Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part I

In Nishijin’s Itoyamachi district—where five hundred looms ceaselessly wove damask brocades only to have them rolled away—there stood the merchant house Ōmiya, a brokerage firm that had flourished since its founder’s days and whose name remained synonymous with unmatched wealth throughout the region. The master, Shōtarō, was a man in his mid-thirties at the peak of vitality—though his pallor exceeded even what was typical for Kyoto men. His features, though ordinary, were harmoniously arranged, leaving no particular flaw in his countenance; his bearing refined for a townsman, he cut such an impressive figure as the esteemed Master of a great house that many men and women regarded him with deference. Yet this man was born with an innate tightfistedness; though raised from childhood without ever knowing financial hardship, he had developed—through some unfathomable influence—a mentality far beyond ordinary thrift. His zeal reached such extremes that he wished to split half-sen coins into two or three pieces for use. Hoard upon hoard he amassed, though what end he imagined for these piles even he himself could not say. It was simply a sickness of accumulation—a disease that blinded him to social obligations and human compassion, leaving him convinced that money alone sufficed. While he rationalized this endlessly, what remained unresolved were the whispers on everyone’s lips: even Kyoto townsfolk, who prided themselves on frugality as a way of life, could only shake their heads in disbelief, their gossip swelling through the neighborhood like a murmuring tide. Foremost among these was Shōtarō’s father, Shōbei—a man of unknown origins who had wandered from Ōmi one year, beginning as a servant in a weaving house before somehow amassing wealth over two decades to rise suddenly as a nouveau riche. Shōtarō, inheriting this bloodline that had lived without ever tasting anything resembling humanity, became such a man—and thus, the diagnosis delivered by the neighborhood doctor’s apprentice stood as yet another theory. Putting aside its origins, the current notoriety remained unconcealed; employment agencies would furrow their brows upon hearing “Ōmiya,” and such was its ill repute that one might wonder who would even consider working there—indeed, no servant lasted beyond a season or half. Thus, in such a grand house as Ōmiya—with no manager of long service and, needless to say, only the greenest of greenhorn servants—there existed none fit to entrust with commercial dealings; while hired hands might handle local transactions, it was customary for the master himself to attend to business in Osaka and Kobe. This matter was a major headache for Shōtarō: on the eve of his Osaka trip, he would remain sullen all day, his already pallid face turning bluer still. Not only his wife Oito but even shop workers and kitchen maids faced his glare over trivial matters. “Ah, tomorrow he’s off to Osaka again,” someone would mutter, while others sneered: “Thanks to him, we’ve not seen sea bream since arriving here—fish-eye soup’s no rarity, but at least our spit keeps our bellies full.” Now, given Shōtarō’s longstanding obsession—whether drawn to gold, silver, treasures, or the household coffers—one might think this only natural. Yet how unexpected it was that his true anguish lay not in parting from these, but in being separated even briefly from his most precious possession: his wife Oito.

Two rooms removed from the shop front lay a six-tatami central chamber. Its inconspicuous shoji screens were entirely patched with discarded paper, while tatami mats lay buried under a floor-spanning mosaic of handcrafted scrap-paper sheets. A shabby tobacco tray—sturdy despite its crude make—boasted a small tea-kettle-shaped charcoal holder clamped firmly in place. Master Shōtarō sat with an air of outward ease, yet the vigilance in his darting glances betrayed not an ounce of mental respite. Finding no particular cause for reprimand, he seemed somewhat settled; then, as if suddenly remembering, he summoned his wife—who had been sewing in the inner room—seated her before him, and scrutinized her face intently before adopting a dismissive tone:

Oito.

As he spoke, he took a deep drag of his foul tobacco, yet smoked it with such care that not a wisp rose from the ash. Having scrutinized even the trailing smoke wisps with fastidious attention, he showed no inclination to let them escape beyond the eaves. Then, after heaping more ashes over the charcoal balls in the brazier—adjusting it to a barely warm state—he hovered his hands above it with affected elegance while studying her face intently, “As I told you last night, Oito, I must go to Osaka today.” “You know my usual instructions—while I’m away, be especially cautious. You’re not to meet any male whatsoever.” “Even male servants in this house—you’re forbidden from giving them direct orders.” “That’s precisely why we employ maidservants.” “As for business visitors, the shop staff should handle them. If anything’s unclear, simply say I’m absent—that suffices.” “Still, if anyone insists on meeting you privately, memorize their name thoroughly. It’ll prove useful later.” “And another matter—relatives. They presume kinship grants license to intrude during my absence. Henceforth, kin or not, dismiss them immediately.”

“Well, what do you think Uncle’s up to? It’s obvious.” “Same goes for uncles.” Hmm… There was that time Uncle got angry… Hmph—what do I care? Wanting to meet your nephew’s wife when her husband’s away—that’s their mistake. If they don’t like it, they shouldn’t come here—idiots, entertaining another man’s wife while he’s gone! What’s so amusing about that? Everyone knows their place. Yet here I am, fretting over my own wife—Ha! Isn’t that right, Oito?

He stole a glance at his wife’s expression, but when no reply came, he seemed displeased; taking a couple of deliberate drags on his tobacco, he snapped the ash tray shut with a sharp clack to assert control. I won’t allow any exceptions—I mustn’t forget to refuse everything outright. Once you start permitting this one and that one, things inevitably get tangled and our rules get broken because— As for you—a wife’s duty is simply to please her husband. If you try to please others, mistakes are bound to happen because—

Lowering his voice slightly,

Even saying that—truth be told, my father failed because of it.

Hmm—if only the relatives were received poorly, that would be problematic. Hah… The one spouting nonsense. Was there anyone among my relatives who’d come bringing money saying “Here’s a tribute”—as if that’d ever happen. See? What trouble could there possibly be! At best, they merely considered not begging for money as a favor—what was there to worry about? Even if such people dropped by, you’d have to serve them tea at the very least, and the tatami would naturally get damaged. Not noticing that—what a lack of domestic sense you have! Your worries always pointed in the wrong direction—it was exasperating.

