Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part I

Early May, around 4 AM—

The Kumaigawa River was shrouded in thick fog.
The surroundings were still dim, and no matter where one looked, almost nothing was visible.
Reeds grew thickly along the riverbank; they extended from the bank into the river itself—seven or eight *ken* out into the water—and continued both upstream and downstream.
The bank was narrow and immediately adjoined the embankment, which stood over ten shaku high; however, due to the fragile soil quality, earth crumbled away continuously with a pattering sound.
In one particular spot, where the collapse was most severe, the earth had sunken into stepped indentations, forming traces where people had climbed up and down.

There was not a breath of wind.
The fog was moving, but only ever so slightly—so imperceptibly that one had to fix their gaze intently to discern it.

It was a bend in the river.
The river that had rounded the edge of Kannonji Temple’s hill bent sharply to the right and formed a wide pool there.
The reeds grew thickly in that wide pool, their leaves overlapping one another—perhaps because the river’s waves washed at their roots—the clusters of leaves trembled ceaselessly, ever so faintly—and their pale deep green blades were damp with mist.

A cormorant flew away.
From downstream to upstream—though the thick fog obscured its form and no wingbeats could be heard—the way it flew made it clear it was a cormorant.

From the embankment above, a young woman descended.

From the area with stepped indentations, clutching at shrub branches as she descended in a precarious manner, she then looked around.
She was probably around twenty-one or twenty-two.
From her hairstyle and the way she wore her kimono, one could surmise she had worked in the entertainment district.
Her wheat-colored, narrow face—with thick eyebrows and upturned eyes that gave her a decidedly strong-willed look—contrasted with small shoulders and hips that tensed into fleshy curves, exuding a refined coquettishness and sensuality.

The woman was holding a lacquered writing box.
The lacquered writing box was quite aged, its thick cord tied around it having lost all traces of purple dye.

The woman turned to look back at the embankment above, then gazed across the river.
When peering into the distance, her eyes narrowed and wrinkles formed between her brows.
At length—she placed the writing box on the ground.
The spot lay slightly elevated from soil perpetually crumbling off the embankment.
She set the box on this raised patch, then gathered up her kimono hem and tucked it into her obi.
Two layers of pale blue crepe silk appeared beneath; she gathered these too and firmly knotted their left and right ends together.
Now her supple shins—slender and shapely—stood exposed up to the knees.

“Is this all right?” the woman murmured. “There’s nothing else to be done—it’ll have to do,” she nodded. “As long as I don’t look too shameful… Yes, this will do.”

The woman checked the obi and adjusted the kimono collar.
She brushed back hair at the temples with the right pinky and peered up and down the river.

The sky grew slightly brighter, and the fog began to shift.

The woman quietly removed her straw sandals.
Bare feet must have felt cold against the fog-dampened ground.
She neatly aligned the straw sandals and placed them at the water’s edge, oriented toward the river.
Then she quietly entered the river—when her feet first touched the water, she shuddered and hunched her shoulders.
Yet there was no hesitation.
Step by quiet step, probing the bottom with her toes, she moved forward through the reeds.
The reeds tilted as she pushed through them, rustling softly as their leaves brushed together, then sprang back vigorously when her hands released them, swaying noisily with a dry rattle this time.

When she emerged from the reeds, the woman’s body was submerged up to her waist in the water.
It must have been deeper from there; she seemed to lurch forward, her arms flailing.

The woman stopped there briefly.
The movement of the fog gradually quickened, and the woman’s figure alternately thinned and thickened.
Not long after that, the woman began moving forward again toward the river’s center—the water rose from her waist to her chest.
A thick band of fog swept in and once completely concealed her figure.
When she next became visible, the woman was submerged up to her neck, but in that instant, her head too sank beneath the water.
A ring formed on the water there, and quietly it spread.

Soon, the woman’s head appeared again. Seven or eight meters downstream from where she had submerged, she thrashed the water with loud splashes and let out a sharp, gasping breath. And then, just when one thought she had submerged once more, her head surfaced again further downstream. It was being swept downstream at a considerable speed but was now obscured by the fog and could no longer be seen clearly.

“Mr. Kei,” the woman’s voice called out, “Mr. Keinosuke.”

It was a voice that came from a water-filled mouth.
Then came a *plop* of water, and nothing more could be heard.

