Pathway to Japanese Literature

Speaking of personal matters in such places has always been what I dislike most.
Whatever reasons there may have been, no matter who tried to persuade me or how, I have persisted in that resolve to this day.
Therefore, even in the form of a novel, using "my" personal affairs as material—whether that might be the mainstream of modern literature or not—was something I stubbornly refused to accept.

However, last year I encountered my mother’s death, and this year I lost my wife; my life was violently shaken, and I was made acutely aware that the existence of what we call 'home' is undeniably connected to my entire being.
That will eventually influence my future work and even alter my perspective on the world to such an extent, I believe.
The "personal matter" I must now speak of with some courage concerns not merely myself as an individual, but rather constitutes a problem common to all people—indeed, it should contain various facts that those born and raised in Japan during this era will equally experience through their own bodies, or are likely to experience.

Now, since my mother had passed away at the venerable age of seventy-seven—a natural order of things, so to speak—it did not bring any particularly extraordinary shock; however, my wife, after fifteen years of marriage and six months confined to her sickbed, ended her brief forty-year life a mere three days after I received the doctor’s grave prognosis.

When considering solely the fate called "death"—though its meaning might differ significantly depending on how one dies—this was no time for anyone to idly lament the death of someone close to them.
Therefore, I certainly did not have the slightest intention of grieving my wife’s death or expressing that sorrow to others.

I, as an ordinary husband, came to realize for the first time upon her death the full picture of what a 'wife' truly was, and with astonishment found myself recalling her daily life from when she had been alive.
What minutely awakened my memories were fragments of diary-style notebooks that my wife seemed to have jotted down from time to time as the mood struck her.
Of course, these were not of a nature to be made public—indeed, I perceived she had not even wished them to be read by me—but they had accidentally come before my eyes.
As the wife of a writer, as the housewife of a household with many dependents, and as the mother of two daughters, one could vividly discern through her hastily written words what burdens she had borne, what doubts she had harbored, and what worries she had carried.
And this impression not only stirred my personal emotions but resonated as something far broader and more solemn—I could not help but feel this way.

Contrary to how her pre-marriage diary had been maintained with meticulous detail and care, the fact that after marriage it came to be recorded only sporadically—and even then merely as personal memos—struck me as entirely understandable.

In this way, using my wife's diary as a guide, I began contemplating the life of one woman.

As I contrasted the emptiness within myself and my household following my wife’s funeral with the growing daily intensity with which the significance of her existence impressed itself upon my heart, I came to believe that through her death as a catalyst, there was something I must say to the Japanese women living through this grave era.

We were, so to speak, among those who married late.
My wife was twenty-six and I thirty-seven.
I have long maintained that the value of marriage lies in the weight of shared history forged by two people.
Consequently, one fundamental condition for making spouses truly marital partners is their having lived together many years—particularly when their post-wedding life experiences prove richer than those preceding marriage.
In our domestic life—myself aside—what I believe preoccupied my wife most was her desire to swiftly establish a shared manner of living.
This stemmed from our discovery upon cohabiting that each had cultivated student-like preferences and habits under the banner of 'freedom,' which we unconsciously sought to impose upon one another.
It was she who recognized this untenable tendency and endeavored early on to implement what might plainly be called the true spirit of 'the husband leads, the wife follows.'

The social trends from late Taisho to early Showa profoundly shook women's ideological positions.
What might be called the female student mentality of that time appears, when viewed from today, to have considerable distinctiveness.
Not only were concepts like women’s liberation and self-awareness fervently advocated, but numerous concrete examples also emerged as social phenomena.
While Ibsen’s "A Doll’s House" gained momentum as something that could be perceived as depicting Japanese domestic affairs, and setting aside how the women’s suffrage movement greatly gathered comrades while arguments for birth control and advocacy for companionate marriage became topics of widespread discussion—women’s higher education began steadily spreading regardless of public opinion’s approval or disapproval, and Tokyo Imperial University finally established a system for female auditors.

