Pathway to Japanese Literature

In this land of long winters, patches of snow still lingered in the shadows, though not a single parsley leaf showed green in the village's edge ditches; the clear sky hung hazily over roads where thawing mud had begun to dry in patches, and a springlike breeze blew faintly warm.
It was April 1, Meiji 40 (1907).

As it was the day of the new school year’s opening ceremony, Chihaya Ken—substitute teacher at S Village Elementary and Higher Elementary School—left for work slightly earlier than usual. Clad in a cotton montsuki soiled with chalk dust and wearing a long hakama with frayed hems, his closely cropped head bare—he didn’t even own a hat. With his imposing frame held straight, he ascended through the entrance—whereupon early-arriving students would come running from every corner of the waiting area each morning to reverently greet him. Among them were some who had gone out of their way to prostrate themselves before him while others waited there solely for that purpose. That morning especially, their number was great—three or four times the usual count... Even the faces of habitually tardy underperformers were mixed among them. Ken immediately recognized the joy of promotion overflowing in their hearts. And for no particular reason, his heart clouded over.

He carried his letter of resignation in his breast pocket that morning.

In the staff room, about ten men and women—all peasants in shabby attire—were bringing in elementary department newcomers one by one, children who glanced about as if frightened by everything.
The room—already narrow from being lined with desks and chairs for four staff members, document cabinets, and such—was now so jammed with all these people that one could hardly move.
Namiki Takako, the female teacher who also appeared to have just arrived, was hurriedly flipping through ledgers on the desk without even sitting down—seeming somewhat flustered at handling the enrollment numbers alone.

And then, when she saw Ken enter,

“Oh, Mr. Chihaya!”

With that, she let out a sigh of relief and looked reassured.

The peasants knelt on the floorboards and greeted Ken in turn, each vying to be first.

“Granny, no matter how much I search, there’s no Matsusaburō listed in the copy of the school register from the village office,” said Takako with a slight frown to an old woman wearing a faded hand towel as a headscarf.

“Oh...” The old woman blinked her eyes in bewilderment.

“There must be an entry—though in this area, there are cases where one’s official registered name differs from what they’re called at home,” Ken interjected. Then addressing the old woman:

“Your family was the blacksmith in Imota, wasn’t it, Granny?”

“Yes.”

“No matter how much I look, it’s not here.”
“They claim they registered Matsusaburō at the village office too...” said Takako, flipping through the ledger from the beginning again, “but since they didn’t bring the notification letter, I can’t be certain.”

“Strange, ah—
“Granny, did the notification letter from the village office truly arrive?
“Was there a written notice telling you to send the child to school?”

“Yes.
“They did come, but only for the younger brother here”—she gestured with her chin toward the child—“and this one didn’t get any this year.
“So you see, I didn’t bring it.”

“Didn’t it come this year?”
“What? So that child is nine or ten?”

“Nine years old,” answered Matsusaburō himself. He wore underpants patched at the knees and layers of tattered short jackets that made him look bulkier than he was—a boy who seemed mischievous at first glance.

“If he’s nine, then last year was his enrollment age.”
“There shouldn’t be one—this register is only for this year.”

“Last year?”
“I didn’t notice that point either, so…” Takako said with some embarrassment, writing the child’s name in a different ledger.

“So then, what’s the matter?” Ken turned toward the old woman.
“This child’s younger brother must have turned eight this year.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you bring him along?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not ‘yes’. This child should’ve been enrolled last year—you delayed it till now. Sending brothers separately won’t do—you should’ve brought them together. Enroll them late, then pull them out before graduation for babysitting and chores. That’s why conscripts from these parts mostly return without even making superior private.”

“Yes.”

“It’s the parents’ fault.”

“Yes.
Pardon me, sir, but if both brothers are first-years, wouldn’t that be strange?”

With that, the old woman bared her blackened teeth and offered an obsequious laugh to mask her embarrassment.

“What does it matter?
There’s even a person whose younger brother served as Minister of Home Affairs while his older brother remained a county magistrate in the countryside.
It’s no issue at all if they’re in the same grade.”

“Yes.”

“If we follow your logic here, Granny, then when an older brother dies, his younger brother’s gotta die too.”
“My own sister died last year—but here I am still breathing.”
“That’s how it goes.”
“Wasn’t that horse trader who passed recently supposed to be your clansman?”

“Ah ha ha!” The farmers sitting in rows all laughed.

“You’re living just fine that way yourself, Granny.”
“Ha ha ha!”
“Anyway, just send the younger brother too starting this year.”
“Tomorrow and the day after are days off, and classes will start on the 4th.”
“At that time—together with this child.”

“Yes.”

“I mean it.”
“If you don’t send him, I’ll go fetch him myself.”

Having said that, Ken stood up and went to the desk next to Takako.

“Let me help you.”

“My apologies, but if you would.”

“Ah, it’s almost eight,” he said, shifting his gaze from the clock above Takako’s head to jerk his chin toward the staff room beyond the shoji screen.
“Still hasn’t shown himself?”

Takako smiled and nodded.

In that staff room lived Principal Andō with his family—his wife and two children.
Breakfast preparations seemed to have just been completed, for the sound of bowls and plates being arranged on the dining table could be heard.
The slovenly wife was muttering something as she scolded the children.

