Pathway to Japanese Literature

The three months since my marriage passed like a dream.
And at last, I began to vaguely understand my position within this household.

A household it may be, but there were only three of us—my mother-in-law, my husband, and me.
My mother-in-law was already around fifty years old, but since her husband’s passing, she had single-handedly managed the household affairs for many years—a woman of both robust mental fortitude and physical stamina.
My husband was a company employee.
There were assets sufficient to live without particular hardship, and the house in the western suburbs of the capital was modest in size but had a spacious garden, with a bamboo thicket and cedar grove at the rear.
I came to marry into this household through the arrangements of my uncle from Mita.
Of course, it was an arranged marriage—there was no romantic love involved.
I had quit my position as a teacher at a girls’ school after only a short time and ended up coming here with my belongings.
As for hopes or ambitions regarding household life, I hadn’t particularly possessed any.
And now, I suddenly had the sensation of colliding with something.

To call her "Mother-in-law" felt odd, and "my husband's mother" felt equally awkward, so I decided to simply refer to her as Mother—and Mother was exceedingly kind and thoughtful toward me.
Until I arrived, a relative’s daughter had been staying here in what seemed like the role of a live-in helper, but when we returned from our honeymoon, she left for her family home as if exchanging places with us.
It seems Mother had made such arrangements out of consideration, thinking I might feel awkward.

After my husband left early in the morning, shoving his lunchbox into his briefcase, the time until his return in the evening stretched before me with idle emptiness—boredom itself.
A few chickens were kept, and there was a small vegetable garden in the corner of the yard, but such things required little attention.
Having briefly worked at a girls' school might have left me with excess time to fill.
Mother often occupied herself with mending and altering kimonos.
I tried assisting her, but my skills in traditional sewing were poor, and Mother never instructed me.
For the present, there was scarcely any material needing the sewing machine's use.
Mother would talk to me about various matters.
She hummed fragments of waka she claimed to have composed in her youth.
They were all melancholy verses dripping with cloying sweetness.
Even so, it appeared she had once nurtured ambitions to write novels.

“Since you seem to have free time, why not try writing something like a manuscript?”

Mother’s words were something I had never even considered.
Of course, Mother knew about Ms. Yoshiko Tsuda.
Ms. Tsuda was my friend and edited a small women’s magazine.
Some time ago, I’d had a small translation piece published in that magazine.

Mother said.

“There was a gifted friend from my youth—Ms. Kimura—who wrote novels, plays, poems, songs, anything you can imagine. But having too many talents meant not a single one became a true masterpiece...”
“After all, it seems one must devote oneself entirely to a single thing.”

That gifted woman might have actually been Mother’s own youthful self.
Mother’s cheeks, still plump with age, bore a reminiscent smile.
I also smiled.

“Something like writing—I’m afraid I simply can’t manage that.
“As for translation, I’ve done a little of that before, but…”

“Why not try translation?”
“Go ahead and try it.”
“You should do everything while you’re young.”

Does Mother still cling to the dreams of her youth?
But inheriting such dreams became a joyful thing for me.
I visited Ms. Tsuda and consulted her about translation work.
Though it was translation work, I could only handle English; given the nature of Ms. Tsuda’s magazine, I settled on selecting British folktales and domestic vignettes.

Yet I came to understand for the first time that translation—manageable as a casual pastime—proved no easy task when approached earnestly.
First, it demanded dedicating sustained periods of time while pouring undivided attention into the work.
As a single woman I could manage this, but as a married one, however much free time I might have had, I still needed to remain alert to everything around me.
I had to answer promptly to both the front doorbell and noises at the back gate.
In a home without maids, the housewife must also serve as the maid herself.
This fractured attention left my mind twice or thrice as weary.
Moreover, even calling it free time belied the substantial tasks within a single household—cleaning, cooking, laundry stretched endlessly when done thoroughly, alongside shopping and receiving guests.
The translation work I half abandoned.

“Have you made some progress?”
“Let me have a look.”

