Pathway to Japanese Literature

Haruko was introduced to a woman by an acquaintance.
Her name was Chizuko Kobata.
When Chizuko came to visit, Haruko was not at home.
About a year had passed when a letter arrived from Chizuko, the faded letter of introduction enclosed once more, expressing her wish to meet.
Haruko promptly sent a reply of consent.
When she had first come and found Haruko absent, she had left without even exchanging greetings.
Haruko had remembered that.

At their first meeting, as Haruko gazed at Chizuko Kobata’s nervous-looking countenance,

“Have you known Mr./Ms. X for a long time?”

Haruko asked.
Mr./Ms. X was the person who had introduced her, and he was one of the outstanding writers of the modern era.

Chizuko Kobata’s hometown was in the west; after majoring in Japanese literature at the specialized division of a girls’ school there and working for a time as an assistant to a certain famous person who also wrote things, she had come to Tokyo partly at that person’s encouragement.
She had only been in Tokyo for just over a year, she said, and had come to know Mr./Ms. X after that.

“But Mr./Ms. X is such a refined person with urban sensibilities—I can tell he’s truly considerate of my feelings in so many situations.”

“Does he also look at things you write?”

“No, I’ve never shown them anything I’ve written.”

In matters of art, Chizuko Kobata said in a tone that seemed to reflect deep contemplation about not intending to become his disciple.

“When he wrote that letter of introduction for me too—as we spoke, I grew so sad that I ended up crying. Mr./Ms. X remarked that it must be because a woman doesn’t have good friends that things aren’t working out—even though he’s the one who suggested himself as a suitable companion, taking me around here and there—but he somehow feels more like an aunt, so I asked you to write it instead, someone I can truly interact with as a friend.”

At that time Haruko didn’t know whether they could truly become friends, but she sensed a kind of womanly empathy toward Chizuko’s circumstances.
Chizuko too was one of those young women burning with grand ambitions who kept pushing from countryside to city.
Haruko clearly understood this condition where before one could even firmly grasp one’s own talent, the lonely daily life of an impersonal metropolis began threatening the soul’s depths.
At that time Chizuko was assisting with housework at the home of an acquaintance belonging to her older brother who had failed and returned home.
She seemed to have some unpleasantness with the elderly couple there.

“I want to find some occupation and live alone.”
“There’s simply no way I can coexist with them.”
“And then there’s the marriage matter…”

During the two or three hours she was there—in other words, Chizuko was a woman of unfortunate circumstances, and this impression of her misfortune and restlessness manifested not only in her words but even in her sitting posture and the way her lips moved—was what Haruko received.
Chizuko appeared flustered; as she left, she closed the lattice door and gate behind her by reaching back, leaving each slightly ajar as she went.
As she gazed at those gaps, Haruko felt a vague melancholy and returned to her desk where the tea set sat.

A few days later, Chizuko came to visit in the evening. It seemed matters with the elderly couple she lived with had grown increasingly complicated, and their discussion focused mainly on practical living arrangements. The old couple—their minds sharpened through moneylending or some similar trade—had devised a marriage proposal they were now pressing upon her, and one could easily understand why she felt no inclination toward it. Yet beyond this specific matchmaking attempt, her greater anguish seemed to stem from being fundamentally unable to resolve whether to marry at all—to make that overarching life decision. Moreover, while she had finally resolved to leave home over this issue, she lacked any occupation. Chizuko recounted these troubles in an awkwardly ornate manner, her narrow face tilted downward as she nervously twisted her fingertips and hands.

“I—I’ve resolved that I’ll take any job at all, but—”

Haruko,

“Hmm.”

Haruko nodded.

“I’m at a loss to think of anything right now… but why don’t you try approaching somewhere? With your experience as Mr./Ms. X’s assistant and your connections, couldn’t you find work as a reporter or something?”

“Yes, through Mr./Ms. X’s introduction, Mr./Ms. X at XX Publishing introduced me to X.”

“Did it not work out?”

“Mr./Ms. X from there said that if I intend to do creative work, becoming a magazine reporter isn’t something he’d take up for my sake.”

“Oh—X really is no good. I heard that they don’t hire people who have other work they’re aiming to do.”

“Instead,” he said, “you should write a good novel.”
“He told me he’d be happy to publish it whenever I managed to write it.”