Ken cross-referenced each new student with the school-age children register and entered their details into the student register while Takako prepared fresh attendance rosters. The parents each repeated similar questions—how many items they needed to purchase, whether stone slates were preferable to paper ones, whether writing boards were also required. Takako answered each one. Then they prostrated themselves before Ken, explained their child’s usual behavior, habits, frail constitution, and other matters, and entreated him to look after them properly. The new students kept streaming in from behind until the narrow staff room overflowed.

Tadaichi, the principal’s eldest son who had now advanced to the third year of the elementary course, entered timidly without any business to attend to and leaned against Ken’s desk in a clinging manner.

“Go over there, over there.”

With that, Ken scolded in a fierce tone loud enough to be heard in the neighboring room.

"Hah."

With that, Tadaichi—while fixing Ken with a gaze that seemed both sly and timid—gradually backed away and left.
He was a lazy, incorrigible child who had been in Ken’s second-grade class until now, but both the other teachers and students discreetly held back out of deference to him being the principal’s son.
Ken scolded him with exceptional severity.
Making them stand in the corner of the classroom for the entire fifty-minute lesson was nothing out of the ordinary, and once every three days, he would assign them after-school cleaning duty as punishment.
At such times, the slovenly mother would often come before Ken and, while baring her chest to let the child she held—called Ume-chan—suckle at her large breast,

“Mr. Chihaya, has our Tadaichi done something bad again today?”

There were times she would say such things.

“Hah. Tadaichi-san seems to grow more mischievous by the day.”
“Today as well, a child named Gonta hid the newly bought ink in his own desk and acted oblivious.”

“Hey! Go away.” Unable to bear listening any longer, the principal scolded his wife.

“But even so, if he’s causing you trouble every day with his mischief, I’ll make sure to listen properly now and give him a good scolding later.”

Ken calmly began speaking with the elderly teacher Akino next to the desk.
The principal’s wife still stood there, her upturned eyebrows twitching as if she had more to say.
Just then, the cleaning duty monitor came to report that the cleaning was finished.

“Was the blackboard wiped clean?”

“Yes.”

“Have you made sure there’s nothing for the teacher to criticize when inspecting?”

“Yes.”

“If it’s shoddy, I’ll make you redo it tomorrow.”

“Yes.”
“We did it perfectly.”

“Good,” Ken said with a faint smile.
“Then you may all go home.
“You too can leave.”
“And tell Tadaichi alone to stay in the classroom—I’ll be there shortly.”

“Yes, sir!” The student replied cheerfully, gave a brisk bow, and left.

The other teachers thought Ken’s teaching methods were excessively strict for the second-year elementary class.
Yet because of this, Ken’s homeroom class maintained such exemplary discipline that students from other grades envied them, and even the more perceptive higher-grade students took care in all things to avoid being laughed at by the second-year elementary class.

Before long, Ken ascended to the second-floor classroom.
Then the principal’s wife stealthily trailed after him and eavesdropped from outside the classroom on her child being scolded.

Meanwhile, the spineless principal—true to his role—wrote tomorrow’s lesson plan while picturing his own child’s tear-streaked face…

While Ken’s particular harshness toward the principal’s son undeniably stemmed from the child being exceptionally mischievous, lazy, and at times even endangering his own well-being through his antics, it was also because Ken’s nature contained an element that sought emotional satisfaction through such disciplinary acts—and further because this approach proved advantageous for managing the other students.
The harsher he was in disciplining Tadaichi, the more the other students regarded him as a great teacher.

Moreover, even to Takako, the female teacher, Ken’s such conduct was somehow found agreeable.
At times, Takako herself would summon Tadaichi to a deserted spot and reprimand him harshly.
That, too, was a certain satisfaction for Takako.

Since transferring to this school six months prior, Takako had discovered—as each day passed—a peculiar phenomenon unlike anything found in other schools.
This strange contrast between Principal Andō and Ken lay in the fact that Ken—a mere substitute teacher earning four yen less per month than herself—commanded such obedience from the students that he might as well have been the principal, while Principal Andō was held in even lower regard by them than Takako herself.
It had not yet been two years since Takako left the dormitory of the Women’s Division of the Normal School, and though she had no intention of devoting her entire life to education, she still retained considerable interest in both teaching and reading. Being a woman of resolute temperament and strong judgment, she found Principal Andō’s daily incompetence exasperating enough to make even a woman like herself grit her teeth.
Above all, she found the slovenliness of his wife unbearable to witness, and it was hardly unusual for her to exchange barely a word with them despite seeing their faces daily.
To Takako, Ken’s fierce temperament—vivid in all things—manifested most strikingly in his eyes: when he smiled, they became as innocent as those of a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old boy; when earnest, they seemed to belong to a man beyond even twenty-six or twenty-seven. (She thought they resembled Napoleon’s eyes from photogravures she had seen.) Those eyes appeared to her as the very spirit of this school.
Takako believed that if Ken’s eyes moved to the right, the hearts of hundreds of students would follow to the right; if his eyes moved to the left, the hearts of hundreds of students would follow to the left.
And that Takako’s own heart had also come to move in accordance with Ken’s eyes was something she had not noticed.

By age, Takako was twenty-three, and Ken was a year her junior.
However, Ken had married early due to certain circumstances, and by that time already had a child.
And the fact that his household was so poor that it sometimes struggled even for that day’s sustenance was known to everyone in the village, and Ken himself made no particular effort to conceal it.

One day, Ken had a gloomy face from morning and did nothing but mutter during each ten-minute break.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Chihaya? You don’t look well today, do you?”

