Pathway to Japanese Literature

A night at the height of autumn. The base color of the stars, weaving a tapestry of light, was the navy blue of the vast sky glowing from below. That vast sky stretched from one end of the earth to the other.

A lonely, completely withered clump of golden corn; a slender vine—already frost-withered—from which a large, bright red pumpkin had miraculously grown. The grove of yellow leaves stood silent and still, as if awaiting the trumpet of the Last Judgment. The color of the earth, which quietly bore those symbols of autumn and was enveloped in darkness, was a dull, blackened purple. It was that night at the height of autumn.

We approached her house. Caroline, the youngest sister, pushed aside the clinging Saint Bernard Rex and swiftly opened the door, whereupon the amber light of the kerosene lamp cast a single dazzling streak like a flaming sword across the veranda. Her brothers and sister, who accompanied me, forgetting even the presence of the solitary guest, rushed like moths toward the light and their parents. I hesitated, somewhat perplexed. Wondering why the spring-loaded door wasn't closing naturally, I suddenly noticed her standing there with a smile, quietly holding the handle. I told her to come in. She remained silent, lightly shook her head, and though blushing slightly, kept staring fixedly into my eyes without moving. I felt genuinely happy and entered first.

From that moment on, I loved her deeply. Frances—but people loved her and called her Fanny. That night, time quickly turned to an engaging discussion.

The time came for Fanny and Caroline to sleep. Caroline with her blond curls had already fallen asleep. Fanny—her chestnut hair straight-parted like an American Indian’s and blunt-cut below the ears—still kept her eyes stubbornly open. Fanny insisted she wouldn’t sleep yet. The aged mother put on a show of feigned anger. Fanny threw a pleading look toward father but finally buried her head obediently in mother’s lap. Mother laid hands lightly on both girls’ heads and murmured a brief benediction; in return she first received their bedtime kisses. Then father and brothers received theirs. When they tried to dash upstairs again, mother stopped them with a gentle rebuke about greeting guests properly. Caroline came flying back to shake my hand. Fanny—Fanny from the shadowed corner where only her lace collar showed—tilted her head slightly and flashed me a smile. Then they clattered up the narrow stairs together, shoving and jostling all the way. Through their racket slipped father’s muttered words: “That shy little minx—all mischief beneath those blushes.”

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Cold, lonely, and calm, the dawn of late autumn arrived in the countryside. Frost patterns as faint as mist had formed on the windowpanes. As I stood by the sturdy wooden bed attempting to change clothes, Fanny’s lively voice chatting casually with Caroline outdoors reached my ears. While fastening my suspenders to the buttons, I leaned against the window and looked outside.

A blanket of frost covered everything. Beyond the garden-like front lawn stood a wooden fence, and across a road wide enough for carts to run parallel to the fence, a rather large harvest shed loomed into view. Behind the harvest shed lay a field, mostly plowed up and littered with large clods of earth, spreading out like wasteland tinged with purple. Here and there, the bare willow trees stood like brooms turned upside-down and lined up in rows. On the harvest wagon, its wheels caked with mud baked rock-hard into the ruts, leftover hay hung disheveled like a witch’s hair. Over all of these, the morning sun began to cast its rays sideways, sharply delineating shadows and sunlight. The crows' caws and chickens' clucks could be heard through the crisp air from afar, coming through the glass. Nature, worn out from postpartum exhaustion, lay quietly sleeping in her childbed. That loneliness and the farmer’s abundance spread out before my eyes like symbols of generosity and meticulousness.

I tried to find Fanny. No sooner had I thought her nowhere in sight than the harvest shed’s back door opened, revealing two young girls emerging alongside a flock of chickens—their mottled white wings half-spread—clambering over each other’s backs as they scurried forth. The two girls stood in the sunlight. Around them gathered chickens stretching their necks upward and bobbing their heads. One chicken even perched on Fanny’s arm. When Caroline briskly shook out the apron she’d been holding aloft, oats scattered like golden sand across the frozen soil. A rooster stood slightly apart from the flock and crowed loudly.

