Pathway to Japanese Literature

I Mr. Shūtoku Karasawa—usually a man of few words—had for some reason grown oddly animated these past few days, cracking corny jokes during meals to amuse the family. His naturally plump, ruddy skin—already robust—now glistened as if polished, and on the rounded tip of his nose, where faint crimson capillaries traced delicate patterns beneath the surface, the white reflection of sunlit shoji screens along the eaves seemed to shimmer. With his mouth—still adorned with well-preserved front teeth—thrown wide open, he would writhe with mirth while roaring *wahahaha*; gestures so vigorous that one could scarcely believe him a man nearing seventy. The family observed this youthful exuberance with looks of bewildered curiosity.

Two years prior, he had relinquished his demanding position as president of Karasawa Steelworks to his son-in-law Mr. Yokoo and now lived a carefree retired life; yet his inherently restless disposition refused to settle even in old age, so each morning he continued to leave for the office precisely at nine o’clock as before, returning only after noon. Not that any particular business awaited him there; it was simply that after years of routine, he could not rest easy unless he made his daily appearance at the office. He would be driven by car to show his face in the president’s office, offer advice to the new president, relay phone calls, tour the company, and then return home by car. In a way, this daily commute to the office was a form of exercise for the old man. Lately, however, his enthusiasm grew to the point where he even began touring the factory.

“If you push yourself so hard, it will take a toll on your health.” As the elderly Iyoko spoke these words in a placating tone, Mr. Karasawa waved his hand grandly, “Nonsense! This is nothing.” “This old body of mine hasn’t gone senile yet!”

he would writhe with mirth while roaring with laughter.

It was rare for Mr. Karasawa to be in such high spirits. For the elderly Iyoko, rather than feeling pleased by this, a kind of jarring unease came first. Though he was generally of a cheerful disposition, writhing with boisterous laughter was something that had never occurred before. It was as if the joy of vitality surging within him would inevitably erupt as laughter. This change left the elderly Iyoko’s heart strangely unmoored. In part, the wife’s mind fixated on Mr. Karasawa’s recently conspicuous solicitousness. He had always been kind by nature, but lately, there seemed to be a deliberate parading of that kindness.

Mr. Karasawa—whose custom it was to spend a moment in the garden tending his omoto plants before leaving for work—squatted once more that morning before the roof-covered omoto shelf, meticulously brushing dust from between the leaves with a water-moistened brush tip. Abruptly sensing the elderly Iyoko’s presence on the veranda behind him, he turned around. “What do you think of this Irifune’s luster?”

He arched his back proudly at an angle and assumed a posture as he gazed down at the omoto plant pot at his feet. “Well, come closer and see how I tend them.” No sooner had he spoken than he impatiently crossed the stepping stones, aligned the garden clogs himself, supported the elderly Iyoko—whose rheumatism made descending into the garden difficult—and led her slowly toward the omoto shelf while holding her hand. Flustered by the warmth of her husband’s palm, the wife stumbled repeatedly on the stepping stones and staggered. And from this sudden intensity of attentiveness, distant memories began to revive gradually, and the wife gazed at her husband’s softened profile as if searching for something.

Whenever her husband showed tenderness and meticulous affection beyond his usual demeanor, there had invariably been a woman involved behind the scenes—such had been the pattern thus far. On such occasions, this deliberately displayed kindness seemed less an act driven by heartfelt remorse toward his wife than a means to purify his dissipated and defiled self—a form of penance. The women who captivated Mr. Karasawa’s interest were primarily professionals in that sphere; indeed, there had been a time when he became utterly infatuated with a certain KoWaka of Yanagibashi, even personally designing full sets of dance costumes for her recitals and commissioning them from Kyoto in a display of single-minded devotion. It was around the time he celebrated his sixtieth birthday that his indulgences gradually waned, and his heart began shifting toward collecting antiques. He would place in the alcove a gilded Buddha statue of antiquated grandeur—its gold leaf flaking, unearthed from who-knows-where—and with evident delight stroke it, tap it, crane his neck to gaze at it until fully satisfied; in these gestures lingered echoes of his former playful indulgences carried over by inertia, though now it merely seemed old age had discreetly shifted its object to avoid societal reproach.

After finishing his omoto plant tending, Mr. Karasawa relaxed in the tearoom, partook of a bowl of powdered tea prepared by the elderly Iyoko, then changed into Western clothes and descended to the entrance hall ten minutes before nine, as was his custom. While having the maid Oshimo tie his shoelaces, he turned back to look at the elderly lady kneeling on the entrance step to see him off, “Hasn’t the great doctor gotten up yet?” he asked. They were accustomed to calling their son Keitarō—a medical student at university—by this affectionate nickname.

“What do you mean? It seems he was up late last night…”

He paid no heed to his wife’s intercession, “Keitarō! Hey, Keitarō!”

Shouting loudly toward the staircase, he impatiently struck the shoe-removal stone with his rattan cane. “That’s harsh, Dad. I was up all last night, you know.”

