Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was a certain rural town. If one peered into a particular part of the back alleys, there stood a laundry shop spreading cloth across its yard, beyond which lay a green vegetable field. When flocks of chickens wandering nearby strayed into the field, shouts of farmers chasing them away—"Shoo! Shoo!"—could be heard. When spring came, clusters of greens that had lain hidden around the field would suddenly raise their yellow heads and stand upright on tiptoe, then white peach blossoms would bloom along the fences, while laundry workers splashed water over the short blue grass in their yard as they scrubbed stretched cloth with brushes—such was a certain side street in this town. A sake brewery, broken at its corner, stood sorrowfully. The old man who had built this brewery—leaning on a thick wooden cane and walking like a beggar—remained a recent memory. The sake brewing season had of course been winter, though he would simply spread a straw mat before the large furnace, sprawl out under a single futon, and pass the night like that. Once he closed his eyes even briefly, the entire brewery had been seized by a ruthless moneylender. Afterward, the moneylender served hard labor and remained imprisoned for years due to an incident he himself had caused, leaving the sake brewery untouched. Weeds grew thick and wild. Tiles fell off. The walls collapsed. Numerous large barrels could be seen scattered here and there through gaps in the crumbling walls. Its form appeared so gruesome one might think it had contracted a disease called rotten bone ulcer. The long wooden fence along the side street—its pillars rotted—sagged unsteadily, parts of it occasionally collapsing. Someone would prop it up each time and tie it with rope, new knots forming here and there. The building facing this wooden fence—an area where faint shouts chasing chickens from the green vegetable field near the laundry shop could still occasionally be heard—was where a doctor had recently opened his practice. Patients came and went through the front lattice door. When night fell, under the hanging lamp in the front parlor serving as the patients' waiting room, the pharmacy apprentice leaned against a box-shaped brazier, his center-parted hair gleaming as he examined a pack. At times, slightly apart from the brazier, the young master—still wearing his medical uniform—would sit reading a newspaper spread wide open. It was a bitterly cold winter evening.

There was a male guest of similar age, around thirty. In the six-tatami room next to the waiting room, the two were gathered around a kotatsu. The doctor, still beneath the cold eaves, had folded a newspaper into a small size and was vigorously fanning charcoal. The smoldering powdered charcoal mixed with straw scraps emitted a thin wisp of smoke from beneath the futon’s edge. When the kotatsu’s fire crackled to life, the doctor took his medical coat and hung it on a hook behind the guest. In the transom facing the guest hung two glass-framed plaques. One was a platoon photograph taken when the doctor had been dispatched to war; the other was his graduation certificate from Chiba Medical School. The light from the lamp beside the kotatsu glittered as it reflected off one plaque’s glass into the guest’s eyes. When he turned his head sideways, the lamplight reflected off the other glass panel. As the guest looked this way and that, the doctor changed into a kimono and carelessly wrapped the heko obi around himself while—

“What’s with you?”

He entered the kotatsu. The clothing was sun-dried striped cotton, and the knit shirt was soiled to a noticeable degree. The shirt was layered two thick, making the area around the wrists bulge out awkwardly. The pharmacy apprentice brought tea in imitation Soma-yaki teaware. While placing the tray below and standing, the dangling haori cord dragged the tea bowl away. After taking a sip of tea, “This is cold. It’s just me and the student here—so inconvenient it’s unbearable.”

And the doctor gave a wry smile. And then,

“Hey, Matsuda!”

he called out and briskly went to the front parlor

“Could you bring one serving of shiruko? Hey, don’t jump up and knock into the lamp!” he said. The pharmacy apprentice clattered open the lattice door and exited. As the kotatsu’s warmth grew between host and guest, idle chatter began. While occasionally twisting the tips of his habitual beard, the doctor spoke. When he twisted the tips of his beard in that characteristic way, it marked one of those moments when young men typically grow smug. The guest smiled demurely while fluttering the cords of his flat-woven white haori with his palm. The light from the table lamp drawn near the kotatsu cast a dim, circular glow across the ceiling. This round illumination quietly watched over them both. The lattice door clattered open again as the shiruko arrived. Evidently carried too roughly, the bowl’s lid sat askew with broth spilling down its sides.

"If you don't mind, go ahead and have it all." When the doctor said this, "There's usually plenty—it won't be a problem!"

The guest ate while blowing on his broth. The young doctor, without picking up chopsticks, took a sip, wiped his mustache from side to side, and resumed their earlier conversation. "It was when I'd left the dormitory and was staying at a family-run boarding house." "The place had a grain shop out front that a retired couple managed as a side business." "When people talk about students, most might as well be called libertines—but back then I was still considered exemplary, so I received special treatment." "At that time, the professor was lodging in my second-floor room temporarily." "He was supposed to receive a degree for his distoma research, but his mother worried leaving home would bring bad directional fortune—being filial, he apparently lived separately just as she wished." "It must have been during the first Tori festival night." "A crowd gathered in my room, everyone bringing meat and drink for a raucous feast." "At first they held back, but soon they were reciting poetry and performing sword dances—a proper uproar." "The professor had been studying upstairs." "The others could leave without concern, but finding myself alone after everyone scattered, I felt terribly about disturbing him—and somewhat guilty too—so I took the lit brazier upstairs." "When I did, the professor suddenly—seeing my face—"

“You’re a poor-performing student, I suppose.” said the professor. Because I was a bit irritated, “I may indeed be a poor student, however, to this day my seat rank has never once fallen below 8th or 9th place.” he declared defiantly. The professor was also slightly disappointed.

“Even so, for someone in your position as a student, drinking alcohol and causing disturbances and such is hardly proper.” “If you keep this up, you'll ruin your brain and amount to nothing in the future.” Thus came an ordinary lecture. After that, I did not hide in the shadows like the other students. “Since I openly take pleasure when I ought to,” I declared, “there should be no grounds for criticism.” “But putting that aside—won’t you make a promise with me?” said the professor. “I didn’t quite understand what he meant but agreed with gusto.”

“Then won’t you study under my direction?”

Since there was no other reply to this, I once again declared I’d do it with gusto. The professor seemed exceptionally pleased. At that time—with plague outbreaks occurring—the professor grew animated and kept lecturing about pestilence for a solid hour. The sake left my head throbbing, yet I had to sit properly and listen through it all—an excruciating trial of endurance. When the professor’s lecture finally lulled, I abruptly pretended to remember neglecting the lamp’s maintenance and retreated downstairs. From then on, when night reached ten o’clock, extinguishing the lamp became an absolute rule—and if ever delayed even slightly—

“Hey, Kokufuda-kun—are you still awake?” he bellowed from the second-floor staircase. At first, the professor had referred to Kokufuda as "Kokufuda". At five in the morning, the professor would bellow. “Kokufuda-kun—are you still sleepy?” With that, he would bang-bang on the door. It was the second-floor window shutter. The sudden banging would startle him awake—there was no staying abed. Because he was a man of discipline, he wouldn’t let even a single instance go. Since I was made to follow that routine first, I could naturally study properly, and the professor in turn became fully committed. After graduation, he had even gone so far as to say he would make me his assistant. In the end, I fell into depravity while the professor was still boarding there, so there was nothing more to be said. Once I started finding pleasure in going out to enjoy myself, there was no stopping it. Even so, I had to study wherever the professor could see me, so things were still manageable while he remained at the boarding house. Before ten o'clock at night, I would extinguish the lamp. For that purpose, I would slightly open the door beforehand and lie wrapped in the futon. When, peering from the staircase, the professor’s lamp went out, at that moment I would slip out stealthily, climb over the fence, and leave. And then I would return before dawn and crawl into the cold futon. The professor remained completely unaware, so at five o'clock he would knock on the door. He’d ask if I was still sleepy and then bang-bang on the door.

Since I was actually sleepy, it was extremely excruciating.

One evening, as I was climbing over the fence to go out as usual, clang-clang went the alarm bell. When I wondered where it was, the sound seemed to come from near my boarding house. Thinking Oh no, I hurried back. Looking around, it was indeed nearby—but not my boarding house. Upon learning it was the geisha district, I burned with curiosity to rush over and see. But then the boarding house landlady caught me. "Oh thank goodness you came back!" "All the lodgers have gone out—I've been panicking here alone!" "You can't imagine what a comfort your presence is!" "Please promise you'll help me!" "The professor said he grew worried about his own house and went out!" "I beg you—" she pleaded, gripping my sleeve with desperate strength and refusing to let go.

The sky was entirely scorched crimson, and sparks scattered upward in droves. A roaring commotion could be heard. The medical students had rushed in and carried off things like the geisha’s shamisen, or so I heard, but I was in no state of mind at the time. But there was no help for it, so as I stood out front with the landlady, the professor eventually returned and was immensely pleased that I had stayed. Because the professor trusted me completely, he didn’t think that I had rushed back in a panic and been caught by the landlady. While the other lodgers were rushing out, that I alone stayed behind to guard it must have struck him as admirable. When it came to that, the professor was oblivious.

After that, the professor must have resolved whatever issue there was with the orientation and moved back to his home. I spent the entire Sunday helping carry the luggage. After the professor was gone, I became completely free. However, the retribution was immediate—my rank suddenly plummeted to thirty-sixth. The professor was astonished. But at that time, using my illness as an excuse, I had temporarily deceived him. Even so, I couldn’t keep up the deception forever. There came a time when he conducted an exam. Since it was an oral exam, I somehow managed to imitate the previous examinee and kept talking, but in the end was caught out. In the differential diagnosis of exanthematic typhus and intestinal typhus, I came to a complete impasse. It was just a small part, but I couldn’t grasp it. The professor was oblivious in daily matters but exceptionally sharp academically—deception proved utterly impossible. “You’ve fallen into depravity,” was all he said. I felt as if doused with cold water. When I glanced up at his face, he remained standing perfectly straight, glaring fixedly at me. He said nothing more after that. I felt my body terribly shrunk small and my spirit grown distant; only then did I become aware of the other students’ muffled sneers.

Chiba was pleasant at first. From the schoolyard, I used to gaze proudly at the mountains of Sagami across the distant sea, but by graduation, my rank had plummeted to sixty-eighth. There were times when I would exert myself tremendously, but once having fallen into decline, I could never return to my former position. The sight of me—burdened with debt, dragged out of Chiba by my brother—was what caused the trust of my father and brother to crumble at that time. "It was naive of me, but neither my father nor my brother could have imagined that I would end up all alone in a place without even a single desk, surrounded by dusty sake barrels scattered about." Even restaurants would lend recklessly, so I ended up shouldering a heavy burden. "The reason I’m stuck here smoldering in my hometown even now is the curse of that time."