Even women could not remain indifferent to the spread of leftist ideologies; moreover, they found themselves unable to ignore the propaganda of Americanism—such was the state of affairs.

In my wife's premarital diary, I clearly saw the spiritual history of a Japanese woman who had grown up amidst such an atmosphere.

Something within her innate disposition could not ride the wave of this era, and yet she sought to move forward with hazy dreams. There, a split between reason and emotion was not entirely absent. However, I think there existed even more so a landscape of mental life peculiar to a certain kind of girl—one interwoven with reality and fantasy.

She continued her student life until the age of twenty-four; of course, beyond the era’s influence, this was also related to her residence in Hongō Nishikata-chō, and there were certainly suggestions from close friends.
However, more than anything, I believe the primary cause lies in the fact that she came to Tokyo from a rural town in San'in with her parents and lived a modest life as a migrant amidst unfamiliar surroundings.
She probably wanted to firmly secure within herself that which she could rely on.
Rather than loving scholarship itself, it might be said that developing an affinity for learning was her true aspiration.

I am convinced that what saved her from the extremism and superficiality of so-called intellectual women was the honest and upright character instilled by her parents.

I often observed how her self-respect manifested itself.
It may be a somewhat uncharitable view, but she possessed a self-respect that never led her to feign modesty or thoughtlessly boast about herself.
She absolutely never treated people differently based on social status or hierarchy, and this was evident in the consistent practice of addressing even the maids with 'san'.
Even toward me, her husband, she used more polite language than many wives in society; this too appeared to be an effort to maintain dignity as a woman through such conduct.

Now, there were many things among household chores that greatly injured her self-respect.
It was not that performing those tasks was such, but that being unable to perform them well was such.
She often made excuses about not being dexterous with her hands, but more than that, it was because she had never received training in such work during her girlhood.

The notion that failing to handle such matters well would not bring particular dishonor might have existed at the start of our marriage, but as she gradually came to realize this was not so, she appeared intensely vexed—though showing no outward sign—with her desperate efforts making this palpable.
Moreover, I would sometimes interject from the sidelines about such simple tasks—things any woman could manage with her eyes closed—as she toiled away frantically.
If it had merely been teasing, that would have been tolerable—but there was something of a reprimand in it.
Indeed, there were even moments when it turned sarcastic.
I imagine it must have been bitter. Yet this alone she had recorded in her diary as words of profound regret.

The fact that she was no longer by my side now clearly taught me that she had in fact done everything for my sake and for the daughters' sake.

After she collapsed into bed, we members of the family had endured no small inconvenience; yet merely through her continued presence there—without consultation or instruction, simply seeing her form and sensing her spirit—the 'house' had sufficiently maintained its function.
However, her death dealt not just life's end but an unfathomable blow—what one might call permanent silence—to this 'house'.
I sat before my two young daughters gathering ephemeral traces of their mother's countenance and quietly began imparting words—

“You must become the kind of daughters your mother wished you to be.”
“That is your duty to your mother.”

I was able to say such things without a shred of unease.

At the end of last year, she had already been showing considerable fatigue and developed a severe cold that left her coughing persistently, but on that December 8th, as she looked up at me rising to approach the radio, she said in a somewhat excited tone, “It has finally begun.
“You should listen to the radio!”

By February, she could no longer rise from bed.
When she heard the report about the Prince of Wales being sunk in the Malayan Sea, she shed tears.

No matter how high her fever ran, she would not rest unless she personally reviewed the newspaper—a fact the nurse later confessed.
Because I had been preventing her.
On the very day she breathed her last, I silently watched as she maneuvered her numb hands with visible effort, completed her morning toilette, and swept her eyes across the newspaper's front page.

The glorious news of the Solomon Naval Battle reached her upon her deathbed.

On the day of the fiftieth-day memorial service, I absently gazed at the garden under the autumn sun through the wide-open window while waiting alone in my study for relatives to gather.
Uncharacteristically, something like a poem came into being of its own accord.