Adjusting the front of his nightclothes, Keitarō came down reluctantly. “No good, no good! If you buckle under a little all-nighter, what kind of doctor will you be?” Mr. Karasawa bellowed loudly with a smile on his face, “With that laziness of yours, you’ll never become an eminent physician.” He roared with laughter and left through the entranceway. Scratching his head, Keitarō watched his father—in unusually high spirits—with a look of bewilderment, then eventually went into the parlor adjoining the corridor to search for tobacco. When the elderly lady followed, Keitarō’s eyes—which had struck a match to the tobacco clamped in his mouth—remained fixed on the window as if drawn outside. Following his gaze, the elderly lady glanced outside absently. The driver was nowhere to be seen—perhaps he had rushed to the garage for some forgotten item—and there was Mr. Karasawa, one foot propped on the automobile, bending forward as he drew Oshimo close in a posture that suggested he was cracking a joke. As Oshimo pressed her sleeve to her mouth, turned away, and doubled over laughing, Mr. Karasawa—his eyebrows raised in a mischievous expression—poked the area around her hips with his cane. In that instant—Ah, so it was Oshimo…—the wife was struck by an unexpected realization, and in that moment, she felt she could decipher her husband’s rejuvenated demeanor of late.

“Oh, Father…”

While feigning nonchalance as she spoke, the elderly lady suddenly stood to block the window—an impulse to shield Keitarō’s gaze. Over her shoulder, Keitarō continued to watch outside with a prying look, “Father’s really quite something.”

He muttered to himself and burst into a bright laugh.

The wife, seemingly at a loss how to handle Keitarō, continued to gaze vacantly at him for a short while. For her, who had only ever encountered these two versions of Keitarō—either averting his eyes in shame or working himself into indignant outrage—this laughter came as something wholly unexpected. She had shown what she hadn’t wanted seen. That awareness persisted insistently. What arrived before the turmoil in her own heart was Keitarō’s eyes watching it. With a heart wanting to hide those eyes somewhere, she paced restlessly. How had Keitarō looked upon such a father and laughed? All the more because she had zealously concealed her husband’s affairs from Keitarō until now, she felt this to be an irreparable situation and was ashamed as though having shown it had been her own doing. Suddenly, she wondered whether she herself—so frantically trying to block her son’s gaze—might in fact be using that very act as a pretext to shield her husband. For her, who over long years had treated her husband’s affairs as her own failing and dreaded others’ eyes, shielding him behind her back had now become an ingrained habit. It was not so much that she held affection for her husband as that she believed doing so to be a wife’s duty. Because she remembered from childhood her mother’s manner of dealing with a philandering father, the heart that sought to emulate it had gradually fashioned her into that very mother of those days. Yet, even as she approved of this mindset and believed herself to be acting accordingly, there were times when she found herself regarded with a coldness as though she were wearing a mask. And so, enveloped in dark contemplation, she wondered of herself—so accustomed to convention—Was this a life of masquerade?

II

That Oshimo had been receiving Mr. Karasawa’s favor was something the elderly lady Iyoko had never anticipated. Given that all the women who had been involved with Mr. Karasawa until now had been of that sort, the elderly lady Iyoko’s shock upon realizing it was Oshimo was all the greater. Suddenly, with a heart as if flames had erupted beneath her feet, she found herself in a flustered panic. And yet, her spitefully clear surveillance eyes pursued Oshimo’s every move, determined not to miss a thing. Oshimo, whose large build for nineteen years old made her seem older, had plump breasts that swelled conspicuously beneath her apron. Each time she bent forward, breathlessly scrubbing the floor with a rag, they bounced heavily with every hurried motion. To the elderly lady, that sight felt indescribably vulgar and animalistic. She turned her face away, overcome by an impulse to spit. Yet, strangely, her eyes alone refused to leave Oshimo’s body, and without realizing it, her hand—having slipped in through the hem of her kimono—groped at her own withered breasts and caressed her bony chest. And though she earnestly told herself, “Old age cannot be overcome,” and tried to resign herself to it, the moment her gaze shifted to Oshimo’s vibrant body before her eyes, a fierce jealousy surged up unbidden. To suppress it, the elderly lady adopted a tone calmer than usual—

“Look, there’s still dust there.” “Please wipe it again.” She pointed down the corridor.

Oshimo sat formally, kneeling on her plump, rounded knees, and began fervently scrubbing, her large breasts swaying with each motion. As she made Oshimo repeat such movements, the elderly lady’s gaze remained relentlessly fixed on her body. How much longer she could endure this jealousy—it was as though testing herself. Oshimo was very much a scatterbrain with frayed nerves, but her sole redeeming quality as a maid was her diligent work for her master. Two years prior, someone had arranged for her to come into service from rural Fukushima, but even that rustic mountain girl had now somehow acquired a basic grasp of etiquette—enough that she could be presented before guests without causing embarrassment. It was her habit to always be grinning from ear to ear; no matter how busily she scurried about or how harshly she was scolded for some blunder, she never once dropped her cheerful grin.

“Oshimo’s face looks like she’s at a festival all year round.”

Often, the elderly lady would sneer like this. Even when she summoned Oshimo to the tearoom to reprimand her, the sight of that grinning face sapped her will to argue. It was as if she were dealing with a three-year-old child—even the elderly lady found herself laughing along despite herself. “Oshimo, you’re such a scatterbrain—you really must learn properly from what Oharu does, you know.” The elderly lady would admonish her like this from time to time, yet in truth, her affection drifted oddly toward Oshimo—who wasted effort repeating blunders—rather than Oharu, whose thoroughness extended even to affixing stamps to envelopes when presenting documents. And yet, compared to Oharu who had served for years, the elderly lady’s trust in Oshimo ran deeper.