“I see. I understand.” “Have you understood? If you have, that’s all that matters.” “And another thing about mealtimes—you never go check on things while I’m away, even though I’ve told you to.” “Since I’m leaving now, no matter how much I hurry back, it’ll be evening—so lunch will be eaten while I’m gone.” “If that happens, they’ll all seize this chance to stuff themselves—so like I always say, you must go to the kitchen then and keep watch by the brazier.” “As for the men—try not to look at their faces. Just watch their hands.” “Even so, you can keep track of portions—don’t mind the women; watch their faces closely.” “If you do that, even those wretches will hold back a bit—they’ll make do with three bowls instead of four.” “With the men there’s nothing to be done—I’ll let them get by with just their hands, Hah…”

He laughed loudly, then dropped to a whisper. If that was done, well, each full portion would differ by one bowl—that was how it worked. If each portion differed by one bowl, he wondered how much rice that would save. He tilted his head and pondered briefly,

Well—ten men and three women… and then there’s that apprentice Chōkichi…

He started to speak but paused to reconsider, then slapped his knee with a smack, "Well, for a child, he sure eats a lot—so I'll count this one as a full portion too. Then the rice... Hmm..." Gradually extending his left hand with fingers folded in calculation before his wife's face, he scrutinized her expression with a seventy-thirty split, "That's right—this makes fourteen people. Let's see how much that would amount to."

Bowing his head smugly as he began calculating, seeming to complete the mental arithmetic in an instant, he kept marveling at himself—

What a genius I am! With this, I'm saving over 4 gō and 6 shaku of rice at once—since... Turning around, Shōtarō respectfully lifted the abacus—his treasured manual akin to the *Six Secret Teachings and Three Strategies*—from the locked cabinet behind his shoulder. Setting it on his lap, he clattered the upper beads into alignment with a decisive flick, cleared his throat with an "Ahem!", then momentarily laid it aside, striking the pose of an instructor preparing to demonstrate.

"Well, let’s roughly estimate three bowls as 1 gō—though our tea bowls are small, everyone’s heaping them sky-high, so..."

And again taking up the abacus—this time holding it in his hand—he looked at his wife’s face, First I place three here—right? Then set fourteen over here—so dividing fourteen by three—well that’s three ones make thirty—carry one three to ten—then three twos make sixty-two—three twos make sixty-two…

He scratched his head,

Since it didn’t divide cleanly—which was inconvenient—but with this method, it should roughly amount to about four gō and six shaku. With a triumphant look that practically declared *How’s that?*, he turned his gaze back to his wife’s face. So then—taking one koku of rice at twelve yen— He resumed click-clacking through his abacus calculations,

It meant a difference of five sen and six rin. "What a genius I am! Now that the firewood's all used up, I probably can't buy another bundle—but for one round of baking, I suppose we can manage with what's here. What a fearsome thing!" No longer content with basking in his own brilliance alone, he pressed her repeatedly for agreement, hoping to elicit even greater admiration from his wife than he himself felt—but what was this? Here stood a demon's wife who fell short of becoming a demon god herself.

This wife, unlike a Kyoto woman, remained utterly indifferent to the ongoing matters, her chin buried in her collar as she pondered some unrelated affair. Though not entirely free from dissatisfaction, Shōtarō—being fundamentally infatuated with his wife—mustered his own composure and laughed hollowly, peering up at her face from below. "Ah... Seems I've managed to upset your mood again, haven't I?" At this provocation, even his wife appeared poised to offer some response—he held his breath momentarily—but as she maintained her silence, he pressed the attack anew.

“What—are you angry again? No need to make such a fearsome face. You’ve always hated when I talk accounts, but this household isn’t mine alone to manage.” “If this fortune thrives, then it’s good for you too—you know how it is.” “But what I just said was merely stating logical reasoning—it’s not like I’m suggesting we’ll actually reduce chores or tally the savings by month-end. I was just talking through possibilities, so as long as you keep that in mind, that’s all I ask.”

His tone shifted to one of self-reproach,

“I was just about to leave now.” “Leaving with that angry face of yours staring at me is more than I can bear—show me a little smile before I go.”

At the same time, the abacus was callously thrust aside. As for the rice savings—instead of that—I wonder what souvenir to bring back. You like Futatsui’s okoshi, but I’d also like to eat Man’s kamaboko. After pondering with exaggerated gravity as though facing a major crisis, Shōtarō clapped his hands with a smack, Alright, I’ll concede—I’ll bring back okoshi since. If by chance I don’t return by dinner, it’s better to save some rice to eat—since food tastes better on an empty stomach.

In any situation, he was a man who never forgot his calculations. Even Oito—when thus placated by her own husband’s efforts, detestable though she found him—could not help feeling pity stir within her breast. At last she parted her heavy lips: “Very well, there’s no need for you to worry at all. Since I won’t cause you any trouble, please go with peace of mind and take your time.” He had meant this to be a magnanimous pronouncement, but her lingering emphasis on “take your time” lodged in his thoughts like a splinter. Shōtarō’s face clouded over with sullen displeasure.

“What’s this about telling me to take my time coming back?” The atmosphere shifted abruptly from a gentle breeze to one threatening thunderclaps overhead at any moment. Though Shōtarō’s eyes blazed with suspicion, Oito—long accustomed to such scenes—had already anticipated his mood and forced a faint smile. “No, when I said ‘take your time,’ I meant your mind shouldn’t fret—but I do want your body back as swiftly as possible, since I’m concerned too.”

Shōtarō had been on the verge of forcing a smile, but deeming it improper to show his white teeth, he deliberately twisted his face into a scowl. That couldn't be right—a wife who rejoiced in her husband's absence spelled trouble for the future. Well, that was all very well—but he wondered if she hadn't had anything else to say.

As Shōtarō’s endless calculations dragged on, in the shopfront, the apprentice Chōkichi let out an enormous yawn born of interminable waiting. When’s Master finally going to Osaka? He had people up at dawn, yet here he still is dawdling—it’s nearly time for the tofu vendor’s rounds! Shōtarō, overhearing this, snapped and redirected his anger,

Chōkichi, come here.

