Pathway to Japanese Literature

Volume I Though my body was wrapped in brocade, it was not as though I dwelled deep within jeweled halls. Were my name proclaimed, people would nod knowingly—for my husband stood present. The rice cooked morning and evening at our hearth—even had one squandered a year's worth and cast it all away, it would scarcely have strained our household's coffers. Unbidden they came to fawn; though I shunned wives' society, still was I compelled to yield the seat of honor, hailed as "Mrs. Imao." Is this what men call life's misfortune?

Neither amidst spring blossoms nor under autumn moons had my husband abandoned me. At Ueno and Sumida—our two shadows—how could we ever walk together? This matter rested entirely with your heart’s will, given your station so enmeshed in worldly affairs. Not even a single petal of the garden cherry blossoms would he gaze upon unless I stood beside him. Even when the moon shone clear at the window, should I be absent, he would turn away. Tears—these I alone would wipe away; smiles—to you they were freely given—and thus did the world show us kindness through its grace. Was this what they named life’s misfortune? For my husband stood peerless in learning, mighty in governance—a knight of unyielding spirit yet a gentleman of refined warmth—one whose fame I had heard from afar and secretly revered until fate’s strange mercy brought me to his side as one called “sister” while naming him “brother” in return. If this too were deemed misfortune, then by what measure might life’s fortune ever be known?

Now then, if that which is called absolute infinity exists only in the one divine being—the great spirit and great power—how could there be such things as happiness unaccompanied by misfortune or misfortune unaccompanied by happiness? If one seeks satisfaction outside enlightenment, even were they to possess heaven and earth, it would still fall short of being absolute happiness. If one attains sudden enlightenment here with single-minded focus, even a body without a home in the three realms would be sufficient to count as fortunate. In a world where enlightenment erases both fortune and misfortune, the span before enlightenment—how fascinating, how cruel is this human existence!

I too am one not exempt from fate's reckoning—struggling to emerge beyond discrimination's bounds, the keenness of joy and grief ever sharp. If one wraps oneself in half-hearted happiness, they sink into the abyss of unseen tears. O innocent people of this world who envy others' splendor! Is the dew upon these tattered sleeves alone the sum of sorrowful tears? The jewels scattered upon brocade—though they be the very essence of life—are mistaken for mere adornments; even without anyone asking why, the heart shatters into a thousand pieces. If I were to shatter and fall, ultimately returning to my original form as a mere droplet—then perhaps people would visit me out of pity, or even mistake me for one fit to ride in a jeweled palanquin. But to whom could I speak the lamentations of this present self that seems so enviable?

Heaven was eternally high; earth was eternally low. Yet we heard neither heaven’s pride nor earth’s reproaches. Only humans fought over fleeting, insignificant distinctions—why must they clamor so? Though I knew my wretchedness, these bonds of affection—so hard to sever—still bound me to this world. Morning and evening, my laments became fodder for unknowing tongues. Yet for all that, carefree ladies of leisure and societal upstarts found this utterly detestable. Putting on a cheerful face—perhaps fearing their origins would be discovered—yet no matter how far they went, their expressions remained discontented; pandering this way and that—the master was a master, and the mistress—wasn’t she detestable? Truly, as for that matter—someone like me, constantly scheming about household affairs, not wearing a single fine robe, nor being shown in theater boxes to appear respectable—I had no recollection whatsoever. Even when treating it like a festering sore—handling it with utmost care—still, the endless stream of complaints persisted. Even if I were told to leave, there were still parents in the hometown to return to. My brother was a rather skilled merchant, with three or four servants employed—the inconvenience lay rather with my husband’s side. If I were to return to my hometown, my mother would not be what one called lenient. Even as a divorced woman returning home, I had not the slightest concern about being outshone by a sister-in-law who married into this family from another household. Even so, if I endured this as a woman’s duty, I could resign myself to it. In your presence they maintained propriety, but the time I was truly cherished had lasted merely two months at the beginning. My nose—unrefined from the start, like a flat-nosed mask—even their shrill insults passed over my head, for they could not reach my intellect. If things settled, they settled—even if it came to inheriting the house with my brother’s seal, the pocket money Mother gave could hardly amount to a side of an obi. An obi was an obi, but if one were to redirect its cost toward household expenses—even seven rolls of Mount Mikami would amount to that sum. Should I have considered that a kindness? They did nothing but seek other princesses elsewhere. Ohoho, this was no jest. If being born a woman in truth meant fate itself was unbalanced, then resignation was the only course—but... When hearing rumors about Mrs. Imao—why must there be such disparity in women’s fortunes?—I even bitterly resented the parents who gave me this plain form. In that regard, I too was the same—though I had done so, deign to hear.

A nose that waxes and wanes—even if lowly placed, it is no defect. Since I have both holes that serve as proof I don’t curse others, surely people won’t reduce my nose to mere holes. That rounded and slightly elevated nose—lavishly adorned as if handcrafted—with its skillfully formed pointed tip would attract demonic ridicule, until ultimately becoming society’s laughingstock: beauty turned curse. A recent example is Mrs. Imao—her poise impeccable, her appearance flawless, and they say she’s even well-educated. With this and that piled up, the lords had been in a great uproar lately. As for taking such a wife—the bachelors were all the more so. In the presence of someone like me, even my husband partook in appraisals. There had even been an instance where he praised you in a manner that all but said, “You belong in that corner over there.” Honor was, in the end, the root of slander. As for the prying born of concern—who could have done such a thing, I wondered. Now there was no one who did not know—if one were to wash clean the roots of her origins, even the blossoms that bloomed on the branches, though they seemed so beautiful, this too had been but an absurdity. To the extent they couldn’t contain themselves—when everyone heard the master speak unreserved slander—they deliberately returned praise from this side as if to say *Look at that!* in mockery, then made him speak from that praised mouth: a fine retribution for a philandering man. “Ohoho, how wicked people are—and yet you call that slander?” “Well, that’s precisely the issue.” As for that lady’s origins—nominally with the Akitas as adoptive parents to maintain societal appearances—in truth, they had been a usurious moneylending business operating on meager capital. Her father had been a solitary man—whether from eccentricity or the stifling constraints of a household that refused to bend. With no maids and only male help, he cooked meals and lent money. After collecting those meager interest payments, that person funneled them into enrolling her in some girls’ school from childhood onward; kept there until graduation at twenty, she had then been made to devote herself to teaching at the same institution. When one considered it—a daughter transparent as glass, her beauty so radiant it defied concealment—her very appearance demanded its place. In her tightly coiled chignon—a figure to be pitied—and through what connections had you maneuvered, Mr. Imao? As for the Akitas’ young lady, her wedding had indeed been splendid. Most likely, that too had been a contrivance—garments drenched in gold, and even the doll, given her ladylike grace at the time, dazzled all eyes; up to that point, all had been well.

