Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was a certain rural town. If one peered into a certain back alley, there stood a laundry that had hung cloth out in its yard, and beyond that yard lay what they called a vegetable field; when flocks of chickens wandering about ventured into this field, the farmers' scolding voices could be heard as they chased the chickens away. When spring came, from that field and from hidden spots around it, the leafy greens all at once raised their yellow heads and stood tall on tiptoe; then white peach blossoms bloomed on the fences, and at the laundry, water was churned over the short green grass in the yard while stretched cloth was scrubbed with brushes—such was a certain backstreet of this town. The sake brewery stood sorrowfully, crumbling at the corners. It had still been a recent memory that the old man who built this sake brewery walked about leaning on a thick wooden cane, looking like a beggar. The sake brewing season had of course been in winter, but it had been such that he would lay out a straw mat before the large hearth, plop down on it just as he was, throw a single futon over himself, and pass the night like that. But once he closed his eyes for good, the entire brewery was seized by a cruel moneylender. Afterward, the moneylender had been sentenced to hard labor and imprisoned for a long time due to an incident he himself caused, so there was no one left to tend to the sake brewery. Weeds grew thick and wild. Roof tiles crumbled. Walls collapsed. Large barrels could be seen here and there through the collapsed sections of the wall. It was such a gruesome sight that one might have thought it had contracted the disease called rotten bone ulcer. The long wooden plank fence in the back alley had rotten posts, making it unsteady, and parts of it would occasionally collapse. Someone would prop them up and bind them with rope, so new knots had formed here and there. In front of this wooden plank fence stood a building—an area where even now one could faintly hear farmers' scolding voices as they chased chickens from the vegetable field behind the laundry's yard—and there, a doctor had recently opened his practice. Patients came and went through the front lattice door. When night fell, in the front parlor that served as the patients’ waiting room, under the glow of a hanging lamp, the pharmacist apprentice leaned against a box brazier, his hair parted down the middle glistening as he examined a pack. At times, a little apart from the brazier sat the young doctor, still in his white coat, reading a newspaper spread wide open. It was an evening during a winter of particularly harsh frost.

There was a male guest—a man of about thirty, their contemporary. In the six-mat room next to the waiting room, the two were sitting under a kotatsu. The doctor was still under the cold arbor, vigorously fanning the coals with a small folded newspaper. The smoldering powdered charcoal mixed with straw scraps emitted a faint wisp of smoke from the edge of the futon. When the kotatsu’s fire crackled to life, the doctor took his white coat and hung it on the bent nail behind the guest. In the transom facing the guest hung two glass-fronted frames. One was a company photograph taken when the doctor had been deployed, and the other was his graduation certificate from Chiba Medical School. The light from the lamp beside the kotatsu glinted sharply into the guest’s eyes as it reflected off the glass of one frame. When he turned his head to the side, the lamplight reflected once more from the other glass pane. While the guest looked this way and that, the doctor changed into a kimono and carelessly wrapped his heko obi around his waist.

“What’s with you?”

and entered the kotatsu. The garments were of laundered *karazane* fabric; the knit shirt was conspicuously soiled. The shirt had two layers overlapped at the cuffs, making the wrists look awkwardly thick. The pharmacist apprentice brought tea in imitation Sōma-yaki teaware. As he set down the tray and stood up, the dangling cord of his haori dragged the tea bowl away. After taking a sip of tea, “This is cold. Being stuck alone with just this apprentice makes everything so inconvenient.”

The doctor gave a wry smile. And then, “Matsuda! Hey, Matsuda!”

called out and briskly headed to the front parlor,

“Could you bring me one serving of shiruko? Hey, don’t stand up so suddenly and bump into the lamp!” he said. The pharmacist apprentice slid open the lattice door with a clatter and went out. Between the host and guest, as the kotatsu’s heat intensified, a casual conversation began. The doctor said, occasionally twirling the tips of his characteristic mustache. When young people twirl the tips of their mustaches, it is typically a moment when they quickly grow smug. The guest smiled gently while fluttering the flat-woven white haori cord in his palm. The light of the table lamp drawn close to the kotatsu cast a dim, large circular reflection on the ceiling. That round light quietly looked down upon the two of them. The lattice door clattered open, and the shiruko arrived. Apparently having been handled roughly, the bowl’s lid was tilted, and soup had spilled over the rim.

“If you don’t mind, please go ahead and have it all.”

When the doctor said this, “There’s usually enough—it’s no trouble.” The guest ate while blowing repeatedly on the broth. The young master, without even picking up his chopsticks, took a quick sip, wiped his mustache from side to side, and continued the casual conversation from before.

“It was when I left the dormitory and was living at a civilian boarding house. “That boarding house had a grain shop at the front that a retired couple ran as a side business. “When it came to students, most lived so dissolutely you could practically say they were debauched—but I was still considered exemplary back then, which meant I received special treatment. “Around that time, the professor had been boarding on my second floor temporarily. “He’d been supposed to receive his degree for distoma research, but since his mother worried leaving home would bring bad fortune through inauspicious directions—and him being such a dutiful son—he’d apparently moved out exactly as she instructed. “It all happened on what must’ve been the first night of the Rooster Festival. “A crowd gathered in my room, everyone bringing meat and drink for a gluttonous feast. “At first they held back, but ended up making an enormous racket with poetry recitals and sword dances. “The professor had been studying upstairs. “The others could leave without concern, but when I found myself alone after everyone scattered, I felt terribly guilty imagining how much we must’ve disturbed him—so I took the brazier and went upstairs. “Because its fire had been properly lit. “When I did that, the professor looked at my face and suddenly—”

“You’re a poor student, aren’t you?” he said. “I was a bit irritated, so I declared proudly: ‘I may indeed be a poor student, but to this day I have never once fallen below eighth or ninth in class rank.’” The professor was somewhat taken aback. “Even so, for someone in your position as a student to drink and make such a commotion is hardly proper. If you keep this up, you’ll ruin your mind and amount to nothing in the future.”

Thus came his ordinary lecture. After that, I did not hide in the shadows like the other students. “Since one should openly take pleasure when appropriate, there ought to be nothing worth criticizing,” I said. “But putting that aside, won’t you make a promise with me?” he said. “I didn’t quite understand what he meant, but I said I’d agree to it.” “Then how about you study under my direction?”

Since he put it that way and there was no refusing, I again said I'd comply. The Professor looked thoroughly pleased. There'd been a plague outbreak around that time, so he got carried away with enthusiasm and kept lecturing about pestilence for a full hour. The sake left my head throbbing while I had to sit up straight and listen properly—an awful ordeal. When the Professor's lecture finally paused, I suddenly pretended to remember leaving the lamp unattended and went downstairs. From then on, once ten o'clock struck each night, I had to extinguish the lamp without fail—this being our agreement—and if I ran even slightly late,

“Hey you—Kokufuda-kun! Still awake?” he bellowed from the second-floor staircase. Initially, the professor had called Kunita “Kokufuda”. When five o’clock came each morning, he would roar: “Kokufuda-kun! Still sleepy?”

He would say and start banging on the door—the second-floor window’s door. The noise would immediately resound, making it impossible to stay in bed. “Because he was a man of discipline, he wouldn’t let even a single instance slide,” I explained. “Since things were set up that way, I could naturally study, and the professor consequently devoted himself wholeheartedly. He’d even promised to make me his assistant after graduation.” That I’d finally fallen into depravity while the professor still boarded there left nothing more to be said. Since going out had become enjoyable, it was hopeless. “Still,” I continued, “as long as I studied wherever the professor could see me, things remained manageable while he stayed there.” I’d extinguish the lamp before ten each night, first leaving the door slightly ajar before burrowing into my futon. Peering from the staircase landing, I’d slip out the moment his lamp went dark, scaling the fence to disappear into the night. Returning before dawn, I’d crawl back into the cold bedding. The professor, none the wiser, would knock at five sharp—“Still sleepy?”—his banging relentless. The genuine exhaustion made it unbearable. One evening, as I climbed the fence for my usual outing, a fire bell clanged through the darkness—clang, clang—seemingly near my boarding house. Panicked, I rushed back only to find flames engulfing not my quarters, but the geisha district nearby.

When I heard it was the geisha district, I was dying to rush over and see. But I was caught by the landlady. “Well, you came back after all!” “All the students had gone out inside, so I was left alone fretting.” “You can’t imagine how reassuring your presence is.” “Please keep thinking of helping me.” “The professor went out too, saying he was worried about his house.” “Please, I beg you!” she said, gripping my sleeve tightly and refusing to let go.

The sky burned crimson, sparks swirling upward in a flurry. A roaring commotion echoed through the air. They said medical students had dashed in to rescue geishas' shamisens and such, but I was too frantic to care at that moment. With no other choice, I stood out front with the landlady until the Professor finally returned, delighted to find me there. Having complete faith in me, he never suspected I'd rushed back panicked only to get caught by her. While the others fled, I alone stayed guarding the place—he must have thought it commendable. When it came to such matters, the Professor remained clueless.

After that, the Professor must have resolved whatever issue there was with the orientation and moved back to his own home. I spent an entire Sunday helping carry luggage. Once the Professor was gone, I became completely free. But the retribution was immediate—my rank suddenly plummeted to thirty-sixth place. The Professor was shocked. At the time, using illness as an excuse, I managed to deceive him temporarily. Even so, I couldn’t keep up the deception forever. One day, there came an examination by the Professor. Since it was oral, I tried mimicking the previous examinee’s rambling answers, but he caught me out. I completely stalled when differentiating between epidemic typhus and typhoid fever—a minor point I couldn’t grasp. Though naive in most matters, the Professor was exceptionally sharp in academic affairs, making deception impossible. “You’ve fallen into depravity,” he remarked tersely. I felt doused with cold water. Glancing up, I saw him standing rigidly upright, glaring fixedly at me. He said nothing more. My body seemed to shrink terribly, my spirit growing distant, until I barely registered the other students’ muffled sneers.

Chiba had been pleasant at first too. From the schoolyard, I would gaze proudly at the Sagami mountains beyond the distant sea, but by graduation my rank had plummeted to sixty-eighth place. There were times I roused myself to great efforts, but once having fallen into depravity, returning to my former standing became impossible. When my debt-laden form was led out of Chiba by my elder brother, whatever trust remained from my father and brother collapsed in that moment. Naive as it seems, neither Father nor Brother could have imagined me ending up alone where not a single desk remained—just dust-covered sake barrels scattered about. Even restaurants lent money freely, until I bore a crushing burden. That this is why I'm stuck here in my hometown today, bound hand and foot—all being the lingering curse of that time."