In Fanny’s apron were chicken eggs collected from various places around the shed. She carefully took them out one by one, exchanged some words with Caroline, opened the gate, and approached the main house. The morning chill had tinged her cheeks red, and her white teeth appeared beautifully from the threshold of her smile as though she had forgotten her shyness. I transferred my suspenders to my left hand and flicked the window glass with my right middle finger. Fanny lifted her face, her smile still composed, and looked in my direction. The smile she had offered to nature she now cast toward humans as well. My fingertips grew hot, forgetting the pleasant chill the glass had imparted.

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When summer came, I visited this farmhouse again. In the train, I was picturing Frances’s house—isolated as if crouching on the midslope of a gentle incline, with the apple orchard behind it. The harvest shed, its whitewash mottled to reveal bare wood grain; behind it, half-hidden, an old stone main house with a low second story like an attic; small windows lining its walls that seemed to watch intently anyone approaching; in the front-sloping garden, gaunt elms and ash trees leaning perilously; shrubs with upward-jutting spikes that stabbed at one’s eyes; the corpse of a thistle clad in cotton and thorns; frost-withered vines sprawled like wire across the ground, their seedpods rattling drily in the wind; nine Ayrshire dairy cows smeared with dung; a puddle frozen to caramel hues; and field soil hunched sidelong under sunlight like a sick child eyeing milk it refused to drink—…….

However, as I approached the house, my eyes delightfully betrayed my imaginings. Where on earth had this small paradise—wrapped in a pleasant green like emerald jewels strung together—sprung from? The mouse-gray of the main house’s walls and the mottled ash-white of the harvest shed seemed to frolic within the interplay of green shade and sunlight. The gate opened lightly and easily without making a creaking sound. I stepped onto the veranda, my feet sinking into the lawn that felt like velvet underfoot. I opened the insect screen door and knocked on the main door. Once. Twice. Three times. No one answered. I stood quietly, smiling for no particular reason, and looked around. The wire netting stretched across from the veranda railing to the eaves was covered with nasturtiums and honeysuckle intricately intertwined in bloom, casting a golden light as rich as egg yolks onto the boards and walls here and there. From that dark green curtain, a sweet fragrance and the buzzing of bees overflowed from nowhere in particular and, swayed by a quiet breeze, enveloped me.

Suddenly, a burst of laughter erupted from the direction of the backyard. Once again in an intoxicated daze, I smiled and made my way through the fluttering elm blossoms to the kitchen entrance. Apart from the heap of coal cinders burned and discarded during winter, the clover had grown so thickly that there was no place to set foot, and flowers were blooming in profusion. A well-fed cat crouched unafraid of people amidst the grass, licking cow’s milk that had spilled abundantly.

When I exited the kitchen entrance, the sweltering density of roses' fragrance assailed me all at once. The ten-tsubo plot that had been a thorny maze during my Thanksgiving visit now lay completely buried in blossoms, wrapped in summer's most radiant light. I walked past it while shamefully conscious of my own homeliness. Abruptly, the rose-laden bushes quivered. As I turned, Frances's face materialized within my vision. She smiled as one with the roses.

With a wooden basket hanging from her arm from which flowers spilled here and there, I followed after Frances as she dashed out. Her now barefoot legs—well-formed and sturdy—effortlessly leaped over the horizontal rail of the wooden fence into the apple orchard. I hurriedly gathered up the cluster of flowers scattered where she had vaulted over. When I looked, Fanny was clinging to her mother who sat reclined in the armchair, showering her with kisses everywhere without restraint. As if entangled in a spiderweb, Mother tried to shake her daughter off while the small-statured father in his skullcap—having pushed aside his half-read newspaper—stared through wire-rimmed glasses in astonishment. Here again assaulted me that rich fragrance like aged wine. Among the brothers stripped to their shirtsleeves with forearms rolled up stood a large apple press, its silver tap glittering as cider must—as though summer itself had been distilled—trickled into a wooden trough blackened with soot. Beside it lay heaps of unripe apples blown down by wind. The brothers cried out in unison when they spotted me. With bees buzzing furiously about their bodies, they came one by one to grip my hand firmly in their large palms—hands scorching hot from labor. After steadying myself slightly, I turned my gaze toward Fanny. She stood with cheeks flushed crimson bright, both legs exposed below her skirt aligned demurely together. What eyes those were! What could they be wondering at—what startlement lay beneath them—under this summer light that laid all bare?

