Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part I

In Nishijin's Thread Merchant District—where five hundred looms stood ready to weave and lower damasks and brocades—there existed a house called Ōmiya, which since its founder's generation had widely operated a brokerage business, its reputation for wealth renowned far and wide. The master was Shōtarō—a man in his prime at thirty-five or thirty-six. Though his complexion leaned toward the pallor typical of Kyoto men, his features were ordinary yet well-proportioned, leaving no particular fault to find in his countenance. His bearing carried an elegance uncommon among townspeople, such that many men and women regarded him with reverence as the splendid Master of Ōmiya. Yet this man was born with an innate tightfistedness. Though raised from childhood never knowing financial want, through some mysterious influence he developed an extraordinary mindset—one that would have a five-rin copper coin split into two or even three pieces for use. He hoarded savings upon hoarded savings, though what final purpose he envisioned for this accumulation even he himself could not say. It was simply a sickness of accumulation—a disregard for social obligations and human feelings, believing money alone sufficed. While he remained ever self-satisfied in this conviction, what remained unresolved were the whispers at people’s lips: even Kyoto townspeople who prided themselves on thrift clicked their tongues in amazement at this, making his miserliness the noisiest gossip in the neighborhood. Chief among these theories was one concerning Shōtarō’s father, Shōbei—a man of obscure origins who had wandered in from Ōmi Province one year, first entering service at a weaving house. By some means or other, he hoarded wealth until within about twenty years he abruptly rose to newfound prominence. Shōtarō, who inherited that bloodline which passed through life without ever tasting anything resembling human decency—this, according to a diagnosis rendered by a medical student in the neighborhood, was yet another explanation for his nature. Regardless of its origins, Ōmiya’s present infamy could not be concealed. Employment agencies would furrow their brows upon hearing the name, scratching their heads over who they could possibly send to such an ill-reputed place—a household where no servant lasted beyond a season or half. Therefore, in such a grand house, there being no head clerk who had served for many years—let alone others—and only the greenest of new servants, none could be entrusted with commercial transactions; while hired hands might handle local dealings, it was customary for the master himself to attend to transactions in Osaka and Kobe. This matter being a great headache for Shōtarō, on the day before his scheduled departure, he would remain gloomy from morning till night, his habitually pale face growing paler still. Not only his wife Oito, but even the shop workers and kitchen maids would find themselves glared at over trifles. Some would mutter, “Ah, so tomorrow he’s off to Osaka again,” while others sneered bitterly: “Thanks to him, since coming here we’ve never laid eyes on sea bream—not that fish-eye soup is any rarity—but at least our spit keeps our bellies full.” Now, considering Shōtarō—ever deeply attached as he was—one might assume his heart clung to gold, silver, treasures, or the household coffers. Yet how unexpected it was that he found even brief separation from his wife Oito, whom he deemed more precious than all else, to be an unbearable pain—such contradictions do exist in this world.

In the six-tatami middle room two rooms removed from the shop—where inconspicuous shoji screens were entirely patched with discarded paper, tatami mats covered floor-to-edge with handcrafted repurposed formal stationery sheets, and a crude yet sturdy tobacco tray equipped with a small kettle-shaped ash container—Master Shōtarō sat with an air of ease in his outward appearance. Yet the absence of mental respite revealed itself through eyes ceaselessly roving about the space. Finding no particular cause for reprimand—or so it seemed—he appeared somewhat calmer. Then, as if suddenly remembering, he called his wife from the inner room where she had been doing needlework, seated her before him, and stared intently at her face before continuing in a dismissive tone:

“Now, Oito.” As he spoke, he took a puff of foul tobacco—smoking with such care that not a wisp rose from the ash. Having scrutinized every trailing tendril of exhaled smoke—ah, even this he wouldn’t permit to drift past the eaves—he readjusted the ash over the charcoal briquettes in the brazier until the warmth became barely perceptible. With hands poised in affected elegance above it, he resumed his intent scrutiny of her face.

“Now, Oito—as I told you last night, today I must go to Osaka. As I always say—you must take particular care while I’m away. You’re not to meet anyone bearing the name ‘man,’ even in passing. Even those employed in the house—you mustn’t give orders directly to men. That’s why we keep maids around. As for people coming on business, the shop staff should handle them. If there’s anything unclear, you can just say I’m away—that’ll settle it. Even so, if someone insists on meeting you privately, make sure to remember their name well—since that’ll serve you for future reference. Then there’s the matter of relatives—since people tend to think being family makes everything permissible, there are those who barge in even when I’m away. From now on, if such a thing happens, don’t care if they’re relatives or not—just send them packing right away.”

“Well—what does Uncle plan to do? It’s obvious. “Even Uncle gets the same treatment.” “Hmm… There was that time Uncle got angry… Hmph—what’s it to me? Even trying to meet someone else’s wife when her husband’s away—that’s their blunder.” “If they don’t like it, they shouldn’t come here—what fools, entertaining another man’s wife in his absence! What’s so amusing about that? Anyone with sense knows their place—though here I am fretting over my wife… Ahaha… Right, Oito?”

He stole a glance at his wife’s expression, but receiving no reply, seemed dissatisfied; after taking a couple of puffs on his tobacco, he tapped the ash container with a snap to assert his authority. “I won’t allow any of it—anything at all,” he declared, the Kansai roughness thickening his speech. “Don’t you forget to refuse everything. Once you start making exceptions—this one’s fine, that one’s fine—things get tangled up and our rules end up broken.” “A wife’s duty is simply to please her husband—nothing more.” “If you go trying to please others, mistakes are bound to happen—that’s how it goes.”

Lowering his voice slightly, "Even as I say this—truth be told, my own father failed because of that very thing. Well, if the relatives alone take it badly, that’s a problem. Ha… What a fool, spouting nonsense. You think there’s anyone among my relatives trying to offer up some cash? Don’t be ridiculous. Look at that—what problem could there possibly be, I ask ya? At least they’re not making demands—isn’t that the only foresight they’ve got? What’s there to fret about, I ask ya. Even if such folks drop by, you’d have to serve them tea—wasting a cup—and the tatami would naturally get worn out, I tell ya. You don’t even realize that? What a complete lack of household sense! The problem with your worrying is it’s always pointed in the wrong direction…"

“I understand now.”

