Pathway to Japanese Literature

While thinking "I hate this, I hate this," I lived in the house before Kichijoji Station for about a year and four months.
In that house too, I encountered various things.
Even after moving to this house, within less than two months, the Peace Exhibition was held in Ueno.
Following this, the Prince of Wales was scheduled to visit on April 12th.—

From Fukui, it had been known since last year that A’s father held the wish to visit our house at least once.
Around May, when I was at Kaiseizan, A apparently suggested to him, "Why don't you come? I’m feeling lonely by myself."
I was unaware of this, having returned from about a month of living alone.
A promptly sent a cancellation to the other party.
I first heard during summer vacation that he had canceled after earnestly resolving to come and even beginning to discuss which bag to bring.

When I thought how because of me his plans had been cut short at the very tip and his long-awaited joyful expectations betrayed, I felt profoundly sorry for the seventy-year-old father.

This was a son he had been separated from for sixteen years.
This was a son he had steeled himself to never meet again in his lifetime.
Not only had he returned unexpectedly, but considering he was living respectably in Tokyo—by provincial standards—it was only natural to want to see his circumstances with one’s own eyes at least once.

This spring break, I would invite him.
I hoped nothing would happen before then.
I had been wishing for this since winter.

The fact that we had moved in February proved convenient for this purpose as well.
As soon as March began, we notified him of our readiness and pressed him to come to Tokyo.
Feeling both pleased and resolute to do everything within my means, I took apart the gaudy meisen garments from my late teens and refashioned them into nightclothes for his use.

He too was coming, we heard.
He planned to stay through early April and stated he would leave after March twentieth.
It was plain to see these arrangements would render work impossible.
Yet for me, welcoming him this time brought a joy that surpassed such inconveniences.
Resolved to complete everything beforehand, I finished writing the promised manuscript, cleared my mind, and set about preparing to receive the elderly man.

However, as ill luck would have it, when March began, Tori's daughter fell ill and could no longer stay at home.

The eldest daughter was married to someone at the Miwa post office.
The second daughter was twenty-one or twenty-two and was training as a midwife at Hamada Hospital.
She was a fair-skinned, round-cheeked girl with a somewhat adorable face who often came to visit our house.
Not long ago, after leaving school, there had been an incident where she caused a great commotion in the middle of the night by claiming her whereabouts were unknown.
This too had apparently been due to wanting respite from illness, but now it was said to have finally developed into peritonitis and was causing her terrible suffering.

Tori, who had gone to check on her since morning,

“Madam, it’s already hopeless!”

As she said this and entered from Mizuguchi with a changed expression, I was startled.

Her two sons had died of tuberculosis.
Again, this time too!
That sensation pierced through my heart like an arrow.

In a life-or-death situation involving both mother and daughter, we couldn’t bring up our own troubles.

I considered Father’s upcoming visit to Tokyo, but we ended up giving her leave outright.

On one hand, there were indeed vague signs that someone had taken advantage of the moment.
A had grown tired of her nerve-wracking shrill voice and being treated like a child for some time now.
There also seemed to be some aspect that didn’t quite suit his nature.
Although she had been saying for some time that she wanted to quit, he had invited her by asking "Why don’t you come over here?" and now couldn’t tell her to leave.
Might it not be that in this very instant, the situation had completely shifted positions, and his wish had been fulfilled in some form?

I understood all too well there would be no replacement afterward.
But when the moment came, how would things turn out?

To be honest, apart from this matter, there was another deep concern weighing on me.
The fact was that there existed disharmony between Hayamachi and us—or rather between A and Mother—and since last September, he had been prevented from coming to Hayamachi.

It wasn't something to tell the old man.
If he were to come, we would of course be told to go greet them at Hayamachi.
It was strange that A wasn’t going.

Before he could come, was there no way for us to somehow change the current situation?

Even without being told, A was naturally thinking about that matter.

Even setting aside matters like Father's visit to Tokyo, the situation where he and Mother remained estranged for so long was far too unnatural.
Hoping to create some opportunity for mutual understanding, A attempted to invite them both to dinner from February 11th to 13th, using my birthday as a suitable occasion.
From mid-January onward, he had formulated a plan, written formal invitations designed not to offend them, and inquired about their availability.

However, no matter what, Father was busy.
It had reached the point where he couldn’t give a definite answer unless it was just a day or two before.
Mother was also being unclear.
Since refusing would have been too cruel after they called and earnestly urged me, and since Father had strongly insisted as well, she supposed she would go—but only to that extent.

In my heart, I felt profound joy that A had voluntarily shown such consideration.
Yet they showed none of the enthusiasm we had.
Half of it—no, rather, Mother’s tone that seemed to act as if bestowing a favor—I found vulgar.
I understood how impossible it was—given her character—for her to retract and yield now after having declared outright with her own mouth, "Don’t come" and "I won’t meet you."
That being the case, why couldn’t she accept that concession brightly and cheerfully when we deferred to her and asked her to come to us from our side?

We had lingered indecisively until my resolve had drained away, when at last this Aoyama house was found.

Around that time, Genrō Prince Yamagata slowly wasted away to his death amidst public indifference, and the 10th saw his state funeral.
Because there was no definite answer, thinking it acceptable to coordinate, we requested Hayamachi and ended up moving on February 11th, the day when they were supposed to come once things were settled.