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One morning, the parents had their usual weather-beaten Wapporo light wagon pulled by a heavy draft horse. Placing under the lap blanket the wooden box carefully packed with chicken eggs that Caroline had collected that morning, they set off toward the village with a rattling clatter of wheel ruts. The returning carriage would bring necessary meat, newspapers, and a bundle of letters. I grew weary of my morning reading and went out to the garden with Caroline. When we approached the garden, Fanny, who was in charge of it, darted out from among the flowers and beckoned us over. And taking me along, she entered the apple orchard. Her eyes, after she had whispered something with Caroline, were shining with a mischievous glint. After running past me a little, she turned toward me, stopped, and told me to stop too. I stopped. She told me to look straight at her and not let my eyes wander elsewhere. Why would I need to look elsewhere? “One, two, three—march up to me in step like a soldier,” she sternly ordered me. I obediently started walking with enough vigor to knock her over. When I had come about five steps, I involuntarily jumped up. It was because I felt pain as if ten syringes had been plunged all at once into the shin of my now-barefoot leg. As I glared resentfully at Fanny and Caroline doubled over in uproarious laughter, I looked down and saw a single large thistle with purple flowers standing there, its holly-like leaves spread wide. I was suddenly driven by a strange impulse. Chasing Fanny, who fled into the forest like a nymph, and seizing her from behind, I was like Bacchus. Fanny continued to laugh like champagne poured into a glass, writhing in mirth. From the spreading shade of cherry leaves overhead, a flock of starlings perched on cherries startled and took flight all at once with raucous cries. I suddenly felt ashamed and released Fanny from my embrace.

My chest throbbed with a heartbeat just painful enough to ache, trembling with fear. Fanny knew nothing of people's harsh hearts. She kept laughing nonchalantly, her hands moving as if in a dance.

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Father’s study—dim even at noon with its bookshelves, piano, organ, and heavy chairs that betrayed his identity as a makeshift farmer—was bustling with rare guests from the city. In one corner of the room where everything appeared sooty, you in pure white linen like mounded snow were eloquently praising the countryside in a manner befitting a city dweller. Today, even Caroline was unusually wearing socks and shoes. Suddenly, Fanny hurriedly entered there still barefoot, holding a single rose in her hands. When she noticed your presence, she froze awkwardly, unsure what to do with her hands. You and Fanny appeared as the two poles of this room. Mother—being every bit the mother—stood up to scold her for impropriety and tried to send her upstairs to trim her hair and tidy her clothes, but you even rose from your chair to stop her. And you lavishly praised both the unadorned loveliness of her appearance and the innocent expression nurtured by fields and hills. Fanny had already regained her usual liveliness and—without any shyness—approached Father to place the rose in his wrinkled hand.

“Papa, this is the biggest and most beautiful flower that bloomed this summer.” Father smiled awkwardly and, pinching the stem between his fingertips, twirled it round and round. Why would you let slip this opportunity where a city person should praise a country person? “Miss Fanny, you are the very image of a little angel.”

While uttering these elegant words, she extended her hand toward Father. Father nonchalantly passed her the flower, whereupon she sniffed its fragrance, kissed it, and with an expression of surprise gazed at it rapturously. For the first time, Fanny turned toward you with a radiant smile gracing her cheeks. She then took her seat in an object’s shadow where her legs might be concealed, revealing only her upper body from the waist up. You continued speaking—now sniffing the flower’s scent intermittently—while engaging Fanny and shrewdly surveying the gathering from time to time,

“This rose is red, isn’t it? Do you know why there are red ones and white ones in the world?”

she asked, tilting her head with a flourish. “I don’t know,” Fanny answered frankly and shook her head.

“In that case, I’ll tell you.” “In exchange for this one.” “Once upon a time,” she began in a storytelling tone, narrating Oscar Wilde’s tale of how a nightingale tore its breast on a thorn and dyed white petals red with its blood. Not only Fanny but even Mother was moved and enthralled by her smooth delivery. Before she could finish the story, chickens began squawking raucously behind the kitchen. Caroline—responsible for poultry care—jumped up with saucer-wide eyes. The whole household pricked up their ears as if facing calamity. When Caroline ran out shouting “Rex did it again!”, dog-loving Fanny vehemently cried, “Rex would never do that!” “It must’ve been the cat!” she protested bitterly. “Mimi would never!” retorted my shrill-voiced sister from the kitchen doorway. As order returned, the lady abandoned rose talk to discuss Rostand’s Chantecler with Father and Mother. Fanny found herself excluded from conversation. While expertly mimicking Barimoa—then-emerging opera star—the lady absently pinned her rose to her bosom. After prolonged silence, Fanny suddenly cried “Papa!” with startling intensity. I turned to look. Her cheeks puffed out with uncharacteristic solemnity. Father shot her a reproving glance. Fanny stood her ground. When the lady paused mid-sentence to resume speaking, Fanny fiercely repeated “Papa!” Father felt compelled to feign displeasure before our guest.