“Understood? Then that’s sufficient. And another thing about mealtimes, I tell ya—you always ignore my orders and never come out to check when I’m away! If I leave now, no matter how much I hurry, I won’t return till evening—so lunch’ll have to be eaten while I’m away. Then they’ll all seize this chance to gorge themselves, I tell ya—so just like I always say, come out to the kitchen then and keep watch by the brazier. And as for the men—try not to look at their faces if you can. Just watch their hands. Even so, you’ll still get the calculations right, I tell ya. As for the women—I don’t mind—you can just watch their faces thoroughly. If you do that, even those wenches’ll hold back a bit—they’ll make do with three bowls where they’d normally take four, I tell ya. As for the men—you’ve got no business with them. Just put up with their hands, I tell ya…”

He let out a high-pitched laugh before lowering his voice again, "So then—I tell ya—each person ends up takin' one less bowl." "If each takes one less bowl—clack-clack—wonder how much that'd come to." Tilting his head, he thought for a moment, Well—ten men and three women—plus that apprentice Chōkichi here... He started to speak but paused again to think, then slapped his knee and—

"Hmm—for a child, they sure eat a lot, I tell ya. I’ll count this one as a full person too. Then clack-clack..." Gradually extending his left hand with fingers folded before his wife’s face, he scrutinized her features seven parts to three, "That’s right—with this, it’s fourteen people. Then I wonder how much it’ll come to."

He smugly lowered his head to calculate, appearing to complete the mental arithmetic instantly as he repeatedly marveled at himself— How impressive. With this little adjustment here, we’re saving over four gō and six shaku all at once. Turning around, Shōtarō ceremoniously lifted the abacus—his treasured manual of strategy—from atop the tall chest fastened behind his shoulder, placed it on his lap, aligned the upper beads with a sharp *clack*, cleared his throat pompously, set it down briefly, then struck a pose like an explanatory lecturer.

“Well, I’ll roughly consider three bowls as one gō—though the household’s tea bowls are small, they heap them to the brim, you see—so then,” Then he took up the abacus again and, this time keeping it in his hand, looked at his wife’s face.

First he placed three here; then put fourteen over there—wait—dividing fourteen by three... Hmm—three ones make thirty—carry one to make ten—then three twos make sixty for two...

He scratched his head slightly,

It didn’t divide cleanly, which was inconvenient, but with this adjustment, they’d save roughly four gō and six shaku—how much would that amount to? With an expression that might as well have crowed *What do you think of these results?*, he turned his gaze back to his wife’s face.

So then, with a clack-clack, taking one koku of rice as twelve yen, And again clack-clack consulting the abacus, That’d be a difference of five sen and six rin, I tell ya. What a marvel. Now that the firewood’s piled up here, I probably can’t buy a bundle with this—but well, the cost for one round of baking should roughly come out of there, I tell ya.

What a frightening man he was. No longer content with reveling in his own satisfaction alone, he kept pressing for her agreement—even expecting her to voice admiration first—but what was this? The demon's wife had failed to transform into a demon god herself. This wife, unlike a Kyoto woman, remained utterly indifferent to recent events, her jaw buried in her collar as she contemplated some unrelated matter. Though not entirely free from discontent, Shōtarō—perhaps because this was the wife he cherished—managed to reset his own mood with a hollow laugh and peered up at her face from below.

“Ah... Seems I’ve gone and upset your mood again, haven’t I?” At this, even the wife seemed likely to say something—he hesitated for a moment—but as she remained silent, he pressed further, “Did I make you angry again? No need to put on such a scary face, I tell ya. You’ve always hated when I talk about accounts, but this household ain’t mine alone to manage.” “If this fortune’s enough, then it’s good for you too, I tell ya.” “Now what I just said was merely stating the logical way of things—it ain’t like I’m plannin’ to tally whether this’ll reduce chores by month-end or not. Just makin’ conversation, I tell ya. As long as you keep that in mind, that’s all I need.”

His voice took on an apologetic tone, "I'm just about to head out now, I tell ya. Seeing your angry face as I leave ain't too pleasant—so give me a little smile, won'tcha?"

At the same time, the abacus was heartlessly shoved aside. “Clack-clack—though I wonder what souvenir to bring back instead. You like Nitsui’s okoshi, but I’d fancy some ○-man kamaboko too, I tell ya.” After pondering with exaggerated gravity for some time, Shōtarō slapped his hands together sharply and— “Fine, I’ll give in this time—I’ll bring back the okoshi, I tell ya. If I don’t make it back by dinner, you’d best set aside some rice for yourself—food tastes better on an empty stomach, I tell ya.”

A man who never forgot his calculations, no matter the circumstance. Oito, having been appeased in this manner—as expected of her own husband, though he was a detestable man—could not help but feel pity, and at last parted her heavy lips, "Very well. Please do not concern yourself with anything. I shan't do anything to make you worry, so go ahead and take your time with peace of mind." He had intended to make a forceful declaration, but troubled by his own use of "take your time," Shōtarō's face took on a sullen look.

“What do you mean by telling me to take my time coming back?” The soft breeze shifted abruptly, as though a thunderclap might crash down upon them at any moment. Shōtarō’s eyes gleamed with suspicion, but Oito—predicting this familiar pattern—quickly molded her face into a smile. “No, when I said ‘take your time,’ I meant for your peace of mind. As for your return, I do wish you’d come back as swiftly as possible—for I worry too.” Shōtarō nearly broke into a broad grin, but catching himself before revealing his white teeth, deliberately contorted his features into a scowl.

That couldn't be right—a wife who rejoiced in her husband's absence would prove a constant worry through all eternity. Well, that was all well and good—but had there been nothing else she hadn't said?

