Pathway to Japanese Literature

I went down to the garden, searched for caterpillars, and stabbed them to death with a bamboo stick.
It was just before the rainy season—when young leaves swayed vibrantly in the wind and my muslin kimono felt slightly too heavy—that I found myself absorbed in sweeping the garden, bare feet thrust into an old pair of enameled sandals.
From the small garden of barely two tsubo—about six square meters—had emerged more than ten caterpillars.
I burned scraps of paper, trying to carefully toss each of the corpses—neatly lined up on the stone shoe-removal area—one by one into the flames.
The paper scraps were discarded designs.
Amid the many sheets of washi blazing fiercely, the caterpillars completely met their end.
At that moment, I remembered my husband.
He had gone off to war for four years, only to finally fall in Siberia and become someone who would never return.
I heard the news last autumn that he had died of acute pneumonia.

My husband was the only son of a rural landowner.
After graduating from university, he did not return to his hometown but instead began an enterprise in Kobe.
Around that time, my husband’s parents passed away one after another, and I married him the following year.
We had gone to my husband’s hometown for our honeymoon combined with grave visits around autumn’s onset, when various flowers along country lanes showed melancholy hues—yet we remained so immersed in happiness we scarcely noticed.
That vast estate was seized after the war under the absentee landlord designation, and I know nothing of its current state.
I sold the summer retreat villa, disposed of our fire-damaged Kobe residence, and liquidated our furnishings—managing somehow to endure my husband’s absence alongside Yukio, my sole child who had just turned six.
My own parents had long since died, and with no true relatives to speak of, what should have been carefree independence remained undeniably lonesome.

Now I was renting a small house in the suburbs and living with Yukio—still too young to be a proper conversation partner—and Sakue, the old servant who had looked after me since my infancy.
He was among the many maids and manservants I had dismissed who declared, “If it’s for Madam’s sake, this old man needs no salary,” joining the frayed edges of my son’s and my life.
And so, with the painting skills I had learned as a young girl proving useful, I made a living by designing table centerpieces, parasols, neckties, and the like.
However, as work gradually grew busier and orders came in at a pace I couldn’t keep up with alone—what with tasks like applying soybean milk to cloth and steaming it for finishing—though before the war there had been specialists for such things, now I had no such connections left. So at the end of last year, I hired a new young maid.

While burning discarded designs, I returned to reality. And just when I had begun to find some joy in creation amid the loneliness of recent life, I now had to recall that yet another troublesome matter had arisen recently—one I had to agonize over. It concerned Sakue and the young maid.

The story returns to the past: Sakue had once had a wife named Oharu. As husband and wife, they had looked after me since my childhood days. Even after marrying, they pleaded to keep working for me even with reduced wages, so I had stationed them as caretakers at our villa in Karuizawa. Oharu was fair-skinned and plump, but she had long suffered from arthritis—a leg ailment that left her unable to walk and bound to a life of disability. Sakue cherished Oharu deeply, devoting himself wholeheartedly to her care. From supporting her shoulder when she needed the toilet to preparing meals and bathing her—a complete reversal of typical husband-wife roles—Sakue never once showed displeasure for Oharu’s sake. Oharu excelled at sewing, and I would send each of my washed-out kimonos all the way to Karuizawa for her to mend.

Yet that Oharu had passed away in the spring following the war’s end, watched over by Sakue and me.
Her chronic arthritis had turned tuberculous, eventually affecting her brain and leaving her disoriented—her death was truly pitiful to witness.
Thirty-five days had passed since we held the funeral in Karuizawa, yet Sakue remained utterly despondent, sitting before the memorial tablet and weeping every day.
I saw Sakue’s back figure, streaked with white hair, many times.
He had gradually grown thinner and appeared lonely.

Shortly after Oharu’s first Bon memorial service, I brought Sakue back to Kobe, sold off the residence, and relocated to the suburbs.
Even then, Sakue continued dwelling on thoughts of Oharu.
In the evenings, when Yukio and I would spread out a picture book and share fanciful stories, Sakue would come to where we were and persistently recount his memories of her.
Each time this happened, I would recall my husband—whom I still believed alive at that time—take solace in still having hope of waiting, and feel sympathy for Sakue’s loneliness.
For Sakue had no choice but to resign himself to reality.

