Pathway to Japanese Literature

This is a humble episode that the foolish author stammers through telling, hoping it might serve as good news assuring those now working far from the homeland for the self-preservation and self-defense of the Empire of Japan that all remains well at home.
Ōsumi Chūtarō had been my contemporary at university, but unlike me—who suffered the disgrace of failing—he graduated promptly and found employment at a certain magazine company in Tokyo.
People have all sorts of quirks.
Ōsumi had shown a tendency to act authoritative since his student days.
Yet this never stemmed from his true heart.
It amounted to nothing more than a superficial mannerism.
The phenomenon paralleled how timid, sentimentally fragile gentlemen of refined appearance often insist on swinging thick walking sticks as they stroll.
Ōsumi was no barbarian.
His strict father served as a professor at a certain university in Korea.
The family appeared rather modern.
As an only son, Ōsumi had been thoroughly doted upon; after his mother’s death a decade prior, his father seemed to indulge his every whim—in short, he had been raised gently. Even during university days, when he wore velvet-collared overcoats and comported himself without crudeness, his reputation among peers remained poor.
They accused him of pretentiously flaunting knowledge.
But to my eyes, such whispered criticisms missed the mark.
The truth was, compared to us lackadaisical students, Ōsumi possessed immense erudition.
One might think it natural for a knowledgeable person to fully share their insights when opportunity arises—hardly cause for suspicion. Yet society perversely condemns those who reveal even a tenth of what they know as show-offs.
It wasn’t an act.
He spoke from genuine understanding.
Moreover, he exercised considerable restraint in sharing.
In reality, he knew five or six times more than he ever disclosed.

However, when someone presented more than a tenth of it, people invariably frowned. Even Ōsumi was holding back. Out of pity for us lazy students, he had likely intended to refrain from disclosing all his knowledge—presenting merely three-tenths, or perhaps four-, five-, or even six-tenths—while keeping the greater part buried deep within his heart; yet even so, the surrounding students found themselves thoroughly exasperated. Consequently, Ōsumi was lonely. Even after graduating university and beginning work at a magazine company, the same thing occurred: Ōsumi was avoided by all, and two or three malicious colleagues—completely disregarding his extensive knowledge—went so far as to foist work akin to manual labor upon him, so Ōsumi indignantly resigned from his position. Ōsumi had never been a bad person from the start. But he was a man of considerable discernment. He could not endure people’s rude mockery. He seemed unable to rest unless he was unconditionally revered by others at all times. However, people in this world did not revere others so easily. Ōsumi changed jobs repeatedly.

“Ah, Tokyo’s unbearable—too bleak! I want to go to Beijing, the world’s oldest capital. That city alone suits my temperament. Why? Because—” And so he expounded to me about seven-tenths of his usual encyclopedic knowledge before soon departing for China with an air of nonchalance.
At that time, those maintaining contact with him domestically were limited to myself and two or three classmates—all men of feeble disposition whom Ōsumi had selected as his understanding companions in this world.
Even then, I unhesitatingly endorsed his arguments about moving to China.
Yet with a fretful look and stammering voice, I ventured some clumsy advice: “If you return immediately after going, it’d be meaningless. And whatever happens, don’t touch opium.”
He snorted a laugh and said, “No need for that.”
In the fifth year after Ōsumi’s departure for China—mid-April of this year—a telegram of the following sort abruptly arrived from him.

○SENT.
ARRANGE BETROTHAL GIFTS.
PREPARE WEDDING CEREMONY.
DEPARTING BEIJING TOMORROW.
ŌSUMI CHŪTARŌ

At the same time, 100 yen was sent via telegraphic money order.

Five years had already passed since he departed for China. However, during those five years, he and I had often exchanged correspondence. According to his letters, the ancient capital of Beijing seemed perfectly suited to his temperament; he had promptly found employment at a major company there and was exerting himself to the fullest extent of his abilities for the establishment of eternal peace in East Asia. Each time I received one of these proud missives, I could not help renewing my reverence for him. Yet I also harbored a foolish, motherly concern—rejoicing at his grand ambitions while anxieties gnawed at me. I kept telling him, “Don’t be a quitter! Take your time—no need to rush. And above all, take care of your health! Absolutely no experimenting with opium!” Perhaps he grew weary of such mundane practicalities, for his letters to me gradually dwindled.