Her real father soon vanished somewhere; even the rumor of relocation, when probed to its depths, proved a mirage—elusive and impossible to grasp. It must have been that both the high-interest loans collapsed and he himself fell into ruin before fleeing. Or perhaps Mr. Imao had been covertly providing for him somewhere? The rumors were varied—though their origins remained unclear—yet it was said there indeed existed a retirement residence. But the ward office, having settled on declaring it a disappearance, audaciously presumed to forget her esteemed status—one befitting a parent of such standing that no public acknowledgment could be made.

The glutinous veneer of prosperity clung fast to that sharply beautiful face of hers. Even the maidservants had caught fragments of whispers about her iron-masked countenance—its inscrutably sullen cast defying comprehension. Were it made to speak through my husband's mouth—"Surely it couldn't be so"—he left only the opening strains of lingering attachment, which proved utterly detestable. Ohoho, how precarious—all this fretting you indulge over your tatami's newness. As for one such as myself—treated like a kitchen floor trampled under muddy feet, jealousy aside—whenever fury rose at the thought that even now this body might be crushed into kindling through carelessness, I found myself coveting the seeds of that lady's station. Yet given these detailed accounts now circulating, even those seeds seemed scarcely enviable. Thus it proved exactly as foreseen—no matter how her husband climbed, she showed society a face declaring "not enough yet," while hiding true joy within—this being the very disposition of an upstart mistaking such conduct for noble refinement. When I considered that—even when scolded—women confined to straitened households might yet count it virtue not to draw society's eye and endure in silence... Hoho! What manner of patience could that be? Even your unreliable ladyship's—there exist those in society who envy the duties your husband undertakes. Oh my, how wicked people are—very well, let it be so. But I shall not devote myself solely to my husband. From me as well—twice over. Yes yes, that will quite suffice. Though when my husband's stipend reached two thousand yen, was there not special treatment from the very next day? Even they would not stir discord within their own ranks. All this between us—were some bystander to judge, they'd know nothing of it. Were one in that position, even should this multiply, it would never fall into household hands.

They could safely divert resources to Shinbashi and Yanagibashi while letting the mountain god's shrine fall into disrepair. If only they had channeled nourishment upstream, eight hundred yen would have been ample to sustain a splendid household. Considering this, how pitiable Mr. Imao appeared—possessing wealth enough to disregard his ministerial stipend yet refraining from any dalliance, keeping constant vigil over his wife like butterflies clinging to a single blossom. Where did that other one flutter off to? His brains perched at his crown, exuding fragrance lofty enough to pursue ministerial favors through the wife's graces. Now with the second Party Cabinet finally formed, what vexation—unworthy of a Minister's dignified bearing—as the so-called Princess clashed discordantly between unseemly conduct and forced propriety. Retribution struck swift—even one's own affairs became mockery behind one's back. Yet those ladies clad in floral-patterned ignorance held their gatherings no less stubbornly than tenement wives clinging to worldly customs.

Middle

Even so, he was exhausted. This body already burdened with party duties alone—after being hauled into the cabinet—had scarcely any respite from visitors who came regardless of night. Though these too were unavoidable matters of import— Even local party members whose names he couldn’t recall were streaming in, hoping to register as candidates—a daunting prospect indeed. Having at last concluded matters with absentees, he thought he might finally relax this evening for the first time in ages. Shifting his position leisurely to the inner study, he settled near the veranda in a casual seated posture and quietly stroked his beard—this was none other than Imao Harue. Though not yet forty years of age, with thick brows and piercing eyes, his bearing nevertheless exuded remarkable refinement and nobility. “You must be utterly exhausted,” she murmured repeatedly, positioning herself three feet from her husband’s side before anything else, fanning a breeze with her uchiwa—her countenance one of solace—this was surely the very woman of rumor. Her freshly bound chignon that day alluring in its downward tilt; the striped gauze summer kimono sleekly flowing over her shoulders—who could imagine this as the wife of a former schoolteacher? “A smile brimming like dewdrops on young leaves—do deign to behold it.” Sanzo worked as vigorously as an artificial evening shower, sprinkling water about. With fireflies seeming to flit through the air, the area around the artificial hill grew all the more beautiful. “Even composing moon-viewing verses at the official residence must have been diverting.” Gathering flowers and hot water to prepare sencha with grace—more fragrant than dripping gyokuro—who would not call this countenance composed? Only when alone could she dwell on thoughts—thoughts whose existence she strained to keep from her husband—until falling tears came, dissolving the white powder in her thin makeup where her palm caught them. The rouge too was a duty to her husband—a refinement concealing weariness. Her eyelids alone bore the faint cherry-blossom hue of mist-veiled distant hills—substituted for crimson rouge—yet even after months spent perfecting her appearance, she had thought others would gradually forget as time passed. Whenever witnessing my husband’s rise—and with it, the exposure of my origins—though inevitable, how I yearn for Father now, not knowing where or how he fares... Even were it the world’s end—were this single word here to become my solitary dream, were you to pass judgment—then even while obeying your “do not come” command, might there yet be some solace in these mornings and evenings? If cause exists, hide yourself; as for me—being as one nonexistent in this world—entrust all to your husband. I—stubborn by nature and averse to company—for whose sake did I bare this face to capital winds that hold no place in my heart?

