Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was four years ago now—(a certain man began his story)—that I happened to be walking through Ginza on some errand when I saw a man playing a shakuhachi at the corner of a crossroads.
Because seven or eight people were standing before him, I too suddenly stopped and joined the group of listeners.

It was late May in spring, and the sun sank westward, casting shadows from the western row of houses that crept two or three feet up the foundations of those on the eastern side.
Thus, the upper half of the shakuhachi player's body was vividly illuminated by the setting sun.

As evening approached, the streets reached a peak of commotion—horse-drawn trams coming and going, the sounds of rickshaw wheels dashing east and west, the clamor of porters hurrying on their way—all around was a tumult of noise and confusion.
In this noisy place at this noisy hour, that man was calmly playing his shakuhachi.
Therefore, to my eyes, even the spring sunset bathing half his body appeared utterly calm and serene, and it seemed that wherever his shakuhachi’s notes reached, a realm of profound tranquility was created there.

As I listened to the mournful melody rising and falling ceaselessly from his playing, I intently observed his form.

He was a blind man.
He appeared to be around thirty-two or thirty, but between his sun-darkened skin and the grime encrusted on his body, his exact age proved difficult to discern.
Not only was he filthy, but his very appearance spoke of utter exhaustion—one could imagine him battered by the city’s dust by day and huddling beneath grime-stained bedding in some cheap lodging house corner by night.
His features were elongated—a high nose, thick eyebrows, and a forehead half-covered by wild, uncombed hair—yet it appeared well-proportioned, not the coarse, protruding brow one often sees in vulgar individuals.

The power of sound is a fearsome thing; no matter how lowly the man or woman playing might be, those listening somehow came to perceive even the player themselves as refined. Moreover, this blind man possessed an inexplicable air of nobility that contrasted with his squalid appearance, which moved my heart all the more—I imagined the other listeners must have shared this impression. The plaintive melody of joy and sorrow flowing from his shakuhachi must have struck listeners as though narrating the vanished delights and present sorrows of his ill-starred existence. Few departed without leaving alms; many pressed a coin or two into his palm before walking away.

II

It was summer of the same year.

I took my family to escape the summer heat in Kamakura, renting a small cottage near the mountains to live in.
One night, as the moonlight shone particularly clear, I went out alone for a walk and reached the beach.

The beach stood in stark contrast to its daytime bustle; despite the wondrous moonlit scenery, few people were about.
As I stood at the mouth of the stream flowing into the sea, gazing at the silvery light shattered upon the waves, a faint shakuhachi melody drifted from somewhere unseen. When I looked around, the flute’s notes arose from the west—quite nearby, where many fishing boats had been hauled ashore.

As I drew closer and looked, there indeed was a small boat hauled up four or five ken from the water's edge. Encircling it were some ten men and women—some perched on the gunwale, others crouched in the sand, a few standing—and among them leaned a man against the boat's side, playing a shakuhachi.

I stood apart from the crowd and listened.
The moonlight cast a softly clustered shadow over the group; the people listened without uttering a word.
It seemed the piece had just ended; three or four listeners departed.
The remaining people waited for the next tune, but the flute player remained motionless, his shakuhachi propped against his knee and head bowed low.
Thus another four or five minutes passed.
Three or four others left again.
I approached the small boat.

When I looked, the remaining three listeners were one beach child and two village youths; I stood before the flute-playing man near the gunwale.
The man lifted his head.
But to my surprise, he was none other than that blind man I had seen on the streets of Ginza that spring.
Yet even had he not been blind, he could not have recognized me. He faced my direction for a time, but soon began playing anew.
He toyed with his fingertips, drawing out low, thread-like notes for some time, then abruptly stopped and stepped down from the boat’s edge.
I suddenly,

“Blind man, would you come to my house and play for me awhile?”

“Eh? Wha—?” he exclaimed in surprise, suddenly turning his face toward me. Then bowing his head and tilting it to the side, he added, “I’ll go wherever you say.”

“Alright, then come along,” I said and walked ahead.

“Can you really not see at all?” I asked, turning back after four or five steps.

“No, I can see a little with my right eye.”

“At least you can see a little.”

“Heh, heh heh heh,” he chuckled lightly, “No sir, being able to see even a little isn’t good—it stirs up desire.”

“Hey, there’s a bridge here,” I cautioned him about the small bridge over the ditch, “but if you couldn’t see at all, you wouldn’t be able to come all the way here to earn money, would you?”

“Earning it would be one thing, but I just fritter it away...”
“Where’re you from? Your birthplace?”

“I was born in the west, sir.”

“I saw you this spring in Ginza. For some reason, I’ve found myself thinking of you from time to time since then. That’s why I recognized your face the moment I saw it just now.”

“Ah, is that so? Well, I simply wander aimlessly wherever my feet take me, drifting from place to place, so who knows whom I might encounter…”

On the way, they encountered a few young men and women.
A wisp of cloud veiled the moon, casting the surroundings into a hazy glow.
The light melody of a hand organ resonated from a high window.
Before long, we arrived at my house.

III

I had him sit on the veranda, first offering a cup of barley tea, then requesting a piece.
Though I was a complete amateur regarding the shakuhachi and could neither judge the quality of his piece nor discern the skill of his technique, when those tones he played with all his heart came pulsing toward me, I found myself unwittingly shaken to the core.
Should I weep? But to weep would be too profound a sorrow. Does he who plays feel nothing at all?

When the piece ended, contrary to the usual practice of those who sell their music—who invariably smile and offer a few modest words—he remained silently reserved, as though pursuing the sound he had just finished playing, now fading into the void, fading away.

I had imagined from his manner of speech and demeanor that there must be some story hidden in his past from the very beginning, so I broached the subject without hesitation.

“Did you receive formal training in the shakuhachi? Forgive my impertinence in asking.”

“No, not at all—it’s entirely self-taught. Merely something I’ve played around with since childhood out of fondness, hardly worth others hearing, sir.”

“No, not at all—it’s truly splendid. With this much skill, rather than wandering from door to door, wouldn’t it be easier to take on disciples? Are you unmarried?”

“No parents, no wife or children—I’m a carefree loner, sir. Heh heh heh heh.”