Was it last spring when I received a visit from Yamada Yūkichi? Yamada Yūkichi seemed to have been working at a certain insurance company in Marunouchi around that time. He too was our university contemporary and more timid than anyone; we always ended up smoking his cigarettes. And he unconditionally admired Ōsumi’s extensive knowledge, taking care of all sorts of things related to Ōsumi’s daily needs. I had yet to meet Ōsumi’s strict father, but it was said he possessed a splendid medicine-jar-shaped bald head; his only son Chūtarō, obediently following his father’s precedent, had also begun losing hair around his forehead soon after graduating university. It is only natural for men’s foreheads to recede with age, and there is nothing unusual about it; however, Ōsumi’s case showed a conspicuously rapid progression compared to his fellow alumni. And this eventually seemed to contribute to Ōsumi’s dignified air, but the compassionate Yamada Yūkichi, unable to bear it any longer, once earnestly advised him that by bundling pine needles and using them to poke and stimulate the bald spots, the hair would regrow—or so people said—only to be met with a fierce glare from Ōsumi.

“A bride has been found for Mr. Ōsumi,” Yamada said with considerable tension, visiting my lodgings after a long absence.

“Are you sure? He can be quite particular, you know.”
Ōsumi had graduated from the university’s art department and possessed exacting standards even when appraising beauty.

“I sent the photographs to Beijing,” he continued. “Mr. Ōsumi’s reply came back: ‘Proceed without delay.’”
Yamada fumbled through his inner pocket to produce Ōsumi’s letter. “No, I can’t show you this—it would feel disrespectful to Mr. Ōsumi.”
“There’s rather... tender sentiments expressed here too, you understand.”
“Well, I’ll just leave the rest to your imagination.”

“That’s good.”
“Why not get it all done at once?”

“I can’t do this alone.”
“I must ask for your help too.”
“I plan to go make the proposal to them today—do you have any recent photos of Mr. Ōsumi?”
“We need to show them to the family.”

“I haven’t heard much from Ōsumi lately, but there should be one or two photos he sent from Beijing about three years ago.”

A profile gazing at the distant Forbidden City.
One standing in Chinese clothing with Biyun Temple behind him.
I gave both photos to Yamada.

“This is good. His hair does look thicker here,” Yamada said, immediately zeroing in on that particular spot.

“Though it might just be the lighting making it look that thick,” I offered.
I wasn’t confident.

“No, that’s not it at all. They’ve invented an excellent medicine recently, you see. An Italian-made remedy, they say. Perhaps he’s been secretly using that Italian product in Beijing.”

Everything appeared settled satisfactorily—all undoubtedly owing to Yamada-kun’s devoted efforts. Yet come autumn last year, a letter arrived from Yamada-kun: “Having developed respiratory troubles, I shall return home for a year’s convalescence. Consequently, there remains none but yourself to oversee Mr. Ōsumi’s marriage negotiations. The prospective family’s address being as noted below, I entreat you to make contact.” For a coward such as myself, the prospect of managing another’s matrimonial affairs proved utterly petrifying. Nevertheless, Ōsumi having few acquaintances left, and with the risk of this arduously arranged match collapsing should I refuse, I ultimately wrote to Ōsumi in Beijing.

Dear Sir,
Yamada-kun has returned to his hometown due to illness.
I have had no choice but to take over your marriage arrangement.
However, as you well know, I am not the sort of man suited to managing others’ affairs.
I am a destitute soul living hand to mouth.
I would be no help at all.
Yet though I may be such a man, in wishing for your esteemed self’s felicitous marriage, I intend to lag behind no one.
Please give me any orders you see fit.
By nature I am indolent and will not act on others’ matters unprompted, but anything commanded of me I shall do.
In closing, I appended yet another superfluous admonition: “Take care of your health and pay no heed to opium or such trifles.”
It may be that my letter at that time displeased Ōsumi.
There came no reply.
Though considerably troubled by this, being constitutionally averse to meddling unbidden in others’ lives, I let the matter lie.

Just then came a sudden telegram and telegraphic money transfer—the usual kind.
I received my orders.
This time even I had to act.
I sent an express postcard to the address of the other party that Yamada had earlier provided me.
Having received an urgent telegram from my friend Ōsumi Chūtarō concerning arrangements for betrothal gifts and wedding formalities, I wrote—with uncharacteristic tension—that I wished to visit their esteemed household immediately for consultation, and would be most grateful if they might indicate a convenient date and time along with a rough map directing me there.
The recipient’s name was Mr. Kosaka Yoshinosuke.
The next day brought a sharp-eyed old gentleman of stately bearing to my shabby lodgings.