Once things had settled, thinking we would ask them to come, I sent another letter.
Moreover, according to Father’s words, he was busy and could not decide when would be good.
In the end, things just stayed that way.
The direct cause of this matter lies in "Ware ni Somuku" (My Betrayal), which I wrote for Taiyō last September.

At any rate, even now that a thread of mutual understanding had been established between us, this matter continued to serve as a profound ferment of thought within me.
In other words, it was a realization of how there existed a difference in the purity of perceiving phenomena between artists and ordinary people, and furthermore, how that difference, when combined with a kind of conventional moral sense, became something so deeply entrenched within the hearts of the general populace as to be nearly impossible to uproot.

When it came to matters, they could not be calmly observed with understanding, love, and insight as phenomena arising between certain positions within human relationships.
Immediately, they were obstructed by consciousness of self or others, had their nearly avaricious sense of honor wounded—they being middle-class individuals with one foot already in the upper class—and were then flattered.

Even when writing novels, even when depicting matters concerning myself, I never portray them through personal bias.
I observe and record how a woman in her twenties of particular temperament within specific circumstances perceived these emotional states themselves.
Though I explain that instinct compels observation, this reasoning fails to penetrate.
In the case of *My Betrayal*, this aspect grew yet more entangled.
Mother became convinced she had been deliberately portrayed as an utterly incompetent parent, initially going so far as to believe A had instigated me to write that work.

The explanation of what internal motives I had in writing was heard by the ear.
Yet none of it reached the heart.

In early September, Mother indignantly summoned me.

How earnestly and sincerely must I have explained myself?

I felt I was facing a great crisis.
I had to make her understand and accept this somehow.
In an artist's life, one could not say such things would never happen again from now on.
Every time this occurs, with this much misunderstanding and confusion, what should I do?
Moreover, I couldn't endure having my creativity restrained by her threats and tears.
I have endured enough of that up until now.
Just when I've finally begun living as a human being and am about to produce unique works, if they expect the same obedience from me as when I wrote about groups of impoverished people, then as an artist, I truly have no ground left to stand on.

If my emotions—being praised or maligned—and matters of social standing and reputation were going to be so vehemently contested, then why had I ever been put forth into the world as an artist? Why had you bestowed such talent upon me at birth!

Tears flowed even when I tried to hold them back.
For Mother’s sake and my own—for the sake of laying foundations for a lifetime—I spoke with every shred of fervor in my heart.

Mother wept too.

“As for me—no matter how I’m spoken of or what people think—I don’t care as long as your art becomes something sublime.”
“But I just can’t see it that way! No matter what I do, I can’t make myself feel that way!”

Since then, she had been thinking endlessly, barely sleeping at night—and weeping.

The love that considered my work—if only it could have taken one more step, truly broken through one more layer—snap! Why couldn't it have pierced that membrane and emerged into open space?

Why wouldn't she try stepping out to see?

Her love weighed heavily on me.
Yet regarding the unclear points, I could not yield an inch.
Were I to utter a single word of apology, it would have meant admitting that at the very least, this recent romance and marriage—everything—had been a mistake.
I would have had to spend my entire future life under her narrow, pure yet skewed judgments of good and evil.

It was a cold day. Facing each other at the kotatsu, we talked for a long time.

“I don’t understand.
“No matter what, there are parts that just don’t align with me.”
“You’re a Bolshevik.”
“You’re definitely a radical.”

Even if it couldn’t be said that we had reached full understanding, at least I had spoken everything I had thought, and seeing that our hearts had softened somewhat, I returned home that day.

A said it was trivial and asked why she couldn’t understand, making a displeased face.
Especially for him, the matter of Mother having employed underhanded tricks behind the scenes—or so he perceived it—was intensely disagreeable.

Before long, September reached its latter part.

One afternoon, K-otoko came by motorcycle and brought a message: "Be sure to come tonight, both of you."

Of course, this could only be inferred as a continuation of the previous matter.
Mother must surely have wanted to line us both up once more and thoroughly clarify her thoughts.
Given her nature that couldn't leave things vague even temporarily, this was inevitable.
But what was I to do?
No matter how many times I faced Mother's lamentations and fury, my heart's stance remained fixed.
I had no choice but to repeat the points I'd made days before - to make myself better understood, to let them sink deeper into her heart.

In a gloomy mood, the two passed through Sakanamachi's bustling main street with its night stalls.

The streets of H-cho remained dark.
In the cedar grove stretching endlessly along the right side, bell crickets shrilled relentlessly while a gate lamp's sharp light pierced the darkness, fanning out to illuminate scattered patches of night.

Father still hadn't returned.
From her usual position at the front, Mother appeared with a reserved expression,

“Please come in.”

giving a slight bow.

I felt profoundly uncomfortable.
Unable to discern her thoughts, I sensed the surrounding people enveloping us in an unnatural atmosphere that felt both recognizable and alien.

“Well then, why don’t we have you come upstairs for a moment?”

Before long, we were led to the second-floor tatami room.

Mother, who had gone ahead, then brought out zabuton cushions anew.
I, unable to endure that oppressive treatment, sat down on the bench along the veranda.