The young doctor fell quiet for a moment, sipped the remaining sweet red bean soup from the bowl's bottom with his right hand, then—using his left hand in an awkward grip on the chopsticks—chewed the chilled rice cake. He then sipped the cold tea that had been poured. The guest, who until now had lain on his side under the desk lamp with right elbow propped while listening, slowly rose and reached for the remaining bowl of sweet red bean soup. The bowl's rim traced a small circle across the tray. The guest chewed soy sauce-soaked pickled vegetables with evident relish before pouring from the cooled iron kettle into the teapot and placing it over the kotatsu's heater. And then,

“You mustn’t stick your legs out and tip it over.”

he said.

“I never had the mind to open a practice in a place like this either,” the young doctor said while wiping his beard with a handkerchief. “But circumstances have a way of completely weakening a person.”

A faint flicker of pain crossed the young doctor’s face.

The round ceiling light, shaped as if it had let out a sigh, continued to gaze down at the two of them from its earlier position.

II

The young doctor continued with his story.

“The one-year volunteer program was utterly hopeless for me.” “At school there was the constant anxiety that failing exams might make me fall short of becoming a proper doctor, but as a volunteer soldier—stuck unable to even become a third-class military medic—I ended up lumped together with farmers and the like, getting ordered around by superior privates. How could I possibly take any of it seriously?” “First off, being confined to quarters only lasts about two weeks.” “With that kind of resolve, I ended up being hated by the squad’s probationary officers.” "In the military, once you're marked by a superior officer, that mark clings to you relentlessly." “At every little thing, they’d berate me.” “Even with the horizontal bar in gymnastics, I was the best in the squad.” "Even the drill sergeant went so far as to say they should learn the essentials from me, but the probationary officers had nothing to praise." "That won’t do—they’d say my gaze was all wrong." “Because I’m short, even when jumping to grab the horizontal bar, I have to look upward.” “Even if I stand the rifle upright, the muzzle only comes up to around my ear.” “Even during drills, short guys have poor posture.” "Because the precarious way I walked with my short legs even got me nicknamed Mr. Thin Ice, I inevitably ended up looking upward." “They’d say my gaze was no good because it showed cowardice, so it wouldn’t do.” “At times they’d order me to cross the beam; I’d refuse to cross it.” "When they say 'beam,' they mean those high bridge-like structures." “I flatly refused to cross it and acted stubbornly.” Then the probationary officer would have the entire squad line up and declare, "The Kokufuda Volunteer Soldier is a coward." “They probably said something like, ‘Back in school, he must’ve failed surgery and anatomy.’” "No—that’s entirely wrong."

“Since I always received full marks in surgery and anatomy, if they doubted that, I told them to contact my school—but when I picked a fight over it, I was thoroughly mortified.” Another time went like this. Standing before the assembled ranks, that probationary officer posed the question: “If thou wert ordered to use thy sword to open a tin can, what wouldst thou do?” Having been indoctrinated that “the sword is a soldier’s spirit,” everyone raised their hands to declare they would cut. “I don’t raise mine.” “Why won’t you raise it?” he demands. “Then I’d say—if some madman were to demand thou cut open a tin can with thy sword or be killed on the spot, and if that madman were far stronger than myself, rather than pointlessly throwing away my life, I would prefer to use my own sword to cut through that simple tin can.” Every clash I ever had was always over some trivial nonsense like this. The room I occupied had apparently once been a warehouse. One evening, I bought a bag of Genji beans from the canteen and kept them, then after lights out, two or three of us chewed on them. “If I had given some to the first-class private in our room, it would’ve been fine—but since I didn’t, that bastard reported us.” “The sergeant came and asked if anyone had chewed beans.” When we denied it, he insisted there had been crunching sounds—“This is outrageous,” he said—and when they lit the lamp, unfortunately two or three beans had fallen under the bed, so we got thoroughly chewed out. We spent six months earnestly repeating these same trivial clashes over and over. However, precisely because of the class system, when six months had passed, we were suddenly promoted to military doctors and came to hold the rank of sergeant. We could now conduct examinations freely and had gained a bit more leeway. It happened to be during the live-fire exercise march to Narashino. There was a lieutenant who had just gotten married, but there was this guy who devised a way to submit a sick leave notice and skip out. “I was on duty for examinations.” As a result of consulting with my fellow military doctors, we concluded that that guy was undoubtedly feigning illness.

“Since those officers were always throwing their weight around too much during peacetime, we agreed to teach them a lesson—so when I went to check, he was putting on quite the performance, though it was clearly an act. Even so, I let it slide for that day and decided to have him report for drills starting the next morning. I was quietly smirking to myself as I ambled back along the barracks when—”

“Hey! Military Doctor! Wait up!” he barked. When I turned around, the Battalion Commander was leaning out of the window—this mediocre old man who’d clawed his way up from Special Duty Sergeant Major. His face gleamed like tarnished copper, eyes bulging grotesquely beneath eyebrows white and bristling as caterpillars. “What’s this about the lieutenant’s condition?” he demanded. My evasive answers only tightened the noose. The Battalion Commander pressed his questions with practiced cunning.

“What about the fever?”

he asked such an unexpected question. “It’s not particularly high.” When I said that, “How high is it?”

he pressed, so I carelessly— “It’s within normal range.” I ended up saying. The Battalion Commander became furious. “What nonsense are you spouting?!” he looked ready to pounce at any moment, his attitude fierce. I realized it was a blunder, but with nothing to be done, I remained standing there for a while. Then, "What are you dawdling about? Go!" he barked. “Ah, if I may just explain—” And then I tried saying this, but he wouldn’t listen. "I don't need that. Why aren't you going?"

the Battalion Commander bellowed.

“Ah, for instance, if we posit there exists an illness called laryngitis here, then fever would naturally accompany it in this case." "For such fevers, phrases like those I just employed are standard parlance within our medical community—" I spouted this fabricated justification. Military men grew remarkably detached once matters reached such stages. They never knew they’d been tricked.

“I see, that was my fault. I wasn’t aware that was standard terminology in the medical community. That was unfortunate.” With that, his stern face suddenly softened. From then on, the Battalion Commander trusted me and occasionally had me perform examinations. He suffered from chronic asthma. “This damned fever just won’t break.” Whenever he said this, he was always troubled by it. Since he fretted over what seemed like no fever at all—and I initially found this suspicious—he would take his own temperature and worry, but upon inspecting the thermometer closely, I discovered it was an old defective one that would rise to nearly eight degrees even at normal temperature. He had been told anything from seven degrees upward counted as a fever, which was why he kept agonizing over it. In the military, a whole year slipped away like this—spent on such trivialities. Even if you could say I joked my way through it all, I still somehow managed to pass the final exams without feeling any particular anguish. However, during this period, there was one extremely troubling matter. I had done something that felt like a slight transgression—though not truly sinful—and its origins traced back to my time in Chiba. It was when I felt somewhat ashamed of my poor performance and resolved to make an effort—to avoid bad companions—that I rented a room in a local farmer’s house. It was on the coast. I remember it being after summer break because there was a clump of irises in the garden. When I was a child, my mother would cut clusters of irises growing along our fence to offer at the family Buddhist altar, which imprinted them deeply in my mind and made me cherish them. It was when those irises had all formed seed pods that I moved into that farmer’s house. I stayed until the sorghum ears grew tall, the sea shone blue, and sardines were caught.

“Funabashi sardines—what they call those with thick tails near the base—were mostly caught in that inlet. When I saw it on my way back from school rather than in the morning, the sea shone even bluer, scattered with white sails there. At that time, I came to hold the belief that establishing a branch family was something one should never do. This was because in the neighborhood where I was living, there existed both a main family and a branch family. And they were at odds with each other like sworn enemies. The main family was falling into decline, and the branch family watched with pleasure. Bailiffs would sometimes come to the main family’s home. When that happened, the wife and daughter would come crying to me. Seeing that, I felt without any logical reason that establishing a branch family was absolutely wrong. Therefore, that I would now end up establishing a branch family near my father’s house was something I had not anticipated in the slightest. At that time, I had privately thought that I wouldn't mind being adopted out if a good position became available. A friend from my elementary school days—that Tateno you must know—had a relative who was a doctor practicing in Hachioji and had recently returned to his hometown in Kawagoe area. He had considerable assets, and his only daughter was quite lovely—Tateno proposed to me, asking if I might be interested in going there. Getting carried away with the conversation, we ended up deciding to go through with investigating. Taking advantage of summer vacation, we went under the guise of climbing Mount Fuji. If the other party had remained unaware, our plan to investigate might have been acceptable—but the fact that we went together to a house where the daughter was practically Tateno’s cousin, all under this pretense of detective work, was utterly absurd despite our youth at the time. Since we took the train as far as Kawagoe, the soles of our straw sandals didn’t even get dirty—a fact that made the whole pretense feel rather awkward. After hesitating around Yukei until sunset approached, we went to that house.” Tateno laughed and said it was unlike my usual self.

The doctor’s house was a fittingly substantial residence. We were shown to the second floor and immediately took a bath. We were made to change into crisply starched yukata that felt smooth against the skin. It seemed Tateno had informed them beforehand by letter—upon later reflection, everything had been arranged too thoroughly. The house had a thatched roof with thick eaves that peered into the second-floor window. From the window, I could see neighboring rooftops where blue-green grass grew thick along their ridges. Red lilies bloomed scattered among that verdure. Every house looked like this. Though some lacked red lilies altogether. The maid brought tea. As I nibbled a tea sweet while gazing outside, the setting sun cast slanting rays from afar onto that blue-green grass, making the lilies glow. Then came footsteps quietly ascending wooden stairs to my left—and with them, an inexplicable faint clinking from those same steps. When I turned toward the sound, my eyes—still adjusted to outdoor brightness—found only dim twilight indoors. A young woman climbed up holding a lamp. She carried its base in her left hand while gripping the fixture near her shoulder with her right. The round glass shade knocked against its holder with soft metallic taps. From my position, her face stayed half-hidden behind that luminous globe. Still, one cheekbone caught full lamplight—a stark white crescent. She wore makeup.