Just as his thoughts reached no conclusion, from the shop came Chōkichi the apprentice’s enormous yawn—grown weary of waiting— When in the world’s Master gonna head off to Osaka? Rouses everyone at dawn’s crack only to dawdle till now—nigh time for the evening tofu seller! Shōtarō overheard this and flared up, shifting his anger,

“Hey, Chōkichi! Come here this instant.” He forced the apprentice to sit before him, “What were you muttering just now?” “When I go or don’t go—that’s my own affair! It’s no business of yours, I tell ya.” “Instead of flapping your lips about such things, go to the neighbor’s house and ask what time it is.” “And while you’re there, find out when the Osaka train leaves—don’t you dare forget that either.” Having barked these orders and sent the boy scrambling, he glared up at the empty lintel where the pillar clock used to hang, muttering to himself,

Ah! Still such a pain being without a clock—when I sold off all those useless things for cash back then,I thought turning them into money with interest was smart.But times like this make me realize how bothersome it really is. Though my neighbor’s place sits in an even worse spot than mine—the nerve of them hanging up a clock there! If you just go ask,the time’s no different from having one right here. What an idiot—letting seven or eight yen gather dust while making himself useful to others.

Even at this, the wife remained silent, and just as his displeasure was mounting, Chōkichi returned with the report that it was 9:30—at which he could no longer afford to linger. "You got that? Remember what I just told ya." After verifying everything down to the last detail, he finally stood up and took Chōkichi along to where there were affordable rickshaws; within the modest cloth-wrapped bundle he had made the boy carry, what appeared to be a boxed lunch for midday could be seen. With lingering reluctance toward his home’s eaves, he departed, glancing back repeatedly.

After some time had passed, the apprentice Chōkichi returned, the gate door rattling open as—

“Hey, Head Clerk! Just now—” He kept bowing his head in nothing but excuses. Though bearing the title of Head Clerk, he too was a newcomer not yet seasoned into a “white rat”; seeing Chōkichi’s face, he smirked slyly, “Looks like there were cheap rickshaws about—he left mighty early today.” “And here you are again—you’ve gotten yourself some fat five-rin tip and been told to spy on Ms. Oito again, ain’tcha?” “Since it’s the Head Clerk’s job to confiscate dirty money, cough it up right here—out with it now!”

When egged on, two or three young men—eager to emulate their superiors, particularly the easygoing one called Santarō— “Hey Chōkichi—don’t go lettin’ slip to the Head Clerk by mistake, you hear?” “Keep it under your hat and tell me private-like.” “I’ll bet Master said somethin’ like this now, didn’t he?” “Among us shop hands, seein’ as this Santarō here’s the fairest and handsomest fella around, you gotta watch yourself sharp ’round him, I tell ya.”

Ah... As Chōkichi doubled over in laughter, yet another seized him,

“What’s the point of all that?” “A man like me’s got no reason to fret—even if someone took a fancy to her, Oito wouldn’t give ’em a second glance.” “Nah, it’s this Sōshichi we oughta worry ’bout.” “That’s what he said now, didn’t he? That Sōshichi’s the real concern.” Following this exchange, another voice piped up: “It’s Santarō and Sōshichi swaggerin’ ’round on account of their pretty mugs that’s the trouble, I tell ya.” “The only one fit to pair up with Oito’s yours truly here—ain’t that how Master’s seein’ it too, eh Chōkichi?”

Each of them seeming to harbor their own thoughts, Chōkichi endured the absurdity of their half-joking, half-serious questioning— “Right away, I’ll tell you now—what Master said was, regarding the shop folks—Santarō, Sōshichizō, and all the rest…” No sooner had he begun than they all grew smug, each thinking themselves the very subject of concern, and pressed eagerly to hear the rest as quickly as possible. Chōkichi, while preparing to make his escape and putting on an affected voice, “No matter which one you look at—they’re all country bumpkins raised in the mountains! Not a single face here looks fit to take over a household. You’ve got nothing to fret about,” he declared.

No sooner had he declared this than—the moment the three men lunged at him, realizing they’d been made fools of by the boy—Chōkichi’s shadow had already vanished behind the back door. Behind him erupted a roar of laughter, and among them could be heard the head clerk’s voice— “As expected, since Ms. Oito stands in a class of her own, it seems everyone’s got their eyes on her.” “The Master’s worries aren’t unreasonable.” “The late first wife, Okatsu, was rather unremarkable by all accounts, but even so, he still kept watch over her—that’s how it goes.” “Ah… The Head Clerk here praises Ms. Oito as exceptional, yet he’s quick to turn a blind eye to his own affairs—that’s why it’s so laughable, I tell ya.”

The clamor of their infighting voices grew raucous. Such clamor did not reach the inner quarters of the spacious house. After sending off her husband, Oito—now confined to a single cramped room in the inner quarters, forbidden from even entering the kitchen outside mealtimes—was sinking into solitary brooding when Okome, the seven-year-old child from his previous marriage, returned home from school. “Hey, Mom! I’m home!” Watching her obediently clasp her hands, Oito let slip a lonely smile, “My, that was quite early—is it already past noon?”

"Oh, it's noon." "In that case, go tell Matsu to serve the meal quickly—I'll be right there." Okome looked as though she wanted to say something, fidgeted restlessly, then— "Mom, won't you give me some of those rice cakes?" "Now now—it's not 'rice cakes' this and 'rice cakes' that. Proper young ladies call them 'ohaki,' you hear? But we don't have any now—I'll buy some for you next time." "No! I know—they said we have ohaki!"

“Who said that?” “At school, the girl next to me, Otake, and the one across, Oume, said that since your dad bakes them every day, you must have lots of ohaki rice cakes at home—so then I should ask you for some, Mom.” “Oh, so that’s what this is about.” Oito felt both resentful and pitiful; indeed, her husband’s deep-seated jealousy had long been the subject of neighborhood gossip—snippets overheard by children from their parents’ conversations, passed from mouth to mouth until now a child, unaware they were mocking their own father, became the target of ridicule elsewhere. Whose heart could have wrought such a thing? Yet to resent her husband was not a woman’s proper path; though not a speck of wandering heart lay within her, to be suspected was this self’s moral failing. Ah—what fate awaited this wretched self? Lost in such brooding, Okome remained oblivious. In a display of stepchild disposition—resenting what was available and misconstruing that her mother was withholding something—she was on the verge of declaring, “I don’t want anything at all!” With tears brimming and lips pursed, her retreating figure darting toward the kitchen struck Oito as pitiful. Oito chased after her, offered something else instead, and at last managed to placate her.