A had no choice but to sit facing Mother.

“You must have already heard from Yuriko by now—and given you’re not so young anymore, you must have known beforehand things would come to this—but really… how should I put this… What do you think of what Yuriko has written this time?”

She forcibly composed herself and began speaking with an attitude that planted her footing firmly.

“To be honest, from my perspective, I think it’s quite well done.”

“As a novel, it may be well written.”
“However—didn’t you notice anything in it?”

Before A could respond, she pressed on.

“If there were any points that might be considered questionable in society’s eyes, shouldn’t you naturally point them out and have them corrected?”
“As you well know, Yuriko is still young and ignorant of the world—it’s precisely through your guidance in making her walk the proper path that I believe you demonstrate your worth as a husband.”

“That is of course.”

A appeared considerably restricted in his emotional freedom under Mother’s interrogative tone, his words no longer flowing smoothly or naturally.

“In matters of daily life, I do offer whatever advice I can and try to guide her toward what seems best.
“But regarding her writing itself—I’ve resolved not to interfere at all. She must be free to express her own work completely.”

“However, is there really any need to wantonly expose even the bad parts of oneself?”

Mother gradually could no longer contain her agitation.

“The other day when Yuriko came, I spoke quite earnestly as well, but there are parts that just don’t align and are mistaken.”
“You say you can’t help writing whatever you feel in your heart, but I believe there’s no need to deliberately write things that torment your parents and leave them unable to sleep at night.”
“The mission of art is certainly not something that resides in such a lowly place.”

She refused to hear my explanations or A’s defenses.

Shedding tears, her expression shifting, she pressed on vehemently.
And finally,

“It’s precisely because we meet like this that we end up with these unpleasant feelings and misunderstandings.”
“If Yuriko insists on writing down every last one of those things, it simply won’t do.”
“Therefore, I’ve decided.”
“Until we can reach a proper mutual understanding, I absolutely will not see either you or Yuriko again.”
“This is truly agonizing for me.”
“I may well die from this—but if that’s what it takes for Yuriko’s happiness, then so be it.”
“You should find this arrangement quite satisfactory.”

To me, it was entirely unexpected.

When we meet, unpleasant things happen, and she says that if I write something, it’s bad—could such a severance truly exist between parent and child?

Amidst her tears and persuasive words, I clearly felt an unbearable attachment and the heat of a love that no longer considered such things an issue.

I was terrified of forcing those emotions to their breaking point for Mother’s sake.

Isn’t it precisely through meeting and talking repeatedly that things come to be understood?
By rejecting me with thoughts of anguish, torment, and possible death, and severing ties half as a rebuke toward A—what possible salvation could that bring?

I am young.
Even such unnatural hardships could be made useful through some means.
But if Mother ultimately left behind nothing but tears, with no progress made in addressing the fundamental problem—this lack of understanding toward art—wouldn't everything end up being nothing but destruction?

Even if A tried to say something,

“Please don’t say anything more.
Tonight I called you here solely to have you listen to my thoughts, so I won’t hear a word of what you have to say.”

they were rebuffed.

“Mother… Is this truly acceptable? It feels excessively—”
“Excessively cruel—”

I ended up bursting into tears. The sight of her—so savagely, so indescribably tormented in her confusion—was unbearably painful to me. The longing for reconciliation filled my heart to overflowing. And yet, when I thought of my work, I felt a dedication that could not be replaced by either parent or husband, and for the sake of protecting my very life, I had to endure all tears and anguish—so I thought. From that state of mind, I, weeping, could not bring to my lips the one thing she sought—the apology of "I was wrong."

Before long, Father returned home, talked with A downstairs, came up to the second floor, and made a most pained expression.

“Ah, this is terrible. You’ve completely disrupted the family peace.”

He shook his large, warm head.

I felt like I might explode from sorrow. I found them all dear. I wanted to be cherished by them all. But how could I trade being loved and loving—those bright, lively family gatherings—for my art? It was because I was neither a great artist nor a saintly person that I might end up wounding people's hearts. I did feel some remorse. But please—I wanted them to understand just this: what I ultimately aimed for, what I sustained this life for every day. As for the relationship between Mother and myself—there were probably few things as difficult and painful.

She, with her own joy and hope, guided me toward artistic inclinations from a young age.
And then, as I began to take form—as self-awareness and conscience started to bud—a marked disparity emerged between her and me in the depth and immediacy of our views on art; precisely because it was a path she herself had set me upon, she felt all the more disappointed and anxious, while I remained unable to escape the awareness of being perpetually subjected to tangible and intangible restraints upon my inner life and creative work.

I—even if my motivations contained some measure of worldly ambition or fulfillment of desires—nevertheless felt profound gratitude toward Mother for having understood my inclinations and given me a path through which to live out my life. Even if there were various ideological conflicts, my gratitude alone would not suffer a single stain.

If Mother could have fully understood that and if I could have received hope and trust in that regard, how wonderful it would have been. Differences in character—no matter how you put it, she was not born to be an artist. If those differences could have risen to her awareness as genuine realizations, some degree of compromise might have become possible. I had so much gratitude I ought to have expressed. There was no reason why a harmony melted from sincere hearts—not some beautiful accord nor base compromise—could not have been born.