“No, it can’t be carefree—burned by sun and beaten by rain, wandering from place to place without a fixed dwelling—that’s hardly what I’d call carefree.”
“But I think there must be some reason behind it all—I’d like to hear your life story,” I resolutely asked him directly.
Though fully aware that exploiting another’s misfortune and downfall to pry into their secrets was never the act of a compassionate soul, having now encountered him twice—and being profoundly moved by both the circumstances and atmosphere of those meetings—I found myself unable to consider such proprieties.

“Ah, I can certainly tell my story.”
“For some reason today, I’ve been constantly reminded of my childhood—earlier, when I heard the young masters from the villa singing in unison in their garden, I somehow wanted to cry.”

“When I was around nine or ten years old, I was often taken by Mother to visit Aunt’s house in a mountain village three *ri* inland from the castle town, where we would stay for two or three nights. Today I recalled those times again after long years. Now that I think of it—when I was seventeen or eighteen and heard someone play the shakuhachi, it felt as though my heart were being plucked out—this very same unbearable feeling comes when I remember myself as that child of nine or ten.”

I parted from my father at five years old and was raised by Mother and Grandmother in a spacious estate of about one *tan* where sasanquas bloomed, crape myrtles stood, and golden lychee fruits hung over the sleeve-fence—these scenes still flicker before my eyes.
Though the house and estate were spacious, we being impoverished samurai who could scarcely afford food, Mother sustained us through handicrafts, so in my child’s heart I spent my days without a care.

Mother too, feeling lonely, found her greatest joy in occasionally returning to her mountain village home. Waking early to trudge through rows of cedar fences at the lonely samurai estate—the feeling from those mornings was beyond description.
The mountain path of three *ri* proved somewhat challenging for a child. At first, I would energetically dart ahead of Mother, leaping about and tossing stones at crucian carp in the paddy ditches, but by halfway up the mountain pass, I’d wearied out completely.
There Mother would encourage me, and after resting at the summit teahouse—where they served what they called *tōge mochi*—I’d find renewed courage in anticipating the proprietress’s special treat reserved for each traveler, taking one deep breath before pressing on.
When we crossed the mountain pass and came about halfway down, Aunt’s village became visible just below. In early spring, mist would drift through the narrow valleys like a painting. Once the village came into view, feeling we’d already arrived, we’d rest on roadside stones there—Mother smoking tobacco, me drinking clear water that cascaded from the mountain cliffs.

Aunt’s house belonged to an old rural samurai family whose fortunes had fallen into considerable decline by that time, I’ve heard—yet through my eyes, they still looked like wealthy people indeed.
The thick central pillars, the dim rice storehouse, the ivy-covered plaster walls, and the deep well—I found them all precious, so I was delighted when the servants called me “young master from the castle town.”
But what made me happiest—what even now I can hardly bear to recall—was playing together with my cousin of the same age.
The two of us would often go fishing for yamame trout in the mountain streams between the gorges.
One side of the mountain bank formed a dark, deep pool, while our side was a shallow rapid, so we would stand in that rapid and cast our lines into the pool to fish.
When we looked up, the mountains on both sides stood steeply as if carved away, with miscellaneous trees and red pines growing thick and dark upon them, so that from below, the sky appeared like a narrow band.
If we made a sound, it would echo and the mountains would roar; if we fished in silence, the forest grew still.

One day, as the two of them fished with single-minded focus, the sky abruptly changed and rain began falling.
However, since the fish were biting unusually well that day, neither suggested going home.
Thick raindrops struck their rods; the water’s surface erupted in spray as the rain danced across it; looking up, streaks fell from the mountain’s peak like long white threads trailing through the air.
Their clothes became drenched; just as they thought this disastrous, the line began tugging fiercely—when they pulled it up, there was a nearly foot-long yamame trout streaked with purple and crimson. As they gripped the thrashing creature and stuffed it into the basket, even this water-dwelling fish seemed twice as vivid and fresh in the rain compared to ordinary times.

“Should we head back now?” one of them said, turning slightly this way, but immediately looked back at the water’s surface.

“Should we go back?” one replied without even glancing over—so utterly absorbed was he that he seemed unaware of his own words.

Then thunder roared directly overhead, its echoes through the mountains creating a deafening crash as if the peaks might split apart. Without a word, they reeled in their lines, snatched up the basket, and fled in a thunderous rush.

When halfway home, they met a servant sent to meet them; upon returning, Aunt and Mother scolded them. Leaving the basket tossed by the wellside, they changed clothes and retreated to a storage-like room on the second floor, where they hunched down to examine pictures in an old copy of *The Tale of the Rise and Fall of the Genji and Heike*.

Yet even when sitting face-to-face, Mother and Aunt never laughed uproariously; both were women of few words, with careworn expressions and sallow complexions, though they would whisper to each other in gentle, hushed tones about something.
Once, I saw Mother with a tearful face while Aunt wept beside her, but I paid it no mind—merely feeling a vague unease before darting out of the parlor.

"I would want to stay seven or even ten days, but once four days had passed, Mother would say we should return, so I had no choice but to go home. Once, when I stubbornly insisted on staying behind alone, Mother returned ahead without me. As I stood on the veranda at dusk—for Aunt’s house was built high into the mountains—I could look down upon the mountain village as evening fell. The western sky was clear with the afterglow of sunset like water, the mountains blurred into pale ink-wash hues, blue mist hovering at the feet of valleys and forests—I felt inexplicably forlorn. The temple bell sounded different than usual, and when I heard its long-drawn-out tone traversing the valleys and fading into the distance, I suddenly yearned for Mother—why hadn’t I returned with her? Was she now home talking with Grandmother?—and overwhelmed by these thoughts, I told Aunt I would leave immediately. Aunt just laughed and didn’t take me seriously. Before long, lamps were lit, and in the midst of playing games like clipping shogi with my cousin, I somehow became distracted—but the next day, escorted by a servant, I returned home immediately."