Because hope lingered in Chizuko’s tone, Haruko nodded silently.
X—who likely met countless such women and men daily—probably dispensed those talismanic phrases about future success to nine out of ten people in just that way.
Testing their efficacy would be left to time.
What she needed now was an occupation providing shelter and meals starting tomorrow.
Though Chizuko spoke little, her profound anxiety became vividly clear to Haruko.
The precarious way Chizuko perched on her chair—as if balancing an inverted triangle—and her air of helplessness filled Haruko with deep unease.
Gazing at those disheveled locks while crossing her arms in consternation, Haruko thought how much simpler it would be if she could just say: Why don’t you stay at my place awhile? Surely that would bring relief.
Chizuko likely wouldn’t refuse.
Yet Haruko’s feelings of closeness hadn’t grown sufficient for such an offer.
Owing to her nature, Chizuko never fully disclosed her circumstances—only offering fragmented outlines.
Something remained elusive.

However, when Haruko saw her in such distress,

“Well, for now, perhaps you should try visiting Mr./Ms. X at XX Publishing again. I’ll also give it some thought on my end.”

she felt she couldn’t simply send her away with such perfunctory advice.

The night deepened further.
Somewhere, ten o’clock struck.
The quiet surroundings made the sound of the clock beyond the storm shutters heighten their awareness of the strained atmosphere in the brightly lit room.
Chizuko, who had been silently lost in thought until then, nevertheless seemed to notice the time and mechanically rose from her chair.
Even after standing, she kept staring at the shoji before slowly turning toward Haruko.

“Maybe I should just become a café waitress.”

She said.
The voice was so faint it was barely audible.

“Didn’t Mr./Ms. X also do that kind of work?”

Chizuko then made a thoroughly desperate expression.
With anguish etched into every delicate muscle of her face, Haruko felt a stabbing pain in her chest as though pierced through.
Instinctively, Haruko stepped in front of Chizuko—who seemed ready to hurl herself down whatever path now opened—as if to block her way,

“Just because Mr./Ms. X did it doesn’t mean you…”

“Oh, please stay a bit longer,” she said after calming herself somewhat. “You’ve gone to the trouble of receiving such an education—it would be better to find an occupation that puts that to use.”

Haruko felt she couldn’t bring herself to send her away. She suddenly searched through her acquaintances in her mind and finally recalled a certain middle-aged woman. That person had recently been working on a large-scale dictionary—an encyclopedia. At her bookstore, might they not need a young woman skilled with the pen as an assistant? Even if there was no way she herself could be of use, those handling other aspects of the same work might have some need—

“Ah, that’s good—you’re from XX originally, aren’t you? There’s a Mrs. X—you probably don’t know her—I’ll try writing you an introduction. She’s involved in a wide range of work, so perhaps something might come of it.”

Chizuko, her voice still faint as if about to vanish, said,
“Thank you.”
As she wrote the introduction, Haruko felt a certain unease.
This stemmed from Chizuko not having opened herself up sufficiently in such situations, leaving Haruko without any personal material with which to recommend her to Mrs. X.
Haruko had no choice but to write about matters like academic background and specialized subjects.

A letter arrived from Chizuko stating that an irregular yet income-providing job had been given at Mrs. X’s place.
Soon afterward, a household member sent on an errand

“I just met Ms. Kobata right over there,” they said upon returning.
Because it was morning, Haruko thought that even if she were to visit Mr./Ms. X, who lived nearby, the hour was still early.

“Oh my, that’s very early.”

“I hear Ms. Kobata has arrived in this neighborhood.”
“She’s with her younger brother, I hear.”

“I suddenly moved here.”
“The house is old and not pretty, but the people are pleasant.”
“It’s a ten-minute walk to Mrs. X’s place.”
How much money could she earn through Mrs. X’s work?
Would she be able to live with her brother?
Haruko was only temporarily relieved; when she considered it carefully, she once again felt anxious about Chizuko’s precarious livelihood.

However, even this temporary work alone appeared to have considerably eased her anxiety.

On a day when the spring sunlight outside was warm and dazzling, yet the south-slanting room with closed shoji remained thinly cold and dim, Haruko sat alone at her desk.
The lattice door slid open with a dry rattle.

“Are you home?”

It was Chizuko’s voice.
She stepped out abruptly—

“Do you know daphne flowers?”

she said.

“Daphne?
Is it different from winter daphne?”

“Please look—this was just sent by a friend.
The scent was so lovely it made me happy, so I thought I’d just let you smell it too.”

Chizuko took out a letter folded into four from the envelope she held and stood in the dirt-floored area,

“There—such a lovely fragrance, don’t you think?”

and unfolded it before Haruko.
Pressed atop feminine penmanship—as though fine calico patterns had been scattered across it—lay a deep reddish-brown winter daphne flower.
A strong fragrance tickled the nostrils.
It was a scent that embodied spring.

