Pathway to Japanese Literature

1 "Do you remember the mysterious incident where Komiya Reiko—the beautiful and renowned medium—was invited to a certain mansion and then vanished like smoke on her way back?"

“Ah, I do remember. Hasn’t it been nearly ten years since then? It was quite the sensation back then, wasn’t it? But in the end, wasn’t it left unresolved?” “Yes, that was the end of it. But she was beautiful—a woman treasured like a precious gem by psychical researchers—so her name still comes up among them even now, doesn’t it?” “I suppose so. When one says ‘medium,’ to us it sounds rather like a magician or something of that sort—well, we tend to imagine shrine maidens or such figures. For someone like that to vanish suddenly... In olden days they’d have called it being spirited away, but what do you think truly happened?”

“Actually I intend to tell that story now． Moreover today happens to be precisely the same day－the anniversary of when that woman went missing all those years ago． On what was already several years since she vanished－it being none other than Lady Rokujō Matsuko’s death anniversary－those who revered her gathered for a memorial service． At that very gathering Komiya Reiko was invited to summon Lady Matsuko’s spirit; she became her living image moved everyone by reciting classical poetry and such then departed from House of Count Rokujō without incident－all this much has been established． But then comes what followed: That night was thick with fog－streetlamps blurred hazily into mist－and roads turned sea-like so they say． Upon exiting through Rokujō’s gate Komiya Reiko’s form seemed swallowed by fog－never seen again－from that moment on all trace lost.”

While sinking deep into the study armchair, Mrs. S narrowed her eyes slightly to trace the path of Three Castles cigarette smoke and spoke with an air of deep emotion.

“You must find it strange why I’ve suddenly begun speaking of this, but in truth, you might say this incident was precisely what guided me into my present profession.”

After a certain case had reached a temporary conclusion, Mrs. S—now in a cheerful mood—was about to recount to me the memories of her initial motivation for first becoming interested in detective work.

2

This required delving quite far into the past—back to the time when Mrs. S’s husband, Dr. S, still served as an advisor to the Siamese government, an era during which she too had accompanied him to his post and spent two or three years there.

“This relates to those days, you see,”

Having said that, Mrs. S pointed to a large photograph hanging on the wall in front of the desk while...

“This photograph was taken around that time, you know.”

Looking at it, five or six men stood or squatted on stone steps with their backs to a peeling, tower-like building. "The fat man standing in the center is my husband." "The man standing beside him holding a sun hat is the protagonist of the story I’m about to tell, so please observe him carefully." He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, or perhaps well past forty. This ambiguity arose from his emaciated frame—so withered one might call it desiccated—that made age estimation difficult at first glance, though closer inspection revealed an elegant narrow face with undeniably handsome features. Yet his overall impression remained distinctly unappealing. A sharp nose, eyes frightening in their nervous intensity, a gloom-tinged expression of sorrow—as I fixed my gaze on these traits, I found myself inexplicably drawn into their orbit, chilled to the marrow by the essence of his being.

“What is this gentleman called?” “The younger brother of Baron Katōda.” “Oh! The Osaka one? The famous Baron Katōda?”

“Yes, you’re familiar with Katōda Bank, aren’t you? But his younger brother resided in Tokyo.” Now that it was mentioned, his face bore a striking resemblance to that of Baron Katōda, whose visage frequently appeared in newspapers.

Thereupon, Mrs. S quietly began to speak.

“It must be fully developed by now, but Siam back then was truly a barbaric, uncivilized land.” “For a curious woman like myself, everything seemed novel and fascinating—but...”

Once such an incident occurred. Ruffians from Chinatown went to the festival at Crocodile Temple, started a fight, and threw a man into the pool where crocodiles dwell—or so the story went. The thrown man never resurfaced. “Well, that became quite the talk of the town—ending up with more visitors coming to see Crocodile Temple—just goes to show every country has its gawkers.” “So I joined the spectators and promptly went to see.” It was a rather old temple with a large ancient pond in its garden where five or six crocodiles lived—hence why people called it Crocodile Temple, though its true name differed. The water lay murky as mud, revealing nothing beneath, but after standing awhile gazing at the surface, a small ripple formed near the pond’s center until suddenly a crocodile thrust up its head. Even in broad daylight, having that visage emerge proved unsettling enough to make me leap back—only to find a gentleman standing behind me who’d approached so silently I nearly collided with him.

