi, her condition had improved somewhat, and amidst the quiet surroundings, her heart too had found a measure of calm. On an afternoon when the sea’s voice seemed distant, her freshly bathed body reclined in an armchair as she listened to the pure calls of birds, drifting into reverie. It felt just like those bygone spring days spent here, and she could almost imagine her husband arriving any moment now from Yokosuka. Life at the villa was no different from that of April and May. With Iku and the nurse as her companions, her daily routine consisted of taking medication and exercising without fail at set times, checking her temperature, and adhering to the prescribed regimen; beyond these duties, she passed the time with such modest diversions as composing poems and arranging autumn flowers. Once or twice a week, the doctor came from Tokyo to visit her. Two or three days a month, sometimes her aunt, sometimes Chizuko, and on rare occasions even her stepmother would come to visit. The two young siblings longed for their ailing sister and often pleaded with their mother, but she—who abhorred the illness and moreover took no pleasure in the children’s attachment to Namiko—would only scold them and leave it at that. Whether her old school friends had learned of her current circumstances or not, they sent no small number of letters; yet most were elegantly phrased missives that should have comforted her heart—but in truth, she found them rarely consoling and seldom read them thoroughly. She waited only for Chizuko’s visits with growing impatience. The news she longed to hear came chiefly through Chizuko.

Since the bond had been severed, the Kawashima household had grown increasingly distant. While the visage of the man hundreds of miles west came and went in her heart day and night, Namiko did not spare a single thought for his mother. It was not that she did not think of her—rather, she had striven not to. Each time her thoughts strayed to that mother-in-law, a terrifyingly bitter resolve—one she herself had suppressed—seethed up anew in her heart, threatening to plunge her mind into eerie disarray. Again and again, Namiko shook it off, shaking it off, wrenching her thoughts elsewhere. When she heard that Yamaki’s woman had entered the Kawashima household, even she could not keep her composure undisturbed. Moreover, believing this to be something beyond the knowledge of the one she loved, she forcibly wrenched her thoughts away from it. Her body lay ill in Shonan, while her heart ceaselessly turned westward.

Are not the two people most beloved in this world actually serving in the campaign to subdue Qing? Not long after Namiko had come to Zushi, her father, the Lieutenant General, proceeded to Hiroshima under the banner of the Grand Marshal and was now preparing to advance further toward distant Liaodong. Though she wished to see him off at least as far as Shinbashi, her father restrained her, earnestly urging her to take care of yourself and come fully recovered to greet him on his day of triumphant return. Takeo immediately headed to the battlefield after that and was said to be aboard the Combined Fleet’s flagship. Amidst autumn rains and winds that left him unscathed, how fared he who was engaged in combat duties? Day and night her heart raced over land and sea; though she who was deemed unnecessary to the world, Namiko read newspapers with a leaping heart, and there was not a day she failed to pray for the Imperial forces’ victories, her father’s well-being, and Takeo’s long-lasting military fortune in battle.

By late September came news of victory in the Yellow Sea; several days later, among the list of wounded, Namiko discovered Takeo’s full name. Namiko did not sleep a wink that night. Fortunately, her aunt in Tokyo—who understood her heart—had somehow obtained and relayed the news: Namiko learned that Takeo’s injuries were not life-threatening and that he was currently hospitalized in Sasebo. Though comforted regarding anxieties over life and death, yet when she thought of him—and of how many tender bonds still connected them—the uncontrollable resentment at her present circumstances seethed up anew, choking her heart. Though their marital bond had been formally severed while their hearts remained truly connected—he lay wounded in the west while she languished ill in the east—they could neither visit each other nor openly send even a single postcard of inquiry. Tormented by these thoughts with no outlet yet driven by an irrepressible urge from her heart, Namiko—during intervals between illness—sewed clothes for that person and gathered items he might favor, with Iku as her companion, hoping even a ten-thousandth part of her bursting heart’s longing might reach him. Concealing her name, she sent them far away to Sasebo.

Weeks came and went until mid-November, when a letter bearing a Sasebo postmark found its way into Namiko's hands. Namiko clutched the letter tightly and wept.

Four-Three

Chizuko and her younger sister Komako, who had come visiting from Saturday evening, departed this morning. The house, briefly lively, returned to its usual quiet. Beneath clouded shoji screens, Namiko sat alone facing the photograph of her deceased mother hung by the alcove.

Today, November 19th, was the death anniversary of her departed mother. With none to restrain her, Namiko took out her mother's photograph from her keepsake box and hung it in the alcove. Before it she offered slightly wilting white chrysanthemums that Chizuko had brought, prepared 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.

It was over ten years since she had parted from her mother. For ten years, there had not been a single day when Namiko forgot her deceased mother. Yet these days her longing had intensified to unbearable levels, and with every matter she thought of her mother. The father she yearned for was now far away in Liaodong. Though her stepmother resided nearby in Tokyo, the barrier between them remained as it always had been—yet unwelcome tidings still reached her ears. If only my deceased mother—if only she had lived on safely—I could have told her of those sufferings, confided this sorrow, and this frail body’s unbearable burdens might have felt lighter. Yet why did you abandon me? As this thought arose, tears welled up, and the photograph grew hazy as if veiled by mist.

Though it seemed like yesterday, counting on my fingers told me ten years had passed. It was spring of that year when Mother had passed away. I was eight then, my younger sister five—she who once spoke in halting phrases now grown so tall—dressed in cherry-patterned dawn-dyed kimonos that Father had praised when we stood together. With me on the right and my sister on the left flanking Mother at the center, we rode in that creaking carriage to have this very photograph taken at Suzuki Studio in Kudan—the one hanging here now. When I thought of it, ten years had slipped by like a dream—Mother had become this photograph, and I—

Though I resolved not to dwell on my own fate, my current bleak circumstances had materialized all too vividly before my eyes. The more I dwelled on it, the more this existence of mine—bereft of any joy or hope—became enveloped in layer upon layer of black clouds, until this eight-mat room took on the feeling of a death row cell where not a ray of sunlight could penetrate. Suddenly, the pillar clock resounded through the house, striking two o'clock in the afternoon. Startled, Namiko retreated to the next room as if fleeing—but here there was no one, only the voices of Iku and the nurse conversing somewhere in the back. Namiko, who had been listening without truly hearing, left this room as well, stepped down into the garden, opened the lattice gate, and went out to the beach.

The sky clouded over. Though it was autumn, hazy clouds drifted aimlessly, and the sea scowled jet black. The air hung terribly still—not a breath of wind stirring, not a single wave rippling—and across the vast expanse of sea, not a sail broke the horizon. Namiko walked gradually along the beach. Today, there were no fishermen hauling nets, nor any sign of visitors out for a stroll. A girl of about ten years old, carrying a child on her back and singing while picking up shells, noticed Namiko, smiled, and bowed her head. Namiko smiled desolately. Entranced, she continued to think, then bowed her head and walked on.

Namiko suddenly came to a stop. The beach ended, rocks rising up. A path ran along the rocks; following it would lead to the Fudo of the Waterfall. This spring, it was where Namiko had been led by her husband.

Namiko took that path and continued onward.

Four-Four

Having reached the base of the Fudo shrine, Namiko brushed off the rock and sat down. This was the very rock where she had sat with her husband that spring. Back then it had been a radiant spring day—the pale azure sky cloudless, the sea shining brighter than any mirror. Now autumn lay gloomy—grotesque clouds filled the sky while the sea swelled full up to the rock where I sat below, its fearsomely darkened surface unbroken by even a single sail’s shadow. Namiko took out a letter from her bosom. The letter contained but a few lines in an unpolished hand—yet surpassing a thousand words, it left Namiko unable to endure her longing. “Not a day has passed without thoughts of Namiko.” Each time she read this line, Namiko’s chest tightened anew, the ache of yearning cutting so deep it seemed to pierce her very being.

Why must this world be so cruelly warped? I who long for my husband would sooner perish from yearning than illness; he who holds me in such regard—why then has our marital bond been severed? Does not my husband's heart—crimson beyond blood—flow through every word of this letter? Did we not sit upon this very rock last spring, side by side, swearing to remain united through all eternity? The sea bears witness. The rock remembers. Then why has the world so wantonly torn us asunder? Beloved husband... cherished husband... upon this rock where spring once found us... upon this rock—

Namiko opened her eyes. She sat alone upon the rock. The sea lay silent and vast before her, while behind, only the faint sound of the waterfall could be heard. Namiko covered her face and sobbed. Tears pattered down onto the rock, escaping through her slender, emaciated fingers.