“I like this flower too.”

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

Chizuko rushed out excitedly still wearing an apron and, in the same breath,

“Don’t you think this person’s handwriting is quite skilled?”

she continued in fragmented bursts.

“Do come up.”

“No, another time.
I just need to let you smell this, and then goodbye.”

Not only did this brief exchange leave Haruko with a tender impression, but Chizuko was always someone who hurried to leave.
She preferred nighttime and reportedly did her studying at midnight. Her younger brother went out to work during the day.
She would prepare his meal by eight in the morning, after which until around noon became her time for restful sleep.
Thus visiting Haruko became an afternoon activity.
Haruko being likewise a late riser made this arrangement convenient, yet even a short talk would push past four o'clock.
There were times when Chizuko had to return home within about thirty minutes.
After eating dinner, her younger brother went to night school.
She must not delay those preparations.—

Though they had been acquainted for many years, merely seeing her face and exchanging greetings did not put Haruko at ease; at times she came away from Chizuko’s visits carrying only an afterimage of restless haste.
Chizuko seemed unable to endure even staying at home—

“I was waiting so desperately for my younger brother to come home—the other day, when I suddenly saw his face, I just said ‘Bro’ and burst into tears.”
“My younger brother is still just a child—I was at a loss.”
she said.

The Mr. X who had introduced her to Haruko,
“A woman doesn’t lose anything by marrying…”
Mr. X had remarked.
Furthermore，Mr．X，

“How old are you?”

When he said this,

“Twenty-five,”
she answered.

“Huh…
When did you get to be so old?
XXX has lost his wife and has three children—how about it? Would you consider marrying him?”

Chizuko told Haruko how remarks like these had humiliated her.
While Haruko found each person’s words characteristically their own and interesting, she also understood why they had grated on Chizuko’s nerves.

“It’s not so simple and clear-cut.”

However, as they spoke, two or three questions arose in Haruko’s mind.

“Did you show Mr. X anything you’ve written?”

“He looked at it. Though it was short, he praised it—said if I work single-mindedly for a year or two, I could properly establish myself as a writer.”

“Then why—for instance, during times like the other day—can’t they arrange work for you at × Publishing?”

“They say there are too many people so there’s no work, but they could provide living expenses for a while—and anyway, Mr. X just made those grand promises at first and hasn’t paid me the slightest attention since.”
“Because he himself struggled to break into the literary world—if anything—”

Their exchanges also contained what seemed like emotional clashes.

“To wound a person’s heart so deeply—no matter how you put it, I believe it speaks to Sensei’s lack of virtue.”

One day, after such conversations, Haruko said to Chizuko.

“If you truly wish to do good work, you will need to change your way of living.”
“Either choose one mentor you’ve convinced yourself is right and devote your true self entirely to that person, or else become utterly alone and burrow ever deeper into your own inner world—”
“I don’t think simply making the rounds to esteemed people as a formality will make you truly accomplished.”

Haruko could not help but think that Chizuko’s habit—of excessively weighting her own words, giving them a sense of completion, and thereby forcing an impression on her listener—also stemmed from such circumstances. She concluded it was because Chizuko kept overreaching toward things beyond her natural reach.

On that day, Keiko, with whom Haruko lived together, was also there.
Chizuko listened with a peculiar expression playing about her lips,

“I think so too.”

She accepted it at face value.

“Since meeting you, I’ve come to have some confidence.
“Ordinary people—women like myself—are managing to work like that, so I’ve come to feel that I can do it too.”

“That’s splendid—once you’ve grasped something, you mustn’t let go, truly.”

Chizuko, as if to present evidence that this was not the case,
“I’ve been writing lately, you know.”

she said.

As was often the case among many male aspiring writers, Chizuko frequented Mr. X and Mr. X, struggling to find a shortcut to success.
That much was clear, but what seemed to be her inner artistic competitiveness was what piqued Haruko’s interest.
The only thing I had read of Chizuko’s writings was a short didactic story drawn from a classical Chinese text—published in a minor publication through Keiko’s mediation to earn pocket money.
I sensed a certain breadth and solidity in its tone.
It pleased me that she kept silent even to me about matters such as her work’s content.
What would emerge from her?
The more a rice plant ripens, the lower its head droops.
Yet the rice plant that bears fullest fruit is that which stood straightest in its youth.
This is entirely true.
Therefore, I found Chizuko’s various quirks tolerable and was pleased when she became earnest.
Such an attitude seemed to have reached Chizuko as well, for she let slip words expressing joy at our mutual acquaintance.
Her younger brother, likely on his way to school in the evening,

“Sis… this…”

he would say, delivering homemade persimmon rice cakes and pickled gourd in sake lees made by their mother back home.
Chizuko unexpectedly produced nerikō incense from a sheet of hanshi paper and placed it in the brazier.