It was Father who had me wed to Japan’s most splendid groom. As the wife of Imao Harue—though not the daughter of this old man—the distraction from my circumstances shall henceforth find me sighing beneath a moonlit broken eave and passing my days laughing among rapeseed flowers: such is the absurdity. Even if the world forgets—though my sole blood relative is a father from whom I’ve been severed—I must bear my karmic burden with reverence and not exhaust my courtesy toward Lord Harue. If a heart that seeks me were to arise anywhere, then I would devote all the more to my husband. A hundred years of life, devoted and exhausted—may it become Imao’s earth. When I become earth and my soul meets that world—it is then that I shall speak the truth of today. Until then—as one bearing a single secret—though I may feel no shame before heaven and earth, rather than risk disgrace in this world, I shall bury my secret within society’s depths and thus serenely savor the destiny appointed to me. To seek my whereabouts through misguided filial piety— To injure my resolve and lay bare my shame before the eyes of society—such would be the consequence. Unfiliality toward myself, unfaithfulness to my husband—there can be nothing beyond this. I solemnly vow that I shall never lay a hand upon the box of secrets that is my whereabouts for as long as I live. The one who had received such wondrous teachings from him—though I lament the many months now severed from all correspondence—must keep these tear-dampened sleeves unseen by my husband’s eyes. For these letters are mementos of life itself, and until death, this secret must remain unknown; thus do my circumstances grow ever more fraught with care. Left behind alone, though he worries for me through rain and snow. This pain of being unable to confess—it becomes my heart’s bond to my husband, who treats me without distinction in society. If hiding it for my father’s sake is filial piety, then my chastity is compromised—this body feels as though it has committed a grave sin. Each time I heard those kind words, it was more excruciating than being flayed—yet I endured it with stoic fortitude. Even if I alone were to attempt to search for your whereabouts—that alone, even if it means defying your words. Clues that were futile to dwell upon—my heart wept, unable to find solace, yet my mouth smiled as ever. From what chink did my tears leak through, becoming seeds for the world’s ridicule? If there were a country where even kings and nobles exist without showing tears of affection, there they would be ridiculed.

What lack is there in my tears? The shallow conjectures of the world are perhaps still preferable—or is there no remedy? To the world’s backbiting, she presented a dimpled smile of prudence. Even Harue—who privately worried about the unknown whereabouts [of Taichi]—found himself comforted by her composure in that very moment. Amidst the myriad tasks of his busy official life, he absently delegated household matters to his ever-capable wife. Though increasingly forgetful these days, he never connected this to any particular concern. Noticing at last the gauntness of her cheeks—wondering if something troubled her—Harue fixed his gaze on his wife’s slender fingers toying with the uchiwa fan. What had become of Kiyoko? “Lately your complexion seems poor—could you be unwell?” When urged to take special care of her health during summer’s rigors and consult a physician at once, she suddenly displayed vigor. “Hohoho! This thinness? ’Tis simply my natural constitution! In summer I’m always thus—why, this year I’ve even gained weight!” “For summer wasting, better than physicians I’ve applied myself diligently to milk.” “Come autumn I shall grow quite plump—then you may laugh at this unseemly woman’s figure.” “Rather than that—it is you who concerns me, burdened as you are with duties piled upon duties.” “Hahaha! Me? This body knows no frailty!” “When work done as pleasurable pastime could weary one, I’d have perished long ago.” “At this early stage—with such vast roads yet ahead—should one falter now, they’d prove unfit for politics from the outset.” “What they call a party cabinet remains infantile—this second attempt following the first’s anticlimax, reclaimed by clan factions.” “All novices in their posts—ignorant of procedure yet rich in debate.” “That as an institution for promoting national prosperity it still falls short of flawless operation—this we know full well, yet...” “Though I mounted that unwelcome stage myself—deeming restoration of the Party Cabinet’s ruined credibility an urgent task—”

“So you’re saying it’s because you find my rash conduct regrettable and have sunk into melancholy?” Yet he posed this question from an unexpected angle. Believing he had instantly discerned the cause of her melancholy by shifting her heart’s focus, Kiyoko did not grasp her husband’s intent, yet maintained her ever-cheerful tone. “Hohoho, my—what a convoluted notion! Such an outrageous idea!” “If I were someone who could comprehend such matters, I would have shared in bearing even a fraction of Your Lordship’s burdens.” “This carefree self who knows nothing of what a Party Cabinet entails—observing your busyness from afar, sleeping alone while awaiting fortune’s blessings.” “Even were we to part ways now, from every quarter Your Lordship’s honor—nay, even my own standing—is treated with such excessive reverence it borders on absurdity.” But when she began murmuring, “What am I to do with this ill-suited body—” only to falter mid-sentence, Harue feigned obliviousness as if struck by sudden realization. What an odd thing to say. What precisely did she mean by “ill-suited”? Her being ten years my junior wasn’t some recent development. The mismatch between this bearded visage and her beauty—hardly worth mentioning now. Ah—I see! Could she have mistaken my cabinet appointment for ambition? From that misguided heart, does she lament being wed to a husband obsessed with human honors? Even tomorrow—had Imao Harue become a man doubted even by his own wife? Deliberately smoothing his brow, he stole glances at Kiyoko—still probing for some hidden truth beneath her composure. Rather than let him interpret her fragmented words as evidence of a rigid disposition, Kiyoko resolved to hint at a sliver of her true feelings. Since you tease me so unexpectedly once more, I shall speak plainly. When I spoke of being ill-matched, I meant someone as unworthy as myself paired with your honorable self. Though people remain silent were I to claim descent from merchant gentry—