At five o'clock, Shōtarō returned. In addition to the promised souvenirs, he had even bought Koburiya's ointment that Oito always valued—in an uncharacteristically cheerful mood—and having heard reports of the blossoms, declared they would go cherry blossom viewing around Arashiyama the next day, which fortunately fell on a Sunday, taking Okome along as well. This was surely due to Chōkichi's report confirming today's absence had passed without incident. Though the true heart beneath Oito's surface remained unsettled by his kind words, the haze that had risen vanished as if wiped away, and that night she fell into peaceful sleep.

—

Elsewhere, Arashiyama’s slopes blazed in full bloom—cherry blossoms threading through gaps between pines, their verdant hues blending with spring’s palette. As far as the eye could see, the flower-clad hills of Kyoto’s flower capital stretched like brocade. Blossoms mirrored in the water below; rafts drifting downstream bore floral names. In the Ōi River’s currents flowed spring itself, carried away—to what distant lands might it be sent? Across the river, the faces of those viewing had turned cherry-hued while still crying out merrily. A confectionery-peddling crone employed her persuasive tactics; lured by sweetness, some carelessly loosened tight purse strings. Through the midst of various people spreading flower-viewing mats passed a group of five from Ōmiya—husband and wife with child, maid, and apprentice. Oito lived like a caged bird, rarely venturing outside—yet spring flower-viewing and autumn mushroom-gathering were Kyoto traditions so entrenched that even strictest households observed them. Thus Shōtarō, though grudgingly, sent shop employees out separately as others did, while taking Oito along to this cherry blossom outing. For a woman whose outdoor presence proved rare—especially since marrying into Ōmiya last year—donning otherwise useless finery for such occasion seemed natural. When Oito adorned her youthful form in splendor befitting the day’s glory, her beauty shone strikingly. Even where comely women abounded, she drew astonished gazes: a staggering drunkard squinted bleary eyes and bellowed “Benzaiten herself!” while passing women whispered “What a beautiful wife” over shoulders, delighting her with glances. Shōtarō, who normally barred her from others’ sight behind latched gates, today forgot jealous vigilance and paraded her ostentatiously.

“Take a look at this, Oito—those cherry blossoms have bloomed splendidly now. Had we come two or three days later, they’d already be scattering, I tell you.” “That’s true—they usually peak around the 15th or 16th, but this year seems slightly early.” “Right then—where should we rest? The Three-house cluster area would suit well enough, but it’s too crowded there. Let’s find some other spot.” This was likely because he begrudged the tea-house fees.

At that moment, a refined man of twenty-five or twenty-six—sitting on a bench at one of the tea houses, dressed in a stylish Yuuki-patterned haori over a lined silk garment that spoke of meticulous taste—who appeared to be the heir of a merchant family, called out familiarly to Oito the moment he saw her. “Well, well, Ms. Oito! Are you here for cherry blossom viewing today as well?” “What a dear child! When did you have her?” He gave a slight nod to Shōtarō and offered a polite smile. As Shōtarō watched with bitter resentment while he patted Okome’s head, Oito remained completely unaware.

"Why, you are Mr. Sachinosuke! I failed to recognize you at once—I must apologize for my rudeness." "I now reside at the Ōmiya house in Itoya-chō, so please come visit Ms. O-Natsu sometime." Though it had been a routine compliment, Shōtarō—true to his nature—immediately grew suspicious. "That man’s quite a fine one, ain’t he? You seem rather familiar with him." The harbinger of doubt had already been raised, but Oito remained oblivious.

“Well, that gentleman is the older brother of a friend from when I attended elementary school, and he also went to the same school.”

“Hmm. Is that all?” “That’s correct.” “Then why’ve you got such a suspicious look? Was that all it took to make you blush like that? What’s with that weird smile?”

Due to his excessive behavior, Oito too became slightly irritated, “It’s not like I particularly blushed or anything. Look, you—any woman would smile a little when speaking to someone. “It’s not like I specifically smiled just for that person.” Having coldly retorted, from that moment onward Shōtarō’s demeanor turned abnormal; the long-awaited cherry blossom viewing was cut short, their return ride together a shared carriage in name only. Burdened with such unpleasant thoughts, the two only clashed without exchanging words; then, as if by chance, the master stirred up a commotion—truly a gloomy affair—and even the maid and apprentice had their complaints.

The next day too passed without Shōtarō speaking a single word to Oito from morning till night. Yet for her, this behavior held no particular novelty; thinking it merely another flare-up of the master's peculiar disposition, she gave it little deeper thought. Though she hadn't yet surmised that Shōtarō might be brooding over yesterday's incident with Sachinosuke, Oito spent the day as one might gingerly handle fragile porcelain. As dusk finally yielded to full nightfall around ten o'clock—when they would normally retire— "The mail has arrived." When maid Ume brought it in, Shōtarō took the letter in hand only to feign disinterest, tossing it wordlessly toward Oito without a glance. Seeing it addressed to "Madam Oito of Ōmiya-sama," she nodded faintly in recognition before opening it—only to find it came from Natsu, sister of that very Sachinosuke encountered yesterday. The contents flowed in casual script with no substantive purpose beyond mentioning she'd heard of Oito through her brother and felt overcome by nostalgia—nothing more. Yet being correspondence from a friend unseen these many years, Oito found herself unconsciously rereading the lines—a fact not lost on Shōtarō who'd been glaring at her with baleful eyes all this while when suddenly—

Oito, where’s that letter from? To say it was from the sister of yesterday’s acquaintance would have been simple enough, yet faced with this person—who hadn’t spoken a word since last night—now questioning her so fiercely, she suddenly realized his foul mood today might also stem from that very matter. Somehow, concealing the truth seemed safer. Well, it’s a letter from a friend. Hmm. The sister of the person from yesterday? No, it isn’t. The nocked arrow had already pierced its target’s heart—how could Shōtarō, ever vigilant in such matters, have failed to notice the name “Natsu” written on that envelope, a name he’d heard just yesterday?