Between Father and me, this point had gone quite well up until then.
I felt deep understanding and sympathy for Father’s position within the family as well.

I might have another opportunity to write about these matters in detail someday, but seeing my dear father—whom I never wished to cause pain—with his face brimming with sorrow and looking so despondent was truly unbearable.
It didn’t matter.
I even found myself wanting to end it all quickly.

Even now, on the tatami mats in the silent night, he stretched out his round legs exhausted from the day with a thud, propping himself sideways on his hand.

"This is quite a predicament, isn't it? —Well, it's gotten quite late tonight, so you should head home. This is something that needs careful consideration."

When told this, I had no choice but to comply with his words.

Mother, as A pressed on with his "Even so" against her words, did not plead to be understood and loved,

“Then there’s nothing to be done.”
“I humbly withdraw.”
“I shall give this careful consideration myself as well—so please do take time for thorough reflection too... Mother.”

Because she declared this while rising abruptly—whether through her own action or its consequence—the wound cut deeper still until everything about her seemed steeped in despair.

I—

“Well then... farewell.
Good night.”

With that, I went downstairs.

With this, I couldn't even turn it into a lie or accept it as truth within myself—that I wouldn't be able to come here again for the time being.
And yet, that was the truth.

On the way back—because such an unexpected, momentous event had suddenly occurred—I felt as though everything were part of a dream: that bright second-floor veranda where the black paulownia treetops were visible; even myself who had wept so violently. As for the matter itself, I felt numbed into a dazed state of composure.

But when I got into bed and the surroundings fell silent, I was seized by intense sorrow and lamented until I was on the verge of losing consciousness.

How hateful—who would shed so many tears for someone who means nothing? Mother. Mother, are you too now overcome by such sorrow in that quiet darkness over there? What a thing this is. It’s painful. And yet it is unavoidable――. The nearly twenty years I had spent growing up in his house now drowned my sentimentality with tsunami-like memories.

The next day, I felt my heart grow desolately ill and stayed in bed all day.

From that night until November 4th—a full month—I ultimately did not set foot in Hayamachi.

The previous anxious feeling of never knowing when I might be summoned from afar had vanished; even when work became momentarily blocked, I found myself unmoved by any whimsical impulse to go see them. For the time being, rather paradoxically, my mind felt cleanly settled.

Kunio-san, Hideo, and Sueko would sometimes come to visit.
Each time, hearing indirectly about Mother’s condition and learning she did not seem to be in the same desperate state of mind as when she had said she might die without meeting me brought me some relief.
On her end as well, she must surely have been asked by everyone in a roundabout way about my condition.

At first, everyone remained unaware of the details of the matter, merely sensing that something had happened.
However, as time passed, Grandmother began to notice out of affection for me.

“Why haven’t Yuriko and A-san been coming lately?”
“Did something happen?”

She fretted incessantly, came to my house, lowered her voice, raised her eyebrows, and asked for an explanation.

Even had I told the eighty-year-old woman, she wouldn’t have understood; I simply smiled.
Even so, if she remained unsatisfied,

"I'll go properly someday, so please rest assured."

I said.

However, after Mother succumbed to the emotions filling her chest and outlined the entire situation to Mr. Aida, the discord between her and us became at least publicly acknowledged within the household.

She who had known me since childhood and shared long trips to places like Shirahama’s shores and Iizaka’s hot springs appeared to love me deeply.
When Mother worried about my circumstances and, while crying, spoke of her dissatisfactions with A—observations that painted him as nearly a villain—I would find myself becoming half-convinced against my better judgment.

bringing Sueko along,

“How in the world did it come to this? It’s truly not how one imagines things should be.”

With that, her finely wrinkled mouth trembled, and she hurriedly suppressed her tears.

“When I hear what Mother says, Mr. A comes across as such a terrible person.
“Even if I can’t imagine you being with such a person, I still feel somehow anxious—but seeing you like this, always so full of life when we meet, it does seem reassuring…”

Nothing troubled me more than being worried over and entreated by Grandmother and Mr. Aida.
I did not know what to say.
There was nothing to be achieved through their efforts, nor any means to grieve together.
While submerging an unspeakable loneliness deep within, I had no choice but to face them with the usual cheerfulness of my vitality enduring those blows.

Moreover, in my mind shone clearly the irreconcilable difference in understanding between her and myself regarding art.

However, as November began and the New Year drew near, the bright clarity of my calm mind gradually became enveloped by other emotions.

It can't be helped.
The self-reliant resolve that until she understood me, I would manage my life entirely alone—this feeling gradually transformed into a lonely solitude: the realization that we must welcome the new year's dawn in this desolate state of estrangement.

Since childhood, I had been accustomed to welcoming New Year’s Eve and New Year’s morning with particular festivity, the entire family gathered together in celebration.

Christmas presents too were deferred until New Year’s Eve.
The thorough cleaning of every room; the florist arriving with New Year flowers after lamps were lit; the bustle of bringing out the stored toso utensils.
Around six o’clock, Father would appear there, his face flushed red from the wintry air outside, dissolving into high spirits as he—

“How about it—are the preparations ready?”