Her chest was in turmoil, her head grew increasingly feverish, and thoughts darting in all directions wove the past into a single glance like a shuttle. Namiko remembered that spring day when her husband had helped her to this rock; remembered when her illness had first manifested; remembered their outing to Ikaho; remembered 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’s face, her sister’s face—all manner of faces passed before her mind’s eye like lightning. Namiko then recalled an old friend about whom she had heard from Chizuko the previous day. This friend—two years older than Namiko—had married one year earlier to a certain count renowned among the daimyo aristocracy as a talented man returned from studying abroad. Though she had won her parents-in-law’s favor, her husband grew to dislike her; though she had borne him a child, he kept a concubine at home and immersed himself in pleasure quarters elsewhere until their divorce that spring—and now she had reportedly fallen ill and died. She was abandoned by her husband and died, while I—though loved by mine—am torn apart and weep. When she thought of this world’s myriad sorrows—his grief, her anguish—Namiko gazed out at the ever-darkening sea and heaved a deep sigh.

The more she thought, the more disordered her mind became, until Namiko felt the world had grown so narrow she could scarcely find room to exist. Though born into a family lacking nothing, I had parted from my beloved mother at eight years old, spent ten years shrinking under my stepmother’s roof, scarcely had time to rejoice in Father’s relief when a good match was finally arranged—though failing to please my mother-in-law, I would have braved fire and water for my husband’s sake—only to contract an unexpected grave illness, unable even to take joy in its slight remission, being told to die feeling more like merciful judgment than cruelty, yet though we loved each other dearly, we were torn apart without mercy, until I became one who could neither call him husband nor be called his wife. If this existence was meant to be so unfortunate, why then was I ever born into this world? Why did I not die together with Mother? Why did I come as a bride to my husband’s side? Why did I not die then—when this illness first struck—held in my husband’s arms? Why did I not collapse and die on the spot when I heard that dreadful declaration? My body bears an incurable illness; my heart longs for the one I cannot be with. For what purpose should I live on in this world? Even if this illness were cured, if I cannot be with him, I would die of longing—die.

I will die. What joy remains that I should prolong my life in this world?

Unable to even wipe away her falling tears, Namiko gazed fixedly at the sea’s surface. When toward Izu Ōshima, ink-black clouds swirling into vortices abruptly surged upward, an indescribably solemn roar descended from the distant heavens, and instantly the surface of the great sea became rippled. A gust of wind suddenly blew forth. No sooner had the wind grazed her temples than at the center of the jet-black sea appeared a mass white as snow that surged like galloping horses, crashing against the rock where Namiko sat as though to shatter it. The boundless Sagami Bay seethed in less than a moment with thousands upon thousands of waves like a boiling cauldron.

Making no attempt to avoid the spray scattering like rain, Namiko gazed intently at the water’s surface. Beneath that water lay death. Death might perhaps be freedom. Rather than suffer in this world bearing this illness, would it not be better to become a spirit and be by my husband’s side? My husband was now in the Yellow Sea. Even if it was far, these waters too connected to the Yellow Sea. Then let my body vanish as foam upon this sea, and my soul go to my husband’s side.

Takeo firmly tucked the letter into his breast pocket; brushing back her wind-tousled hair, Namiko rose to her feet.

The wind howled down from the boundless heavens; barely, Namiko kept her footing. When she raised her eyes, clouds chased one another across the sky, while as far as she could see, the sea seethed white with waves and foam. Across the bay, Sakurayama screamed, shaking its pines like a mane. The wind howled, the sea raged, the mountains resounded, and a vast roar filled heaven and earth. Now, now—now, truly, was the time for this thread of life to snap. Guide me, Mother. Forgive me, Father. My nineteen-year dream—now, at last—

Pulling her collar tight and kicking off her footwear, Namiko now aimed for where the crashing waves broke against the rock in boiling white foam, and threw herself forward.

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

Five-One

“Nurse, please prepare some tea and have it ready. It’s almost time for her arrival.”

With these words, Namiko slowly turned to look at Iku. Iku tidied up the area around her while... “That lady truly is a wonderful person indeed. “And yet they say she’s a Christian indeed.” “Ah, so they say.” “But I never would have thought that such a lady would be a Christian indeed. “And even her having cut her hair so short—indeed.” “Why do you say that?” “But you see, among Christians, even when their husbands die, they don’t cut their hair or anything—no, they dress themselves up even more and start looking for new marriage prospects right away, they say.”

“Ohoho, Nurse—who told you such a thing?” “No, it’s truly the case indeed. In that faith, even young girls become so impertinent—it’s truly the case indeed. There was such a girl in my relative’s neighboring household—originally a quiet child, you see—but once she started attending that faith’s school, her whole manner changed entirely. On Sundays, even when her mother would say, ‘I’m busy today—help out a bit,’ she’d calmly go off to that church. Then she’d complain: ‘The school is clean, but our home is filthy!’ or ‘Mother’s so stubborn!’—pouting right away. And even after entering that school, she couldn’t write a single receipt! When made to sew, she’d spend the whole day twisting the sleeves of undergarments. If told to boil daikon for supper, she’d just place the radish on the cutting board, grip the knife… and stare blankly. Her parents are now regretting having sent her to that school, you see—if they’d known things would turn out like this. And you see, that girl actually declared, ‘I won’t marry any husband earning less than two hundred fifty yen a month!’ Truly, you must find this utterly appalling, mustn’t you? She was such a gentle girl originally—how could she have become like that, you see? This must be the Christian sorcery at work, you see.”

“Ohoho.” “That does sound troublesome.” “But I mean—since there are both good and bad aspects, you can’t really judge without knowing them well.” “Right, Nurse?”

As if to say she didn’t understand, Iku tilted her head slightly while gazing up earnestly at Namiko. “But you mustn’t have anything to do with Christianity.” Namiko smiled faintly. “Are you saying I mustn’t speak with that lady?” “If all Christians were like her, it would be fine indeed... but you know.” “But—”

Iku fell silent. Speak of the devil and there it was—a shadow came into view upon the western shoji screen.

“Pardon me for coming through the garden gate.”

A soft, gentle woman’s voice rang out, and beyond the shoji screen that Iku had hurriedly opened stood a petite woman in her fifties. She appeared older than her years, her abundant white hair cut short beneath a black haori. Though thin and worn-looking enough to seem somewhat gloomy at first glance, there was a warm light in her eyes, and a natural smile lingered about her delicate lips.

The very person Iku had spoken of was this woman. But wait—there was more to tell. It was this woman who had fortuitously caught Namiko when she had nearly become water-scattered debris at the Fudō shrine’s edge over a week prior. If one does not blow trumpets and beat drums to promote their name, those unaware will never hear it; yet those who know, though they may try to conceal it, bathe in the light overflowing from that person’s being and find themselves unable to forget them for a long time—so it was said. Her surname was Ogawa and her given name Kiyoko; she lived near Meguro with many orphaned girls, taking pleasure in gathering the countless souls cast aside along roadsides and nurturing them as mother to one large family. Having come to Zushi since last month’s end to recuperate her body wearied by illness—pleurisy having plagued her—on that day, happening to be at the Fudō shrine, she had unexpectedly caught Namiko. After struggling to locate her family and handing her over to the flustered Iku who had come rushing there, the path for their interactions had naturally opened.

Five-Two Iku, who had brought tea and was now preparing to take her leave, looked somewhat startled. "Oh! You'll be returning to the capital tomorrow?" "Oh..." "After we'd only just begun becoming acquainted..." The elderly woman enveloped Namiko in her gentle gaze while replying: "I too would have liked to stay longer—to talk with you and see your condition improve before departing—but..." As she spoke, she drew a small book from her pocket. "This is the Bible. You haven't yet seen it, I suppose?"

Namiko had not yet read that book. Her stepmother had been known as a believer during her time studying in England, but on returning to Japan, she had abandoned both that faith and its Bible, leaving them behind with old boots and wastepaper in her London lodgings. "No, I have not yet had the honor of seeing it." Iku, still reluctant to leave, watched as the elderly woman stared fixedly at the book in her hands, her eyes rounded. It seemed clear that the trick's secret lay within.

“From now on—this book here—if you would read it when you’re feeling better, I believe it will surely do you good.” “If I were staying here a while longer, we could have many conversations—but today, as we part, I would like to tell you the story of how I came to read this book.” “You’re not feeling fatigued, are you?” “If you need to, please don’t hesitate to rest.”

Namiko, who had been listening with profound attention, raised her face.

“No, I’m not tired in the least. Please do tell me your story.”

After replacing the tea, Iku stood up next.

The afternoon of Indian summer lay quieter than night. The sea’s murmur lingered distantly, while pine shadows cast upon shoji screens held motionless. Only the crystalline chirps of far-off sparrows reached through the stillness. Beyond eastern glass-paned shoji, an autumn sky arched clear and high—Sakurayama’s slopes, dyed in brocade tones, seemed ablaze beneath the westering sun. The elderly woman deliberately sipped her tea, lowered her gaze to straighten wrinkles from her haori’s hem, then looked up to study Namiko’s face before commencing softly: “A human life appears long yet proves brief—seems fleeting yet endures beyond measure.”