“Hmm. That must be it,” Shōtarō thought. “Well, it’s the truth,” Oito replied.

Oito, compelled to give a definitive answer; Shōtarō—kwa!—flared up in rage and rose to his feet.

“You wench—don’t you dare hide things from me!”

No sooner had he spoken than he kicked her shoulder down, paying no heed to her pleas for forgiveness as he beat her with all his might. "A woman as unfaithful as you—I cannot keep in this house for even a moment." "Get out right now!" Shōtarō, his face contorted and seemingly in a frenzy—though this was hardly unusual for him—Oito, branded with infidelity, could not remain silent even as she knew it was unreasonable. Desperately dodging her husband’s fists while, "P-Please, look at that letter." "N-No, I never hid it with ill intentions!" "It was because your suspicion was so terrifying…"

“What did you say? That I’m distrustful—! Don’t you dare spew such venom!” His rage intensified violently, now brandishing a thick fire iron in wild strikes. “Out! Why won’t you leave? If you refuse to go, you think I’ll let you stay?!” He lunged with terrifying force, chasing her across the ten-mat room—a commotion unnoticed at first in the sprawling house—until three maids finally came running at the deafening noise,

“Ma... Master, please wait! Madam Oito, hurry and apologize! Please, Master—Master!” The maids had timidly tried to restrain him, but Shōtarō’s violence proved beyond the strength of women; fearing they might be struck by stray blows, the maids rushed to the shop to rouse the young men—yet these youths, bearing grudges from daily treatment, refused to emerge, for showing their male faces would only further sour the master’s mood, and so all feigned sleep and refused to rise. Oito, now in peril of her very life—without a moment to consider before or after—forgot herself and flew out toward the front entrance; seeing this, Shōtarō himself inserted the bolt,

Anyone who lets Oito inside without permission will face due punishment. After he stormed off shouting, the household fell utterly silent. The servants, knowing their master's temperament through daily experience, showed no sign of hurrying to open the door either. Oito stood desolate beneath the eaves for some time when—most inopportunely—a patrolling officer happened by. He stared brazenly at her face, repeatedly turning his square lantern toward her with sharp flashes of light as he passed. Mortified at the prospect of being interrogated and doubly shamed, she took two or three aimless steps forward but found herself with nowhere to go. The matchmaker's house was not far off, but though this person had arranged their marriage, they remained a stranger—exposing her shame there would be unbearable. Returning to her parents' home would only complicate matters further—and in any case, being in no position to reenter her own house now—ah! Her uncle's residence stood quite nearby. She would go there and somehow beg shelter. Still in everyday clothes under cover of night, she struggled to knock on the unyielding door.

The uncle was momentarily taken aback, but dismissed it as typical behavior of young people and paid it no mind.

“Ha... Telling someone to get out is just a man’s habit, you know? Your mistake was actually leaving like some honest fool.” “If you’d just apologized and gone to bed, his mood would’ve improved by morning.” “When someone clumsily interferes, even a trivial quarrel will bloom into something complicated.” “It’s no trouble for me to go apologize, but you’d settle things more smoothly by handling it alone.” “Get too close, and quarrels sprout easily—best keep your affection measured, see…”

When she was told this so casually—though her tearful face betrayed her shame—Oito could not bring herself to think it such a trifling matter. Even so, to lay everything bare—though they were uncle and niece—would bring shame upon her husband, and thus she could not speak of it. Merely attributing all blame to herself: “Now that I consider it properly, I cannot say whether that is truly the case—but in any case, my husband’s anger this evening is no ordinary matter. It’s absolutely not a quarrel—truly, his displeasure over my own clumsiness is not unreasonable—but I will take full responsibility for everything. Uncle, please show me mercy and intercede.”

Her voice trembling as she pleaded—since this couldn’t be dismissed lightly—the uncle finally relented. “In that case, I’ll escort you back. Oh—it’s already past twelve,” he said. “I could let you stay here tonight, but you’re still my nephew’s wife—another man’s woman. Keeping you without his permission wouldn’t do right by anyone. Let’s go now.” Tucking his tobacco pouch into his obi as he stood up,Oito too gathered her resolve and followed apprehensively behind him,hope mingling with dread that this might resolve matters. At her uncle’s summons,the gate swung open without resistance—though Oito,cowering behind him despite this being her own home,the threshold now looming unnaturally high,fretted over how much trouble this must have cost him.Yet her anxiety proved needless.Shōtarō stood there devoid of his earlier fury,wearing an expression of innocent bewilderment as if...

“Oh my, Uncle! I’m terribly sorry to trouble you at this hour. That foolish Oito—honestly—did she drag you all the way here? What a hopeless creature she is. I only gave her a brief scolding.” The situation required no explanation. The uncle—holding back an I told you so—glanced at Oito with a bitter smile. “I figured it was somethin’ like that,” he said, “but since Oito here was cryin’ and beggin’, I had no choice but to tag along. Well now—enough of your lovers’ squabbles. Don’t go draggin’ others into it.”

Displeased with Shōtarō’s usual conduct, he added a few cutting remarks and left with visible bitterness. Though Oito felt humiliated before Uncle Jūbei, she took greatest comfort in her husband’s unexpectedly favorable mood—yet this proved merely a temporary facade for her uncle’s benefit. Once Uncle Jūbei departed, he began relentlessly needling her again: “Why’d you run off to Uncle’s place? You’ve never been close!” “Unless you’d gotten cozy with him while I was away?”

Though he refrained from physical violence this time, the flames of his wrath turned toward his uncle, who was tormented throughout the night.