He would return home carrying some paper-wrapped package.

Father and I would always buy and prepare one gift each for everyone in the household—gifts likely to please.
I had long known Father possessed something that would make everyone cheer that evening.

The customary, yet delightful dinner.
When that finished, I

“Alright, everyone, close your eyes!”

With that, I arranged the beautifully decorated packages piled high on a large tray and appeared from the front large door.
The innocent exhilaration of that moment!

The scene appeared vividly before my eyes.
From those warm family circles—from those year-end nights when one could taste the joy of having those who truly understood giving and receiving, the happiness of sharing celebrations together—to think that I would be excluded, spending that evening in a small house limited to just three people, quietly without even laughter, filled me with an indescribable feeling.

If I cannot go to Hayamachi, then at any rate I cannot stay without going somewhere. I absolutely cannot sit in this house listening to Kichijoji’s 108 bells.

From early on, I had been suggesting to A—
“On New Year’s Eve, let’s go somewhere like Mr. Yoshida’s place. The New York crowd will all gather, won’t they?”

I proposed.

A might have been keeping silent, but he seemed to share the same sentiment.
I promptly obtained consent and went to Mr./Ms. Yoshida’s place to finalize the plans.
The idea was for everyone to make merry together from around seven o’clock on New Year’s Eve until midnight, laughing and carrying on.

With that, we had at least managed to escape the anguish of New Year’s Eve.
Since there was something I wanted to submit to the New Year’s issue of Taiyō, I managed to lose myself somewhat in that work; yet my mind remained so preoccupied that I couldn’t help jotting down related thoughts every now and then.

Right in the midst of that, Grandmother’s eightieth birthday celebration was drawing near.

The celebration had been discussed before.
However, between Grandmother herself being repeatedly told to stop and Father’s busy schedule, it had ended up being postponed.

If they didn't do it now，it would become too cold.
Moreover，since next April (1923) would coincide precisely with her parents' silver anniversary，there must have been a consideration that feeling such trivial hesitations when wanting to celebrate wouldn't do.
It was suddenly decided to invite only relatives to Kōyōkan.

Shortly after this matter was settled, one morning while I was still asleep, Grandmother herself walked all the way to Katamachi.

When I met her—wondering what this was about—she said she wanted to make something I desired as a commemorative gift for the celebration. She had come to consult me thinking a kimono with a hem pattern would be suitable, it was explained.

I thanked her for her kindness.
However, even if you went through the trouble of preparing a commemorative gift, a kimono would be utterly uninteresting.

“In that case, perhaps I’ll have you buy the study desk I’ve been wanting.
If we use the money intended for the hem pattern, we could even manage an extra small table.
I think that way would be better.”

I said.

“Well, if it’s what you want, either is fine. Since your mother also said the hem pattern would be good… you should consult her once.”

“I suppose so.”

“That’s how it should be done. There’s no such thing as not visiting your parents’ home.”

Grandmother spoke in her country dialect, looking ready to take my hand and leave at any moment.

“Are we going today?”

“That’s right!”

Through this arbitrariness born of love, I instead felt affection.
I couldn’t muster the will to resist deeply.
Moved by the intuition that going now was better overall, half-defeated by Grandmother, I went to Hayamachi, passing by Bara Shin.

Mother was in the kitchen talking with the maid about the persimmons that had come from Asaka.
Did she know I was coming this morning? Or didn’t she know?

With sincerity welling up in her heart from the moment she crossed the genkan threshold, she casually pushed open the glass door separating the pantry from the kitchen.

“Hello!”

“Oh, Young Mistress!”

Matsu (the maid) let out a nostalgia-laden voice.

Mother, who had been facing away, swiftly turned toward them.
And when she noticed her own faintly forlorn smile,

"Oh, my..."

No sooner had she spoken than an ineffable expression crossed her face.
Her countenance revealed suppressed emotion.
It was a visage where tenderness, relief, and joy surged up all at once - an expression that barely managed to restrain tears threatening to fall.

She saw this and found herself unable to meet that gaze.
Averting her eyes with studied casualness,

“The persimmons from Asaka?”

she said to Matsu.

“Yes, that’s correct.”
“A whole bale of them arrived in straw bags.”

Mother silently retreated to the dining room.
After a while, I too went—

Grandmother had instinctively come up with an excuse; of course, there had been no need to discuss her gift.

Mother quietly restrained her own profound emotion; no words of joy were spoken.
However, as the three of us had a calm lunch and engaged in superficial conversation, I vividly felt her softened heart.
That very thing became healing water so deeply ingrained—an inexplicable peace seeping through my own heart that had grown anxious and begun sensing artificiality—so imperceptibly that one couldn’t even recognize it as flowing.

I returned home feeling the composure I had regained.
However, when I told A—who had returned home near evening—about today’s sudden incident, my tone involuntarily took on a troubled resonance.

Her heart had unknowingly preempted how A would perceive it—as something slovenly and filled with disagreeable elements.