Ebisu's
The day we revered as one of lofty divine majesty,
Left without waiting
Alas, my wife
My wife has already been gone fifty days.

Of osmanthus
The fragrant garden too resembles wilderness

I felt as though there was nothing left to write, but when I turned the pages of the diary, more things I wanted to say might yet emerge.

September 16, 1921

Today is Mid-Autumn Festival.

By the time supper ended, the moon had fully risen.
Gray-silver clouds tinged with yellow light drifted across the sky.
The moon was round—naturally—and shone bright.
Yet one couldn't call it polished.
Occasionally clouds would pass over it.
I found myself wanting to pray somehow.
Silently, I pressed my palms together.
Mother laughed at me for praying without even washing my hands.
Feeling observed made me self-conscious, yet that urge to pray suffused my entire being with peculiarity.
I washed my hands.
I rinsed my mouth.
Then I clasped them again at the back door.

I stared at the moon.

I did not know what I wanted to pray for.

As I pondered,

"Please may you remain forever young.
Please may you live strongly.
Please may the bud of art within me bloom forth grandly and vibrantly."

I repeated them under my breath.

But I knew that what I wanted to pray for—what I most wanted to pray for—was not these things.

But what that was, I was ultimately unable to grasp.

I felt lonely.

Past midnight.

What loneliness this is.
From now on—no, from this childhood spanning nineteen years and eleven months—is it truly acceptable to feel so lonely?
There's no good or bad about it.
It can't be helped—I'm lonely.

July 27, 1942

A day when mighty forces part and stir the heart; I stand transfixed beneath skies that scorch the garden whole.

Night, moonlight.

July 28, 1942

The leaves of the trees strangely transformed into yellow flowers when the clouds parted before the dawn sun.

His face, relieved after quitting the Imperial Rule Assistance Association.

You've worked so hard.
And I'm sorry that I was like this and couldn't do anything.
I want to let you rest undisturbed.
If there are any sore spots, I want to rub them for you.
Yet it's he who stays home tending to every detail.
I never knew until now how immediate the phrase "for the country" could feel.
Somehow—pride and relief.
But I too am weary.

July 29

The daughters went to relatives, received miso buns, and returned; how nostalgic the past feels.

Daughters—we who were smaller than you in that schoolhouse eating miso buns.

Hot.
The tropical fish in the glass bowl were enviable.

After dinner, while chewing a cold apple, I was suddenly assailed by intense doubts.
In such a world—might a woman like myself be the most useless of all? Clumsy even in caring for husband and children toward such a society, a woman lacking proper upbringing despite youthful hardships.

Was my love something that brought happiness to my husband?

July 30

Moxibustion being perhaps something slightly comical, I find myself unable to take this illness seriously.

July 31

Our neighbor Noguchi-san was in critical condition.
Erinko and the others were asked by that aunt to look after Tatsu-chan.

When I was worrying about the children’s swimsuits or giving various instructions to the maid about the patient’s meals, suddenly “work” returned to his mind. Abruptly, he awakened as if from a dream and lost his composure.

When he took care of the family, his attention was meticulous to the extreme, and because of this, it even evoked something pitiful. How I wished he could leave home and the city even for just a day or two, to idle about and indulge in whatever thoughts he liked—yet when he was actually away, I found myself anxious after all.

Will that "moment" come suddenly? I want to convey to him—if only through my eyes—the feeling of that "moment."

August 1

Mariko-san tailored Shanghai-patterned yukata fabric and brought it over for us.
Yachts and buoys were depicted on it.
She said it was meant to let me savor at least the feeling of having gone to the sea.
I'm about to cry again.

While recalling the full sail dimly floating in the dawn-hazed Kitan Strait,

The exhilaration of a motorboat cutting through waves pure white—how many years has it been since I knew such feeling?

I think of Tahiti as painted by Gauguin—if I gaze upon the ships adorning this yukata.