Mother said this and wanted to see the manuscript.
Even if it was just one or two pages, she appeared satisfied simply by looking at the manuscript.
And she would always praise me.
She would go back over even the portions she had read before.

“It’s splendidly done.”
“Do keep at it.”

Mother seemed to be admiring her own creation.
I felt like nothing more than Mother’s automaton.

Calling him "husband" felt odd, so I used his surname—Yoshikawa had no interest in literature and seemed indifferent to my translations. However, gradually, indifference turned into contempt. He probably resented that there were times I stayed at my desk late into the night.

“Even if a housewife tries writing manuscripts or such, it’ll inevitably end up half-baked—that’s obvious.”
“Mother must have experienced that too.”
He had complained before.
There were times when he used to immerse himself in reading novels, but after that, he stopped completely.
“Now, now, you should take Mother’s whims with a grain of salt.”
“Instead of that, there should be plenty of work for a housewife. Why not learn sewing and help Mother?”

This "How about that?" phrase struck me like a gut-punch.
Yoshikawa had this habit—perhaps Western-influenced—of voicing displeasure in a politely distant tone.

Of course, I agreed with Yoshikawa’s view.
As long as one didn’t become a specialist, literature for women should primarily cultivate sensibilities—so the English literature professor at the women’s college had taught, and I too had instructed my students at the girls’ school in the same manner.
For a woman who becomes a housewife, housework comes first—this was the educational policy of the girls’ school, and I too had thought that way.
There are those who, being young and possessing some literary talent, become deluded by it themselves—unaware of what constitutes true ability or work in literature—and thus ruin their prospects.
Yet my modest translation work was not something as grand as literature—when I thought about it, it had merely been an attempt to keep Mother pleased.
As for me, of course, my belief in prioritizing housework remained unchanged.

I asked Mother—though it sounded odd to call it compensation for translation—to teach me Japanese sewing.

“Yoshikawa also mentioned it.”

“Huh—Teiichi-san said that...”

Mother looked at me quizzically.

“This has nothing to do with Teiichi-san, but if you say so, then go ahead and try.”

And so I came to be taught needlework; I had some prior knowledge and found some interest in it.
When teaching, Mother provided meticulous and thorough guidance.
Yet because of this, my workload grew substantially.

Mother truly was meticulous in all matters.
Even room cleaning followed established procedures—from broom techniques to applying polishing cloths to scrubbing hallways with rags—all of which I had to master.
The same strictness governed post-meal cleanup.
Once, I did laundry on a hazy morning only for steady rain to fall from afternoon through the next day, causing significant problems.

“When doing laundry, consult me.”
“When it comes to the weather, I’m more reliable than the newspaper forecast.”

As for daily matters, I couldn’t say for certain, but when it came to laundry, Mother’s predictions were spot-on.
I decided to consult her.

“Is today suitable for laundry?”

Mother would go out into the garden, look up at the sky, and issue instructions—"It should be fine" or "No good." Even on a crisp, cloudless morning, this ritual persisted.

That realization—which only struck me now—held profound significance. Were I some ignorant girl fresh to service, such deference might make sense—but what madness for a household's own wife to inquire, "Might today be suitable for laundry?" At minimum, phrasing it as "I intend to do laundry" would have preserved dignity. Yet I had drifted through those days oblivious.

One day, when Mother was out, a young man who claimed to be a student working part-time came by and asked me to buy him laundry soap and tissue paper, so I purchased a small amount for him.
When I later reported this to Mother, she looked displeased, fell silent, and then reprimanded me.

“How could you possibly know if he was truly a student?”
“If you buy something for them once, they’ll come back repeatedly.”
“From now on, tell them ‘The person in charge of the household isn’t here’ and refuse them.”
“You must consult me before making any purchases.”

And after inquiring about the cost of the items, Mother returned the money to me.
I was left with an odd feeling.