“What a rude little brat you are, aren’t you?” “That rose was given to you, Papa dear!”

“I know it.”

“You don’t know it!” When she uttered those final words, Fanny’s lips were trembling. It wasn’t that tears had welled up. But her eyes were shining. Father wore a wry smile, as if his vulnerability had been betrayed. The lady smiled and remained silent for a while, but then calmly resumed her previous conversation. As if trying to atone for the discourtesy of this situation, Father and Mother listened all the more intently to her words. Her heart—which always seemed aquiver with delicate sensibilities—appeared incapable of plumbing what lay within Fanny’s breast. She didn’t even seem to consider that a country girl remained merely a country girl. I felt pity and looked at Fanny. At that moment, she too looked at me. I tried to offer her a smile filled with goodwill, but it was shattered by her irritated, angry gaze. Fanny never glanced back at me again with that scornful look. And after some time, she abruptly stood and went outside. Caroline entered just as someone was leaving and ceremoniously reported the chickens’ safety. The lady nodded at Caroline’s report with a contrived smile, as if acting in her parents’ stead.

After a while, the door opened again, and Fanny slipped in quietly. Showing reserve and humility through her gestures like a scolded dog that had served loyally nonetheless, she approached Father’s side and quietly placed another single rose in his hand. She waited obediently for the conversation to pause,

“This is the second most beautiful rose, Papa.” She said while looking at you with a gentle expression. The small effort of desperately trying to appear gentle was plainly visible even to bystanders. “I see.” The taciturn father said with a face that seemed to envelop a smile within a wry one. “Shall I give this to Mrs. ○○?” Father merely nodded.

“This one is yours.” Fanny handed it to you. You gave a light greeting and, upon receiving it, pinned it alongside the previous one to your chest. Fanny seemed convinced that you would exchange it with the first rose, but you appeared not to notice that intention. Perhaps thinking her greeting had been insufficient because Fanny lingered without moving away, “Thank you once more, dear.” she gave another light bow. Since Fanny also bowed slightly in accordance with the decorum of the situation, there was nothing more she could do. She left the room again, her head still bowed. The heartrending sight of her figure pierced my heart.

I stayed motionless for a while, enduring it all, but when Fanny’s pitiful state became unbearable, I quietly slipped out of the room. She wasn’t in the adjacent room that doubled as dining and living quarters either. Following the clinking sounds from the quiet kitchen, I opened its door to find Fanny washing dishes with her back turned. Sensing someone’s approach, she whirled around—her eyes blazing like flames. Then, as if possessed by madness, she flung the scant water in her hand straight at my face.

When you took your leave and stood to depart, Father gently apologized for Fanny’s rudeness and had you return the most beautiful rose. Fanny, realizing the guest had left and coming out from the kitchen, caught a glimpse of the rose in Father’s hand, then rushed over as though she could bear it no longer and buried her face in his chest. When Father chided her,

“This rose is yours anyhow, Papa.”

“...” said Fanny in a trembling voice. And the suppressed sobs could be heard like a melody for a little while between Father’s chest and her face.

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The following spring, I visited this same house again. Cherry blossoms turned snow-white and began to scatter, lilacs adorned the field ridges with their waxen purple clusters and fragrance, apple trees dressed their rugged branches in delicate pale pink buds like a country maiden’s blush clustered thickly, violets and dandelions transformed barren soil into thrones, tender meadow grass blades sprouted uniformly like the downy fuzz on young Bacchus’s cheeks, and cuckoos began calling at intervals to weave the forest’s stillness—it was that time of year. In the sky were pigeons. In the trees were squirrels. On the ground were turtles.