Below. After this incident, even during brief outings, Shōtarō grew stricter than ever in monitoring Oito. He interrogated shop workers and maids about whether any men had visited in his absence or if mail for Oito had arrived from anywhere. Still unsatisfied—convinced adults might be swayed by Oito to deceive him—he appointed Chōkichi and Okome as his sole spies, allowing himself a sliver of peace. Yet misfortune struck one day: while Shōtarō was away, a messenger arrived by carriage from Oito’s family home—her mother had suddenly fallen gravely ill, they said—and she must depart immediately in this very carriage. Oito, knowing her husband’s usual temperament and fearing his wrath should she leave during his absence—even for her mother’s illness—hesitated for a time. Yet as she waited, his return grew ever later, and the strain became unbearable. Resolving that whatever became of her mattered little compared to the lifelong regret of missing her mother’s final moments, she steeled herself with uncharacteristic resolve. Leaving earnest apologies for her husband with the maids, she departed, her heart soaring into emptiness. Having returned home, Shōtarō grew suspicious at Oito’s absence,

“What’s this about Oito—where is she? How dare there be such impropriety as not greetin’ her husband upon his return?!” The menacing bluster of threatening to scold anyone he laid eyes on left the three maids pushing the youngest forward after much mutual hesitation, “Um—earlier, someone came from her family home to fetch her.” “Where’d they come from?” “She said it was her mother’s illness, sir.” Hmm... When things get tough, ya trot out yer parents? A parent’s illness makes the best excuse, don’t it. “So Oito left?”

“Um—terribly sorry to trouble you while you were out, but as it’s an emergency illness, she said to give her full apologies.” “So she took some bundle wrapped in cloth?” “She didn’t take anything at all—just changed into her haori coat.”

Hmm. While he pondered, the maids—as if they’d escaped a dragon’s maw—hurried down to the kitchen, all three craning their necks to anxiously watch their master’s demeanor. Shōtarō soon stood up abruptly and entered Oito’s room, inspecting the chest drawers, rummaging through the writing box, and even checking the compartments of her vanity. “Hmm… Doesn’t look like she took anything out after all.” “Then maybe it’s true… Fine—I’ll go see for myself.—Chōkichi! Call a rickshaw!”

Chōkichi was taken aback by this unusual measure, Hey, about that rickshaw—how much should I offer, sir? You fool! Any price will do—just call a sturdy-looking one!

For the first time since Ōmiya’s founding, a shop rickshaw was summoned—without even inquiring about the fare before he boarded in urgent haste. Oito’s family home belonged to a silk merchant near Rokkaku—an old established house renowned for its weathered shop curtain—yet its broad facade concealed rickety shelves and an interior far less grand than appearances suggested. Her mother had been the biological daughter of the household, while her current father Jūbei was a second husband who had married in—merely a stepfather to Oito. Thus she remained reserved in all matters, never once confiding to her parents the miseries endured since marrying into the Ōmiya household. Unaware, they called her fortunate and rejoiced at having settled her into a house wealthier than their own. Shōtarō resolved to discipline Oito hereafter—regardless of whether her actions warranted it—having even rehearsed the wording of a three-and-a-half-line divorce notice in his mind. He leapt down only to find her family home in disarray: two doctor’s carriages stood at the gate while within lingered a somber quietude—the household’s earlier tension dissolved into numb resignation. Unconsciously softening his footsteps as he requested guidance to the inner room, he overheard from the adjacent chamber—despite their hushed tones—the master conversing with a physician.

"It does appear quite serious—it couldn't be anything minor, could it?" The one asking with a worried expression was the master; the doctor with the handsome handlebar mustache tilted his head slightly, "Well—I still can’t say anything definitive yet." "First and foremost, be extremely careful today and tomorrow." Having heard this, even Shōtarō could not bring himself to summon Oito forth. Suddenly concerned with appearances, he adopted the manner of a concerned visitor, saw the doctor off, then turned toward Jūbei—who had finished bidding the physician farewell—with an ingratiating bow.

“This is truly a worrisome matter. Having learned you sent for Oito during my absence, I rushed here without delay to pay my respects—though I must apologize for arriving empty-handed. How is she faring now?” Jūbei too was pleased at this show of concern. “Oh no, I must apologize for summoning her during your absence.” “But given the circumstances you’ve just heard—where we still cannot tell whether it will turn out to be fish or fowl—if by any chance she were to miss her mother’s final moments, even I would find it unbearable. Both her mother’s heart and Oito’s would grow all the more pitiable.” “There, I trust you won’t refuse to let me borrow Oito for the next two or three days?”

When the matter was explained to him in detail, he could find no grounds for refusal; suppressing a feeling like having stirred a bush and let loose a snake,

“Ah—yes—ah, that’s perfectly acceptable.” “I’ll handle matters at home, so please keep her here without concern.”

Summoning Oito under the pretext of wanting even just a glimpse of her face, he put on a dutiful front for his father-in-law, “In that case, I’ll have her tend to her mother for two or three days—you needn’t worry about the household.” Truly, human nature was good at heart.

Though he had made such socially appropriate gestures and returned home, upon reflection—that her father was merely a stepfather, that the doctor was a distinguished gentleman—from his usual mind arose various delusions, leaving him unable to sleep peacefully through the night. Impatiently awaiting dawn amid loneliness and anxiety, he arrived at Oito’s side under the pretext of visiting again, carrying a box of Yoshino arrowroot he had received from elsewhere during last year’s summer greeting—a move meant to monitor his actual wife, though her unknowing mother rejoiced.

“Oh, until this very moment, I hadn’t realized Mr. Shōtarō was such a kind person.” “With all your duties, yet you came to visit again… Oito, if you continue to cherish Mr. Shōtarō so devotedly, he’ll surely never abandon you. Such a kind-hearted man is truly irreplaceable. Now I can pass away with my worries about you doubly assured.” Though Oito, hearing this, did not entirely think so—her mother, even in death’s throes, gave no thought to herself but only to her child—such parental devotion pierced her heart with profound gratitude. Ah, Mother—who knew nothing of the truth—her peace of mind would at least become a cherished memory. After Mother’s passing, Father too was bound by duty, leaving no one to confide in—but to one now on death’s threshold, withholding all troubles was the greatest act of filial piety. And so, she forced her features into a semblance of cheer.