He made him sit before him, "What were you just saying?" "Whether I go now or not's my own business—ain't none of your concern." "While you're wasting breath on that nonsense, get over to the neighbor's and ask what time it is." "And while you're at it, find out when the Osaka train leaves—don't you forget that neither."

He berated and sent him out, then glanced toward the lintel where the pillar clock once hung and muttered as if to himself: “Ah, it really was inconvenient not having a clock. I’d thought selling off unnecessary things for cash would be profitable—good for padding the accounts—so I bundled everything together when I sold them off last time. But times like this made me realize how troublesome it was after all. “But even though the neighbors were in a worse location than our house, they’d presumptuously hung a clock there—so if I just sent someone to ask, it was the same as having one inside. “What a fool—letting seven or eight yen lie idle while putting them to others’ use.”

Even with this, since his wife remained silent and he grew displeased once more, Chōkichi returned and reported that it was nine thirty—at which point he could no longer afford to take his time.

“You got that? Make sure you remember what I just told you.” After layering precaution upon precaution, he finally rose to his feet and took Chōkichi along to where affordable rickshaws could be found; within the modest cloth-wrapped bundle he had the boy carry, there appeared to be a boxed lunch for his noon meal. He set out, glancing back repeatedly at the eaves of his home he was reluctant to leave.

After some time had passed, the apprentice Chōkichi returned, and the gate door rattled. “Hey, Mr. Manager! Just now—” He kept bowing his head, offering nothing but excuses. Though his title was manager, he was still a newcomer not yet a full-fledged veteran; he smirked at Chōkichi’s face. “It seemed there had been a cheap rickshaw available, for he’d left unusually early today. And you—you got some measly five-rin reward for something or other and were ordered to come spy on Ms. Oito again, right? Since the manager’s going to confiscate that ill-gotten money anyway—hand it over right this instant!”

When flattered, two or three young workers who emulated their superiors—chief among them the easygoing Santarō— “Hey Chōkichi, don’t you go blabbing anything careless to the manager now.” “Keep it strictly confidential and report to me.” “Most likely, Master had said something like this.” “Among everyone in the shop, this Santarō here’s the fairest and most handsome, so you’d best keep a tight watch on him, got it?”

“Ah ha…!” As Chōkichi doubled over laughing, another servant grabbed him. “There ain’t no such thing! Santarō ain’t gotta worry—he’s that type. Even if some fool fell for her, Ms. Oito wouldn’t.” “Nah, it’s this Sōshichi here.” “Master said that one’s trouble, didn’t he?” Another chimed in: “Mr. Santarō and Mr. Sōshichi—their smug mugs make ’em too stuck-up! The only one fit to be Ms. Oito’s match is yours truly—ain’t that right, Mr. Chōkichi? Master’s own judgment says so too, don’t it?”

Each of them seemed to harbor some suspicion, and Chōkichi endured the absurdity of their half-joking, half-serious questioning. “Wait, wait—I’ll tell you right now! What Master said was that everyone in the shop, from Santarō and Sōshichi-Jūzō down to the rest…” As soon as he began to speak, each of them puffed up with self-importance, convinced they themselves were surely the focus of concern, and grew all the more eager to hear the rest without delay. Chōkichi, while preparing to flee and putting on an affected voice, “No matter which one you look at—they’re all country-bred and lack the bearing to take over a household. ‘Chōkichi,’ he said, ‘there’s no need to worry.’”

Having tossed out those words—mocking them as fools—by the time the three made to confront him, Chōkichi’s figure had already slipped behind the back door. In his wake erupted uproarious laughter, with the manager’s voice rising prominently among them.

As expected, since Ms. Oito was in a class of her own, it seemed everyone was concerned about her. The master’s anxiety wasn’t unfounded. It was said that his deceased first wife Okatsu-san hadn’t been in a class of her own, yet even so, he had still been concerned about her—which wasn’t unfounded either. “Ah ha… The manager goes praising Ms. Oito as exceptional,” came the group’s jeering voices, “yet turns a blind eye to his own affairs—now isn’t that laughable?”

The clamor of infighting voices grew raucous. Such uproar did not reach the inner quarters of the spacious house. After seeing her husband off, Oito remained confined to a cramped back room—barred even from the kitchen except at mealtimes—and as she sank into solitary brooding, Okoma, the seven-year-old child from his first wife, returned home from school.

“Hey, Mother! I’m home!”

Seeing her obediently take her hand, Oito let slip a lonely smile, "My, that was quite early! Is it already past noon?" "Well, it’s lunchtime." "Then tell Matsu to have your meal served quickly—I’ll be there shortly."

Okoma fidgeted restlessly as if wanting to say something, then— “Mother, won’t you give me some of those grilled mochi things?” “Ah, we don’t say ‘grilled mochi’ this and ‘grilled mochi’ that—young ladies say ‘grilled cakes,’ you know. But we don’t have any here now, so I’ll buy some for you next time.” “No, I know—everyone said there are grilled cakes.”

Who would? At school, Otake-san next door and Oume-san across the way said that since your father grills mochi every day at your place, you must have tons of grilled mochi—so I should ask you for some. Oh, so that’s what they’re saying?

Oito felt bitter and pitiful—then came the realization that her husband’s jealous nature had long been neighborhood gossip fodder. Children who had caught fragments of their parents’ conversations passed them from mouth to mouth, until now even those unaware they slandered their own father were being mocked elsewhere. Whose heart could have wrought such a thing? Even so, resenting my husband is not a woman’s way; though not a speck of wandering desire exists within me, to be doubted is my own failing—ah, what will become of me in the end?—such despairing thoughts consumed her, unknown to Okoma. Due to her stepchild mentality—hoarding what little she had, perhaps mistaking her mother wouldn’t give it—she verged on declaring she needed nothing at all. Tears brimming in her eyes and lips pursed in a pout, her figure darting toward the kitchen was heartrending to behold. Oito chased after her, offered something else instead, and at last managed to placate her.

