Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“Do you truly—from the bottom of your heart—love me?”

Natsumi Shuntarou—chief engineer of the Robotics Department at KK Electric Appliance Factory, consumed by illness, having waged desperate battle against it, his face and voice ravaged by exhaustion—spoke these words quietly to his wife.

(And yet—why must invalids cling so tenaciously?)

Mrs. Natsumi frowned slightly in some corner of her mind—

"Yes, I do love you."

Her cheeks glistened like fresh fruit with golden down faintly shining; her waist showed its fullness through elegant lines; her lower limbs stayed taut and smooth.

"If I die—you won't stay single."

She recalled her husband's pre-illness manner—his frenzied conduct during sickness—those………, those…………………—and her skin turned ashen cold.
His slackened skin drained of fatty tissue—yet eyes alone blazed with abnormal light and heat; a faintly fetid breath.
That beast-like…………………………—remembering it, hatred crawled through her flesh like caterpillars.
Yet when she pushed aside that detestable husband's visage to recall such moments, heated desire began seeping through her veins.

“No.”

Mrs. Natsumi answered thus, yet faintly thought—If we're both to die regardless, sooner would be better—I've grown utterly weary of nursing you—and immediately in the next moment:

(I'm still young and beautiful—)

With that thought, she placed her own hands side by side and gazed at them.

And,

“Oh my, they’ve become so chapped.”

“Oh my, they’ve become so chapped,” she said.
And as she spoke, fragmented memories flashed through her mind like reflections in a shattered mirror—the men who had tempted her: a colleague of her husband’s who had approached with playful banter; the section chief who had grasped her hand; a relative who had attempted drunken kisses; all glittering shards of possibility.

“If I die—and should you desire another man—”

“No,” she interjected, “let’s not speak of such things.”

Mrs. Natsumi slipped her hand beneath the blanket covering her husband and clasped his fingers.

“Don’t dwell on such things—just concentrate on recovering.”

The husband turned his exhausted eyes toward the room’s door.

“That robot.”

Without so much as glancing back,

“Get better soon so we can make this ours again.”

“Consider that No.3 robot as me—”

Shuntarou tightened his grip on his wife’s fingers, imparting a lover’s pledge.

“I refuse! Such a thing.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“Now, get some rest.”

Mrs. Natsumi pulled her hand away.

"I specially designed it that way."

"No, no!"

Mrs. Natsumi rose from the chair.
She looked toward the door.
Beside the door stood an intricately crafted light metal alloy robot—an intruder prevention robot—standing coldly.
Dressed in blue attire and gloves, a Parisian-made 1936 model with facial features favored by Parisian women, it stared fixedly at Mrs. Natsumi.

II

Shuntarou sat up on the bed.
Eyes drained of moisture, the dimly oozing shadow of death around their eyelids, sharp cheekbones, thick blood vessels bulging at the temples—these features were eerily illuminated by the celadon-colored lampshade.

There, beside the bed, stood a synthetic aluminum alloy robot—its rubber surface painted with the same artistry as human skin—clung to a nude human form.
It was an object of Shuntarou’s research into how closely robots could approximate humans—the rubber’s thickness and thinness, its precise gradations of hardness and softness artfully concealing aluminum supports; eyes that rotated; eyelids that opened and closed; a mouth capable of speech; walking; object manipulation—all these movements scarcely differed from those of humans.

Before his illness, during its precursor stage when abnormalities manifested in his body, Shuntarou had applied electricity to the paint film atop the rubber and massaged his own body. And when he had made Mrs. Natsumi do such things as well, she—

“Just like a human.”
“Even the robot’s hands are warm.”

She gazed at Shuntarou with seductive eyes.

“What if I took a lover?”

“How delightful.”

Mrs. Natsumi said this and glanced at the robot’s expressionless—yet beautiful—face.

“As a romantic partner, it may be insufficient—but for any other partner, it surpasses humans.”

“Is that even possible?”

“Simple. Just install bearings and make it move freely.”

Mrs. Natsumi stared fixedly at Shuntarou’s face as he spoke—but shortly before completing the special mechanism in the abdominal section, he fell ill.
And now, he was attempting to complete it.