In this manner, between myself and Hayamachi—much like how a skin wound heals on its own—a recovery had come about.
Once we set aside our stubbornness and met without bringing up my art, we mother and daughter were indeed—no matter what one might say—bound by blood.
She was happy to meet, and I was happy too.
Though not as frequently as usual, I began visiting Hayamachi from time to time again.
Sitting in the Western-style room, merely immersing myself slowly in this aesthetic environment—which my own home almost entirely lacks—exerted a considerable pull on me.
Yet however happily I returned from Hayamachi—however deeply moved I had been there—the moment I stepped into our house and saw it filled with A's indescribably hostile, gloomy emotions, it became truly unbearable for me.

To him, it seemed an inexpressible displeasure that I went off alone to that place and returned having had such a good time by myself. Whenever he faced his desk with that sullen, tight, dark face; responded to my “I’m home” in that lifeless voice; acted as if to put me in my place—I felt such disappointment and sorrow that a violent urge to lunge at him surged through me.

If my going displeased you, why didn’t you just tell me frankly not to go?

If you let me go, then why couldn’t you be a little more generous and at least show some pleasure in my enjoyment?

Because of this, even when returning home, I became aware of myself reducing the tenfold joy I'd received to not even one-tenth or half before showing it in my expression, and I was horrified at myself.

If A didn’t seem cheerful, ultimately I couldn’t truly be happy either.
However, the pleasantness felt in Hayamachi could not be forgotten.
In unconsciously trying to express these inner pulsations to A without causing hurt, there arose instances where I would exaggerate what had been somewhat bothersome, or recount with feigned disinterest those hours spent laughing heartily.

When I thought of how this state of being controlled by the other's jealousy created such great falsehoods in my character, I could no longer remain settled in such a position for even a moment.
How far must I suppress my innate honesty, my cheerful childlike nature, this natural desire to love beautiful things, good things, joyful things—

One evening, when the maid was absent, I caught A and spoke of this matter.

I simply cannot endure circumstances that forcibly numb my heart.
"I understand your feelings toward Hayamachi.
But I wished you would be a little more generous—at least toward my own feelings—and stop being so sinister."

A said that it was because I failed to sufficiently understand his feelings.

What feelings had I harbored toward Father and Mother when returning from America?
At three years old, I, who had lost my mother, returned toward Mother in Hayamachi with the expectation and hopeful love of truly reuniting with my own mother.
But what was the reality?
She was viewed critically in every aspect.
She never opened up.
And yet, to me, a severance I had truly never imagined was delivered.—

“It’s true that Yuri-chan understands my heart better than anyone.”
“But to be honest, I wonder if you realize just how deeply this feeling has shocked me.”

I actually find even Kunio-san and Hideo-san more endearing than my own relatives from whom I’ve been long separated.
I want to go as much as possible and enjoy myself with everyone.
Being told not to come there, yet when I think how only Yuri-chan gets to come and go freely—no matter what—I can’t help feeling lonely.

Setting aside questions of right and wrong, I couldn't help feeling sorry for A's emotional state.
At the same time, I couldn't help wondering why he didn't speak directly to Mother about these feelings, this truth.
Mother may seem what one might call rational—someone who won't be satisfied unless things proceed from theory—but she is by no means incapable of being moved.
She can be moved—no, one might even say she harbors a passion that is easily stirred.
If only he would seriously and fervently show his own sincerity, he could undoubtedly make himself understood more widely.

When personalities combine like Mother's, things will never go smoothly unless approached with frankness from the other side. Yet even toward one who intuitively sensed his observational stance, A still lacked the magnanimity to remain cheerful and express himself unguardedly. He wouldn't emerge unless summoned by goodwill. Meanwhile, as Mother sought to objectively analyze the workings of his mind with clinical detachment, between them inevitably stretched an impassable glacier.

I lamented Mother's approach—this notion of "loving first above all else" devoid of warmth—while simultaneously finding myself unable to resist pitying A for his self-righteous, petty, and ungenerous state of mind.

Such delicate matters—even were I to cry through day and night—would never resolve themselves in a moment.

When speaking of this matter too, I felt it constricting my chest—could not help shedding tears.

Since both are dear to me, I want them to get along well—to open their hearts and melt together.
I want us to share warm family gatherings.
It may be a self-serving wish, but I want to laugh, work, and enjoy life with my parents, husband, and younger siblings—all united in heart.

On New Year's Eve, we went to Yoshida-san’s place as planned.
The gathering wasn’t particularly large, but these were after all friends who had shared scorched rice from the same pot.
My time in New York; those friends who had married.
As we talked and played cards, the distant tolling of the 108 bells began.
With few temples nearby, their sound scarcely reached us here and there.
Quietly struck at intervals, the notes came threading faintly through the stove’s roar and laughter.

Everyone else seemed not to notice.
But I, holding lively tiles in my hands and smiling brightly all the while, felt an indescribable desolation of the soul.

I recalled last year's New Year's Eve spent in Hayamachi until around two or three o'clock, walking through Sakanamachi with A and Kobayashi-san—the three of us searching for the requested peppermint along streets made slippery by frozen snow.
What were they doing over there?
They probably weren't feeling very cheerful.
My parents had said they would go to Lake Hamana around the 29th, taking Sueko with them.
At home there would likely be only Grandmother, my younger siblings, and those working there.
The same lonely New Year's Eve that had been my first experience of such solitude seemed to have come upon them as well—

On the second day, we two went to Hayamachi and paid our New Year’s respects to Grandmother.