Takako seized an opportunity to ask.
Ken bit back the involuntary groan that had started to escape.

“Nothing,” he said and laughed.

He said and laughed.
And then,
“Well, I’ve run out of tobacco today.”
Takako could not say anything.
That Ken was such a heavy smoker that people were astonished—a man who, upon entering the staff room, would first pick up his kiseru pipe no matter what was happening—was something Takako knew well.
Akino, seated at the adjacent desk, took out his tobacco pouch and offered it to Ken; but he—apparently resolved not to smoke at all that day—had not even brought his kiseru pipe.
And then, borrowing Akino’s kiseru pipe, he smoked two or three puffs in succession with evident relish.
Takako found it somehow painful to watch this.
Even after returning to her lodgings, she recalled this matter and wondered if there might be a way to give Ken money under some convenient pretext.
Moreover, she had heard from his own mouth how Ken had ended up wearing an old lined kimono throughout the previous summer and yet hadn’t felt particularly hot—but the village rumors went beyond that.
That summer, every night when it grew late, at Ken’s house—half of a certain farmhouse they had rented—they would open the shoji screens, fumigate with an unbearable amount of cedar leaves, and then vigorously fan them inside with uchiwa fans.
That was likely because they had no mosquito net, and so they would drive out the mosquitoes before going to bed.
Living such a difficult life, he showed not the slightest sign of distress.
From morning till night—truly from morning till night—he lived contentedly among the children.

When Takako first came to this school in autumn, she would gather neighborhood children at her home every morning from dawn until breakfast time to conduct what she called "morning reading."
Every morning, when the first faint light of dawn barely illuminated the shoji screens, Takako would lie in bed listening to children—mainly from the higher elementary grades—competing to leave early as they called out loudly from outside to rouse their friends.
When winter arrived and morning reading became impossible, Ken would gather his students until around nine o'clock each night, teaching everything from arithmetic, reading, and composition to history, geography, biographies and anecdotes of ancient great men—even instructing older boys in English basics.
In February when the village office proposed establishing a night school for conscript education at their institution, Ken taught alone for sixteen days of the three-week period.
It was said that during those final five days, having endured nightly cold drafts rising from his hem as he stood at the lectern for two or three hours each evening, he caught a cold and took to bed.

And yet, Ken’s monthly salary was a mere eight yen.
And those eight yen were always an advance—even when payday arrived on the twenty-first, there was never a month when Ken received his salary alongside his colleagues.
When the principal returned from the village office with four receipts in hand, Takako was typically given twelve yen in a mix of paper bills and silver coins.
Akino, who had cleared the certification exam, received thirteen yen, while Principal Andō—a graduate of the old normal school—received eighteen.
Then with a resentful look, the principal returned to Ken a promissory note written in clear characters.
He calmly accepted it, rolled it into a ball, and held it over the brazier to burn.
A pale flame flared up as if catching fire, only to vanish instantly.
Then he took up mismatched fire tongs and prodded at the small white ash remnants left behind.
Prodded once, prodded again—and when he lifted his face, it remained utterly composed.

While pretending not to notice the pitiful situation, Takako nonetheless kept subtly observing Ken's demeanor. And without reason, her chest tightened and she felt like crying. At such times, Takako would fiddle needlessly with ledgers and remain until after everyone else had left. She did not want to be thought of as leaving early in high spirits merely because she had received her salary.

The Ken reflected in Takako’s eyes was not an eight-yen substitute teacher.
Takako had once written about this young teacher in a letter to one of her female classmates from school.
Out of concern that someone might raise baseless suspicions, she had written in detail about Ken having a wife and children,

“My school might as well be called Mr. Chihaya’s school alone.
He appears too young to be a man with a wife and children, but not a single student—whether boy or girl—disobeys Mr. Chihaya.
Look, didn’t Mr. Onoda always say—there are two types of educators: those who teach with the spirit of education and those who teach through its forms.
Anyone can become the latter, but the former exist only once in a hundred—no, a thousand—people. It cannot be acquired through study—they are, so to speak, born educators—tsu te.
Mr. Chihaya belongs to that one-in-a-hundred group.
When it comes to teaching methods, Mr. Chihaya is rough—so very rough.
There are times when he says things like, ‘During this period, I had staring contests with the students and made the losers stand up as a game.’
(Played a game) is a lie—Mr. Chihaya does such things to gather the students’ scattered minds onto his own person.
And then he begins the lesson.
If Mr. Chihaya is ever absent, I take charge and teach the second-year elementary class.
The students absolutely will not listen—not just to me, but to anyone.
The students in Mr. Chihaya’s class will not listen unless it’s something Mr. Chihaya says.
At such times, I say, ‘Did Mr. Chihaya teach you that it’s alright to make such a commotion?’
Then they immediately fall silent.
Mr. Chihaya does not prepare lesson plans again.
I can’t remember how many days it had been since that incident when I ended up arguing with the county inspector who came around for about two hours over it.
What was interesting about that time?”

“In the end, the inspector lost and ended up buttering him up.”

“Mr. Chihaya makes the principal teach ethics and physical education to the second-year elementary class, while he handles composition and history-geography for the higher elementary class—the principal’s own responsibility.”
“When Mr. Chihaya’s next class period arrived, you could tell by the higher elementary students’ expressions when they lined up in the waiting area after the bell rang.”