Tateno stealthily poked my buttocks. She was the household's daughter. Perhaps made radiant by her cosmetics, she was beautiful indeed. What Tateno had claimed proved no falsehood. Before long, sake appeared. Both the master and the woman introduced as the daughter's mother emerged to entertain us with utmost hospitality. Periodically the mother would shoo mosquitoes away for our comfort. The daughter kept our cups filled throughout the meal. I found myself feeling peculiarly encircled by their attentions—yet drank without restraint nonetheless.Tateno later remarked that this very lack of reserve had greatly pleased the family members.We lodged there that night.When Tateno afterward inquired of my impressions,I confessed having developed definite fondness for the daughter.That antiquated hairpin—its tanzaku-like ornaments fluttering near her forehead—glinted garishly under lamplight,yet somehow accentuated her demureness.She might have been twenty.Her unpatterned yukata fastened with crimson obi lent her an appearance perhaps two years younger than her true age.To such degree did I marvel at what purpose could have warranted my being brought there.Yet upon sober reflection,I recognized having never properly broached with Father—whether adoption might prove advantageous or otherwise—to solicit his judgment.Even were I to deem it acceptable,lacking paternal sanction rendered any agreement void.

When that happened, I could no longer give a definite answer. As for why I had gone as far as Kawagoe in that case—I hadn't anticipated receiving such treatment; it had simply been that I wanted to see the daughter. It was too simple. Having been greatly perplexed, I resolved to flee the following day.

However, it was raining. They asked me to postpone my departure by one day and began serving sake from morning. The daughter played the shamisen. Admittedly, her playing was composed. The daughter wore a navy kasuri-patterned hemp summer kimono. Where she had removed her face powder, the luster of her skin showed through instead—whether due to her attire, she now appeared a year or two more mature than she had looked at night. Since Tateno had joined forces with them intending to stop me, I ultimately couldn’t leave. I resolved to appear appropriately troubled and ended up laying bare every last shred of my tattered vulnerabilities. When I resolved to escape come morning without fail, they claimed my clothes had become sweat-soaked and said they'd just put them in the washtub to launder—I must wait until they dried. Then with their repeated claims of rain returning again and again, I ended up staying six full days. Those six days exhausted me, yet being tended by the daughter remained pleasant. I immediately returned home. When parting with Tateno, I declared that even were I to accept adoption, unless they covered two years' tuition henceforth and repaid debts from my dissolute ways, I would refuse. I'd assumed such demands would typically leave people aghast. Yet according to Tateno's letter, only someone who spoke so bluntly could be trusted—they'd pay any sum requested. Then came their insistence I make every effort, coupled with claims of the daughter's deep devotion—what did I say to that? Even I was taken aback. They came pressing every two or three days. They demanded replies, claiming confusion over how to respond. Finally came their naked assault: "Don't you feel sorry for the girl?"

I had to be vigilant every time the mail arrived, for if those letters were carelessly seen by my father or mother, it would have meant a major problem. When I returned home and saw my family's circumstances made it utterly impossible, I wrote asking them not to take it amiss—I would be leaving for Chiba around such-and-such a date, but even so, should letters arrive after my departure, it would create considerable difficulty, so please refrain from sending any. The matter was settled then and there. It had faded into oblivion.

To my astonishment, after two years had passed—when I was stationed at the Akasaka Regiment as a volunteer soldier—the doctor’s brother suddenly came to visit. The man fidgeted through his formal greetings and explained that even then, the doctor’s family still hadn’t settled on an heir. He relayed how the daughter had declared she wouldn’t consider other marriage proposals until your decision was finalized.

“Even if I must bear this burden, could you not find it in your heart to put my brother’s family at ease?”

This was an extremely composed proposal. When I realized they had been so considerate all this time, I was both astonished and pitying them, yet found myself utterly unable to formulate an appropriate response.

“My family circumstances at the time did not permit it... Ah, but truly there is nothing I have to offer in a place like this—please understand.”

With that, he took him to the canteen. There was simply no other way.

“Then given how matters now stand, would you not reconsider accommodating our circumstances? For me to come here like this is exceedingly presumptuous of me, but…”

he entreated in a plaintive manner. Once this period was over, I intended to study abroad in Germany, and since I wanted to somehow make up for my lack of diligence in Chiba, I told a painful lie about not having time for such matters for five or six years, thus managing to evade the situation. Since they had come to visit me twice, I thought I had committed an unnecessary transgression and was greatly troubled in mind at the time. As for that daughter—my concern about what became of her is all that remains—but I suppose the adoption must have been settled somehow. I never heard from Tateno again. Admittedly, I never had the chance to meet him again, and so time passed.

The night had deepened. The sound of the night watchman's clappers grew gradually nearer from afar, clamorous enough to make one think they might open the lattice door and enter, then eventually faded into the distance again. The night watchman's clappers consisted of short iron rods attached to a board, slung near his buttocks with a cord. As he walked, his hips swayed, clattering the rods with each movement. The pharmacy apprentice had already fallen asleep. A faint snoring sound could be heard. The young doctor was staring at the lamp.

“It’s not bright enough. My student has particular circumstances I’m tending to, but he isn’t being negligent.” Muttering this, he tried to remove the lamp’s chimney. The heat made him jerk his hand back slightly. “That’s why you do it like this—so it won’t burn you.” The guest gripped the bulging base and smoothly detached the chimney. The flame wavered unsteadily, sending up trails of soot. The circular glow on the ceiling vanished instantly. Taking fire tongs from the kotatsu, the guest vigorously scraped the mouthpiece—now crusted like charred remnants from a smoldering core—before reinserting the chimney. The lamp’s light flared brighter, casting its round illumination across the ceiling once more.

Three

The story continues.

"The war broke out not long after I had completed my volunteer service. I was conscripted and sent to the Yokosuka Garrison Hospital. I stayed in Yokosuka for about two months. In the northern hills of Yokosuka, atop a slope we had climbed, there stood the vacant house of a navy warrant officer. I stayed there for a while as a dependent. By that time, I had already become a third-class military doctor. The area was one where there were villas or restaurants, but apparently, since the warrant officer was acquainted with a certain wealthy retiree, this residence had been borrowed as that retiree’s villa. The warrant officer was stationed in Sasebo. A warrant officer’s rank was equivalent to an army second lieutenant, so he wasn’t living very well. The house consisted of an eight-tatami room that I occupied, followed by a six-tatami room and then a small tea room—a compact layout typical of new constructions for the wealthy, yet designed with pleasantly neat proportions. The family consisted solely of a wife and daughter. The wife was perhaps forty-one or forty-two, and the daughter was said to be nineteen. They said it was lonely with just the two of them, so they took me in. They were both very kind. As I stopped standing on ceremony, the wife began to feel as if I were part of the household and would say, 'Please let Yanako take care of everything.' Yanako was the daughter. At the time, with the atmosphere buzzing from the war’s patriotic fervor—and given that we were a military family, not to mention my own status as a military doctor—our emotional disposition toward interacting with ordinary people may well have differed from the norm. At that time, mosquito nets were hung. In the tea room slept the wife; in the next room, the daughter. They couldn’t afford the luxury of installing reed doors."

They never slid them open despite the heat, leaving the shoji screens as they were. Because I had an early commute, I often woke up. The daughter would get up, open two or three rain shutters, and then unhook the mosquito net. Because my pillow was right by the door compartment, even if I had still been asleep when the door clattered open, my eyes would inevitably fly open. The daughter, in nightclothes folded the mosquito net put away the futon and changed clothes. Then she went around opening various doors. Since the dividing shoji remained open this could be clearly observed every morning. As time went on like this I found myself no longer thinking ill of that daughter. However even during my earlier days of debauchery I had so deeply ingrained in myself the notion that becoming involved with ordinary women was a sin that in reality I exercised extreme self-restraint toward this daughter as well never letting it show on my face. At times I would relieve my melancholy by indulging in my old habit of hiring geishas. There were times when I stayed out until one or two in the morning but no matter how late it was the daughter would always be awake waiting for me and take care of me. To be fair the warrant officer himself would often return late at night after drinking and as the wife remarked it was always the daughter who took care of him. One evening I drank heavily and was put into a rickshaw at the restaurant to return. I got off at the foot of the slope opened the garden gate by myself went to the door compartment and tried to open the rain shutters. I made a clattering noise with my toes.

“Is that you, Mr. Kokufuda?” came the daughter’s voice. “I’m terribly sorry for being so late.” When I said this, she hurriedly made pattering footsteps, clicked open the latch, and clattered open the rain shutters for me. The moon cast its white light from the short eaves, spilling slightly onto the veranda. That night, the moon shone with exceptional clarity. I sat down and was taking off my shoes,

“Oh my, how refreshing you look.” A voice came from above. When I looked up, the daughter was leaning against the edge of the rain shutters in a poised manner, gazing at the moon. Since I was sitting down, the moon hung about two feet clear of the eaves, but as she stood there, it must have been hidden from her view behind them. I twisted my body to rise and touched the daughter’s foot. She seemed to notice, “Oh, I’ll take care of that.”

[She] took the shoes and put them into the geta box beside the door compartment. When I glanced over, there was a vase with some flowers arranged by the shoji screens. Thinking they looked like shaga lilies, I asked what they were. “Ah—that’s right—I beg to borrow the lamp for a moment.”

[She] lit my lamp that had been placed on the desk inside the shoji screen, then drew out the wick that had been kept retracted and positioned it there. They were shaga lilies. When I mentioned that this was a flower I particularly liked, “Earlier, when I went into town on an errand, I found these flowers and brought them back.” “When I did, my mother suggested arranging them for Mr. Kokufuda, so I tried arranging them. But I thought to ask first whether they please you before placing them here.”