When returning home with Mother on other occasions, neither of us had as much vigor as when we set out, and when crossing the mountain pass, Mother would rest time and again. What I recall is Mother’s face from that time. She would sit on a rock, let out a weary sigh, and make a sorrowful expression beyond words. Seeing that look, even my child’s heart would grow heavy with sadness, and I’d sit silently beside Mother without a word. Then Mother would say, “Aren’t you hungry? If you’re hungry, I’ll give you some mochi,” and begin opening the cloth pouch. When I said, “I’m not hungry,” she would insist, “Don’t say that—have a bite. I’ll eat too,” and forcefully give me mochi. When she did this, I would inexplicably grow even sadder, feeling as though I wanted to cling to Mother’s knees and weep.

“Even now, I long for Mother—long for her unbearably.”

Was it that the blind man could no longer bear this surge of nostalgia? He abruptly stopped speaking and bowed his head. After a long pause—now speaking with such fervor one might think he’d forgotten his listener entirely—

“Yet this was only natural, for Mother lived solely for my sake, doting on her only child without restraint.”
“She scarcely ever scolded me, and even when she did reprimand me occasionally, she would swiftly apologize to soothe my temper.”
“If you think this made me grow into a spoiled, stubborn child—it did not. Though I engaged in all the mischief typical of boisterous boys, I possessed a weak constitution and a somewhat effeminate disposition.”

This displeased my old-fashioned grandmother, and at the slightest provocation, she would turn to Mother and—
“It’s because you’re too soft on him that even Shūzō’s grown into such a timid child. And you yourself must be more resolute—raise him to be a proper man!” Grandmother would say such things.

But by Mother’s very nature, she simply couldn’t bring herself to employ such a strict upbringing that emphasized masculinity.
Simply because she doted on me excessively, endlessly worrying about my future—never envisioning happiness, only imagining misfortunes—I became all the more pitiable beyond endurance.

One day, Mother—so worried about my future that she took me to a mysterious fortune-teller who had set up shop beside a temple called Zenkyō-ji.

I remember the fortune-teller’s face well—a small, round-faced old man with deeply sunken eyes. His features were somewhat unsettling, but when speaking to Mother, his tone grew exceedingly gentle and polite: “Ah, I see, that is indeed worrisome. Quite so, quite so. Allow me to perform a thorough divination for you,” he said in that manner.

The old man peered at my face through a magnifying glass and clattered his divination sticks about—as though performing both physiognomy and hexagram divination at once—but eventually declared:
“Ah, do not worry—this child will surely rise in the world. He bears an excellent physiognomy.”
“Yet there remains one trial—misfortune with women,” he continued while patting my head. Peering intently at my face through narrowed eyes like cracked inkstones, he murmured: “Hmm... A fine boy indeed.”

Mother was overjoyed and, upon returning home, immediately told Grandmother all about it. But Grandmother only laughed and—

“A man’s trial by sword would at least be manly—this child’s pale, delicate looks are why that fortune-teller spoke of misfortune with women. But there’s no need to worry about such things yet—he should take care from seventeen or eighteen at the earliest, twenty at the latest.”

But for me at that time (I was twelve), misfortune with women had indeed already begun.

“As I have spoken this far, I shall now confess two or three instances of my misfortune with women.
The fortune-teller indeed accurately predicted my future.

At that time, about three blocks from my house stood a household called Iizuka, whose daughter went by O-Sachi—a slender, lovely girl of around fifteen.”

When that child saw me on the road, she would invariably tell me to come play at her house. At first I didn't go either, but as she persisted so relentlessly, when I finally visited once she wouldn't let me leave for hours—hoisting me onto her lap, nipping at my neck, carefully smoothing down my hair while declaring how much cuter this made me, then forcibly pressing her soft cheeks against mine—all manner of such antics.

Then I too began feeling a peculiar gladness, and thereafter would often venture out to play, growing restless unless I saw O-Sachi's face.

Around that time, since the fortune-teller had spoken of misfortune with women and Mother had lectured me about this concept of "misfortune with women," even my child’s heart grew terribly afraid that what was happening now might indeed be that very misfortune. Yet I showed no sign of this in front of Mother. Secretly tormented though I was, I still occasionally visited O-Sachi to play.

Looking back now, I must have been yearning for O-Sachi even then—though outwardly I pretended to dislike how she would hold me like an infant, deep down I felt joy, and even now I cannot forget the sensation of being pressed against her warm, soft skin.

Speaking of misfortune with women, one might say I had already fallen victim to it by that time.

Mother would lecture me daily about women being fearsome creatures, drawing examples from people of old and the misfortunes of young men in the castle town.
She even invoked the tale of Anchin and Kiyohime.
Phrases like "a Bodhisattva's exterior hiding a demon's heart" were drummed into my ears until they grew calluses—that one must view every young woman as an ogre or serpent, that any kindness from women was deception, and that trusting their words would invite calamity—such became Mother's refrain.

Because I revered Mother, I never doubted her words in the slightest. And so, though I feared O-Sachi might indeed harbor a demon within depending on circumstances, I devised excuses for myself—reasoning that O-Sachi was still a child, and I too was still a child, so such frightening matters could not exist; that when O-Sachi showed me affection, it was genuine and never deceitful—this was how I had convinced myself.

One day, as I was passing by Iizuka’s house at dusk, O-Sachi came rushing out and forcibly pulled me inside.
Then she asked why I hadn’t come to play these past four or five days, and when I said I had caught a cold, she exclaimed, “That’s terrible! Are you better now?” Peering into my face, she continued, “Your complexion still looks poor—you must take care! If you were to fall ill, Shū-san, I would die,” all while staring intently into my eyes.
Being timid as I was, when spoken to like this, I found myself tearing up from some mix of joy and sorrow I couldn’t name. Seeing this, O-Sachi embraced me—but when I looked, her eyes were brimming with tears.
And she said, “Stay tonight—I’ll hold you to sleep instead of Mother.”
When I said, “I don’t want to—Mother will scold me,” she replied, “I’ll go apologize to her right now—it’ll be fine.”
When I whispered then—“If I tell Mother dear, she’ll scold me worse—coming to play here is supposed to be a secret”—she suddenly shoved me away. Glaring fiercely, she snapped: “Why’s it gotta be a secret? Is it wrong for Shū-san and me to play together? If it’s so wrong, then don’t come at all!”
I shuddered violently, leapt down from the veranda edge, and fled headlong from the Iizuka residence.