The sky grew increasingly brighter, and the wind began to rise.
The wind began to blow quietly from upstream.
Because the reeds swayed one after another from that direction, one could discern where the wind was blowing from.
Then, the fog suddenly swirled up into streaks and whirls and began flowing downstream.
The summer grass along the riverbank and the thicket of shrubs on the embankment were drenched with droplets of fog.

The straw sandals left at the water’s edge, along with that lacquered writing box, were both drenched.—The reeds swayed sideways as if whispering to one another about what had just occurred, their leaves rustling softly with every movement.

Two

The next morning, before 5 AM—

On the hill of Kannonji Temple, Sugimaru Tōjirō waited for Fujiyoshi Keinosuke to arrive.
This was a flat hill behind the temple—on clear days, one could see past its massive roof and bell tower to the castle town and Tsurugaoka Forest where the castle stood—but the thick morning fog obscured the view, rendering even the temple’s roof and bell tower as faint silhouettes.
Behind the hill lay a thickly wooded slope of mixed-growth trees, below which flowed the Kumaigawa River.
The Kumaigawa River curved around Kannonji’s northern hillside in a broad arc that formed a wide pool there—a spot that (on clear days) afforded views of this eddy, the highway on the opposite bank, and forested fields beyond—but now even the river itself remained concealed behind an ash-white shroud.

“No—it’s no use. It’s utterly futile now.”
Tōjirō shook his head and muttered, “Better to act decisively. Otherwise you’ll only meet ruin as a samurai. To act decisively—that’s what friendship demands.”

He looked toward the far side of the hill.

The sky brightened, a quiet wind arose, and the fog swiftly rolled away.
Tōjirō removed the cord from his sword, slung it over his sash, took out a folded bleached cotton cloth from inside his robe, and firmly wiped the sweat from his forehead.
At that moment, the bell of Kannonji Temple began to toll.

“It’s time,” he muttered. “So the moment has finally come—”

Tōjirō tightened the crotch of his hakama.

The bell tower stood in the hill’s shadow, so its tolling was not particularly loud, but the resonance lingered within the thick fog—each solemn note trailing long and heavily as it reverberated toward the castle town.

Tōjirō suddenly narrowed his eyes.
At the base of the hill’s ascent, a human figure came into view.
Though unclear due to the fog, it was unmistakably Fujiyoshi Keinosuke.—He tightened his sword’s mekugi peg, removed his sandals, and stood barefoot in his tabi socks.

Keinosuke came running.

Tōjirō looked down at his feet, then placed his hand on his sword’s hilt and looked toward Keinosuke, who was running toward him.
Keinosuke stopped about five meters away.

Keinosuke’s face was pale.
His face—high-cheekboned and terribly haggard—was pale despite having just run there, and he was panting heavily.

“I’m ready here,” Tōjirō said. “Hurry and prepare yourself—I’ll wait.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Keinosuke drew his sword.

“Prepare yourself,” Tōjirō said. “Do you think you can fight in that state?”

“What… What do you mean—someone like you—”

Keinosuke assumed a fighting stance.

“It’s no use.”
Tōjirō shook his head. “Do you think you can duel in that state? If you don’t prepare properly, I’ll withdraw.”

At that moment, the bell ceased tolling.
The final note struck lingered slowly before fading away.
Within that dwindling resonance, Keinosuke roared.

“Take this!”

And he lunged forward with his sword.

He raised his sword and charged straight in without gauging his footing.
Tōjirō dodged to the left while drawing his blade.
Keinosuke halted mid-stride, whirled around, and thrust immediately.
Tōjirō sidestepped to the right.
Keinosuke slashed again.
This time he struck downward from an overhead stance, then reversed his swing to sweep sideways.

“Stop, Fujiyoshi!” Tōjirō shouted. “Have you lost your mind?”

Keinosuke lunged at him once more.
Tōjirō pivoted sideways and swiftly hooked Keinosuke’s legs with his own foot.
Keinosuke staggered forward and collapsed.
His sword flew from his grip; he lay sprawled without trying to rise, wailing in a pitiful voice.

“Kill me, Sugimaru. Do it.”

Tōjirō watched from where he stood.

“Kill me. Won’t you kill me?”

Tōjirō sheathed his sword and loosened his attire.
He removed his soaked tabi socks, slipped into sandals, then wrapped the tabi in tissue paper and tucked them into his sleeve.
Throughout this process, he kept his eyes fixed on Keinosuke until finally retrieving the fallen sword from the grass and approaching quietly to address him.