He was a thirty-five or thirty-six-year-old Japanese man who looked every bit the invalid—emaciated, with slightly hunched shoulders as thin as boards, tall, and with a pallid face—yet there was an air of refinement about him that spoke of good breeding, and his demeanor made it clear to anyone that he came from respectable stock. Partly due to my own awkwardness and partly out of fellow Japanese camaraderie, I bowed with an involuntary smile—whereupon he stared fixedly at my face in silence for some time, then suddenly, as if snapping to awareness, offered a brusque greeting before turning on his heel and slowly walking away.

I felt inexplicably deeply insulted. When I returned home and asked my husband about it, I learned that he was a close friend of the Minister and the esteemed younger brother of Baron Katōda of Osaka. His health had been severely compromised, and though he had gone to Europe for recuperation, when things did not proceed as hoped, he decided to return home for the time being. On his return journey, upon reaching Singapore, he abruptly changed his mind—visiting his close friend the Minister and stopping over in Siam for a change of scenery—where he was being treated as an esteemed guest at the legation. Moreover, upon arriving there, Siam proved to be such a carefree country that—whether he had taken a liking to its laid-back atmosphere—he had settled in completely, my husband remarked with what seemed like envy for his status.

Siam is a peerless Buddhist country where all men—no matter how noble—must enter monastic life at least once during their lifetime. Some seek atonement through this practice; others leave behind anecdotes like that nobleman who disguised himself as a monk merely to meet a renowned beauty—the minister’s wife—visiting her residence to receive alms directly from her hand. The second time I met Mr. Katōda was precisely ten evenings after our first encounter at Crocodile Temple.

At the entrance stood a single alms monk, wrapped in yellow cloth and barefoot. When I came out holding the alms and saw that it was Mr. Katōda, “Oh! How devout of you, Mr. Katōda!” Because it was so unexpected, these words inadvertently escaped my lips. Then Mr. Katōda adopted an expression as if to say he was somewhat abashed and, laughing to hide his embarrassment, “Oh, I’m terribly embarrassed. I was so dreadfully bored that I ended up devising this little prank—”

“Bored.” “Bored—though people kept urging me to visit the legation for company—but with the Minister being unmarried and not a single staff member having brought their wives along, I couldn’t very well go traipsing over there uninvited. Then one day, the Minister said to my husband: ‘The legation is nothing but men—too overstimulating for Mr. Katōda.’” “Since he was starving for gentle solace,” he continued, “they said it was a shame to trouble your wife but asked if you might kindly request that she keep him company from time to time.”

“Then please come visit my place.” And so after that, he began visiting from time to time. Mr. Katōda suffered from severe neurasthenia, and even to a layperson’s eye, his entire body appeared utterly weakened. After losing his beloved wife, people around him apparently grew so concerned he might have lost his mind that they kept watch over him for a time, while he himself became a complete misanthrope, declaring he had no hopes left in this world.

His wife was said to have been a great beauty but had passed away at twenty-seven from tuberculosis. At the time, as they say, he became so despondent that he even contemplated following her in death. When he attempted to act on this resolve, his family discovered him, and from then on, he remained under constant watch. “Those of our class are terrified of tarnishing the family name.” “Honor comes before all else.” “The family takes precedence over the individual.” “Were I to perish from illness, that would be unavoidable.” “Well, to state it bluntly.” “But an unnatural death poses difficulties.” “Because it would fuel society’s gossip mills.” “Moreover, should newspapers report a suicide stemming from mental derangement, it would taint our entire bloodline—so to speak, they subjected me to surveillance to safeguard the family name.”

Mr. Katōda grew agitated by his own words. Perhaps a woman like myself was the right listener for such tales. Before they knew it, the two of them grew close.