At five o'clock, Shōtarō returned home. In addition to the promised souvenirs, he had even bought Ogura-ya's hair oil—which Oito always prized—and returned in an uncharacteristically cheerful mood. Having heard reports of the cherry blossoms in bloom, he proposed taking Okoma along to Arashiyama for flower viewing the next day, a fortunate Sunday. This likely stemmed from his relief at Chōkichi's report that today's absence had passed without incident. Though Oito's true heart remained unsettled when addressed with such kindness, the clouds and mist that had risen to the surface vanished as if wiped away, and that night she drifted into peaceful slumber.

Middle

Elsewhere, Arashiyama’s slopes blazed in full bloom—pines threading gaps between cascading cherry blossoms, their verdant green deepening spring’s palette. As far as the eye could see, mountains draped in floral brocade encircled the flower capital; petals mirrored in water, rafts bearing floral names drifting downstream on Ōi River’s currents, carrying spring’s fleeting splendor to lands unknown. Across the river, people’s faces flushed like cherry blossoms even as they continued to call out merrily. The confectionery-peddling old woman pressed her wares with practiced guile; lured by sweetness, some unwittingly loosened their tight-clasped purses. Amidst the varied crowds who had spread their flower-viewing mats, the party from Ōmiya—a husband and wife with their child, maid, and apprentice, five in all—passed through. Oito was usually a caged bird, rarely venturing outside, but spring flower-viewing and autumn mushroom-gathering were Kyoto customs—traditions even the most rigid households observed. Thus Shōtarō had no choice but to send the shop staff out separately as others did and take Oito himself to this flower-viewing excursion. For a woman whose outings were rare—especially since marrying into Ōmiya the previous year—her ceremonial kimono, usually unworn despite its purpose, now found its moment. Oito, still youthful, had adorned herself splendidly for this occasion, her beauty heightened beyond measure. Even in a district unaccustomed to lacking comely women, she astonished passersby: a staggering drunkard squinted his bleary eyes sideways and bellowed “Hey there! Benzaiten herself!” while groups of women whispered “What a stunning wife!” as they glanced back after passing by—their admiration secretly pleasing her. Shōtarō, who ordinarily barred the inner gate to shield her from others’ gazes, today forgot his jealous vigilance and paraded her about ostentatiously.

“Hey Oito, take a look at how beautifully those cherry blossoms’ve bloomed! If we’d come two or three days later, they’d already be startin’ to fall!”

“That’s correct… They usually bloom around the 15th or 16th, but this year they seem to have come a bit earlier, isn’t that so?” “Indeed—where should we rest? Sangenya would be just right, but it’s too crowded there, so let’s find somewhere else.”

This was likely because he disliked the steep tea-house fees. Just then, a dandyish man of twenty-five or six—seated on a stool at one of the tea houses and dressed in a fashionable Yuuki-patterned haori over a lined silk kimono that marked him as a merchant’s heir—called out to Oito with unseemly familiarity the instant he spotted her.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Oito-san. Are you here for flower viewing today?” “What a lovely child! When did you have her?”

With a slight nod to Shōtarō, he put on a friendly demeanor. As he patted Okoma’s head, Shōtarō watched with displeasure, but Oito remained completely oblivious. “Truly, you are Mr. Kōnosuke! I must apologize for failing to recognize you earlier.” “I now reside at the Ōmiya house in Itoyachō, so please do come visit Ms. O-Natsu sometime.”

Though it had been a perfunctory compliment, Shōtarō—owing to his habitual disposition—immediately took notice of this.

“That man’s quite a catch, huh? You seem awfully familiar with him.”

The harbinger of doubt had already been raised, yet 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 as I did.”

“Hmm. That’s all?” “Yes, that’s all there is to it.”

“And yet your face looked suspicious.” “Did something that trivial make you blush? What was that strange smile about—wasn’t it?”

At this excessive remark, Oito too grew slightly irritated— “It’s not like I was blushing for any particular reason. You know how any woman would smile a little when speaking to someone.” “It’s not like I was smiling specifically at him.” Oito snapped back dismissively. From that moment, Shōtarō’s demeanor turned abnormal; their much-anticipated flower viewing was cut short. Their return in a so-called shared carriage became a mere formality. Bearing such unpleasant thoughts, they only clashed without exchanging words. Then, as if by chance, the master flew into a rage—a truly gloomy affair, muttered both the maid and the apprentice.

The next day as well, throughout the entire day, Shōtarō did not speak a single word to Oito; but for her, such behavior held no novelty—she simply thought the master’s ailment had flared up again and paid it little mind. Though she hadn’t gone so far as to suspect that yesterday’s encounter with Kōnosuke weighed on his mind, she spent the day as though treading on thin ice, and as the hours passed uneventfully, it was around ten o’clock when they prepared to retire for the night.

"Sir, the mail has arrived."

When the maid Ume brought it, Shōtarō took it in hand, pretended not to look at it, and wordlessly flung it toward Oito. Oito, seeing the letter addressed to “Madam Oito of Ōmiya,” nodded in acknowledgment and opened it—only to find it had been sent by Natsu, the sister of Kōnosuke whom she’d met the day before. It was merely scribbled off in a casual manner with no particular business—having heard from her brother yesterday about you, it was simply out of overwhelming nostalgia. However, as it was a letter from a friend she hadn’t heard from in ages, Oito found herself gazing at it repeatedly—when suddenly Shōtarō, who had been staring at her with terrifying eyes since earlier,

Oito, where is that letter from?

Though stating that the letter came from the sister of the person she had met yesterday would have been simple enough, the man who had not spoken since the previous night now bore a fierce interrogative look—and as she suddenly realized that today’s ill humor might also stem from that very encounter, she felt vaguely that concealment might be the safer course.

“It is a letter from a friend’s household.” Hmm. The sister of yesterday’s man?

“No.” The arrow she had loosed had already struck true—how could Shōtarō, ever vigilant in such matters, possibly overlook the name “Natsu” written on that envelope, a name he had heard just yesterday? _Hmm. That must be it, then._ “It was indeed true.”