With that, she returned the lamp to the desk, unhooked one corner of the mosquito net hooks, and placed the shaga lilies beside the wall hanging. I removed my formal clothes while gazing at the shaga lilies. The daughter stood nearby, hanging each item on the wall hooks. When I took off my shirt, "As this has become sweaty, I shall wash it tomorrow." She rolled it up and took it outside the shoji. And then, “Please wait just a moment.” “I’ll bring cool water right away…”

Having said that, she hurried to the kitchen, filled a metal basin with water, and brought it back. “Please go ahead and wipe yourself.” The hand towel had been soaked. At that moment, the lamp on the desk had been moved close to the shoji screen and placed on the threshold. I wiped the sweat with a hand towel while gazing at the moonlit night through the rain shutters. After completely wiping the sweat from my body, I suddenly felt refreshed. As I tried to discard the water from the metal basin into the garden, the daughter— “I’ll take care of that—”

With that, she took geta from the geta box and stepped down into the garden. On the low lattice fence, a cluster of white oleander flowers was blooming. The daughter sprinkled the water from the metal basin onto the oleander roots with her fingertips. She continued sprinkling from the leaves up to the flowers. The water-sprinkled leaves glistened with moonlight. Beyond the fence, the cityscape of Yokosuka spread out at a glance, and beyond that, the sea reflected the moonlight in full, appearing like a silver plate. From Hashirimizu stretching out, Sarushima Island—resembling a tray-shaped rock—appeared close enough to seize. The daughter, her white yukata drenched in moonlight, stood holding the metal basin in her hand.

“Ah, what a beautiful moon.”

While muttering to herself, she stood by the glistening cluster of white flowers. The metal basin she held in her hand also glistened brightly. I gazed entranced at this vividly clear moonlit night outside. Then I returned the lamp to the desk myself, hooked up one corner of the mosquito net, and crawled inside. The daughter again wiped the veranda with a rag, gently stood up the rain shutters, and clicked the latch into place. When I entered the mosquito net, it felt oppressively hot— “Ugh.” As I let out a groan-like sound and tossed restlessly, the daughter went back to the kitchen and began making clattering noises.

“Have Yanagi and Mr.Kokufuda returned?” At that moment，the mistress’s voice sounded. “As it appears Mr.Kokufuda has been partaking quite heartily，I thought the ice from earlier might not have melted yet，so...”

The daughter's voice was faintly heard. Then she filled the ice bag with ice, placed it on a tray along with a folded hand towel, brought it over, and quietly slipped it into the mosquito net from my bedside. Having her do such things for me made me genuinely happy from the bottom of my heart, but at the same time, I felt terribly sorry for her. "Please get some rest." I said. The daughter

“Shall I put it out?” With that, she pulled in the wick of the desk lamp and stood up. In the adjoining room, the shoji remained open, making her mosquito net clearly visible. Someone must have been inside until moments before—the futon lay rolled up behind it, a lamp with its wick turned down to two parts glowing within the net, beside which something like a magazine lay open. With our lamp extinguished, the next room grew brighter still. Rustling the hem of the net, she slipped inside. Her obi remained fastened. She spread the futon and emerged from the net. On this side of the mosquito netting, the lamp placed nearby cast everything in a blue hue. Only the rustle of an obi being untied reached my ears. Soon a pale hand reached through the net’s edge to remove the lamp. As it did, her crouched figure blurred into view. When darkness swallowed the house completely after the lamp died, I heard the net’s hem rustle again—then the faint creak of a box pillow. That night proved unbearable for sleep, my nerves frayed raw. From time to time I heard her turning restlessly in her bed too. From this night onward, torment took root in me. Yet back then, enlistment burned so fiercely in my heart that I’d quarreled with the garrison hospital director—and since I didn’t linger long in that house afterward either, I escaped unscathed by temptation’s threat. My salvation lay in being granted no opportunity at all. Not long after, I departed for war. Among those seeing me off at Yokosuka Station stood the regimental commander—though “Miss Horikoshi” noted in my diary refers to this very girl.

Since then, four years have already passed, but whenever I recall that moonlit night, it floats vividly before my eyes. I think perhaps it will never leave my memory for as long as I live. What remains dear is that moonlit night.

During my military deployment, the inland regions passed by in a clamorous blur. We reached Genkai-nada. The weather stood clear, the waves calm. Fishermen adrift offshore watched our transport ship pass, pulling fish from beneath their planks and scattering them into the sea with wide-flung arms. On deck we saw this and broke into unified applause. Water merged with sky - both endless blue. Among the ranks sat one soldier gripped by irrational fear that our ship might be crushed between sea and heavens should we press onward. On the seventh day we made landfall at Seideikubo. There we met wounded soldiers being evacuated rearward. Among them I recognized one man. His filthy uniform bore a torso-wide crust of dried blood. For several minutes I listened to his account: One evening came orders for a night assault. Machine guns from the battery rained fire upon us like molten lead. Even when I flattened myself against the earth, the terrain's slope forced my face upward. Then came the sensation of my left leg being slammed against ground. Twisting cautiously to feel the injury, my fingers met warm stickiness. "I've been hit without realizing," I muttered. Yet I couldn't comprehend how the wound had formed. As I reached for bandages, the comrade behind offered help - but when I extended my leg, he suddenly threw his full weight onto the injured limb with crushing force.

I demanded what he was doing, but there came no reply. Even when I prodded him with my right foot, he didn’t move. When I warily put my hand to his head, blood oozed out warm and sticky. Startled, I examined him closely and found the crown of his head had been struck. Then I became terribly frightened and, forgetting the pain, finally managed to free my left leg. Still without letting go of my rifle, I crawled my way down. The motionless forms lying scattered about were the corpses of our comrades. After that, I crawled around somewhere—finding a hole in a flat area, I tumbled in and waited for dawn. The machine gun fire occasionally sounded faintly in the distance, like beans being poured from a measuring box onto a wooden door. I felt no will to live. When dawn broke, I saw that the hole was in a melon field near the battery—the mark where a shell had exploded. A Chinese man lay fallen. He might have come to search the corpse’s chest and been struck by a stray bullet. The melon flowers had turned red with blood, it was said. My own body was soaked in blood. It was the blood of the comrade who had collapsed on top of me. Mine was a through-and-through gunshot wound in the heel—such was the story. Later, I became unfazed by anything, but at that time, even such tales made my body tense up. When we arrived at Port Arthur, a letter soon came from Yokosuka. In our medical unit, I was the first to receive letters from home. It felt as if a soft breeze had suddenly swept through.

I promptly wrote a letter as well. I made every effort to report all events, both major and minor. In the military camp, when there was free time—and there was much—I wrote as meticulously as possible. I eagerly awaited each courteous reply in return. As for the reputation of our shared tobacco practice, I proudly reported it. It went like this. During our encampment at Port Arthur, farmers from nearby began coming to have their illnesses treated. The other military doctors found them bothersome and rarely attended properly, so they eventually came only to me. Thus I gained trust among the locals and became acquainted with their sole quack doctor. He was an old man with a Korean-style beard. The comical thing was that his son sold karinto sweets. Even the young girls ceased to hold any affection for me. All the girls wore braids adorned with red ribbons. Encounters with others were rare. There was a house where a widow lived with a young girl. She resembled those beauties on flimsy Chinese paper prints—the kind with perfectly rounded foreheads. She even came to do sewing for me occasionally. When I tried checking her pulse by taking her hand, she wouldn’t pull away. I often visited the old woman’s house. That alone would have been uneventful, but one day she took a puff and produced her pipe.

With a pipe whose bowl gaped open, the tobacco was terribly harsh. I thought no one could possibly know about this, yet it somehow became the talk of the entire platoon. It might have been that the groom saw it and spread the rumor. In any case, such incidents were quickly written into letters and sent off to Yokosuka. If we sent more from our side, they would send more in return. This became our sole solace in the military camp. After the Battle of Mukden, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, someone from Yokosuka had meticulously transcribed every one of my letters into a bound volume and sent it to me. Even I was astonished by the sheer number of letters. Moonlit nights—yes, there were moonlit nights even in Port Arthur. We took spindly clumps of pampas grass standing here and there on the bald mountainside, stuck them into beer crocks, and laid out mats for moon viewing. Yet this was when Liaodong’s cold had begun seeping into our bones. Four or five days before that moon-viewing came an attack on one of the batteries. All serious casualties had been machine-gunned. The collection of wounded at night brought horrors beyond imagining. Our medical unit served as the frontline dressing station—administering emergency treatment before evacuation to field hospitals—with me overseeing minor injuries. Of course they couldn’t all fit inside the tent, so we laid them haphazardly outside. Emergency treatment meant washing each wound with soap before bandaging—a process too slow to keep pace. The wounded outside had neither blankets nor coats.

“Water... I need water!” “The bandage’s too tight!” “Can’t stop the bleeding!” “What’re we s’posed to do?!”

“Stretcher!” they cried out in unison. To apply bandages, they would slash through clothing with swords wherever needed, wash the wounds with soap—letting cold water seep into shirts—then leave them sprawled under that piercing moonlight where cold became unbearable by nature’s law. They groaned and wept in wretchedness. Yet this moonlit scene too had faded into something four years past. When peace came, I’d wanted to rush to Yokosuka and share tales of suction tobacco, but amid the homecoming chaos I lost my chance. Soon I took hospital employment, then opened my practice—binding myself completely. We became strangers without further word. My whole being had changed with my heart. Hers must have too. Even if we met again, could we reclaim those war-fevered feelings? No—she might not remember me at all. Still, I think even she hasn’t forgotten those moonlit nights. Opening this practice was never my true intent. Yet I couldn’t quarrel with my seventy-year-old father; my accumulated failures dulled my will until they brought me low. Suddenly I felt like some back-alley quack. And with neighbors who’ve known me since childhood, I can’t feel properly adult. Being called “Doctor”—calling myself that—felt dissonant somehow. Such things exist.

Immediately behind this place, beyond the bamboo thicket, lay the temple grounds where a large enoki tree stood. The branches spread sideways, making them easy to climb, so when its fruits turned black, elementary school students would take advantage. Because enoki fruits were tasty, we called them sugar fruits. On their way home from school without fail, they would climb up with their bags still on their backs and walk from branch to branch. The sugar fruits would attract flocks of starlings that clamored noisily. Yet whenever school let out, those starlings would always flee to the distant sky. I too went every day—though stealthily—for my mother would scold me about the danger of falling. With mulberry fruits, your mouth would stain and give you away, but with sugar fruits you could eat your fill unnoticed and return home nonchalantly—provided you weren’t caught red-handed. Eventually my mother must have enlisted the temple caretaker’s help beforehand, for whenever he swept the garden or suchlike tasks, he’d immediately chase me away. If he wasn’t there, I’d climb up and feast. Once when I still had my bag strapped on—sparing it confiscation—I carelessly left my geta behind instead. Utterly shocked, I apologized profusely to no avail until I finally burst into tears. Then the temple caretaker laughed as he produced my geta, cradled me with his left arm, and washed my feet in a basin. This same man still lives today with white hair. Just recently he came asking me to examine his swollen finger—and as we reminisced about sugar fruits through tears, he murmured “When did you become such a Doctor?” Such memories make hometowns both nostalgic and stifling… Youth truly amounts to nothing.