However, in the spring of the following year, I learned of my husband’s death.
I had now become the one receiving Sakue’s pity.
I spent days steeped in melancholy, recalling the life I had shared with my husband.
While channeling those pitiful feelings and the ache of loneliness into my creations, I somehow kept moving forward.
The painting materials and cotton cloth I had once acquired cheaply proved their worth; what began as modest requests to friends for orders gradually expanded into something substantial.
As the workload grew beyond what I could manage alone, I hired a young maid—a girl named Oharu with a slight limp.
Though her right eye was completely sightless and her features plain, her sharp tongue and blunt manner of speaking held an odd allure.
This maid took over the three-tatami room by the entrance where Sakue had previously slept, while Sakue relocated to the dining space beside the kitchen.
My son and I passed most days in a six-tatami room that served as both our Buddhist altar chamber—displaying my husband’s photograph—and our combined workshop and bedroom.
As time passed, Sakue’s attentiveness toward Oharu became increasingly conspicuous.
Beyond heating baths and running errands, he appeared to assist with her cleaning and laundry duties—rising at dawn to kindle the cooking fire and even tending to Oharu’s personal affairs.
Though aware of Sakue and Oharu’s near-parental age gap, I let it be with a wry smile, supposing he felt obliged to show this American-style courtesy toward women.

One cold night, when I had become absorbed in drawing designs and it was past eleven o’clock, on my way back from washing my hands, I happened to glance toward the side of the kitchen and saw that Sakue’s bedding had been laid out there, but Sakue was not present.
I felt an unpleasant sensation in my chest.
When I tried to return to the inner parlor, I heard faint voices.
It was Oharu’s room, but the light was off.

“A bit more to the right—yes, a little stronger—ah, that feels good.”

It was Oharu’s voice.

“Here? Does it hurt bad here?”

It was Sakue’s voice.
I tiptoed back to the living room and sat under the dimmed lamp with my cheek resting on my hand, lost in thought for a while, but I grew angry—Oharu was being Oharu, making the old man give her massages, and the old man was being the old man.
Whenever I called Oharu, had Sakue—rather than remembering his wife—gradually come to hold the real Oharu within his heart?
Now that I thought of it, a newfound youthfulness seemed to have begun stirring in Sakue’s movements.
The same name, and her leg was still bad.
I didn’t feel entirely comfortable with this maid who seemed bound to us by fate, but I kept her employed since she worked diligently and didn’t cause any trouble.

Before long came the sound of exchanged goodnights and Sakue’s habitual yawn—or perhaps a stretch—that always accompanied his entry into bedding.
I too soon put away the paintbrush and lay down beside Yukio.

After that incident, I began paying closer attention to the two of them.
Rather than vigilance, it might have been more accurate to say I was glaring with malice in my eyes.
But within that malice, there must have also been a sense of responsibility for Oharu’s sake.
Oharu was still young.
She had to get married someday.
When troublesome matters arose in Oharu’s personal life, I was still responsible.
However, as a young woman, I found it difficult to admonish or lecture Sakue, who had always addressed me as “young mistress.”
And so, spring arrived with things remaining as they were.

One evening, thinking I would hold a solo exhibition soon, I went around making requests for it and, around seven o’clock, wandered back home with Yukio.
I opened the front door, but no one came out.
Sakue was supposed to be out on an errand and therefore absent, but as I thought Oharu should be here, I put away my outdoor sandals.

“Jiiya! Oharu!”

Yukio shouted while removing his shoes.
With a sound of sliding doors opening, Sakue—who shouldn’t have been there—appeared alongside Oharu.
In that instant, an indescribable unpleasantness welled up within me.
The disgust I’d felt that night now swelled stronger still.
Fierce indignation burned through me.
Why had Sakue completed his errand so early?
Over something so trivial.
Yet I lacked even the leisure to examine my own feelings.
Had anger risen because I’d noticed their connection? No—I’d long harbored suspicions, making this no surprise.
But seeing them emerge together struck me with visceral repulsion.
I finished dinner without uttering a word, barely hearing Sakue’s report about his errand.
Both sat restlessly silent—or perhaps only seemed so through my eyes—while Yukio alone chattered about sweets tasted at the acquaintance’s house that day.