“In the second-year elementary class there’s a boy named Yoshimatsu.”
“He’s a congenitally simple-minded child who at age seven amused himself by playing with matches and setting his own house on fire, clapping his hands in delight as it burst into flames. But Mr. Chihaya resolved through sheer determination to make Yoshimatsu an ordinary boy—whenever he had time, he’d sit Yoshimatsu between his knees while seated himself, gazing down intently from above with a hand on his shoulder as he told him all sorts of things.”
“Only during those times would Yoshimatsu grow quiet, inevitably ending up sniffling by the end.”
“Sometimes Mr. Chihaya would sit like that staring at Yoshimatsu’s face in silence for ten or twenty minutes.”
“A few days ago while they were sitting like that, Yoshimatsu suddenly closed his eyes and fell backward.”
“Mr. Chihaya calmly carried him to the janitor’s room and poured water over his head to revive him—we were all momentarily shocked.”
“‘In a wrestling match between my spirit and Yoshimatsu’s spirit,’ Mr. Chihaya said afterward, ‘mine emerged victorious.’”
“Recently that Yoshimatsu has started producing clean copies as well as anyone.”
“But arithmetic seems hopeless no matter how much effort they make.”

“Miss Shūko, look—you remember that common room in the dormitory, don’t you? There was a painting on the wall there of Pestalozzi teaching children.”
“That Pestalozzi was a thin, gaunt old man, but whenever I watch Mr. Chihaya speaking to Yoshimatsu from the side, I somehow find myself reminded of that painting.”
“Though Mr. Chihaya certainly does not intend to devote his entire life to educational work—being compelled by family circumstances to continue in this manner for the time being—I consider it most regrettable that such a person is not kept longer within the educational world.”
“Mr. Chihaya seems to be contemplating some grand matter unknown to others, but we cannot comprehend it.”
“But as I listen to his stories, I feel myself being gradually led toward the place we’ve always longed to reach—though where that might be, I cannot say.”
“And Mr. Chihaya declares himself a traitor within the educational world.”
“Furthermore, he says that to reform today’s society, we must first destroy elementary education—and that if he had two bodies, with one he would want to remain a substitute teacher for life.”
“When asked how to destroy elementary education, he replied that it required only a slight difference—adopting a policy of letting people grow as they were born.”

“But Miss Shūko, Mr. Chihaya remains an enigma to me.”
“There’s something about him I cannot quite fathom.”
“Yet being at the same school each day and witnessing what Mr. Chihaya accomplishes, I find myself unable to withhold my admiration.”
“He endures a life of considerable hardship.”
“It pains me deeply to see it.”
“And Mr. Chihaya’s wife—she too is a good soul—gentle, lovely (though her complexion leans toward duskiness), and ever kind.……”

So she had written.
In truth, this was exactly as Takako perceived it—to this young female teacher, even Ken’s neglect in checking the monthly attendance rates appeared more admirable than the fussily meticulous efforts of the other teachers.

Yet, being a woman’s heart after all, when Ken engaged in half-mocking debates with the county inspector or sternly scolded Tadaichi before his father’s eyes, even watching from the sidelines made her heart race until she found herself unable to lift her face.

Just now, because Ken had scolded Tadaichi loudly, the voices in the night duty room stopped abruptly.
Takako’s keen ears caught this, and as Tadaichi backed away to leave,
“Oh, Mr. Chihaya!”
she said in a low voice, pursing her lips into a faint smile as she looked at Ken’s face.

“Ha ha ha...” he laughed lightly.
And then, rounding his eyes, he turned to one of the new students standing right before him,

“Listen.”
“When you enter school, if you go into places you’re not allowed without a teacher’s permission, you’ll get scolded like that person just did.”

“Ha.” The child bobbed his head in a quick bow.
A large burn-scarred bald spot on the back of his head shone.

“Tadaichii.”
“Tadaichii...” came the voice of the principal’s wife calling from the night duty room, leaking through the walls.

Ken and Takako exchanged a knowing smile with their eyes meeting.

Before long, Principal Andō emerged wearing a dust-stained black high-collared Western-style suit and took over handling the new students from Ken.
Ken went to his desk and began his assigned teaching duties.

Around nine-thirty, when Teacher Akino came in making flustered excuses for his lateness and donned the black silk crepe hakama he always kept hanging from a pillar in the room, even the straggling new students had mostly arrived, leaving the staff room emptied out.
Ken reached up from his desk and vigorously pulled the dangling bell rope.
Beyond the wall, the school bell began clanging vigorously.
The students who had been eagerly awaiting this moment now erupted in a commotion like surging spring tides.

Within less than five minutes, Akino now pulled that bell rope and first went out to the waiting area.

Then, Ken went before the principal and casually presented a sheet of hanshi paper folded into eight parts.

“I’ve written this.”
“I sincerely ask for your kind consideration.”

Principal Andō—whose face, with its deepening crow’s feet when he smiled, downward-turned mustache, and an air of chilly benevolence—looked back and forth between the paper and Ken’s face with timid eyes. Since he had come the previous night to inquire about the format, he didn’t need to unfold it to know it was a letter of resignation.

And then, in an oddly choked voice, he said.

“Is that so, sir?”

“Yes.”
“I humbly ask.”

Having just finished binding the new attendance register and standing up, Takako glanced at the folded paper.
And since she had heard beforehand that Ken intended to resign in April, she wondered if this might indeed be his letter of resignation.