From then on, I never again visited the Iizuka residence; even when chancing upon O-Sachi on the road, I would run away.
O-Sachi always laughed upon seeing me flee, which only strengthened my conviction that she had indeed been attempting to deceive me.

IV

The next misfortune with women came when I was nineteen years old indeed.
By then both Grandmother and Mother had passed away, and while living under Aunt’s roof, I attended the village elementary school where I received five yen monthly.
Grandmother died in spring when I was fifteen, Mother that autumn—thus I became an orphan suddenly, until finally being taken into Aunt’s household.
Until eighteen I remained in that lonesome mountain village, engaging in no proper studies—merely reading what resembled boys’ magazines sent by a cousin boarding at the castle town’s middle school, alongside old books from Aunt’s house like *The Tale of the Rise and Fall of the Genji and Heike*, *Taiheiki*, *Chronicles of the Han-Chu Wars*, and *Loyalty and Righteousness: The Water Margin*—these alone filled my days indeed.
Thus even as an elementary teacher I proved wholly inadequate, yet Aunt’s family—being an old-established house in the village—prevailed through their influence to have me employed by force of reputation. When Mother fell ill, she admonished me until her last breath to beware women and this cursed misfortune, imploring me to rise swiftly in the world while vowing to pray from beneath the grasses’ shade—with these words she died.
But how this social advancement might be achieved—even Mother had possessed no inkling indeed.
Mother had apparently sought to secure my tuition from Aunt’s household.
As this came to naught, though clinging steadfastly to belief in my advancement, it remained but a vague notion—in truth, I see now how deeply it tormented me within.
Therefore for Mother, warning against feminine misfortune became her sole method to ensure my rise indeed.
Perhaps born lacking fortitude—somehow I gave little thought to my own advancement.
Having lost Mother so abruptly, those first months at Aunt’s found me often sniveling in hidden corners where none might see.

As time passed, my grief gradually faded until it became something I only occasionally recalled; bound by Aunt’s kindness, before long I came to regard her as a mother and spent my days accordingly.

From age eighteen, I began attending an elementary school about five blocks from Aunt’s house, looking after the village children alongside three or four colleagues while devoting myself to shakuhachi practice at night—living quite cheerfully indeed.

Speaking of shakuhachi practice—there was an old man in the village at that time who played in a self-taught style. The village youths flattered him into being hailed as some grand master until even I became his disciple.

But since our so-called grand master himself was self-taught, all us disciples merely blew wildly without direction. Once our hands grew accustomed, we began randomly debating who played well or poorly until we all became full of ourselves.

Perhaps it was my nature alone—among those youths I became peculiarly obsessed. Without pause or respite, clutching my shakuhachi and blowing into it sufficed for all wants. Rising early to the back mountain before dawn’s light, perching on rocks while bathing in the dawn mist as I played—there were times I fancied the morning fog cleared with my shakuhachi’s notes and the sun rose gradually to my cascading tones.

Therefore, naturally I came to be considered the most skilled among the youths—so much so that even the elderly master went so far as to egg me on, saying that with proper practice, I could become Japan's greatest master.
Before long, I turned nineteen.
It was just the start of spring.
At dusk, as I sat by the village stream's bank with my shakuhachi as usual, playing alone with focused clarity, a voice called out from behind: "Master Shūzō."
When I turned to look, it was a young man living on the slope leading to the neighboring village—one bearing the imposing name Take no Jō, which had been given to him by the temple priest.

“Oh.”
“Take no Jō Yamashiro-no-kami.”

“Truly, Master Shūzō is skilled at the shakuhachi,” he said, smirking.
Since this man was somewhat eccentric and insolent—given to mocking others in his speech—when I brandished my shakuhachi and barked, “I’ll strike you!” in threat, the rascal suddenly turned serious,

“Master Shūzō, there’s something I must have you see—won’t you look?” he said, making this strange proposal.
Finding this odd,

“What could it be—this thing you want me to see?”

“It doesn’t matter what it is—I just need you to look at it.”

“What kind of thing is it? Some sort of object?” When I asked this, Take no Jō the rascal laughed strangely—

“It’s something you love dearly.”

“Don’t you dare mess with me!”

“I’m not teasing—I truly wish for you to take a look. Since this is my earnest request, I beg you to take a look,” he now said with utmost seriousness.

“Alright, I’ll take a look—show it.”

“You say ‘show it,’ but it isn’t here now—I’d like you to come to my house instead.”

“Your family’s treasure—some such-and-such sword, perhaps?” When I said this, he burst into strange laughter again,

“Well, it’s something like that—after all, it’s definitely a treasure! Ah yes, a treasure it is!” he clapped his hands. I found this utterly perplexing, and now I too wanted to see it, so “Well then, let’s go together now—come on, I’ll take a look,” and then the two of us set out together and went to Take’s house.

As I mentioned before, Take’s house stood at the crest of a small slope indeed.
From Aunt’s house, it must have been seven or eight blocks away—at the base of that slope lived the renowned shakuhachi master, so I often went as far as the foot of the slope but had only climbed it three or four times.
When one crossed this slope, there lay a narrow valley where not even ten houses stood.
Therefore, not many even among the villagers crossed this slope.
Take’s house consisted of one main building and one storehouse, but the storehouse always had its door tightly shut, and with a large oak tree looming over it from the cliff above, it looked downright gloomy indeed.
The main building too, despite its considerable size, seemed utterly devoid of human presence and stood perfectly still.
Beneath the cliff facing the house lay a shallow square well that was always filled with clear water.
The overall appearance made for such an eerie place that whenever I came to this slope and passed before Take's house, I would immediately recall the paralytic drug from Water Margin and even remember places like Cross Slope where Wu Song had been ambushed.

Now, having been told something strange by Take and furthermore being led to his house, even as I climbed the slope, a growing sense of unease began to stir within me.
Even when I repeatedly asked Take along the way what he intended to show me, not only did he refuse to say, but he wore a look of triumph and laughed with a spiteful grin.

The sun had completely set, and a moon around its tenth night shone vividly, but as trees grew thickly on both sides of the slope, its light could not fully reach through.
The ascent was only about two blocks; soon we emerged before Take’s house.
The front of the house spread out wide, and with no tree shadows to obscure it, the moonlight etched itself clearly upon the ground.