A merciful spring rain was falling warmly and quietly over everything. The plaster-like sticky soft soil clung persistently to my boots. In the living room that also served as a dining room, where no one had been present when I visited last summer, all the family members were now gathered. When they saw me, the whole group stood up and shouted, “Hello!” Fanny came flying over with her usual liveliness and opened the door for me. Having shed my reserve, I began taking off my shoes at the entrance, as Japanese people do. Three beautiful kittens, their fur like a plush rug, immediately arched their backs and began playing with the shoelaces.

I shook hands with Mother. She remained exactly as she had been the previous year. I shook hands with Father. He appeared noticeably aged. Each of Fanny’s brothers had grown to match their elder brother’s height from last year. Caroline had reached an age where being called “baby” no longer suited her. Fanny—the Fanny who should have been present—was nowhere to be seen. The somewhat impatient father called her name but received no reply. After conversing with me about events since our last parting—yet still evidently concerned—Father once again called loudly for Fanny. Startled by his booming voice, Fanny’s “Here you are” answered immediately from behind the upstairs door. The door opened. Realizing Fanny had been waiting by the door all along for an opportune moment to emerge left me strangely disoriented. Blushing crimson yet forcing a smile that bared her white teeth—as if defying any show of embarrassment—Fanny marched up and gave my hand a stiff shake.

“You’ve really dolled yourself up, haven’t you?” However, this simple tease from her brother was enough to throw Fanny into turmoil. Her face turned fiery red as she glared at him, then she turned back toward the entrance. A roar of laughter resounded through the room. Tears had welled up in Fanny’s eyes. Fanny had stopped showing her bare feet to people altogether. And her hair—grown long over the year—now hung parted in two braids like Margarete from Faust. Yet from the very next day onward, she became again last year’s lively, unrestrained, wholeheartedly kind Fanny. We often went out to fields and mountains with Caroline as a trio to play foolish pranks.

On the third day after arriving there, the parents' birthday observed by this household came around. The brothers slaughtered chickens and turkeys. The two daughters and I went to the mountains to gather fern leaves and wildflowers for decorating the room. When we opened the gate and stepped onto the path, dairy cows that had been clustered in the sunny spot by the harvest shed—squinting as they basked in sunlight—quietly began approaching us along the wooden fence's edge. Their glossy coats glistened strand by strand like newly donned woolen garments. The newborn calf gazed at us through perpetually startled round eyes while stretching its neck over the fence; with its rough tongue, it deftly coiled around two proffered fingers and sucked noisily. We distributed handfuls of green grass to each cow before resuming our walk. Caroline kept singing loudly throughout. Her voice became a faint echo returning from mountains and woods.

Caroline suggested playing telegraph again. Fanny said she didn’t want to. The youngest Caroline immediately turned tearful and stubbornly insisted they absolutely had to play. Fanny yielded like an elder sister should, and the three joined hands. I stood in the middle relaying signals from Caroline to Fanny and from Fanny to Caroline. When Caroline firmly squeezed my hand, I too had to firmly squeeze Fanny’s. Until last year whenever I squeezed Fanny’s hand tight she would squeeze back just as firmly without fail, but this year she refused to return the strong grip. And that hand was unnervingly cold. Because Fanny’s signals always came lukewarm, Caroline grew angry and began making a fuss. Fanny said “Then we’ll stop” and promptly released my hand. No matter how Caroline raged or pleaded after that, Fanny would no longer hold hands with me.

When we entered the forest, the scent of the forest came and enveloped us. The oak, the elm, and the maple—all their leaves were as soft as lilac leaves and bore a pale green hue. The tree trunks ostentatiously exposed their peculiar bark textures to the dappled sunlight filtering through leaves, while from their aged wounds, sap resembling wine seeped out gradually. Where the sap was oozing out, small insects that had just emerged from their holes had surely gathered in black clusters. Spiders had begun spinning their webs, but none yet bore the tangled remains of winged victims. Only dew had settled. Standing quietly and straining our ears, we could hear a faint sound. Whether it was fallen leaves decaying, roots absorbing water, curled leaves unfurling, insects whispering, or wind passing through—amidst those quiet sounds, that sonorous silence—a woodpecker’s rat-a-tat and a flying squirrel’s chittering voice could be heard. When we raised our heads, steam-like clouds grazing the high treetops streaked swiftly through the windless sky. Ahead stretched a luminous blue sky that endlessly drew up human vision.