“Get up—you’ll shame yourself if someone comes. Get up and explain,” Tōjirō said. “What happened?”

“I wanted to be killed.”
“Get up and talk.”
“I came here to be killed.”

“Come on, get up and put away your sword,” Tōjirō said. “It’d be best if we can settle this without a duel. Come on, get up and pull yourself together.”

Keinosuke rose.
When Tōjirō handed him the sword, he stood up and sheathed it while keeping his face averted.

“I’m so ashamed I want to die.”

“Just say one thing.”
Tōjirō said, “What happened?”

“She… ran away.”

Tōjirō waited in silence for him to continue.

“Yesterday before dawn,” Keinosuke said, “when I woke up, she was already gone.”

“Are you certain?”

“All the money I had and that Han mirror are gone,” Keinosuke said. “The money was little, but she knew the mirror was a family heirloom and valuable—it’s gone. I searched all day yesterday, but she’s nowhere to be found. She’s definitely run away.”

Tōjirō approached and placed a hand on Keinosuke’s shoulder.

“That was close,” Tōjirō said. “Thank goodness, Fujiyoshi. Thank goodness—heaven’s mercy.”

“I’m ashamed—utterly ashamed.”

“Let’s go home,” Tōjirō said. “Let’s go home and eat breakfast.”

“There’s no way I can return!”

“Can’t return?” Tōjirō said. “You say you’re ashamed now—but that’s wrong. The one who should feel shame is yesterday’s Fujiyoshi. Today’s Fujiyoshi has nothing left to be ashamed of. Let’s go together.”

“I appreciate it, but that’s the one thing I can’t do.”

“I’ll take you there myself.”

“That’s cruel,” Keinosuke said. “After making such a spectacle of myself, I can’t possibly face Ms. Fukae, let alone anyone else. That’s too cruel.”

“Let’s go together.”
“When lancing a boil,” Tōjirō said, “you must do it decisively in one go. Dragging it out won’t lessen the pain. Get all your shame over with at once—then you’ll feel clean.”

Keinosuke nodded uncertainly.

“Let’s go,” Tōjirō said. “I’ll handle this smoothly.”

The two began to walk.
The sky brightened completely, and the wind had nearly swept away the fog.
When they reached the foot of the hill, beyond the castle town bathed in morning light, Tsurugaoka Forest and the castle keep came into crisp view.

The two went down the slope.

III

The two went to Sugimaru’s house in Tsujimachi.

Tōjirō was a 120-koku storekeeper official, and his family consisted of three members: his mother, his recently wedded wife, and his younger sister named Fukae.

“I’ve taken three days off,” Tōjirō said. “Since today’s special, let’s pour some sake and take it easy.”

It seemed Tōjirō had given them a quiet word beforehand, for everyone’s attitude was perfectly natural, showing no trace of formality. It was his first time meeting the wife, but she too behaved as though they were old acquaintances.

The sake flowed smoothly.

Fukae sat down to serve. She was twenty years old—a petite, round-faced, healthy-looking girl—with a notably large double tooth visible when she smiled. That must have been why she felt self-conscious; whenever she laughed, she would always turn her hand over and cover her mouth.

“Don’t be silly—there’s no need to hide.”

Tōjirō often said.

“Double teeth are charming—they suit your face perfectly when they show,” Tōjirō said.

“But it’s too big.”

“But it’s too big,” Fukae replied (covering her mouth).

“Mine isn’t a double tooth—it’s like a demon’s fang. It’s mortifying.”

Keinosuke and Fukae had been engaged five years ago.
Keinosuke had his own circumstances and had not visited this house for over two years.
As a result, Fukae had turned twenty years old—yet there had been no change in her demeanor.
For Keinosuke, this was a source of self-reproach, yet his joy was equally profound.
Seeing that she showed no change at all and accepted him just as before, he felt doubly a strong sense of self-reproach and deep joy.

When the meal ended, Keinosuke said his farewells.

“I’ll come by the day after tomorrow,” Tōjirō said. “That’s when I’ll hear everything.”

Keinosuke nodded.
Tōjirō escorted him to the entrance.

“I’ll inform Old Man Matsuno.”
“I’ll handle the servants and such,” Tōjirō said. “First off, you should get some proper rest.”

Keinosuke nodded while averting his eyes.

“How overjoyed Old Man Matsuno will be.”