“My father was a hatamoto—from a rather distinguished lineage, you might say. It had long passed into others’ hands now—you may know of it—across Koishikawa’s Suidobashi Bridge, a short way further on, there’s a place where a great enoki tree grows thickly—I was born in that estate. When I was twelve, my mother passed away; my father was so disheartened he never remarried, so as a child I took care of all sorts of household matters. Then after my brother took a wife, I too entered into marriage with the Ogawa family—a retainer household under the shogunate, of somewhat higher standing—when I was twenty-one, long before any of you were even born.”

“I too was raised on The Greater Learning for Women and prided myself on my endurance, but when actually faced with such situations, there were truly many moments that pierced me deeply.” “Given the times being what they were, my husband was rarely at home, and with my parents-in-law having two daughters—these later married—I essentially found myself serving five masters, which brought worries unknown to others.” “My father-in-law was not so difficult, but my mother-in-law was an exceedingly hard woman to serve—in fact, there had been a bride before me who fled back home in less than half a year. It seems improper to speak this way of the deceased, but she was rough-natured, domineering, and sharp-tongued—what people call ‘a person who would strike your back and make you choke,’ if you’ll pardon the expression.” “I thought I had endured as much as possible, but still there were times when I couldn’t hold back—hiding behind a folding screen to weep, only to be scolded for my red eyes and made to cry again, often thinking of my departed mother.”

“While I endured thus, the turmoil of the Meiji Restoration came about. All of Edo was like a boiling pot. 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—his entire family disappearing afterward—and my father-in-law finally succumbed to illness. Amidst all this, I gave birth. Everything became a blur—our stipends were revoked, our possessions seized. Carrying my year-old child, I crossed Hakone Pass with only my mother-in-law and one elderly servant in tow. Until we settled in Shizuoka, it felt as though I were trapped in some dreadful nightmare.”

At this moment, the nurse entered, bowed politely while offering Namiko her medicine, and then departed. The elderly woman, who had closed her eyes for a moment, opened them and continued speaking. “The hardships we shogunate retainers endured in Shizuoka were beyond description. Given that even the shogun’s household had fallen into such disarray—with someone like Mr. Katsu himself living obscurely in a tiny house along some back alley—it felt almost presumptuous for our household of 5,000 *koku* to receive three *fuchi* stipends. But to my shame, we couldn’t even afford a single block of tofu in those days. And since my mother-in-law was accustomed to luxury, I was truly beside myself with worry.” “And so, I gathered the women and children from town to teach them calligraphy and sewing, and worked late into the night doing piecework.” “That was manageable, but my mother-in-law grew increasingly harsh, blaming me for the misfortunes brought by the times—which cut me deeply. My husband was gone—after Hakodate, he had been imprisoned for some time—and my father’s whereabouts remained unknown. There were days when I thought death would be preferable, but I kept reconsidering, over and over.” “Truly, I aged ten years in one during those days.”

While these struggles continued, my husband too was summoned to join the Imperial Army, and crossing Hakone once more—to Tokyo now—we returned to that capital in the spring of Meiji 5 (1872). "The following spring, my husband received orders to sail for the West." "My daily anxieties had lessened, yet my mother-in-law’s temperament remained utterly unchanged—that I could endure—but I simply couldn’t discover any trace of my father’s whereabouts." "In autumn after my husband’s departure—on a day of torrential rain—I visited an acquaintance in Koishikawa and prepared to return home in a rickshaw hired at their estate." "Twilight deepened amid the raging storm. Huddled beneath the carriage hood, I watched the puller slog through the mud—squelch-squelch-squelch-squelch—his domed straw hat dripping streams that pattered-pat-pat-pat against his wrinkled paulownia-oil raincoat. The lantern’s frail light wavered across the roadbed as he trudged forward with intermittent huff-huff sighs." "Just as we approached Suidobashi Bridge, the lantern suddenly guttered out." "The puller set down the shafts and called, ‘Madam, forgive the imposition—there are Dutch firesticks beneath your seat.’" "The howling wind nearly drowned his words, yet something in his voice struck me as peculiar. Fumbling out the matches, I struck one toward the footboard—and in that sudden flare beheld the puller’s face. ‘You—Father?’”

The elderly woman unconsciously covered her face. Namiko wept profusely. From the next room as well, the sound of suppressed sobbing could be heard.

5-3

Wiping her eyes, the elderly woman continued speaking. "Isn’t it remarkable—remaining unaware while living in the same Tokyo?" "Then Father and I went to a nearby soba shop. When I asked about his circumstances, I learned that after Ueno fell, he had wandered from place to place—teaching calligraphy here, falling ill there—now depending on a former retainer who runs a tiny plant nursery in Komagome’s outskirts, while he himself pulled a rented rickshaw daily." "Joy, sorrow, shame—they all welled up until I could scarcely speak properly." "That evening—after Father pressed a farewell gratuity into my hand—we parted ways."

The night had grown quite late. When I returned home, my mother-in-law was lying in wait—her fury and resentment were so intense—and she spoke as though I had committed some unspeakable act. "Rubbing my chest, I confessed about Father’s circumstances—if only she’d shown pity—but it became an unbearable humiliation. The frustration and shame overwhelmed me—this time I couldn’t endure it any longer. 'I won’t stay in this house another moment,' I resolved, 'I’ll go to Father’s side right now.' After my mother-in-law retired, I quietly changed my kimono and was writing a farewell note by the pillow where my child—six years old then—lay sleeping. Then, as if dreaming in his sleep, he stretched out his right hand and said, 'Mother, don’t go.'" Since I had left him behind when I went to Koishikawa that day, he must have been dreaming of that. Startled, I stared at his sleeping face—when his features transformed into those of my husband—and I dropped my brush and wept. "And then—well, I wonder why it came back to me—when I was still a child, you see, there was this story about a daughter-in-law and mother-in-law that my mother used to tell me at bedtime. That tale suddenly rose in my heart like this, and ah—I thought to myself, 'If I endure alone, everything will resolve peacefully'—you must be growing weary, aren't you?"

Namiko, who had been listening with her whole being, needed no reply—she merely raised her tear-streaked face. Iku sipped freshly steeped tea, and the elderly woman resumed her tale. "After that, I made all sorts of apologies to my mother-in-law, but given those circumstances, I simply couldn’t take Father in or support him financially." "First, I discreetly sold off what few personal belongings I had—though they weren’t much—but even that couldn’t last long. So I turned to my husband’s acquaintances—there happened to be the wife of a foreign ambassador who was curious about learning the koto—and after making various excuses to my mother-in-law, I began teaching her several times a month. This at least eased Father’s burdens somewhat." "As time passed, I grew close with this kind, extraordinary woman—she would often chat with me in broken Japanese and eventually gave me a book, saying 'Read this.'" "Well you see—it was the Gospel of Matthew, newly translated into Japanese at that time—it appears at the beginning of this Bible." "I started reading it briefly, but found nothing but strange matters written there—so I simply set it aside untouched."

“Then, the following spring, my mother-in-law suddenly suffered a stroke. Though she had been a strong-willed woman, she became as clingy as a child—terribly lonely—and if anyone stepped away even briefly, she’d immediately call out ‘Kiyo! Kiyo!’ Sitting by her side, swatting away flies as I watched her face while she slept peacefully, I found myself thinking—why had I ever resented her even once when this was how she would end up? If possible, I wanted to make her healthy again—and so I exerted myself to the utmost, but all to no avail.”

"When my mother-in-law passed away, my husband returned from overseas not long after. Then, just as we were about to take Father in—perhaps because he felt relieved—he suddenly fell ill and passed away within two or three days, as though falling asleep. He said that having been reunited with the daughter he thought he'd never see again in this lifetime, and being treated so kindly by her, there was no one more blessed than himself. 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 wish I could bring him back to life and let him rejoice to his heart's content."

My husband gradually rose in status, our child grew up, and I found life much easier—yet the one thing that worried me was his heavy drinking, a common vice among military men. "Even now it remains so, but back then men were particularly ill-behaved—though my husband, having been to the West, was somewhat better—yet still, shameful as it is to admit, I worried terribly." "Even when I gently expressed my concerns, you—he would just laugh and brush them off."

“As this went on, that ten-year war broke out, and my husband—a colonel in the Imperial Guard—was called to serve. After that, my child came down with scarlet fever—I was practically by their side day and night. It was the night of April 18th. Since my child seemed slightly better and was resting quietly, I had all the maids retire to bed. There I sat by my child’s pillow, doing some mending in the lamplight—when before I knew it, I dozed off. As I grew faint, an uneasy sense of someone approaching came over me—and there sat someone by my child’s pillow. When I wondered who it was—you see—it was my husband, still in his military uniform, covered in blood and deathly pale—oh! The moment I cried out at that sight, I jolted awake and looked around, but there was no one there. The lamp’s flame flickered dimly, and the child slept peacefully. I was drenched in sweat, my heart pounding violently—”

From the very next day, the child suddenly took a turn for the worse, and finally drew his last breath that evening. "It all felt like a dream—and while I was holding his lifeless body, the telegram arrived informing me that my husband had been killed in action."