Having said this, the doctor let out a sigh.

IV

"It was in February that I assumed my position at the hospital. Though the Nikko-oroshi winds blew through Utsunomiya, having endured Manchurian winters, I didn’t find it cold."

I was entrusted with the position of chief of surgery. Around that time, the head nurse arrived shortly after I did. She was a woman who had boarded the Hakuaimaru to depart for the warfront—a twenty-five or twenty-six-year-old with a sturdy build, too valuable to let languish in some private hospital. However, having previously worked at our hospital and with her hometown nearby, she had apparently accepted the director's earnest request. The head nurse had brought her along, and about a month later, a nurse named Yamada came to be assigned to my surgical department. There had been another nurse in the surgical department before this, but shortly after I assumed my position, she took an exam intending to transfer to the Red Cross hospital. Having failed—or so it was said—she left the hospital, claiming it would damage her reputation. Yet this woman had been far from admirable. The one who came later possessed a gentle disposition, and having arrived ten or even twenty days after others—which lent her a certain reserve—her work ethic proved exemplary. There wasn't a soul who didn't praise her, patients included. When I went out at night and returned late, she would light the hibachi fire and cover it with ashes. Whenever gifts came from patients, she invariably brought them to me. Thus all necessary items in the surgical room were kept perfectly organized without delay. I thought what an excellent nurse had come my way. Not only was her disposition commendable, but she also had a round-cheeked, fair-skinned appearance brimming with charm. All my work became pleasant. Though I harbored ambitions to apply my battlefield experience and astonish others, interacting with women still brought me simple joy in those days. Those of us who had spent nearly two years on battlefields—forced to labor in bleak circumstances—found every woman appealing whenever we chanced to see one. Just as our train pulled into Liaoyang Station during our triumphal return, there were already Japanese women present. At that moment, soldiers packed into the cars surged forth with such force that the train seemed ready to overturn. To my eyes back then, even the nurses in white uniforms bustling about their work generally appeared quite fetching. During lulls in surgery, when I leaned back in my chair, the nurse would meticulously place each instrument into the glass cabinet.

Her spotless uniform was neatly fastened at the waist. I watched this with undivided attention. When carrying the bucket out, the nurse would gently close the door while casting a fleeting glance my way. At such times, upon returning with the empty bucket and reopening the door to reenter, her face would flush faintly for some reason. Being that sort of woman, I taught her with wholehearted sincerity. At any rate, I felt the surgical room had come alive with vitality. But society shows no mercy—though I only realized this much later—and at that time, it seemed the pharmacy apprentices and others had grown suspicious that something improper existed between me and the nurse, stirring up commotion behind our backs. In truth, we had nothing to feel guilty about, and remained entirely unaware of such matters. Naturally, this being so, there had been no reason for restraint. They apparently considered this all the more scandalous, seething with indignation in secret. Through an odd incident, I came to learn of this. At that time, since the hospital had not yet been rebuilt, both night-duty doctors and pharmacy apprentices shared a single dormitory room. One evening when I was on duty, while idling about, one of the pharmacy apprentices began making a fuss— his futon had somehow gone missing. Then it was discovered laid over me. My bedding was always arranged by my nurse. That night—likely not intentional—she must have made a careless mistake. The whole room erupted in commotion. Without stating it explicitly, they shouted insinuations of something strange and suspicious.

They would shout, but whenever I looked their way, they’d pull the futons over themselves. When the lamp went out, someone began stomping on the futon with their feet. I thought they were strange fellows, but I remained silent. The next day, the nurse said nothing to me, but I could clearly see she looked deeply apologetic and had made herself small. She had apparently learned of the commotion from Matsuda. You probably wouldn’t know who I mean if I suddenly mention Matsuda—the Matsuda I currently employ was at the hospital back then. Being from Ujiie and sharing a hometown with Yamada, he apparently became closer to her than the others and confided everything. Yamada had gone to Kanuma as an adopted daughter, so they had been strangers previously, but the notion of sharing a hometown seemed to make them cherish each other. Looking at Yamada’s demeanor, I thought her a pitiable woman. After that, another such incident occurred.

Everyone gathered in the night duty room, apparently to play cards. The nurses also gathered. At that time, I was reading a book by lamplight. I was troubled by the commotion, so I suddenly blurted out, "This is getting us nowhere!" Then the pharmacy apprentices abruptly stood up and left. The other nurses also stood up. Yamada alone remained. She sat for a while with an intensely worried expression. Wearing white clothes, she demonstrated that her attire was not that of someone wealthy. She spread out my futon and left.

Then, as I continued reading my book in the futon, the pharmacy apprentices—apparently having been drinking—stomped noisily into the room. They suddenly blew out the lamp. And then they began their roughhousing. Because I became enraged, I stood up and shouted, "What are you doing?" Then there were those who said it was because the Doctor was corrupting the hospital’s morals. When I pressed them about what exactly was being corrupted, they crudely retorted that it was because of the nurse. I searched for the matches Yamada had left by the pillow and struck one. When I did so, they apparently found themselves in an awkward position and fled all at once. They went to the adjacent room and, calling him a sly bastard, were rousing Matsuda. Due to his relationship with the nurse, Matsuda had naturally not become one of their group. The reason I was now looking after him was due to the connection from that time. I was shocked that night to realize for the first time that they had been viewing me with such suspicious eyes. However, from this incident onward—for reasons I couldn’t quite name—I found myself withdrawing and avoiding them of my own accord. I could not return to the state of mind I had when I was in the military. And every time such things happened in that vague way, seeing Yamada—growing ever smaller, working with that worried expression—became unbearably pitiful to me.

After that came a night when I was on duty. I had been drinking and ended up carelessly telling Matsuda about that slip-up. It was that I blurted out something blunt—that I wanted Yamada—and asked him to hear me out. However, after sobering up, it had naturally faded from my mind. Then one evening, Matsuda invited me out to a soba shop, saying there was something he wanted to discuss. Matsuda brought up the matter. “After that incident, I immediately approached her directly. Given our difference in social standing, I believe it’s utterly impossible—but since it’s your earnest wish as my superior, Doctor, I shall entrust myself entirely to your will.” “However,” he continued pragmatically, “since there’s someone connected through my relations, I first proposed sending a letter to that party.” A week later, a letter arrived. The woman responded that her circumstances were now hers to decide, asking him to convey her regards to the Doctor. Matsuda relayed this with the addendum that the Doctor should maintain his resolve. I couldn’t help but be shocked upon hearing his message—why on earth had I confessed such things to someone like Matsuda? Upon closer inquiry, it emerged she had been sent as an adopted daughter from Ujiie. As she grew older, her adoptive family fell into ruin. When her guardian lay dying—perhaps through some familial connection—he entrusted his household to a man who ran a hospital in Kanuma. Thus came about an arrangement with a boy adopted by that hospital: whether they would unite or not mattered less than securing lifelong guidance through this contractual bond. Accordingly, they had written to this adopted son now working as a university assistant in Tokyo. The doctor replied he’d never truly intended to take her in—if better prospects arose elsewhere, she should pursue them freely—though he’d remain her lifelong advisor regardless. “But having made this proposal,” Matsuda added in his characteristically practical tone, “it’s now impossible for her in good conscience to commit to that adopted son either. Doctor—you must consider this carefully.” I found myself utterly perplexed, having never anticipated matters progressing thus. Then I laid bare harsh truths—my father’s stubborn refusal to accept impoverished relations back home, our family’s consequent complications—explaining that while I bore Yamada no ill will whatsoever, ours was a bond fated never to blossom, and he should proceed accordingly.

I was in agony. That night's sake tasted even worse. Why had I asked Matsuda? Yet there was no mistake in having done so. After all, I might still have had lingering feelings toward women. Ever since I began working at the hospital, I somehow became not myself. Afterward, I thought Matsuda had conveyed the refusal to the woman, but still feeling uneasy, I directly explained my own circumstances. The woman had already heard about it from Matsuda and knew. She said that since she had thought it was an utterly unattainable matter from the very beginning, there was nothing to resent. However, when I deeply apologized for a single misstep, three or four tears fell and soaked into her bowed white knees. I felt an oddly helpless tenderness. And so I deeply resolved at that time that I must go out of my way to look after him as well. Matsuda recounted how the woman had been greatly distressed over this matter. However, the nurse with strong self-control showed no change in her behavior, continued to work faithfully, and remained modest to the end. When others were present, she would laugh heartily with her charming demeanor, but when it was just the two of us, she remained distant and unapproachable. I felt an oddly irritating and frustrating sensation about it. Even though their relationship had been decisively settled, the jealousy within the hospital showed no signs of abating. The pharmacy apprentice finally pressed the administrative staff. The administrative staff transferred him to the isolation room without saying a single word to me. I could not endure the inner dissatisfaction, yet I remained silent without uttering a single word. However, since the isolation room was right next to the house I had rented together with my brother—who worked at the court—and his wife, he commuted to my house.

He wasn’t coming to visit me. He had been visiting my sister due to their long-standing acquaintance from way back. He and my sister were like brother and sister. My sister even went so far as to say occasionally that he ought to take a wife. I had even suggested it to my brother. My brother did not immediately pass judgment on the matter, but his affection for him was no less than my sister’s. My sister could not possibly have known from the start that I had disclosed even our family circumstances. On the contrary, she might have viewed me as having been cold from the very beginning. When Yamada met my sister, she would open up with genuine cheerfulness. Yet when alone with me, she maintained an attitude as though separated by a single sheet of paper. Despite that aloofness, she showed a thoughtfulness that anticipated my every need. Even after being moved to the isolation room, his demeanor remained unchanged, so others' jealousy only grew more intense. The pitiful nurse was eventually dismissed because of this and had no choice but to leave Utsunomiya. At that time, she deeply regretted parting with my sister. For two days straight, my sister kept her there. And then saw her off all the way to the station. "The sight of her boarding that train was truly pitiful," my sister said upon returning home. I too ended up taking leave from work that day. After some time passed, a letter arrived at my sister’s place. Afterward, she went up to Tokyo and entered service at a merchant household in Shibaguchi.