The young doctor fell silent for a moment, sipped the remaining sweet red bean soup from the bottom of the bowl with his right hand, then with an awkward grip in his left hand held chopsticks to chew the now-cold rice cake. And then he sipped the cold tea that had been poured. The guest, who until now had been lying on his side under the desk lamp with his right elbow propped up as he listened, slowly rose and reached for the remaining bowl of sweet red bean soup. The rim of the bowl traced a small circle on the tray. The guest chewed the soy sauce-soaked pickled vegetables with apparent relish, then poured from the chilled iron kettle into the teapot and placed that iron kettle over the kotatsu's fire. And then,

“Don’t stick your legs out and knock it over,” said the Guest. “I never intended to open a practice in a place like this either,” said the young doctor, wiping his beard with a handkerchief. “But what they call circumstances have a way of completely wearing a person down.”

A faint look of pain surfaced on the young doctor's face at that moment. The round ceiling light, shaped like a relieved sigh, continued gazing down at the two of them from its earlier position.

II

The young doctor continued his account. "The one-year volunteer program was utterly hopeless. At school you worried that failing might mean never becoming a doctor, but as a volunteer soldier—having not even made third-class military doctor—you ended up lumped with farmers and ordered about by superior privates. No way to take it seriously then." "My disciplinary confinement lasted two weeks to start with. With that attitude, I wound up despised by the unit's probationary officers. The army's like that—once a superior marks you, it sticks like tar." "They'd nag at every little thing. Even with horizontal bars—I was the best in the unit at gymnastics. The drill sergeant told others to follow my technique, but those probationary bastards? Not a word of praise." "'That won't do! Your eyes are wrong!' they'd say. Being short meant I had to look up just to grab the bar. When standing a rifle upright, the muzzle reached my ear level. 'Short men have poor bearing during drills!'" "They nicknamed me 'Mr. Thin Ice' for my wobbly walk—said my legs looked ready to give out any moment. Naturally I kept looking upward. 'Eyes show cowardice!' they'd bark." "Then came the training beam incident—that high bridge-like thing? They ordered me across. I refused point-blank." "So they lined everyone up. 'Volunteer Kunita's a coward,' those probationaries declared. 'Probably flunked surgery and anatomy back in school,' they sneered."

“And then—no, that’s completely off.” “As for surgery and anatomy, I always scored perfect marks, so if they found that suspicious, I challenged them to contact my school for verification—which left them flustered.” There was another time like this. The probationary officer stood before the lined-up soldiers and posed the question: “If ordered to use your sword to open a can, what would you do?” Having been indoctrinated that the sword embodied the soldier’s spirit, they all raised their hands to refuse. “I didn’t raise mine.” “Why aren’t you raising yours?” they demanded. “Then I countered: ‘If a madman—someone far stronger than me—threatened to kill me unless I used my sword to open a can, I’d rather cut open that simple can than throw my life away.’” Conflicts always turned out to be such utterly pointless affairs. The room I stayed in had apparently been a storage room before. One evening I bought a bag of Genji soybeans from the canteen and saved them; after lights-out, two or three of us chewed on them. “I should’ve shared some with the first-class private in our room, but since I didn’t, the bastard ratted us out.” The sergeant came asking if anyone had chewed beans. When we denied it, he insisted there’d been crunching noises—unacceptable—so when he lit the lamp, unfortunately two or three beans lay under the bed, and we were thoroughly chewed out. Six months passed with us earnestly repeating such nonsense. But thanks to the class system, after six months we suddenly became military doctors holding sergeant rank. Now we could conduct examinations freely—our wings had spread a bit. It was during live-fire exercises when we marched to Narashino. There was this newly married lieutenant who’d schemed to submit a sick report and skip out. “I was on examination duty.”

As a result of our discussions among us military doctors, we concluded without a doubt that that bastard was faking his illness. Since those officers always threw their weight around too much, we decided to teach them a lesson—so when I went to examine him, he was putting on quite the act, but it was clearly feigned illness. Even so, we decided to let it pass just for that day and have him attend drills starting the next. As I smirked inwardly and strolled back along the side of the barracks,

“Hey! Military doctor! Wait a minute!” The voice came from behind me. When I turned around, the Battalion Commander was sticking his head out of a window. This Battalion Commander had risen from special duty sergeant—an elderly man of dubious capability. His face resembled red copper, eyes protruding unnaturally. His eyebrows looked like white caterpillars. He demanded to know what illness the lieutenant had. As I kept giving evasive answers, the truth threatened to surface. The Battalion Commander pressed his questions quite skillfully.

“What about the fever?” He asked such an unexpected thing. “It isn’t particularly severe.” When I said that,

“How much?” Pressed for an answer, I blurted out— “It’s perfectly normal.” I ended up saying. The Battalion Commander became extremely angry. “What nonsense are you spouting?!” He looked ready to grab me at any moment, his demeanor fierce. I knew it was a blunder, but there was no helping it, so I just stood there for a while. Then, “What are you dawdling like a fool for? Get moving!” he snapped. “Ah, if I may just explain…”

I tried saying this, but he wouldn’t listen. “I don’t need that! Why aren’t you moving?” he barked. “Ah—for instance, if we posit an illness here called pharyngeal catarrh, this too would manifest fever.” “In our medical society, expressions like the one I just used are standard for such fevers, though...” I rambled on with whatever came to mind. When it comes to such matters, soldiers are dispassionate. He never realized he’d been duped.

“I see. That was my mistake.” “I didn’t realize that was standard terminology in the medical community.” “That was regrettable.”

With that, his stern face suddenly melted away. From then on, the Battalion Commander trusted me and occasionally had me conduct examinations—he was suffering from asthma. “I just can’t shake this damn fever.” Yet he remained perpetually troubled by it. Since he seemed feverless yet kept worrying, I initially found this suspicious. When he’d measure his temperature himself and fret over it, I often checked the thermometer only to discover it was old and defective—even at normal temperatures, it would climb to nearly eight degrees. Having been told anything above seven degrees counted as a fever, he agonized over it constantly. In the army, we whiled away a whole year on such trifles. You might say I muddled through with levity—even so, I somehow passed the final exams without feeling any real anguish. Yet during this period, there arose one truly vexing matter—something akin to a minor transgression I’d committed, though not quite weighty enough to be called a sin, whose origins lay in my time in Chiba. It began when I grew somewhat ashamed of my poor academic performance and resolved to reform myself—to avoid bad influences, I rented a room in a local farmhouse by the coast. I recall it being after summer vacation because blackberry lilies grew thick in the garden. As a child, my mother would cut clusters of those flowers blooming along our fence to offer at the family altar—thus they became deeply imprinted in my mind, something I came to cherish. I moved into that farmhouse when all those blackberry lilies had turned to seed pods, staying until sorghum ears grew tall, the sea gleamed blue, and sardines were caught—the thick-tailed ones called Funabashi sardines, mostly taken in that inlet. When viewed on my walk home from school rather than mornings, the sea shone bluer still, dotted with white sails. It was then that I formed my conviction—establishing a branch family must never be done.

This was because there existed both a main family and branch family in my neighborhood. And they opposed each other like sworn enemies. The main family was declining in fortune while the branch family watched with glee. Bailiffs would sometimes come to the main family. Then the wives and daughters would come weeping to my place. Seeing this, I came to feel—without any logical basis—that establishing a branch family was absolutely wrong. Therefore, never had I imagined I would now end up forming a branch family near my father's house like this. At that time, I had privately thought I might even consider being adopted out if a good opportunity arose. That Tateno—my friend since elementary school whom you must know. There was a relative of his—a doctor who had practiced in Hachiōji but recently returned to his hometown in Kawagoe. He had substantial assets and an only daughter of exceptional quality—so Tateno proposed to me, "Why not go?" Carried by our growing enthusiasm for the scheme, we resolved to conduct an actual investigation. We went under the pretense of climbing Mount Fuji during summer vacation. While our detective intentions might have been justified if the other party remained unaware, our act of visiting a house where the daughter was practically Tateno's cousin under such pretenses—though excusable by youth—was utterly absurd. Since we took the train all the way to Kawagoe, our straw sandal soles didn't even get dirty, leaving us faintly embarrassed. We lingered hesitantly until sunset before approaching the house. Tateno laughed, saying it was unlike my usual self. The doctor's house had an appropriately substantial structure. I was shown upstairs and promptly took a bath. They made me change into a stiffly starched yukata that felt pleasantly crisp against my skin.

It seemed Tateno had indeed informed them beforehand by letter, for upon later reflection, everything had been arranged far too thoroughly. The house’s roof was thatched, with thick eaves peering into the second-floor window. From the window, the ridgepoles of neighboring houses were visible, their crests thickly overgrown with blue-green grass. Red lilies bloomed among that blue-green grass. Every house I looked at was the same. Yet some lacked red lilies. The maid brought tea. Holding a tea sweet while gazing outside, I watched the setting sun cast its rays sideways from afar onto that blue-green grass, making the red lilies glow. As I sat there, footsteps quietly ascended the staircase to the left—then came a faint clinking sound from those same stairs, though I couldn’t tell why. When I turned sideways, the room had grown dim, and to eyes accustomed to the outdoor light, everything suddenly blurred. A young woman holding a lamp came up the staircase. She carried the lamp in her right hand and its stand in her left. The round glass shade touched its holder with a faint clink. Her hand gripped the lamp near her shoulder. From my position, the woman’s face remained partly hidden by the round glass shade. Still, one cheek catching the lamp’s light stood out starkly white. She wore makeup.

Tateno stealthily poked my buttocks—she was indeed the household’s daughter. Perhaps made radiant by her cosmetics, she was beautiful; Tateno hadn’t lied about that. Soon sake appeared. Both the master and the woman called the daughter’s mother emerged to entertain us lavishly. At intervals the mother would shoo mosquitoes away for us while the daughter kept our cups filled. I found myself feeling encircled rather than welcomed, yet drank my fill regardless. Later Tateno remarked that the family had greatly approved of this unguarded mannerism. We stayed there that night. Then Tateno inquired how I found things—I had clearly taken a liking to the daughter. The old-fashioned hairpin near her bangs, with its several narrow paper-like strips fluttering down, glittered under the lamplight to accentuate her gracefulness. She might have been about twenty years old; clad in an undyed yukata fastened with a crimson obi, she appeared perhaps a year or two younger than her actual age. I marveled at how I’d been maneuvered into this situation altogether. Yet upon sober reflection—whether adoption would be good or bad—I hadn’t yet properly consulted Father about it at all. Even were I to deem it acceptable, without Father’s approval it would mean nothing.