As was customary in such tropical countries, everyone took a midday nap, so when the scorching sunlight blazed over the land during the early afternoon hours of one or two o'clock, a silence akin to midnight would descend. Yet Mr. Katōda, afflicted with insomnia, could not possibly sleep during this brightly lit midday. Thus when afternoon came, he made it his daily routine to visit my place. Neurotic about everything, Mr. Katōda would always enter the mosquito house on the veranda—terrified that geckos might drop from the ceiling—and there engage me in casual conversation. However, those dreadful geckos would often either drop onto Mr. Katōda’s neck or have him unwittingly grasp them along with the door handle, and their clammy, soft texture—which he described as indescribably unsettling—would drive him to scrub his hands so frantically that his palms turned bright red. Feeling sorry for him at that moment,

“It really is an eerie coldness, isn’t it? It feels as though you’re touching a corpse, doesn’t it?” What I had intended as comforting words—I cannot say how they struck Mr. Katōda—but his face clouded with extreme displeasure, and he abruptly left without so much as a farewell. I had never before encountered someone with nerves so on edge.

Another time, we took a walk alongside a moat where water buffaloes were soaking. At the water's edge, nameless weeds crept along. Startled by our footsteps, a small snake about five or six inches long darted out from the grass and slithered swiftly into the moat. Once, when I stepped on a small snake that had failed to escape and it became entangled around the tip of my shoe, I instinctively clung to Mr. Katōda. Then Mr. Katōda—as if he had seen something terrifying—violently shook off my clinging hands and bolted away, but what later became clear was that he had run off not because he was startled at seeing me step on the snake, but rather because my scream had frightened him out of his wits.

When I finally regained my composure and looked, Mr. Katōda was covering his ears with both hands, his eyes shut tight, trembling and deathly pale. The realization that my tremendous scream had so sharply pierced Mr. Katōda’s nerves filled me with shame, “I’m sorry. I was so frightened that I let out such a scream without thinking.” As I offered this excuse, Mr. Katōda wore a face bristling with terror and spoke in a low, whispering voice.

“What a voice you have! Ugh—how dreadful—”

Because Mr. Katōda’s terror was so extraordinary, I ended up finding it amusing,

“But I was beside myself—I truly thought I might die.” “I’m sure people must let out a scream like that when they die.” What I had meant as a joke—though how it came to be misinterpreted I cannot say—left Mr. Katōda rooted in place, glaring at me; then suddenly his entire body began trembling violently, and claiming he felt chilled and unwell, he hurried off home alone. Left behind afterward, I stood dumbfounded for a while, watching his retreating figure. His neurasthenia was severe—he was practically a madman. Though I was only keeping him company at the Minister’s request, his self-centeredness went beyond all bounds. Feeling quite displeased with Mr. Katōda’s attitude, I walked home alone down the quiet street, my shoes clacking against the pavement.

Before long, the season of mango showers passed, and the long-awaited rainy season drew near. For Mr. Katōda, whose health was already compromised, this damp season was particularly ill-advised.

Enduring the long rainy season in this country was simply untenable for one’s health. Thus, the time finally came for us to bid farewell to each other.

No matter how disagreeable the climate or how inconvenient the land might be, Mr. Katōda would habitually say that to him, this country felt somehow free—a place he had grown fond of. Precisely because of this, once his return date to Japan had been fixed, Mr. Katōda began wearing a somber expression and would visit my home nearly every day whenever free, refusing to leave my side; yet as the day drew nearer, he gradually spoke less, his eyes clouded with melancholy as he seemed perpetually absorbed in some troubling thought—to such an extent that I found it somewhat unsettling.

Mr. Katōda was to depart for Japan aboard a French steamer, and the Minister along with principal embassy staff and we—my husband and I—came to see him off at the ship. He was in better spirits than expected, and we celebrated his departure by uncorking champagne on deck. At that moment, Mr. Katōda said he would show me his cabin, so when I followed him there, he took out a small package wrapped in purple crepe silk from a steamer trunk. “Actually, I brought you here because there’s something I’d like to give you as a memento.”

“he said. When I tried to open the package that had been handed to me, Mr. Katōda hurriedly pressed it down and spoke rapidly.”

“You mustn’t! “You mustn’t.” “You mustn’t open it now.” And still keeping it pressed down, “This is something I entrust to you out of faith.” “When I reach Japan, I shall send a telegram—once it arrives, open this immediately.” “Well then—” “I shall abide by your instructions until that time.” “In return, you must send that telegram without delay.” “When told not to open something, one’s curiosity only grows—what in the world might this contain?”