"That’s correct—he truly is a kind person—I am most fortunate."

“Please, Mother—don’t worry about anything…” Though her words were casual, Oito’s heart churned as if being clawed apart. Yet Shōtarō showed no intention of leaving, lingering with tiresome persistence. Maintaining decorum before her parents, her heart remained tethered to her mother’s bedside—her duties splitting one body into two, her spirit strained pitifully between divided cares. And so Shōtarō returned each night only to come again by day, until three dawns later—a day behind the doctor’s prognosis—the unknowing mother departed peacefully for the Pure Land. Oito now felt her circumstances more wretched than ever. *Ah, why couldn’t Mother have taken this useless me along?* Though she muffled her sobs, her body trembled with silent grief. Beside her, Shōtarō’s performative tears of consolation only deepened her sorrow. *Ah, if only he weren’t such a man*—Oito’s lamentations multiplied endlessly.

Unaware, Shōtarō carried on as though the matter had been settled with this. Oito would probably be leaving tomorrow.

His eagerness to hasten her departure was disgraceful. Ah, she should never have become someone’s wife—Oito thought bitterly, the realization seeping into her bones. She was permitted only a single night’s vigil. The following morning, Shōtarō returned home once to change his clothes and came back with a thirty-sen condolence offering—its paper wrapping alone splendid, while the contents, unbefitting their station, he presented reverently at the altar without shame. In the afternoon, he attended the funeral alongside Oito, though in truth, it remained unclear whose funeral they had gone to. Rather than on the coffin of the deceased, his eyes remained fixed solely on Oito as she mingled with various relatives. After impatiently waiting for the proceedings to conclude, Shōtarō immediately took her back home and let out a sigh of relief—yet Oito’s countenance sank all the deeper. And so as the seventh-day and fourteenth-day memorial services passed by, Oito—now a man’s wife—lamented that even the devotion of her heart was no longer hers to command. In meager consolation, she added one more light to the household altar as an offering to her mother and poured an extra cup of water—finding scant solace in these futile acts. Though she did not divert her attention to trivial matters, Shōtarō took this as evidence of her insincerity,

“Oito, quit moping so much—come here and cheer up a bit.” “It’s not like you witnessed anything wrong here. Parents are someone you’d have to part with eventually anyway.” Even the considerate-sounding words he offered felt somehow grating and hollow to Oito, so she responded tersely and with detachment—but Shōtarō, ever prone to overinterpretation, began scrutinizing her every action until at last he convinced himself this aloofness stemmed from her growing aversion to him. The wellspring of Oito’s heart’s grief ran dry, yet he only grew more vigilant in watching her every move, inside and out.

Amidst tears, the days passed until the mourning period concluded. Oito’s father came to Ōmiya to pay his respects, but on this day too, ill-timed as ever, Shōtarō was absent. Though house rules forbade meeting men, he was her father—and especially now, after her mother’s death, this stepfather felt all the more dear to her. Unmindful of others’ opinions, Oito unguardedly let him into the inner quarters and conversed with him awhile—a lapse Shōtarō later learned of and flew into an unparalleled rage. “Even if he *is* your father, isn’t he fundamentally a stranger?” “Even if he was your mother’s husband while she was alive, once she’s dead, he’s just a stranger.” “What the hell do you think you’re doing, letting him into the inner quarters while I was away?” “It just doesn’t add up.”

At such an extreme, even Oito was left aghast; if you suspect me to this extent, then there’s nothing more I can do—she collapsed in silence. Shōtarō pressed further, "Why won’t you apologize for your wrongdoing? If you’re such a brazen woman that you’d break house rules and refuse to apologize, then I too have my own resolve." "What nonsense are you making me hear?!"

Rather than that, even during temporary outings, he confined Oito to the storehouse and fastened the key to his own waist. Even her three daily meals were passed through the window, and people all whispered it was madness. Even in such circumstances—whether because Oito refused to stray from womanly virtue, as some said, or because she had resigned herself to a bleak world—she made no attempt to escape her suffering of her own accord. She let Shōtarō have his way and stopped considering her body her own, yet even saints cannot escape earthly desires while they draw breath—how much less a woman confined to a cramped storehouse? Oito found her existence wretched and pitiful; what had been excessive affection from her husband had curdled until his heart resembled a demon or serpent. Resentment and lamentation coiled ever tighter within her until they finally birthed what people call melancholia. Day by day, as her body grew gaunt and her complexion sallow, the maids pitied her,

“My, your complexion these days—what’s become of it?” “That’s only natural—why don’t you flee back to your parents’ home?” “We’ve endured this out of pity for you, but if that’s how it’s to be, we’ll take our leave.” As they each inched their knees closer and whispered, Oito stopped them with a feeble hand and swallowed her tears. No, no—Mother always said a woman’s lot is to die in the household she marries into, no matter what hardships arise. Even if one returns home for some reason, they’ll be branded a divorced woman for life, forced to live in shame. I intend to endure it all… But if the outcome is the same either way, it would be better to die as soon as possible.…

Unaware that her final words had been overheard, Shōtarō’s shock was immense—though this stemmed purely from excessive possessiveness, he did consider summoning a physician—a rare concession—but after painstakingly selecting an elderly Chinese-style physician who wouldn’t stand on ceremony, the treatment naturally showed no visible effect. Though he pitied Oito’s daily decline, merely learning that this aged doctor had come during his absence made Shōtarō suspicious, leading him to obliquely vent his frustrations on Oito. Having instructed the innocent Okome, when the doctor came, he did not allow her to leave his side. When he interrogated Oito down to the last detail—what expression she had worn, what exactly the doctor had said—Oito found herself burdened with yet another hardship, feeling all the more that her life was beyond hope. Resigning herself even to this despair, she waited only for death in her desolation. The servants, pitying her deeply, spread whispers here and there until rumors grew ever larger, finally reaching the ears of Oito’s father, Jūbei, who was startled beyond measure.