“I am Kosaka.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed in surprise, “I should have been the one to visit you.”
“No—”
“This is—”
“Well…”
“Please.”

Mr. Kosaka entered the room, placed both hands squarely on the soiled tatami mats, did not so much as smile, and offered a solemn greeting.

"A telegram has come from Mr. Ōsumi," he said.
I thought there was now no alternative but to lay everything bare and consult them.
"It reads '○ Okutta,' but this ○ signifies one hundred yen."
"It appears to mean this should be presented to you as betrothal money, but given how abrupt it all is, I find myself quite at sea."

“That is most reasonable.”
“With Mr. Yamada having returned to his hometown, we too had been feeling rather uneasy when, at the end of last year, a letter arrived directly from Mr. Ōsumi to us stating that due to various circumstances, he wished for the ceremony to be postponed until April of next year—and so we have been waiting in good faith until now, you see.”
The phrase “in good faith” struck my ear with an odd emphasis.

“I see.”
“That must have been quite worrying for you.”
“But even Ōsumi is by no means an irresponsible man.”

“Yes. I am aware.”
“Mr. Yamada was also assuring that.”

“I too shall guarantee it.”

That unreliable guarantor had to deliver the betrothal gifts—placed on an unpainted wooden stand—to Mr. Kosaka’s house two days later.

Mr. Kosaka had requested my presence at noon.
It appeared Ōsumi truly had no other friends.
Delivering the betrothal gifts now fell to me alone.
The previous day, I went to a Shinjuku department store to procure the standard set of betrothal items; on my return, I stopped at a bookstore to consult the *Complete Guide to Etiquette* about ceremonial protocols and formal speeches—then on the appointed day, donning hakama trousers and bundling my crested haori with white tabi socks into a furoshiki cloth, I left home.
My grand scheme—to swiftly change into the haori at the Kosaka entrance, smoothly shed my navy tabi and don pristine white ones, thereby presenting myself as the very model of a flawless envoy—collapsed spectacularly.
I disembarked from the government railway at Gotanda Station and trudged ten blocks by Mr. Kosaka’s crude map before finally spotting his nameplate.
The mansion loomed three times larger than my mental image.
The day sweltered.
Wiping sweat from my brow, I adjusted my posture and passed through the gate—eyes darting for guard dogs—before pressing the entrance buzzer.
A maid appeared with a “Please come in.”
I stepped into the entryway.
There on the entrance step sat Mr. Kosaka Yoshinosuke in his crested formal kimono, folding fan planted upright on his knee as he maintained solemn seiza posture like a stone Buddha.

“No—just a second.”
I blurted out some incoherent words, placed my portable furoshiki bundle atop the geta box, swiftly untied it to retrieve the crested haori, and managed to change out of the black haori I’d worn there—all of which proceeded more or less without major mishap—but from there on, things went awry.
While still standing, I tried to take off my navy tabi socks and change into the white ones, but my feet were sweaty, so they wouldn’t slide on smoothly.
Hmm—I braced myself and tugged at the tabi socks, only to lose my balance and stumble in an ungainly manner.

“Ah—
“This is—” I uttered another nonsensical phrase, forcing a servile smile as I sat on the edge of the entrance step, splaying my legs wide. I coaxed and stroked the white tabi socks—patting here, tugging there—easing them little by little over my feet. Beads of sweat seeped across my forehead; I wiped them away with a handkerchief, then wordlessly resumed wrestling with the socks until the world around me felt pitch black. By then, I’d given up entirely—I even thought of kicking off the tabi, storming up the entrance step barefoot, and bursting into raucous laughter.
But right beside me, Mr. Kosaka waited solemnly, without the slightest compromise in dignity.
Five minutes, ten minutes—I continued my desperate struggle with the tabi socks.
I finally managed to get both of them on.

“Well then, please proceed.”
Mr. Kosaka guided me to the inner drawing room with a calm and dignified demeanor, as if nothing had transpired.
It seemed Mr. Kosaka’s wife had already passed away, and he appeared to be managing everything single-handedly.