The lamplight was faintly reflected on the shoji screens, and the interior of the house was hushed.
Take silently entered the inner garden.
I couldn’t move my feet; while hesitating outside,

“Please come in!” Take said from the darkness.

The voice was low yet resonant, somehow commanding me.

“I’ll look at it here, so bring it out,” I called from outside.

“I said come in!” he commanded even more forcefully this time, so with no other choice, I lumbered into the inner garden.
Upon seeing that I had entered, Take went up and entered the room next to the tearoom.
He did not come out for some time; from his manner, he seemed to be whispering furtively with someone inside.
Before long, he emerged and, this time gently—

“Please come up—though it’s rather shabby,” he said, so I felt somewhat reassured and entered. When I entered the back room guided by Take, this place was unexpectedly tidy, with an andon lamp dimmed in the corner of the room. However, what first caught my eye was a girl sitting there. As I stepped in, she suddenly made to rise, adjusted her posture, and turned her face away. I stood frozen, too bewildered to sit—then Take abruptly—

“What I wanted you to see is this,” he declared—whereupon the girl threw herself face down.
I didn’t know what to say—couldn’t find any words. Stunned, I looked at Take’s face—he too had reddened slightly and seemed to be struggling for speech, but

“Well now, do sit here—I’ll step out for a moment,” he said brusquely, making to leave—

“What? What? I won’t—I refuse to be left alone!” I cried out involuntarily.

“Won’t you sit down?” he said, glaring at me with a terrifying expression.
Since his demeanor suggested he might kick me the moment I mentioned leaving, I reluctantly sat there in silence—and then the girl began to cry.
She was sobbing uncontrollably. Take’s face at the sight defied all description—one moment veins bulged on his forehead as he gritted his teeth, the next he wore an expression on the verge of tears while staring wide-eyed.
He would start to say something, only to rub the back of his hand against his mouth.

“What in the world is happening here?” I asked, for the situation had grown too strange to bear.
Thereupon Take stammered out these words.
“My sister absolutely insists on meeting you—I tried every way to make her see reason, but she refuses to listen. That’s why I deceived you into coming here. Please—pity her as a wretched woman and show her kindness. I beg you with my hands pressed to the ground—this is how matters stand.”

"You may laugh at this absurd tale, but it was indeed so—and thus I became the village's ladies' man."

At that time, though I had not entirely forgotten the warning about misfortune with women, after all, this was a mountain village—whenever two or three young men gathered, talk would immediately turn to the girls.

My elementary school colleagues would nonchalantly gossip about which girls were beauties or which ones had already blossomed into womanhood, and since this was their sole source of enjoyment, I too gradually became influenced by such talk and occasionally felt the urge to tease the village girls myself.

Thanks to my mother's warnings, I never acted recklessly—yet it was never that I truly feared women in my heart. Had a good opportunity arisen, I surely would have pursued at least one romantic encounter.

Now, Take’s sister was called O-Sachi—a girl so renowned for her beauty among the young men that she had become something of a legend, being seventeen years old at that time.
I had always known her by sight but never exchanged words.
From their side—aware of my position as both a member of my aunt’s household and a schoolteacher—they would bow and pass by whenever our paths crossed; she stood out among country girls with her fair complexion and clear eyes, her slender figure reminding me uncannily of O-Sachi.
The villagers would declare with pride that even castle-town maidens rarely matched her looks—a sentiment I found myself reaffirming each time we met.
Thus confronted by O-Sachi herself—her brother pleading her case in her stead—I found no room in my thoughts for warnings about misfortune with women.
And given my timid nature—even had I recognized the danger—I could never have summoned the resolve to shake off both Take and O-Sachi and flee home.

After that, I made my way to O-Sachi’s place every two or three nights without fail, but as I kept it strictly concealed, no one ever noticed.
Moreover, Take no Jō, her brother, would look out for me in every matter, and Take’s wife had understood the situation well from the very beginning, striving just as earnestly as Take himself to ensure things went smoothly between O-Sachi and me, so I was able to visit Take’s house quite openly.

The relationship between the two had grown so intimate that Take and his wife would occasionally tease them about it.
As days turned into months, there came an evening I would never forget—the seventh of June.
Around eight o'clock that night, when I went to O-Sachi's place as usual, the weather that had looked threatening since dusk finally broke into rain around ten.
When I proposed leaving before the downpour worsened, O-Sachi and Take's wife refused to let me go. Though Take was out, they insisted he would return soon and have someone escort me to the bridge afterward. As I lingered uncertainly, Take came home.
Quite drunk from somewhere, he barged into the back room where I lay reclining and plopped down with legs spread wide.
O-Sachi sat close beside me.

“It’s pouring buckets out there tonight—you’ll stay over,” Take declared with odd insistence. Now, I mention this because whenever I’d tried to stay before, he’d always talked me out of it—saying it’d cause trouble if word got out—so I’d never once spent the night.

“No, really, I shouldn’t stay,” I protested, but Take cut me off—

“Truth is, there’s something needs discussing tonight—that’s why I’m telling you to stay! When I say stay, you damn well stay!” His voice turned gravelly as he spoke.
His tongue seemed to trip over the words.

“What’s this talk about? Can’t I hear it now?”

“Have you noticed?” he demanded abruptly.

“What do you mean?” I couldn’t fathom it.

“So you can’t do this—O-Sachi’s gone and gotten herself like this,” he declared, pressing a hand to his abdomen, so I found myself utterly shocked.
O-Sachi stood up and fled to the tearoom.

“Is that... really true?” I involuntarily lowered my voice.

“You ask if it’s true? You must know already—but if you didn’t, that’s one thing. Now that you do know, we’ll have to settle what comes next.”

“What should I do?” I stammered, my mind in turmoil—whereupon Take glared at me with terrifying eyes.

“Is there any sense in asking that now? Hasn’t it been clear from the start? You must have been prepared for this outcome on your end.”

When I considered what was being said, it made perfect sense—but having acted solely in reckless pursuit of O-Sachi without any real resolve, I found myself unable to protest when Take confronted me thus.