In these times when a wife’s noble status held more sway than her husband’s standing—though people knew full well the Akitas were not her true kin—they still whispered all manner of rumors. Whenever she considered the vexing matter, her own inadequacies would tally up—might this not bring shame henceforth?—and though some unnameable disquiet stirred within, she stifled those faint murmurs. “Hahaha, how absurd! If it’s about you, I expected some more reasoned concern—what an anticlimactic letdown.” “When did you—how did it come to pass—that your principles changed so drastically?” “To draw an analogy—though an incongruous one—if this were the ramblings of some country bumpkin unaware of what sort of wives the so-called Meiji-era elder statesmen keep, or how lavishly those women are favored by society, one might let it pass.” “You were raised in the city, and your horizons are far from narrow.” “For you, who know well the distinction between heavenly honors and human ones, is this not excessively harsh language? Moreover, though unworthy, this I does not intend to be a base man pursuing wealth and status. My joining the cabinet was but a temporary necessity to administer sound governance.” “That is what the world calls success—but would I call such a thing success?” “Even without rank or office, Harue is Harue.” “Had I married you on the day when my honor as a mere scholar who devoted his life to democratic principles stood even greater, even were I now a minister or prime minister, what change would you see in the relationship between you and I?” “As Harue’s wife standing in society, you must summon your resolve, uphold what you permit yourself, and resist the world to the very end.” “Can society not muster the resolve to expel these two breeds—spineless men who rely on marital connections and insolent women who flaunt their dowries?” “Ahaha, you, being a willow yourself—I wouldn’t recommend an unreasonable burden to you.” “But at least for my own sake, I want you to have confidence—to not dwell on trivial matters,” he urged with words spoken as if chewing them into clarity. Yet Kiyoko gave no answer, her hot tears falling onto her husband’s lap. The moon too slipped through the clouds, shining as though to bless the space between them—May this bond endure forever. Harue rejoiced to see the seeds of his wife’s worries unravel and come to light. If you understood, then that was enough. Though you were not one who should fail to understand—that such matters weighed on your mind must stem from physical frailty—in any case, you ought to consult a physician. Though I do not mean to be redundant. As for this I—from the very start—the matter of establishing the Akitas as her nominal home village had been most reluctant, yet— As you well knew—the provision that your father had so vehemently insisted upon—that unless you were made someone’s adopted daughter—he would not consent to the marriage from his own side—had left me no choice but to yield to his will.

Ah, speaking of her father—I hadn’t heard a thing about his condition since then. Could there still be no word from him? Though this too was not something I could ignore, as domestic troubles and foreign threats did not reach me directly, I had left household matters to you—yet found it strange how unconcerned I remained. The casually spoken words pierced Kiyoko’s chest as though drilling into her heart. A lump of gratitude melted and surged upward once more, but she pressed it down firmly, maintaining her composure. As for that matter, you mustn’t trouble yourself with worry—not even slightly. As I’ve explained before, he’s by nature a stubborn recluse who despises company. Though he had only one child—me—my childishness made me too bothersome to keep near, so he sent me off to school. After that, even when I returned on Sundays, his scowling reprimands proved worse than staying away. I endured the loneliness, and though he sent gifts of affection without fail every three days—even visiting occasionally—this father who once cherished me so became a changed man who wouldn’t permit his own beloved daughter near. Though he’s lived in Tokyo these twenty years, what value lies in socializing—that exchange of lies between people? In his temperament that prided itself on having not a single friend, I became the anchor of his peace of mind. He must have secluded himself in some hermitage beyond this fleeting world. Even so, when fond memories arise, he might yet come to visit. Knowing my father’s nature as I do, I remain unworried. Since these recent complaints have weighed on your heart—and with exhaustion compounding your gloom—perhaps I should ease matters with some beer? Suddenly—with a rustling swish—her right hand extended, sleeve fluttering lightly as her fingertip found the call bell at precisely the right moment. The student lodger received it deferentially in the anteroom and presented the postal letter to the mistress. Though addressed to herself, the unfamiliar handwriting bore her real father’s name inscribed with dreadful clarity. To conceal hands trembling from sheer shock, she straightened her posture. “You know—if we go there—” she began about the flowers before cutting herself off... “Ah, splendid—I’ll go give the instructions myself. How absurd you look playing the noble lady! Now do wait here a moment.” Though she skillfully avoided her husband’s gaze in that instant, the letter’s perilous contents compelled her to first conceal them in secrecy.

Lower One

Shichijo Station lacked the bustle of its counterparts in Shimbashi or Umeda. At four o'clock, Kyoto lived up to its reputation as Japan's pleasure garden through its unbroken stream of visitors. People from every province disembarked and boarded—half being sightseers chasing cherry blossoms or autumn foliage; in summer, those seeking riverbank breezes where a single drop of flowing water held more cooling power than all the gold-laden soil of Tokyo. Even leisurely travelers found themselves swept along by express trains in this era of enforced equality, where social distinctions dissolved at ticket gates amid jostling figures in red, white, and blue. A woman trailing behind with her marumage bun stood out among the crowd. Rickshaw pullers swarmed around this promising fare, calling out in chorus: "Right this way, ma'am! Let us take you wherever you please!" She deliberately avoided the lingering vowels of Kyoto speech. When she settled on a tea house bench, the proprietress's overzealous attempts to escort her to privileged inner chambers only grated on her nerves.

“There’s no need to rush—this spot is fine. Instead, take this luggage and have a rickshaw summoned immediately.” “Where to?” “Yanagihara-shō, Zeniza Village.” The rickshaw puller pressed with a dubious expression—“This Yanagihara’s the right one, aye?”—another Kyoto specialty, she thought—urging the stationary rickshaw onward until they reached what was called Zeniza Village. Small houses flanked both sides, their roofs drying sandal cords above roads churned to mud. Barefoot children—every last one scabby-headed and viscerally grimy—gathered curiously around the rickshaw, clamoring front and back in a spectacle unto itself. As they traversed two or three blocks, a peculiar stench assailed them, rousing an indescribable discomfort that felt all too justified. Onion scraps and rat carcasses—discarded who knows when—clogged ditches with refuse heaps. Even seemingly clean houses hung raw animal skins inside and out. When she asked about this strangeness, the puller answered: “This here’s an eta village.” This body had no place in an eta village—could there be no other Zeniza Village in Saikyō? Though he readily agreed—“Right you are!”—the puller himself doubted Zeniza Village’s name being unique here, hesitating how to proceed. “If that’s how it must be—though I can scarcely credit it—inquire in this village whether a man called Kawai Taichi exists.” “Right away!” he called out, approaching a gate. A woman in an apron came running toward something white. “Mr. Taichi? Third house left past the crossroads. Don’t know it? I’ll show you!” A sleeveless-coated woman attached herself with undue familiarity—her ulterior motive being to announce this rare visitor’s arrival throughout the neighborhood—calling at each house along the way. Perhaps this was local custom, but the rickshaw passenger broke into gooseflesh despite midsummer heat, chilled to her bones.