To demonstrate my final act of kindness toward Mr. Katōda, I deliberately exaggerated my delight in a childlike manner, shaking the package before his eyes. Mr. Katōda watched this display with what seemed a lonely smile, offering no reply. Seeing someone off—especially when it’s by ship—leaves their figure lingering in one’s vision for ages, a lonely thing indeed. The sight of that hat being waved by those slender hands would not leave my eyes.

The package I had brought home remained unopened as instructed for a little over twenty days when news arrived that Mr. Katōda—having reached Singapore and transferred to a Europe-bound mail steamer of the shipping company—had committed a mysterious suicide by throwing himself overboard on the eve of reaching Hong Kong, leaving no final note. The newspapers wrote nothing beyond attributing it to extreme neurasthenia, but we felt as though we had naturally encountered what we had long anticipated. The crepe silk package sent by Mr. Katōda was promptly opened. Inside lay a lengthy letter addressed to me and a single diamond ring. "I have preserved that letter exactly as it was received, so though it's rather crumpled and difficult to decipher, would you care to read it?"

Having said that, Mrs. S handed me a long letter.

3

—Mrs. S, From the moment I first chanced upon you at Wani Temple, I exerted myself tremendously to somehow draw closer to you. Time and again I would calm myself to reexamine these delusions of eye and mind—yet they proved no delusions. You bear an uncanny resemblance to my wife. When I sit conversing at your side, I cannot escape the sensation that my wife has been resurrected to speak with me once more. I could not endure parting from you. I wished to remain by your side eternally. I loathed the thought of separation. Yet inevitably, the hour of our farewell arrived. Before we parted, I had longed to lay bare all my secrets before you. You alone I desired to know me wholly—the virtuous and the vile alike. This dreadful secret has sapped my body, scourged me without respite, and now conspires to claim my very life. Two years of unremitting anguish have rendered me this broken semblance of a man.

I am a man who does not know when death will come. Before it does, I wish to show you—only you—the true self I have concealed. I beg you not to grow weary of me and read these words through to their end.

To confess the truth—though I must appear terribly effeminate—I simply could not resign myself to my wife’s death. The story reaches far back, but she was a woman whom I—having known her since her student days—beseeched to marry me after surmounting every obstacle. Have you ever pondered how fathomless a man’s love for a woman can be?

I firmly believed that even if taking a rest wouldn’t lead to a full recovery, she could still live on, and I never imagined she would actually die. She had been forbidden to speak due to her coughing fits, but that night her condition had improved considerably, and since talking a little wouldn’t raise her fever either, I spoke at her bedside about how if things continued like this, we might be able to go to Atami for a quiet life in another month. My wife listened with delight. To an outside observer, we might have looked like lovers. In truth, when I thought about the life I would soon share alone with my wife, whom I was to send to Atami for convalescence, I felt as though I were reliving the joy of our newlywed days. But when I thought about it later, the fact that her fever didn’t rise was because her physical strength had declined to the point where she no longer even had the energy to resist the illness. I, who knew nothing, interpreted this in a favorable light. The doctor had also, unusually, permitted us to talk a little if it was only for a short while. But by then, the doctor had already thrown in the towel; what he permitted was, so to speak, a crust of bread thrown to me so that I would have no lingering regrets. What ignorance it was that I remained blissfully unaware and rejoiced. After being able to talk with my wife at length for the first time in ages, I hurried home with truly light steps. As I was taking off my shoes at the entrance of my house, a call came from the hospital—they said her condition was critical—so I rushed out in a frenzy once more, but I did not make it in time.