Oshimo, who had vaguely sensed the elderly lady’s disposition, became all the more insistent on her scatterbrainedness out of a desire not to betray the trust placed in her. She knew this scatterbrainedness was her sole merit. And she repeated her blunders in moderation. If told to bring chopsticks, she would fetch a bowl; if instructed to prepare geta, she would line up zori instead—such was her way. This scatterbrainedness came across as endearing to the family. As for Mr. Karasawa,

“What a comical creature!” he would double over with laughter. When Oshimo spoke, flicking her tongue in a coquettish manner, her face looked so childishly adorable that the elderly lady—utterly charmed—would occasionally sneak out to buy her small accessories like obi cords and half-collars behind Oharu’s back. Before long, this secret indulgence became a pastime, and taking Oshimo along on shopping trips grew customary. The elderly lady would select patterns for Oshimo’s everyday kimonos herself, drape them over the girl’s shoulders, and narrow her eyes in satisfaction as she appraised them. Such secret indulgences were a kind of pastime for the elderly lady.

Before long, Oshimo came to be treated less like a maid and more like an adopted daughter, and she was included in the group whenever the mahjong table was brought out. After entering old age, Mr. Karasawa began such diversions to pass the time, each time instructing both the elderly lady and Keitarō to join him. As these gatherings accumulated, the elderly lady grew to feel closer to Oshimo and, using her own leg disability as an excuse, began entrusting her husband’s care to her. Even when Mr. Karasawa retired early to his bedroom and had Oshimo massage his head, she harbored no particular suspicion; moreover, his taking Oshimo into the storehouse to search for old books was an ordinary matter to the elderly lady. Rather than trusting her husband out of such feelings, it was because she had treated Oshimo as a child from the start that no suspicion arose in her. All the more because of that, the elderly lady considered this matter to be her own failing. She was furious at herself for having let her guard down and remained complacent, thinking Oshimo a mere child. And now, she felt she saw in nineteen-year-old Oshimo the wiles of a woman forty years older—was it this coquettish way of speaking with her tongue flicking out, this perpetually grinning innocent face that had lured her husband?

On this day, shortly after Keitarō had left for school, a call came from Yokoo of Takehisa-chō to the elderly lady, who was massaging her aching leg in the sunlight. It was the household where their eldest daughter, Sonoko, had married into. When she had Oharu take over listening, Sonoko’s voice asked whether they could come now. The elderly lady’s heart, which had been agitated by an impulse to summon Sonoko since earlier, suddenly regained a composure that felt suddenly soothed upon hearing these words. And now, the image of herself now pleading flickered before her eyes, and tears welled up.

She called Oharu and had her light a fire in the detached tea room that was not usually used. Today she had sent the maids away and steeled herself to consult with Sonoko—a resolute mindset born of necessity. She had even had the tea refreshments prepared and ready before Sonoko arrived. Before long, when there was movement at the inner entrance, the elderly lady did not go out to greet them as usual but instead entered the detached room first and waited. Sonoko entered bringing along her youngest daughter who had turned six that year. “Mother, would you prepare tea?”

With a curious expression on her face, she sat by the hearth, “Today, since it’s this child’s birthday, I prepared five dishes.” “Since you seemed to like them, Mother…”

As she spoke, she removed the lid from the jubako (tiered lacquer box) that she had placed on her lap and showed its contents.

“My, what a feast this is!” “This grandma here carelessly forgot the celebration, didn’t she?” “I’m sorry, okay?” The elderly lady stroked her granddaughter’s head and apologized. At that moment, Oshimo entered with a grinning face,

“Thank you for waiting.” With that, she offered a small dish placed on a tray. “Why on earth are you bringing this when I never told you to?” Suddenly, the elderly lady snapped in a harsh voice. Even Oshimo—though accustomed to being scolded—felt herself cower at the mistress’s unusually unrelenting severity in her tone today, yet she remained unaware that her own face, bowed deferentially with hands pressed to the floor, still wore its habitual grin. This grin grated on the elderly lady’s nerves. A scorching heat rose within her, as if she were being mocked with contempt.

“Get out!” She had intended to speak calmly, but her voice quivered as though strained. Sonoko was taken aback as she beheld her mother’s unexpectedly vehement countenance. As Oshimo left, “Mother!” she called softly, tentatively, “I was the one who told Oshimo to bring the small dish.” Sonoko pulled the tray bearing the small dish closer, “She’s such a hopeless girl—she forgot the chopsticks.”

She laughed. And, keeping her smile intact, she turned to her mother, “Has that girl done something improper again?” she asked gently.

The elderly lady, who had been smoothing the ashes in the hearth, raised her face and smiled faintly. And, for no particular reason, she averted her eyes. “Her blunders are a regular occurrence.” she said with a sigh. For a blunder, it was quite a significant one she’d committed—Iyoko found herself thinking about this latest incident.

“That girl’s been such a trouble too.”

The elderly lady started to say something but fell silent. The little girl who had been leaning against Sonoko’s lap peeling caramels since earlier had now completely forgotten her candy in the wake of the commotion and was staring at the elderly lady with a look of fascinated curiosity. Those small eyes unnervingly preoccupied her, making it difficult to broach the subject. And then, in a coaxing tone, “Tamae-san, why don’t you go to the garden with Haru-chan? The scarlet koi have grown ever so large.” “The scarlet koi have grown ever so large.”