I spread out my bedding without even attempting creative work and lay down immediately. When I turned off the light, Yukio beside me—perhaps exhausted—began breathing softly in sleep, his small hand unconsciously reaching toward my futon. Seeing this, tears suddenly surged up. My husband’s physical form rose vividly in my mind, and I remembered his scent. I grasped Yukio’s hand, gently tucked it under the futon covers, turned to face the other way, and closed my eyes. Loneliness—how detestable it is. That’s what I thought. Even Sakue and Oharu’s situation now seemed utterly natural. More than blaming them, I found myself unbearably pitiful. Widow—what a hateful word. For a woman to live alone—how utterly heartbreaking it must be. I lay awake all night long. The pillow lay drenched with tears.

However, come morning, I found myself once again unable to suppress my anger toward the two of them.
I even thought about dismissing Oharu.
But with the solo exhibition looming ahead during this busy time, dismissing Oharu without clear reason seemed foolish.
It was far too emotional, and when I realized this feeling hovered between jealousy and resentment, I abandoned the idea of letting her go.

However, about a week later—after breakfast—I was designing a necktie inspired by Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.”
As I mixed paints, trying to capture that transparent quality like thin glassware, Oharu’s mother came to visit.
The old woman had traveled all the way from Shikoku. Though plain like Oharu, she carried herself with a composure rare among country folk.
What she told me was this: an exceptional marriage prospect had arisen for Oharu, and she wished to take her back temporarily. The man was from their hometown working at a Kobe shipyard, she explained, promising Oharu could return to help during busy periods once settled there.
Stunned by the suddenness, I stared at her face in silence. Yet remembering my looming exhibition deadline—and fearing I’d lose this chance to address the matter myself—I agreed to let Oharu go.
Oharu herself seemed pleased enough as she packed, having apparently met the young man once before without objection.
Sakue happened to be away on a distant errand at the time—I’d sent him early that morning to Kyoto after a friend offered to lend me color plates of Nanban-e zarasa patterns for my work, unwilling to wait for postal delivery.
I felt relieved by his absence.
Oharu remained unfazed, declaring this her “final duty” as she scrubbed every corner of the house until even the kitchen utensils gleamed.
For Oharu and her mother—who planned to stay with Osaka relatives that night—I had Yukio run to the local butcher for farewell treats.
Lastly, I prepared a congratulatory envelope containing one of my gaudier obijime cords and attached a haneri collar for her.

“Thank you for all your kindness.”
“I was hardly any help at all.”
“Take care now, Young master.”
“When I visit Kobe again, I’ll come see you.”
“It truly pains me to say goodbye…”

Oharu prattled on in her usual way, bowing repeatedly at the entrance with her mother.

“We’ll have Tanaka collect the larger luggage later.”

Oharu’s mother spoke of the man who would become her husband as “Tanaka,” dropping all honorifics as if the matter were settled.
I forced a wry smile as I walked Yukio to the gate.
Oharu departed without so much as mentioning the “saku” in Sakue’s name.
For two sunlit hours, I immersed myself in my work with unaccountable relief.

That night, when Sakue returned, I clearly remembered the look on his face when I told him about Oharu.
Sakue indeed resented Oharu’s actions.

“Why didn’t she say one word to me before leaving?”
“It’s too much.”
“It’s too much.”

Sakue snapped.
And Sakue said he had made a promise to look after Oharu’s future.
At first she would cling to him, saying things like “Rub my lower back” or “Massage my legs” whenever she grew tired, and Sakue had genuinely doted on her, doing as she asked—but gradually he had come to develop feelings for her, he said.
And he added that Oharu had even gone so far as to say she would spend her life with him.
In any case, I scolded him for the first time then: “For Oharu’s sake, you must stay quiet now.”

“But this is too much.
Without even a single word of farewell—to leave like that! What does she take me for? Me and Oharu...”

I couldn’t bring myself to press him about what he meant.
That was something I had already understood perfectly well.

That night, I saw Sakue sitting despondently for a long time in the room where Oharu had stayed. He looked older now than when he used to sit before his deceased wife Oharu's memorial tablet. Not long after, a young man came by bicycle to collect Oharu's belongings. He seemed like a decent, earnest sort—I even thought him too good for Oharu. Once again Sakue happened to be absent, and the young man left without incident.