The three of us split up and competed to gather flowers. When we became too widely separated, our voices calling to each other took on a beautiful rounded quality, sounding almost unrecognizable as our own. Feeling lightheaded, I selected a sunlit slope, spread out ferns, and settled down. From the direction of the village came the faint yet cheerful sound resembling distant festival drumming. I felt as though I could hear with my ears the pungent green scent of the ferns crushed beneath my feet. I felt a shallow, sentimental sorrow. And a time that could not be determined as either long or short passed.

Suddenly I sensed a presence approaching through my left ear. When I realized there were stealthy footsteps, I felt a kind of anticipation. And I prayed that the owner of those footsteps might be Fanny. The footsteps drew near from slightly diagonally behind me, then suddenly before my eyes was thrust a familiar wooden handbasket overflowing with wildflowers she’d gathered in abundance. I slowly looked up to the left. Fanny stood there flushed, her whole body smiling.

After hesitating briefly, Fanny eventually sat down close beside me as I instructed. When we found ourselves alone together, she instead seemed unburdened by any emotional reserve. As we talked, we gradually melted into a fraternal sort of intimacy. She drew the handbasket near and began extracting flowers while telling me their names. “Saffron crocus, buttercup, Solomon’s seal, Bloodroot, windflower, balloon flower, Pokeweed... Just as its name says, Bloodroot bleeds.” “Saffron crocus roots make medicine.” “Pokeweed sprouts can substitute for asparagus, but you must never eat the roots—they’re poisonous.” “The buttercup’s lovely, isn’t it? It’s also called King’s Cup.” “Windflowers mean fickleness in love.” Having spoken thus, she suddenly fell silent. Then she fixed her gaze upon me. I lay propped on my elbows at her feet and looked up at her face. An ingratiating expression—the kind one shows a stranger—had surfaced on her features. She wore it unconsciously. This much was evident. Yet I couldn’t suppress my displeasure.

There's fennel for you, and columbines...

Suddenly, she hummed the mad Ophelia’s little song and threw a windflower at me. Fanny had at last crossed the boundary of maidenhood. I felt the bitterness of being betrayed by nature and grimaced. I raised my face once more and called, “Fanny.” Fanny briskly responded “What?” right away, but upon noticing that both my face and voice now carried a different tone than before, she too adopted an oddly composed expression.

“You’re no longer a maiden—you’ve become a virgin now.” Fanny’s face flushed bright red up to her hairline in an instant. As if she didn’t know what to do with the shame of exposing her own body before my eyes, she kept her face deeply bowed, refusing to lift it. Shrinking her hands, feet, and torso as much as possible to avoid meeting my gaze, she trembled in shame.

A fiery sensation shot through my head. Fanny had misunderstood my words. When I realized that wasn’t what I’d meant, Fanny struck me as unbearably touching and pitiable.

“It’s because you go letting your hair grow so long and braiding it like that—that’s the problem.” “Go back to how it was with your hair.” However, those words slid past her heart without touching it, like leaves falling from tree branches. On the way back, Caroline immediately noticed the drastic change in our attitudes and began to wonder. In her childish mind, she probably thought we had quarreled; she bustled back and forth between us trying to mediate.

From that day on, I could no longer see Fanny's face as it once was—burning with the purity and joy of a maiden.

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The day had come when one should take leave from this house forever.

Fanny did not show herself before me at all since morning. Around noon, when the carriage was ready, I shook hands with my family in farewell, but Fanny was still nowhere to be found. The brothers stood on the veranda and called her name in loud voices. It was in vain. I descended into the garden and tried heading toward the harvest shed. Leaning against the front gate and basking in the spring sun, she stood vacantly gazing toward the fields. When she saw me approaching alone, she seemed to reconsider and strode over. I thought that at the very least, I wanted to offer an explanation about what had happened between us before parting. The two shook hands. Fanny’s icy-cold hand firmly grasped my hand. Before I could say anything, Fanny showed a perfunctory smile at the corner of her mouth and said, “Farewell!”

“Fanny.” Without giving me a chance to continue, Fanny pressed on, saying “Farewell!” again. And she once again firmly grasped my hand.