Seeing me remain silent, Take clicked his tongue in frustration, but—
“Make her your publicly acknowledged wife at once.”
“As my wife?”
“You object to that?”
“It’s not that I object—but even if I agreed now, there’s no telling whether Aunt would consent.”
“Aunt’s opinion means nothing if you’re resolved. Say yes, and I’ll make you properly married by tomorrow. This village isn’t the whole world! If Aunt or the others complain, just run off together—anywhere! A man can make a living anywhere!” he declared, and suddenly I found resolve.

“Very well. In any case, I’ll first discuss it with Aunt. If she consents, good. If she raises objections, then as you say—I’ll simply run off with O-Sachi to Osaka or Tokyo. But will O-Sachi agree to this?”

“Hmph! What’s there to ask me about such things?! If it’s where you’re going, even through fire or flood—she’ll come!” he declared, poking my cheek with his fingertip, his earlier fury now replaced with forced cheer.

That night, I returned home—but alas, I found myself utterly unable to broach the matter with Aunt. The reason being, Aunt had heard about the matter of misfortune with women from my mother, and even before Mother’s death, she had repeatedly entrusted Aunt with concerns over this misfortune—so were I to bring up O-Sachi’s situation myself, there was no telling how shocked or worried she might become. For three days from the following morning, I paced in and out of Aunt’s room, torn between speaking now or holding my tongue—but in the end, I could not bring myself to say a word.

If I couldn’t tell Aunt, then fleeing the area with O-Sachi was my only recourse. Once, I even prepared to escape and went to Take’s house—but when the moment came, I couldn’t bring myself to take that step. The reason being, the terrifying thought—"This must be the misfortune with women"—had gradually intensified, and when I reflected on how I had kept visiting O-Sachi until now, a regretful realization surged within me: "I’ve made a grave mistake." And so, if I were to flee with O-Sachi, I might face untold hardships ahead—plunging us into the very depths of misfortune with women—and with this conviction taking hold, I found myself unable to elope after all.

After much struggle and exhaustive deliberation, I resolved to flee the land alone—I shall never forget that night of June fifteenth, the seventh night counting from the seventh. Though my longing to see O-Sachi one last time weighed upon me like mountains, deeming this a crucial juncture, I chanted my mother’s posthumous name like a sutra and slipped away from the mountain village under cover of darkness. That very evening, O-Sachi—oblivious to all—must have waited in desperate anticipation for my arrival.
I, who had been taught solely to avoid being deceived by women, found myself instead deceiving an innocent one; when I abandoned her hoping to escape misfortune with women, I had already fallen into its greatest depths—a truth that eluded me then.

The money I had taken from Aunt’s house amounted to a mere ten yen, so upon arriving in Tokyo, it wasn’t long before I found myself having to stand at people’s gates playing the shakuhachi.
I shall refrain from recounting the events from then until my twenty-eighth year—a span of ten years.
Cut off from my hometown, with no relatives or old friends in Tokyo either, I tried my hand at all sorts of things—but whenever matters with women reached a critical point, I always managed to ruin them.
By the time I turned twenty-eight, I had taken a publicly acknowledged wife once, but it lasted less than six months before she ran away from me.
However, even that wife came about through an affair I had with a daughter there during my stay in Hongō.

The misfortune with women at twenty-eight marked the end of my life, and having lost my eyesight along with that misfortune, I shall now conclude this lengthy tale by recounting that.

V

It was the summer when I was twenty-eight. At that time, my fortune had somewhat improved—I became an employee at the Railway Bureau, earning a monthly salary of eighteen yen. But having been thoroughly chastened by women, I took no wife and hired no maid. Alone, I rented a tenement with a six-tatami room and a three-tatami room, cooking for myself while commuting to the bureau.

My residence lay in a narrow lane of Atagoshita-chō, one house among tenement row houses that stood on both sides.
The tenement row houses were divided into six units on each side, but I lived at the farthest end, with a carpenter couple residing directly in front.

The residents of tenement row houses differ from those living on main streets—as you may well know—in how quickly they grow familiar with one another. Not long after I moved into the twelfth unit at the far end, all twelve households began greeting me.

Among them, the carpenter living in front was about the same age as me, and since our times of leaving in the morning and returning in the evening were mostly the same, we were constantly running into each other. Before long we became acquainted, until finally it was the carpenter who began frequently coming to visit me.

The carpenter’s name was Tōkichi, yet he carried everywhere the air of an Edo craftsman—a dashing figure with refreshingly eloquent speech and an exceedingly amusing manner. However, his appearance was not particularly impressive; his round nose and narrow forehead were especially noticeable. When he laughed, there was something good-natured about him—or, if put unkindly, a touch of simplemindedness—and this too became part of his charm.

When he came to visit me at night, he would always reek of alcohol, suddenly hitch up his kimono and plop down cross-legged. And he would tease me for not drinking alcohol.

And he also kept urging me to take a wife.
And then, whenever I responded to his urging, he would say things like, “You’ve never suffered because of women, you naive greenhorn—that’s why you don’t know a woman’s worth.”
As for him, he didn’t seem to have suffered much either—they said his wife was someone his master had arranged for him.

Yet despite the various hardships I had endured during my ten years in Tokyo, my inherent nature remained unchanged—unable to act fiercely, seldom using harsh words, appearing to all as a clueless oaf who couldn’t even approach women. Thus, when the carpenter Tōkichi called me a greenhorn ignorant of women’s ways, it was not at all unreasonable.
In truth, it was not through boldness that I fell into misfortune with women—rather, it was precisely because I was meek and clueless that I ended up entangled in such misfortune.

One night, Tōkichi came and said that if I had any laundry, he’d have his wife wash it, so without hesitation, I handed over my summer kimono and underrobe. And so, on the evening of the following day, the carpenter’s wife herself brought over the laundry. “This is why you should get yourself a wife already—see how valuable having one can be?” she said, tossing the bundle onto my lap before leaving. This woman was named O-Toshi, and her age was twenty-four or twenty-five. In the tenement, O-Toshi had gradually become the subject of gossip, and there were even sharp-tongued women who would praise her to her face with remarks like “You’re quite the spirited one, aren’t you?”—so much so that even I had begun to sense she was no ordinary woman.