When called out to, she shook her head with a “No” and clung even tighter to Sonoko’s lap.

“This child seems to have a slight cold, so it’s better she stay home. Now, sit quietly like this.”

Sonoko bent over the child and adjusted her sleeve.

The presence of the child strangely halted the conversation. The elderly lady grew impatient with this sense of being unable to take the first step, but— “Regarding Oshimo, I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you... Since that girl has come of age, I’d like to marry her off to some decent household...”

The conversation had strayed at some point. “I don’t have any immediate leads, but might there be someone at the company…? I’ll also speak to Yokoo and have him keep an eye out.” “If you would do that for me, I’d be quite relieved. She may be a bit scatterbrained, but well, she does have a good heart.” While saying this, the elderly lady felt her own mouth as something foreign.

III

Just as they had opened the five-tiered sushi box Sonoko brought and finished their late lunch, Mr. Karasawa returned home. With quick, hurried footsteps, he entered the detached room, "Hmm—my eyebrow's been itching all day thought we'd get some rare guest... Turned out just being our little baldy here!"

With his large palm, he tousled his granddaughter’s bobbed hair—but upon spotting the five-tiered sushi box on the dining table, he pinched a clump with his fingers and tossed it into his mouth. “Come on, kiddo—let’s go to Grandfather’s room.” Bending at the waist to match the child’s height, they joined hands and scampered down the corridor together. He embodied the very image of a doting grandfather.

“You’re looking quite well, Father.”

Sonoko, who had been tilting her head toward the corridor as she watched them leave, muttered to herself. “He’s been even more energetic lately.” The elderly lady gave a wry smile. “Really now—is it true Father has been visiting the factory lately? I heard from Yokoo that since your watchful eye reaches everywhere, the workers’ efficiency has improved quite remarkably. He says productivity has soared so much that someone like Yokoo simply can’t keep up.” To that remark, the elderly lady nodded readily. And the heart that revered her husband’s vigor suddenly came to regard Oshimo’s presence—so intertwined with that vigor—as something necessary.

How many wives must fall prey to this delusion? By locating the wellspring of their husbands’ vitality in Oshimo, these women rendered her presence permissible. Indeed, the concubine system itself often took root in precisely this brand of wifely resignation.

In her childhood, the lady spent her days observing only her mother in such a state. Father was a renowned sake brewer in Ugo—brands like “Tsuru Kame” and “Mandai,” still certified as premium sake today, were the fruits of his labor. His innately energetic constitution saw him entering the sake brewery before dawn to encourage the brewmaster, inspecting the barrels, joining laborers in packing during shipments, assisting the head clerk with ledger entries—all without a moment’s rest. This father had but one troublesome habit—he simply couldn’t manage without his concubine households—and it had become his custom to make the rounds of two or three such residences, rarely ever spending the night at the main house. Accustomed to living in the main house with her mother and sisters, Iyoko rarely ventured into the brewery or shop, so on ordinary days she never caught sight of her father. Father would only return home during occasions like New Year or formal ceremonies. Her father, who still refused to abandon the traditional townsman’s topknot, had freshly styled hair with glossy, taut side locks that were truly splendid, and his imposing figure in crested kimono and hakama trousers exuded the dignified bearing befitting a household patriarch. The young Iyoko, who retained no memories of her father except in such splendid attire, had decided that fathers always wore crested kimono and hakama. Thus, on the rare occasions when she glimpsed her father in casual clothes within the main house, she could not immediately accept that it was him. It felt as if she were looking at a stranger, yet driven by a strange sense of nostalgia, she would tag along even when her father went to the lavatory. At night, Iyoko—who was accustomed to sleeping cradled in her mother’s arms—would often be awakened by her mother’s stifled sobs and would then burst into loud cries herself.

“Now, you’re a good child, so you mustn’t cry.” “It was Mother’s fault.” The mother, who had been crying with her forehead pressed against the box pillow, secretly wiped her eyes with her sleeve cuff, then sat up and lifted Iyoko into her arms. The mother’s eyelids were swollen, and in the dim light of the andon lamp, her disheveled hair cast a lonely shadow across her forehead. From that face, with a girl’s sensitivity, Iyoko felt she dimly understood why her mother was crying. “Mother.”

Calling out, Iyoko felt unbearably sad and continued to sob quietly, pressing her face against her mother’s chest. Simply, for no reason, she thought her father in his crested kimono was a bad person. And then, her face—which had been crying while being jostled on her mother’s lap—jerked back the small head tied in a tobacco-pouch bun, and began to emit faint sleeping breaths.

One day, Iyoko had heard her mother speaking to the head clerk in this manner. “I fully understand your concern for the Master’s well-being and your intention to offer counsel, but I believe this may be somewhat premature.” “Master’s womanizing exists solely to invigorate his work—it can never be considered mere dalliance.” “So to speak, since that womanizing is precisely what brings prosperity to the shop, I ask that you give careful consideration to his well-being.” “I entreat you to do this for him.”

To the impatient head clerk, Mother appeared to be bowing deeply in apology. In public, it was Mother’s constant practice to resolutely defend Father’s misconduct. She lived with a sense of guilt, treating his misconduct as her own sin. The mother Iyoko had observed ended her life steeped in such dark, oppressive thoughts.