I was utterly exhausted from wrestling with the tabi socks. Nevertheless, I placed the betrothal gifts I had brought on an unpainted wooden stand and presented them,

“On this occasion, most sincerely—” I recited the ceremonial phrases I had memorized from the *Complete Guide to Etiquette*, and when I somehow managed to deliver “We humbly entreat your lasting favor” without mishap, a beautiful woman slightly over thirty appeared and bowed gracefully.

“This is my first time having the honor of meeting you.”
“I am Masako’s elder sister.”

“W-we humbly entreat your lasting favor,” I stammered, fumbling a bow.
Then another beautiful woman, just shy of thirty, appeared and likewise offered the greeting, “I am her elder sister.”
Repeating “lasting favor” in every direction felt absurd, and this time,
“I humbly ask for your enduring favor,” I said.
The moment I did, this time it was finally the young lady’s turn to appear.
She wore a green kimono and offered a shy greeting.
It was then that I first had the honor of meeting Ms. Masako.
She was terribly young.
And she was beautiful.
I smiled, thinking of my friend’s happiness.

“Oh, congratulations!”
This was the person who would soon become my closest friend’s wife.
I said in a slightly familiar, offhand manner, “I’ll be counting on you.”

The elder sisters brought in all sorts of dishes.
The elder sister had a boy of about five clinging to her.
The younger sister had a girl of about three toddling along after her.

“Well, here’s one.”
Mr. Kosaka poured beer for me.
“I’m afraid there’s no one to keep you company.”
“When I was young, I too drank heavily, but alas, I’m quite incapable of it now.”
He laughed, then smoothly stroked his beautifully bald, gleaming head.

“Excuse me for asking, but how old are you?”

“Sixty-nine.”

“Fifty?”

“No, sixty-nine.”

“That’s remarkably vigorous of you. I’ve thought since our first meeting that you must be of samurai lineage?”

“You flatter me. I served the Aizu domain.”

“Did you study swordsmanship from childhood too?”

“No,” the elder sister interjected with a quiet laugh, refilling my beer. “Father never learned such arts. Grandfather was skilled with the spear—” She hesitated mid-sentence, as if checking herself from boasting.

“Spear.”
I tensed up.
I had never felt awe toward people’s wealth or fame, but for some reason became extremely tense only in the presence of martial arts masters.
It might be because I was, more than others, a weak and cowardly person.
I secretly renewed my respect for the Kosaka clan.
I mustn’t let my guard down.
If I got carried away and said something stupid, it would be tiresome to be shouted at as “Rude fool!” or such.
After all, they were descendants of a spear master.
I became markedly more reticent.

“Please, go ahead.”
“There’s nothing particularly delicious here, but please help yourself.”
Mr. Kosaka kept urging.
“Now then, have a drink.”
“Go on, have a proper drink.”
“Here, please, drink up.”
“Drink properly,” he urged.
It even sounded like a reprimand—an exhortation to drink in a manly, resolute manner.
It might have been the Aizu dialect, but I found it rather eerie.
I drank resolutely.
There was nothing to talk about.
I had grown extremely wary of the spear master’s descendants and stiffened up completely.

“About that photograph—”
On the wall hung a photograph of a gentleman around forty years old wearing a business suit.
“Who is this?”
Was that an improper question?
I felt uneasy inside.

“Oh,” said the elder sister, her face reddening.
“We should have taken it down today.”
“On such an auspicious occasion.”

“Well, it’s fine.”
Mr. Kosaka turned around, glanced at the photograph, and said, “That is my eldest daughter’s husband.”

“Did he pass away?”
While certain it must be so, I panicked at having blurted out such a direct question—this wouldn’t do.

“Yes, but—” The elder sister cast her eyes downward. “Please don’t trouble yourself about it.”
Her phrasing struck me as slightly odd.
“Why—everyone has shown me such undeserved kindness—”
She trailed off.

“If Brother were here today—how delighted he would be.” The younger sister said this while peering out from behind her elder sibling with a lovely smile.
“Though I must say—my own husband remains away on business.”

“A business trip?”
I was utterly dazed.

“Yes, it’s been so long.”
“He doesn’t seem to worry about me or the children at all—he just keeps writing about nothing but the garden plants.”
They laughed together.

“He likes garden trees.”
Mr. Kosaka gave a pained smile. “Please drink your beer properly.”

I kept resolutely drinking beer.
What an obtuse man I was.
They were death in war and military deployment after all.