The white sails snap in the wind—come now, little boat, bear away my dreams.

August 11

White clouds veil the sky, swelling and surging; gazing upon them all day, never sated.

While applying moxibustion, I contemplate the karma through which fire intertwines with life.

August 15

Sugawara-san visited.
Sugawara-san gave us flowers.
Lilies brushed with crimson, pale lavender blooms shaped like brushes, chrysanthemums, gentians.

The diary ended here.

August 17—on that thunderous night, her condition abruptly changed course, and after a week’s span, she at last drew her final breath.

Thus, when I pick up two diary fragments separated by twenty years, I cannot help feeling that her life ended with something left unfulfilled.

"What does it mean to 'be fulfilled'?"
It was ultimately a question of how one lived.
I understood she had sought "something" in our married life, but if I were to speak frankly, whether all such things should have been sought within married life remained profoundly questionable.

I could never fully endorse the doctrine that household life constituted the entirety of a woman's existence.
Even regarding the notion that women must first be mothers, I maintained my conviction that motherhood should not be monopolized by individual families.

The family was the root of life and the foundation of living, from which all human endeavors sprang forth.
"The family had a purpose as a family," it declared, "but was not the purpose itself."
The family possessed ideals as a family, and dreams.
Yet the family was neither ideal nor dream.

The reality of family often binds women hand and foot.
Reality is not something to be fought against, but something to be managed.
Patience is needed more than courage.
Technique matters more than knowledge; knack matters more than technique.

All romanticism lies outside the "family".
The family does not reject even romanticists.
But it does not let them spread their wings.
Even a little fantasy becomes suffocating there.
If love possesses an insatiable nature, then there—in that place—the wife cannot even feel loved by her husband, nor the husband by his wife.

Through my wife’s death, I came to realize how profoundly her existence had shaped me.
In other words, I came to fully understand why she had been by my side.

I was not the type to consult my wife on each and every matter, both domestic and external.
And yet, I was now astonished at how much I had done because of her, and how much I had not done because of her.
From some time—since a very young age—I had lost the habit of thinking about my own happiness.
However, my wife’s happiness was the one thing that had never left my mind since our marriage.
I say this without any pretense, but there was even a time when, for my wife’s happiness, I thought of sending her back to her parents’ home if she herself wished for it.

My wife had written about those times in her diary, but she did not seem to take them seriously.
To her, such a me must have seemed cold.
Now, I too think so.

I remember that in our married life, there was never what might be called a crisis.
The two of us were sufficiently wary of it, and clearly felt ashamed to even acknowledge anything resembling it.

However, whether that ultimately was a good thing, I do not now know.
If there is something lacking in couples who have never experienced that proverbial 'rain falling to harden the ground,' then we would rightly belong to that category.

If the term "family peace" could be used so lightly, then I might say our life was peaceful.
At the same time, this does not mean we never had quarrels too trivial to become real issues.
Moreover, since we were both equally quarrel-averse, we could never fully commit to arguing.
What seemed strangest was how often I perceived her—after tensions had arisen—as determined to win some unspoken race to regain composure first.

Having read the diaries, there were indeed moments when I first came to know my wife's shifting states of mind at various times; yet more than that, the fact that I was forced to confront—whether I wished to or not—the entirety of her premarital secrets of the heart, those which she likely never showed to anyone, this was truly an unprecedented event for me.

Could it be that things I, as her husband, should not have known had been recorded there?
I declare boldly.
There is not a single thing recorded there that I should not have known.
However, things I did not need to know were scattered throughout those pages.

At first, I felt I had done something irreparable. I tasted deeply in my heart a bitterness akin to remorse—having read what should not have been read. But when I calmed myself somewhat and reflected, she had left behind her solitary past history in my hands, though not consciously intending to do so. This meant that even when marrying me, she had brought along this history she still could not bear to discard—keeping it stored at the bottom of a chest as she came to me.