The mistress was the daughter of the house and，being hysterical，was a selfish person. Until now，it seemed no maidservant could endure，but it caused me no hardship at all. Recently，as the mistress had stopped getting angry，I was praised by the master. So by accompanying her on outings from time to time，I could occasionally go sightseeing，and as things stood then，there was nothing lacking，so I wished for you to rest assured. The only regret was not being able to meet you. There was also a line asking to convey regards to the Doctor. I was deeply satisfied with this line. And then I read through that letter again. My sister rejoiced wholeheartedly at her current circumstances. If it were just this much，it would be insignificant，but events have a way of developing in strange ways.

It was January of the following year. I returned home on business. The matter having reached its conclusion after three days of hesitation, I hurried back to Tokyo. I sent a letter to the woman, instructing her to meet me at the office of a doctor—the adopted son of Kanuma Hospital in Nishikata-chō, Hongō. During his time at the hospital, he had received several marriage proposals from suitable matches. He refused them all. Though never particularly open with me, whenever he spoke of having refused those proposals, he always made it sound like some grand achievement. The thought that even her current service was being done for my sake made guilt surge endlessly within me—so I consulted a doctor with whom I had prior connections and tried to entrust him with her care. That was one reason, but in truth, I had wanted to meet her. Had that been my true intent, I should have simply met her alone. Yet oblivious to this obvious course, I—who had fixated solely on safeguarding her welfare—proved far too naive in my single-minded earnestness.

At the appointed time, I went to Nishikata-chō. It had been my first meeting with that doctor. That I carried this out without shame was because my mind had become unhinged. When I opened the lattice door and requested entry, a pair of woman's geta lay neatly aligned at the toes. On the entryway hook hung an Azuma coat and shawl. Removing my hat and coat to hang them on the same hook, I gripped the shawl. The woman had been waiting all along. When shown into the sitting room, he adjusted his already proper seated posture further still. I could not help marveling at how he—who beneath his nurse's white uniform had always worn striped cotton—had transformed his appearance so completely in such brief time. Throughout his sitting there, his gaze never left the woman. I broached consultation with the master. In essence, it amounted only to entreating him to care for her pitiable circumstances. At this, the master detailed his relationship with her. The master too was a man barely thirty. His disposition seemed calm. Yet his lack of enthusiasm appeared rather what one must call natural. The master's connection to Yamada was indeed close. Hence there had been deliberate correspondence regarding my own ties to her. Were such a request to be made, should it not come from them directly? Where exists this contradiction—that complete strangers should specially plead for those bound to me by deep ties? The consultation concluded without resolution.

The master must have harbored suspicions about our relationship. He maintained an air of persistent unresolved doubt throughout. This situation too could not be blamed. We left Nishikata-chō past ten at night. It had grown too late for the woman to return to Shiba. I thought that the master would surely tell him to stay. He did not say anything about it. Since he must have thought they were already intimately involved, he likely couldn't bring himself to stop the woman from leaving with the man. The woman listlessly put on her coat and draped a shawl over her shoulders. I too opened the lattice door with clumsy legs. The woman closed the lattice door behind her. The master stood silently in the entryway holding a lamp.

It was a cold night outside. Bit by bit, we reached Morikawa-chō’s street. The street lamps suddenly shone with clarity, as though sobered to their senses. When I looked back, the woman was trailing dejectedly behind, her sleeves folded over her chest and head bowed. I thought I had to find an inn somewhere to stay, but the shop lights were too glaring and somehow my conscience felt reproached, making me unable to enter any of them, so I just kept wandering aimlessly. Amidst the thronged pedestrian traffic, the tram clattered past. I had no inclination to board the tram and simply walked on without purpose. Then I turned back and approached the cut-through slope. When the slope grew dark and I looked back, she was following from about two ken behind, taking small, measured steps. I deliberately went out to the edge of the pond. The night’s cold felt as though it had suddenly pressed down from the dark sky. We had come all the way to Ueno. At a side street near the station, I resolutely stepped over the inn’s threshold. When I opened the front glass door and entered, she hesitated. "Why don't you come in here?" I said. After leaving Nishikata-chō, she had not said a word until then. The clerk’s greeting was spirited. The room we were shown to had become somewhat detached in its arrangement. There seemed to be two rooms, but there were no guests in the adjacent one. I somehow felt reassured.

When I gave the clerk a small tip, he looked at us and kept flattering obsequiously. I quickly warmed myself in the bath and returned to find hard charcoal crackling under the electric light. Tea had been poured into the bowl. I changed into a padded kimono, sat before the brazier, and sipped the slightly cooled tea. The woman did not approach the brazier, did not sit on the zabuton cushion, and remained rigid with her head bowed. When I asked about the bath, she replied that she would explain. Even when we were at the hospital and not particularly close, it was never to this extent. I too, with idle hands, held them over the brazier. I called the maid and ordered sake. The maid looked suspiciously at the woman sitting rigidly each time she came in and out. And then the clattering of her sandals rang out deliberately. After downing two or three cups of sake, I said, "Why don’t you come over by the brazier?" At last she edged closer. When I said, "If you spread that out it would be better," she finally placed about half of the zabuton cushion under her knees. And so she remained still,

“I hear Doctor has relatives in Tabata?” she finally managed to say. When I mentioned there being an older brother there too, “You stayed in Tabata last night, I presume?”

She asked again. “That’s right.” I said casually. “It would have been perfectly proper for you to return to your brother’s house, yet you went to the trouble of incurring unnecessary expenses on my account—I truly cannot apologize sufficiently.”

she began saying something oddly formal. To be fair, she had been an exceedingly dutiful woman since her time at the hospital—whenever her older sister did something for her, she would invariably return the favor. The sister had even said that because it was too pitiable, she couldn’t give her things very often—that’s how it was.

She said this “As for that, I have prepared my own share.” she added. I

“Don’t be silly—there’s no need to worry about such things.” With that, I laughed and downed the cup in one gulp. After that, the woman relaxed slightly, picked up the sake flask, and finally poured the drink. Two sake flasks had been emptied, but my mind was so confused that I hadn’t even reached a state of mild intoxication. A considerable amount of time seemed to have passed. Inside and outside were hushed. Only the occasional whistle of the station locomotive sounded, rumbling dully in the distance. When I pressed the call bell, the clerk came.

“Shall I prepare your bedding together?” The clerk placed his hands on the threshold. “No.” I suddenly flustered, extending my right hand to point at the tatami as I spoke. “Ah, yes.” The clerk adopted an ingratiating manner and soon brought the bedding. “Ah, I’ve brought a lamp here—um, whenever you need anything, please press the bell… The toilet is just over here… You won’t be taking the train tomorrow—is that correct?… Then I’ll have cold water brought right away—um, please rest comfortably…”

With that, the clerk left.

The maid soon brought a tray with a kettle and cup, placed it by the pillow, and silently closed the shoji screen while casting a brief glance at the woman before leaving. When I returned from going to the toilet, the electric light had been turned off and the lamp lit. And then the lamp had been placed near my pillow in the corner of the room. In the dimness, the woman was folding my Western clothes. I sat cross-legged on the bedding watching as the woman went to the corner opposite the lamp, removed her haori, then took off her kimono, slipped one sleeve from her undergarment, and changed into the nightclothes laid out on the floor. Then she folded her haori, folded her kimono, and folded her juban. The sleeves of her juban appeared strikingly vibrant and beautiful. I praised the juban sleeves, and

“When I accompanied the mistress the other day and mentioned how lovely this yuzen-dyed fabric was, she said if I liked it so much, I should take it.” “Since the measurement was slightly insufficient, the sleeves ended up rather short.” With that, she covered her face slightly with the red juban. As I mentioned before, that mistress was prone to hysterics, but when in good spirits, she would indulge her maid—taking her along on outings and buying her this and that. The master too would gladly slip her discreet gratuities when the mistress was in good spirits, so lately her purse had grown comfortably full. Thus, through receiving gifts and making purchases, she had finally managed to put together a complete set of personal belongings by this time, or so she said. And so she said that this yuzen-dyed juban was what she always wore when accompanying the mistress. She grew more at ease through the conversation about clothing. Unaware that I was inwardly tormented and struggling to broach with her my resolve concerning her future—she energetically clambered onto the futon. Even if I remained silent during that time, she too remained silent. The conversation lapsed into a brief silence. Compared to electric light, the lamp’s glow was dim. The atmosphere grew stifling.

“What do you intend to do from now on?”

I suddenly asked. That voice rang unsteadily even in my own ears. She remained silent for a while with her head bowed but then lay face down just like that. I took the lamp from the corner and placed it near us. And then I laid my heart bare. The woman’s chignon lay face down near the knees I had slid out. The woman soon raised her face. Noticing that the lamp had been placed too close, she involuntarily— “Oh, you—” With that, the woman said—her face turning red. Her use of "you" was confined solely to this moment in all our interactions. However, I was holding my breath, waiting for the woman’s response. This was no laughing matter. My face must have looked terrifying. When the woman saw my face, she suddenly paled. She threw herself face down again and remained motionless. I thought she must be too cold, so I put the spare nightclothes over her. Around the time I thought thirty minutes had passed, the woman sat up. With a face bearing resentment and seeming utterly without recourse, she looked up at me just once before immediately lying face down again.

“I will manage my own affairs somehow, so please don’t trouble yourself about me, Doctor…” Trembling faintly yet resolutely, the woman said. The lamplight nearby glistened on tears spilling across her knees. I became pitiable, my heart growing heavy. I regretted having spoken too harshly. Managing such matters would be nigh impossible for a young woman like her. To abandon her and watch—this I could never countenance. When I later told an acquaintance of this affair, he laughed and said, “That just means you still can’t bear to cut ties completely with her.” Such feelings might indeed have lurked within me then. Even had I claimed my course toward her was settled at that time, there was nothing substantial there. What settled resolve could she have possessed if asked about her intentions? To speak plainly, an unacknowledged adhesive force had existed between us. Even without grasping the core of things, merely facing each other brought us peace in those moments. Had she truly settled her affairs upon leaving the hospital and resolved never to meet me again—I think I would have felt utterly desolate. Gazing down at her hair illuminated by lamplight, I crossed my arms and wrestled with distracting thoughts. When I suddenly turned sideways, our two figures lay dimly reflected upon the shoji screen. I started involuntarily. Rising, I slid open the shoji and surveyed my surroundings. The night deepened its silence—even locomotives’ rumbles had vanished now. Returning from the toilet, I noticed my body had turned deathly cold.