As my wife tried to turn over, she suddenly suffered a heart attack and expired on the spot like a withered tree toppling over. Even though she had been speaking so clearly and cheerfully just an hour before, to suddenly have her soul snatched away like that—I simply could not believe it, no matter how I thought about it. People often speak of grieving or weeping, but it was then that I first learned how excessive sorrow can leave one utterly unable to shed tears. In my case, I believe the phrase "dazed and bewildered" fits best. Truly, I was at such a loss over what to do, bewildered about where to place my own heart. The relatives all comforted me. Some people praised my wife and offered me sympathy, but I had no mind to listen to such hollow formalities. Put yourself in my shoes—I had my most beloved wife, irreplaceable in this world, torn away by death’s hand. I would never have another chance to meet my wife again. I was left alone behind. Consider for once how much more wretched those left behind are than those who depart—and yet there they were, chatting away like that with laughter. I entered where the cousins who had come to the wake were chatting and laughing, and I even thought of yelling at them. Therefore, I secluded myself in my study alone, without properly eating meals, even spending two or three nights on the sofa.

“There was truly no one as beautiful in both heart and face as she was.” “Such a person could indeed become a deity.” At the words one of my cousins had spoken to console me, I clicked my tongue and glared back at her. “Shut up! What right do you have to criticize my wife?” This was what I had wanted to say. Nothing angered me more than hearing critiques of my deceased wife. My wife was mine—she belonged to no one else. I had wanted to always tenderly care for her—the wife I could now only meet in my mind—as if cradling her gently. I dreaded waking every morning. The wife in my dreams retained her unchanging gentle beauty forever. For me, nights gradually became something to anticipate. Yet in the darkness I would often startle awake. I would find my pillow frequently damp with tears.

I want to die. Yes, I will go and die.

It seems this state of affairs had drawn the family’s attention, and they began keeping constant watch over me lest I follow my wife in death. Because of that, I did not die and had survived until now, but when I think about it now, I cannot say how much better it would have been had I committed suicide back then. If I had died then, I would not have committed such a grave sin.

There was one friend who showed great sympathy for my grief. That person had been interested in psychical research since his student days and would always tell me nothing but strange stories. Had it been my usual self, I would have listened while mocking and half-teasingly retorted as was my wont, but now I found myself utterly incapable of such a disposition. The reason was that nothing had struck my heart as profoundly as that person’s words. “People don’t die. Even if the body perishes, the spirit remains.” He would say this to encourage and comfort me. “Consider the power that compelled even a scientist like Sir William Crookes to believe!”—his voice, brimming with powerful conviction, remained etched in the depths of my ears and could never be forgotten. According to his account, through a medium, one could even converse with the deceased. It was said that if one’s spiritual eye were opened, they could even see the deceased before their very eyes. What a marvelous salvation this was! For me, there could be no greater joy than this.

However, as I still had lingering doubts, I voraciously read the books on spirits that my friend had sent me. I also investigated where I could go to find this so-called medium.

And so, I promptly went to visit. Even if my objective wasn’t achieved, that would be fine. However, should such a thing come to pass, there could be no greater joy—. When I thought that, I could not stay still for a moment longer; without informing anyone, I quietly went to that house in Aoyama Kitamachi as instructed. I had imagined there might be some shrine maiden-like woman wearing scarlet hakama trousers, but instead found no trace of a household altar—just an ordinary woman in plain clothes sitting composedly in a common tatami room, her hair parted in a seven-to-three ratio. Beside her sat a single elegant white-haired elderly man with a small desk arranged before him. I heard that person was called a saniwa. I thought it was, so to speak, a role akin to that of a judge.

When I saw the medium’s face, I was first astonished. It was refined and exceedingly beautiful—and yet bore an uncanny resemblance to my deceased wife. From the slight quirk of her mouth when smiling to her eyes gleaming with intellect—down to the small mole at the corner of her lips—everything resembled her perfectly. I had requested the saniwa to summon my wife’s spirit. The medium closed her eyes, straightened her posture, and pressed her palms together in prayer, but after a short while, her demeanor transformed completely—she took on my wife’s likeness and drew near with longing. Was this what it meant for my wife’s spirit to possess the medium’s body? Her bearing, down to the tone of her voice, replicated my wife’s living presence exactly. My wife’s spirit clasped my hand in delight. That hand felt terribly cold—a peculiarly chilling sensation that lingered unforgettably.

I tried speaking about various things, but there was no sense of her being a stranger—it felt exactly as though I were meeting my wife, and in my overwhelming joy, I became utterly entranced. Soon, my wife's spirit departed, but I remained in a daze, feeling as though I had been dreaming all along.

“Were you able to converse?”