Thus she showed me all of herself and gave herself to me.
Now I could make her suffering and sorrow my own.
What she had pursued her entire life—and what had been but a fleeting illusion—I could at last perceive as such.
Through the diaries, I could not help but think that her oft-repeated "loneliness" was indeed present there, and that because of this loneliness, she wasted away both body and soul.

Even so, I have no intention of approving this eighteenth-century-style anguish as it is.
If that had manifested in her daily words and actions, I would not have tolerated it even temporarily.
She modestly strove to conceal it from me.

However, I also want to tell her that her romanticism was not so fin-de-siècle as to be reflected in her own mirror.

She constantly dreamed of grand travels—appearing particularly drawn to India, Central Asia, or Africa's remote interiors—yet found herself readily content with a mere overnight sea voyage from Yokohama to Kobe, displayed startling zeal for neighborhood association affairs, gathered local children to organize music concerts, and ultimately assumed the role of their supervisor.

February 11, 1940

Yesterday was a busy day.

Guest: Mr./Ms. ○○○.
Three from the Meiji University Newspaper, three from Bunri University.

Around ten in the evening came Mr./Ms. ○○○○.
The stated purpose was that I become matchmaker for Mr./Ms. ○○.

Because it was late, I let them stay.

In the morning, I prepare ozoni.
Chicken, kamaboko, matsutake mushrooms, spinach, nori.

After-dinner conversation: regarding the land of the Heavenly Grandson's descent.
Politics.
On Shaku Chōkū's poems.

On Mr. Kunio Yanagita's research on legends.

A conversation between two patriotic gentlemen.

When I gave them mandarins as a three o'clock snack, someone complained to ○.
Therefore, in the evening I gave them a bit of a lecture.
That present-day Japanese must make do with only the bare minimum of necessities—if we speak of food, then only what is essential for growth and absolutely necessary for survival.
Both are listening quietly.

Night. Temperature 37.2 degrees.

Began reading "The Consultation" chapter of The Thibaults.

Dr. Philippe's sketch.

When it comes to this point, I find myself even wondering whether her "loneliness" might have been a "loneliness of imagination"—yet I still lack the confidence to declare this definitively.

In any case, the fact remains that she was gradually adapting to the realities of married life. Whether she discovered anything new through this process, whether it rendered her half-existence even marginally more worth living—about these matters I am allowed only conjectures tinged with hope.

What remains undeniable is this: that she thoroughly understood my professional and personal work, constantly encouraged and comforted me; that while agonizing over the design of her homemaker's life, she dragged along each day like a burden as countless details refused to align with her intentions; and that though as a mother she showed traces of skepticism regarding expressions of affection, she nevertheless—with unwaveringly composed demeanor—must have left behind for our daughters the purest possible image of motherhood.

Intoxicated by youth, enthralled by genius, envisioning such a life as but an illusion—this ill-fated woman's existence I grieve and pity all the more profoundly for having been my wife.

Concerning this model of feminine "cultivation" shaped by era and circumstance, I now find myself earnestly contemplating the word "sacrifice."

That over fifteen years, the traces of her painstaking efforts to maintain our household all lay—from her perspective—in the realm of everyday technical skills; that this constituted what might be called sensory training and reflexes ingrained by tradition, something no meticulous notes alone could ever achieve.
Consequently, it signified a colossal waste of nerves on trivialities so profound as to be deemed hopeless by now.
It was not difficult to imagine the excessive burden this had placed on her frail body.

Her rest and freedom were rather to be found in the strolls of her spirit.
Moreover, they were lonely strolls.

Earthly happiness was never destined to arrive.
When I recall that time when she sought religion yet failed to attain faith, gathered cool breezes in the shade of self-respect, and quietly awaited death, I find myself unable not to weep despite my efforts to refrain.

Following what my deceased wife’s diary taught me, I appeal to the young women of our nation.

As Japanese women, you must now more clearly than ever recognize what constitutes true happiness.