Coldly gleaming bearings meshed appropriately front-to-back and side-to-side for smooth motion; copper wire conducting electricity; rubber bags filled with liquid.
Nickel plates arranged to compress them from above and below—these components could be appropriately operated via three buttons located on the lower back of the robot.

Shuntarou—mouth slightly agape, shoulders intermittently heaving with labored breathing, eyes gleaming with deranged vacancy—adjusted conductive wires with tweezers, twisted switches to test bearing movements—and—

"This is the first gift."

he muttered.
Then, after closing his eyes for a while to rest from his fatigue, he closed the abdominal cover and quietly lifted the robot.
Though its lower body was heavy, the robot—light as paulownia wood—lay down on Shuntarou’s bed.
Shuntarou drank water from the pitcher, turned the robot face down, and pressed the bell by the pillow.

“Yes.”

From the next room, the nurse responded and immediately opened the door to emerge.
And when she saw the robot,

“Oh.”

That was a voice reprimanding the imprudence of a patient who should not have been moving.
Shuntarou, with stern eyes,

“You there—have a seat here for a moment.”

He pointed at the bed.

“If you get up, it will gravely harm your body!”

“Take your seat here.”

Having said that, Shuntarou got into the bed.
The nurse spread the blanket over him.

"I said sit down already."

“Am I merely to sit down?”

The woman said at the edge of the bed.
Shuntarou nodded.
He watched the robot.
As the nurse lowered herself onto the bed, the robot—with both hands it had thrust out—gripped the edge of the bed with its right hand and seized the blanket below with its left.
Then, as if applying increased gripping force while keeping hold of the blanket, it gradually pulled Shuntarou’s entire body toward itself—embracing his chest with both hands—while its right hand attempted to drag him closer with a powerful force that compressed even the straw mattress beneath him.

“There. Up you get.”

Shuntarou said this, and as the nurse stood up, the robot ceased its operation.

“Go over there―”

“Well, that robot—”

The nurse, fearing Shuntarou's morbid nerves, said this and,

“You’re no longer needed.”

“Yes… Please don’t overexert yourself too—”
“I know.”

The nurse left.
Shuntarou lay on his back, remaining perfectly still for some time, mentally measuring the distance from the door—where he always kept the robot—to the bed. *(A mechanism where when weight was applied to the bed, the robot would begin automated movement toward it—the springs beneath the bed—yes, springs that would rhythmically compress—and once they reached a certain frequency, the robot would initiate action—that would work.)*
The mechanism was simple.)

Shuntarou, having thought this,

“The second gift.”

he muttered.

III

Mrs.Natsumi sat in a kimono with knees folded.
On the rug hung the hem of an underkimono.
Sinking into the cushions while smoking a cigarette,
“Well now—I do love you.”

Having said that to the man, she glanced briefly at him—and as she caught the smile in his eyes—

“To be precise, I loved you.”

“Falling ill and no longer being loved—that’s a double misfortune.”

“It’s the responsibility he brought upon himself.”
“Even though he’s lost half his standing as a husband, it’s utterly unreasonable to expect only me to remain exactly the same!”

The man moved his left hand behind the chair and embraced Mrs.Natsumi’s neck.
Mrs.Natsumi blew smoke into the man’s face,

“In return, should he recover, I could go back to loving him as before.”

“What becomes of me when that time comes―”

“I don’t know.”

“There are two cases.”

“That’s right.”

Mrs. Natsumi, having said that, pressed the man’s shoe with the tip of her crossed left foot.

“One is goodbye, one is staying as we are.”

“Exactly.”

“Just which one is it?”

“What’s the point of thinking about that now?”

“But for me, it’s an important issue.”

“If we say goodbye—will the current situation change?”

“Somewhat—”

“In terms of feelings.”

“Yes.”

“Then go ahead and change.”
“I’ll say farewell then. Now transform.”

Mrs. Natsumi turned her face forward and looked at the man.

“How have you changed?”

“Well—not so suddenly.”

“Can’t you change?”

“But…whether this goodbye is false or real—”

“I really will do it. So do change.”

The man tried to pull Mrs.Natsumi’s neck closer.
Mrs.Natsumi grabbed that hand,

“If you won’t change, I won’t like it.”

The man silently took Mrs.Natsumi’s left hand.
Mrs.Natsumi arched her body back,

“Can’t you change?”