Jūbei could not turn a deaf ear to his daughter’s plight—no matter that she had been married off, he would not mortgage her very life on it. Moreover, Oito—Oito herself—kept me, her father by duty, at a distance; why hadn’t she informed me of something so grave? Ah, distant—so distant! Even if Oito herself knew it, they said she couldn’t easily return home since her parents were bound by obligation. Very well then—he would summon Oito, thoroughly verify the truth of the matter, and if it proved true, take her back by force if necessary to preserve face before his deceased wife. Having steeled his resolve in solitary deliberation, he used the occasion to call for her.

Fortunately, this summons came while Shōtarō was at home, so—though reluctantly—he permitted it, having Okome and Chōkichi accompany her as escorts. Oito returned to her family home in Rokkaku.

Now having heard these rumors from her stepfather—who had summoned her to confirm their truth—Oito felt her heart pound violently, but facing her stepfather’s resolute demeanor, she could not bring herself to answer readily. She sat with bowed head in contemplation, but tears she knew all too well began falling unbidden as she started confessing everything to him. Yet Oito’s obstinate husband would never agree to a divorce after just one or two attempts. Rather than have someone intervene half-heartedly only for her to face further misery, she resolved to consider herself as nothing—for by not straying from womanly virtue, that at least might bring some salvation—and thus suppressed her surging emotions.

“No, such a thing does not exist.” “People do tend to speak of bad things, you see.” Though she had intended to deflect the matter with proper words, teardrops streamed down in rivulets—and at the sight of her startled countenance, her stepfather, who had been observing her since earlier, could no longer restrain himself; his raised voice grew thick with emotion.

“Oito, d-don’t you keep me at a distance!” Oito’s heart tore at this; she burst into choked sobs while Jūbei crossed his arms and groaned, lost in thought. With immeasurable emotions swirling in their chests and no words to voice them, they sat in silent desolation—as Okome and Chōkichi, who had been obliviously playing on the veranda, peered stealthily through a gap in the shoji screen. At length, Oito finally stemmed her tears and seemed to confide something for the first time, while Jūbei’s expression gradually softened into solemn discussion. It was decided Oito would remain at her family home awhile. Jūbei wrote a letter to Shōtarō, entrusted it to Okome and Chōkichi, and sent only those two back by carriage.

How great must Shōtarō’s fury have been! Anticipating that Shōtarō would come storming over immediately, Jūbei rushed to the matchmakers and formally initiated divorce proceedings. Even Shōtarō—formidable as he was—found himself momentarily cowed by this, showing a flicker of self-reflection. But true to such a man’s nature, lingering attachment and jealousy only stoked his flames further. *Damn that Oito—this bitch has grown sick of me! Damn that bald-headed Jūbei—he lost his wife and now wants to steal mine!* Forgetting that his own actions had driven Oito away and provoked Jūbei’s wrath, he cursed and reviled only those two.

Yet driven by lingering attachment—perhaps hoping to entice Oito back—and unable to bear his loneliness, he repeatedly sent letters urging her to return as soon as possible. But Jūbei would never consent to returning his duty-bound daughter to someone like him. Having secured the divorce through all means, and out of excessive concern to settle her into a better situation, he even intercepted these letters; since he never showed them to Oito, she remained completely unaware of them. Yet for Shōtarō, who felt no lingering attachment toward her, she who had until now been bound solely to the singular path of womanhood resolved henceforth to entrust everything to her father’s arrangements: Whatever becomes of me, I shall not marry again. I will live out my days alone, keeping myself pure—this alone I vowed in my heart.

Unaware, Shōtarō—even after sending countless letters and receiving not even a whisper of reply—convinced himself this silence confirmed her change of heart, then driven by jealousy that discarded all propriety, began visiting Oito’s residence nightly to spy on her circumstances.

One night, Jūbei and Oito sat knee-to-knee in conversation, “This is truly vexing—Shōtarō isn’t acting like a man at all! When his wife’s family requests a divorce, he clings like vinegar-soaked konjac refusing to grant it properly!” “But no matter what, I must see this divorce through.” “If you still felt any attachment to him, that would be different—but to guard your virtue for a man you loathe until it destroys you… I cannot fulfill my duty that way.” “Even if you’re resolved, society will censure me.”

Shōtarō, who had been hiding at the familiar back door, found even the sight of their two shadows pressed closely together on the shoji screen unbearable—but upon hearing these words, he erupted with a thud, leaping forward. “You senile old fool—know your place!” he roared, charging in with wild blows, hurling the brazier and flinging the iron kettle. Caught off guard, Jūbei recoiled with fresh wounds, yet Shōtarō pressed his advantage. Oito, torn between shielding her father and restraining her husband, felt her heart race in panic. But bound by a woman’s helplessness, she threw herself between them, clinging desperately to the thrashing Shōtarō with a hoarse cry of “Me! Take me instead!” Just then, a couple of store clerks who had heard the commotion initially cowered, mistaking it for a burglar. Though some hot-blooded young men arrived wielding makeshift sticks, eager to make a heroic name for themselves, upon realizing their opponent was Shōtarō, they hesitated to advance. Yet with their master in peril being irreplaceable, they somehow managed to seize and restrain him. In this moment, Shōtarō—perhaps having gone mad—bore no resemblance to his former ferocity. He stood blankly, darting his eyes around the area.

In that fleeting moment, Jūbei could not possibly have grasped it—Shōtarō’s misconduct was utterly, utterly unbearable. Yet as his daughter’s husband, making a scene would only bring mutual shame. Pressing a hand to his chest, he settled the matter discreetly, ordered each servant to keep silent, and did not send Shōtarō home.

Afterward, at the mental asylum in Iwakura, there came to be one additional patient—purportedly the master of a wealthy household—whose wife, a beautiful woman who appeared to be his spouse, brought along a girl of about seven years old. She visited him constantly, tending to him with such bone-wearying devotion that none who saw it could help but pity her—or so it was said.

(Bungei Kurabu, January 1897)