That day, I consulted with Mr. Kosaka and settled on the wedding date.
There was no need to check the calendar and fuss over unlucky days like Butsumetsu or auspicious ones like Taian.
April 29th.
There could be no more fitting day than this.

The location was a certain Chinese restaurant near Mr. Kosaka’s residence.
The restaurant was said to be equipped with a Shinto-style ceremony hall, and in any case, we decided to leave all negotiations regarding that matter entirely to Mr. Kosaka.
Moreover, when I hesitantly proposed that Professor Segawa—who had taught us Oriental art history at university and had even helped Ōsumi secure employment—might be suitable as the official matchmaker, the Kosaka clan readily accepted the suggestion.

“If it’s Professor Segawa, Ōsumi should have no objections. However, Professor Segawa is a rather particular person, so whether he’ll agree to take on the role is uncertain. In any case, I’ll go visit his home today and plead my case.”

It was wise to withdraw before any major blunders occurred.
The prudent betrothal envoy—terribly drunk, terribly drunk, he kept repeating—had managed to safely escape the Aizu samurai’s residence, clutching his crested haori and white tabi socks wrapped once more in a furoshiki cloth.

But my duty was not yet done.

At a public telephone in front of Gotanda Station, I inquired about Professor Segawa’s availability.
Last spring, Professor Segawa had clashed with a young professor in the same faculty over differing opinions and, having suffered what he deemed an intolerable insult, left his university lectern; he now resided at his home in Ushigome, living what one might call a life of scholarly leisure—farming in fair weather and reading in rain—in serene contentment.
Though I had been a thoroughly unstudious university student, I secretly held a deep admiration for Professor Segawa’s unpretentious character; thus, I made efforts to attend at least his lectures alone and even visited his office two or three times to pose absurdly foolish questions that left him bewildered. Later, when I sent him a small collection of my writings, he bestowed upon me words of encouragement—something along the lines of “Even a dullard must exercise self-restraint; there are instances where arrows pierce stone,” and so forth—and through that brief letter, I felt I understood all the more clearly just how much he regarded me as a hopeless man. While grateful, I also found myself smiling bitterly at the gravity of it all.
Yet being regarded by the professor as such a hopeless man was, in fact, a relief to me.
If someone like Professor Segawa were to consider me a promising man, it would likely prove unbearably stifling instead.
Since I was already seen as a hopeless man anyway, there was no need for me to put on airs with the professor.
On the contrary, I could behave as I pleased.
That day, I visited Professor Segawa’s home for the first time in a long while, reported on Ōsumi’s marriage arrangement, and proceeded to rather bluntly request that he take on the role of official matchmaker.
Professor Segawa turned away and remained silent in thought for a while, but eventually gave a reluctant nod.
I was relieved.
It was all right now.

“Thank you very much. After all, the bride’s grandfather is said to be a master of the spear, so even Ōsumi can’t afford to let his guard down. On that matter, I think you should give Ōsumi a good warning from your position as his professor. That guy’s just too carefree, you see.”

“That’s nothing to worry about.”
“Daughters of samurai families rather respect their men.”
Professor Segawa spoke earnestly.
“But more importantly—what do you think?”
“It looked like Ōsumi’s baldness had progressed quite far.”
Indeed, this matter appeared to be the professor’s primary concern.
Truly, a teacher’s kindness runs deeper than the sea.
I felt moved.

“I believe it should be fine.
“The photo he sent from Beijing didn’t show further progression.
“They say there’s effective Italian medicine now, and Mr. Kosaka Yoshinosuke himself has quite an impressive—”

“It’s only natural to go bald once you’re past your prime.”
Professor Segawa said this with a gloomy expression.
He himself was quite strikingly bald.

Several days later，Ōsumi Chūtarō lumbered into view at the entrance of my humble dwelling in Mitaka，carrying a single briefcase．He had come all the way from Beijing to welcome his bride．He now sported a tanned，rugged face—one tempered by life’s hardships．That was unavoidable．No one can remain a refined young master forever．The hair was just a bit thicker than before．Now that things had come to this，Professor Segawa must be completely relieved，I thought．

“Congratulations,” I said with a laugh, when—

“Well, you’ve gone to the trouble this time,” declared the Beijing groom expansively.

“How about changing into a padded coat?”