Tōjirō murmured.
It was nearly a soliloquy.
Keinosuke looked back at Tōjirō’s face before exiting through the entrance.

Fujiyoshi’s house stood in a district called Takeyashiki.

About an hour after Keinosuke returned home, the family steward Matsuno Itayu arrived with two servants.
Matsuno had been the family steward since his father’s time but had resigned six months prior and taken refuge at a relative’s house.
When Matsuno came to Keinosuke’s living room to greet him upon returning, he wept.

“I heard from Lord Sugimaru,” Matsuno Itayu said. “I spoke rudely to you back then. Please forgive me.”

Keinosuke bowed his head.
And he said in a low voice,
“Forgive me. I’ll make things right.”
Matsuno said, “Yes.”

“I’ll turn my life around,” Keinosuke said. “I’ll definitely turn it around—I swear I will.”

Tears spilled from Keinosuke’s eyes.

Matsuno directed the two temporarily hired servants and tidied up the house thoroughly.
There were scarcely any household furnishings, and the entire house had been left in disarray.
They cleaned it up thoroughly and purchased the necessary items for the time being.
It seemed Sugimaru had arranged the funds; later, claiming “there was some left over,” he handed Keinosuke about two ryō.

A day later, Tōjirō came to visit.

By that time, Matsuno’s elderly wife had also returned, so they modestly prepared a meal with sake and accompanying dishes and conversed over lunch.

Keinosuke told everything.
Setting aside matters that needed no telling or could not be told, he confessed as truthfully as possible.

Fujiyoshi’s family held a middle elder position of 530 koku; his father’s attendant had served in close official capacities, and his father himself had been an abstemious man who never touched alcohol or tobacco.
Though an only son, Keinosuke had never been spoiled; he was naturally gentle and bright, frequently earning commendations at the domain school—it was at Seishinkan that he first met Sugimaru Tōjirō.
Tōjirō was a year his senior and renowned as a prodigy at the Seishinkan dojo.
Keinosuke never matched his skill but still attained a position in the upper-middle ranks; there were even occasions when he could win one out of three matches against Tōjirō.

From around the age of twenty, he mysteriously began to attract widespread admiration, and rumors such as "He will surely become an Elder before long" began to circulate.
Since his father had served in close official capacities and one of the three Elder seats was customarily selected from among the middle elders, the rumors were not baseless—yet for a man of his age to attract such widespread admiration felt like a considerable burden to him.

He would tell him not to worry about such things.

Tōjirō often encouraged him.

“Rumors are fickle things anyway—so what if you become an Elder? Becoming an Elder wouldn’t be so bad!”

“Cut it out—I just want to live quietly.”

Keinosuke liked scholarship.
If possible, he would have wanted to spend his life quietly engaged in scholarship.

At twenty-three, he proposed to take Fukae as his wife.
Tōjirō agreed after listening to his sister’s feelings, and the engagement was finalized.
Fukae was fifteen years old, but she seemed developmentally delayed; both her physique and her demeanor remained childlike.

“Please wait about two years for me.”

Tōjirō said, and Keinosuke agreed.

The year he turned twenty-five, his mother died, followed by his father’s death in Edo.
Keinosuke went to Edo for his father’s funeral and there met a woman.

The woman was a geisha from Yanagibashi named Ohisa, already twenty-two years old.
Keinosuke met her at a banquet hosted by his late father’s friend, then, at her request, he went to meet her alone in secret.

“Please come see me just once more.”

And Ohisa pleaded.

“If you return to your home province, I’ll never see you again in this lifetime. Please—just once more.”

It happened again and again.
Edo was an exotic metropolis; geisha entertainment was a novel experience; and she was the first woman he had ever known in that world.
Keinosuke was drawn to the woman’s intense passion.
He didn’t dislike her by any means, and he even felt a certain reluctance to part, but ultimately, he considered it all a dalliance—something that belonged solely to his time in Edo.

He completed his seventy-day stay and returned to his home province.
When they parted, Ohisa wept uncontrollably.

“I just can’t forget you—I’d rather die.”

The woman wailed, bit down on his arm time and again, and pressed her cheek frantically against the marks left by her own teeth.

Shortly after returning to his home province, he was summoned to a restaurant by an anonymous letter.
When he went to the restaurant Genmune near Shin-Kyōbashi, it was Ohisa there.
She had grown utterly haggard, looking like a sickly patient.
When she saw Keinosuke, she smiled pitifully, hunched her shoulders, and said:

“Please don’t scold me.”