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

After a considerable while, the elderly woman opened her mouth again. “After that, I was in a complete daze—one might say the sun and moon had set at once, or perhaps there’s no proper way to describe it—truly plunged into utter darkness. When I thought that all my endurance had led only to this, I wished my condition would never improve—indeed, I fell gravely ill right afterward—but whether by fortune or misfortune, my health gradually recovered.” “My illness had improved, but for me, the world now seemed utterly empty, and I was merely existing.” “During that time, following an acquaintance’s advice, I closed up my house and came to stay at their residence for a while.” “While still recovering from illness, as I was idly tidying up tools and such—when was it?—I opened a chest of drawers, and from beneath my deceased child’s winter clothes emerged a book. When I glanced at it—why, it was that Bible the wife of a foreign ambassador had given me years ago.” “As I idly leafed through it without really reading, certain small phrases would strike a strange chord in my heart—I’ve marked those passages in this book—and even after moving to an acquaintance’s residence, I would read it from time to time.” “As I read on, it felt as though someone lost on a mountain path had heard a rooster’s crow in the distance—or like a faint light shining from somewhere on a pitch-dark night.” “By then, the ambassador’s wife who had given me that book had already returned to her country and was no longer there, but while I was wishing to discuss it with someone, through an acquaintance’s assistance, I took a position as a dormitory supervisor at a newly established girls’ school. It was a Christian school, and among its teachers was a young, devout couple—this pair became my spiritual guides.” “It has been sixteen years now since those guides first taught me the basics and I entered this path, but truly, this book has become my staff—I have not let it leave my side for a single day.” “Ever since I came to believe in the immortality of the soul, the world I had thought ended with death expanded before me; since knowing the heavenly Father, it felt as though I had lost my parents only to gain a greater Parent; upon hearing of love’s workings, it seemed I had lost my child yet gained many children; and once taught of hope, even endurance came to hold its own joy—”

“The circumstances of how I came to read this book are, in a nutshell, about as I’ve described.”

Having said this, the elderly woman gazed intently at Namiko’s face,

“To tell the truth, I had long been faintly aware of your circumstances—having occasionally glimpsed you like that on the beach—so there were many times I wished to call upon you. Yet now that I’ve suddenly found this chance to offer some small comfort, how bitter it is to part again so soon.” “Though I hesitate to say this—it may seem presumptuous—I simply cannot think of you as someone I’ve only recently come to know.” “Please do take good care of yourself—keep your heart steadfast, now, and never act rashly—when your strength permits, read this book—even after I return to Tokyo, morning and evening my thoughts shall dwell here.”

*

The elderly woman departed for Tokyo the following day. However, that gifted book remained constantly close to Namiko.

When she considered that there were people in this world who, even after enduring such misfortunes themselves, still retained enough sincerity to comfort others; when she considered that there existed someone in this vast, boundless world—neither mother nor aunt—who still held thoughts of her; Namiko felt somewhat consoled. Whenever she recalled the life story she had heard, she would open the book—that heartfelt gift—and peruse its pages.

Part 6, Chapter 1

The Second Army captured Port Arthur on November 22.

“Mother! Mother!”

Holding the newspaper, Chizuko hurriedly called out to her mother. “What is it? You must speak more quietly.” Glared at through light-blue glasses, her face flushing crimson in an instant, Chizuko giggled but then turned serious again: “Mother! He’s dead—that one—that Chijiwa!” “What?! Chijiwa— That Chijiwa! How? He was killed in action?” “His name’s listed among the officers killed in action.—Serves him right!”

“Must you always resort to such vulgar language?” “—Is that so.” “So that Chijiwa was killed in action!” “Well, he really did die in battle, didn’t he, Miss Chizuko?” “Serves him right!” “Someone like him being alive would only be a nuisance!”

Baroness Katō fell silent and sank into contemplation for some time. "If even when you die there isn’t a single person who will weep for you, then life truly isn’t worth living, Miss Chizuko." “But Grandma Kawashima will cry.—I’m telling you, Mother, Miss Otoyo has run off with Tō, they say!” “Is that so?” “Yesterday, she started something again and ended up leaving in tears, saying she couldn’t stay in this house anymore.” “Hohohohoho, I would have loved to see that scene!”

“No matter who goes to that house, things will never settle down, will they, Miss Chizuko?”

Mother and daughter met face to face, and words failed them.

*

Chijiwa was dead. About twenty days had passed since Chizuko and her mother had that exchange when a fragment of remains and a single letter arrived at the desolate Kawashima household. The remains were Chijiwa’s; the letter was Takeo’s.

The following are several extracted passages.

[Preceding text omitted] On the second day following the fall of Port Arthur, as the dockyards and vessels were transferred to the custody of the fleet, several officers including myself came ashore. The aftermath of fierce combat rendered conditions too horrific for words [portion omitted]. While passing before a temporary field hospital, I suddenly observed a stretcher bearing a wounded man. He lay covered by a blue blanket with white cotton cloth masking his face, yet the visible contour of mouth and jaw struck me as familiar. Upon inquiry, I learned this was Lieutenant Chijiwa. Your kind imagination may grasp my astonishment at that moment. [Portion omitted] When we drew back the covering, his pallid face appeared clenched in rigor mortis. Three gunshot wounds marked his body—one in the lower abdomen and two others—all sustained during the assault on Isugoyama Battery. Though conscious until dawn, he had finally succumbed. Further accounts from his comrades revealed paradoxical conduct: while notorious as a military malcontent, he distinguished himself in combat—having led the vanguard through Kinchou’s South Gate during earlier campaigns and performed admirably in this engagement. Yet in peacetime, he frequently transgressed an officer’s dignity, hoarding illicit funds even amidst campaigns. Most egregiously at Piziwo—defying explicit orders from His Excellency the Army Commander—he requisitioned supplies through brutal means against villagers, offenses warranting court-martial [portion omitted]. Thus his battlefield death might be deemed a merciful providence.

As Your Ladyship knows, he had committed numerous acts of misconduct; while he indeed caused me considerable trouble, and while I had already severed all ties with him decisively, bearing no resentment toward his remains—when I recall how we once grew up like brothers—I find myself shedding involuntary tears. Having therefore received permission, I cremated him and have respectfully sent the remains. I humbly request that you respectfully inter them as appropriate. [Continued below...]

The incidents Takeo encountered in Port Arthur were not limited to this; there was one event he deliberately omitted from his letter.

6-2

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

On the day Takeo encountered Chijiwa's corpse, he was belatedly returning alone toward the wharf. The sun had set. At the barracks gate, sentries' bayonets glistened; officers' horseshoes clattered; an officer reprimanded a non-commissioned officer; Qing subjects stood dumbfounded; military personnel crisscrossed every which way—and threading through these, five or six military laborers warmed themselves by a bonfire. "It's freezin' cold out here!" "Once we're back home, I'd kill for a bowl of tuna and leek hotpot." "Yoshi! You've gone and snagged somethin' nice again, haven't ya?"

The military laborer called Yoshi—likely having looted it—was wearing a splendid purple satin vest. "Ain't seen Gen." "He's swaggering around in a fox-fur coat worth four hundred ryō!" "Gen?" "That bastard's got ridiculously good luck, I tell ya." "He wins at gamblin', gets rewards without liftin' a finger—bullets don't even graze him, I tell ya." "He's the lucky one, I tell ya." "As for me at Dalian Bay, I ended up with nothin' but this lined garment, I tell ya." "Damn it! Can't even get nothin' from lootin'—this is really too much, I tell ya."

“Looting’s all well and good, but you gotta be careful.” “Just now, when I carelessly walked into a place, they must’ve thought I came to kill ’em—suddenly this Qing soldier jumps out from behind a barrel with his sword drawn, and damn near sent me to meet my maker.” “Just then some soldiers showed up and the Qing soldier bastard up and croaked right quick, but—” “I’ve had my guts scared right outta me!” “Stupid Qing soldier, ain’t he?” “They still ain’t been killed off enough yet.” Not many days had passed since Port Arthur fell; indeed, it was not uncommon for Qing soldiers who had hidden among civilian homes to be discovered, resist, and consequently be killed.

Unintentionally hearing a conversation he had no wish to hear, Takeo, feeling somewhat uncomfortable, gradually approached the wharf. This area was sparsely populated and dimly lit; on one side lay the dark shadows of arsenals arrayed in rows across the ground, while on the other stood streetlamps casting light as faint as a moonlit night—and there passed a gaunt dog sniffing the ground. Takeo walked along the shadow of this building when his eyes suddenly focused on two figures walking ahead some twenty ken away. The silhouette was unmistakably that of an army officer. One figure was large and the other slender; they walked together conversing as they went. Takeo thought one of them seemed somehow familiar.

Suddenly Takeo noticed another figure sneaking along the building's shadow between himself and the two men ahead. His heart pounded inexplicably. Though obscured by the structure's darkness, this shadow within shadows advanced one step and halted, took two steps and peered forward—clearly pursuing the pair while gradually closing the distance. When a gap between houses let streetlamp light stream through, Takeo recognized the figure as a Qing subject. Simultaneously he glimpsed something glinting in the man's hand. With his heart racing, Takeo stealthily quickened his pace to trail them.