With that, the medium said and smiled sweetly. Ah, that face! Even when I awoke from the dream, that face remained entirely my wife’s face. I was so overjoyed that my heart felt full, and I could only express my profound gratitude to this mysterious medium.

Even when I stepped out into the street, I walked as though treading air. In this new hope that I could meet my wife anytime by simply going there, I had forgotten everything and grown somewhat brighter in mood; even after returning home, the day’s strange events kept ceaselessly replaying in my mind. When I sat in the study and closed my eyes firmly, the beautiful medium’s face remained burned into my vision. The next day, I went out again.

The next day, and the day after that, I went to the spiritualist establishment every day. "If you summon it frequently to console it, purification will come sooner." "It is a most excellent thing for the spirit." Being told this, I rejoiced and the spirit found solace. I believed no greater blessing could exist. And so through these continued visits, I imagined the loneliness of losing my wife might gradually diminish.

My daily routine became visiting the spiritualist establishment every day. The only time I went out was to go there; the rest of the time I remained in my study and did not meet anyone.

Immersing myself in this wondrous pleasure I had never before even dreamed of was a great joy to me, but I never spoke of it to others. What would people say if they heard of this? They would say Katōda has gone mad and become nothing but a good joke. I might actually be going mad. I may be being led astray.

But even if I am being led astray, I don’t mind. To hear my wife’s words from the mouth of one who so strikingly resembles her—what more could I ask for?

Even when alone in my study, I would sometimes find myself involuntarily laughing as I repeated in my mind the exchanges with the medium through mental rehearsal. My family members seemed to read peculiar meanings into this, their suspicious gazes constantly trained upon me. But such things mattered not at all. At first, I had been satisfied simply being able to meet my wife—that alone sufficed—but as days passed, desires gradually swelled within me until merely meeting her and conversing through an intermediary no longer brought satisfaction. At the very least, I wished to speak directly with the medium alone (I learned her name on the second or third day; I shall write it as Komiya Reiko) with just the two of us present. If possible, I wanted to keep her constantly by my side and speak with complete freedom.

However, through a chance opportunity, that hope came to be fulfilled. Being admonished to uphold the family’s reputation, I used a pseudonym when visiting Reiko, and thus I could not have her come directly to my home. However, since Reiko was also unmarried and I had lost my wife, I thought that if it came to it, I could marry her. Yet fearing opposition from those around me, I constantly pondered how to secure their consent when the time came to divide my late wife’s mementos, forcing me to go through her chest of drawers and personal effects one by one. As I was assailed by loneliness—as though reliving the memories of when my wife had died—I began opening each item. The crepe silk kimonos she had loved to wear, that jade hairpin once adorning her lustrous black hair—all became seeds of memory, stirring within me a profound reluctance to part with them. There was no need to sort these mementos so soon—waiting a year would have caused no harm—so why must those around me rush to finalize everything? Muttering such complaints, I was carefully examining each piece when something white caught my eye—a letter tucked into an obi’s fold. When I pulled it out casually, it proved to be correspondence addressed to my wife on a white square envelope. Though lacking a sender’s name, the handwriting was unmistakably masculine. The letter appeared quite aged, stained here and there. I felt I had glimpsed something forbidden, hesitating with it in hand. Should I look? I wanted to preserve her as my pure, untroubled wife. Torn between this wish and a hunger to know everything, I finally extracted the contents. It was a letter from her cousin—a naval officer. Nothing particularly suspicious was written there. No one could have drawn immediate conclusions from it. It merely suggested they had taken tea together somewhere. Yet my wife had kept these meetings secret—I had known nothing of them. That was all there was to it, yet I couldn’t shake the sense of something lurking beyond these words.

From this white letter paper, I became frantic trying to read something beyond the written words. I recalled that my wife had once mentioned there had been a marriage proposal between this man and herself, and suddenly dredged up from my memory what I had dismissed when first hearing of it—now magnified into a grave incident. Then even the face of that man I had met once began to torment me. Imagining my wife’s heart—which could not bear to tear open what was thus secretly stored within her obi as merely an ordinary letter from an ordinary person—I agonized. I began to suspect whether there wasn’t some unspoken secret between the two of them. Even though I had loved her so passionately, I came to hate the woman’s meticulous preparations in keeping it hidden away in a locked drawer like this. Though aware of its cruelty, I hit upon the idea of summoning my wife’s spirit through Reiko and interrogating her about the matter. However, as ill luck would have it, she had been invited to the Rokujō family’s house that day and was absent.