And for a month, I hardly slept at night as I devoted myself to preparing works for the exhibition. Drawing on concert programs I had attended with my husband years earlier and using motifs from beloved novels, I produced about sixty different pieces. Fortunately, two or three patrons handled all the details regarding fabric and venue arrangements. The central piece titled *Autumn by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke* pleased me most—a somber composition blending indigo lines into sepia tones. Yukio came to my side and pointed at one necktie design: “This one’s nice.” It depicted scattered leaves in pale green and maroon against a deep green background, inspired by “Beautiful May” from Schumann’s lieder. My husband had adored Schumann, often making me accompany his singing at the piano—the same piano we’d long since surrendered to the state to pay property taxes.

Yukio seemed to have inherited much of my husband’s sensibilities.
That fact delighted me, and since *Beautiful May* was a song my husband had also liked, I thought I would keep it for Yukio until he grew up.

It was just the other day at the beginning of May that I held an exhibition and sale at a certain gallery in Kobe. Thanks to this, everything sold out completely, and I even received words of praise from literary figures. Around the time that busy period ended, Oharu suddenly appeared and announced she was living in Hyogo. Sakue happened to be splitting firewood in the backyard at that very moment. I watched nervously to see how they would confront each other and what would unfold. Sakue had been utterly despondent since that incident for a while, but recently whenever I sent him on errands, he would invariably return having drunk somewhere. I briefly wondered where he got money for drinks, but quickly realized it must have come from things like the deceased Oharu's kimonos. And Sakue, arriving home flushed and unsteady on his feet, would always talk about Oharu, practically bristling with intent to confront her next time they met. Yet that day, when Sakue saw Oharu, all that intensity vanished completely—there he was kindly inquiring about various things instead. Though puzzled, I felt relieved no quarrel erupted. But this lasted only momentarily. For the next day Sakue visited Oharu's new household in Hyogo. The very next day when Oharu came to the house again, I finally understood everything. Reflecting now, Sakue must have refrained from quarreling openly before me.

In any case, a major incident had come to pass.

According to Oharu, while she had been doing laundry in the kitchen, Sakue came and vehemently insisted she must return to his place. She pleaded with him to go home for today, but Sakue then demanded to meet her husband. With him being on night duty and returning late, and the neighbors’ gossip being troublesome, she begged him to somehow leave, but he refused. In the end, Oharu said she managed to placate him by promising to definitely come tomorrow—or so she reported. At that time, Sakue had gone out to collect rations in the neighborhood and was away. When I asked how Sakue had learned her address, she said she had told him.

“Why did you tell him?”
“What a fool you are.”

I spat out words I had never before spoken.
Seeing Oharu silently bowing her head made my irritation grow, until finally I felt a surge of sadness.
At that moment, Sakue returned energetically.

“Madam, it’s udon.”
“The udon ration—it’s pitch black.”

Sakue entered the room.
I remained silent.
Oharu kept her head bowed as before.

“Oharu.”

Sakue shouted.
By then, my dignity no longer mattered at all.
On his deeply lined forehead, it was clear that notions of honor and shame had ceased to hold meaning.
I rose from my seat.
And I sent Yukio, who was playing in the garden, over to the neighbor’s house.
Then I sat down again.
Sakue sat there too.

“Oharu.”

This time, Sakue spoke in a quiet voice.
Oharu remained silent and said nothing.
I urged Oharu to reply.
And then she suddenly burst into speech.

“Madam, I will speak.”
“Yes, I’ll tell you—just how old is this old man anyway?”
“Disgusting—chasing me around like that. Yes, I’m a married woman. I have a proper husband.”
“Well, Madam, I won’t claim there was nothing between me and this old man until now.”
“But that’s all in the past now.”
“To keep holding onto that grudge forever and ever—it’s utterly repulsive.”
“Hey, Madam, I’m a proper married woman.”
“Please make the old man swear not to come here anymore.”
“If he comes here, I’ll be in trouble.”

Sakue trembled with anger, unable to speak, and could only glare fixedly at Oharu.
Upon hearing Oharu’s words, before I could even consider how to resolve their conflict, I found myself envying her way of living.
What was done she had rinsed away like water over smooth stones—no sentiment lingered there, no regret.
I wondered whether I might ever imitate Oharu.