“Hmm, I’ll take you up on that.”
The groom undid his tie while adding, “By the way—you don’t have any fresh underthings, do you?”
Unbeknownst to me, he’d acquired an almost swaggering air.
The utter lack of hesitation in his manner struck me as paradoxically virile and reassuring.

Soon afterward, we headed out together to the public bath.
The weather held fair.
Ōsumi tilted his face toward the azure sky,

“But Tokyo sure is carefree.”

“Is that so?”

“Carefree.”
“Beijing isn’t like this.”
I found myself being scolded as though representing all of Tokyo’s people.
However, though it might appear carefree to travelers, I briefly wondered if I should explain to this Beijing guest that all the people of the capital were living through strenuous efforts.

“There are probably areas where the tension is lacking.”
I ended up saying the opposite of what I was thinking.
I am a man of a disposition that dislikes arguments.

“There are!”
Ōsumi declared proudly.

We returned from the public bath and ate an early dinner.
Sake was also served.

“There’s even sake,”
Ōsumi said to me in a scolding tone while drinking sake.
“You can even prepare this much food!
You people are too privileged.”

Because Ōsumi was coming from Beijing, the household members had been buying vegetables and fish little by little and storing them up since four or five days beforehand.
They went to the police box and also handled the paperwork for emergency rice rations in advance.
As for the sake, that morning, they had gone to my elder sister’s place in Setagaya and had her give them her rationed sake.
However, if we were to disclose the actual situation, the guest would feel ill at ease.
Ōsumi was supposed to stay at my house for a week until the day of the wedding.
Even when Ōsumi scolded me, I stayed silent and smiled.
Ōsumi had come to Tokyo for the first time in five years and was, so to speak, excited.
He said nothing at all about this marriage and, in a tone akin to a lecture, proceeded to instruct me on various global affairs.
Ah, but people do not expound more than a tenth of their knowledge.
It was also a fact that the commonplace friend living in Tokyo, while piously listening to the Beijing man’s vehement commentary on current affairs, was somewhat at a loss.
I am an utterly ordinary citizen who believes things exactly as they are published in the newspaper and does not even think of knowing anything beyond that.
Yet again, for Ōsumi, seeing this Tokyo friend he met after five years still wearing that same foolishly carefree expression—perhaps feeling an irritation he couldn’t suppress—he vehemently denounced our way of life.

“You must be tired. Why don’t you get some sleep?” I said this when there was a brief lull in Ōsumi’s stories about his travels.

“Ah, let’s sleep. Put the evening paper by the bedside.”

The next morning, I woke up around nine o’clock.
I usually get up before eight o’clock, but having kept Ōsumi company, I had slept in a little.
Ōsumi wasn’t getting up.
Around ten o'clock, I decided to fold only my futon first.
Ōsumi, still lying in bed, watched me bustling about out of the corner of his eye,

“You’ve become a remarkably flighty man,” he said, then pulled the futon over his head again.

That day, it had been decided that I would take Ōsumi to Mr. Kosaka’s house.
Ōsumi and Mr. Kosaka’s young lady had not yet met even once.
This marriage had been decided relying solely on their respective family lineages, photographs, and the testimony of Mr. Yamada Yūkichi, who had acted as intermediary.
After all, it was Beijing and Tokyo.
It was also because Ōsumi was busy.
It seemed he couldn’t very well come all the way to Tokyo just for a meeting.
Today was the first time they would meet.
It might be said to be the most important day of one’s life.
However, Ōsumi was, for some reason, perfectly composed.
Around eleven o’clock, he finally awoke, said, “Where’s the newspaper?” and while lying prone on his futon, scrutinized the morning paper for a time. Then he went out to the veranda to smoke Chinese tobacco.

“Won’t you shave your beard?”
I had been fretting about one thing or another since morning.

“There’s no need for that.”
He spoke with an oddly bold air.
He seemed to look down on my fretful state of mind.

“But today, you’re going to Mr. Kosaka’s house, right?”

“Hmm, I suppose I’ll go take a look.”

As if there was any need to go and see.
Aren’t you going to meet your own bride?

“She seems quite the beauty.”
I thought Ōsumi could stand to show a bit more innocent enthusiasm.
“Since I considered it rude to see her before you did, I only stole a brief glance, but she struck me like cherry blossoms.”

“You’re too soft on women.”

I wasn’t amused.
If you were so unenthusiastic, why did you come all the way from Beijing? I wanted to confront him and demand an answer, but I was a spineless man.
I would avoid awkward confrontations right up to the breaking point.