The more I couldn't meet her, the more intensely I wanted to—that was my very nature. With these peculiar suspicions now taking root and my desperate need to uncover the truth at once, her absence convinced me she had fled. I had become unable to distinguish between my wife and Reiko. Once that realization struck, any semblance of composure deserted me. In the end, I lay in wait for Reiko's return and, finding the hour grown late, took her back to my house.

Reiko had long expressed a desire to visit my house, so she gladly accompanied me. By that time, a certain closeness had developed between us. Reiko couldn’t have been entirely unaware of my thoughts. My house was unusually large for our small household, with an especially spacious garden. Beyond the pond stood a tea arbor where I would often receive close friends. To reach it, one entered through the gate, opened the purple folding door beside the entranceway, and followed the garden path—allowing passage without encountering anyone. I guided her there. By then I had fully embraced eccentricity, maintaining no contact with my family. Even when returning late and spending nights in the tea arbor rather than the main house, none found it particularly suspicious. As the maids were forbidden to approach unless summoned, this arrangement proved most convenient.

The next day, claiming I had caught a cold, I had meals brought from the main house by the maid and spent the entire day shut away, creating an intimate world shared only with Reiko. I repeatedly entreated her to summon my wife’s spirit, but she obstinately refused— “You only care for me when I channel your wife—you’ve no interest in who I truly am.” “If you insist on treating me as your spectral conduit rather than a woman, I see no purpose in remaining here—I shall take my leave.”

She threw a tantrum and would not do it for me. Yet after all the trouble of bringing her here, she proved utterly useless—this was unacceptable. After endless coaxing and placating, when she finally consented to summon the spirit, the night had grown late. Wind joined the evening rain, its pounding against the wooden doors drowning my words as I desperately conversed with my wife. My first question naturally concerned the letter. To my interrogation, my wife showed no hesitation whatsoever, smoothly disclosing her relationship with the letter's author.

In this world, there is nothing as tenacious and terrifyingly powerful as doubt. I was thrown into disarray by that terrifying power, became half-mad, and grew frantic to ascertain the truth. What a foolish thought that was. My wife was no longer among the living. And yet, I writhed in agony, desperate to reclaim the certainty that I had once held complete dominion over both her mind and body. What an appalling thing it was. The croaking of frogs could be heard in the lulls of the wind. Yamanote, being close to the outskirts here, was a quiet place. Reiko before me—her oval face slightly rounded at the jawline—had lightly closed her dreamlike eyes beneath long lashes, a charming smile playing at her lips as she began recounting stories of past lovers. Listening to this, clammy sweat trickled down my forehead. I grew increasingly agitated and finally began interrogating her relentlessly, leaving no stone unturned. However, the crucial thing I wanted to know was too terrifying for me to ask. I was merely circling around the edges, probing from a distance, yet somehow the conversation never quite reached that point. I found myself thinking with dreadful clarity—could the truth truly be this terrifying? And yet, Reiko calmly began chattering away of her own accord. I thought with a start that for an instant my breath had stopped. Perhaps all the blood in my body had rushed to my head, for I suddenly grew cold all over, began trembling violently, and my teeth clattered together. My vision grew now dark, now bright, the lamplight seeming to swirl before me. In a frenzy, I stood up and suddenly lunged at Reiko. I can only remember my hands exerting all their strength upon Reiko’s yielding flesh. At the same time, I heard her scream.

A scream exactly like when you were ensnared by that small serpent beside the canal ditch. Even now, it remains lodged in my ears, refusing to fade. When I regained awareness, I found myself having committed a truly monstrous crime. I had become one who must endure judgment for his transgression beneath the merciless sun. Reiko lay collapsed in utter limpness, her breathing ceased entirely. Dazed, I sank into momentary unconsciousness—devoid of sorrow, empty of fear—staring at the corpse before me with a heart turned cavernous void.