Compelled to give a definite answer, Oito froze as Shōtarō erupted in rage and stood— “Don’t you dare hide things from your husband!” Before she could react, he kicked her shoulder and sent her sprawling. Deaf to her pleas, he pummeled her with unrestrained force. “A faithless wretch like you—I can’t keep you in this house another moment! Get out this instant!” Shōtarō’s face twisted with fury—though such outbursts were commonplace—yet Oito, branded with infidelity, could not remain silent even while recognizing his irrationality. Desperately ducking under her husband’s swinging fist,

“P-Please, just read the letter yourself!” “I-I didn’t hide it with any ill intent!” “I-I was just so afraid of your suspicion…”

“What did you say? That *I’m* distrustful—don’t you dare spew such filth!” His rage intensified to frenzy, now wielding a thick fire iron in his wild strikes. “Why won’t you leave? Can’t go out? Think I’ll keep you here if you refuse?” The violent lunge and chaos of chasing her through the ten-mat room—despite the mansion’s sprawl, the kitchen staff remained oblivious at first—until three maids finally came running at the deafening commotion,

“M-Master, please wait! Ms. Oito, hurry and apologize! Please, Master—Master!” The maids timidly attempted to restrain him, but even Shōtarō’s violence surpassed what mere women could withstand; terrified of being struck by stray blows, they rushed to the shop to rouse the young men. Yet those youths, long accustomed to such daily strife, refused to emerge—for showing their faces would only further provoke the master’s wrath—and so they all feigned sleep, never rising from their beds. Oito, now in mortal peril, fled headlong toward the front without a moment’s hesitation—and seeing this, Shōtarō personally slid the bolt into place,

Anyone and everyone who let Oito inside without permission would face due punishment.

After Shōtarō stormed off, ranting and raving, the household fell into a deathly silence—not a sound stirred within. The many servants, perhaps knowing their master’s usual temperament, showed no sign of rushing to open it. Oito stood for a time in desolate silence beneath the eaves, but then—ill-timed as ever—a night patrolman happened by, staring intently at her face and repeatedly angling his lantern’s light toward her, its glint illuminating her figure as he passed. Mortified at the thought of being questioned and shamed beyond shame, she took two or three aimless steps forward, yet found herself with nowhere to turn.

The matchmaker’s house was not far, but being strangers despite their matchmaking role made exposing her shame too distressing. Returning to her parents’ home would only complicate matters—and she could never be readmitted in her current state—Oh! There it was! Her uncle’s house, so conveniently near. She would go there and throw herself on his mercy. Clad in everyday clothes under night’s cover, she knocked relentlessly at the stubborn door. The uncle showed momentary surprise, but dismissed it as typical youthful drama unworthy of serious attention.

“Ha… Men’ll always say ‘Get out!’ when they’re riled—but you’re daft to actually go.” “If you’d just apologized and gone to bed, he’d have cooled off by mornin’.” “Let some fool stick their nose in, and a triflin’ spat blooms into a proper mess.” “Ain’t no skin off my back to smooth things over, but it’ll settle cleaner if you face him alone.” “Couples what get on *too* sweet-like end up scrappin’—best keep your fondness middlin’, I say…”

When her uncle dismissed the matter so casually, exposing her tear-streamed face felt humiliating—yet Oito couldn’t dismiss it as a mere trifle herself. Even if she were to confess everything plainly, she knew that doing so would disgrace her husband despite their uncle-niece bond, leaving her no recourse but silence. She absorbed all blame into herself alone: “I understand your words may hold truth—but I must tell you, Uncle, my husband’s fury tonight surpasses all ordinary bounds. This is no mere quarrel—though his anger at my clumsiness isn’t unwarranted—but I’ll shoulder every fault myself. Please, show me mercy and intercede with him.”

Her voice trembling as she pleaded—since this could hardly be considered a trivial matter—the uncle finally relented, “In that case, I’ll take ya there meself. Oh—it’s past twelve already. “Could let ya stay a night here, sure—but even bein’ my nephew’s wife, yer still another man’s woman. Can’t have ya under my roof without his say-so. Let’s go now.” As he tucked his tobacco pouch into his obi and stood, Oito finally gathered her strength. Praying this would settle things yet still apprehensive, she followed along. At her uncle’s call, the gate swung open without delay—yet Oito, though this was her own home, cowered timidly behind her uncle’s back, daunted by the high threshold. But her dread proved baseless, for Shōtarō’s earlier fury had melted away, his face now wearing an expression of guileless innocence.

“My, my, Uncle—I must apologize for disturbing you so late at night. To think Oito’s simple honesty led her all the way to your doorstep…” “Truly, she is a hopeless woman.” “It was just a bit of scolding.” In a situation that rendered words unnecessary, the uncle—as if silently declaring *I knew it*—glanced at Oito with a bitter smile, “I had a feeling it was something like that, but since Oito was crying and begging, I had no choice but to come along.” “But really—enough with your lovers’ quarrels. Don’t go dragging others into them.”

The uncle, who had long disapproved of Shōtarō’s conduct, added a few cutting remarks of his own before leaving in evident disgust. Left behind, Oito felt humiliated before her uncle yet took greatest relief in her husband’s unexpectedly calm demeanor—though this proved but a fleeting facade for the uncle’s benefit. Once the uncle departed, Shōtarō resumed his relentless pressure, “Why did you decide to flee to an uncle you’re not even close with?” “Unless you’ve gotten close with your uncle during my absence?”

Although he did not resort to physical violence again, the flames of his anger shifted toward the uncle, tormenting him throughout the night.