“When I was back home, I often used to knead this nerikō incense.”

Although each meeting was brief, as they accumulated and her small acts of kindness continued, it was only natural for their friendship to deepen gradually.
But in reality, it didn’t go that way.
Haruko came to frequently feel a discomfort rooted deep within her psyche when conversing with Chizuko.
What should one call it—it was as if the frequency with which she simultaneously felt pity for her and a sense of incongruity had gradually intensified.

This emotion reached its peak one day when Chizuko spoke about her own work.
While the three of them drank tea,

“What kind? Things that go well?”

“Yes, but this time I’m approaching it thoughtfully.”

Keiko,

“In what way? What do you mean by ‘thinking’?”

Keiko asked.

“No matter how you put it, I believe that at the very beginning, one must hide oneself to some extent. Once they’ve allowed me to put that out, then it would be acceptable to show my true self… but…”

Keiko, in her characteristic blunt tone,

“That’s a rather misguided way of sizing things up, isn’t it?”

she said.
When Chizuko was spoken to like that by Keiko, she made an expression of wounded self-respect.
When Haruko saw that undisguised expression, she could no longer restrain her feelings of pitiful anger at how Chizuko perceived life and living from such a strange angle.

“I don’t think that’s how it works either.”

Haruko,

“Today I’ll say everything on my mind.”

Having made this declaration, she shattered the depths of her heart.

“If you don’t reconsider this point, I think neither your relationships nor your work will move forward properly.”
“It may seem impertinent, but something essential is missing.”
“With that sort of surface-level thinking alone—”

All three grew heated, and Chizuko had tears in her eyes when she left.

That Haruko’s words were entirely mistaken was not what Chizuko herself believed.

“You’re such a bright, cheerful person.”

And so on.
Moreover，Haruko’s very nature had led her to say words that made Chizuko aware of a different way of living than before.
However，as Chizuko persisted，Haruku could speak so plainly because she occupied a societal position where such concerns were unnecessary.
At the same time，Haruku came to understand that Chizuku was unyieldingly affirming herself—that even when recognizing something as good，her own nature rendered her incapable of acting upon it，which constituted a tragedy.
Whenever she exchanged opinions with Chizuku，she felt how even selfless views would at times meet with resistance.
This feeling hindered Haruku’s freedom considerably.

Though their meetings often turned out that way, strangely enough, whenever Chizuko stayed away for a while, Haruko found herself concerned.
In that lonely, aged second-floor room, how must she—seemingly unhealthy and lacking in both material and spiritual sustenance—be living out her days?
Haruko said to Keiko.

“When I think about her, it feels strangely painful.
“When I think about her from a distance, she seems so pitiable that I can’t help worrying—but when I see her face, everything feels mismatched... If only she could be a little more genuine with herself, don’t you think?”

Before long, her mother came up from the country, and Chizuko established a household.
Haruko said sincerely,

“Well, that’s just fine then.”

she said.

“Until now, you’ve been too lonely.”

After mid-June, Haruko and the others suddenly moved house.

In the suburbs, the summer trees pleasantly scented the early summer air.
Because they felt a pleasant respite coming from the city, Haruko wrote to Chizuko inviting her to come stay overnight.

There was no reply for several days, and then on a certain hot afternoon, a letter arrived.

“I will surely regret this later.”
“But I cannot keep it to myself.”

Moreover,

"I am a woman equally potent in good and evil."

This fiery preamble introduced content that took Haruko by surprise—a letter seething with loathing and vitriol toward Keiko. Out of respect for Haruko's bond with Keiko, I shall no longer visit your home. It closed by declaring I'd recently acquired fine friends like X and X, rendering concern unnecessary. As if still unsated, she'd scrawled along the paper's edge a postscript branding Keiko an uneducated trifle of a woman.—

The emotion with which Chizuko Kobata—trembling with such excitement that her body shook, tears pooling in her eyes—had scrawled the letter seeped into the paper. Haruko was struck to the heart and gazed at the page for some time.