Tōkichi began coming nearly every night.
One reason was his eagerness to learn the shakuhachi from me, but instruments like flutes and shakuhachi appear to be matters of innate disposition—despite being a dexterous man, Tōkichi made no progress whatsoever.
Still, he stubbornly kept blowing away.

O-Toshi also started coming to visit.
At first they would come showing up uninvited together, but later—on Sundays and such—when Tōkichi was absent, she began visiting alone even in broad daylight, chattering away by herself before leaving.
I too eventually began visiting Tōkichi’s house, spending time chatting about trivial things until midnight.
O-Toshi persistently fussed over me—sometimes even cooking my rice, bringing vegetables when hers were ready, or having my evening preparations neatly done before I returned from the office. Because of this, Tōkichi once teased her, saying, “You’ve been busy lately with two husbands to look after!”
However, Tōkichi never once suspected me; what began as mere neighborly relations later evolved into him confiding all manner of personal matters and seeking my counsel.
And so I too interacted with him in that spirit, supporting him considerably and even assisting with financial needs at times. As a result, he came to believe me an irreplaceable friend—so much so that when I caught a cold for about two days, he even took a full day off work to stay by my side.

Moreover, all the residents of the tenement showed me kindness, praising me as a quiet soul, a good man—a rare paragon of virtue.
Thus, it was not only O-Toshi but also the neighborhood women who would fulfill needs without being asked.
The odd thing was that O-Toshi would fume over this—making an unpleasant face before the neighborhood women as if to say *"What need for me to be here with all this meddling?"*—and yet those same women would half-jokingly fuss over me at times. Still, despite all this, the tenement residents never once suspected any impropriety between O-Toshi and me; to a man, they believed me to be an unparalleled paragon of virtue, as if carved from wood or cast in metal.
However, O-Toshi did not enjoy the same level of trust.
Thus, there were even sharp-tongued women who openly said to me things like, "O-Toshi may be a bit suspicious, but she’d never amount to anything."

In truth, O-Toshi could hardly be blamed if people found her suspicious.

One evening, as I was laying out my bedding, O-Toshi came rushing in,

“You’d never fancy someone like me anyway,” she declared, snatching the bedding from me to briskly lay it out herself. “Now then, Master—time for bed. What a husband I’ve got, fussing over you like this,” she added, gazing up at me with seductive eyes—a gesture far from casual.
And to speak of my state of mind at that time—it was by no means as steadfast as the tenement residents believed, so unless one were made of wood or stone, one would still feel a peculiar sensation.

When I once remarked to Tōkichi, “O-Toshi seems quite spirited—hardly like an amateur,” he smirked before explaining with a touch of pride: “You’ve hit the mark. Truth is, she was a maid who made quite a name for herself at a certain teahouse. My master found her, and when he asked her wishes, she said she wanted to settle with an honest craftsman. Seizing the opportunity, he arranged for me to take her in.”
From that moment on, I began to find O-Toshi’s mannerisms increasingly peculiar.

Yet as days passed uneventfully, on a swelteringly hot evening in mid-August, all the tenement residents had gone outside to cool off—but I alone, having caught a chill the previous night and feeling unwell, closed my door and retired to bed early. Until about ten o'clock, voices could be heard clamoring outside, but gradually they grew quiet, and O-Toshi too seemed to have withdrawn meekly inside. Unable to sleep and oppressed by the heat, I rose from bed and smoked a cigarette by the long brazier for a while before deciding to step outside, darting into the alley still clad in my sleepwear. The alley stood completely empty now. When I emerged onto the main street, the moon hung tilted precisely above Atagoyama. Since there was at least some breeze outside, I began strolling when a man approached from the opposite direction, muttering complaints under his breath—his drunken demeanor made me step aside, but he staggered right up before me, and lifting his face revealed Tōkichi.

As soon as Tōkichi saw me, he—

“Nah Boss—perfect spot I found ya! Was just ’bout to crash into your place.”
“C’mon home! Tonight’s the night I ain’t backin’ down—gotta make you hear this!” he growled, seizing my wrist to haul me down the alley.

Thinking him drunk, I placated, “Alright alright—let’s go home then. I’ll listen,” and we stumbled into the house together.

When I looked at Tōkichi’s face, it was deathly pale, his eyes wide and staring.
No sooner had he sat down than—
“Listen here—I can’t stand this anymore!” he ranted in a harsh, rapid-fire manner. Here’s what happened: Earlier that day, Tōkichi had been drinking with four or five companions at a place when one of them, over some trivial matter, started arguing with him.
As they traded insults, the man roared, “Spineless worms who grovel for the master’s cast-offs should shut their traps and crawl away!”—or so it seemed.
This struck raw because Tōkichi had already endured two or three such jabs from his mates—hints that O-Toshi was some troublesome cast-off the master had pawned off on him. Just as he’d been brooding over this, getting insulted again made all his pent-up resentment explode. “Who asked you?!” he apparently shot back. “So what if she’s the master’s leavings? You couldn’t even get scraps yourself!”
At this, the man sneered, “Leavings? She’s fresh goods! He still gets his hands on her two, three times a month,” he spat venomously.
No sooner had Tōkichi heard this than he barked, “Fine—you’ll see!” and stormed out, lurching home bent on throwing out O-Toshi—and that’s when he ran into me.

“So I’m kicking O-Toshi out right now—you’ll agree to this, yeah?” he declared. Though I knew nothing of whether she’d truly been involved with the master before, I countered: “She’s become a proper wife who cherishes you now—hardly worth expelling. There’s no sign she’s still entangled with him—I’ll stake my word on that.” At this, Tōkichi erupted: “If there’s even a whiff of suspicion left, I’ll beat her dead! Just knowing they had history makes my gut churn! Throw her out and I’ll knock that smug look off the master’s face! Acting like some big shot for palming his used goods off on me—like hell! Dumping his leftovers then playing saint? Don’t fuck with me!” No matter how I pleaded, he wouldn’t listen, finally storming home.