Just as the two walking ahead had reached the edge of town, the black shadow that had been moving through the darkness suddenly emerged from the dark and pursued them. As the startled Takeo began to run after them, the Qing subject had already closed to within six or seven ken, raised his right hand, and fired the pistol—the slender figure collapsed with a thud. Just as the other man—startled and turning around—was about to pull the pistol’s trigger for another shot, Takeo, who had rushed headlong to the scene, raised his fist and struck down his right arm with a “Break!” The pistol fell. Startled and enraged, he lunged at Takeo, who wrestled to strike him down. Just as the large man also came running to assist Takeo, our soldiers—startled by the pistol’s report—scattered forward in a rush and immediately kicked down the Qing subject who had overwhelmed Takeo’s grasp, subduing him. As Takeo, drenched in sweat from the momentary struggle, emerged from the throng, the large man who had helped lift the fallen figure came toward him.

At this moment, the streetlamp light precisely illuminated Lieutenant General Kataoka’s face. Takeo involuntarily cried out.

“Your Excellency?!” “Young man!” Lieutenant General Kataoka had been returning from an unspecified destination with his adjutant when he was targeted—in what could only be called an audacious act—by a Qing subject. The adjutant had sustained severe wounds, but the lieutenant general escaped without even a minor injury. Takeo had unwittingly saved his father-in-law.

* When this news reached Namiko from some source，Iku was overjoyed， "You see，my lady." "The bond between you has not been severed." "Please do your utmost to focus on your recovery." "Come now，let’s really focus on your recovery，shall we?" Namiko smiled a lonely，faint smile.

Seven, Part One

Amidst the war, the year ended and a new one dawned, becoming Meiji 28. From January to February, Weihaiwei fell and the Beiyang Fleet perished; by the end of March, the Penghu Islands in the south had already returned to our control, while in the north, our great army advanced like the tide, leaving not a single enemy horseman remaining east of the Liao River. Next came peace envoys; by mid-April, news of a peace treaty’s conclusion spread widely. Following rumors of the Triple Intervention came the matter of Liaodong’s return. In late May of that year, His Majesty the Commander-in-Chief returned in triumph, and the war ceased abruptly, as though a great roc had folded its wings.

After handling Chijiwa’s remains in Lushun and rescuing Lieutenant General Kataoka from peril, Takeo participated in the attack on Weihaiwei and later engaged in the occupation of Penghu Island far to the south. Then, in early June, as his ship was temporarily returning triumphantly to Yokosuka, he at last came back to Tokyo and passed through the gate of his own home—a threshold he had not crossed in ages.

When he thought back, it had already been a year since that June day when he had stormed out after taking his leave from his mother. Having passed through life-and-death crises time and again—the old bitterness neither fading nor losing its scar—how many times had his thoughts winged their way homeward during rainy days at Sasebo Hospital and nights when winds froze over Weihaiwei Harbor?

Having returned after a year, he found nothing changed within the house—only the faces of the maids who came out at the sound of his carriage were newly changed. Mother remained plump and stout as ever; having developed rheumatism, she stayed abed all day. Tazaki came daily as usual, waited in a six-tatami room, handled affairs according to custom, and left at the appointed hour. Each day’s matters seemed cast from a mold—everything seen and heard remained exactly as it had been the year before. Takeo felt he had grasped hope only to lose it. After meeting his mother for the first time in a year, bathing in his long-unvisited home’s tub, sitting comfortably upon piled quilts, partaking of favorite dishes, then laying his weary head on a black velvet bolster pillow—not a fishing pillow—yet finding no dreams formed even as the clock near his pillow struck twelve, his eyes grew ever sharper while feeling a keen pain deep within his heart.

A year's passage had not repaired the rift between mother and son. At the very least, no mending could be perceived. The mother had indeed welcomed her only child with apparent joy. Takeo too had met his mother and set down one weighty burden. Yet from that first face-to-face meeting, both Takeo and his mother recognized there could be no true absence of barriers between them. He asked nothing of Namiko; she volunteered nothing. His silence stemmed not from lack of desire to inquire, nor her reticence from ignorance of what he might wish to hear. They had both striven to avoid this perilous matter, yet in their mutual awareness of this evasion, they naturally felt an unease in each other's presence—as though conversation would founder should they confront it directly.

Even without the mementos from Sasebo Hospital or that incident in Lushun—things he could never forget regardless—now that he had returned to this house where past and present coexisted, every sight bore traces of her visage, leaving Takeo’s heart strangely unsettled. Where could she be now? Could she be unaware that he had returned? Though thoughts may bridge a thousand miles, the Kataoka household—now severed by divorce—lay less than a ri away yet felt farther than the sun; though her aunt’s home stood close enough to call and receive an answer, what face could he show to go there and inquire after her? When he thought back now—when he had stopped by Zushi last May to bid farewell before departing for fleet exercises—he had no idea it would become their final parting. The voice that had called out “Come back soon” as she saw him off at the villa gate still lingered in his ear’s depths, but now there was no one to whom he could say, “I’ve returned.”

Takeo, continuing to dwell on these thoughts, one day went to Yokosuka and on his way descended to Zushi. When he wandered toward that villa, he found its front gate closed. Thinking mournfully that she must have returned to the capital, he entered through the back gate and saw an old man alone in the garden plucking weeds.

Seven, Part 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 startled; removing his headband and bending slightly at the waist, “Well, if it isn’t Master Takeo! When ’tis you returned, Master Takeo?” “I returned two or three days ago. You’re still as hale and hearty as ever.” “Oh, not at all—’s nothing worth mentioning, Master Takeo. I’m much obliged for your concern.” “Well now—have you been keeping watch here alone for quite some time?”

“Oh, not at all, sir. Until last month, the Madam—er, the Young Lady—that is, the patient and her nurse were here. Since then, well, this old man’s been keeping watch over the place, sir.” So she had gone back to Tokyo last month... Then she was there now.

Takeo muttered to himself. “Yes, precisely so.” “The lord returned to Tokyo before coming back from Qing, ’tis true.” “Ah, and then ’twould seem the lord went together with her to Kyoto—and I don’t reckon they’ve returned to the capital yet, ’tis true.” “To Kyoto?” Then her illness must have improved.

Takeo muttered to himself again. “And when did they go?”

“Four or five days ago—” he began, but suddenly recalling their current relationship, he clamped his mouth shut, perhaps thinking he had said too much. Realizing this, Takeo involuntarily flushed.

The two faced each other in silence for a time, but as the old man seemed to reconsider out of pity, “I’ll just open the doors for you.” “Master Takeo, why don’t you have some tea and rest a spell?” “No, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll just leave things as they are.” “I merely stopped by while passing through.” Having spoken abruptly, Takeo looked around the mansion he had once frequented. Though someone was maintaining it and thus not entirely neglected, all the doors remained shut, the water basin parched. The garden’s lush green leaves grew thick and wild, with ume fruits scattered here and there. On the verdant lawn, half of the lingering rose blossoms had fallen, their faint fragrance permeating the garden. There was no trace of human presence anywhere—only the sound of cicadas clamored loudly in the pine trees behind the house.

Takeo hurriedly bid farewell to the old man and left with his head hung low.

After five or six days had passed, Takeo once again left home to embark on the distant southern campaign. Though he had returned home for over ten days—a period during which his fellow officers reveled in lively celebrations of their triumphant return—Takeo spent joyless days. The home he had so dearly missed from afar proved unexpectedly hollow upon his return, and ultimately Takeo found nothing to fill the void in his heart. His mother, aware of this, let no trace of her bitterness show in her words. Takeo too became conscious that his mother recognized their estrangement, and whenever they spoke face-to-face, he felt an intangible barrier growing between them. Thus while no outright rupture occurred between mother and son as before, Takeo lamented that even now—a year after returning—he had drifted further from his mother than ever, yet remained powerless to halt this widening gulf. Mother and son parted coldly.

Originally scheduled to depart from Yokosuka, but as an obstacle arose on the verge of departure causing a one-day delay, Takeo decided to embark from Kure instead and boarded the Tokaido train on June 10th—a solitary figure steeped in desolation.

Eight, Part One

A group of three who had just emerged from Uji’s Mount Ōbaku. A portly gentleman who appeared to be in his fifties—dressed in Western-style clothing and carrying a gold-topped cane—walked alongside a young lady of about twenty holding aloft a black satin parasol, followed by a woman around fifty who seemed to be a maid carrying a cloth bundle.

As the three emerged, the three rickshaws that had been waiting at the gate came clattering forward, whereupon the elderly gentleman glanced at the parasol-clad young lady. “Nice weather,” he said. “Why don’t we walk a little?”