“What’s wrong?”

He couldn’t make sense of it.

“Please, I beg you—don’t scold me.”

Ohisa clung to him and burst into violent tears.

IV

Keinosuke fell silent for a moment.

“I didn’t know that,” said Tōjirō. “So she came from Edo?”

Keinosuke fell silent for a while, then continued speaking.

Ohisa left Edo and became a geisha in Kihana-cho, this castle town.
She said she hadn’t intended to meet him—she had only wanted to live in the same land where he resided.

“But I wanted to see you just once—that’s why I worked up the courage to send you the letter.”

Ohisa said that and smiled.

“Now I’m satisfied—I’ve met you once, and being able to stay in the same land is all I could wish for. I won’t cause you any more trouble.”

Was Ohisa being sincere?

"I don’t know," said Keinosuke. "Was she truly resolved never to meet me again, or did she know that acting that way would draw a man in even more? I can’t say which it was. Either way—after that, no summons came from Ohisa."

However, it was Keinosuke who went to meet her.

He could not keep himself from going to meet her.
Through Ohisa, he had come to know a woman for the first time—and though brief were their encounters—he now understood how potent a temptation they held.
Moreover, he pitied the wholehearted desperation of this woman who had fled Edo.

She claimed this fulfilled her deepest wish.

That she could become a geisha in this provincial castle town yet remain in his land—this alone satisfied her heart’s longing.
Ohisa’s words pierced his chest and gripped his core.

“You mustn’t come.”

Ohisa said.
Whenever Keinosuke went to meet her, Ohisa would say that.

“This town is small, so rumors spread quickly. Please don’t come anymore after this.”

Keinosuke also resolved to do the same.
He felt guilty toward Fukae as well—she had turned seventeen and had grown more womanly.
Maybe I should just marry Fukae outright—if I did that, perhaps I could forget the other woman. He even considered this.
Yet instead, the obsession only grew stronger.
Perhaps it was due to Ohisa’s acquired skills—the techniques that enthralled men—or maybe not.
But more than anything, the woman’s desperate figure was so pitiable and heartrending.
When he imagined her figure—singing and dancing for provincial clients in the unfamiliar banquet rooms of this land—he could no longer keep himself from going to meet her.

“This time for sure—this is truly the last time.”

Ohisa said that.
She also said that even if he came this time, they wouldn’t meet again.
Moreover, the frequency of their meetings only continued to increase.

“What will become of us if we keep doing this?”

“We’ll grow tired of it eventually—it’ll be fine.”

“Right… It’s not like we can ever become husband and wife anyway, and maybe we’ll grow tired of each other eventually.”

“That’s right—we’ll both grow tired of it eventually.”

And the relationship between the two deepened further.

“If another six months had passed, we might have truly grown tired of each other and parted,” said Keinosuke. “But by then, people had begun talking about us, and Matsuno started voicing his objections constantly.”

“Matsuno came to consult me,” said Tōjirō. “I told him to wait a little longer—that it would likely die down on its own—and that he should keep quiet a while more.”

“Matsuno couldn’t do that,” said Keinosuke. “The money was nearly gone.”

Itayu did not mention the matter of money.
It wouldn’t do for the Sugimaru family to hear of this.
Even if it became a topic of discussion within the household, he said it would tarnish the family name.
From then on, the two were no longer the same as they had been before.
Everyone was watching. Everyone was trying to drive them apart. They could no longer meet openly.
They thought so and began to meet in secret.
That bound the two of them even more tightly.
By hiding from society’s eyes, their mutual affection and the temptation of pleasure grew fiercer, until they became unable to go a single day without meeting each other.

Both Keinosuke and the woman’s debts mounted.

He borrowed money from Matsuno that he couldn’t disclose, and Ohisa incurred debts without his knowledge.
Needless to say, in their efforts to hide from society’s eyes, they only ended up fueling its rumors all the more.
Because he couldn’t pay the stipend, Matsuno dismissed the servants, and the three family retainers also left one after another.

His father’s retainer had died, and since he had inherited the position, it was time for him to take on some role.
However, there had been no word—likely, the rumors about the woman were interfering.
If he did not secure a post (though his family’s status as middle councilors remained unchanged), his stipend would be reduced by one-third.
Life reached its absolute limit.

“That’s when the woman confessed,” said Keinosuke. “At first she just kept crying and wouldn’t say a thing, but when I pressed her again and again—she told me we couldn’t meet anymore, that she had to transfer to another district.”