*** Lower ***

After this incident, Shōtarō grew even stricter in monitoring Oito during his brief outings. He interrogated shop clerks and maids—Had any men visited in his absence? Had any mail arrived for Oito from anywhere?—yet even this scrutiny failed to satisfy him. Convinced the adults might be swayed by Oito’s pleas and deceive him, he enlisted Chōkichi and Okoma as his sole spies, finding fleeting solace in their surveillance—until one ill-fated day when, during his absence, a special messenger arrived by rickshaw from Oito’s family: her mother had suddenly fallen gravely ill, and she was to return home immediately via the same carriage. Oito hesitated, knowing her husband’s usual temperament would disapprove of her leaving home during his absence—even for her mother’s illness—but as she waited, his return grew later and later until she could endure it no longer. Let whatever becomes of me be as it may, she resolved with uncharacteristic boldness, nothing like her usual gentleness. The regret of missing my mother’s final moments would haunt me all my life. Leaving thorough apologies for her husband with the maid, she fled as if her heart had taken wing. Shōtarō, having returned to find Oito absent, grew suspicious—

"What’s this—where’s Oito? What kind of wife fails to greet her husband’s return!" With his terrifying scowl promising punishment for whoever met his gaze first, the three maids deferred to one another until finally thrusting their youngest forward. "Um... A messenger came earlier from her family home." "Where from?" "They said it was her mother’s illness." Hmph—convenient how people trot out parental ailments when cornered. A mother’s sickness makes such a handy excuse. "So Oito left?"

“Um, I apologize for leaving during your absence, but as it was an urgent matter of sudden illness, she asked me to convey her thorough apologies.”

“So then—did she take something like a cloth bundle?” “No, she didn’t take anything at all—she only changed into her haori.” “Hmm.” While he was lost in thought, the maid—feeling as though she had escaped the dragon’s maw—hurried down toward the kitchen, where the three craned their necks in unison, peering anxiously to see how their master was faring.

Shōtarō soon stood up abruptly, entered Oito’s room, and proceeded to inspect the dresser drawers, the contents of the writing box, and even the mirror stand’s compartments. “Hmm… It doesn’t seem she took anything out after all. Then it really must be true after all. Fine—I’ll go check it out myself—Chōkichi, call a rickshaw!” Startled by this uncharacteristic decisiveness, Chōkichi— “Um, is it a rickshaw? How much should I agree to pay?”

“Fool! No matter the cost—just bring a sturdy one!” For the first time since Ōmiya’s founding was its merchant-house rickshaw summoned; without even inquiring about fare fluctuations, he boarded it with nothing but urgency, barking “Hurry!” as they sped off. Oito’s family home belonged to a silk merchant near Rokaku—a venerable old house renowned for its timeworn shop curtain, though its broad storefront belied its true state: shelves rattled loosely in the shop, and the household’s circumstances proved far humbler than appearances suggested. Her mother being the birth daughter of the house, while her current father Jūbei was the second man to marry into the family—making him Oito’s stepfather—she had always been reticent in all matters. Having never once confided in her parents about the miseries endured since wedding into Ōmiya, they simply called her fortunate, rejoicing to have settled her into a house wealthier than their own. Shōtarō—determined to discipline Oito later regardless of the accusation’s truth, unsatisfied with mere tearful apologies—had even rehearsed a three-and-a-half-line divorce draft in his mind before leaping down from the rickshaw. Yet arriving to find Oito’s home in dire straits—two doctor’s carriages parked at the gate, the household hushed in solemnity—the tension that had stiffened his bearing slackened. Unconsciously softening his footsteps, he requested guidance to the inner room. In the adjacent chamber, he could hear the master and doctor conversing in low voices—voices faint yet sharp enough to pierce his ears—

“It appears quite grave indeed. I pray it isn’t something dire?” The master inquired with furrowed brows; the physician with his finely groomed mustache tilted his head slightly. “Well... I’m afraid it remains too early to make any definitive pronouncement.” “For now, you must exercise the utmost caution over these next two days.” Hearing this exchange, even Shōtarō found himself unable to demand Oito’s presence. Suddenly affecting concern himself—having performed the courtesies of a sympathetic visitor and bid farewell to the physician—he turned toward Jūbei with an obsequious bow,

"What a troubling matter this is. Having heard you sent for Oito during my absence, I came immediately to pay my respects—though I must apologize for arriving without bringing any gifts. How is she doing now?" When Shōtarō expressed apparent concern, Jūbei too seemed pleased. "Oh, I must apologize for summoning her while you were away." "But given the situation you've just heard—where things remain uncertain—if by chance she were to miss her mother's final moments, forgive me, but even I couldn't bear it. Both her mother and Oito would only suffer more." "Therefore, I hope you won't mind letting me keep Oito here for two or three days?"

When the matter was laid out so plainly, he couldn’t bring himself to refuse—suppressing the feeling that he’d stirred a bush and roused a snake. “Yes, yes—perfectly acceptable. “I’ll manage matters at home. Please set your mind at ease and let her stay.” Wanting even a glimpse of Oito’s face, he called her forth and—mindful of his father-in-law’s presence—assumed an air of propriety. “Then tend to her for two or three days. Don’t trouble yourself about the house.” For all his cruelty, even he seemed touched by some vestige of human decency. Having performed these courtesies and returned home, Shōtarō brooded: *A stepfather for her father—and that doctor cuts too fine a figure*. Fresh delusions sprouted from his tormented mind until sleep eluded him entirely. Pacing through the lonely night in restless anxiety until dawn broke at last, he returned under pretense of visiting—bearing a box of Yoshino arrowroot starch received during last summer’s gift exchanges—ostensibly to oversee his wife’s conduct. Unaware of his true purpose, her mother rejoiced:

“Ah, until this very moment, I had no idea Mr. Shōtarō was such a kind person.” “With all his duties, yet he still came to visit… You must cherish Mr. Shōtarō so he’ll never cast you aside. Such a kind man is irreplaceable. Now I can die with my heart doubly at ease about you.” Though Oito did not wholly believe her mother’s words, she felt profoundly grateful for this parental love—a love that, even in its final moments, dwelled not on itself but solely on the child. *Ah, Mother knows nothing of the truth,* she thought, *yet her peace of mind will at least become my last memory of her.* After Mother’s passing, there would be no one to confide in—Father, bound by duty, could not be approached. But for one now departing this world, withholding all troubles was the greatest act of filial piety. And so, she forced herself to wear a bright expression.