In that case, I could no longer give a definite yes or no. As for why I had gone all the way to Kawagoe—it was simply that I wanted to see the daughter, never expecting to receive such treatment. It had all been too simple. Greatly troubled by this, I resolved to flee the following day.

But it was raining. Saying, "Please stay one more day," they brought out sake from morning. The daughter played the shamisen. Admittedly, it was a composed way of playing. The daughter wore an indigo-patterned summer kimono. Where she had removed her powder, the glow of her skin showed through instead—whether due to her attire or not—she appeared a year or two more mature than when seen at night. Because Tateno and the others had united in their intent to stop me, in the end I couldn’t leave. I resolved to let myself be overwhelmed and ended up exposing all the tattered clothes I had. The next morning, when I was determined to escape no matter what, they said that since my clothes had gotten sweaty, they had just put them in the washtub to launder for me—I should wait until they dried. Then they kept saying it was raining again, raining again—so I ended up staying six whole days. Those six days left me utterly drained, but being tended to by the daughter still brought me joy.

I immediately returned home. When parting with Tateno, I said that even if I were to go through with becoming an adopted heir, unless they provided my academic expenses for the next two years and repaid the debts I’d incurred through my wild living, I’d have none of it. I had thought that making such demands would likely leave them utterly aghast. However, according to Tateno’s letters, unless it was someone who spoke frankly as such, they couldn’t rely on him, so they would pay any amount of money requested. Then they insisted I must make every effort, and on top of that came saying the daughter was deeply taken with me—what did I say to that? I too was taken aback. He came in every two or three days. He pressed me, saying that since formalities had become too awkward, I should send a reply. Finally, he bluntly attacked: "Don’t you think the daughter is pitiable?" I had to be careful every time the mail came, because if Father or Mother were to accidentally see those letters, it would be disastrous. And when I returned home and saw that my family’s circumstances made it utterly impossible, I wrote asking them not to hold it against me—that I would be departing for Chiba around such-and-such a date, and that even so, if letters were to arrive after I’d left, it would cause great trouble, so please don’t send any. That matter was settled just like that. It had come to be as if forgotten. To my astonishment, two years had passed when, as I was serving as a volunteer soldier in the Akasaka regiment, that doctor’s brother suddenly came to visit. With a rather awkward greeting and some stammering, the man said that even now, the doctor’s household still hadn’t settled on an adopted heir. The daughter says that until your side reaches a definite decision, she requests not to be made to consider other marriage proposals.

“Even if we set this aside, might we humbly ask you to at least put my brother’s household at ease?”

This was an extremely composed request. When I considered whether I had been so considerate all this time, I was both astonished and felt sorry, yet found myself at a loss for any proper response.

“Because my family’s circumstances at the time did not permit it... Though I’m afraid in a place like this, I have nothing suitable to offer you.”

And saying that, he took him to the military canteen. There was simply no other way.

“Might I ask if you would now be so kind as to reconsider your circumstances? Though I must admit it is quite improper of me to come here like this.”

he said in an imploring manner. I told a painful lie to brush things off—that 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’d have no time for five or six years. That he had come to visit me twice made me feel as though I had committed some needless sin, and at the time, it had greatly troubled my nerves. My concern lay only with what became of that daughter, but I supposed the adoption must have been settled somehow. I have not heard from Tateno since then. “Though truth be told, I ended up passing through without ever having had the chance to meet him.”

The night grew late. The clattering of the night watchman's wooden clappers approached from afar - so clamorous one might think they'd throw open the lattice door and come barging in - only to recede again into the distance. The watchman's noisemaker consisted of a short iron rod fixed to a plank, hung by a cord around his hips. With each step came a swing of his buttocks and another garish rattle from the contraption. The pharmacy apprentice had long since fallen asleep. A faint snoring seeped through the stillness. The young doctor kept his gaze fixed on the lamp, though-

“It’s terribly dim. I’m looking after this apprentice of mine due to some circumstances, but he’s been slacking off.” Muttering this, he tried to remove the lamp’s chimney. Because it was hot, he pulled his hand back slightly. “That way it won’t burn you.”

The guest grasped the swollen part at the bottom and deftly pulled off the chimney. The flame swayed unsteadily, producing oily smoke. The round light on the ceiling vanished simultaneously. The charcoal—like charred dregs from a heart’s ember—clung to the rim; the Guest took fire tongs from the kotatsu, scraped them roughly against it, then thrust the chimney back into place. The lamp’s light grew notably brighter, and once more a round glow was cast upon the ceiling.

III

The tale continues.

"The outbreak of war came before many days had passed since completing my volunteer enlistment. Where they conscripted and sent me was the Yokosuka Garrison Hospital. I stayed in Yokosuka about two months. In Yokosuka's northern hillside district, at a place reached by climbing a slope, stood the vacant home of a naval petty officer. There I lodged as a guest for some time. By then I had already become a third-class military physician. That area had villas or restaurants of some standing, but since the petty officer was acquainted with a certain moneyed retiree, this residence had apparently been borrowed from that retiree's villa. The petty officer was stationed in Sasebo. Speaking of petty officers—their rank being equivalent to an army second lieutenant—their living conditions weren't particularly comfortable. The house had an eight-tatami room I occupied, followed by a six-tatami room and then a small tea room—a modest layout, but being newly built by wealthy hands, it was a trim and pleasant structure. The family consisted solely of the wife and daughter. The wife must have been forty-one or forty-two; the daughter was said to be nineteen. Having found it lonely with just themselves, they'd taken me in. Both were exceedingly kind. When I stopped standing on ceremony, the wife began treating me like family—'Please let Yanagi handle everything,' she'd say. Yanagi was the daughter. At that time, with war fervor running high and us being military family members—not to mention my being a military physician—our feelings toward ordinary folk may naturally have differed. In those days we hung mosquito nets. In the tea room slept the wife; in the adjoining room slept the daughter. They couldn't afford such luxuries as reed-paneled doors."

Since it was hot with the shoji left as they were, they never slid them open. Because I had an early commute, I often woke up. The daughter would wake up, open two or three of the storm shutters, and then remove the mosquito net’s hanging hooks. Because my pillow was by the door compartment, even if I was still asleep, when the door clattered open, my eyes would invariably open. The daughter, in her sleepwear, folded the mosquito net, put away the futon, and changed her clothes. Then she opened various doors here and there. Since the partition shoji screens were open, I could see her clearly every morning. As time went on in this manner, I found myself no longer thinking ill of that daughter. However, even during my earlier days of dissipation, I had so deeply ingrained in myself the notion that becoming involved with any ordinary woman was a sin that in reality, I rigorously restrained myself toward this girl as well, never letting it show on my face. At times, out of my former habit, I would engage geishas to dispel my melancholy. There were times when I’d stay out until one or two in the morning, but no matter how late it was, the daughter would always be awake waiting to take care of me. However, the petty officer himself would often come home late at night after drinking, and his wife said their daughter always nursed him through it. One evening, I drank heavily and was put into a rickshaw from the restaurant and returned. At the foot of the slope, I got off the rickshaw and, alone, opened the garden gate, went to the door compartment, and tried to open the storm shutters. I made a clattering sound with my tiptoes.

“Mr. Kunita?”

came the daughter’s voice. “I’m terribly late.” When I said this, she hurriedly pattered over, clicked open the latch, and clattered the storm shutters open for me. The moon cast its white light from the short eaves, stretching slightly over the veranda. That night, the moon shone brilliantly. As I sat down and was taking off my shoes, “Oh my, how cool it looks!”

A voice sounded from above my head. When I looked up, the daughter had her hands on the edge of the storm shutters, leaning forward as if lifting something, and was gazing at the moon. Since I was sitting down, the moon was about two feet away from the eaves, but as the daughter stood there, it must have been hidden by the eaves and invisible to her. I twisted my body trying to rise and touched her foot. The daughter seemed to notice,

“Oh, let me put that away.” She took the shoes and placed them in the shoe cabinet next to the door compartment. When I suddenly noticed, there was a vase containing some flowering plant placed by the shoji screen. Since it looked like a leopard lily, when I asked what it was,

“Ah, that’s right—may I borrow the lamp for a moment?” She lit my lamp that had been placed on the desk inside the shoji screen; still standing, she pulled out the retracted wick and inserted it there. They were leopard lilies. When I said this was my favorite flower, “Earlier today, I had some business in town and found these flowers there, so I bought them and brought them back,” “Then Mother said, ‘Why not arrange them for Mr. Kunita?’ So I tried arranging them—but I thought I should ask if you like them first—which is why I placed them here.”

Having said that, she returned the lamp to the desk, detached one corner of the mosquito net’s hanging hook, and placed those leopard lilies beside the hanging scroll. I took off my uniform while gazing at the leopard lilies. The daughter was by my side, hanging each piece on a hook. When I took off my shirt,

“As it’s become a bit sweaty, I’ll launder it tomorrow.”

She rolled it up and took it outside the shoji. And then,

“Just one moment, please. I’ll bring some cold water right away…” Having uttered this abruptly, 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 time, the lamp on the desk had been placed close to the shoji screens and lowered onto the threshold.

While gazing out through the storm shutters at the moonlit night outside, I wiped my sweat with the hand towel. When I finished wiping my sweaty body, I suddenly felt refreshed. As I was about to discard the water from the metal basin into the garden, the daughter— “I’ll take care of that.”

Having said that, she took wooden clogs from the shoe cabinet and stepped down into the garden. On the low four-panel lattice fence bloomed a cluster of white oleander flowers. The daughter poured water from the metal basin onto the oleander roots with her fingertips. She moved from leaves to flowers, sprinkling them. Water-drenched leaves glistened with captured moonlight. Beyond the fence stretched Yokosuka's cityscape in one sweeping view, its sea beyond reflecting moonlight like polished silver. From Hashirimizu's edge rose Sarushima - a garden stone island seemingly within reach. The daughter stood holding her metal basin, white yukata drenched in moonlight.