The woman remained as motionless as a corpse.

V

The next morning, I abruptly left for Utsunomiya. Driven by apprehension and unease, I returned to the hospital. Concerning my actions that night, I could find no resolution within myself. As my older brother sharing lodgings was a prosecutor, I naturally associated with his colleagues. After prolonged anguish, I secretly sought counsel from a few of my brother's colleagues. "If your brother and his wife care for her," one said, "they should openly make her their lawful wife since she's suitable." "If circumstances stand thus," another declared, "they must resolutely cast her out." In my heart, I knew full well how sinful rejection would be. In truth, my reluctance ran deep. Yet confusion drives men to act against their conscience; thus I too, shamed before hospital staff and acquaintances, desperately sent a decisive letter. Even after posting it, anxiety over that letter's handling gnawed at me. My heart lay desolate - formless and agitated. The woman's letter came swiftly. She harbored profound resentment. This outcome was inevitable. The handwriting proved Matsuda had penned it. Matsuda too had already quit the hospital. Our strained relations had caused this deterioration. Later inquiry revealed she'd visited Matsuda in Kanda then. There she wept bitterly, they said.

I never thought we'd end up together from the start, but to be cast aside so heartlessly now is cruel. Now that my conscience accuses me, I cannot bring myself to go to my fiancée's place pretending not to know her. She said it was too much and cried. Matsuda said that with the woman having cried on him, he withdrew to another boardinghouse. Matsuda had written that resentment at the time, having been asked by the woman. I repented wholeheartedly. And then I immediately apologized for my own heartlessness. At this moment alone, I thought myself to be the very height of heartlessness. In a postscript I added that we might meet again before long, and when that time comes I want to lay everything bare and talk. I wrote in detail explaining that the recent letter did not convey my true intentions.

February arrived swiftly.

Another letter arrived from Yamada. It said that since she would be visiting her family home in her hometown after a long time, she would likely be able to meet me. One day, having free time from the hospital, I went to visit the former head nurse living about one and a half ri from Ishibashi Station. That household too belonged to a doctor.

The head nurse was a woman of exceptional character, so there had been unpleasant relations within the hospital, and she had left without heeding the hospital director’s attempts to retain her; but since she sent me a letter earnestly requesting that I come visit her at least once, I went. A letter from Yamada also arrived here. It mentioned meeting for a short while and then going to Utsunomiya, with tomorrow being exactly that day. I had unintentionally lost track of time and rushed to the station in great haste. I was on the verge of missing the train by just a moment. When the conductor finally pushed me inside, my chest remained agitated for some time. When I arrived in Utsunomiya and tried to hurry toward the exit, I was startled. Just as I was about to pass by a certain room, a woman emerged last from it. It was Yamada. It seemed she had come all the way here without getting off at Ishibashi. Feeling as though I’d been tricked by a fox, I left through the exit without saying a word. And then, we talked for a short while in the station waiting room. When I said that until just now I had thought I would be going to the head nurse’s place tomorrow, so it felt too sudden to be getting off here on the same train, she replied that she had sent a telegram to inform us. The telegram had arrived after being sent to Ishibashi. However, it hadn't been sent to my lodgings; rather, it had been directed to a place where both she and I had acquaintances. So the person who received the telegram apparently searched extensively for me. The ill-natured hospital staff didn’t disclose my whereabouts. Moreover, it seems that person hesitated to come to my house. I remember that time well. When we left the station, the cold air swept through the parched city, and things had somewhat settled.

The setting sun, already tilting toward the mountains, had dyed everything yellow. From the road to the white walls of the city, everything was bathed in orange light. The woman was wearing makeup. The orange sunset, facing westward, cast its full light upon her entire being, making her appear beautiful. I brought her to my house without any particular thought. I said I’d brought her because we happened to meet at the station. The facts were indeed as such, but toward my brother and sister, who harbored not a shred of doubt about our relationship, I couldn't help but feel ashamed in my heart. My sister’s joy was immense. And being a woman herself, she could discern from her clothing that she seemed to be in favorable circumstances and felt genuinely pleased. My brother also seemed to harbor not the slightest suspicion toward me. I had been nonchalant about bringing the woman home, but my brother was equally unconcerned. My sister received her with heartfelt hospitality, and Yamada stayed for three days. She also went to the public bath with my sister. The rented house was near the hospital, so to go to the public bath, one had to pass in front of the hospital. The ones who had finally ceased their gossip saw her walking with my sister again and, observing her newfound elegance unlike before, declared that there had been no mistake in the relationship they had imagined between the two of us, abruptly reigniting their uproar. By this time, I no longer had the right to sincerely deny their suspicions. Even so, it was regrettable that they had confirmed in their hearts that our relationship had existed all along. For three days, I neither grew close to the woman nor spoke with her. During those three days, there was not the slightest cause to arouse the suspicions of my brother and his wife. When she was about to leave already, I secretly asked if she couldn't take two or three days off so we could talk intimately; she said she would stay any number of days.

Even though he had said he was hurrying back to his hometown, he ended up staying another three days. He might have stayed five days, or even seven. The request for me to stay was something he had been waiting for in his heart since arriving in Utsunomiya. He wasn't at my sister's place. He took his leave from my sister and departed. Despite my repeated refusals, she wouldn’t listen and saw me off at the station; out of consideration for my sister’s feelings, I reluctantly boarded the train. I got off at the next station, Okamoto, and returned to a certain house in the samurai district that we had secretly arranged in advance. It was the house where he had sent a telegram three days prior. I had resolved to discuss earnestly with her that since meeting would inevitably lead us to part, we should cry our fill by mutual understanding and then cleanly sever ties—even rehearsing in my mind how to phrase it—but when I suddenly saw her made-up figure at the station, I grew dazed and forgot all of that. The three days spent out of consideration for my sister’s feelings were a gnawingly frustrating time. On the afternoon of the day he ostensibly left my sister’s place—though harboring no small anxiety—I set aside my hospital duties halfway and rushed by rickshaw to the samurai district. This was no longer a matter for talk of severing ties. What exactly I had said during those intimate talks—I cannot recall a single word of it now. She did not set foot outside even once for three days. I too, for those three days, hardly stayed at the hospital and remained lodged at that house. My brother and sister believed he had left by train, so they never suspected in the slightest that the two of us were doing such things. Even now that everything has been exposed, my brother and his wife remain unaware of this matter alone. Because unless either the woman or I told them, there was no way it would reach my brother and sister’s ears. The reason was that my brother had subsequently been transferred to a distant location. During these three days, I felt as though realizing anew that Yamada was utterly feminine—a gentle woman who would abandon both body and soul to yield to my every word.

She never spoke a word about her own circumstances. In the end, I abandoned such an unfortunate and pitiable woman. I had become a heartless person, contrary to my true nature. On the third morning, I meant to send her back but kept postponing it in foolish indecision. I made her board a train at dusk, hiding from prying eyes. The station lamp cast a lonely light. The bleak train doors clattered shut, the conductor's whistle shrilled, and the train plunged headlong into the night. I returned to the samurai district to inform my household. When I had left her behind in January, my heart held only doubt and anxiety; but that night when she left me, I felt profound desolation. At our parting, I forced upon her a small sum of pocket money. She placed it into a purse glowing fiery red. What I had intended—it had been wrapped separately in paper before being put into that purse.

The new hospital building stood completed for about a month. The willow draping over the front iron fence sprouted yellow buds, abruptly clothing the world in spring's semblance. It was mid-April. At that time, I took great pride in performing surgeries as chief within an operating room that perfectly matched my ideals. My mind remained wholly absorbed in such matters. Just then came a Red Cross Society general meeting requiring my sudden attendance. More than Ueno's cherry blossoms or any Tokyo attraction, visiting the capital made me ache unbearably to see Yamada—she who occupied my thoughts. After our February parting, she'd repeatedly complained of poor health; knowing something of such conditions myself, I'd made her document detailed symptoms for me. Subsequent reports arrived two or three times more, each revealing increasingly strange developments in her state. Thus even the Shiba merchant family—who'd cherished her so devotedly—eventually released her from service, leaving her dependent on a brother's household supposedly rediscovered after ten-odd years. Thanks to particular favor from Shiba's master however, she retained unexpected savings that temporarily spared her brother financial strain. The former Shiba mistress visited several times. During better spells she'd insist on invitations for companionship—yet Yamada could never muster resolve to accept. Once she'd even written that her brother's home stood too shabby to mention without shame. When my train reached Ueno Station I went straight seeking that house. Through Sarugakuchō's cramped alleys I finally located it— a dwelling where four or five women resembling factory workers labored diligently over cardboard boxes in soiled work clothes. Her brother showed no particularly ill nature himself yet bore careworn features suggesting long poverty. I hesitated briefly. Sliding open torn shoji paper revealed a dim shopfront where this so-called brother paused mid-brushstroke—perplexed gaze locking onto me while his hand kept gripping the paste brush.

When I presented my business card, he seemed to realize something and called out toward the second floor using her name. At his announcement of "You've come from Utsunomiya," a flash of kimono hem appeared at the stairway before hastily withdrawing. After some time had passed, Yamada descended. My Western clothes likely looked incongruous in this shabby shop exactly as described in his letters. The factory girls eyed me suspiciously while bending far forward over their work. I squeezed past them and climbed what seemed a dangerously steep staircase. The second floor was filthy. A folded futon lay abandoned in one corner. The woman's willow-weave trunk glared whitely conspicuous. With two-story buildings crowding the narrow alleyway opposite, this upper room received scant light. The woman remained seated, repeatedly adjusting the front of her slightly soiled padded kimono. She apparently hadn't had time to change clothes for my visit. I imagined her earlier hesitation on the stairs had been caused by tightening her obi. A thick hemp rope bound the large willow trunk. I stood staring vacantly at this squalid space. According to her report, her physical condition continued deteriorating. Though she sometimes assisted with cardboard box assembly, these past three or four days brought such severe nausea that she could barely eat, alternating between lying down and rising unsteadily.