"That is correct—he is truly a kind person, and I am quite fortunate." "Please don’t worry about anything, Mother…" Though Oito spoke nonchalantly, her heart churned as if being clawed apart. Yet Shōtarō showed no intention of leaving promptly; while he lingered intrusively, Oito maintained proper courtesy before her parents. Her heart stayed fixed at her mother’s bedside, yet her duties demanded she split one body into two—poignantly dividing her spirit between obligations.

Thus, Shōtarō returned each night only to come again by day. Three mornings later—a day behind the doctor’s prognosis—the mother, blissfully unaware, departed peacefully for the Pure Land. Oito, as though only now realizing the tragedy of her circumstances, writhed in silent grief—*Ah, why did Mother not take this worthless me with her?*—her body trembling with stifled sobs. Beside her, Shōtarō feigned shared tears in a hollow attempt at consolation, yet his presence only deepened her sorrow. *If only he were not such a man…* Oito’s lament swelled anew.

Unaware, Shōtarō acted as though the matter had already been settled with this,

“Oito will be leaving tomorrow, I suppose.” His pressing demands were contemptible—*Ah, I should never have become a man’s wife*—Oito felt this truth seep into her marrow.

She was permitted only a single night’s vigil. The next morning, Shōtarō returned home once to change his clothes and such, came back with a thirty-sen condolence offering—its paper wrapping grand in appearance alone, the contents unsuitably meager for his station—which he reverently placed before the altar. In the afternoon, he attended the funeral procession alongside Oito, though in truth, it was unclear whose funeral he had come to attend. The eyes were focused solely on Oito, who was interacting with various relatives, rather than on the deceased’s coffin. After impatiently waiting for the proceedings to conclude, Shōtarō immediately took her back home and let out a sigh of relief—yet Oito’s expression grew only more somber. As the first and second seven-day memorials passed, Oito—bound by her role as another’s wife—lamented that even heartfelt devotion lay beyond her control. In meager solace, she lit an extra candle at her husband’s household altar for her mother’s repose and poured one more offering of water, finding fleeting comfort in these small acts. Though she did not divert her mind to other matters, Shōtarō took this as insincerity,

“Oito, quit moping around so much—come over here and cheer up a bit.” “It’s not as though you’ve misread anything—you’d have to part with your parents eventually anyway.” Even Shōtarō’s ostensibly comforting words struck Oito as gratingly insincere, so she responded with terse aloofness—but Shōtarō, ever prone to suspicion, scrutinized her every mannerism until he twisted his reasoning to conclude she was deliberately shunning him. Oito’s heart had been wrung dry of tears, her eyes now sharpening their vigilance over both domestic and external spaces.

Amidst tears, the days passed until at last the mourning period ended. Oito’s father came to Ōmiya to pay his respects, but on this day too, ill-timed as ever, Shōtarō was away from home. Though house rules forbade her from meeting men, he was her father—or rather, since her mother’s passing, a stepfather all the more dear to her—and so Oito, heedless of others’ knowledge, let down her guard and led him into the inner rooms for a brief conversation. When Shōtarō learned of this, his fury knew no bounds— Even if he’s her father, aren’t they fundamentally strangers? While Mother was alive, that might’ve been one thing—but once she’s dead, they’re complete strangers. What do you think you’re doing, letting him into the inner rooms in my absence? I just can’t make sense of it.

Overwhelmed by his extreme suspicion—*if he doubted me this much*, she thought, *then let things take their course*—Oito collapsed wordlessly onto the floor. Shōtarō pressed on again, "Why won’t you apologize for what you did wrong? 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 brazen words are these you force me to hear?"

From then on, even during brief outings, he confined Oito to the storehouse and kept the key fastened at his own waist. Even three daily meals were delivered through the window, and people all began to whisper that this was madness. Even so, Oito did not stray from the path of womanly virtue—or so it was said—or perhaps she had resigned herself to a world devoid of savor, yet she made no effort to escape her suffering of her own accord. Though Oito resigned herself to Shōtarō’s tyranny—no longer regarding her body as her own—even a saint cannot escape earthly desires while breath remains. How much more so for a woman confined to a cramped storehouse? Her plight seemed pitiful and wretched: a husband’s excessive “affection” had curdled into something monstrous—a demon’s cruelty or serpent’s malice—until her tangled resentments and laments finally coalesced into what the world calls melancholy. Day by day, as her body grew emaciated and her complexion paled, the maids felt such compassion for her—

“My, your complexion these days—how pale it’s become, don’t you think?” “That’s only natural—why not escape back to your parents’ home, don’t you think?” “We’ve endured this out of pity for you, but if it comes to that point, we’ll take our leave.”

As the maids inched forward on their knees and whispered, Oito restrained them with her weakened hand and swallowed back her tears,

“No, no—a woman’s place is to die in the household she marries into, no matter what hardships may come,” Mother always told me. Even if I were to return home for some reason, I’d be branded a cast-off wife for life, forced to live in shame. I intend to endure to the end… But if the outcome is the same either way, better to die sooner rather than later… Unintentionally uttering that final phrase—which Shōtarō overheard, leaving him profoundly shaken—he had, out of what initially seemed excessive affection, even gone so far as to consider summoning a doctor, an unprecedented act for him. Yet after much deliberation, he settled on an elderly Chinese-style physician of unceremonious demeanor. Unsurprisingly, no visible improvement followed. As Oito weakened day by day, even Shōtarō could not help but pity her—yet upon learning this aged doctor had visited during his absence, suspicion gnawed at him anew, and he began taking subtle jabs at her. Having instructed the innocent Okoma, he did not let her leave his side when the doctor came. Shōtarō thoroughly interrogated even what expression Oito had worn and what words the doctor had spoken. Oito found herself burdened with yet another hardship, growing ever more convinced of her own hopelessness; she resigned herself to it and could only await death in desolation. The servants, imagining her pitiable state, spread whispers of “How tragic, how tragic” outside, until the matter grew with each retelling, startling even Oito’s father, Jūbei, who was caught unawares.