Now, the elderly Iyoko saw that mother within herself. The feeling of compassionate pity she held for her mother naturally flowed toward herself as well. But within this feeling lurked something frustrating—something akin to smoldering resentment. And the heart that sought to cast this off had, without her realizing it, been driving her mother out from within herself. Even when engaging in similar dalliances—where her father had made a habit of staying overnight at various concubine residences—Mr. Karasawa never established such households, instead fixating on favored geishas.

“I may frequent teahouses, but with professionals like them, you can’t very well get jealous, can you?”

Occasionally, Mr. Karasawa would say such things in a joking manner. His tone carried an implicit admonishment—“If you were to stir up jealousy, it’d only trouble me”—while simultaneously driving a nail into her heart. “My dalliances are part of the job.” For the wife, who had been made to hear this repeatedly, harboring jealousy toward the objects of his dalliance was, so to speak, akin to harboring jealousy toward her husband’s work. And this “work” of her husband blocked all interference from his wife. But within the sphere of his work, this officially sanctioned husband could indulge in dalliances unperturbed, with no one to censure him. Out of a sense of obligation toward his wife, Mr. Karasawa assigned their son to her care. Having grown accustomed over the years to seeing his wife suffer from rheumatism since her youth, he would habitually say—

“You’re frail, after all.” he would say. Whenever she heard this, his wife felt a sense of guilt. She resigned herself to the fact that since she was frail, there was nothing to be done if her husband indulged himself outside. “I’ll have Keitarō trained as a doctor and make him care for you.”

He said this to her so gently. This consideration brought the wife immeasurable joy. And thus, bound by that consideration, the wife’s heart gradually became conditioned to overlook her husband’s dalliances. Eventually, his consideration offset his dalliances, and whenever she heard his gentle words, she would forget everything and immerse herself in gratitude. For Mr. Karasawa, steering his heir Keitarō—whom he had originally intended to succeed him at the steelworks—toward a career in medicine had required considerable resolve. However, it was Keitarō himself—not Mr. Karasawa—who embraced this plan with wholehearted enthusiasm, arbitrarily selecting Science B for his high school entrance exams and advancing to medical school. From the beginning, he had been dexterous with his hands and had been the sort of child who became engrossed in collecting insects from around seven or eight years old, so perhaps Mr. Karasawa had given up, resulting in the appointment of his son-in-law, Mr. Yokoo.

The wife, having been entrusted with Keitarō’s companionship, found her husband’s dalliances no longer struck her so keenly. Taking advantage of school vacations, mother and son would often set out together on hot spring excursions. There were winters they spent entirely at their temperate Katase villa. Keitarō—always partial to his mother—attended to her with medical-student precision, caring for her less as an invalid than as one might tend a child. Whenever nighttime chill brought Mother urgent need for the toilet, he would lend his shoulder for support while discreetly relieving himself as well. This grew habitual—lately, even on nights when Mother slept undisturbed, he alone would rouse himself to make the trip. At home too, convinced Mother’s wellbeing couldn’t be delegated, he’d descend repeatedly from his second-floor room through the small hours to peer in on her. He’d even shake awake his soundly sleeping mother to enforce lavatory companionship.

Since the mother and son were often away from home, it became necessary to have someone to entrust the housework to, so they invited a middle-aged widow named Otsune from the lady’s distant relatives. Skilled at sewing and quite thorough in cooking as well, the family came to value Otsune-san greatly.

It was five or six years ago. When the mother and son, who had been staying at their Katase villa during summer vacation, returned home two or three days earlier than planned, there were Mr. Karasawa’s shoes left in the grand entranceway—an unusual sight. Since Mr. Karasawa had not been home at night during this period, the wife was struck by an unexpected feeling. One reason was the absence of the maids who would always come running out to greet them, along with Otsune-san. Keitarō walked from the maids’ room to the sitting area, calling out “Hey, hey” as he looked around. A sound came from the direction of the detached room, and Otsune-san emerged.

“Welcome home, madam and young master.”

The lady’s eyes went to the neatly combed hair, freshly parted with a comb, as Otsune-san bowed politely in this manner. Her eyes slowly turned to look toward the detached room. Mr. Karasawa emerged halfway, “You’ve returned at just the right time—I was just about to ask Otsune-san for some tea.” His voice was harsh. When the lady remained silent, he made an insistent gesture,

“How about it—won’t you join me for a cup?” He urged them with a smile. “I’ll pass—amateurs like us just end up a hassle afterward.” Mr. Karasawa, who had always maintained this pretense, was now breaking form and associating with amateurs. The lady, who had resigned herself to jealousy by regarding the professionals’ world—those who could be bought with money—as something remote, now felt a stabbing jealousy through her chest as she faced Otsune-san.

“Where are the maids?”

Strangely, it was only her voice that inquired in its usual calmness. "Yes, as per the Master’s instructions, I sent them out to see the moving pictures."

Otsune-san responded with downcast eyes. “Prepare yourself and come along to see the show.”

Having left these words unspoken, the lady drew her pallid face tight and, dragging her numb leg, slowly made her way toward the detached room—

The long-forgotten jealousy of that time now reared its head within the elderly lady. The same emotion she had felt toward Otsune-san was now turning toward Oshimo. Yet even to herself, it was strange that she now observed Oshimo with a bursting intensity far surpassing what she had felt back then.

IV

Though November had only just begun, the biting cold of morning and evening persisted. On the leafless persimmon tree by the back door, four or five vermilion-ripened fruits—lightly frosted—swayed in the icy wind.