Father, how are you feeling? Though I wished to arrive even a moment sooner, fifteen hours passed before I finally reached you now. How you must have waited all this time, dear Father.

On a torn tatami mat lay an old man facing the wall beneath a thin quilt; behind him, someone sat dejectedly in a trance-like state. Her knees found no rest as she sat; entrusting the commotion of passersby to the fading sunset, she quietly closed herself off. How should I begin? During some unnoticed moment after we withdrew from Tokyo, I’d spent days and nights weeping alone—reconciling myself through the weight of his teachings rather than clinging to that unforgettable longing—when came yesterday’s wholly unexpected letter. Oh joy—yet how my worries surge forth—your grave illness. This urgent summons to come—though I know not whose hand wrote it—must have been permitted by you. The joy of seeing you—had I come without this dread of your sickness—how much greater it would have been! Such are the ways of prosperity. Having swiftly obtained my husband’s consent to attend you, please rest assured now that I’m here. Until now, alone as you were—illness aside—you must have endured such hardship. Now that I’ve come, even if this place proves unfit—should it require a hospital—entrust your recovery to me however it must be done. I’ll surely restore your health posthaste. Your condition seems better than I’d feared from your sleeping form—with this progress, you’ll surely recover soon. Above all, keeping your heart at ease will serve as the finest medicine. His cheeks appeared sunken yet not quite gaunt—neither could they be called full. In profile, his emaciated frame revealed a sorrow too profound to bear. Speaking as if it were nothing—perhaps taking this encouragement as her first act of filial duty—she shuffled closer on her knees to stroke his back, but the invalid batted her hand away. “Absurd! Absurd! I don’t know whose maid you might be,” he rasped, “but hearing your words since earlier—this manner of visit you’d have me report even to my own father—it makes no sense!” “Your bearing—your character—is nothing like what Shinpei’s father would have in a daughter! How could you mistake the gate?” “This concerns your standing! Leave at once!” “Ah yes—this old man does recall having one daughter.” “But circumstances required severing our bond—there should be a document stating we’re neither father nor daughter.” “Since you’re not such a fool as to panic and seek your parent in a place like this—” “What manner of error is this?”

“This report of illness makes no sense whatsoever.” “I don’t know if someone sent that letter as a prank...” “Exposure—your address being known—is calamitous enough. Though the thread’s now spun, we’d never willingly unravel the secret ourselves.” “If you leave now, even a gate confusion could settle matters.” “Before this ignites publicly—depart at once! Return immediately!” “Even with severed ties—this father who knows his child’s heart frets over any stranger’s daughter.” “Should they mistake you for Shinpei’s child—you’ll perish. Your husband too would fall. Is that this father’s true wish?” “This old man received your visit through gate confusion—I’ll tend my health; I won’t die. Return home reassured.” “After all this urging—still you dawdle? Won’t you rise? Won’t you leave? What an obtuse maid!” “Very well! This old man’ll make you stand with these failing arms—do you accept being hauled out?” The woman staggered on unsteady feet as she tried to rise—then collapsed in tears; the old man too wept bitterly behind brimming eyes, his voice harshly repeating “Go! Go!” even as sorrow choked him.

Just then, the gate door slid open, and in came a man wearing a haori—though his attire bore no trace of rusticity. With bloodshot eyes, a piece of leather and a tobacco pouch in hand, he plopped down cross-legged. “Taichi, don’t get angry—the rudeness is mine to apologize for.” “Now, maid, calm yourself—since you’ve come all this way, do listen.” “Taichi’s illness here—a raging fever beyond ordinary measure—even in such a village as this, everyone worries more kindly than relatives or amateurs.” “Especially me—back when I was a young apprentice, I taught Taichi his penmanship himself—our bond was something special.” “Ever since Taichi returned to this village last spring after twenty-five years away—worrying about him more than anyone else like a brother would—it keeps making me remember.” “When he left here long ago—there should’ve been a nursing infant.” “I won’t ask where you left it—but if it lives still—go tell him so.” “If something were to happen to him now—the aftermath would be pitiful—but no matter how often I warned him—he wouldn’t listen.” “When he found himself stranded on his travels—he sent the child to strangers.” “A daughter whose very life or death remains unknown—he cast her away with a single utterance: ‘I don’t even care to see her.’” In the delirium of his mounting fever—once again he kept repeating “Okiyo—Okiyo—” “Harue-san has become a minister—how auspicious it is!” “How happy you must be—Okiyo! What a shame we can’t meet—to witness this karma of parents beyond your reach—” “With every other word being ‘can’t meet’—amidst all this ‘Okiyo—Okiyo’—Harue-san’s title as Minister rings loudest.”

Hmm—there must be some circumstance here, he thought. When he considered it, it all made sense. Among the much-talked-about newly appointed ministers—each having risen through rapid promotion—there was indeed a man named Imao Harue. This must be Taichi here—not that he ever said he'd been in Tokyo, but his words couldn't hide that Tokyo accent. It was a common enough story—selling one's daughter to a pleasure district forming the connection—and wouldn't that Harue fellow have someone like that by his side? Don't get angry now—this is just a spur-of-the-moment conjecture. If she was that desperate to see him, arranging a meeting would be an act of mercy. Two or three days prior, when that doctor fellow had tilted his head and muttered, "This is…" So be it—even if I was mistaken, this wouldn't land me in police custody. Whether my divination hit or missed, I'd cast the trigrams and see. Even if I were to write a letter out of blue urging her to come immediately… He didn't know the address in Tokyo. In Minister Harue's household—Lady Kiyoko. If this turned out true—jackpot! The daughter would come out, and when I saw both their happy faces, I'd make sure to brag about my role in this. To have sent the letter without informing Taichi—was this some half-baked scheme? According to what my wife said earlier, a splendid female guest had come. Yes! It actually worked! Thinking I'd come to see their joyful faces—I'd even dressed for the occasion down to the haori—and yet here I was. A major miscalculation, a huge blunder—Taichi's scolding to leave rang out. Listening outside the door, he agonized over his position. Pitying the daughter and moved by affection, knowing full well I'd be scolded, I confessed my overstepping. Taichi worried about not letting her be called Shinpei's daughter.