“Let’s think this through carefully.”

“So you want to think it through—is this romance really worth such scrutiny?”

Mrs. Natsumi, while faintly emanating fragrance, drew near toward the passionately gazing eyes and smiled.

“For me.”

The man put strength into his hand.

“You’re beneath even a robot.”

“Beneath? — Why?”

“Humans are as lowly as they can think, aren’t they.”
“A robot only does what it does, and doesn’t think at all, you know.”

“So it’s just a machine, isn’t it?”

“They’re happier than humans.”

“Happiness that cannot be felt by oneself does not exist for humans.”
“Those who feel happiness to the fullest also feel unhappiness to the fullest, don’t they.”

“That is life.”

“Until the 1930s.”

“Eternity.”

“Learn from robots, Suzuki Kinsaku.
A life where you do what you want and feel no regrets.”

“Then even if I say goodbye now, you won’t feel anything?
Nothing at all?”

“The moment you step out—I’ll go find the next man.”

“I won’t say goodbye.”

The man strained his eyes and hands.

"The only merit of human men lies in where their passion intensifies."

“Robots are more—”

The man felt passion flooding through his blood vessels.
Mrs.Natsumi, as the man’s face drew near, leaned back into the cushions as if being pressed down,
“It’s nice to have a robot that moves according to my will, and it’s also nice to have a man who teaches me methods beyond my own will.”
“Since Shuntarou made the robot, my senses have become twice as sharp.”
Mrs.Natsumi laughed brightly and stared fixedly into the man’s eyes.

IV

“I want to keep this bed just for you and me.”
Shuntarou spoke with a lifeless expression through his sunken eyes.
“Yes.”
“This place alone must not be defiled.”

“I swear it.”

“Is that so... Then take good care of this robot.
Think of it as me.”

“How remarkably intricate it is.”

The texture of the skin, the body temperature, those marvelous functions, those mesmerizing stimulations from minute electrical currents—it was through machinery that they were felt, something astonishing even to women that could only be perceived through machinery.

“I am a mechanical engineer—but only for this robot have I incorporated physiological research.”

“So it seems.”

“And then—at the same time, I can believe in the mystery of the soul.”

“Soul?”

“If you stop loving the robot, he will exact revenge upon you.”

“That robot—”

“Ah.”
“What kind of revenge?”
“I’ll kill.”

Mrs. Natsumi remained silent—but in her heart, she felt hatred and contempt for this obsessive love,

“Right.”

she said lightly, just a single word.

"I have only two or three days left—but I don’t want to entrust you to anyone but Robot No.3, into which I’ve poured my spirit."

“It’s starting again, isn’t it?
“I know perfectly well.”

“Because I too am fully aware—that’s why I keep saying it over and over.
“You can no longer remain single—”

“So why don’t you just keep loving Robo-san?”

The window was half-closed with curtains drawn, and over half the bed, curtains hung.
The wall hangings, the Chinese carpet on the walnut floor, the large standing lamp, the white marble vanity—all these things fell into a gloomy silence.
Mrs. Natsumi—

(I wonder if someone—a visitor perhaps—will come.)

She would briefly think such things and recall the Robot’s ingenious yet distinctly inhuman, unnatural sensations.

“The robot’s soul—it exists.”

Shuntarou muttered.
“Jealous?”
“The robot is either at your command or destined for destruction.”
“I suppose so.”

Mrs. Natsumi answered with only her mouth.
And she burned with thoughts comparing the mechanical man and the new lover.

“It’s already four o’clock—time to take your medicine.”

Mrs. Natsumi looked at her wristwatch and thought: He should be here by now—

“It’s a robot for preventing intruders, so be careful not to destroy it. Alright?”

“Yes.”

When she answered, the nurse knocked and entered.

V

“It’s truly intricate.”
“Not the least bit different from a human.”

The mourners who came to the funeral gripped the robot’s hand, stroked its cheek, and praised it.

“Should we praise it or condemn it—just as one cannot tell whether religion has saved more humans or caused more suffering and confusion, the development of science too has unclear merits and demerits.”

“Because robots like this have clearly taken human jobs.”

The mourners leaned against the chairs by the wall, filling the room with smoke and saturating it with their voices as they conversed.