We believe this lies first and foremost in cultivating Japanese men toward true masculinity.
As wives shaping husbands; as mothers raising sons; as homemakers guiding society’s men.

Second—to achieve this—women must fully manifest their essential nature.
What has been called women’s “discipline” since antiquity represents Japanese history’s vision of ideal feminine grace.

When "discipline" changed into the term "education," the "path" inherent to discipline—that is, the technical mastery of daily life through training that unifies mind and body—was forgotten.

The same holds equally true for men.

"Discipline" constitutes a paradigm for human existence forged through the synthesis of morality and technique; it manifests as the dynamic form of strength and beauty expressed through social standing, gender roles, and age-appropriate conduct; it stands as the most artless embodiment of conviction, wisdom, and dignity.

Modern "education," though ultimately aspiring toward equivalent ends, merely cloaked itself about one's person like ceremonial robes—at best ingested as intellectual sustenance rather than vital nourishment.

Morality ended in criticism, knowledge was prepared for rebuttals, and beauty stood alongside self-flagellating efforts. Alongside psychological fragmentation—and despite the glaring phenomenon of ideals becoming detached from lived reality—no one noticed this rupture. While it was one thing to declare that lofty thoughts could only dwell in tattered robes and battered hats, tea ceremony and flower arrangement had degenerated into idle diversions for the leisured class, with the new generation welcoming this proliferation of somnambulistic life philosophies like "[Something]-supremacism."

Reading was considered nearly the sole means for "education." Not only was it considered so—it was indeed the reality. Home and school could not provide what children desired, and particularly did not know what they should make them desire. The flood of magazines was one result of this; printed words sought to dominate human minds and lives through their own power alone.

Education had to become the new "discipline." While understanding this, modern Japanese society—still lacking both training grounds and methods for cultivation—made people lose sight of what should have been the true form of Japanese in every aspect. The disappearance of exemplars proved not merely a misfortune for women—it became truly a calamity for young men as well.

Thus, love took on the hue of illicit affairs, and marriage came to resemble unconditional employment.
Youth naturally lost its radiance; dreams grew futilely desolate.

Third, among "women's discipline," what women henceforth must acquire—above all—is the technical refinement to maintain what might be called ample leeway: processing with utmost efficiency the trivial tasks called household chores, while understanding that these are not ends in themselves but means to achieve greater purposes.

What must be noted here is the meaning of this "not an end in itself." It is similar to how the maintenance and operation of machinery cannot be called a pure purpose in itself within, for example, the realm of production activities. However, it is absolute as a means and possesses such importance that production cannot exist without it.

Furthermore, what must be considered is that housework includes childbirth and child-rearing. This has become, for the majority of women, a kind of sacred final role that may already be called a "purpose" in itself.

The unadorned demeanor of being daily engrossed with children might indeed be called pure and noble.
Yet here, observing the Japanese people's peculiar cohesive psychology, I find myself harboring doubts.
While I understand—truly understand—that time always feels insufficient no matter how much one has, if you expend time and effort as though perpetually lacking both, this deserves no praise whatsoever.
Why do you not reflect more deeply that it isn't solely the time and effort directly spent on children which benefits them?
Precisely because there exists this justification of being "for the children," I feel particularly moved to voice hopes imbued with gratitude toward such mothers.

The ingenuity to extricate oneself from being 'preoccupied' and the cultivation thereof constitute precisely one vital component of a woman’s 'discipline'.

To not be preoccupied with anything.
Housewives brighten family life and fortify it.
I believe such preparation must truly begin at a mother’s knee.
However, it is never too late even if begun from girlhood when one first gains awareness.

Fourthly, there is the question of what so-called "high education" adds to women.
Deep education in its true sense indeed creates women who have enriched hearts, polished expressions, refined tastes, and suitability for intellectual work.
However, if what is called high education continues to refer solely to that which has been acquired through schooling or reading as it has until now, then as is commonly said, it will likely result in women losing the greater part of their charm.
For this is akin to dietary imbalance, causing a deficiency in spiritual Vitamin X; while intending to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with men, they unwittingly fall behind their own sex.