“I hardly know what to say… But since you have already decided, there’s nothing to be done about it, sir.”

“I humbly ask for your kind consideration.”

With that, Ken gave a slight nod and exited the staff room. Following that, Takako also exited. In the waiting area, students who had become confused about where to line up now that their grades had changed were clamoring in confusion. Akino was weaving his way through them. “Line up in your previous spots, your previous spots!” he kept shouting, but the students, perhaps thinking it improper to line up in their previous spots now that they had all passed and advanced to higher grades, stubbornly refused to comply. Seeing this, Ken stood firmly atop the stairs that doubled as a command platform,

“What’s all this racket?” he roared.
The deafening uproar ceased as abruptly as a summer downpour clearing, and nearly three hundred pairs of eyes fixed upon his face.
“Everyone—form lines in your original positions exactly as before!”
With a disorderly clatter of footsteps that soon stilled, each grade stood in perfectly regimented double files.
Not a single whisper broke the silence.
The new students’ parents watched this unfold with awestruck expressions.

He descended the stairs at a measured pace and, together with Akino, guided each grade to their new locations.
Takako had gathered the new students and was having them form lines.

Principal Andō came out and stood on the platform.
Hushed murmurs began to rise.
Ken cleared his throat once from behind.
The voices subsided once again at that.

“Ahem, today marks the beginning of the new Meiji 40 academic year...”

With that, the principal began speaking in a low, timid voice while awkwardly rubbing his hands together before him.
Less than two minutes had passed when—

“Three years—nineteen thousand one hundred days.”

said one of the higher-grade students in an affected tone.

“Silence!”

Akino suppressed it.
The muffled laughter rippled outward like waves.
New whispers now mingled among them.

This traced back to when the female teacher preceding Namiki Takako had transferred to another village—last October—when Principal Andō had mistakenly declared “three years—nineteen thousand one hundred days” in his farewell address.
That teacher had indeed served three years at this school.
Ever since then, older students seized upon this blunder as grounds for scorning their principal.
At this very moment, Ken too had recalled that incident and nearly let slip a laugh.

The whispers gradually grew louder.
Among them, some were even laughing aloud about something.
Then, Takako approached Ken, muffling the sound of her sandals.

“If you would move to the front, sir, that would be best.”

“That’s right,” he also whispered.

And he quietly moved forward and stood at the edge of the lowest step of the stairs.
The hall fell completely silent again, as if water had been sprinkled.

Suddenly he noticed that all the students' eyes were not on the principal, who kept earnestly droning on with his speech, but were instead fixed upon him. As was often the case, an indefinable satisfaction stirred within him. Then he faintly twisted his lips into a smile. Here and there, he could see students' faces faintly smiling back.

Even after the principal had finished speaking, he did not move from that spot.

The students were then led to their respective new classrooms by his command—a voice so high-pitched one wondered how it emerged from his gaunt frame.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when the four staff members reconvened in the staff room.
The start of the school year brought numerous miscellaneous tasks—rebinding account books, handling leftover items from the previous year's preparations, and such.
The four of them worked diligently at these tasks without exchanging words until twelve o'clock struck.

“Principal Andō.”

Takako called out.

“Yes?”

“There are a total of forty-eight new students today.”
“Of those, seven are from last year’s school age cohort, and three from the year before that cohort—meaning only thirty-eight have enrolled at this year’s proper school age.”

“Is that so?”
“What would the total number be?”

“Forty-eight students.”

“But what about the number of school-age children for this academic year?”

“That is a notification of seventy-two students from the village office.”
“Therefore, based solely on today’s enrollment rate, it only comes to sixty-six point six six seven percent.”

“That’s low,” said the principal, tilting his head.

“Not at all—every year on this day, it’s always about that much,” interjected Akino, the local man who’d been at this school for ten years. “When classes actually start, about twenty more of ’em’ll come.”

“That’s low...” said the principal, repeating himself.

“What do you propose?” said Ken.
“Why not have the village office send out reminders again to those who didn’t come today by tomorrow or the day after?”

“Not at all—three days from now, twenty of ’em’ll come for sure. Guaranteed,” said Akino, sharpening his pencil.

“Even if twenty come, adding to the thirty-eight… doesn’t that still leave fourteen un-enrolled children?”

“Even if you send reminders, those who’ll come will come, and those who ain’t comin’ just ain’t.”

Ken let out a dry chuckle for no apparent reason.
“Why not? It’s not us wearing straw sandals and traipsing around—let the village office’s errand boy do the legwork.”

“Those who ain’t comin’ just ain’t comin’...” the principal muttered vacantly, prodding the fire in the desk brazier with his kiseru.

“The first grade is Ms. Namiki’s responsibility, but what is your opinion?”

To Ken’s face as he said this, Takako narrowed her eyes slightly,
“As for my part…”

When she began to say this, the sliding door at the entrance clattered open, and a small-statured man in a faded striped lined kimono with pale yellow stripes—wearing neither jacket nor tabi socks—hurriedly entered.

"Oh, if it isn't Mr. Higashikawa," said Akino.

"No need to make such a fuss about it."