“Truly, a single major scientific discovery shakes the very foundations of society and economy.”
“The development of rayon has squeezed raw silk, the low production cost of raw silk has impacted cotton yarn, and now that very rayon is struggling desperately against artificial wool—quite the chain of events, isn’t it?”

“In America, portable robots seem to have been successful.”

“You see, those ones...”

“About one foot square, with efficiency probably equivalent to this robot. If you attach small wheels and erect pillars of synthetic light alloy, it can load cargo and move about. If you set a location and adjust the distance meter, when it reaches a certain corner, it will apparently turn.”
“At the measured distance, it can turn either right or left, you see.”
“That’s why they can be operated safely and accurately.”
“It’s nice that a box can walk around on its own.”

“One of the modern landscapes—if robot-exclusive roads get built and humans step onto them, they’ll be flung away, you know.”

“It’s become that kind of era, hasn’t it.”

“In Japan too, electric vehicle taxis will mostly become robots, it seems.”

“I’ve ridden one. You insert fifty sen and the doors open—the only inconvenience is not being able to go to unfamiliar places, but since they developed the electric sensor, there’s absolutely no collision risk—”

“Make robots a government enterprise and have this thing handle all production, huh? Humans can therefore sit idle and just receive their share.”

“That’s how it must be—any other method would only increase unemployment.”

“But here’s the thing—you—” One man lowered his voice. “This robot—you... have it, I hear.”

“Is that so.”

“Then... perhaps make one and market it?”

“It’d suit a heartbroken fool like you.”
“If it’s a robot, it won’t scheme rebellion.”

“Instead, if you took one around Ginza, every last one of them would have the face of some popular actress—it’d be tiresome.”

“I’ll create a new model of beauty—one eye large and the other narrow, faces both front and back—”

“Anyway, human women all have the same faces—aren’t interesting at all—so I’d bring one with three noses.”

“If it’s a robot, even a wife wouldn’t get jealous.”

“On the other hand, since wives will love male robots too, humanity’s downfall is truly upon us.”

“Through compulsory orders, they’ll make them undergo artificial insemination.”

“Well then, someone like me would be a model ×× holder.”
“When selections are announced in the official gazette, women come swarming in.”

“Let’s stop already. That bastard Shuntarou must be sneezing underground.”

“However, things are changing so rapidly—society, humanity—the terrifying power of science.”

Six

“You seem to love Robo more than me.”

“Like loving a dog.”

“It’s not jealousy—I don’t have such absurd emotions—but your loving Robo ultimately declares my lack of qualification.”
“I consider it a form of insult.”

“Then what if I were to love this pipe?”

“A pipe is different, you know.”

“Now that you mention it...”
“The forms of love and altered emotional diversions have increased by one for me—now that I think of it—how should I put this?”
“It truly is adorable.”
“My intentions reach through unimpeded—wouldn’t you agree?”
“So half becomes akin to loving myself—don’t you think?”
“This strange sensation—this emotion as if I harbor both sexes within me—it undeniably exists.”
“And sensations—they revel ever more in what stimulates them.”
“The more aberrant the sensation—I’ve grown fond of that metallic scent clinging to Robo-san—chill and ticklish—”

A musky, animalistic perfume scent—close to body odor—lingered in the air.
Mrs.Natsumi had drawn the same floral design—originally painted on the robot’s chest—in blue, vermilion, and purple across her powdered décolletage, while vivid pigment traced multiple lines over the exposed skin of her legs.
That served to make her legs appear longer while also being an alluring bodily decoration.

“Moreover, human strength has its limits, but Robo-san’s is infinite.”
“As women gradually grow accustomed to enduring that strength, men start to seem rather dull.”
“But humans do have their good points too, don’t they.”

“Then what about me—”

“—”

“Since it was a two-week promise, I—”

“I remember.”
“Five o’clock, you know.”

“And besides—”

“You came at five twenty.”
“If it were Robo-san, he’d knock when five o’clock strikes one, two times, you know.”

“If even in love, Robo-kun comes to dominate—that would mean humanity’s end, wouldn’t it.”

“Yes—the power over life and death has returned to women’s hands, you see.”

“It seems so.”