Jūbei could not turn a deaf ear to his daughter’s plight—however she had been married off, he could not lay claim to her very life. And yet Oito—Oito herself—kept me, her duty-bound father, at arm’s length. Why did she not inform me of such a grave matter? Ah, how cold and distant! Though Oito herself must be aware of this, people were whispering that since her parents’ home remained bound by duty, she could not easily return. Very well—he resolved to summon Oito, thoroughly investigate the truth of the matter, and if the rumors proved true, forcibly retrieve her by any means necessary, lest he fail to uphold his duty to his deceased wife. Having steeled his resolve alone, he used the occasion as a pretext to call for her.

Fortunately, this summons occurred while Shōtarō was at home; though reluctantly, he permitted it and assigned Okoma and Chōkichi to accompany her as watchers. Oito returned to her parental home in Rokkaku. Now informed that her stepfather had heard certain rumors and summoned her to verify their truth, Oito felt her heart pound violently—yet facing his thoroughly resolved manner, she found herself unable to respond readily. She bowed her head in contemplation, but tears betraying her innermost self fell despite her efforts, and she began disclosing everything to her stepfather. Yet however resolved she might be, her obstinate husband would never consent to divorce after mere formalities. Rather than rashly taking action and inviting further misery upon herself, she resolved to consider herself as nothing—if she did not stray from the path of womanly virtue, that might yet bring some measure of peace—and thus forcibly suppressed her surging emotions.

"No—there are no such matters," she deflected with practiced dignity. "People will always gossip about unpleasant things." Though she had meant to dismiss his concerns with proper composure, her tears fell in relentless droplets—and at Oito’s startled expression, her stepfather, who had been watching her intently since earlier, could no longer restrain himself; his raised voice thickened with emotion.

“O-Oito... you—don’t shut me out!” Oito’s heart tore at this; she burst into tears while Jūbei crossed his arms with a low grunt, sinking into thought. With infinite emotions swirling in their chests yet neither able to voice a word, Okoma and Chōkichi—who had been obliviously playing on the veranda—peered stealthily through the shoji screen’s gap amid the desolate silence. At length, Oito gradually composed herself, drying her tears as she seemed to open up for the first time. Jūbei’s stern expression likewise softened, and they appeared to hold a somber discussion. Thereafter, it was decided Oito would remain at her parents’ home temporarily, whereupon Jūbei wrote a letter to Shōtarō and entrusted it to Okoma and Chōkichi before sending only these two back by carriage.

How great must Shōtarō’s fury have been? Anticipating that Shōtarō would come storming over at any moment, Jūbei rushed to the matchmakers and formally opened divorce negotiations. Even Shōtarō found himself momentarily cowed by this, pausing to reflect on his own conduct—yet true to such a man’s nature, his lingering attachment and jealousy only burned fiercer within him. *You damned Oito! You’ve turned against me!* he seethed. *You bald-headed Jūbei! Now that your wife is dead and you’re lonely, you’re scheming to steal mine!* Forgetting how his own actions had driven Oito away and provoked Jūbei’s wrath, he cursed only the two of them in his rage.

Yet driven by lingering attachment, he sought to entice Oito back—writing letter after letter urging her to return as soon as possible, unable to bear his loneliness—but how could Jūbei ever hand over a daughter bound by duty to such a man again? In his excessive worry that once the divorce was finalized, she might be married off to a better match, he even confiscated these [letters] and never showed them to Oito—so she remained completely unaware of any of this. Yet Oito felt no lingering attachment to Shōtarō. Having been bound until now solely to the path of womanly virtue, she resolved henceforth to entrust everything to her father’s judgment—determined that no matter what became of her, she would not remarry but live out her days in chaste solitude, keeping her body pure.

Unaware, Shōtarō—though he had sent numerous letters himself—grew utterly convinced of her change of heart when not even the faintest reply came, and driven by jealousy that made him forget his own standing entirely, he went to Oito’s vicinity every night to spy on her circumstances.

One night, Jūbei sat knee-to-knee with Oito, their voices low in conversation— “This is truly troublesome—Shōtarō isn’t acting like a man at all! To have a divorce petition come from the wife’s family... Trying to divorce him is like wrestling with vinegared konjac!” “But no matter what, I will see this divorce through.” “If you still had lingering feelings for him, that would be one thing—but I can’t fulfill my duty by letting you ruin yourself by remaining faithful to a man you despise.” “Even if you’re prepared for this, society will censure me for it.”

Shōtarō—who had concealed himself at the familiar back door—already found the sight of the two shadows pressed intimately against the shoji screen unbearable. But upon hearing these words, he snapped into rage, his body lurching forward: *You senile old fool—know your place!* Lunging in with wild blows, he kicked over the brazier and hurled the kettle. Caught off guard, Jūbei recoiled with injuries—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—*Me—me—*—pressing her body against Shōtarō’s thrashing form and clinging desperately with a voice gone hoarse. Just then, a couple of shop workers who had heard the commotion mistook it for a rustling thief and quailed in fear—yet some hot-blooded youths, grabbing handy sticks, arrived intending to make a heroic name for themselves. But upon realizing their opponent was none other than Shōtarō, they hesitated to advance. Still, unable to abandon their master in peril, they somehow managed to seize and restrain him. In that instant—whether Shōtarō had gone mad or not—none of his former vigor remained. He stood in a daze, his eyes darting wildly around the room.

In that critical moment, Jūbei could scarcely comprehend how to address Shōtarō’s transgression—so utterly beyond pardon—yet regardless, making a spectacle with his daughter’s husband would only bring mutual disgrace. Pressing a hand to his chest, he resolved to suppress the affair, binding the servants to silence through warnings and having Shōtarō escorted home. Thereafter, at the mental hospital in Iwakura, there came to swell their ranks a patient proclaimed as master of an affluent household—his wife, a woman of beauty who seemed indeed to be such, accompanied by a girl of some seven years who visited ceaselessly to tend him with such body-breaking solicitude that none who witnessed it could refrain from pitying her—or so the tale went.

(*Bungei Kurabu* [Literary Club], January 1897)