A had proposed visiting Hayamachi but refrained, thinking it would spoil the carefully cultivated mood; however, I felt a faint unpleasantness.
Even if my parents weren't present, it remained their house.
Despite having been told not to come to that house, entering during their absence—even for Grandmother's sake—felt somehow tainted.
I sensed an unseemly pettiness in this act.

In such circumstances, the arrival of A’s father from the country was clearly a source of pain for us.

The old man, knowing nothing of this situation, wanted to go to Hayamachi as soon as possible and complete what might be called the long-standing formal visit that had been a lingering concern.
As long as this matter remained unresolved, it was said one couldn’t even enjoy sightseeing in peace.

Driven into a corner, A suddenly telephoned Hayamachi.
Then he called Father and stated his intention to visit within two or three days.
From his emotional perspective, he had likely meant to just have a brief talk in the parlor and leave.
However, at Hayamachi—since they had gone through the trouble of coming—they wanted to at least share dinner together.
For this purpose, after treating his (Father’s) stomach ailment,
it was agreed they would come within four or five days.

From the very beginning, I felt uneasy.
I felt that A’s approach missed the mark.
At the very least, I didn’t think Mother would respond with “In that case...”
While wishing nothing would happen, the next day brought a telegram from Hayamachi.
It demanded: “Come to me at once.”

With an unpleasant feeling that what was coming had arrived, I went to Hayamachi that night.

Father said there was something to discuss and I was called to the Western-style room.

“You already know what this is about, don’t you?”
“What do you think it is?”
“Go on, say it.”

Spoken to calmly yet with fatherly authority, I felt an awkwardness as if I had reverted to being a child of three or four.

“It’s that, isn’t it? Mother is dissatisfied, isn’t she?”

“Hmm.
“In other words, it’s too sudden—from my wife’s perspective, she says such matters should have been settled properly beforehand before being brought up like this.”
“She finds it deeply distressing to be told to suddenly bring A’s father along in this dragged-out manner without any resolution.”

“Since he has come all the way from the countryside—and considering your position deserves sympathy too—we at home want to welcome him as warmly as possible.”
“However, having things this way would make it feel utterly deceitful and turn into a truly painful obligation.”
“Mother says if it comes to that—since staying in Tokyo while refusing to meet would be untenable—she’d have no choice but to take a trip somewhere—”

“What do you think would be best?”

Through Father’s words, I was clearly made aware of my parents’ pure feelings—something I hadn’t noticed until then.
On A’s side, it would suffice if he just brought him once, even if only formally.
He was in a state of mind thinking that things would work out somehow.
But here, if we were to meet, I wanted it to be from the heart; otherwise, I even thought it would be better not to meet at all—yet considering myself caught in between, I felt unable to do even that.
What should I do?—that was the question.

I explained that, as a matter of procedure, he too had noticed this and had previously stated he wanted them both to come.

“But you see,” he said, “it was truly a mistake to move houses just when we were about to start properly visiting each other. I’ve always thought Mother showed good judgment by agreeing to go then. Letting that opportunity slip was truly an oversight. Mother took it not merely as postponement, but as proof that inviting us mattered less than moving. If she’d treated it as top priority,” he continued, “the move could’ve been delayed ten or even twenty days.”

“When asked if postponing would be acceptable, what position would we be in where we couldn’t refuse?”

Father’s way of speaking in such circumstances had a convincing and unique emotional quality.

As for us, we had by no means considered inviting them lightly; yet upon reflection, it became clear that various contradictions were contained within our actions.

If I were to demand that Father and Mother recognize my position, character, and work as those of an independent individual, then would I not also have a corresponding obligation to fulfill toward them?

One would not invite friends to dinner and then, simply because something suddenly came up with the house, ask them over the phone to reschedule.

We did so thinking that, being parents rather than strangers...
If one accepts a child's selfishness to that extent, then mustn't one also recognize, at least to that same degree, the parent's selfishness toward the child?

Even if told that we only acted as parents when it suited us, I didn't think we could offer any solid defense in our hearts.

“I think this time is truly a good opportunity. With Father having come up to Tokyo—even if out of necessity—we’ve drawn near to taking one more step forward. Finding points of harmony here and reaching a mutual understanding to ensure things go smoothly from now on—I don’t think that would be futile at all. Don’t you agree? For if we insist there’s nothing wrong on our part and refuse to yield first, then we too—with all these various dissatisfactions we hold toward A-san—will end up living separately for the rest of our lives.”

After thinking it over, I said.

"When we say there’s nothing wrong with A—that pertains to his motives regarding that novel—I fully understand our oversights during matters like moving house and our insufficient reflection on those feelings."

"Moreover, Mother’s feelings in saying such things stem from genuine love.—Let us try discussing this thoroughly with A."

“Then once we come and have a thorough discussion, he can then invite your father anew.”

“If that can be done, it would be truly splendid.”
“After all, that is the proper procedure, you see.”

Soon, Mother—who had been putting Sueko to sleep—came downstairs.
Father heard my consent, and her face overflowed with profound joy.
However, I could tell she still held a grudge over that novel.

I was astonished that Father had skillfully guided things to the desired outcome without touching upon any of the points where our understanding fundamentally diverged.