A parent’s compassion might be one thing, but now that she’d come，there was no avoiding it．Even after spending the whole day together and finally meeting her—if only I hadn’t called his daughter by a man’s name—even if the neighbors learned she was his daughter，they’d never know which commoner from where had taken her in．“I acted rough earlier—this ain’t some clever trick—listen here，Taichi．‘By Amaterasu Ōmikami，Hachiman，and Kasuga Myōjin—the three great shrines—I swear this vow．Not even my wife—no，not even till I die—will I let it slip．Let her meet you with peace of mind．’ Now then，Kiyo—ain’t that right？‘You probably don’t know squat about me，but I’m Kahē the drum maker—pushed past forty this year．Back when I was twenty，I even celebrated your birth with a spinning drum．That baby face back then—never dreamed it’d grow into such a fine woman．No matter what fancy status you got now—in this village，they’ll only talk ’bout me or him．Ha！My bad manners—don’t go holdin’ my words against me！’” Even while whispering，he kept watch inside and out—burned by past mistakes，he stood guard against eavesdroppers．Kahē fidgeted—standing up and sitting down restlessly．Taichi shot him a sharp look brimming with bitterness．“Sit down，Kahē！What’s the damn point now？Quit playin’ dumb．‘You think blockin’ doors and screens’ll shut society’s mouth？You idiot！What d’you think this’ll solve？’”

Even his voice of anger—the exhaustion of his body, the deeply anguished sighs he exhaled while clutching his pillow—spoke of heartache. Her body, timidly reaching out as if to say "Let me soothe your pain," against her will began stroking him - a sorrow no less than her father's - and in that moment, she realized: such was their station. Even now, with the villagers already singing [of our shame]—to imagine what comes after is too wretched. Even were I to endure this further—I shall not return to my husband’s house. Even if my body is Shinpei’s—so be it. Better that than to be hailed as an honored wife yet fail to serve my parent. For Shinpei too, as a human child, only by establishing a single path can one justify having been born human. Children of the same people—commoners—divided into old and new, they say. A veneer proclaims "no discrimination"—yet society’s custom celebrates every instance of the character for "new," while that same character, when placed above Commoners, comes to contain all sins and defilements. Is it any wonder the people are deceived? From yesterday through today—this self that has accompanied my husband, this self that took commoner principles as the highest truth—even this self, upon hearing that I am Shinpei’s own... A newness beyond reason—this self too feels stained with defilement. All the more in this shifting world’s mountain of ranks—where people’s hearts crave nobility, while those deemed lowly may resort to adultery for mere clothing and food, deeming it honorable so long as they are not Shinpei—by what right do the world’s tongues condemn only the Eta? The filth within people’s hearts—that itself should be interrogated as the true Eta. Very well—even so, from this day forth, let this place be where I meet my end. If, after I devote my utmost to nursing him back to health, he were to make a full recovery... If father and child were to devote themselves, stain themselves with the same name of defilement, and dedicate themselves to others’ sake— When there should be joy inherent within oneself—for what should this self lament? No, wait a moment—even if a single thread of logic may well suffice. That my husband should have taken Shinpei’s daughter as his wife—the disgrace to his name, the stain upon your name from tomorrow onward—how am I to remedy this? The distant past when I knew nothing may be one thing, but knowing now—to keep this self pure, even if I were to withdraw—there lies the honorable shame that would cleanse it. Had I known this body was bound by such karma, I should never have taken you as my husband—this half-measured love that, even after fulfillment, remains unfulfilled; this affection I gathered day by day like the waves of the shore that advance only to retreat; this parting we inflict upon ourselves—why did I come to recognize as reason what society deems a chaste woman’s path? Accursed Father! If I am Shinpei’s [daughter], then why did you not swiftly make it known?

To avoid drawing attention to oneself—to not entrust oneself to the world, especially to those of esteemed standing. This alone was where you fell short. As for the rest—making only Shinpei the stepchild—isn't that what makes society find you wanting? Kiyoko's face—stifling the urge to voice what she longed to say yet brimming with tears—Taichi, as if acknowledging this, lifted his heavy pillow. "Don't cry, Kiyo," he said. "I have something to tell you anew—rest your hands awhile." "Well Kahē—you're the one who willingly stepped into this sumo ring yourself. Listen along with her." "Could someone pour hot water or cold into this chipped bowl?" he asked quietly, moistening his throat.

Part II

Ah, how regrettable—this Taichi was the child of a doctor known in Kyoto’s Nakagyō district, but being young and under a stepmother’s care—such became his lot—though I knew not the details of his grudge-bearing nature... That even menservants and maidservants scorned him as an elder brother who bore no resemblance to their young master—when he thought this too must be his stepmother’s instigation—nothing remained bearable. Though he loved books—the moment he began reading—his younger brother and stepmother’s whispers would distract him. Enough of this—rather than staying cooped up at home doing such things—he began stepping outside for distraction—wandering aimlessly through town. Easily lured by bad friends—clucking his tongue over morning sake in a teahouse’s second floor—around that time—even expenses for sweets and medicine came mostly from my own pocket. When his father discovered he had taken even the money at hand—declaring disownment effective that day—I did not think myself wrong in the slightest. All of this too stemmed from his stepmother’s slander to have her own son inherit the household—deceived by her lies—how bitterly he resented that merciless father! How grievous—what now seems like parental love must have been tears of blood! As for his stubbornness in disowning me—had I gone weeping to any relative with an apology—it would have sufficed! Out I go? Out I go indeed! Just because I used what was yours—your own child’s share—does Father think me an heir replaceable for paltry coins? I’ve no need for such a father! Is there truly no place for a man—his naked body weighing a hundred kan—simply because he lacks three hundred coins? “Don’t think you can return”—with eighteen-year-old recklessness—I ventured out through unfilial acts—but... Truly—society proved fearsome! For though kindness bought with coins could be found in every household—human affection given freely saw its “out of stock” signs piled high across Kyoto! Severed from a parent’s radiance—sevenfold its reach—this body found all paths blocked! Even when reaching out—people would not draw near! Though there were moments when reconciliation seemed possible—apologies to parents and attempts at respectful distance—the world offered no bridges! Only then did I first understand parental shelter’s worth—how often had I not thought of visiting relatives while still untouched by life’s storms? No matter how he tried to justify himself—once his bold words reached his stepmother’s ears—the man clung to pretense too flimsy for pretense—finding all paths blocked east and west in dreary impasse! Though never imagining death—even when going to Katsura—his feet found no way forward as intended! In night’s depth where none passed—a fortunate place for deliberation...