“My, what a splendid moon!”

She murmured to herself and stood by the glistening white cluster of flowers. The metal basin she held in her hand glistened brightly as well. 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 once again wiped the veranda with a rag, quietly set up the storm shutters, and fastened the latch with a click. When I entered the mosquito net, I felt oppressively hot— "Ugh." As I let out a groan and tossed about restlessly, the daughter went to the kitchen again and began making clattering noises.

“Have Yanagi and Mr. Kunita returned?”

At that moment, the wife’s voice sounded. “As he seems to be partaking quite heartily, I thought the ice from earlier might not have melted yet...” Yanagi’s voice was faintly heard. Then she put ice into the ice bag, placed it on a tray together with a folded hand towel, brought it over, and gently slipped it into the mosquito net from beside my pillow. Having her do such things for me made me genuinely happy, but at the same time, I felt terribly guilty. “Would you please rest?”

“Would you please rest?” I said. The daughter— “Shall I put it out?”

She adjusted the lamp wick on the desk and stood up. With the shoji left open in the next room, the daughter's mosquito net came into clear view. Someone must have been inside until moments before—the futon lay rolled up behind it, a lamp with its wick turned low still burning within the net, something like a magazine spread open beside it. As our lamp went out, the adjacent room grew brighter still. The daughter rustled her kimono hem and slipped into the mosquito net, her obi still properly tied. She spread the futon and stepped outside the net. The opposite side of the net showed only a blue tinge with the lamp placed nearer this side. Only the soft susurration of an obi being undone reached my ears. Soon a pale hand reached beneath the hem to remove the lamp outward, revealing the dim outline of the daughter bending over as she did so. When the lamp extinguished and darkness swallowed the house completely, came again the rustle of disturbed netting followed by the faint creak of a box pillow. That night proved unbearably restless, my nerves frayed and alert. The daughter too—whether from similar disquiet—I heard turning occasionally in her sleep. From that night onward, torment took root in me. Yet back then, my craving to enlist outweighed all else—I'd even quarreled with the garrison hospital director over it—and since I didn't linger long in that house afterward, I escaped any risk of crossing lines I shouldn't. My salvation lay in never being granted opportunity at all. Not long after came my conscription. Among those seeing me off at Yokosuka Station stood the regimental commander himself, though the "Miss Horie" noted in my diary refers to that girl. Four years have passed since, yet that moonlit night floats instantly before my eyes whenever recalled—a memory I suspect will cling to me lifelong.

I think that perhaps it will never leave my memory for as long as I live. What remains dear to me is that moonlit night. During the journey to deployment, the home country passed by in a clamorous blur. We entered Genkai Nada. The weather was clear and the waves were calm. Fishermen floating offshore saw the transport ship passing by, took fish from under their planks, and scattered them into the sea one after another while spreading their arms wide. On the deck, everyone cheered in unison at this sight. The water met the sky, both a boundless blue. Among the soldiers was one who worried that if the ship kept advancing heedlessly, it might get crushed between that sky and water. On the seventh day, we arrived at Qingniwa. We encountered wounded soldiers being evacuated to the rear. Among them was one I recognized. The torso of his filthy uniform was caked with dried blood. I listened to his story for several minutes. One evening came the order for a night attack. From the battery, machine guns poured down a fierce barrage. Even when pressed flat against the earth, the natural slope kept his face tilted upward. Then he felt his left leg being slammed heavily against the ground. He cautiously twisted his body and reached out to touch it—warm and slick. He muttered that he’d been hit before he knew it.

Though to be honest, I couldn't tell how the wound had ended up. When I took out a bandage to bind it, a comrade behind me said he’d do it for me. As I stretched out my leg, he suddenly lurched forward with terrible weight onto my injured foot. Even when I demanded, "What are you doing?" there was no reply. I prodded him with my right foot, but he didn’t move. Suspicious, I put my hand to my head and found blood flowing out warm and thick. Startled, I probed more carefully and found the crown of my head had been shattered. After that, I became so terrified that I forgot the pain and finally managed to pull out my left leg, and even then, without letting go of my rifle, I crawled my way down. Those lying motionless around me were the corpses of my comrades. Then—after crawling God knows where—I found a flat spot with a hole and tumbled into it to wait for dawn. The machine gun fire occasionally sounded distant, like beans being scattered from a measure onto a wooden plank. I held no hope of survival.

When dawn broke, he saw that the hole lay in a melon field near the artillery battery—the scar of an exploded shell. A Chinese man lay fallen. Perhaps he had come to rifle through the corpse's clothes and been struck by a stray bullet. The melon flowers had turned crimson with blood, he said. His own body was drenched in blood too. It was from the comrade who had collapsed atop him. His own wound—a through-and-through shot to the heel—that was how his story went. Later I grew numb to everything, but back then, even such tales made my muscles tighten. When we reached Port Arthur, a letter soon arrived from Yokosuka. In our medical unit, I was first to receive mail from home. It felt like a sudden breath of warm wind. I immediately wrote back. I made sure to chronicle every incident, great and small. In camp, when leisure came it came in abundance—I wrote with meticulous care. I found myself craving each dutiful reply that might return. I boasted in my letters about our rolled tobacco's renown. It went like this: During our encampment at Port Arthur, villagers began coming to me with their ailments. The other army doctors were too harried to bother with them properly, so they all ended up at my door. Before long I'd earned the locals' trust—even befriended the sole quack doctor in those parts.

He was an old man with a Korean-style beard. The comical thing was that his son sold karinto sweets. I ceased to pay any mind, even to the young girl. The girls all wore braided hair tied with red ribbons. I rarely encountered anyone. There was a house where a widow lived with her daughter. She had that round forehead shape—like those beauties on flimsy Chinese karakami prints they often brought over. She even started doing sewing for me sometimes. When I tried taking her wrist to check her pulse, she wouldn't pull away. I visited that widow's house often. That would've been uneventful enough—until one day she took a drag and pulled out her pipe. The wide-bowled kiseru made the tobacco brutally harsh. I'd thought nobody could know about this, yet it became battalion gossip anyway. Maybe that stablehand saw us and started blabbing.

In any case, such incidents soon turned into letters and made their way to Yokosuka. If I sent more from my side, they would send back more from theirs. This was my sole comfort in the military camp. After the Battle of Mukden, for reasons I couldn't fathom, someone from Yokosuka had copied each and every one of my letters, transcribed them into a book, and sent it to me. Even I myself was quite startled by the sheer number of those letters.

Speaking of moonlit nights—yes, there were moonlit nights in Port Arthur too. We took the spindly pampas grass standing here and there on the bald mountain, inserted them into beer bottles, and spread out a moon-viewing mat. But by that time, the cold of Liaodong had gradually begun seeping into our skin. A few days before that moon-viewing, an attack was launched on a certain battery. All of the severely wounded soldiers were struck down by machine guns. Since handling the wounded soldiers was done at night, what arrived under cover of darkness defied all imagination. Our medical unit served as the frontline dressing station, responsible for emergency treatment before evacuating patients to the field hospital, and I was in charge of the minor injuries section. Of course, they couldn’t all fit inside the tent, so we rolled them out haphazardly and left them outside. Even calling it emergency treatment—since we had to wash each wound with soap before bandaging them—we couldn’t work fast enough. The wounded soldiers outside the tent had neither blankets nor coats.

“I want water.” “The bandage is too tight.” “The blood won’t stop coming out.” “What are we supposed to do?”

“Stretcher!”

they all groaned and pleaded in unison. So to apply bandages, we would cut through their clothing anywhere with a knife in one swift motion and wash the wound with soap—cold water seeping through to their shirts. Lying sprawled under that clear moon, the cold became unbearable. They groaned and wept, resulting in a pitiful sight. Yet this moonlit night too had already become part of the past four years prior. When peace came, I had wanted to rush to Yokosuka at once—to tell stories about pipe tobacco too—but in the commotion right before returning to the mainland, that chance slipped away amid the chaos; then before long I found myself employed at a hospital, and afterward opening my practice left me completely bound. We became utter strangers, with no word exchanged since. My whole being had changed along with my heart. The woman's whole being must have changed too. Even were we to meet again someday, could we ever recapture that mindset we shared when swept up in war's heat? That's beside the point—she might not even recall me now. Still, I believe that moonlit night must linger in her memory as well. To begin with, opening a practice here was never my true intent. But I couldn't even quarrel with my seventy-year-old father, and my own past failures gradually eroded my willpower until they brought about my ruin. I suddenly feel I've turned into some back-alley quack. What's more, all my neighbors being childhood acquaintances makes it impossible to feel properly adult-like. Being called "Doctor"—referring to myself as such—carried such dissonance. Such things exist. Just behind this place, past the bamboo grove, lies temple grounds where a great hackberry tree stands. Because its branches spread sideways so invitingly for climbing, when its fruits turned black the elementary school pupils would descend upon it.

The hackberry fruits were so delicious we called them sugar berries. After school each day, we'd climb that tree without even taking off our bookbags, shimmying across its sprawling branches. Those sugar berries always drew crowds of starlings that would make an awful racket - though they'd scatter to distant skies by the time classes let out. I went there daily too, but always sneaked around. Mother forbade it after some neighbor's kid took a nasty fall. Mulberries left telltale stains around your mouth that took ages to fade, but with sugar berries? So long as you didn't get caught mid-bite, you could stuff yourself silly and stroll home looking innocent as could be. Turns out Mother had tipped off the temple groundskeeper though - whenever he spotted me while sweeping the courtyard out came his broom to chase me off. If he wasn't around? Up I'd go. One time I left my bookbag strapped tight while climbing and got away clean... only to realize too late he'd snatched my geta instead. I begged forgiveness through panicked tears until finally he relented - laughing as he produced the wooden sandals, then cradling me against his side to wash my muddy feet in a basin. That same man still tends the temple grounds today, white-haired but spry as ever. Just last week he came by clutching a swollen finger, reminiscing about those sugar berries through watery eyes. "When'd our little tree rat turn into such a proper doctor?" he'd marveled. So yes... this town holds its share of sweet memories alongside all that chafes against me like ill-fitting clothes. Youth's nothing but wasted potential anyway.

Having said this, the master let out a breath.