A sunken kotatsu had already been set up in the tearoom, and the elderly lady had claimed this spot as her own to warm her aching legs.

“This cold must be hard on your body. How about taking the famous doctor and going to Katase for a while…” Perhaps unable to bear seeing the lady remain at the kotatsu, Mr. Karasawa made this suggestion in his usual gentle tone. The lady could no longer receive those words with the same guileless heart as before. For she now felt wary—that she could not leave the house if it meant leaving her husband and Oshimo behind. In the mornings, she suspected even the act of summoning Oshimo to the inner living room—ostensibly to prepare for outings—to be a frivolous pretext, and at night, she grew so uneasy about Oshimo massaging his head in the bedroom that she occasionally sent Oharu to spy on them. Disgusted by her own spiraling suspicions yet powerless to stop her mind from being devoured by dark imaginings, she could do nothing. And then, whenever she looked at Oshimo’s ever-smiling face, she felt as though being challenged—her whole body flushing with heat—until suddenly she realized that she too had reverted to a girl’s raw emotions and was now confronting her with unveiled hostility. At such times, she would momentarily forget the pain in her legs, a strange sense of vitality would come over her, and she would leave the kotatsu for the first time in ages to try walking around the garden with her cane. It was as though the fierce jealousy were reviving the lady’s body, worn down by illness. As these things continued, the elderly lady gradually regained her vitality. She would go down to the kitchen entrance to place orders with the errand boy herself and inspect the house to point out areas where the cleaning was inadequate. Due to the established custom that Oshimo was responsible for attending to the lady’s personal needs, they would meet face-to-face multiple times a day. Despite having such a childish face, how dare she cause trouble—she thought hatefully. She thought this was the kind of woman who repaid kindness with malice. Every time she thought this, the elderly lady felt a surge of vitality. This was strangely enjoyable, so whenever she saw Oshimo, she would grow agitated on her own. She would stoke her jealousy. And now, bound by hatred and jealousy rather than the affection that had connected them before, she found herself unable to part from Oshimo’s presence.

One night, as the elderly couple warmed themselves at the kotatsu while listening to traditional nagauta ballads on the radio, Keitarō came downstairs. “Since we’re all here tonight, how about we play mahjong for the first time in ages?”

he urged.

Mr. Karasawa also grew enthusiastic and promptly called Oshimo to have her make preparations. Concerned that his wife would find it harsh to leave the kotatsu, he busied himself directing how to place the mahjong table atop the platform. When everything was ready, the seating arrangement was settled: Oshimo sat to Mr. Karasawa’s right, followed by Mrs. Karasawa and then Keitarō in that order. Oshimo picked up tiles with her usual cheerful grin, forgetting some and mixing up their sequence. Each time this happened, Mr. Karasawa guffawed, taking tiles for her or signaling the correct order with meaningful glances. Keitarō watched this while repeatedly casting curious looks toward his mother—a mischievous urge to make her aware of the situation driving his gaze. The elderly lady found her son’s glances disquieting. Since that incident, she had noticed a shift in how Keitarō looked at Oshimo. Those eyes that had once regarded her solely as a maid now seemed abruptly keen to observe her as a woman. Lately, she sometimes caught Keitarō peering needlessly into the maids’ quarters to tease Oshimo, who in turn appeared delighted by such attention, erupting into shrill peals of laughter. At these moments, Mrs. Karasawa’s wariness of her husband would extend simultaneously to her son, leaving her unable to tear her eyes away. The lady who had come to view Keitarō as her sole hope and reason for living grew all the more unsettled upon recognizing her husband’s traits within him. Could it be that Keitarō was bound more profoundly to his father than to herself? This suspicion nagged insistently at her mind. She maintained vigilance, convinced she couldn’t leave home for even a moment if it meant entrusting both father and son to Oshimo’s care. How many housewives in this world could blithely leave their husbands and sons with a maid while going out untroubled? Such thoughts now visited her too.

From Mr. Karasawa’s seat, if he slightly craned his neck, he could see at a glance the tiles Oshimo had laid out. Mr. Karasawa was carefully discarding the tiles Oshimo needed. The elderly lady had noticed this some time ago. Thanks to Mr. Karasawa, Oshimo had already won twice. Keitarō would widen his eyes each time, “Looks like it’s Oshimo’s lucky night! Treat us, treat us!” he began to tease.

“Oh my goodness! Young Master.” “Young Master.”

Oshimo exaggeratedly waved her hands and, with a shrill giggle, doubled over with laughter. “Look—there goes Young Master again.”

When Keitarō raised his voice in a show of bravado, Mr. Karasawa—who had been laughing uproariously while clutching his sides—poked him, “It’s Young Master’s turn.” he instructed. Though normally addressed as “Keitarō-sama,” in such informal gatherings, this “Young Master” inevitably surfaced. It was as though they were deliberately putting on a comedic act. To the lady, this was unpleasant, but to Mr. Karasawa and Keitarō, it seemed unbearably charming.

During the North Wind round, the lady’s hand was unusually favorable, poised to win with just the two of characters tile remaining. The lady waited for that single tile with eager anticipation. The feeling was one of challenging Oshimo, who had already won twice. Mr. Karasawa discarded the long-awaited two of characters tile. “Pung!” Just as she exclaimed and reached out her hand, Oshimo’s arm shot out from the side and pinned down the tile. “Oshimo was first here, I’m afraid.” Mr. Karasawa said. “Oshimo was faster.”