The man stood up.
And then he opened the door and entered the next room.
On its right side stood a new robot wearing colorful rayon Japanese-style pajamas, smiling.
The man stood gazing,

“Robo-kun,” he said.

“Ha—”
Robo answered.

“Mrs., even ‘Robo-kun’ gets through to it, doesn’t it.”

Mrs.Natsumi moved the painted body beneath thin silk as she walked,

“Only Robo gets through.”
“Do you love Mrs. Natsumi?”
“Ha.”

The man was staring intently at Robo’s face.
Mrs.Natsumi,
“It even understands the word ‘love’.”
“So you can respond to those kinds of words.”
“Simple romantic terms, at least—”
“Should I kick you?”
The Robot remained silent.
The man, seeing the Robot smiling without responding, felt as though he himself were about to be kicked.
“It’s creepy.”
“It seems to have a soul.”

Mrs.Natsumi opened the bed curtain.
And then she sat down,

“Let’s talk here.”

With that, she placed a chair beside the bed and leaned her elbow on the cushion.

7

“Damn Robo’s staring at us.”

The man stood up from the chair.
And then, he moved the chair outside the curtain and drew it closed.

Mrs. Natsumi leaned her body against a large cushion and let one leg hang off the bed.
The man sat on the edge of the bed,

“I—”

With passionate eyes, he looked at Mrs.Natsumi.
Mrs.Natsumi buried her head in the cushion and narrowly opened her eyes,
"What are you up to?"

It was a voice imbued with feline coquetry and pliant softness.
The man...

“Can Robo kiss?”

“If it’s just one type, it’s simple—”
“Then humans have the advantage, don’t they?”
“That’s right.”

The man approached Mrs.Natsumi.
And then he sank deeply onto the bed.
And then he reached his hand toward Mrs.Natsumi.

“You mustn’t.”

Mrs. Natsumi shook her head.
That was nothing more than an alluring form of coquetry bearing the semblance of refusal.

The robot advanced straight forward with precision—exactly as Shuntarou had calculated—the moment it received the bed's signal. And then, using its head and body, it pushed through the curtain and entered.

“Robo-san, you mustn’t come.”

Mrs. Natsumi shouted.

The man,

"You idiot."

he shouted.
The Robot spread both hands.

"What are you doing?"

When Mrs.Natsumi screamed, the Robot spread its arms wide as if to envelop them together with the bed—they turned pale—in that instant when, repulsed by the Robot's grotesque actions, terror chilled their bodies to the marrow—those soft yet powerful hands clasped them tight.

"No! Let go!"

Mrs. Natsumi tried to pull her arm free from the Robot’s grasp.
The man, held by the shoulders, gripped the bed frame with his right hand and struggled with all his might to pull free.
Mrs. Natsumi kicked at the air with her legs, kicked at the Robot, contorted her face, and widened her terror-stricken eyes,
“Someone, someone—please come!”

she screamed.
The robot gradually, precisely tightened its grip on the two.
……………………………………………………………………, their bones ached.

“Ahh— It hurts!”

Mrs. Natsumi screamed.

At that instant, the robot—

“Because you defiled the bed.”

—said.
To them, it sounded like a voice uncannily resembling Shuntarou’s.
Simultaneously, they felt excruciating pain—a stabbing sensation piercing their skull bases, searing agony permeating every bone.
The two shrieked.

“The robot’s soul.”

And the Robot answered.
Their legs were bent in agony.
Trembling, their fingers were twisted as if breaking.
Their faces turned bright red, and blood began to seep into their eyeballs.
After a short while, blood flowed from Mrs.Natsumi’s nostrils, and her eyes bulged out grotesquely—peeled wide open as if about to burst from their sockets.
The man, too, could only groan faintly now.

When the mourners rushed over, only the curtain was faintly swaying.
The servant,

“Madam.”

called out, but then hesitated out of deference, the two of them simply exchanged glances for a moment.
A plopping sound of liquid dripping could be heard.
And then, after a short while, there was a clunk—a sound like a machine coming to a halt.
When the two saw Mrs. Natsumi's legs—still adorned with makeup and paint yet discolored—hanging beneath the curtain, and opened it, she was gushing blood from both eyes and mouth.
And then, the Robot was looming over the two.

(From "Shin Seinen"
Showa 6 [1931], March Issue)