IV

"It was February when I began my service at the hospital. Though Utsunomiya was battered by Nikko's icy gales, having weathered Manchurian winters left me unbothered by the cold. I had been appointed head of surgery. Around that time, the head nurse arrived. She was a woman who'd served aboard the Hakuaimaru—mid-twenties with a robust build, too capable to waste in some private clinic. They said the director had persuaded her to come given her prior experience and nearby hometown. A month later, she brought a nurse named Yamada to my surgical ward. There'd been another nurse before her, but she'd left soon after my arrival—failed some exam for transferring to the Red Cross hospital, they said, and quit over damaged pride. That one hadn't been worth respecting. The new one proved gentle and diligent despite arriving weeks late—that very delay made her more conscientious in her duties. Every patient sang her praises. When I returned late from evening outings, she'd have the brazier lit and banked with ash. Any gifts from patients inevitably found their way to me. Thanks to her, our surgical supplies stayed impeccably organized. I marveled at having such a competent nurse. She wasn't just efficient—round-faced and fair-skinned, with an effortless charm. My work became genuinely satisfying. Part of me wanted to dazzle them with battlefield-honed skills, but truth be told, simply working alongside women again lifted my spirits. After two years mired in war's bleakness, every woman I glimpsed seemed radiant. When our homebound train reached Liaoyang Station, Japanese women already waited there. The soldiers surged forward like a capsizing wave."

The nurses in white uniforms working busily all looked rather appealing to my eyes back then. During lulls in surgery when I'd lean back in my chair, the nurse would meticulously put each instrument into the glass cabinet. Her immaculate uniform hugged her waist neatly. I watched her without distraction. When she carried a bucket out, she'd sometimes glance my way while quietly closing the door. On those occasions, when she returned with the empty bucket and reopened the door to come back in, her face would flush faintly for no discernible reason. Being that sort of woman, I taught her with genuine dedication. At any rate, the surgical room felt full of vitality to me. But society never overlooks such things—though I only realized this much later—and apparently around that time, the pharmacy apprentices and others had begun suspecting something improper between me and the nurse, stirring up trouble behind our backs. In truth we had nothing to feel guilty about—we remained utterly oblivious to such matters from start to finish. Precisely because there was nothing between us, we'd seen no need for restraint. This very innocence made them all the more indignant, it seems, simmering with resentment in secret. I learned of this through an odd incident later on. At that time, since the hospital hadn't yet been rebuilt, both doctors on night duty and pharmacy apprentices shared a single dormitory room. One evening when I was on duty, while I sat idly spaced out, one of the pharmacy apprentices started making a fuss—his futon had somehow gone missing. Then they discovered that very futon laid over me. My bedding was always prepared by my nurse. That night—likely not intentional—she must have made some careless mistake.

Everyone in the room broke into an uproar. They didn’t state it outright but kept yelling insinuatingly that something was strange and suspicious. They’d yell, then when they noticed me watching, pull the futon over themselves. When the lamp went out, one of them would stomp on the futon with his feet. I thought them an odd bunch but kept silent. The next day, the nurse said nothing to me, but it was strikingly clear she looked terribly apologetic and seemed to shrink into herself. She had apparently learned of the commotion from Matsuda. You might not recognize the name Matsuda out of context—he’s the Matsuda I employ now—but back then, he was at the hospital. Since he was from Ujiie and shared a hometown with Yamada, he apparently grew closer to her than the others and confided everything. Yamada had been adopted into a family in Kanuma, so they’d been strangers before, but their shared hometown seemed to kindle mutual nostalgia. Observing Yamada’s demeanor, I thought her a pitiable yet endearing woman.

After that, another incident like this occurred. Everyone gathered in the night duty room under the pretext of playing cards. The nurses gathered as well. At that time, I was reading a book by lamplight. Because being disturbed was troublesome, I suddenly remarked that such matters were pointless. Then the pharmacy apprentices abruptly stood up and left. The other nurses also stood up and left. Yamada alone remained. She sat there for a while with an intensely worried expression. Having removed her white uniform, she demonstrated through her clothing that she was not of wealthy status. She spread out my bedding and left. After that, while I continued reading in the futon, the pharmacy apprentices—seemingly having drunk some sake—came stomping noisily into the room. They suddenly blew out the lamp. And then they began causing trouble. Because I had become enraged, I stood up and shouted, "What do you think you're doing?" When I did that, one of them said it was because the Doctor was corrupting the hospital’s morals. When I pressed them about what exactly was being corrupted, they would respond rudely with something like, "Isn’t it that you’re involved with the nurse?" I fumbled for the matches Yamada had left by my pillow and struck a match. At this, they apparently found themselves in an untenable position and all fled at once. They went to the next room and, calling him a cunning fellow, woke Matsuda.

Due to his relationship with the nurse, Matsuda had naturally not become part of their group. The reason I was now looking after him stemmed from connections formed during that time. That night, I was astonished to realize for the first time that they had been looking at me with such suspicion. However, from this incident onward—for some reason—I found myself withdrawing and avoiding them. I could not return to the state of mind I had when I was in the military. And each time such things happened—somehow—Yamada would shrink further into herself, working with that anxious look on her face until I found her plight unbearably heartrending.

After that came a night when I was on night duty. After having been drinking, I ended up carelessly blurting out something to Matsuda. That was me bluntly saying, "I want Yamada. Could you at least hear me out?" However, once the alcohol wore off, I had naturally forgotten about it—until one evening when Matsuda invited me under the pretext of having something to discuss, and we went to a soba shop. Matsuda brought up that matter. “After that, I promptly confessed to her myself. Though I believe it’s utterly hopeless due to our difference in social status, if you insist on this wish of yours, I shall dedicate myself entirely to the matter.” “However, since there are people connected to me as well, at first this was my way of saying that I had to try writing a letter there.” “A week later, a letter arrived.” “Now that my circumstances are my own to decide, the woman says she’d like you to hear her out.” “You should keep that in mind as well,” Matsuda stated. I couldn’t help being astonished upon hearing his message, wondering why I had gone and confessed such things to someone like Matsuda of all people. When I inquired thoroughly, it turned out the woman had been sent as an adopted daughter from Ujiie. As she grew up, the unfortunate family fell into ruin. When the master died—whether due to some familial connection with a person who had opened a hospital in Kanuma—he entrusted his family to them after his death. Therefore, he had a contract—regardless of whether he would unite with a certain boy who had been adopted by that hospital—solely to obtain advice concerning a lifelong matter. Therefore, he had sent a letter to that adopted son who was now working as a university assistant in Tokyo. The doctor apparently had never truly intended to take him in from the start; his reply stated that if there was a good match elsewhere, he should entrust himself to that opportunity instead, adding that as for himself, his role as a lifelong advisor would remain unchanged. Since he had now been consulted in this manner, it had become impossible in terms of social obligation for him to commit himself to that adoption; Matsuda added with his usual precociousness, “So Doctor, you must consider this carefully.” I had not anticipated in the slightest that things would come to this; thus I found myself utterly perplexed. Then I explained to Matsuda—laying bare various truths about my stubborn father back home who would never accept impoverished children into the family, our consequently troublesome household circumstances, and other realities—that while I certainly didn’t think ill of Yamada, I believed ours was a bond never meant to be fulfilled; thus he should please abide by this understanding.

I was in anguish.

That night’s sake tasted even more bitter. Why had I involved Matsuda? Yet there was no mistake in having done so. Perhaps after all, I still carried some lingering attachment toward women. Since taking up my post at the hospital, I’d become fundamentally altered. Later, though I believed Matsuda had conveyed my refusal to her, his persistent concern drove him to disclose his own circumstances directly. She’d already learned everything from Matsuda. “From the beginning,” she said, “I knew it could never be—there’s nothing to resent in that.” Yet when I bowed deep in contrition for my careless words, three or four teardrops soaked into the white knees she kept pressed together. I felt something unbearably fragile and pitiable. In that moment, I resolved with finality that I must stake my own skin to care for his future. Matsuda recounted how this affair had tormented her. But the nurse, strong in self-restraint, showed no outward change—working faithfully as ever with unflagging modesty. When others were present, his charming self would laugh robustly; alone with me, he maintained an impenetrable reserve. This left me with an itch-like frustration simmering beneath my skin. Though their relationship had been clearly defined, the hospital’s jealousy refused to abate. The pharmacy apprentice finally pressed charges with administration. Without consulting me, the clerks transferred him to isolation quarters. I choked on silent discontent. Yet since these quarters stood near the house I shared with my court-clerk brother and his wife, he began commuting to our home. His visits weren’t meant for me.

He had been visiting my sister out of their long-standing acquaintance. He and my sister were like siblings indeed—so much so that she even occasionally suggested he ought to take a wife someday. She had pressed my brother about it too. Though my brother refrained from hastily approving or disapproving his affection for him matched my sister’s own warmth toward him all along—my sister who naturally remained unaware that I had disclosed our family circumstances entirely—she who might have perceived me as coldhearted from the very start.Yamada would open up wholeheartedly whenever meeting my sister yet maintain an attitude as though separated by paper-thin reserve when alone with me—all while attending meticulously to every need with her kindness.Even after being moved to isolation this unchanged demeanor only fueled others’ jealousy further until finally that pitiful nurse faced dismissal having no choice but leave Utsunomiya.At their parting she wept bitterly with my sister who kept her detained two full days before seeing her off at station.My sister returned home murmuring how heartbreaking she looked boarding train while I too took leave absence that day.Some time later letter arrived at sister’s place—afterward she went serve merchant house Shibaguchi Tokyo where mistress hysterical willful daughter household yet claimed endure effortlessly unlike previous maids.

Up until now, it seems all the maids couldn't endure it, but for me, it wasn't the slightest hardship. Recently, as the mistress stopped getting angry, I was praised by the master. So by accompanying the mistress on outings from time to time, there was nothing lacking at present—so I wanted you to rest assured. The only regret was that I could not meet you in person, she wrote. There was also a line conveying her regards to you as well, Doctor. I was deeply satisfied with this single line. And then I read over that letter again. My sister rejoiced from the bottom of her heart at her present circumstances. If it were merely this much, it would be insignificant—but incidents have a way of developing in strange directions.