“Let’s walk.” “Won’t you tire yourself?” interjected the maid. “It’s fine—a little walking would do me good.” “Well then, if we tire we can ride later. For now, let’s take a leisurely stroll.” With three rickshaws following behind, the trio began to walk at a leisurely pace. Needless to say, this was Lieutenant General Kataoka’s party. Yesterday, having lodged in Uji after coming from Nara, they had viewed Byodoin Temple and paid respects at the historic site of Sen no Rikyu’s final moments; today, they intended to depart from Yamashina Station toward Ōtsu.

Lieutenant General Kataoka returned triumphantly from Liaodong in May of this year. One day he summoned Namiko’s attending physician to his study for a secret discussion; then two days later, taking Namiko along with her maid Iku, he drifted lightly away to Kyoto. Selecting a quiet riverside inn and establishing it as their base, he discarded his military uniform for civilian attire, avoiding crowds and declining invitations to public functions. Day after day he spent accompanying Namiko wherever she wished—visiting exhibitions, touring famous temples and historic sites, purchasing textiles in Nishijin, buying souvenirs at Kiyomizu, indulging in carefree leisure—and thus passed more than ten days there. For a time, the world lost track of the lieutenant general, and Namiko alone had her father to herself.

Once past Ōbaku, how quintessentially Japanese the tea-picking appeared. Though the peak season for tea-picking had long passed, the wind occasionally carried the aroma of roasting tea leaves from processing huts, and here and there figures of women harvesting second-flush leaves could still be glimpsed. Amidst rows of tea plants stood golden wheat fields where crisp sickle sounds echoed through their ripening stalks. When one raised their eyes toward distant Yamato Province, its mountains dissolved into summer haze while white sails materialized upon Uji River crossing wheat-tip horizons. From a village where only rooftops pierced distant fields came languid midday cock-crows drifting across farmland plains; overhead floated faint purple-tinged clouds like wisps of smoldering incense. Namiko sighed.

Suddenly from the field path to their left emerged a married couple of peasants deep in conversation. They had likely just finished their midday meal and were heading out to the fields. The man carried a sickle at his waist, while the woman wore a white headscarf with her teeth blackened in the traditional style, clutching a large earthenware teapot. As they passed by, the woman stopped to observe the group for a moment; then she hurried after the man who had walked ahead and whispered something. Both turned around, and the woman smiled brightly to show her beautifully blackened teeth before continuing their conversation down a path where blooming brambles spilled over the ridges.

Namiko’s eyes followed their retreating figures. The bamboo hats and white headscarves gradually sank into the yellowing wheat, and just as their figures vanished from sight, suddenly from the far side of the field— My man’s a Masamune blade, I’m but a rusty sword—he may break, but I’ll never snap— The plaintive singing voice scattered across the fields.

Namiko lowered her head. Her father，the lieutenant general，having turned to look back， “You must be tired.” “There—”

While saying this, he took Namiko’s hand.

Eight, Part Two Lieutenant General Takeshi took Namiko’s hand as he said: “How quickly time passes. ‘Nami, do you remember? When you were small, you used to ride on Father’s back and kick his sides—pon pon—like that. Yes, you were five or six then.” “Ohohohoho, indeed it was! When His Lordship would carry you on his back, Young Lady would squirm and fuss so! Why, even now I can’t imagine how envious they must have been!” Iku chimed in breezily.

Namiko merely smiled with lonely wistfulness. “Komako, eh? “I’ll bring Komako a whole bunch of souvenirs by way of apology.” “You know, Nami.” “Compared to Komako, Miss Chizuru must be envious—she did want to come here once, after all.”

“Indeed it is.” “If Baroness Katō’s young lady were to come, how lively it would be!” “Truly, for someone like me to be granted such rare sights—now, what was it… The river we crossed earlier was the Uji River, the famous firefly-viewing spot, and that Komazawa over there must be where Miyuki resided.” “Hahahaha! Iku, you’re quite the scholar.—Ah, but the world changes in such drastic ways.” “When I was young, whenever we’d go up from Osaka to Kyoto, we’d always take that thirty-koku boat—packed in like sushi, we were.” “No, more than that—when I was twenty, after Ōkubo and Arimura—Katsu Kaishū and Priest Gesshō—had been escorted to Osaka, some crucial matter came up that required me to go after them. But I rushed off in such haste I didn’t have a single coin to my name.” “In the end, with my face covered and barefoot—even though it was night—I once ran along the riverbank from Fushimi to Osaka.” “Hahahaha!” “It’s hot, isn’t it? You’ll wear yourself out. Why don’t we ride a little longer, Nami?”

When Iku beckoned to the lagging rickshaw, it came creaking up. The three of them boarded. “Well then, let’s be off.” The rickshaw gradually made its way through the wheat fields, passed through the tea plantations, and headed toward Yamashina. Gazing at the white hair on her father’s neck before her, Namiko sank into thought. Separated from her husband and bearing an incurable disease—should she call this outing with her father a joy or a sorrow? If one were to call her unfortunate—she 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 her father who dwelled on such thoughts of her. Whenever Namiko reflected on her father’s boundless love, she grieved that in her current state, she could do nothing but receive comfort, with no means to comfort him in return. In these days when father and daughter, having forgotten the world and withdrawn from others, spent their remaining time together in solitary excursions, she at least strove to return to her childhood self by taking initiative in their sightseeing outings; and though ornate brocades held no purpose for her ephemeral existence soon to vanish, she had selected particularly splendid ones to serve as mementos for her sister in the days to come.

If I thought Father pitiable, then it was my husband Takeo whom I longed for. All I knew was that he had saved Father from peril at Port Arthur; with none to bring word of his fate since, though my thoughts flew to him and my dreams reached him—where in this world might he dwell now? Whenever I thought—I want to see him, just once while I still live, just once—that wretched folk song I’d heard earlier would echo in my ears, the image of that peasant couple speaking tenderly would rise before my eyes, and I’d bitterly resent how their joyful coarse cloth had been replaced by these wind-piercing sleeves of sorrow—

Suppressing the welling tears with her handkerchief and biting her lip to hold back sobs, a fit of coughing cruelly betrayed her efforts. The lieutenant general turned back with a concerned look. "I'm all right now."

Namiko formed a faint smile.

* Arriving at Yamashina, they boarded the eastbound train. The first-class compartment stood empty of others; Namiko sat by the open window while her father settled some distance away, spreading out a newspaper. At that very moment, billowing smoke that shook the ground announced the Kobe-bound train approaching from the east, coming to rest alongside their own train poised for departure. The clatter of carriage doors opening and closing blended with the crunch of gravel underfoot on the platform as a station attendant's distant shouts of "Yamashina! Yamashina!" swept past—all these sounds reached them just as the steam whistle blew and their train began to move with deliberate slowness. Sitting beneath the open window, Namiko gazed absently at the departing train gliding past. Just as they drew level with a second-class compartment, she found herself exchanging glances with a Western-suited man resting his cheek on his hand against the window.

“Oh—you!”

"Oh, Nami-san!"

This was Takeo.

The train was about to pass. As if maddened, Namiko stretched herself out the window and hurled the violet handkerchief clutched in her hand. "That's dangerous, Young Lady!" Startled, Iku firmly grasped Namiko’s sleeve. Still holding the newspaper, the lieutenant general too stood up and gazed out the window. The train passed five ken—ten ken. Leaning out so far she nearly fell and turning back, Namiko saw Takeo waving that handkerchief like a madman and shouting something.

In an instant, the rails curved around the mountain bend. Outside both windows lay nothing but mountains veiled in fresh greenery. From behind came a sound like rending silk—at that very moment, the other train had begun racing westward. Namiko covered her face and buried it in her father's lap.

Chapter Nine: Part One

On the evening of July seventh, many people gathered at Lieutenant General Kataoka’s residence, all speaking in hushed voices. Miss Namiko’s condition had taken a critical turn. When Lieutenant General Kataoka and his daughter had suddenly returned in late last month from their excursion to the capital—a trip originally planned to last over a month—even those who were not physicians and came out to greet them at the entrance could not doubt that Namiko’s condition had progressed considerably. Indeed, the physician, upon examining her, involuntarily changed his expression. In less than a month, not only had her condition suddenly worsened, but they had also detected significant abnormalities in her heart.

From this point onward, lamps burned late into the night at the Kataoka residence as physicians came and went without cease; even Baroness Katō, who was supposed to depart for her summer retreat at month’s end, had after all temporarily postponed her trip. The renowned physicians’ skills proved futile; Iku’s day-and-night prayers came to naught; and the illness grew more severe with each passing day. Repeated hemoptysis—between which occurred spasms of the heart—left her mostly lapsing into semi-consciousness to mutter deliriously after bouts of violent pain; each day her weakness grew worse than the last, each morrow more dire than today. Whenever her father—kept awake night after night by her coughing—came to her bedside, Namiko would offer a faint smile and speak clearly while suppressing labored breaths; yet whenever drowsiness overcame her, she would ceaselessly call Takeo’s name.