“It’s a splendid family.”
For me, that was the utmost I could say.
I couldn’t bring myself to add it was too good for you.
I do not care for arguments.
“In marriage arrangements, people usually seem eager to hint at their status or wealth, but Mr. Kosaka didn’t utter a single word about such things.”
“He just said, ‘I trust you.’”

“Because they’re samurai.”
Ōsumi lightly deflected it.
“That’s precisely why I went out of my way to come from Beijing.”
“Otherwise, I wouldn’t have—”
He spoke grandly.
“After all, it’s a family of honor.”

“A family of honor?”

“The eldest daughter’s husband died in battle in Northern China three or four years ago; his family should now be living at the Kosaka house.”
“As for the second daughter’s husband—this one seems to be Kosaka’s adopted son—I’d heard he was deployed early on and is now active in the southern regions, but didn’t you know that?”

“Oh, I see.”
I was embarrassed.
Recalling my own idiotic figure—the most idiotic in all of Japan—who, led along like a fool, drank beer heartily, looked at the photographs on the wall railings, asked the most impertinent questions, and then triumphantly made his exit—my cheeks burned red, my ears burned red, and I felt as though even my innards were turning red.

“Isn’t that the most important thing? Why didn’t you tell me about that? I made a complete fool of myself!”

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s not good! It’s an important matter.”
My tone became openly furious.
I didn’t care if it led to a fight.
“Yamada’s no better. The fact that he didn’t tell me a single word about such an important matter is unkind.”
“I’ll have to decline this mediation.”
“I can’t show my face at the Kosakas’ house anymore.”
“If you’re going today, go by yourself.”
“I’ve had enough.”

When people are so embarrassed they don’t know where to put themselves, they tend to lash out in such unreasonable ways.

We ate a late breakfast in awkward silence.
Anyway, I had no intention of going to Mr. Kosaka’s house today.
I was too ashamed to go.
Even if the marriage arrangement fell apart, I didn’t care.
It was a spiteful mood—a “Do whatever you want!” kind of lashing out.

“You can just go by yourself then.”
“I have other business to attend to.”
I went out hurriedly, feigning urgent matters.

But there was nowhere to go.
It struck me.
I thought I might visit Mr. Segawa in Ushigome and have him hear my grievances.

Fortunately, Segawa-sensei was at home.
I reported Ōsumi’s arrival in Tokyo and,

“Honestly, that guy is impossible.”
“He doesn’t feel any gratitude about the marriage.”
“He just doesn’t take it seriously at all.”
“He just keeps holding forth on grand matters of state and society and then scolds me.”

“That can’t be.”
Segawa-sensei was calm.
“He’s just being shy.”
“Ōsumi is the sort of man who puts on a displeased face precisely when he’s happy.”
“It’s a bad habit, but since they say everyone has their quirks, I suppose I’ll let it slide.”

Truly, a teacher’s kindness was as vast as the mountains.
“By the way—how’s his head?”
He remained fixated solely on that matter.

“It’s fine,” I said.
“Maintaining the status quo.”

“That calls for celebration!”
He seemed genuinely relieved from the depths of his heart.
“Then there’s nothing left to fear.”
“I can even proudly officiate as matchmaker now.”
“After all, they say the young lady in question is terribly youthful and beautiful—truthfully, that’s what had me concerned.”

“Honestly,” I declared with fervor, “she’s far too good a bride for him. For one thing, the family is splendid. They seem to be quite substantial businesspeople, yet not only do they not advertise their wealth or status in the slightest, they don’t even show any hint of being an honorable family, instead living modestly and calmly with a smile. That kind of family isn’t something you come across often.”

“An honorable family?”

I explained the basis for their honorable family status and further denounced Ōsumi’s impassive demeanor.

“Even though today’s his first time meeting the bride, he’s still lounging in bed until nearly eleven o’clock.”
“I could just smack him.”

“You shouldn’t pick fights.”
“Somehow classmates still tend to butt heads over trifles even after graduating university, despite getting along well.”
“Ōsumi’s just embarrassed.”
“Ōsumi does respect the Kosaka household.”
“He might hold them in higher regard than you do.”
“That’s precisely why he’s acting shy.”
“Ōsumi’s already at that age—his hair’s thinning too—so he’s mortified and doesn’t know how to handle himself.”
“You must read between those lines for him.”