Men can take pride in their human dignity by refining their manhood.
Women too must realize that human dignity is elevated solely through refining womanhood.

To refine "womanhood" means to evoke feelings of affection and reverence in others through a woman's ideal "expression"—that is, through the most refined "femininity."

"If 'high education' proves useful for such purposes, then you should wholeheartedly acquire it." Moreover, this 'high education' possessed by Japanese women cannot truly be called such without the mastery and cultivation of Japanese 'discipline' built upon a tradition distinct from Western education.

Fifthly, while it goes without saying that considering "discipline" solely as etiquette and decorum constitutes a grave error, I particularly wish to seek—as women's discipline for this new era—both free mastery of a robust physique and the supple expression of a daring temperament. In other words, I must necessarily add a dignified sternness to feminine charm.

This was not merely because it was wartime.
Nor did this constitute stepping into men's domain.

Conversely, women must not forget this subtle psychology—that before truly masculine men, they naturally become 'modestly feminine'.
As this was not the occasion to elaborate deeply on matters between the sexes, I shall keep my remarks brief—in essence, the spirit of martiality had manifested itself in various forms throughout history within the wholesome development of Japanese womanhood.
To be 'graceful' was none other than women's dignified bearing.

In an era when men had ceased to uphold the "Way of Martiality," there was no reason for women alone to maintain this.

However, today, Japanese culture was attempting to regain its original character through the illumination of tradition once more.

The virtue of 'chastity' too manifested a woman's dignified aspect, but people these days paid too little heed to how this should be expressed through daily words and deeds.
Japanese women’s 'discipline' had here too a significant challenge.
In the manner of speaking with unfamiliar men, a woman’s 'discipline' revealed itself without fail, and through something as simple as boarding or alighting from a train, one could discern the degree of her 'chastity.'
Unnecessary coquetry and an excessively delicate demeanor alone already exposed the void of an unprepared spirit.

Now, having stated this thus far, we might be thought to be praising those feudal-era Onna Daigaku-style womanly virtues exactly as they were.

By no means is that so.

In the feudal-era view of women influenced by Buddhism and Confucianism, one cannot say there was no tendency—reflecting both a somewhat un-Japanese character and late-period phenomena of the family system—to regard women as impure or as beings difficult to govern.

As for doctrines like the Three Obediences, regardless of their intent, their very expression strikes one as rather uncomposed.

In truth, male superiority and female inferiority were never Japanese thought—and none understood better than Japanese men and women themselves that the profound truth of "the husband leads and the wife follows" arose from the husband's responsibility and the wife's trust.

Once, French poet Jean Cocteau had observed many Japanese women who had masterfully acquired the etiquette of hospitality and called them "queens of service."

He must have bestowed this regal honorific because he particularly sensed qualities like dignity, magnanimity, and grace.
Of course these words were but a witticism, yet I feel I grasped precisely what he meant to convey.

If obedience is indeed a virtue of Japanese women, then I believe that such obedience originates from the decisiveness to entrust to men what ought to be entrusted and the courage of selflessness.
Therefore, women’s obedience becomes a force that solidifies men’s resolve and makes them conscious of the responsibility for their actions.

I believed there was nothing that made a husband perceive his wife as more dignified than a "yes" that echoed like sound responding to his command.

Truly, it was the profound weight of the Japanese house.

With this, we—that is, I and my deceased wife—concluded our collaborative treatise on womanhood.

My wife, from the realm beyond life and death, would have me reread this manuscript as she often did before.

She would likely offer opinions like, "If we did this part like this."
I laughed and responded that it was fine as it was.
She would comply.

Ah，but did tears not well up in her eyes?

I，driven by unbearable compassion for her and my conscience as a writer，dared to publish this essay.

Readers, I ask that you kindly discern my true intent and sincerely listen to this foolish confession.