It was January of the following year. I returned home on business. The matter had reached its conclusion after three days of hesitation, so I hurried back to Tokyo. I sent a letter telling the woman to meet me at the residence of a doctor from Kanuma Hospital—an adopted son—in Nishikata-chō, Hongō. During his time at the hospital, he had received several suitable marriage proposals. He had rejected them all. Though never one for intimacy, he would always recount these rejections to me with an air of triumph. Whenever I thought her working in service like this was for my sake, guilt would surge endlessly within me—so I had consulted a doctor with prior connections and tried to entrust her to him. That was part of it, but truthfully I had wanted to see her. Had I simply met her alone then...but oblivious to this possibility, I—who'd obsessed over securing her welfare—had been too single-mindedly earnest. At the appointed hour I went to Nishikata-chō. This was my first meeting with that doctor. That I did this without shame showed how disturbed my mind had become. When I slid open the lattice door seeking entry, a pair of women's wooden clogs sat neatly aligned. An azuma winter coat and shawl hung from the entryway hook. Removing my hat and overcoat to hang beside them, I gripped the shawl examining its weave. She had been waiting all along. When shown into the parlor, he straightened further from his already formal seated posture. She who'd always worn simple cotton under her nurse's whites—I couldn't help marveling how completely she'd transformed her appearance. And throughout our meeting his gaze never left her.

I initiated a consultation with the doctor. Ultimately, it amounted to nothing more than asking him to help her in her pitiable situation. At that time, the doctor spoke in detail about his relationship with her. The doctor himself was a man who had just turned thirty. He seemed of calm disposition. Yet he showed little enthusiasm for the matter—or rather, one should say this reaction was only natural. The relationship between the doctor and Yamada had indeed been close. That was precisely why there had been such deliberate correspondence regarding my own connection to him as well. If requests were to be made, they should come from their side to mine—where in this world exists such contradiction that complete strangers would specially entreat me about those with whom I share deep bonds? The consultation ended without reaching any resolution. The doctor must have harbored suspicions about our relationship. Throughout, he maintained an air of persistent doubt about everything. Nor could I find fault with this.

We left Nishikata-chō a little past ten at night. It was too late for the woman to return to Shiba. I thought the doctor would surely insist on having her stay. He did not say a word about it. Since he must have thought they were already intimately involved, he probably 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 awkward footing. The woman then closed the lattice door. The doctor stood holding the lamp in silence at the entryway. It was a cold night outside. We emerged intermittently onto Morikawa-chō's thoroughfare. The street lamps suddenly shone with sober clarity. When I looked back, the woman followed dejectedly, both sleeves folded over her chest and head bowed. I thought I needed to find an inn somewhere, but the shop lights glared too harshly and some vague guilt kept me from entering any establishment, leaving me to wander aimlessly.

Through the bustling crowd streaming along, the streetcar clattered past.

He had no inclination to board the streetcar and walked on without direction. Then he turned back and approached Kiridoshi slope. When the slope had grown dark and he looked back, the woman was following about two ken behind, her feet moving in small, hurried steps. He deliberately emerged at Ikenohata. The night’s cold felt as though it had suddenly pressed down from the dark sky. He ended up coming all the way to Ueno. At the side street of the station, he resolutely stepped over the inn's threshold. When I opened the glass door at the entrance and entered, the woman hesitated.

“Won’t you come in here?” I said. After leaving Nishikata-chō, they had not exchanged a single word until then. The clerk’s greeting was energetic. The room they were shown to was one that had become somewhat detached. It appeared to have been two rooms, but there were no guests in the adjacent one. I somehow felt a sort of relief come over me. When I gave the clerk a small tip, he looked at us and kept showering us with flattery, his ingratiating “hee hees” cloying the air.

I quickly warmed myself in the bath and returned to find hard charcoal clinking and burning vigorously beneath the electric light. Tea had been poured into a teacup. I changed into a padded robe, sat before the brazier, and sipped slightly cooled tea. The woman did not approach the brazier nor sit on the zabuton cushion, stiffened and remained looking downward. When I asked about the bath, she replied deferentially. Even when we weren’t close at the hospital, it wasn’t to this extent. I, too, idly held my hands over the brazier. I called the maid and ordered sake. The maid looked suspiciously at the woman sitting rigidly there each time she entered or exited. And the sound of sandals clattered deliberately loud. After gulping down two or three cups of sake, I suggested she might move closer to the brazier. Finally, she sidled up. When I said, "If you spread that out, it should be fine," she finally slid about half of the zabuton cushion under her knees. And she remained perfectly still, but

"I hear you have relatives in Tabata, Doctor," she finally said. "When I mentioned there was also an older brother there—" "You stayed in Tabata last night," I replied casually. She pressed further.

“That’s right.” I said casually. “Even though it would have been perfectly acceptable for you to return to your brother’s house, I am truly sorry you went to the trouble of spending such unnecessary expenses on my account.” she said in an oddly formal manner. Admittedly, she had been an extremely dutiful woman since her time at the hospital—whenever her older sister did something for her, she would invariably return the favor. Her older sister had even said that because she felt too sorry for her, she rarely did anything for her. She said this,

“As for my portion, I have prepared it myself,” she added formally. “That’s foolish—there’s no need for such concern,” I said with a laugh and gulped down my cup. After that exchange, the woman gradually relaxed, picked up the sake bottle, and finally poured. Though we emptied two flasks, my mind remained in such turmoil that I hadn’t even grown slightly tipsy. A considerable time seemed to have passed. Both inside and out, everything lay still—only occasionally pierced by a locomotive’s shrill whistle at the station, its rumble echoing faintly in the distance. When I pressed the call bell, the clerk appeared.

“Ah, shall I prepare the bedding together for you both?” The clerk pressed his hands against the threshold. “No.” I flusteredly thrust my right hand toward the tatami mats as I spoke. “Ah, right away!” The clerk put on an ingratiating smile and soon returned with bedding. “Ah, we’ve provided a lamp here—please ring the bell anytime you require assistance... The restroom is just over here... You won’t be needing tomorrow’s train, I take it?... Then I’ll bring chilled water shortly... Please relax at your leisure...”

With that, the clerk left.

The maid soon brought a tray with a ceramic pot and cup, placed them by the pillow, then closed the shoji screen silently while stealing a glance at the woman as she left. When I returned from the restroom, the electric light had been turned off and a lamp lit in its place. The lamp now sat tucked near my pillow in the room's corner. In the dimness, the woman was folding my Western clothes. As I sat cross-legged on the bedding watching, she moved to the corner opposite the lamp, removed her haori coat, took off her kimono, slipped one sleeve from her underrobe, and changed into the nightclothes laid on the floor. Then she folded her haori, folded her kimono, and folded her underrobe. The sleeves of her underrobe appeared vividly beautiful. I praised their craftsmanship.

“Well, when I accompanied the mistress the other day, there was this leftover fabric. When I remarked how lovely the yuzen-dyed pattern was, she told me, ‘If you like it that much, take it with you.’” “Since there wasn’t quite enough length, I’m afraid the sleeves ended up rather short.” With that, she covered her face slightly with the red underrobe. As I mentioned before, this mistress was hysterical—when in good spirits she would pamper her maid with various things and buy her gifts whenever they went out together. When the mistress was pleased, even the master would gladly slip her discreet tips—so these days his purse stayed comfortably warm. Through these gifts and purchases she had finally managed by now to assemble all her basic necessities—or so people said. Thus this yuzen underrobe became what she always wore when attending the mistress. He grew more relaxed through this talk of kimonos. Unaware that I was inwardly agonizing—struggling with all my might to broach securing his future—he energetically clambered onto the futon. Yet even when I stayed silent during those pauses he too remained quiet. The conversation lapsed temporarily.

Compared to the electric light’s brightness，the lamp’s glow was dim. The dimness grew frustrating.

“What do you plan to do from now on?” I suddenly asked. That voice resounded unsteadily even in my own ears. She remained silent for a while with her head bowed, then lay face down just like that. I took the lamp from the corner and placed it near the two of us. And then, with the light now brighter, I laid bare my heart. The woman’s tied-up hair lay face down near my slid-out knees. 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 crimson. The only times she ever said “you” were around this moment, both before and after. But I held my breath and waited for her response. This was no jesting matter. My face must have looked terrifying. When she saw my face, her complexion abruptly changed. She threw herself facedown again and didn’t move a muscle. Thinking she must be terribly cold, I covered her with the night quilt from behind. Around the time I thought thirty minutes had passed, she sat up. With a resentful yet utterly helpless expression, she glanced up at me just once before immediately burying her face again.

“I will somehow manage my own affairs, so please do not concern yourself about me, Doctor…” Trembling faintly yet resolutely, the woman said. And the light from the lamp placed nearby glistened on the tears that spilled onto her knees. I grew pitifully sentimental, my heart turning dull. I regretted having spoken too harshly. The matter of somehow managing things was an exceedingly difficult task for this young woman’s entire being. To abandon her and simply observe—I could not reconcile myself to that. Later, when I recounted this matter to an acquaintance, they laughed and said, “That must mean you still have lingering regrets about cutting ties completely with the woman.” Such things too might have been lurking within my heart at that time. And so, even if my approach toward her had been settled then, there was nothing substantial there. Even if asked what became of my resolve, could there have been any settled thought in her mind? To speak plainly, there existed between us a powerful adhesive force of a kind that had gone consciously unrecognized. Even without grasping the essence of things, as long as we remained facing each other, that alone sufficed to settle our minds in those moments. In truth, I think that had she fully settled her life upon leaving the hospital back then—to never meet me again—I would have been left with utter helplessness. As I looked down at her hair illuminated by the lamp, I stood with arms folded, tormented by distracting thoughts. When I suddenly turned sideways, our figures were dimly reflected on the shoji screen. I startled despite myself. I stood up, opened the shoji screen, and looked around. The night grew increasingly quiet; now not even the sound of locomotives could be heard. When I returned from going to the toilet, I noticed my body had grown extremely cold.

The woman remained as still as a corpse.