Generally speaking, I received a monthly allowance of ¥1,000.
It began the month after our marriage.
According to Yoshikawa, Mother had asked him, “Mitsuko-san must have friends and cosmetics she likes—how much allowance should we give her?”
When Yoshikawa replied that he didn’t know, Mother decided, “Then let’s give her about ¥1,000 a month. If it’s insufficient, please say so again.”
Yoshikawa himself deducted his personal allowance from his company salary and handed over the remainder entirely to Mother, who alone managed the living expenses and investment of assets.
That was a long-standing custom.
My family was poor—I had handed over all my salary from the girls’ school to my mother and subsisted solely on my retirement allowance.
The monthly ¥1,000 allowance tended to be insufficient.

However, I didn’t find any of that particularly strange.
I did all shopping according to Mother’s instructions.
Mother gave detailed instructions—telling me to buy such-and-such or to purchase items at such-and-such a price.
It was exactly the same as asking, "Is today suitable for laundry?"
However, it wasn’t that Mother was stingy.

One of my translated manuscripts was accepted by a magazine, and Ms. Tsuda came by with the payment.
After all, it was a small magazine, and since the editor-in-chief had full discretion over manuscript fees, this was all they could offer—but she said she’d try to push for more next time, and when that happened, they should celebrate with beer or something. Ms. Tsuda laughed, chattered away at length, and then left.
I handed the ¥3,000 I received at that time to Mother.

“Well now, that’s splendid.”
“That’s truly wonderful.”
“Keep up your studies.”
“When will that magazine come out? Once it does, please get two copies.”
“One copy will be for you, and I will take the other.”

Mother’s happiness was about the magazine.
"As for the manuscript fee, we’ll just put it into savings or something," I said casually.

However, afterward, when I went out to Ginza, I used the manuscript fee to buy Mother a box of yōkan and three pairs of high-quality silk socks for Yoshikawa. Regarding the yōkan, Mother said nothing, brewed some superior tea, and ate it together with me. While eating, she reproached me about the socks. "Socks like these are too fine and will wear out quickly—consult me when making purchases in the future," came her customary directive. In other words, eating sweets and drinking tea were equivalent to socializing with friends—activities I could freely undertake—but purchasing practical items fell under Mother's jurisdiction.

Such things struck me as absurd, but as I fumbled through my clumsy needlework and let my thoughts wander, I gradually came to realize something significant.

Married life was about establishing one’s own household and assuming the position of housewife within that household.
That was a self-evident truth.
Yet what position did I hold within this household?
When I reflected on various things, could it be that I was nothing more than a maid?

Yoshikawa was generally quiet and didn’t have many engaging topics at hand.
When it came to conversation, there was scarcely anything beyond newspaper articles.
On occasions when he drank, he would expound his specialized knowledge of economics, but this failed to reach either Mother or me, ending up as little more than a soliloquy.
The only distinctive topic he possessed was having been drafted near the war’s end and spending his time digging holes.
In other words, he was an ordinary, good-natured company employee, and the household was likely nothing more than a dining room and bedroom.
In return, he had no difficult traits and made few demands—I only needed to be a maid.

Full authority over the household rested with Mother.
Mother managed all household finances and oversaw every single purchase.
I had to consult about everything.
Is today suitable for laundry?
That said it all.
I was a maid.
I was a ¥1,000-a-month maid.
There was no room to act as a housewife.

The hardest part was the fixed wake-up time.
I had to wake up at six o'clock sharp.
It was because Mother got up at that time.
There were times—on Sundays, for instance—when I wanted to sleep in. Yet even as Yoshikawa lay sleeping soundly, because Mother rose at six, I too had to get up without fail.

There was only one thing—literature, though merely translations—where I acted as Mother's proxy. In other words, to Mother, I was likely the heir to those aspirations. An heir to dreams in one realm, yet a maid in daily life—in any case, I remained far removed from being an autonomous housewife.

Or perhaps, stepping back to consider, even in daily life Mother might have been training me down to the smallest details to shape me into her successor. Could it be she kept me confined to a maid's position, never permitting independent action until I perfectly matched her mold? Yet there was something peculiar about that arrangement.