While saying this, Higashikawa placed his old-fashioned black bowler hat on top of the document cabinet,

“My, you all seem to be in quite the hurry. Lovely weather we’re having.”

he greeted the entire group.
Then, pulling a chair over himself, he sat down without ceremony and exchanged a few words with Principal Andō and Akino, though his manner seemed somehow impatient.
Ken was staring fixedly at that profile.
He appeared to be thirty-four or thirty-five years old, with the crown of his head noticeably rounded and balding, and wore thick nearsighted glasses over his left eye, which had lost its sight.
His small, pointed nose and shrewd countenance gave him a visage that visibly suggested an eccentric streak.

“By the way,” said Higashikawa, turning his chair toward Ken’s desk as if he had been waiting for a lull in the conversation.
“Mr. Chihaya.”
“What is it?”
“Actually, I came all the way here for that very purpose—Mr. Chihaya, have you already submitted it?”
“Not yet?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t need to play innocent like that.”
“Didja submit it?”
“Didn’tcha submit it?”
“So what’re you asking?”
“You’re a real piece of work.”
“The resignation letter.”
“Ah, that matter?”
“Didja submit it?”
“Didn’tcha submit it?”

“Why?”
“Why d’ya ask?”
“’Cause I got business to discuss, that’s why I’m askin’.”

He had a habit of speaking brusquely, as if pressuring others, possessed some academic knowledge, and in the village, Ken treated none but this man as a friend. In his youth, he had dreamt of scaling the blue clouds—an ambitious man who would have seized any opportunity to rise to the station of prime minister—but with the loss of his fortune, he had become nothing more than a village laughingstock. Now he served concurrently as both a village council member and school affairs committee member.

“I submitted it,” Ken replied calmly.

“Is that true?” Higashikawa demanded.

“Ha ha ha...”

“But I tell ya—this’s trouble for us youngsters. You don’t even know what people are worrying about, yet you’re all fired up like this.”

“There—the tobacco ember fell on his knee.”

“This is it!” he said with a disgusted look, yet hurriedly brushing the ash from his knee. “Mr. Chihaya—even if you’ve submitted it today, I tell ya it should still be in the principal’s hands. Go retrieve it now while you can.”

“Why?”

“Well now, I gotta spell it out proper-like or you won’t get it… See here—”

Adopting a calm tone, he continued: “See here—today I came to the village office knowin’ nothin’ about any of this. Then Assistant Mayor Tanemichi called me to a separate room—wonderin’ what it was about, I went and found out it was your matter, Mr. Chihaya. When we met yesterday, you said you’d submit your resignation tomorrow—but just when village education’s finally gettin’ on track, havin’ Mr. Chihaya quit’d put us in a real bind. That being said,” he continued, “the mayor’s currently away, so makin’ any formal request for retention’s downright inconvenient right now. Since the mayor’ll be back within two or three days anyhow, and the village council’s meetin’ on the seventh,” he continued, “they’re sayin’ you absolutely gotta wait till then no matter what—so in the end, actin’ as Assistant Mayor Tanemichi’s proxy, here I am rushin’ over right now. You get all that?”

“I do understand—but… I appreciate your trouble.”

“Save yer damn gratitude—I tell ya, Mr. Chihaya, that’s how it is, so just go take it back now while ya still can.”

The words "Take it back"—that "take it back"—pierced Ken’s ears sharply, his pride running deep.
And then he said in a measured tone.

“I cannot do such a thing.”

“That’s exactly why it’s a problem, I tell ya!”

“I deeply appreciate your kindness, but there’s nothing to be done—it’s already been submitted.”

Akino, the principal, and Takako listened in silence to their conversation.

“I told ya I submitted it—but if it’s still here in the school, then ain’t it just an internal matter that ain’t official yet?”

“Mr. Higashikawa, I appreciate your thoughtful advice, but you of all people should know my temperament.”
“Once I have submitted something, no matter what—even if it were to my disadvantage—I detest taking it back.”
“Whether it’s an internal matter or an external one, I do not consider such things.”

Ken's face had already returned to its usual composure—no amount of further talk would move him now.
Higashikawa knew full well Ken’s temperament—once he declared something, he would never retreat.

Higashikawa suddenly twisted his chair around.

“Principal Andō.”

His voice was so fierce it seemed he might pounce at any moment.
*He’s trying to intimidate him,* Ken thought.

“Huh?” Principal Andō flusteredly responded, so panicked he didn’t know where to look.

“Principal, did you truly accept Mr. Chihaya’s resignation letter?”

“Ah… Well—that’s how it stands.
“I did think of speaking up even now, but believing it improper to interrupt your conversation, I remained silent—but earlier, when the assembly bell rang and the opening ceremony was about to begin, you did submit it.”
“Ah—that’s how it stands,” he said, producing the resignation letter from under the inkstone. “I did mean to discuss it properly with you later on, but what with havin’ no time until now, I’ve just been keepin’ it here for safekeepin’.”
“After all, ’twas such an unforeseen matter, that’s how it stands.”
“Ha.”

"Who taught him that format?" Ken mockingly thought.

“So you did submit the resignation letter?”
“I didn’t know a thing about it,” said Akino with feigned ignorance.
“Mr. Chihaya—whatever your reasons might be, wouldn’t it be better to refrain from hastily resigning now?”

“Principal Andō,” Higashikawa called out.
“So then, Principal—you were meaning to return that resignation letter after all, I take it?”

“Ah—that’s how it stands.”
“I intended to discuss it properly later on—that’s how it stands—so I merely received it and have been keeping it here for the time being.”

“If that’s how it is, then hand it back!” Higashikawa said in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Hand it back—given what I’ve heard, submittin’ it now’d cause real trouble, I tell ya.”