And yet, after considering it all, why did Chizuko feel compelled to write such misguided vitriol against Keiko? Keiko had a straightforward personality—she spoke bluntly and was strong-willed—so Haruko had considered that this might have grated on the nerves of Chizuko, who was guarded. But――Haruko recalled the other letters she had received earlier. Moreover, even regarding the work of those she normally held such resentment toward, she would go on about them... Moreover, there had been instances where she felt a delightful resentment toward you. Now, those words revived in Haruko’s heart with a psychologically inevitable linkage. Chizuko had affection for her too. But she also disliked her. Could it be that after being tormented by these conflicting emotions, she had used Keiko’s grating behavior as a pretext to unleash her vitriol toward Haruko as well? Chizuko stated that she had tried to harmonize with Keiko but found it impossible, but might there not also be concealed within that shadow a sentiment of having attempted to harmonize with Haruko? The subtle human heart! The emotions within Haruko’s heart—split in two and unable to unite toward Chizuko—were also present in Chizuko herself. The more Haruko earnestly tried to accept her, the more Chizuko’s resentment mounted twofold, threefold, until it could no longer be sustained.

Haruko became gloomy and tore up the letter so that Keiko wouldn’t see it.
Haruko regretted that had Chizuko Kobata cleanly expressed her complex resentment toward her and directly berated her or done something of the sort, it would have been more satisfying.
While Chizuko Kobata had been so vehement toward Keiko, toward Haruko she had acknowledged her generosity and friendship, showing gratitude.

Even if there was no falsehood in those feelings, Haruko had no choice but to simply answer that it would indeed be better for her not to come for the time being.

It was a summer of severe heat.
There were days when appetite would completely vanish even in the wind-swept house.
One morning, along with the newspaper, a single postcard lay on the desk.

"Amidst pressing circumstances, this serves as formal notice."
"Kobata Chizuko"

When read again properly, it was a notification of Chizuko Kobata's mother's death.
She had died barely two months after coming to Tokyo.—Haruko thought what an unfortunate person Chizuko was.
Her misfortune seemed to be piling up from both within and without.
The mother who had died did not seem to have been very happy either, and Haruko felt a deep sense of pity, but she sent neither a letter nor offerings.

Another letter arrived soon after.
Her mother had apparently been looking forward to Haruko’s visit so much that she had specially prepared a different tea set—
One could sense how Chizuko’s heart had been struck by her mother’s death, and the phrasing itself was pitiful.
Yet Haruko found this approach unsettling—not addressing a single word about that previous defiant letter while clearly calculating to appeal directly to human sympathy.
With a bitter sadness weighing on her heart, Haruko slipped the letter into the stationery holder.

Autumn came.
Evening fell, and suddenly it turned to night.
In the sudden evening darkness, the illuminations of advertising towers and storefront lights stood out conspicuously, while the shadows of passersby were pale ink-gray.
Through the hazy bustle, Haruko walked toward the suburban train terminal.
It was the terminus of the city tram line, where one or two empty trams turning back had their interior lights brightly lit as they waited.
In front of and behind the black-coated employees engaged in a standing conversation, people disgorged from the suburban train passed by.
Suddenly, within that crowd, Haruko noticed a young woman who resembled Chizuko Kobata.
From this side, Haruko proceeded forward; crossing a few meters ahead, she headed toward the national railway station.
Since the profile was unmistakably Chizuko Kobata’s, Haruko involuntarily stopped in her tracks.
And she thought about calling out to her.
At that exact moment, Chizuko Kobata—walking with her upper body slightly twisted—twitched her lips upward in an indescribable expression that hovered between a smile and a grimace.
Of course, Chizuko Kobata had no idea Haruko was there.
But that expression—so distinctive and somehow familiar—had the power to stifle the voice Haruko had started to let out.
Chizuko Kobata passed by, lost in thought, her face frozen in that expression.

Haruko returned home carrying the unnaturally vivid impression of those lips upon her chilled heart.
Seeing the note left behind, Haruko started.
That had been when Chizuko was returning from visiting her.

Through that peculiar quality of hers, once more that self-lacerating expression of Chizuko's lips came bearing down painfully upon Haruko's emotions from afar.
Because of this, Haruko suffered through days of torment.
Could I truly open my heart unreservedly to accept Chizuko?
On equal terms—it had been impossible.
Only by expanding her sympathy toward a young woman stripped of emotional moorings, harried by society's monstrous visages, could Chizuko be embraced.
Yet perhaps Chizuko had written that very letter because even the faintest whiff of such sentiment during their occasional meetings became unbearable—an irritant beyond endurance.
Haruko continued her sorrowful silence, never knowing when it might end.