There was a time I caught a cold and was bedridden for about a week.
At that time, Mother took care of me with such kindness that it surpassed even my biological mother’s.
When my fever ran high, she stayed up late into the night for me, rising even in the darkness to replace my ice pillow.
She took my temperature at fixed intervals, administered medication, and served meals with clockwork regularity.
She paid meticulous attention to my meals.
Mother performed this nursing care without showing the slightest sign of inconvenience, carrying it out sincerely and naturally from the heart.
Meanwhile, she continued managing the household with her usual efficiency.
I found myself filled with admiration and gratitude, at times wetting my pillow with tears.

Mother was reluctant to let me get up.
She insisted I wasn’t to rise until I had fully recovered.
Finally permitted, I tidied the futon, put on my everyday clothes, and knelt before Mother to speak.

“I’ve truly caused you so much trouble.”
“Thank you very much.”
“You must have been very tired.”

Her heart swelled, and no lengthy words emerged.

Mother showed no particular emotion and remained unperturbed.

“Well, it’s good you recovered quickly.
“If it concerns me, I feel neither fatigue nor anything of the sort.
“Even if it requires effort—being household matters—having more work makes it more rewarding; that’s what’s good about it.
“What I dislike most is having nothing to do.
“Should you lie bedridden with stomach trouble for a year or chest trouble for two, I would nurse you day and night.
“Now you mustn’t say such inauspicious things and distress yourself.
“Please rest assured.
“I find my greatest happiness in being constantly occupied, you see.”

It wasn't out of consideration to spare me obligation; rather, I sensed Mother was speaking with plain candor. Neither was she attempting to impart any joy in labor. And strangely, that very forthrightness rendered my gratitude hollow. I found myself harboring something akin to awe toward Mother.

Something unexpected occurred, and I found myself peering into what might be called an abyss.

One afternoon, Uncle from Komagome came by and became engrossed in discussing something with Mother.
He shared the Yoshikawa surname and was the older brother of Yoshikawa’s deceased father.

As a general rule, when relatives from my parents’ home visited, I would sit with them without hesitation, but when relatives from this household came, I made a point of politely keeping my distance.
Moreover, there was something private about Uncle and Mother’s conversation that day. Every time I went to refill their tea or bring peeled fruit, Uncle would turn to me with forced cheer and say things like, "You’ve grown quite accustomed to housework, haven’t you?" or "What a fine bride you’ve become—Mother must be so relieved." His hollow-sounding remarks made my presence there feel increasingly awkward.

And that evening, after instructing me to sew an undergarment, Mother remained deep in conversation with Yoshikawa in his room for a long time.
It seemed to me like some important matter.

However, afterward, when I heard about it from Yoshikawa after Mother had gone to bed, the matter itself was trivial yet rather strange.

Uncle from Komagome had built and was living in an elegant house of about five rooms on war-scorched land.
Aunt had passed away some years prior, and Uncle—a former Home Ministry official—now idled about without employment anywhere.
The eldest son, Taiji-san, lived with his wife and their four-year-old granddaughter, he being an official at the Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry.
Now, Taiji-san’s wife was pregnant and due to give birth in about two weeks’ time, at which point she was to enter a nearby maternity hospital.
The problem lay in what would happen during her hospitalization.
There was one maid—a sixteen-year-old country girl of little use—who couldn’t manage both household matters and hospital errands while being fully occupied with caring for their four daughters.
Even if they tried hiring a housekeeper, finding someone decent seemed difficult, and Uncle generally appeared averse to housekeepers altogether.
Thus came the request: if Mother could come just during the daughter-in-law’s hospitalization—needing only sit in the house and give instructions—that would suffice.

Mother had reportedly answered that she would consider it carefully and discuss it with the household members, but in truth, she disliked going to the Komagome house.
And it was her intention that I might go instead; she had first consulted Yoshikawa about it.

I was slightly surprised. Well, I wouldn’t mind going for two or three weeks—a month at most—with the mindset of a maid, but I have no familiarity with the people there and likely wouldn’t be of any use. Since Mother understands everything in advance, and originally Uncle’s request had been directed at her in the first place.