Truly, no one knows a disciple like their teacher, I thought.
“He’s just bad at expressing himself.”
“He probably doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he tries various things—lecturing you on matters of state or sleeping in until eleven—but really, he’s always been a man with good instincts and poor expression.”
“Take care of him now.”
“He’s relying on you alone.”
“You’re handling it, aren’t you?”

I was thoroughly deflated.

On my way back, I stopped by two or three liquor shops in Shinjuku and returned home late at night.
Ōsumi was already asleep.

“Did you go to Mr. Kosaka’s place?”

“I went.”

“It’s a good family, isn’t it?”

“It’s a good family.”
“Be grateful.”
“I do.”

“Don’t act so high and mighty.”
“Tomorrow，go pay your respects at Professor Segawa’s place.”
“Don’t forget the song that goes，‘When I look up，I revere my teacher’s kindness.’”

On April 29th, Ōsumi’s wedding was held at a Chinese restaurant in Meguro. At that restaurant, they say over three hundred couples held their ceremonies on this auspicious day alone. Ōsumi had no formal wear. Still, he put on an air of nonchalance—muttering “No matter, no matter”—and marched into the restaurant wearing his business suit, only to find every single person at the entrance and in the corridors dressed in full ceremonial attire. Even Ōsumi seemed daunted. “Hey,” he snapped at me with an irritated tone, “can’t this joint lend me a morning coat or something?” I thought to myself that if he’d mentioned this sooner we might have found a solution, but given how late it was now, I called the restaurant’s front desk from the waiting room regardless. As expected, they refused. They did have rental outfits available, they explained, but requests needed to be made at least a week in advance. Ōsumi finally pouted. He glared at me with accusatory eyes that all but shouted, “This is your fault.” The ceremony was set for 5:00 PM. We only had thirty minutes left. Having exhausted every option, I slipped through the sliding doors into the Kosaka family’s waiting room.

“There was a minor mix-up, and Ōsumi’s morning coat hasn’t been readied in time.”
I told a small falsehood.

“Ah,”
Mr. Kosaka Yoshinosuke remained unperturbed.
“That will be quite all right.
We’ll handle it here.”
“Hey,” he called out in a low voice to the second sister, “you have a morning coat at your place, don’t you?
Call and have them bring it immediately.”

“I’d rather not.”
She flatly refused.
Her face reddened slightly as she giggled softly.
“I’d rather not while he’s away.”

“What?”
Mr. Kosaka faltered slightly. “What are you saying?
It’s not like we’re lending it to strangers.”

“Father,” the elder sister said, laughing, “that’s only natural.”
“You wouldn’t understand, Father.”
“Until the day he returns home, we mustn’t let even the closest people touch anything—everything has to remain exactly as it was.”

“That’s ridiculous.”
Mr. Kosaka laughed with a complicated expression.

“Don’t be absurd.”
After muttering that, for an instant, the elder sister’s face became unbearably solemn.
Immediately she started laughing again and said, “We’ll lend you our mourning suit.
“It might smell a bit of naphthalene, you know,” she added, turning toward me, “but our person has no need for it anymore.
“If this mourning suit could be of use on such an auspicious day as this, I’m sure our person would be delighted.
“They say he will grant his permission.”
She laughed briskly.

“Huh? N-no—”
I said something unintelligible.

When I stepped out into the hallway, Ōsumi was pacing around with both hands thrust into his trousers and a sullen look on his face.
I thumped Ōsumi on the back and,

“You’re a fortunate man, I tell you. The elder sister says she’ll lend you the heirloom mourning suit.”

The meaning of the heirloom seemed to be immediately understood by Ōsumi as well.

“Ah, right,” he nodded with a magnanimous manner, but even so, there appeared to be something genuinely impressive about his demeanor.

“The younger sister wouldn’t lend hers, but do you get it? The younger sister is admirable too, isn’t she? She might be even more admirable than the elder sister. Do you get it?”

“I get it,” he declared haughtily. According to Segawa-sensei’s theory, Ōsumi was a man of remarkably fine sensibilities yet terribly clumsy in expression, and I now found myself in complete agreement with that assessment.

But when, before long, the elder sister entered our waiting room reverently cradling the heirloom mourning suit as though it were Suwa Hōshō’s sacred helmet, even Ōsumi’s demeanor was not entirely without merit. He was laughing while shedding tears.