Realizing I couldn’t just abandon him, I tried to follow Tōkichi, but he snapped, “Leave me be!” and barred me from entering. With no choice, I stood outside listening to the commotion within.
O-Toshi appeared to have already gone to bed, but Tōkichi dragged her up and was berating her; she seemed to listen without uttering a word until, after some time, she abruptly stepped outside.
Seeing me,

“Enough of this nonsense—no use humoring a drunkard. Let’s just leave him be,” she declared, striding resolutely into my house.
I followed O-Toshi back to my house.

“Who’s been filling his head with such nonsense? Really, it’s utterly impossible,” O-Toshi said, sitting beside the long brazier and smoking the tobacco that had been left there.

“By tomorrow morning, it’ll all blow over, I suppose,” I found myself placating her, but O-Toshi showed no signs of leaving,

When she said, “It seems quiet now—you should go check,” O-Toshi wordlessly rose and left, so I immediately withdrew into the mosquito net. However, before long she returned, declaring with feigned composure, “He’s sleeping soundly—I locked up from outside.” “And what will you do now?” I asked from within the net. “I’ll keep watch like this till morning.”

“There’s no way you can do that—you should go back and sleep,” I said, to which O-Toshi replied impatiently, “Just leave me be! With him being a drunkard, who knows what he might do in the middle of the night? I’m scared,” all while calmly smoking her cigarette.
Having no words to offer, I remained silent—and O-Toshi too stayed quiet, uncharacteristically so for her usual chatter. Peering through the mosquito net, I saw the dim oil lamp softly illuminating her voluminous hair and profile, while the sweltering heat lent her languid posture an unfamiliar sensuality—or so I thought.

In the meantime, perhaps some twenty minutes passed.
O-Toshi was occasionally swatting at mosquitoes with her fan when she suddenly stood up, exclaiming, “These awful mosquitoes!” She came beside the mosquito net and asked, “Are you already asleep?”

“I’m about to fall asleep,” I replied, though why I affected such a sleepy voice escapes me.

“Do let me in for a moment—these mosquitoes are intolerable,” she said, finally slipping into the single-person mosquito net.

Come dawn, O-Toshi returned home. Whether she’d placated Tōkichi somehow or his drunken rage had simply subsided, he left for work without protest.
As he departed, he poked his head through the doorway with a peculiar laugh, scratching his scalp demonstratively. “Mornin’,” he called. “Proper apologies’ll wait till I’m back,” he added brusquely before disappearing.
Watching his retreating figure, I thought *Ah—what wickedness I’ve wrought*, a sharp pang piercing my chest—yet there was no undoing it now.
From that day forth, O-Toshi truly kept two husbands.

Not even a month later, Tōkichi was told something by his master again and came home fuming—but this time, he wasn’t drunk at all.
When he declared with grim resolve that he would part from O-Toshi and go work in Yokohama for a time, I did not strongly oppose his going to the port. “There’s no need for you to separate from O-Toshi—I’ll look after her until you return. Once you’ve worked six months and come back, you can be together again,” I proposed. At this, Tōkichi wept with gratitude, entrusted everything to me, closed up his house to have O-Toshi move into mine, and departed for Yokohama.

Now that matters had reached this point, I kept up appearances as O-Toshi and I lived together pretending to be husband and wife.

Then about a month later, I developed an eye disease.
At first thinking it nothing serious, I avoided seeing a doctor and kept diligently attending my government office duties, but gradually it worsened until I began taking leave from work.
When I finally showed it to a doctor, I was told it was a grave ocular condition, and though I then suddenly pursued every possible treatment, there remained no sign of recovery.

O-Toshi nursed me with meticulous care.
There was no word from Tōkichi.
When I thought of Tōkichi, I was struck by how terribly I had wronged him—my own sins weighed heavily upon me. Yet even so, I could not muster the resolve to admonish O-Toshi and send her after him. And so, though I knew it was wrong—wrong through and through—I continued to accept her affections.

Meanwhile, my eyes kept worsening relentlessly while I had been absent from my office for over a month. I grew increasingly anxious; each time the dread of going blind seized me, I writhed in torment.

What made this situation suspicious was how drastically O-Toshi’s demeanor had changed—her manner of nursing me was no longer as before, and she would lose her temper over trifling matters, treating me harshly. And occasionally she would wander off somewhere for half a day or more and not return. Though I never voiced it aloud, my innards churned with unbearable displeasure.

Now, it happened one day when a man arrived, announcing in a deep voice, “Pardon me.”

“Come in,” O-Toshi said as she rose to greet him, but after exchanging furtive whispers with the man for some time, she eventually came to my bedside and informed me, “The boss is here. He says he has something to discuss with you.”

While I was wondering what kind of boss he could be, the man boldly approached my bedside,

“This marks our first meeting—I am Daiku Sukejirō. Concerning the manifold ways you have extended your care to Tōkichi and O-Toshi until now, words fail to convey adequate gratitude. Particularly regarding the profound kindness O-Toshi has received, I hereby tender fullest thanks on Tōkichi’s behalf.”
“Therefore, as I shall assume responsibility for O-Toshi’s welfare effective immediately this day, she will forthwith vacate your residence. I respectfully solicit your acknowledgment in this matter,” he recited in formulaic tones, spewing the words mechanically. I found myself incapable of uttering a single protest.

Then O-Toshi and the boss seemed to be noisily packing her belongings, but before long O-Toshi came to my side and said, “There are... circumstances involved. You mustn’t think badly of me now. Goodbye—take care of yourself.”

The two left.
I could neither cry out nor scream, and as I thought this was all my punishment, the gaunt figure of Mother and the image of O-Sachi—abandoned while pregnant—appeared before my eyes.

I was dismissed from my office, and my eyes—one went completely blind while the other could barely see well enough to be of any use—and before long, what little savings I had were gone.
And so I was reduced to this wretched state—though now I do not even find it sorrowful. Only when the sound of the shakuhachi I play stirs memories of my beloved mother do I find myself wishing I might simply die… yet even dying eludes my grasp.

＊ ＊ ＊

The blind man played one more piece as he departed.
I could scarcely endure listening to those plaintive, sorrowful tones.
A song of love, sentiments of nostalgia, the sorrow of life’s impermanence—does it not harbor beneath them an eternal resentment?

The moon sank westward, and the blind man departed.
The next day, he was nowhere to be seen in Kamakura.