V

The next morning I abruptly left for Utsunomiya. Driven by apprehension and unease, I returned to the hospital. Regarding my conduct that night, I could find no resolution within myself. As my housemate brother was a prosecutor, I naturally associated with his colleagues too. After agonizing deliberation, I secretly sought counsel from two or three of them. Some advised that if my brother and his wife cherished her as a suitable match, I should openly make her my wife. Others insisted that given the circumstances, I must resolutely cast her aside. In my heart, I knew full well how sinful rejection would be. My reluctance was indeed profound in reality. Yet confusion drives men to act against their conscience—so too did I, shamed before hospital staff and acquaintances, desperately dispatch that decisive letter. Even after dropping it in the postbox, anxiety over that missive's fate plagued me. My heart lay barren—a formless tangle of disquiet. The woman's letter arrived at once. She harbored bitter resentment. This outcome was inevitable. The handwriting revealed Matsuda had penned it. Matsuda himself had already quit the hospital posthaste. Our relations had soured irreparably. When I later questioned Matsuda, he told me she'd sought him out in Kanda then. And wept inconsolably, he said.

She had never imagined they would end up together from the start—but being cast aside so heartlessly now was too cruel. Now that her conscience tormented her, she couldn't possibly go to her fiancé's place pretending ignorance. She wept, saying it was too cruel. Matsuda explained he'd retreated to another boardinghouse after being wept upon by her. He had written down those grievances at her request then. From my very core I repented. Then immediately I apologized for my own callousness. Only in that moment did I consider myself the epitome of heartlessness. At the letter's end I wrote that we might meet again before long—that when we did, I wanted to lay everything bare and speak frankly. About that previous letter, I explained in detail how it hadn't expressed my true intentions.

Before long, February arrived. Another letter arrived from Yamada. She wrote that since there would soon be an opportunity to visit her family home in her hometown after a long absence, she would likely be able to meet me. One day, having some time off from the hospital, I went to visit the former head nurse who lived about six kilometers from Ishibashi Station. Their family were also doctors. The Head Nurse, being a woman of exceptional disposition, had found her relationships within the hospital disagreeable; thus she had left without heeding the hospital director's attempts to retain her. However, since she had sent me a letter earnestly requesting that I come visit her at least once, I went. Here too, a letter arrived from Yamada. The letter stated she would meet me briefly and then proceed to Utsunomiya, with tomorrow being exactly that day. I had unintentionally lost track of time and rushed to the station in a great hurry. By just a moment, I was on the verge of missing the train. When I was finally shoved inside by the conductor, my chest kept racing for some time. When I tried to hurry toward the exit upon arriving in Utsunomiya, I was startled. Just as I was about to pass by a certain room, a woman emerged last from it. It was Yamada. She apparently hadn’t gotten off at Ishibashi and had come all the way here instead. Feeling as though I'd been tricked by a fox spirit, I exited through the gate without saying a word. After that, we talked for a short while in the station waiting room. When I remarked how sudden it was that she—who until just moments ago had been planning to visit the head nurse tomorrow—was now getting off here on the same train, she replied that she had sent a telegram to inform us. The telegram arrived after having been sent to the vicinity of Ishibashi. To be precise, it hadn’t been sent to my lodgings—both she and I had sent it to an acquaintance’s place.

So it seemed the person who received the telegram had searched all over for me. The ill-natured hospital staff hadn’t disclosed my whereabouts. Moreover，it appeared that person had hesitated to come to my house. I remember those events quite clearly even now.

When we left the station, the cold air that had been sweeping through the parched town had begun to subside. Already leaning toward the mountains, the setting sun had dyed everything yellow. From the road to the white walls of the town, everything was bathed in orange light. The woman was wearing makeup. The orange sunset, sinking westward, bathed her entire figure in its light, making her look beautiful. I brought her into my house without any particular thought. I said I brought her because we happened to meet at the station. The facts were indeed as I had stated, but toward my brother and sister—who harbored not the slightest doubt about our relationship—I could not help but feel ashamed in my heart. My sister’s joy was immense. And being a woman herself, she had discerned from her clothing that she seemed to be in favorable circumstances and was heartily pleased. My brother too seemed to harbor not the slightest suspicion toward me. That I had brought a woman into my home was rather careless of me, but my brother too had been nonchalant. Having been warmly received by my sister，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, they had to pass in front of the hospital. The fellows who had finally stopped their gossip noisily started up again upon seeing her walking with my sister and then observing her newfound radiance that differed from before, declaring that there had been no mistake in the relationship they had imagined between us. By this time, I no longer had any right in my heart to genuinely dispel their suspicions. Even so, it was regrettable that the fact of our longstanding relationship was being confirmed in their hearts. For three days, I did not open up and talk with the woman. During those three days, there was not the slightest thing that should have aroused my brother and his wife’s suspicions.

When she was about to leave, I secretly asked if she couldn't take a couple of days off so we could have a heartfelt talk. She said she would stay however many days were needed. She had claimed to be hurrying back to her hometown yet ended up staying three more days. She might have stayed five or even seven days. My request for her to stay must have been what she had been waiting for in her heart since arriving in Utsunomiya. She hadn't been staying at my sister's place. She had taken formal leave from my sister and departed. No matter how much I declined, she wouldn't listen; out of consideration for my sister who had come to see us off at the station, I had no choice but to board the train. I got off at the next stop, Okamoto, and returned to a certain house in the samurai district that we had secretly arranged beforehand. It was the house where she had sent the telegram three days prior. I had resolved to have a solemn talk with her about how we were fated to part upon meeting—to cry our fill with mutual understanding before cleanly severing ties—and had been pondering how best to phrase it, but when I suddenly saw her made-up figure at the station, entranced, I forgot all those resolutions. The three days spent maintaining appearances for my sister's sake were a frustrating and maddening time. On the afternoon of the day she had ostensibly left my sister's place, though harboring no small amount of unease, I neglected my hospital duties and hurried by rickshaw to the samurai district. This was no longer the time for talk of parting. What earnest words we exchanged—I cannot recall a single one of them now. She did not step outside even once for three days. For three days, I too hardly stayed at the hospital, lodging instead at that house. Both my brother and sister believed that she had departed by train, so they hadn't the slightest inkling that we were engaged in such doings. Even now that everything has been laid bare, my brother and his wife remain unaware of what transpired during that time. Because unless either she or I informed them, there was no way it would reach my brother and sister's ears. The reason being that my brother was subsequently transferred to a distant post.

During those three days, I felt anew that Yamada was thoroughly feminine—a gentle woman who had abandoned both body and soul to become entirely compliant to my words. She did not speak a single word about her own circumstances. In the end, I abandoned such an unfortunate and pitiful woman. I had become a heartless person I never intended to be.

On the third morning I thought I would send her back but ended up procrastinating through idle dawdling until time slipped away. I had her depart on a train at dusk when people’s eyes could be avoided. The station’s lamplight stood desolate. When those bleak train doors clattered shut and the conductor’s whistle sliced sharply through air already thick with twilight’s end，the train plunged headlong into night’s embrace. I returned through samurai streets heavy with farewells for my family. When I had left her behind that January，my heart knew only doubt’s gnawing teeth；but now，as night took her from me，the desolation within me rang clearer than any bell. At parting I forced upon her coins meant as pocket money. He slipped them into a purse red like banked coals. What had been my intent？I had wrapped them separately in paper before placing them there，though now no reason remained.

The new hospital building had been completed for about a month. The willow draped over the iron fence out front had sprouted yellow buds, and the world had abruptly taken on spring’s air. It was mid-April. At that time, I was immensely proud of myself for performing surgery as chief in an operating room that matched my ideals. My mind remained preoccupied with such matters. Just then—as there happened to be a Red Cross Society general meeting—I ended up having to attend suddenly. More than Ueno’s cherry blossoms or anything else—having come up to Tokyo—I found myself longing unbearably to see Yamada who weighed on my mind. After we parted in February, she had written several times saying her health had been poor; since I had some medical knowledge, she would send detailed accounts of her condition. After that came two or three more letters—each time her condition seemed increasingly peculiar. For such reasons—despite how dearly they cherished her—even the Shiba merchant family reluctantly let her take leave; over a decade later she became dependent at her brother’s house where they had reunited by chance. Since Master Shiba had taken special care of her—she had unexpected savings—so for now she wouldn’t burden her brother either. Mrs. Shiba—the former mistress—had come visiting two or three times. When her condition improved they earnestly asked her to come keep them company—but ultimately her body failed and she couldn’t go. There was a time she wrote that her brother’s house was so shabby it pained her even to mention. When the train arrived at Ueno he immediately went seeking that house. He finally found it in Sarugakuchō’s narrow alleyway. It was a house where four or five women who looked like factory workers—clad in soiled clothes—diligently pasted cardboard boxes. Her brother didn’t seem ill-natured—but having lived long in poverty—he bore a sorrowful strained countenance devoid of ease. I hesitated a moment. When I slid open the torn shoji screen and peered into the dim shopfront—the man called “brother”—who’d been diligently wielding a brush—looked over at me puzzled—brush still in hand.

When I presented my business card, he seemed to grasp something and called out the woman’s name toward the second floor. When he said, “You’ve come from Utsunomiya,” the hem of a woman’s kimono was glimpsed from the ladder steps before abruptly withdrawing again. And after some time had passed, Yamada came down. As a customer at the shabby shop he had described in his letters, my Western-style clothing might have been out of place. The factory girls bent their bodies far forward while looking on suspiciously. I managed to squeeze past them and climbed the perilous-looking ladder steps. It was a filthy second floor. In the corner, the futon remained folded. A wicker trunk that seemed to be the woman’s luggage stood out starkly white. Because two-story buildings faced each other across the narrow alley, the light was sparse even on this second floor. The woman, remaining seated, was constantly adjusting the somewhat soiled front of her padded kimono. It seemed she hadn’t had time to change her clothes for my sake. And I thought that her hesitation earlier while coming down the ladder steps was likely because she had tightened her obi. A large hemp rope was tied around the wicker trunk. I stared blankly at the filthy second floor. According to the woman, her body continued to be in poor condition. She sometimes helped with the cardboard boxes, but these past three or four days she had been feeling terribly nauseous, barely able to eat anything, just lying down and getting up repeatedly. “I knew you would come, Doctor, but I hadn’t imagined it would be this soon,” she said. “I hadn’t changed my clothes and was truly flustered just now.” Her hair wasn’t disheveled, but it had lost its luster. Her once rosy cheeks had faded, and her flesh appeared to have wasted away.