*

The day that the doctors had warned might come today or tomorrow had now turned to evening; though every room was lit with lamps throughout, there were none speaking in raised voices, and in the profound stillness, it scarcely seemed people were present at all. After the subcutaneous injection had been completed and she had been left to rest quietly for a while, the two women who had come from the annex via the corridor settled into chairs in the small sitting room. One was Baroness Katō. The other was the old woman who had once saved Namiko by the Fudō shrine. Since parting in the autumn of last year, they had not met for some time; Namiko had entreated her father to send a messenger and summon her.

“Thank you—for all your kindness. My niece kept saying she must meet you once to express her gratitude—now that she has had the honor of meeting you, her wish would be fulfilled.”

Baroness Katō slightly parted her lips.

As if she knew not how to respond, the old woman merely sighed deeply and lowered her head. After a moment, she lowered her voice. “And—where might he be now?”

"He had gone to Taiwan, I was told."

“Taiwan!”

The old woman sighed deeply once more. Baroness Katō barely suppressed her welling tears. “Since that isn’t the situation—and as I’ve been thinking precisely what you said—I’ll handle societal appearances however needed, coordinate accordingly, and wish to let him bid farewell. But regardless of what I say, he only just reached Taiwan yesterday or today, and moreover, he’s on a warship—”

At that moment, Mrs. Kataoka entered. Chizuko, her eyes red and swollen from crying, hurried in after her and called out to her mother.

Chapter Nine: Part Two

The day drew to a close. In the eight-tatami room of the annex newly built last summer, the faint glow of a candlestick shone, and a large bed had been placed. On the snow-white sheets, with eyes closed, Namiko lay.

After nearly two years of illness, her already ravaged frame had grown even more emaciated—every ounce of flesh wasted away, every bone standing exposed. Her pallid face had become so translucent one might see through it, yet her black hair alone retained its former vitality, lustrous as ever, combed long and left trailing across the pillow. At the bedside, a nurse in white occasionally moistened Namiko’s lips with a brush dipped in medicated wine blended with ice. On this side, alongside another nurse, Iku—her eyes sunken and cheeks hollow—sat with bowed head, rubbing her feet. The room lay in profound silence, save for the sound of Namiko’s breath—now suddenly sharp, now abruptly faint—that alone could be heard.

Suddenly letting out a long breath, Namiko opened her eyes and emitted a faint voice. “Where is Aunt...?”

“She has come.” Baroness Katō, who had entered quietly while speaking, drew the chair that the nurse offered even closer to the sickbed.

“Were you able to sleep at all...?” “What...?” “I see.” “Then—”

Glancing at the nurse and Iku,

“Please step out for a moment.” Having sent the three out, the aunt drew her chair even closer, smoothed back the stray hairs clinging to Namiko’s forehead, and gazed intently at her face. Namiko also gazed at her aunt’s face.

After a moment, with a sigh, Namiko extended her trembling hand and took out a sealed letter from beneath the pillow. “This... deliver... after I’m gone.” While wiping away the tears that fell in drops, Baroness Katō then wiped the tears falling from beneath her glasses and securely placed the letter into her bosom,

“I’ll deliver it. I’ll make sure to hand it to Takeo myself.” “And then—this ring...” She placed her left hand on her aunt’s knee. On that fourth finger glittered the ring Takeo had given her two springs prior, when they were newly wed. When she had been cast out the previous year, though she returned every item belonging to that household, this alone she had cherished too deeply to relinquish. “This… I’ll take… with me.” Suppressing fresh tears that welled up, Baroness Katō simply nodded. Namiko closed her eyes. After a moment, they opened again.

“How do you think he’s faring…?” “Mr. Takeo has already arrived in Taiwan and must surely be thinking about all sorts of things here. If only he were nearby—we could manage somehow—yes, as your father has also been saying—Nami, your heartfelt devotion—I will surely… I’ll definitely deliver the letter.” A faint smile rose to Namiko’s lips, but in an instant a flush came to her colorless cheeks; her chest heaved, and scalding tears fell as she gasped a labored breath,

“Ah, it hurts! “It hurts! I’ll never—never be born a woman again—not ever.” —Aaaaah!”

Furrowing her brows and clutching her chest, Namiko writhed. While urgently summoning a doctor and attempting to administer medicated wine, Baroness Katō found Namiko clinging to her hand and half-rising up; with a life-shortening cough that wrenched her lungs, she vomited forth a bowlful of crimson blood. Collapsed dazedly upon the sickbed. Together with the doctor, they all entered.

9-3

The doctor calmly called the nurse and administered emergency measures. He instructed them to open the glass window near the bed.

Cool air flowed in like a rush of water. The faint glow illuminating the backs of the pitch-black trees must herald the moon's rising.

With Lieutenant General Kataoka at their head—the Baroness Katō, Chizuko, Komako, and Iku—gradually gathered around Namiko’s bed. A breeze wafted through, stirring the locks of hair at Namiko’s temples as she lay as though already dead; the doctor kept watch over the patient’s face while taking her pulse, and the paper candle in the nurse’s hand fluttered fitfully. Ten minutes passed; fifteen minutes passed. In the desolate room, a faint sigh could be heard; Namiko’s lips moved slightly. The doctor personally poured a spoonful of medicated wine into her mouth. A long sigh once again resounded through the desolate room,

“Let’s go home, let’s go home—hmm? You—Mother—they’re coming, they’re coming—oh no—not yet... Here.” Namiko’s eyes snapped open. The moon rising through the forest edge cast a pale beam of light that illuminated Namiko’s vacant expression. The doctor exchanged a meaningful glance with the lieutenant general and withdrew to a corner. The lieutenant general stepped forward and grasped Namiko’s hand, “Nami—can you hear me? It’s Father.” “Everyone’s here.” Namiko’s gaze—which had been fixed on empty space—gradually shifted until her eyes met those of her father, clouded with tears.

“Father… please take care.” While tears fell in drops, Namiko slightly moved her right hand and clasped her father’s hand that was holding her left. “Mother.” The baroness stepped forward and wiped Namiko’s tears. Namiko took her hand

“Mother… forgive me… please.”

The Baroness’s lips trembled; without being able to utter a word, she covered her face and withdrew. Baroness Katō, while comforting the weeping Chizuko, alternately stepped forward to grasp Namiko’s hand, and Komako too approached to kneel by her sister’s bedside. Raising a trembling hand, Namiko stroked her younger sister’s bangs. “Komako... goodbye...” When she started to speak and took a labored breath, Komako, trembling, poured a spoonful of medicated wine onto her sister’s lips. Namiko opened her closed eyes and looked around.

“Kiichi… Michi… where are they?” Under the Baroness’s arrangements, the two children had already left for their summer retreat at the month’s start. Namiko nodded and grew faintly distant. At that moment, Iku—who had been weeping at the room’s edge—suddenly straightened up and seized Namiko’s limp hand between both of hers. “Nurse...” “Y-Young Lady—this old nurse will go with you—” When they gently led away the sobbing Iku, silence fell like still water. Namiko closed her mouth and eyes as death’s shadow slowly veiled her face. The lieutenant general stepped closer.

“Nami, do you have anything left to say? Stay strong!” Called back by that familiar voice, her barely opened eyes turned toward Baroness Katō. The baroness took Namiko’s hand. “Nami, I’ve taken care of everything. Rest assured and go to your mother’s side.” As a faint smile rose to her lips, her eyelids closed in an instant, and she breathed her last as though falling asleep.

The moonlight streaming in illuminated the pale face, and a faint smile still lingered on her lips. But Namiko fell into eternal slumber.

*

Three days later, Namiko was buried in Aoyama Cemetery. As Lieutenant General Kataoka was a man of extensive social connections, mourners came in exceedingly large numbers, and many of Namiko’s schoolmates too were present, hiding their tears as they saw her off. Those who knew fragments of the circumstances were overcome with gut-wrenching sorrow upon seeing the lieutenant general standing by the coffin with silent tears, while even those unaware found their sleeves dampened at the sight of the elderly Iku—who had abandoned all composure—clinging to the coffin as she wailed and lamented.

Since the deceased was a young lady of marriageable age, even in summer there were many floral tributes donated. Among them, only the offering brought by a man over forty in traditional formal attire was turned away at the lieutenant general’s entrance. The floral arrangement bore a tag marked "House of Kawashima."

Ten:One

More than four months had passed.

In the afternoon past four o'clock, when frost-stained nandin shadows lay stretched across the garden, the ever-plumper Kawashima Widow slid open a shoji screen and emerged onto the veranda. Approaching the stone water basin, she clicked her tongue at its dryness. “Matsu—Take.”

At the summons, one came running hurriedly from the garden entrance, another from the veranda. Panic showed on their faces.

“What do you think you’re doing?” “Didn’t I tell you the other day?” “L-Look at this!” Taking the ladle and clattering it around the empty stone basin, the two servants turned pale and gulped. “Get it done now!” At this thunderous rebuke, they grew even paler and scurried away. The widow muttered under her breath, washed her hands in the newly brought water, and as she turned to go inside, another servant approached with a slight bow.