What is called the manner of speaking of those who mediate between people—how much does it simplify yet complicate mutual relations?
I even felt as though I had gained that visceral understanding for the first time tonight.

Until now, I had lived only among my parents and younger siblings, innocently,

“Mother said this, you see.”

Even if I had said that, it would have been in a state entirely unrelated to matters of love.
From one perspective, it was precisely that pure, tenacious love that had bound everyone firmly to a single branch.

In me, those childlike qualities—left exposed, with no need to be discarded—have not disappeared.
I end up telling A exactly the impressions I received.
If A were the genius type—unbothered by such talk, quick to forget it, and able to laugh it off—there would be no trouble.
But that is not the case—they all hold it in their chests, suppressing certain loves while accumulating others.

Probably on Mother’s side as well.

It could be said that until now, I had never perceived it as clearly as I did tonight.
In my life, things like mindlessness or that charming feminine naivety could never exist as they are—such was the state of affairs.

In the span of a conversation lasting barely an hour, I had come to realize many things of significance to myself, and with a quiet yet profoundly lonely heart, returned home by motorcycle.

It was probably a little past twelve.
A had gone to bed and was awake.

I explained what had been discussed in Hayamachi and my thoughts as calmly as possible, taking care not to disturb the deep sleep of the old man resting in the eight-mat room.

As for A, his desire to be in a better state was strong.
He was apprehensive that even if we suddenly did such a thing now, without true understanding, we might end up repeating similar events.

However, it was finally settled that tomorrow afternoon, the two of us would go, meet Mother as well, and try to have a proper talk.

How deeply he had accepted this matter in his heart—I could not fully comprehend.

“If that way Yuri-chan can become happy, and if Mother deems it acceptable, then let’s do it that way. That would be best.”

With those words, I rather felt a sensation bordering on unexamined discomfort.

A bright day—a clear Sunday it was.

The two of us failed to dispel our gloomy mood—for A had acquiesced not out of genuine willingness for reconciliation, but through a sense of unavoidable duty—and throughout the long train ride to Sakanamachi, I hardly spoke a word. He wrote an interesting novel called *Dog* published in *Shisō*, while I read about Colored Music in *Myōjō*. Of course, it was not enjoyable reading in the slightest. Had I not been reading something, even looking at his face would have become unbearable.

Father had especially requested that she stay at home.
When we entered, upon being told “To the Western-style room,” they showed A there, and I went to the dining room.

Mother noticed my displeased expression.

“If you are unwilling, there is no need to have them come.”

Mother said.
I feared ruining the hard-won mood.

“I’m tired.”

“I’m tired,” I denied.

“—If that’s all it is, then fine.—”

I felt watchful eyes upon my brows and lips.

“Now then, Yuri-chan—let’s settle it this way.”
“From now on, whenever something you write includes me, I want you to show it to me beforehand.”
“I think that would be better indeed.”
“This isn’t just because of what’s happened between us—why, even Maupassant, such a great artist, first showed his works to his mother and consulted her about whether to let the protagonist live or die. There’s even an admirable anecdote about that, you know.”
“Let’s settle it that way, shall we?”

I considered Mother's feelings.
Yet I couldn't bring myself to respond immediately.
Moreover, wouldn't there be troublesome matters that would arise from that?

I felt both grateful and pained by her desire to shape our relationship into something resembling an admirable tale.

“I’ll do as much as I can, okay?”

This was my truthful, heartfelt reply.

Before long, Mother also went to the Western-style room.
After spending some time in the dining room, when I entered, A was sitting in a spot where light streamed in from behind, positioned beside Father seated in the Grandfather Chair, saying something through tears.
When I looked, there was a handkerchief in Father’s hand as well.
Mother was seated in a Louis-style chair upholstered in green donsu silk, her gleaming eyes cast into the distance as she kept twitching, twitching the toes of her white tabi in nervous repetition.

I remained silent, sat beyond the long table by the window, and positioned myself to view the three from the front.

The sight of them not engaging as equals in serious discussion—Mother agitated with pride, A in tears, Father sitting as if drawn into it—truly pained my heart.

A—

“If you would reconsider matters in this way, I cannot express how happy it would make me.”

In response to this, Mother’s tone took on a commanding edge,

“I haven’t reconsidered anything whatsoever!”
“What I previously thought and what I think now haven’t changed!”
“I don’t believe for an instant that I was ever wrong!”

I was startled.
If emotions are at odds on that point, it will become something beyond remedy.
Fortunately, with a few words from Father, that dangerous crisis was navigated.

After a long interval，we also visited the retirement residence and，at any rate，settled matters；it was decided that the old man would be summoned the following day after a day’s interval.

On the day the old man was summoned, at Hayamachi, the entire household cheerfully entertained him.
How happy I must have been!
Since then, A has also been going frequently, and things seem to be progressing fairly well.

But...
Somehow, between Mother and A, it seemed unlikely that the kind of ideal relationship I envisioned would ever emerge.
A—

"She’s a difficult person, so it’s better to remain as silent as possible."

That was the attitude he maintained.

When it came to differences in human depth, they almost assumed a fateful hue.
Lately, within my heart, there existed truly profound and varied doubts—