Her condition undeniably bore all the signs of pregnancy. Even though I had confirmed through our previous correspondence what was happening, seeing her altered state before my eyes now made the thought—what would become of her hereafter—immediately pierce my chest. The woman seemed visibly ill at ease at having her living conditions exposed like this, keeping her head bowed throughout. The soiled padding of her winter kimono now made her appear exactly like the impoverished figure she had been during her hospital days. Because my concern persisted, I gently asked what she intended to do going forward. “Since this is simply my fate,” she replied, “I could never resent you, Doctor.” She repeated the same words she’d told me in January—“I’ll manage my own affairs somehow. Please forget about me and take a proper wife”—as tears fell copiously onto the faded stripes of her kimono’s lap. That ours was a bond never meant to be fulfilled was something I had already declared plainly enough. Yet it remained entirely my sin that had plunged her into such wretched circumstances. While she sat silent with bowed head, I too kept my arms crossed without speaking. Strangely, the longer this wordless interval stretched, the more it felt like consolation for my own heart. Both she and I had tasted our first bitter experience—though in my case, this came only after exhaustive debauchery. The woman was twenty-three this year and had endured tragic circumstances before now, yet until this point had preserved her chastity intact. Could there be any reason why one acquainted with dissipation couldn’t make such an assessment? To have moved among others yet remained virgin until twenty-three marked her as an exceptional woman by necessity. That she’d been rendered even temporarily immobile was wholly my doing. It became clear her brother and sister-in-law were decent people—though undoubtedly the gifts I’d brought had somewhat softened their attitude toward me. The sister-in-law brought tea upstairs.

And then she turned to the woman and suggested that since staying cooped up on the second floor would only make her spirits grow gloomy, why not go for a walk with the doctor.

I had assumed they already knew about our relationship, but for it to be addressed so openly came as a surprise. Of course, when she had sought refuge with her brother, she must have disclosed her circumstances in full detail. Even knowing this, her brother and sister-in-law would face considerable difficulties if they severed ties with me completely—even temporarily—before her situation could be resolved. This was something anyone with basic sense would understand. She soon took out a mirror and began arranging her hair. With her left hand gripping the roots tightly together, she swept the comb forward smoothly with her right hand. Applying oil, she combed through two or three times more. Furrowing her brow slightly, she tilted her head downward as she checked the shape in the mirror while tying it up. Her bangs billowed softly toward her temples. After briefly tidying scattered items into folded paper while still gazing at her reflection, she took the soapbox and descended the ladder steps to wash her oil-stained hands. Her complexion seemed somewhat livelier now. When left alone, I studied my face in the mirror and realized it remained deathly pale. She laid her padded kimono on the futon and changed into formal clothes retrieved from the wicker trunk. Having apparently washed away tear stains along with her hands while at the basin, her spirits appeared brighter now. Though wearing no makeup, her beauty had become startlingly evident. We went out hand in hand, wandering from Ueno to Asakusa Park before lodging in Asakusa that night. We stayed four days in Tokyo altogether, avoiding her brother's house in Tabata to walk aimlessly with her and take rooms wherever we happened upon them.

During that time, the woman no longer cried. She did not even offer to pay her own lodging fee. Though I said that even so, it must feel burdensome to be solely dependent on her brother, and though the pocket money I gave her seemed pitiful, she did not refuse it. At that time, I had a red coin purse but didn’t go to the trouble of wrapping it in paper. I realized her savings were already running low. Furthermore, I gave her as much money as my purse could spare. Unlike those times when I had agonized over her pregnancy-revealing letters or seen her helpless figure on the second floor, walking hand in hand with her was boundlessly pleasant. The woman must also have been happy. But that time was already their last. Though I thought that would be the last time we’d meet, I didn’t actually say goodbye. When returning to Utsunomiya, I finally laid bare all the details of Yamada’s pregnancy circumstances to the elder brother residing in Tabata. For me to frequently go up to Tokyo to visit the woman was utterly impossible. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to abandon her, for she seemed so pitiable. Her elder brother did not reproach me with a single word. Moreover, he would later take her in and ensure she gave birth without fail, so there was no need to trouble oneself over that matter. Fortunately, since he had no children of his own, they decided to raise the child themselves. I thanked her brother from the bottom of my heart. I returned to the hospital with immense relief. In June, I went up to Tokyo again. Of course, there had been letters from her during that time. I told her we’d meet again.

The woman had been waiting. I too wanted—partly due to my profession—to properly confirm 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 coming to Tokyo for its preparations—something I preferred discussing directly rather than through letters—and with various other matters on my mind, I arrived at Tabata. I decided I should first hear from her brother about how the woman had been faring since then. This was because, though unmentioned in letters, there might have been changes in her circumstances. I thought it better to hear from her brother and prepare myself rather than risk sudden heartbreak should such changes exist. This proved the blunder of a lifetime. Yamada’s elder brother had already declared decisively that we shouldn’t meet. “Seeing each other would only deepen the attachment,” he said. “Since being together is impossible anyway, there’s no sense diving deeper into complications—and I’ve my own circumstances in caring for her.” I was crestfallen. I felt all courage drain from me. Believing compliance with her brother’s will served the woman’s own good, I obeyed completely and never visited her again. But finding Tokyo dreary now, I hurriedly completed my business and returned home. Her brother approved of my swift departure. Did he ever truly grasp how desolate I felt? Of course, young companions agreeing mutually to sever ties was utterly impossible. By necessity, this required another’s intervention. Her brother had known this. No—everyone knows this.

I myself knew full well that such a thing was necessary. However, even after we had both come to accept that this was our parting, I still wanted to fully savor our lingering attachment.

Yamada's Elder Brother was our benefactor. Yet I simply couldn't accept that he hadn't even allowed us this one thing. I opened my practice in July as planned, steeped in disappointment. When I'd returned from the battlefield, I'd harbored grand ambitions of opening a hospital somewhere—yet within just a year and a half, everything had dwindled into this makeshift clinic. Father was a stubborn man who insisted on designing everything himself. His next words would always be about how the finances wouldn't allow it. Just the other day, a friend had come by and said, "How could someone with your surgical mindset have built an operating room like this?" Father was frugal to a fault. He'd even reuse envelopes from incoming letters by turning them inside out. It was precisely that thrifty mindset—coupled with our strained circumstances—that had forced this practice into existence; knowing that made any opposition impossible. The weakening of my own resolve startled even me. Mother was ill now. Her condition was far from mild. Thus I found myself half-coerced into taking a wife while she still lived. This had all happened quite recently. When those marriage talks began, I'd suffered terribly. The poor nurse still hadn't been relieved of her burden. There could be no doubt that she being kept at her brother's place still relied on me in her heart. Even if she remained unaware—while she wept inwardly over her uncertain future—my conscience rebuked me for secretly seeking a spouse; I simply couldn't bring myself to do it. Yet frail human hearts change in an instant.

After being pressured several times, one begins to lean somewhat in that direction. And then, when asked what I thought of such a woman, the worry of what sort of woman she might be would suddenly surface. Having inclined this way, my heart had been defeated. "And so, without making any difficult demands and taking others' good intentions at face value, I ended up leaving nearly everything to them…"

The young master, having continued his tale up to this point, then—

“Yamada would’ve been far better suited—not that I mind anymore… But she’s full-term now. I might get word tonight—keep that secret from Father… If we needed someone to nurse Mother, she’d be ideal, but in her condition she can’t tend to others—either way, it’s hopeless.” He muttered fragmentarily. And then—

“You must absolutely keep this secret—it would be socially disastrous if word got out, and such rumors could easily derail marriage proposals. Not that this is about concealing my blunder or deceiving anyone—I simply don’t want to worry my sick mother. She’s already overjoyed at the prospect of being cared for by a daughter-in-law soon.”

The young guest had until now been lying on his side, propping his head on his hand as he listened, but now sat up and—

“Yeah, that’s right—but I think those who come to you are truly fortunate,” he said.

“Why?”

The master asked back.

"Why? Well, because you view women as such fleeting creatures—that’s precisely why I think you harbor more sympathy than others."

When the young guest said this, the master resumed speaking about the pitiful woman. “So I’ve no troublesome matters left, and I burned all of Yamada’s letters the other day. … But afterward, several more letters came.” “Most were addressed to Matsuda, saying things like ‘Please don’t worry about me—Doctor should focus on finding a wife.’ Though her wording hinted at wanting replies from me, I took care not to write back too often.” “Lately she can’t even send them anymore—she must show consideration for her brother now.”

“So she’s in Tabata, then.” The guest asked. The master “Yes, she must’ve been in Tabata two months now. ‘Once I’m unburdened,’ her letter says, ‘I’ll manage on my own—and show you I harbor no frivolous heart.’ Yet I can’t shake the thought that if she heard I’d taken a spouse, she’d weep without cease.” “Even now that I’ve resolved to marry, hearing her say such things doesn’t feel disagreeable.” “Though what becomes of her remains unclear, somehow this notion persists—that it’d be better if she stayed unwed like this.” “To think of her becoming another’s—what a wretched waste.”

And so saying,

"But whether it's a boy or a girl—if they take after that one—I think they'll be good children." "In her letter, the woman writes, 'I somehow feel certain a fine child will be born.'" He smiled.

"But you know, since it's a secret child, I won't be able to see its face for some time." When the master finished speaking, "The woman must have it far worse—she might never meet you at all in her lifetime," the young guest said bluntly. "When I worked at the hospital, I used to mock those neurotics who pointlessly envied every patient discharged cured—called it foolish. But now that I'm the one eaten by worry, seeing everyone else so composed... I can't help feeling envious too. Though I suppose you lot are doing just fine."

The master said. “You might as well suffer as much as you can.” “If you do that, you should find some solace within yourself.” “Well, that’s easy enough to say when it’s someone else’s problem… No—but with others’ matters, you only see the surface. That’s why they seem better.” “If anyone—yourself included—laid bare their hidden sides, there mightn’t be a single clean thing left.”

When the guest said this in a comforting manner, the master suddenly seemed to have found a kindred spirit. “Do you have something too?” he asked. “Ah, never mind all that—but what time is it now? One o'clock—no, past one.” The guest took out a watch from his military sash and said this. If the sake brewery across the way had been thriving, one should have heard lively songs from the brewers by now—but there was none of that. It was a night of terrifying stillness, utterly silent. At his ear could be heard the faint sound of the lamp’s wick drawing up the last dregs of oil. As the lamp’s flame flickered, the round ceiling light that had been solemnly watching over them now swayed faintly. The night watchman’s clappers sounded from afar, then suddenly made a loud clattering noise as if entering the side street.

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