Yoshikawa also seemed somewhat perplexed.

“Why does Mother dislike it?” I asked.
“Is there something awkward about it, perhaps?”

“That can’t be the case. They’ve always visited back and forth.”

“There’s no reason she would dislike being busy. She always said she loved working.”

“If anything, she’s the sort who hates sitting idle without doing anything.”

“You don’t mean to have me inspect another household, do you?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Could it be she dislikes staying at others’ homes?”

“I wondered the same thing, but when I asked her, she countered with ‘Haven’t I stayed at the Komagome house twice before?’”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t really understand either. But she might dislike being away from home for long. Mother said, ‘A day or two would be fine,’ though.”

In any case, probing Mother’s feelings was a futile endeavor.
And in the end, there was no choice but for me to consent to go in her place.
However, we had to discuss the matter with Uncle beforehand.

The following evening, quite late, Yoshikawa returned home drunk.
He was uncharacteristically sullen and visibly agitated.

“I went to the Komagome house.”

After saying that to Mother, he crawled into the kotatsu still in his Western clothes and fell silent.
After a while, he raised his face and said to me.

“Please prepare some black tea.”

Through that polite tone, I realized Yoshikawa was even angry with me.
It didn’t sit right with me.
Mother also wore a puzzled expression.
I had informed Mother in advance that if Yoshikawa left work early, he might go to Komagome.
I had thought it would resolve itself without incident, and Mother had apparently thought the same.
Yoshikawa’s behavior was unexpected.

I prepared black tea for three.
Yoshikawa reached for the guest whiskey and poured a heavy stream into his tea.
That too was unusual.

“What’s the matter?” Mother asked.

“There’s nothing wrong.”
“Uncle gave me an earful.”
“All three of us got torn apart for being clueless fools who don’t know our place.”

“What on earth is that about?”

“It’s about that house-sitting during Ms. Masako’s hospitalization for childbirth.”

Yoshikawa drank down the tea that reeked of alcohol and asked for another cup.

Soon, Yoshikawa seemed to regain his composure and began to speak as if recollecting something.

Yoshikawa simply conveyed that Mitsuko would come in Mother’s place.
Then he was pressed to explain the reason.
There was no conceivable reason to explain.
“Enough—I won’t have you house-sit,” he declared abruptly.
He maintained that he had asked Mother to do it, not Mitsuko.
Mitsuko had not been a bride here long and did not know much about this household.
With Mother present, summoning Mitsuko would violate social propriety and give no excuse to her parents’ household.
“Don’t you three understand such basic logic?”
“Whether it’s Mother sending the new bride as a substitute, Mitsuko agreeing to it, or Teiichi coming here to spout such nonsense—you’re all nothing but ignorant fools.”
“I absolutely refuse to have you house-sit.”
He had been in such a terrible rage.
Yoshikawa was surprised and apologized profusely.
Then this time, he was subjected to detailed questioning about what exactly their daily lives were like.
When he truthfully conveyed the details of their perfectly peaceful daily lives, he was told to inform Mother that she should retire immediately, and that this time he would be recommending her retirement.
And Yoshikawa was made to drink.
Uncle also drank recklessly.
He seemed utterly indignant.

“Uncle told me to relay his exact words—‘Pass along precisely what I’ve said’—but honestly, it doesn’t sit right with me either.”
“Uncle is just too rigid.”
“There was really no need for him to berate me like that.”

Yoshikawa was the one seething with indignation now.
His verbatim relaying of Uncle’s words must have been an outlet for his pent-up frustration.—But I felt I could understand what Uncle had said.

Everyone fell completely silent.
Mother let out a sigh and dribbled alcohol into the chilled black tea.

“Understood,” Mother said in a subdued voice.
“If that’s their intention over there, then I won’t go and do any house-sitting either.”

Then, after a pause, she said in a slightly trembling voice.

“I will retire.”
“Yes, I most certainly will.”