He pushed the tile toward Oshimo. Suddenly, the elderly lady stood up from her seat. “This is too much.” No sooner had she spoken than she burst into sobs and, dragging her unsteady legs, ran out of the room. “Mother, what’s wrong? Mother?”

Keitarō gave chase.

The elderly lady had just stepped down into the garden, still barefoot in her tabi socks.

Five

Such matters had leaked from Keitarō to Yokoo, and Oshimo’s marriage proposal suddenly began progressing rapidly. Before things could grow troublesome, Sonoko fretted anxiously on her own. Mr. Yokoo—who heard this story daily from Sonoko—found himself concerned about Oshimo’s situation and, even while at work, discreetly began seeking unmarried employees. There was Yasuo Kimura: twenty-eight years old that year, with a commercial background, earning sixty yen in the accounting department; and another man—Kyūshichi Andō, forty years old—who had long served as the company’s errand man and was said to be seeking a replacement after losing his wife the previous year. Mr. Yokoo provisionally selected these two as candidates and entrusted all subsequent arrangements to Sonoko.

Today again, the elderly lady—summoned to the telephone—found herself pressured by Sonoko for an answer. “Well… since I haven’t even properly discussed this with your father yet… By tomorrow I should be able to give you a definite answer…” she said reluctantly. In Sonoko’s view, she wanted to marry Oshimo off to the young Yasuo Kimura. The elderly lady felt the same way. However, for some reason, Mr. Karasawa was refusing it.

That night, while relaxing at the kotatsu as usual— “There was another call from Sonoko today.” —the elderly lady broached.

Mr. Karasawa, who appeared engrossed in the evening paper, “Ah.”

He responded and hurriedly flipped the page. Though his face was hidden behind the newspaper and could not be seen, his sullen expression came through clearly. Since the incident the other night, Mr. Karasawa had been avoiding facing his wife directly—even when sitting across from her like this, he would often read the newspaper, pass time with a book, or close his eyes to listen to radio ballads. At such times, the elderly lady felt restless and unable to remain still. Even now, when her attempts to broach the subject were cut short by his indifferent replies and she found herself at a loss,

“If it’s about Oshimo, I thought I’d left that matter to you…” he said without taking his eyes off the newspaper. “Even so, I simply must consult you about this matter…” The lady brought up Yasuo Kimura and Kyūshichi Andō. And though their stations in life differed, she calmly expressed her feelings—that nothing would make her happier than if Kimura would take Oshimo as his wife.

Within the shelter of his newspaper, Mr. Karasawa—who had been listening to this—appeared to consider for a moment,

“Kimura is unsuitable. Andō would be better.” His voice held an insistent tone.

"But the age difference is too great, and Oshimo—" Without letting her finish, Mr. Karasawa—

“A maid should be matched with an errand man.” He hurriedly put down the newspaper and, while removing his glasses, stood up. Even if there were other reasons behind it, her husband’s endorsement of Andō was unexpected. The lady had convinced herself that even if her husband—who had been so deeply involved with Oshimo—was feeling displeased about letting her go, it was only natural that he would help Kimura out of their longstanding affection. That was his declaration now. The lady felt she had glimpsed there a man’s tyranny, cruelty, and coldness, and found herself trapped in a bone-chilling despair.

Having perceived signs of Mr. Karasawa entering the bedroom, the lady called Oshimo. “Regarding that marriage proposal we discussed—Oshimo, which would you prefer: Mr. Kimura or Mr. Andō?” Oshimo, who had been listening while rubbing her chilblain-swollen hands on her lap, raised her beaming face and promptly responded: “Either would be perfectly acceptable.”

she replied. She wore a nonchalant face, as though discussing someone else’s affair. “Such an ambiguous answer won’t do.” “If you yourself don’t decide, Oshimo, we can’t move forward with this matter.” While saying this, the elderly lady vowed that just this once, she would reject her husband’s words and steer the conversation according to Oshimo’s wishes. “Either would be perfectly acceptable…”

Oshimo repeated the same response, appearing troubled as she looked down and scratched her cheek, but— "Might I ask what Master said on the matter?" She asked, looking up from under her brow. "Do you intend to act solely based on Master’s opinion?" "No, it’s just…"

Oshimo lowered her eyes. It was clear she meant to act in deference to Mr. Karasawa’s feelings. “Since it’s not Master getting married, but you, Oshimo—you must decide this yourself.” As she spoke these words, the elderly lady felt her eyelids grow hot. More than pitying Oshimo—who sat frozen timidly out of deference to Mr. Karasawa—what grieved her was the ignorant act of keeping the girl there.

That night ended without resolution, but several days later, Oshimo herself came requesting they let her marry into Andō’s household. Her explanation held that forty-year-old Andō seemed more dependable than young Kimura. Though Mr. Karasawa had likely influenced her decision, since Oshimo presented this as her own wish, the lady found herself unable to refuse. She immediately summoned Sonoko to relay this development. Acting as intermediary, Sonoko soon brought Kyūshichi Andō himself to the Karasawa residence—stiffly formal in haori and hakama for his ceremonial introduction. While Oshimo disliked his bowl-cut hairstyle, she brightened at his otherwise handsome appearance. Under the elderly lady’s direction, wedding preparations commenced. With December’s urgency hastening hearts, Sonoko assisted daily in escorting Oshimo to department stores. Fearing provincial shame for the girl’s visiting parents, she meticulously assembled a trousseau—chest of drawers, vanity mirror, complete bedding sets. During one such bustling afternoon, as the elderly lady admired Oshimo modeling a chrysanthemum-patterned satin haori freshly dyed by their clothier merchant, Mr. Karasawa entered.