Sakue finally managed to quell his anger and, still stammering, began arguing with Oharu. Their words were blatant and repulsive. Oharu insisted that she had been unable to stand up to Sakue under the same roof once he started appealing to me, while Sakue maintained that Oharu had been the one acting sweetly toward him. Their conflicting accounts seemed contradictory, and there was no resolution. With great effort, I silenced them both. Though Oharu was also at fault, I said that now that she was married, Sakue should back off—not because I truly believed it, but because it seemed the best path forward. In any case, I took Oharu’s side and told him to go home for now, assuring him I would take responsibility for his future. After Oharu left, I gave Sakue a thorough scolding. I was so enraged that I hardly knew what I was saying. Sakue wailed as he cried. He cursed Oharu and even called me heartless.

And then a week passed—bringing us to today.
After burning the discarded design drafts, I cleaned again and buried the ashes in the soil.
And then, at that moment, the sound of the gate creaking open rang out—the one who entered the garden was Oharu.
Oharu looked somehow wilted.

“What on earth happened to you?”

Without even a greeting, I asked abruptly.
Oharu’s eyes were brimming with tears.

“Madam, I’ve been divorced—”

“Huh? Divorced—”

I gasped and froze in that instant.
At that time, I had said I would take responsibility.

“Madam, Old Man Sakue came—he came while I was away and told my husband some lies, yes, that’s right.”

For a week after that, I paid close attention to Sakue’s movements.
I had made sure not to let him go far away.
The errands were all within walking distance, and Sakue always returned by the time I estimated.
But regardless, it was my responsibility.
And—

“What are you planning to do…”

I asked.
At that moment, feeling remorse toward what Oharu’s mother might think, I recalled her unexpectedly dignified features.

“There’s nothing to be done.”
“I’ll keep working as a maid somewhere.”
“But Old Man Sakue might come again.”
“If it’s Kobe, he might find me.”
“I can’t go back home looking like this, so I want Old Man Sakue gone somewhere.”
“Then I could trouble you again here.”

I was somewhat taken aback by Oharu’s selfish demands but reluctantly agreed. Then I added bluntly, “You don’t need to come here—just find work somewhere else quickly.”
Sakue took Yukio with him to gather firewood in the back mountain.
Before they returned, I hurried Oharu along.
Oharu left briskly, unfazed.
She seemed unfazed by both her marriage and divorce alike.
For an hour after that—around my usual ten o’clock tea time—I sat blankly, having forgotten to make tea.
I thought Sakue pitiable.
I thought Sakue truly loved Oharu.
That night, I finally resolved myself and told Sakue to return to his hometown.
The countryside of Kumamoto—that place was also my ancestral land.
Sakue nodded silently, then stood and began packing his belongings.

I suddenly recalled being carried on Sakue's back as a child to see the Bon dance. Parting with Sakue was sorrowful. It was agonizing. When I wrapped the farewell gift for him, he refused at first but finally pressed it against his gaunt chest.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.”
“Madam, Young Master—may you both live in good health.”
“This old man will die alone.”
“Not a soul in my hometown will tend to me.”
“No one to give me my final water.”
“Of course I won’t see Oharu.”
“But Madam—let me say this much.”
“Oharu’s divorce wasn’t my doing—I never met her husband, I swear—she got cast off because she’s crippled.”
“Marry all she wants—she can’t bear children.”
“I’ve known that from the start.”

The sky suddenly clouded over, and rain began to fall.
Realizing the rainy season had begun, I looked toward the garden.
What Sakue had said about Oharu no longer mattered.
But parting with Sakue remained a lonely thing, even for me.

The next morning when I awoke, Sakue was already gone.
A wooden ship lay there with a scrap of paper clumsily marked “For Young Master.”
He must have stayed up all night finishing it.
There stood a proper mast with sails stretched taut.
The cloth was Sakue’s familiar work garments.
It was my Satsuma kasuri fabric, something steeped in long memory.
Yukio delighted in this humble gift, floating it in the trickle from the hand-washing basin.
Watching him play, I thought life with just us two would be best.
Nothing stood between Yukio and me now.
I could love Yukio without restraint.
In his eyes flashed a glimpse of my husband.
I called to Yukio.

“Mother, what?”

I tightly embraced Yukio on the veranda as he came running up.

“What?”
“It hurts!”

Within my arms that held him tightly, Yukio was thrashing about.

Sakue was probably on a train now, clattering his dentures—what must he be feeling? But that no longer mattered.

“That’s right—it’s raining.
“Let’s go inside.”

Holding Yukio, I entered the sitting room. It was rain that looked set to last two or three days. The plants had glossy leaves, and from beyond them drifted the faint scent of daphne.

〈August 1950〉