“Is there anything else?” “The one called Mr. Yamaki—”

Before the servant could finish speaking, a sneer—half discontent—spread across the widow’s broad face. To tell the truth, ever since Otoyo had fled back last autumn, Yamaki’s visits had naturally grown infrequent. Having heard that Yamaki had reaped tens of thousands in profits from the war since last year, the Kawashima Widow had grown increasingly dissatisfied with his conduct and, every time she lectured the servants on the importance of not forgetting kindness, implicitly held up Yamaki as an example. And yet, in the end, habit did not prevail.

“Show him in.” Yamaki, having been shown into the mansion, raised and lowered his ruddy, dark-complexioned face several times. “Mr. Yamaki, it’s been quite some time.” “Oh no, Madam, I must apologize for my long absence. I had every intention of paying my respects sooner, but what with business matters keeping me hither and thither since the war ended—first and foremost, let me congratulate you on your continued good health.” “Mr. Yamaki, you’ve made quite a fortune from the war, haven’t you?”

“Heh heh heh, not at all—well, thanks to your kindness, er... this and that... heh heh heh.” Just then, the maid came bearing an armful of gifts adorned with ceremonial cords. “For our guest—” she said, placing them at the center of the seating area before withdrawing. The widow cast a sharp glance at the items on the stand, and a somewhat satisfied smile appeared on her face. “How terribly regrettable this all is. Ohohoho.” “No need for such kindness.” “Ah—that is—I must apologize for my tardiness. Take—the Young Master has been promoted to captain—I heard there were medals and imperial grants too—why, I happened to read about it in the newspaper just the other day—congratulations.” “And where might he be now—is he stationed in Sasebo?”

“Are you referring to Take?” “Take returned yesterday.” “Huh? Yesterday? “He returned yesterday?” “Oh my! Well I never! That’s truly... He’s just as he’s always been!” “He’s still such a child—it’s quite troublesome. “Ohohoho, he went out this morning and still hasn’t returned.” “Huh? That’s... “Well first off, what a relief to hear of his safe return.” "Oh, when I say 'relief,' it was truly regrettable how soon it was for Mr. Kataoka too." “It’s certainly been over a hundred days since her passing—but that illness was truly beyond anyone’s control. Madam Dowager, your foresight was indeed correct.”

The Kawashima Widow puffed up her face. “As for her, I was truly at my wits’ end.” “She spends money, picks fights with the servants—and in the end I get called a demon hag! What a fine daughter-in-law she turned out to be, Mr. Yamaki—” “Well, when I heard she’d died, I sent Tazaki to the funeral and had flowers sent—so you can just assume I did my part.” “Far from thanks—they had the audacity to send them back.” “How utterly rude, don’t you think, Mr. Yamaki?” When she had first heard of Namiko’s death, even the widow had not felt entirely at ease; yet when not a single one of the condolence flowers she had sent on a whim was accepted—all returned without exception—every trace of emotion vanished, leaving only bitterness behind.

“Heh, that’s—that’s going too far.—No, Madam Dowager—”

The maid presented a bowl of tea, and she moistened her smooth lips. “We have been indebted to you for your long-standing kindness since last year, but my daughter—Otoyo—is to be wed shortly—” “Miss Otoyo is getting married?” “Well... And the groom?” “The groom holds a Bachelor of Laws and currently serves as section chief in the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce—perhaps you know him? A Mr. XX—and Mr. Chijiwa had once been under his patronage—ah, speaking of Mr. Chijiwa, how truly unfortunate—such a young man lost, most regrettable.”

A shadow grazed the widow’s brow. “War is a dreadful business, isn’t it, Mr. Yamaki?” “So—when is this wedding?” “We’ve provisionally set it for three days hence—Madam Dowager, I most humbly entreat you to honor us with your presence—for should the esteemed dowager of the Kawashima family grace us by attending, heh heh, it would elevate our standing immeasurably—I do insist—my wife was meant to attend as well, but she’s presently occupied—Take—the Young Master too, if you would be so kind—”

The widow nodded. At that moment, she glanced at the mantel clock striking five. "Oh! It’s already five o'clock—the days are getting short." "What’s Take up to now, I wonder?"

10-2

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

The sky, as clear as on the day of the Niiname-sai festival, shone blue and cloudless, while the afternoon sunlight filled the cemetery. Autumn here too—crimson-glowing cherry leaves fluttered down, the scent of tea mountain flowers blooming on the partition hedge wafted faintly, and where incense smoke rose, the faint voices of small birds could not be heard. The sound of the vehicle that had just passed by Kogai-cho faded faintly into nothingness, leaving behind a loneliness that grew all the more profound. Only the distant clamor of the capital now resonated, harmonizing with this solitude as both that reality and this dream together played life’s elegy.

Through gaps in the living hedge, glimpses of clothing flickered until finally there emerged a woman of twenty-seven or twenty-eight with reddened eyes, leading by the hand a boy of about seven years old dressed in a sailor suit. As they passed by the naval officer and walked five or six steps beyond, “Mom, that man’s in the navy too, isn’t he?” The child’s voice rang out, and the woman pressed her face into a handkerchief as she walked away. The naval officer, unaware of this, paused frequently as if pondering his path while reading the new grave markers, until suddenly he arrived before a section of the first-class burial ground where pines and cherry trees were interplanted. Nodding, he came to a halt; when he shook the latch of the hedge’s small gate, it opened at his touch. In front stood an aged stone tower. The officer briskly entered and surveyed the area, then stood before a still newer grave marker to the side. A pine tree spread its emerald canopy above the grave marker, while yellowed and crimson-tinged cherry leaves lay scattered around it; the recently erected Buddhist stupas stood clustered, guarding the site. On the grave marker, the six characters "Kataoka Namiko’s Grave" were written in vivid ink strokes. The naval officer gazed fixedly at the grave marker and stood motionless like a stone.

After some time had passed, his lips quivered, but the sobs did not escape his clenched teeth.

＊

Takeo returned yesterday. Five months prior at Yamashina Station, he had met her who now lay beneath this grave marker; aboard the warship bound for Taiwan, upon receiving a letter from Baroness Katō, he had learned that Namiko was no longer of this world. Having returned yesterday, he visited Baroness Katō today and grieved over that matter until past noon; now he had come here. Takeo stood before the grave marker and wept long, forgetting himself. The phantoms of three years surfaced one after another through his tearful haze. Their wedding day; their idyllic days in Ikaho; their vows by Fudō Shrine; their tearful farewell at the villa in Zushi; their final meeting at Yamashina Station—these memories flashed through his mind like lightning. Though her words "Please come back soon!" still rang in his ears, when he had returned once before she was no longer his household’s wife; now that he had returned again today she was no longer of this world.

“Ah, Nami! Why did you have to die!” The words escaped him unbidden, and his tears welled up anew like a spring. A gust of wind passed overhead, and cherry leaves fluttered down, striking the grave marker. Suddenly aware of himself, Takeo wiped his tears as he approached the grave marker. He removed the slightly wilted flowers from the vase, replaced them with the white chrysanthemums he had brought, swept away the fallen leaves with his own hands, rummaged through his inner pocket, and took out a letter. This was Namiko’s final letter. What must his heart have been like when he had received it from Baroness Katō today and read it?

Takeo opened the letter. The once-beautiful kana handwriting now showed no trace; the characters were so faded one might doubt they were hers, the ink had smudged—could he not see the tear stains scattered here and there? Now that I feel my end draws near, I leave this final note. Though I had resigned myself to never seeing you again in this life, by heaven’s mercy we unexpectedly met the other day—oh, how overjoyed I was! Yet as it was aboard the train, I could not speak my heart as I wished. Truly, truly, my regrets are boundless.

The sight of that time when she had leaned out of the train window and thrown the violet handkerchief now floated vividly before his eyes. Takeo did not raise his eyes. Before him was only the grave marker.

Since this world proves ungovernable, I deem nothing misfortune and bear no resentment toward anyone. Though my body may decay into the earth as it is, my soul shall forever remain by your side――

“Father, someone’s here,” came a clear child’s voice nearby. The same voice continued: “Father! Brother Kawashima—” shouted a boy of about ten carrying flowers as he came running up to them. Startled, Takeo—still holding Namiko’s final letter—wiped his tears and turned around, only to come face to face with Lieutenant General Kataoka standing at the grave gate.

Takeo lowered his head. In an instant, Takeo found his empty hand seized, and when he looked up, he met the tear-filled eyes of Lieutenant General Kataoka.

“Takeo, I too have suffered!”

While holding each other’s hands, their tears fell drop by drop beneath the grave marker. After a moment, the lieutenant general wiped away his tears. He patted Takeo’s shoulder. “Takeo, even though Nami has died… I am still your father-in-law.” “I’m counting on you.” “The road ahead is long... Ah, it’s been too long! Let’s go together—I want to hear all about Taiwan at a leisurely pace!”