“Ah—”
“Well, I do believe that’s how it stands—ah—I shall return it,” he said with a clouded face, then sucked strongly on his pipe, hollowing his cheeks with puff-puff sounds.
It was an attitude of being damned if he returned it and damned if he didn’t.

Ken turned sideways and blew out a long, forceful stream of tobacco smoke.

“Hand it over—I’m tellin’ ya as one member of the school affairs committee.”

Andō rose from his chair with clear reluctance and stood before Ken.

“Mr. Chihaya, earlier was a rather urgent moment…” he began with a drawn-out explanation, then continued, “Now that I’ve heard more, it seems there are various circumstances on the village office’s side—since I was merely holding onto it temporarily, I must return this to you in any case.”

Having said that, he placed the resignation letter before Ken.
That hand was trembling.

Ken, without uttering a word like "I’ve been waiting for this," suddenly made a stern face and momentarily stared at the principal’s hands fidgeting restlessly before him. Then he spoke.

“In that case, would it be acceptable if I were to send it directly to the county office?”

“Good heavens!”

“Mr. Chihaya.” “Mr. Chihaya.” Akino and Higashikawa said simultaneously.
And Higashikawa continued.

“That’s not how you should put it.”
“Couldn’t you do me the favor of saving face just for today?”

“However… whether Principal Andō chooses to delay submitting it based on his considerations or not—that’s beyond my control—but for my part, this was something I’d resolved long ago. Moreover, having once submitted it, I detest taking it back.”
“Nor am I claiming this serves some grand purpose for village education—rather, it’s more that I’d just be in the way otherwise.” With this, he cast a sidelong glance at the Principal.

“W-well, that ain’t how ya should be talkin’, I tell ya.”
“What you decided long ago remains decided—so couldn’t ya at least hear out the village’s request here and now?”
“It’s just a matter of havin’ you wait a week or so thereabouts, I tell ya.”

“In any case, I’ll return it,” said Principal Andō as he idly returned to his desk.

“Principal Andō,” Higashikawa called out again with renewed aggression.
“Couldn’t you find a better way to put it here?”
“In this state, isn’t it exactly as if you’re returning it just because I told you to?”
“Don’t you understand how essential Mr. Chihaya is to this school?”

“Huh?” Principal Andō stared at Higashikawa with frightened eyes.
On his spineless, incompetent face, bewilderment had clearly surfaced.

And then Ken—observing this endless cycle of friction and argument, this complete distress of the Principal’s—found himself growing strangely amused.
Then he abruptly stood up and carried the resignation letter back to the principal’s desk.

“In any case, I’ll leave this with you.”
“Whatever you decide to do falls under your authority...”

While saying this, he pretended not to hear Akino’s attempt to intervene from beside him and returned to his seat.

“This is truly vexing,” said the Principal, pressing both hands against his head.

Higashikawa, who was one-eyed, also made a face as if he had taken a spiteful interest and silently gazed at it.
Akino was smoking tobacco while gazing at the mouthpiece of his kiseru pipe.

Then, Takako, who until now had said nothing and had been surveying the faces of the four, stood up as if resolved.

“This may be overstepping my bounds, but... well, I shall take custody of that—since Mr. Chihaya has already submitted it, you must find this disagreeable, and since Principal Andō must be troubled by this, and since the village office has their own circumstances as well…” she said breathlessly, hurriedly surveying the four dumbfounded faces around her. And then, with her plump, fleshy hand, she quietly took up the resignation letter from the principal’s desk.

“Would it be acceptable if I were to take custody of it?”
“This may be overstepping my bounds.”

“Wh-what? Wh-what.”
“What on earth is that…?” said Principal Andō, furtively peeking at Akino’s expression.
Akino remained silent, clenching his kiseru pipe between his teeth.

From the standpoint of monthly salary, Akino was above Takako. However, in terms of qualifications, even as regular teachers—one having risen through certification exams and the other being a normal school graduate despite being a woman—Takako held the position of second-in-command to the principal.

If Akino were to take custody—being a man and moreover a local—there would surely be various connections that would lead to some reaction. Takako had considered that as well.

And then,

"If someone as incompetent as I were to take custody of it, that would be the safest course of action."
"Hmm-hmm-hmm."

With a forced laugh, without waiting for the principal’s reply, she tucked the eight-folded paper between her hakama and returned to her seat.
Her face flushed crimson.

Ken widened his eyes and gazed at this uncharacteristic action.

“I see.” At that moment, Higashikawa slapped his knee.
“Ms.Namiki is admirable.Done,done!Indeed，that’s the best way.”

he said, turning toward Ken,

“Mr. Chihaya—would that be acceptable then?”

“Ms. Namiki,” Ken called out.

“Now, now,” Higashikawa said, raising his hand to stop him.
“Now, this’ll do just fine, I tell ya.
"This settles my duty too, I tell ya."
“Hahaha.”

And then, suddenly changing his tone,

“By the way, Principal Andō.
“About how many new students are there today?”

“Huh? Uh... uh...,” said the Principal, becoming flustered, then knit his brows as if forcing himself to recall. “There are forty-eight.” “That’s correct, I believe.” “Ms. Namiki?”

“Yes?”

“Forty-eight students, ’s that? Compared to previous years, would that be on the higher side or the lower side?”

The topic had changed.

“Mr. Akino,”

While saying this, the janitor with salt-and-pepper hair and a slightly stooped back entered.