Even Mother seemed angry now, and everything was in chaos.
I had no way to mediate.

Mother silently retreated to her bedroom, and Yoshikawa drank alcohol again before likewise retreating to his bedroom in silence.
I cleaned up and sat at the kotatsu, lost in thought for some time.
It was a night when the household atmosphere seemed to fragment yet carried a strangely poignant weight.
This kind of night was the first since I had come here as a bride.

That mood lingered until the next morning.
Mother still seemed angry.

However, that afternoon, Mother said to me.

“I’ve given it considerable thought, but I’ve decided to retire after all.”
I was taken aback.

“Oh, retirement? Isn’t that rather odd?”

“No, I’ll do it out of sheer will.”
“I have done nothing but work hard for many years to maintain this household.”
“I focused solely on protecting this household and refrained from family outings.”
“But it should be fine now.”
“Though being relieved of household duties will be lonelier than anything, I shall find other joys.”
“Please manage things properly.”
“And please don’t neglect your literary studies either.”

“Mother, why would you suddenly say such a thing? Wouldn’t it be better to continue as we have been?”
“Yes, exactly as before—I won’t do anything differently.”

Mother stared intently at my face and formed a lonely-looking smile.

From that moment, I too came to understand Mother’s feelings.
I understood that when Mother spoke of “house,” she meant “household.”
For a married woman, the household is like a castle and its grounds—the housewife being its master—or so I recall someone once remarking.
To have work within the household that one can manage freely is proof of being its master; to lose such work means nothing less than losing that mastery.
Mother must have clung fiercely to such work.
For that purpose, she saw no issue leaving me in a position akin to a maid.
Moreover, by refraining from house-sitting elsewhere for about three weeks—since I, a bride rather than a true maid, remained here—she must have sensed, even unconsciously, that this meant transferring the castle’s authority to me during that time.
That deep-seated conviction must have been pierced by all the talk of retirement.
This is the tragic fate of a housewife.
And this fate cannot be escaped without reforming the very notion of household.
Oh, how absurd this concept is.
It mirrors political power’s workings.
Such things should have held no relevance for me.
Had I collided with the status of a maid precisely because I too was bound by outdated household ideals?
The authority within these walls, the literary dreams, Mother’s contradictory stance toward me—all now struck me as profoundly sorrowful.

But for about a week, nothing occurred. There appeared to be no word from Uncle from Komagome. Making a conscious effort, I inquired of Mother with a composed smile regarding every matter—"Would today be suitable for laundry?" Mother gave her customary instructions.

Then one evening, Mother abruptly declared she wished to visit her family home in Wakayama for a time. She said that having not gone for so long, she would pay respects at the ancestral graves while there. There was no reason to detain her. When a pretext regarding Uncle from Komagome had been established, Yoshikawa privately said something foolish to me. Men seem utterly nearsighted when it comes to women's psychology.

“It will be lonely, but please endure it. No matter how long it takes, I’ll return within a month.”

With those words, Mother handed over everything to me, beginning with the household account book.

When I thought back, the surface had been entirely peaceful—there were no storms whatsoever.
Yet as I reflected on my own heart, I surmised that within Mother’s heart, various tempests must have raged.
As for me, a reformation had occurred in my conception of “household,” and I now had to put a new exploration into practice.

What path did Mother intend to take?
It was certain she would return within a month at the latest.
I grieved for Mother yet loved her from my heart's core.
From now on—whether understanding came or not—I resolved to confide everything to Mother.
She was by no means unreasonable.

I saw Mother off to Tokyo Station.
Mother had a quiet, gentle look in her eyes.
Watching the train depart, I felt tears well up in my eyes.
And then, I hit upon the idea of writing this account.
For my own sake.
I will never show it to Yoshikawa either.
But I might feel like showing it to Mother, or I might not.
My own feelings are still uncertain.

During Mother’s absence, I want to make some progress with my translation work.
If I could compile this into a book, how overjoyed Mother would be.
Is this too merely a lingering sentiment within me?