The rain that had temporarily stopped began to fall again. In the distance, frogs were croaking again. I still cannot forget the croaking of those frogs. When I calmed down, I suddenly became terrified.

At first resolved to turn myself in, I waited for dawn to break—but then what suddenly came to mind was my daughter. I realize now I had been remiss in mentioning this earlier—I have a daughter. This daughter was destined to inherit the house of our head family, Baron Katōda. As the Katōda main line had no children of their own, she had been taken as an adopted daughter immediately upon birth and raised within that household. Though her absence from my daily life rarely concerned me ordinarily, I suddenly found myself gripped by anxiety. Born with her mother’s beauty, cherished by her adoptive parents, she stood poised to inherit vast wealth and become a baroness—a future radiant with promise. I understood in that moment how my confession would utterly demolish this glorious destiny. When I envisioned my daughter cast down from happiness’s zenith into misery’s depths, I awoke fully from my deluded trance. How absurd—these recent acts steeped in madness, this horrific crime I now committed— I cannot continue existing in this wretched state. The desk drawer holds morphine ampoules. Veronal too lies within.

But if I were to die now, what would people say? "A beautiful medium and a lovers' suicide"—ah, I cannot endure that. Should I call it agony? Torment? Even with every word this world contains, this heart remains beyond expression. I felt as though I had aged a century in one night. At last, a single idea flashed through my mind. This I have carried out as the most brilliant scheme until today.

The idea was that I would secretly hide this corpse somewhere, survive for a year or two, and then commit suicide once public speculation had died down.

For the past four or five years, I had been renting a safe deposit box in the basement of a trust company. It measured four ken square. The vault—which could only be opened by using both my duplicate key and the company’s key simultaneously—had been constructed with utmost security. I placed Reiko’s corpse into a trunk and concealed it deep within that vault. Having prepaid two years’ rental in advance, I then departed overseas under the pretext of recuperating from illness.

The trust company trusted me implicitly; being a long-standing client of theirs meant they would never suspect anything. Moreover，as my neurasthenia had persisted for quite some time，and my relatives were overjoyed to endorse my traveling abroad to change my spirits—this arrangement proved all the more convenient.

I traveled through France and England, but that anxiety clung to me constantly; I was truly a living corpse. Far from any interest—it was the sheer agony of merely waiting like this for time to pass. Though I had brought it upon myself, what a foolish thing I had done. Whenever I thought of my wife, Reiko inevitably came to mind, and then I was tormented anew.

Please pity me—I who can no longer even bear to think of my wife’s memory that was once so tender. Though it was but a momentary emotion—when I reflect on my own folly of becoming excited by words akin to delirious ravings and going so far as committing murder—my entire body breaks into a cold sweat from shame and remorse. My days and nights are an unending torment. Ah—how precious is happiness that allows one to laugh from the heart and speak from the heart! Suicide—I believe there remains no other way left to save myself. Living has become unbearable now.

Lately, I have been thinking of death, and in that, I see a ray of light. I have become unable to continue living while enduring the anguish of my conscience. To torment myself further like this—even though it is my own self—is too pitiable. However you choose to dispose of this unvarnished confession entrusted solely to you, it remains your discretion—but if you would sympathize with this soul-and-body-exhausted living corpse of a man who has at last endured two agonizing years to protect the happiness of a single daughter, just as you yourself have witnessed, then I believe without doubt that you will never act to shatter that daughter’s happiness.

4

I finished reading and returned the letter to Madam. She said as she placed it into an ornamental box. “Afterward, I saw a photograph of Mrs. Katōda—but of course neither I nor Komiya Reiko bore even the slightest resemblance to her.” “This was entirely his delusion—it seems he came to believe every woman he encountered resembled Mrs. Katōda.” “However, if what this letter states proves true, I must send it to the Japanese police.” “When I consulted my husband about this matter, he laughed and said, ‘It must be the fabrication of a madman,’ so I left it untouched.”

Then, about a month later, in a newspaper that had come from Japan,

Under the bold headline "Mummy Appears in Vault of Trust Company," there was a report that a mummy had been found inside a trunk within the large vault rented by the Katōda family. It was soon reported that the mummy was Mrs. Katōda. "I exchanged bitter smiles with my husband."