“Your family has come to pick you up.”

“I see. What could they need?” said Akino as he left together with the janitor.

Ken, who had been standing with his arms crossed and deep in thought, suddenly stood up at that moment.

“I’ll take my leave now.”

“Is that so?” The people looked up at his face—that tightly closed mouth, that broad forehead.

“Farewell.”

Ken left the entranceway.
Across the red clay schoolyard, parched in patches, two yellow butterflies—the year's first—drifted low in tangled fluttering.
In a corner, four or five chickens that had slipped through the fence were scratching about.

As he approached the school gate flanked by two thick logs with rounded tips, a small red comb—presumably dropped by a female student—lay fallen in the mud. Ken tried moving it with the teeth of his geta. The comb was broken in two.

That Ken intended to resign after just one year was something he had consistently stated since first applying—when meeting an acquaintance serving as county inspector—to work at his alma mater in his hometown; moreover, not only he himself, but none among those who knew him ever thought Ken would remain buried as a country elementary school teacher. He—who since childhood had been fiercely ambitious and brimming with talent, who once went to Tokyo and published a book before even reaching twenty—Chihaya Rinchō was the name he had as one of the few young poets of that time; there must still be those who remember it now. Yet to spend their days—from dawn till dusk, earnestly and even cheerfully—amidst the monotony of this desolate farming village, teaching lowborn sniveling children, appeared both mystifying and trivial even in the eyes of the village’s ignorant old women.

They must have thought he would do something remarkable eventually!
That was the speculation of those around him throughout that entire year.

Moreover, his aged parents, young wife, sister, infant daughter, and himself—making six in total—could not make ends meet on a mere eight-yen monthly salary, even in this country village where living costs were low, and even with his frugal mother economizing to the utmost.
The three women had taken on sewing work and such, but even so, in such a small village, their monthly income of one yen and fifty sen remained unreliable.
And Jōun, Ken’s father—now past sixty—could no longer bear to witness the household’s wretched state, yet could do nothing to supplement its finances. A former monk who had wandered as an ascetic in his youth, he resolutely yet airily ran away from home, and only recently had his whereabouts seemingly stabilized.

Even if one wasn’t Ken—if they were someone else—they would still have had to find some more lucrative profession.

“Ken, when April comes and you quit the school, where’re you plannin’ to go?”

And his mother—a woman so hunched that her back rose higher than her head, an extremely petite figure—would sometimes say anxiously like this.

“Ah, I’ll go,” he would respond in that manner each time.

“Where’re ya goin’?”

“Tokyo.”

I'm going to Tokyo! But what will I do once I get there? He knew from past experience that even if he had made some name for himself, one could not make a living through poetry. Moreover, Ken these days had not the slightest interest in composing poetry.

The hope of writing a novel had long been in Ken's heart. The first time he tried writing was last summer, when summer vacation was nearly upon them. Titled *Omoikage*, this work saw him attending school by day while pulling four consecutive all-nighters to complete about 140-odd pages, which he then sent to an acquaintance in Tokyo. After twelve or thirteen days, the manuscript returned unchanged. He sent it to another person, and it came back again. When sending it for the third time, there was a four-sen postage fee, but he lacked the postage for the accompanying letter. Ken tried taking out dozens of old letters and finally found one postage stamp with a misplaced cancellation mark. And then he pasted it on and sent it off.

It was a rainy day.
Toshiko, his wife, came up to the filthy second floor that served as his living area, carrying the rain-soaked wrapping of the manuscript that had ultimately failed to earn any money.

“Has it come back again? Ahahaha!”

And he laughed.
Then he threw it into the bookcase as it was and never attempted to take it out again.

Unbeknownst to him, he had lost what might be called confidence.
However, neither he himself nor the people around him had noticed that.

And yet, even as he had written his resignation letter the previous night as effortlessly as one might compose a brief note, he had made no decision about what to do after leaving the school.

Ken walked with his usual posture—imposing frame slightly arched backward—maintaining his steady gait as he returned smiles to the children’s greetings along his path, all while keeping that perpetually thoughtful expression.

“Quit and I starve… Don’t quit and I still starve…”

This alone occupied his thoughts.

When he entered the house, his mother—crouched small before the compact stove set against the wall of the connecting room, seemingly boiling dried vegetables as she tended the fire beneath the pot—

“You’re back?”
“You must be starvin’, huh?”

and showed a smile that seemed forced.
All this time, even as she thought about our household’s future, her chest must have been constricted.

She wore a washed-out, straight-sleeved kimono—its cuffs frayed and faded beyond any visible stripe pattern—and atop her head streaked with white hair lay a pale yellow headscarf dusted with white ash.

“Not really.”

With that, he removed his geta.
On the entryway’s edge sat his wife Toshiko, her infant daughter strapped to her back over a grime-stained cotton garment, distractedly tucking stray hairs away from her face as she polished the lamp’s chimney.

“There’s definitely going to be a guest tonight.”

“Who is it?”

Without answering her,

“Ah… today was hectic.”

With that said，Ken energetically climbed up the ladder with loud thuds.

((End of Part One))

(What I have written until now—I want to forget it myself, and want others to forget it too. And now, I have begun writing this novel with a new personal resolve.
There may come a day when I wish to forget this work myself and have others forget it as well.—Takuboku)

〔“Subaru”
Meiji 42nd Year, February Issue]