As he leaned against the railing of Katsura Bridge, listening to the sound of flowing water, the passerby who happened by—destined to later become his father-in-law—must have been bound by some profound bond. From that moment, with a compassion beyond that of strangers—did he think I intended to drown myself? He insisted on escorting me home; I could not refuse his coercion. When I declared myself a disowned man with no home to return to, he—as if that only made it more imperative—insisted he could not abandon me, saying I might stay however long needed. Thus was I taken in: a soul forsaken even by the moon on that pitch-dark night. That it should be this village where I found myself—I, who had paid no heed to such possibilities—was only natural, perhaps. The sitting room’s decorations, the master’s appearance—even by daylight, they were clearly a merchant couple of some standing, whose kindness surpassed even that of parents, yet not deigning to show their faces. With their shop tightly shuttered—though one couldn’t tell what trade they practiced—those received solely in the sitting room had no need to inquire further. What I had thought would be a day or two’s respite turned into an unexpected stay—the sound of the koto played by the daughter had captivated my heart. He had thought to stay until told to leave—settling down became the miscalculation of a lifetime. He paid no heed to the pitfall laid for amateurs. In the cold embrace of a mother—for this self that has become a person. Lost to days and nights in the uncommon kindness of people. Only after having forgotten himself did he come to realize his true origins. It had already been too late—this after he had pledged his future to his daughter. When he reflected deeply, he realized that even in this world, there existed such a paradise. To keep one’s exterior clean—if people must choose between dwelling in hearts like yasha or being called Eta, let them be named Eta. The flower of human hearts—that which blooms in such conditions—to pluck and discard it is an audacity surpassing even the Eta, the work of amateurs. Once the reasoning had been exhausted, as days passed, wretchedness clouded even the eyes that beheld it, and the leathery stench no longer reached the nose. Thus did I become a son-in-law in this village—and the fruit that ripened was your single seed. Every time he saw it, he was reminded—Father must have been so mortified. However grave the errors of youth, Father would not have disowned me to condemn one to a lifetime as the dregs of this village. Scum of humanity, scum among men—making a mockery of my parents and siblings, even reducing the child I sired to dregs. I, in the end, had no choice.

Even with the *eta* designation—why should one hesitate to raise a child born in this age of commoners within this village for their entire life? As for our ancestors' remains—at least these—he would bring them into the world of ordinary people to make amends. His wife had discerned his intentions and given consent when she left their suckling child with him before succumbing to illness. "Please—wash away this child's tainted blood with your own hands." The Kawai family name mattered not—the family treasury belonged to this child. If having an amateur for a father could purify her through that connection—not even their ancestors would object. "The faces of this child's grandparents in the afterlife—both surely rejoicing—I see them now with my own eyes. How joyfully I will go to my death." The face that suddenly smiled—unbefitting her station—was indeed one of a beautiful heart. Thus his resolve was set—after converting the family treasury into cash and relocating to Tokyo— To ensure his origins remained hidden, he changed his registry, bought a house, and conducted himself with scrupulous propriety. Fortunately unaware he hailed from Eta Village, he enrolled you in school. The reason he alone refrained from expanding into moneylending or social interactions— In the wake of such discussions, he single-mindedly concealed everything—both to prevent others from discovering his identity and to avoid squandering money—as precaution. When she was to be joined with a splendid man, the indelible stain was inevitable. As for various arts, clothing, furnishings, and the luster money could buy—if nothing else, he resolved to provide these additions, pouring his entire heart into parental devotion. For over twenty years—a joyless life of seclusion severing ties with friends and kin—even you, his sole remaining connection, he kept at arm's length with cold detachment. In any case, this body that intended not to claim parenthood when you married—better to have maintained distance from the start. His affection—a lock upon his heart preventing ordinary tenderness. Three or five years might be excused—but could twenty years of this habit not have forged him into a true recluse? Truly, what a heartless father he must have seemed—how suspicions must have festered.

Though the parent’s eyes did not see the face that wept and resented—the recluse, in his reclusive way, must have wept through twenty years. His efforts bore fruit—among all men existed one whose noble disposition could be recognized from a single encounter, not merely in name. Having entrusted her upbringing to a man surpassing even my discernment, this body of mine had now become unnecessary. Having fabricated another parent and ensured the Kawai name would never surface, this old man had cleanly served his purpose. Though I was no parent you could acknowledge, my living nearby hindered you. When he wished to escape beyond society’s eyes and ears, his sudden yearning for his hometown grew all the more intense. The enduring mystery of human compassion—how even three days as a beggar remain unforgettable—was why I labored in distant lands to keep you from this village... For myself alone, I intended to become this village’s soil and live out my meager years in hiding— Burying my head only to leave my tail exposed—how could I ever apologize for this blunder born of negligence? Had I known sooner, had I long ago revealed my true origins to you, I would have been prepared. Had I told you then, you might have lived tormented by guilt—so I kept my affection hidden, only to regret planting this seed of failure. There was no remedy now. Even excluding Kahē, I erred thinking minor tricks could conceal everything—once leaked abroad, my son-in-law remained pitiable. This old man alone would escape resentment. If he probed whether blood-bound father and daughter had deceived him all along—exposing my callous heart—even you would find no peace. Now was the time—resolve yourself quietly and secure the divorce. Or if my son-in-law upholds his honor by refusing divorce—declaring even Shinpei acceptable—that would be most fortunate. Consider me already dead from the start—blame yourself a hundred thousandfold—surpass chaste women ten thousand times over—let none witness Shinpei’s daughter defiled. The present choices were these two. Delay but a moment—and rumors about her would multiply.