“What’s this—is that Oshimo’s outfit?”

He remained standing as he gazed at it. "Does it appear somewhat too plain?"

When the elderly lady looked up as if probing, Mr. Karasawa averted his eyes, “Extravagant things…”

He muttered irritably and left the room. After the clothier left, the elderly lady was summoned to Mr. Karasawa’s study. “Brocade is too extravagant for a mere maid. Consider your station.” Mr. Karasawa declared in a cutting tone. “Even if it’s brocade, that’s her only piece, and for a wedding it’s hardly…” “No—I’ve disliked this whole wedding commotion from the start. Moreover, you’re spending too much money.”

Having said this, Mr. Karasawa cast his eyes toward the garden. He wore a cold, unapproachable demeanor that left no room for appeal. The elderly lady remained in her kneeling position, hands pressed to the floor where she had been listening, and continued to think intently. At last, she slowly raised her face and gazed at her husband.

“No matter how harshly you reprimand me, I must see this through.” Having said this, she slowly rose from her seat. The wife, who considered her husband’s misconduct her own failing, wanted to make the fullest recompense within her power—driven by remorse for having compromised Oshimo. Mr. Karasawa, who failed to grasp his wife’s true sentiments, could only dismiss this entire commotion as nothing but trivial nonsense. He found it distasteful that his wife and Sonoko were fussing over Oshimo as if it were their personal concern, but above all else, he detested the wasteful expenses.

Her parents and relatives came from her hometown, and the day of the celebration arrived. They set up a gold folding screen in the back parlor to serve as a makeshift ceremony hall. Oshimo, dressed in Sonoko’s wedding kimono with her hair styled in a high chignon, became so flushed with excitement that she kept restlessly pacing around the corridors and kitchen areas. Before the cup-exchange ceremony began, Oshimo—accompanied by her parents—once again went to greet the master and his wife. “Thank you for all your kindness.” Seeing her parents bow, Oshimo also placed her hands on the floor and lowered her head gracefully.

“We are the ones who should thank you.” Having said this, the elderly lady gently pressed a hand to her eyes. Oshimo, having raised her head, noticed the mistress’s tears and suddenly burst into loud sobs. “Your makeup will run.” Mr. Karasawa gave a wry smile and left the room.

When the celebration ended, the young couple withdrew to Andō’s house in Ogu.

Mr. Karasawa exaggerated his displeased face, repeated "I’m tired," and immediately entered the bedroom.

Left alone in the tearoom, the elderly lady stroked the ashes in the brazier, feeling a certain sense of relief. It was a lightness as if a burden had been lifted. But imagining her husband’s sullen expressions from now on, her heart could find no pleasure. Mr. Karasawa became obsessed with handling antiques. In the four or five days since Oshimo’s departure, he had secluded himself entirely in the inner living room, gazing tirelessly at that familiar Buddhist statue enshrined in the alcove. Though he had the new maid Oume bring him tea each morning and afternoon, she reported he seemed not to notice even when called. His daily routine of commuting to work remained unchanged; however, he no longer engaged in idle chatter as before, and whenever Keitarō tried to joke with him, he would wave him away irritably. As he hurried back to the living room hunched forward, his retreating figure made his age unmistakably apparent—prompting the mother and son to exchange glances involuntarily.

One night, after Mr. Karasawa had gone out antique-gathering—a rare occurrence—Keitarō entered the tearoom with a smirk. Drawing close to his mother and putting his feet into the kotatsu, “Mom, want to see something amusing?”

While saying this, he took out a sealed letter from his pocket. “This morning, when I peeked into the mailbox on my way out, this was left there.” “Ready? I’ll read it now.” Keitarō opened the flower-patterned stationery and, putting on an earnest expression, began to read.

“Beloved Master, Have there been any changes in your circumstances since then? Morning and night, thinking of your well-being, I shed tears. I could never forget, even in death, how gently and kindly you treated me. Every time I recall it, my chest stings with pain. The ruby ring you bought me some time ago never leaves my finger. Since I can no longer meet you as often as before, I gaze upon this ring as though it were you. This longing—please understand it.

My husband is exceedingly kind to me, but I cannot help feeling something is missing. Ah! How happy I would be if I were by your side, Master—that thought alone consumes me. Before long, I will surely come to see you. If my husband should be present then, I beg you—please do not gaze only in my direction. The neighbor’s wife has informed me that my husband grows jealous easily. When opportunity permits, kindly give Madam my regards as well.

Master’s

Oshimo From Oshimo” Having finished reading, Keitarō flopped onto his back with a thud and laughed out loud—hah hah! Drawn in by this, the elderly lady began to laugh as well, but her face failed to form a smile—she instead sadly lowered her eyes. “The bath is ready.” When Oume called out from outside the shoji screen, Keitarō gave a “heave-ho” as he got up and left the room. Before long, just as the elderly lady reached to pick up the discarded stationery, Oume’s giggling voice came cascading from the bathroom to her ears. It seemed Keitarō was paying her attention. Involuntarily, the elderly lady half-rose from her seat.