"I knew you would come, Doctor," she said, "but I didn't think it would be this soon. I haven't changed my clothes and am truly flustered right now." Her hair lay neat yet lustreless. The faint rose had drained from her cheeks, flesh seeming to waste away beneath. Her condition showed every sign of advanced pregnancy. Though letters had prepared me for this change, seeing her transformed before me now made realization pierce my chest - what future could await her? She kept her face lowered, clearly mortified at having me witness these lodgings. The soiled padded robe returned her to that hospital wraith I'd first known. Still troubled, I asked calmly what plans she had henceforth. "This too is my fate," she replied. "Never shall I resent you, Doctor." "I'll manage somehow - please forget me and take a proper wife." As in January she spoke these words again, tears falling thick upon knees where stripes had faded. That ours was a doomed bond I'd declared from the first. Yet that I'd brought her to this wretched pass remained wholly my doing. We sat silent together - her head bowed, my arms folded. Strangely, time's passage here brought solace. Both of us tasted life's first bitter draught. Though truth told, mine came after wanton indulgences spent. Twenty-three years she'd borne harsh fortune yet kept virtue intact. Could any man versed in dissipation mistake such purity? A maiden untouched till twenty-three amidst worldly company must be rare indeed. That temporary paralysis held her now stood wholly to my blame.

Her brother and his wife turned out to be good people. It was undoubtedly true that my gifts had caused some change in their attitude toward me. The wife brought tea up to the second floor. Then she suggested to the woman that staying cooped up there would only depress her spirits, and perhaps she should go out for a walk with Doctor. I had thought they already knew about our relationship, but I was surprised it would surface like this. Though when seeking refuge with her brother, she must have fully disclosed her circumstances. Even knowing this, if they severed my involvement temporarily to ease her burden, that situation would need difficult handling. This was something no one with even basic reason could fail to understand. The woman soon took out a mirror and began tying her hair. With her left hand gripping tightly at the roots, she swept it forward smoothly using her comb-wielding right hand. She applied oil through two or three careful strokes. Furrowing her brow slightly downward, she shaped her hair while checking its reflection. Her bangs puffed softly toward her temples. After gazing at her reflection awhile, she tidied scattered items into wrapping paper and descended the stairs with a soapbox to wash oily hands. Her complexion seemed slightly revived. When left alone, I studied my face in the mirror. I saw it remained pale. The woman laid her padded kimono on the futon and changed into formal clothes from the willow trunk. Having washed both hands and tear-streaked face while at it, her spirits appeared brighter. Though wearing no makeup, her beauty had transformed beyond recognition.

They left hand in hand. Then after strolling from Ueno to Asakusa Park, they ended up staying in Asakusa that night. We stayed in Tokyo for only four days. Without visiting her older brother’s house in Tabata, we wandered about taking walks and staying wherever we happened upon. During that time, she no longer cried. She never even mentioned paying for her own lodging. No matter how I considered it, I told her that relying solely on her brother’s care must have been burdensome – though my allowance seemed paltry, she didn’t refuse it. She had a red purse then but didn’t bother wrapping it in paper. I realized her savings had dwindled. I gave her what little more my purse could spare. Walking hand in hand with her felt unexpectedly pleasant compared to my anguish over her pregnancy letters or seeing her helpless figure upstairs. She must have found it pleasant too. Yet that time was already our last. Though I resolved it would be our final meeting, I couldn’t bring myself to part then. When returning to Utsunomiya, I resolutely disclosed every detail of Yamada’s pregnancy circumstances to her brother in Tabata. For me to visit Tokyo frequently and see her was utterly impossible. Yet abandoning her out of pity proved equally unthinkable. Her brother never once reproached me. “I’ll take her in later and see she gives birth properly,” he said. “You needn’t trouble yourself over that.” “Since we’ve no children of our own,” he added, “we’ll raise this child ourselves.”

I thanked Older Brother from the bottom of my heart. I returned to the hospital greatly relieved. In June, I went up to Tokyo again. Of course, there had been letters from the woman during that time. I told her we could meet again. The woman had been waiting. I too, partly due to my profession, wanted to thoroughly check the woman’s physical health. Having left the hospital myself and being set to open my practice in July, I wanted to explain in detail about going to Tokyo for the preparations—this being something I wished to discuss directly rather than through letters—and with various other thoughts on my mind, I arrived in Tabata. I thought I should first hear from Older Brother about the woman's condition afterward. The reason being that though unmentioned in letters, there might have been changes around the woman. For I thought it better to hear from Older Brother and prepare myself than be suddenly pained should such a thing occur. This was the blunder of a lifetime. Older Brother had already said decisively, “Don’t meet anymore.” “Meeting would only deepen the attachment,” he said. “Since you cannot be together anyway, there’s no need to deliberately sink deeper into trouble—I also have arrangements to make for her care.” I was disheartened. I felt as if all courage had drained from me. And believing that obeying Older Brother’s will was also for the woman’s own sake, I fully complied and never visited her again. However, with Tokyo having lost its appeal, I abruptly concluded my business and returned home. Older Brother was pleased by my swift return. As for how deeply dejected I was—I wonder if Older Brother ever truly imagined it.

Admittedly, it was ultimately impossible for young allies to sever ties through mutual consultation alone. We absolutely needed someone else's intervention for that. Older Brother knew this. No—anyone would know that. Even I myself knew full well it had to be done that way. Yet now that we'd both accepted this parting, I wanted to properly mourn our farewell. Older Brother was a benefactor to us both. But his refusal to permit even this remains utterly dissatisfying to me. I then opened my practice in July as planned, steeped in dejection. When I returned from the battlefield, I had nurtured grand ambitions of establishing a hospital somewhere—yet within mere eighteen months, they had smoldered down to this makeshift clinic. Father was an obstinate man who insisted on designing everything himself. His constant refrain was about financial constraints. Just recently, a friend visited and said, 'How could someone with surgical principles like you create such a surgical room?' Father lived frugally. He would even turn inside-out envelopes from received letters for reuse. This very mindset—born from our strained circumstances—had enabled my education, making defiance impossible when I considered that. I startle even myself at how enfeebled my resolve has grown.

Mother was now ill. That illness was by no means mild. Thus, while Mother still had life, it had been half-forcibly settled that I absolutely had to take a wife. That was still a very recent matter. At the time of that consultation, I suffered greatly. The poor nurse had not yet recovered from childbirth. In the heart of the woman being sheltered by her brother, there was no doubt she still relied on me. While she worried about the future and wept inwardly, the idea of me secretly seeking a spouse—even if she remained unaware—would torment my conscience, making it impossible to bring myself to such a course. However, the frail human heart changed in an instant. After being pressured repeatedly, my heart began to lean in that direction. And then, when asked about such a woman, a concern about what kind of woman she might be would suddenly arise. With this inclination, my heart had been defeated. "And without making any complicated demands, accepting that the person might be good enough, I ended up leaving it almost entirely to others……"

The young host, having continued his story up to this point, further—

“Yamada would’ve been far better suited, but it’s no use now… Still, she’s reached full term—I’m expecting news any night now. That’s a secret from Father… If we were to have someone nurse Mother, she’d be ideal, but a pregnant woman can hardly care for others. Either way, it’s hopeless,” he muttered haltingly to himself. And: “You absolutely must keep this secret—if word gets out, it’d look terrible, and such rumors could easily make marriage proposals collapse. Not that this is about hiding my mistakes or deceiving anyone’s future, but I don’t want to worry my ailing mother. She’s already happily saying she’ll soon be cared for by a daughter-in-law.”

The young guest had been lying on his side up to this point, propping his head on his hand with his elbow planted, listening, but now sat up while—

“Yeah, that’s right. But I think the one who came to you was actually fortunate.”

“he said.”

“Why?” the host asked in return. “Why? Because you consider women such fleeting beings—naturally you’d show more sympathy than others.” As the young guest spoke, the host resumed his account of the pitiful Woman. “So I’ve no complicated affairs now—I burned all Yamada’s letters the other day... Yet several more arrived afterward.” “Most were addressed to Matsuda—‘Don’t trouble yourself about me, Doctor should find a wife’ they said. Though her wording hinted at wanting replies from me too, I took care not to write often.” “Lately she’s stopped sending them—must show consideration for Older Brother now.”

“So she’s in Tabata?”

The guest asked.

“Yeah—it’s been about two months since she went to Tabata. She writes that once she’s recovered from childbirth, she’ll manage on her own and show you she harbors no lingering attachments… but I can’t help thinking if she heard I’ve taken a spouse, she’d weep endlessly.” “Even if I’m now set to marry, it doesn’t feel unpleasant to hear her say such things.” “Even for her—there’s no telling what might become of her future—but somehow I feel it would be better if I just stayed single like this.” “It pains me to think of letting her become someone else’s.”

Continuing in this manner, "But whether it's a boy or a girl, I think it'll be a good child if it resembles her." "'I somehow feel it will be such a fine child,' she writes in her letter." He smiled. "But since it's a secret child, I won't be able to see its face for some time." When the host had finished speaking, "For the woman, it must be even harsher—she may never meet you again in her lifetime." The young guest stated flatly. "Back when I was at the hospital—whenever someone recovered enough to be discharged—I'd criticize those neurotic types for pointlessly envying them as foolish. But now when I'm consumed with worry... seeing everyone else so composed makes me envious after all. Though I suppose you people have it easy."

The host said. “You should suffer all you can suffer. If you do that, perhaps I could find some comfort myself. Though that’s easy to say about others’ affairs… No—when it comes to others’ matters, we only see the surface, so they appear favorable. If everyone exposed their hidden aspects, there might be none left completely clean.” When the guest spoke these words in a comforting tone, the host suddenly looked as if he had found a sympathizer.

“Do you have your own troubles too?” he asked. “Well, never mind that—but what time is it now? Is it one o'clock? No—past one already.” The guest took out a watch from his heko-obi sash and said this. If the sake brewery across the way were thriving, one ought to hear lively songs from the brewers by now—but there was nothing of the sort. It was a night of profound, terrifying stillness. Beside their ears, the faint sound of the lamp sucking up oil from the depths of its reservoir could be heard. The lamp’s flame flickered, causing the round patch of light on the ceiling—which had been solemnly watching over the two of them—to sway unsteadily. The night watch's clappers could be heard from afar, and then, seeming to have entered the side street, they suddenly made a loud, clattering racket.

(Published in Hototogisu, Volume 12, Issue 4, January 1, Meiji 42 [1909])