He instructed them to take Kahē and his luggage to where the rickshaws were and send him off. The extent of paternal love contained within those unyielding words—an old man who treated illness and suffering as trivialities. Yet how unbearable that she should harbor such resentment toward me now—this parent she never truly knew—in her unknowing child’s heart. Father, please forgive me. Even if reason dictates that abandoning one’s parent amid such turmoil makes me a chaste woman—with what self could I then perform filial devotion? Though this station displeases me and I’ve nursed him thus far—if my husband deems it unresolved—that discrepancy lies on his side; these paths remain beyond my ken. Surely even Harue would not prove so unreasonable. When I showed him yesterday’s letter—though his own condition prevented going—he urged me to redouble my care. He even suggested bringing one or two helpers if needed. But mindful of old teachings about secrecy—fearing complications—I took utmost precautions and came unattended from the start. At least this way my lineage won’t surface immediately. If after four or five days of nursing him his condition stabilizes—it shouldn’t prove too late. Her lips shaped calm assurances. To think this bond hadn’t lasted two full years. Unlike ordinary couples who delegate intimacies to servants. O Izumo Deity—is this truly what being his wife means? Joined not through compulsion but mutual acceptance. Having met as strangers who saw each other clearly before forgiving—even a day together differs from doll-spouses sharing lifetimes without knowing hearts. Within this bond surpassing ten thousand years’ familiarity— This dreamlike lineage alone—I beg you pardon my ignorance of it.

How could I abruptly propose to sever this bond myself? If I could shamelessly face my husband, then no resolution would be needed for divorce. Rather than show him my face, I would remain in this village to nurse him—resolved to end my life here after conveying my intentions through a letter alone. Even if I never saw my husband’s face again, to live out my days pitied by others would still be a preferable final wish—let my complaints be as they may. Over twenty years of your noble benevolence—the upbringing to make even someone like me ordinary, that boundless parental love—a parent is such a being. Yet a child has their own feelings too. If I were to leave your side now and return home—and if it were said my lineage does not matter—then even I would lack the resolve to force a separation. In such a case—infidelity toward my husband; toward you—your longstanding disposition... If your sole intention was my happiness alone—though we are neither parent nor child—then after all correspondence ceased, how could I fulfill filial piety? Is that truly what you intended? Taichi glared at Kiyoko as she fidgeted restlessly, her heart burdened with unspoken thoughts. “You fool—still haven’t left?” “Do you think I care about this illness?” “Even if cared for by my daughter’s hands—were my lifespan fixed—would this old man’s life stretch by even a day?” “Until you first return home and settle matters one way or another—you who ceased being my daughter long ago—” “Even if you drew me a bowl of hot water—” “What good does lingering here do when I refuse your care?”

It was precisely because of the kindness of Kahē and the villagers that she had returned. “If you keep fretting over that and idle away half a day—that half-day would undo decades of my labor! You witless fool!” “After all I’ve said, you still don’t grasp this old man’s heart—you utter fool! I’ve no more use for you!” “Do as you damn well please—I don’t care.” He grabbed the pillow and hurled it aside—even with waning strength—as Kahē startled by the central pillar. “Whoa, Taichi—no need for such fury!” “It’s the sickness talking—you must forgive him.” “The fault’s mine—here, wait now.” “I’ll make your daughter heed me—keep at it till she does! Listen, Taichi—wait here with your daughter!” Heaving a sigh riddled with missteps. What an impossible tangle—duty and reason knotted together. Meddling needlessly and driving them apart—that had been my blunder. The more he heard, the more he saw—no apology could mend this. “The fault’s mine, but apologies won’t fix this mess—Little Kiyoko, be sensible and go.” “I beg you—please, Little Kiyoko.” “While you stay in this house—Taichi rages and you weep.” “Hearing ‘right, right’ from both sides—I can’t bear it!” “If you trust I’ll help in dire straits—step outside awhile.” “In return, I’ll take full charge of Taichi—nurse him in your stead.” “Come now, Taichi—it’s not so! When your daughter means to show filial duty—you’ve no call for anger!”

“Let’s both plead our cases—you make your request, and I’ll state mine.” “When you leave obediently like this—Little Kiyoko—isn’t that true filial piety?” Kahē shouldered the responsibility himself and readied to lead their departure. Taichi too feigned indifference—yet when their gazes crossed—hers lingering in farewell and his snapping back—it was with piercing intensity. Ah, that single sorrowful tear—even the muddy road home seemed a keepsake of this beloved place. Such receding traces behind them must have etched themselves deep within her heart.

Within mere days, the shocking news of Minister Imao’s resignation startled the public. That coincided with Mrs. Imao’s origins as Shinpei’s kin becoming known to the world. That one of such status did not decline the honor of an audience with the august presence was deemed—by all accounts—an exceedingly presumptuous matter. That they had attempted to exploit exceedingly childish emotional issues—a matter the enemy party sought to seize upon. The then-Prime Minister dismissed it with a laugh and departed without a backward glance.

In response to this, Minister Imao came to a profound realization. Rather than casting himself into the whirlpool of contention and plunder—filling the vessel of civilization with a savage heart only to end his life with empty cries— "Let them laugh and call me unmanly if they will," he resolved. "For humanity’s sake, I shall turn my efforts to education for a time, biding my moment as I await the right opportunity." Having relocated to Hokkaido with all his assets— He gathered under the name of the Immigrant Academy those pitiful children—driven to despair by their circumstances from a tender age—scattered throughout the nation, intending to nurture them into people renewed in heart as much as in land. He had redeemed all of Shinpei’s children with his own hands. "I am the father, Kiyoko is the mother," he declared with a laugh. He led the multitude of families and departed. It was said that even at Ueno, only two or three noble figures came to see them off. (*Literary Club*, August 1899)