Keinosuke learned of the woman’s debts for the first time.

In the roughly year-and-a-half period since coming from Edo, the woman had accumulated debts she could no longer shoulder, and the deadline could no longer be postponed.
She had to choose between repaying the money or relocating to another district.

“All right, I’ll get the money.”

Keinosuke said.

“If that money is cleared up, you’ll be free, won’t you?”

“So you’re telling me to return to Edo after that?”

“After I get the money.”

“Let me relocate.”

“Do you think I can’t get the money together?”

“Please—just let me relocate.”

“It wasn’t such a distant place—even if I relocated, we could still meet,” Ohisa said. “Rather, being in separate areas might let us meet more freely without reservations.” But he couldn’t accept this—not when she had abandoned Edo for his sake and incurred debts on his account. He refused to stand idly by.

He sold household calligraphy paintings and valuable utensils without Matsuno’s permission.

Matsuno was enraged.
He who had served since his father’s time—a gentle man yet loyal and diligent—was enraged.

“I shall take my leave.”

Matsuno said, trembling.
“Do as you please,” said Keinosuke.

“In return—don’t say a word.”

Matsuno said nothing.
Matsuno left with his wife without saying anything that resembled an opinion.
And Keinosuke was left alone.

“I was the one who told Matsuno to do that,” said Tōjirō. “And that it’d be best to wait and see how things develop for a while.”

“Now I see clearly,” said Keinosuke, “but back then my mind had gone mad. Very well—if that’s how it stands, I’ll press onward to the bitter end. Let’s see what comes of it—”

And so he took the woman into his home.

5

A life for just the two of them began.

It was a life of intense exhaustion.
The man tried to forget his rage and despair at being cast aside by society through drowning himself in pleasure with the woman, while she, driven by guilt over having forced him into such circumstances, sought to atone by granting him ever deeper raptures.
It certainly seemed that way to Keinosuke.
The woman’s insatiable demands, her anxiety, and her expressions of fierce rapture and intoxication only grew more fervent by the day—yet even amidst such frenzied ecstasy, they were always accompanied by tears of guilt and pleas for forgiveness.

“It’s my fault—I’m the one who did this to you. Forgive me, please forgive me!”

Ohisa writhed in anguish and cried out.
Keinosuke tried to stop her, often covering the woman’s mouth and even shouting.

“Stop it—just stop! None of this is anyone’s fault. If you have to blame something, blame the fact that we ever met.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“If there’s any fault to be found, it’s in that.”

“You’re so heartless.”

“It’s because you blame yourself too much.”

“You’re heartless—you’ll never know how grateful I am for that.”

Ohisa said.

“I don’t care what happens to me—the fact that I met you makes me happy. That’s what I’m most grateful for.”

And the woman wept as though her heart would break.

Keinosuke did not speak of these things.
The days and nights that scorched their bodies and souls were impossible to speak of, and there was no need to speak of them... Life became entirely a matter of living day to day.
Keinosuke sold the household’s belongings.
The woman wore the same clothes day in and day out and had no hair tools.
He had already sold off all the notable items, so what remained were mostly items so embarrassing they brought shame.
However, no matter how insignificant, if it was something that could be turned into money, he sold it one after another.

“Just a little more.”
“Just a little longer.”

The woman cried out in a voice of agony.

“I’ll be leaving soon, so please bear with me just a little longer.”

But Ohisa did not leave and instead declared she would earn money herself.
“Let’s go to Edo together. In Edo we can earn enough, and you won’t have to live with shame.”
“Let’s go to Edo together,” she began pleading.

“Otherwise we’ll starve to death.”

“Do you hate starving to death?”

“As if I could let you starve to death.”

“If you want to go, go alone. You’re the one who wants to return to Edo, aren’t you?”

“You don’t understand a woman’s feelings at all, do you?”

“Go alone. I refuse.”

The house became empty.
The only things left were those not even a junk dealer would buy, and selling them became Ohisa’s task.
Then one day, Ohisa found an old mirror and brought it back.

“That can’t be sold.”

said Keinosuke.

“It’s a family heirloom that’s been passed down through the Fujiyoshi line for generations—entrusted to each generation’s wife of this household. From grandmother to mother, mother to… That’s right—it’s meant to be passed on to you.”

“To me?!”

“If you’re my wife, then of course it would be passed down to you.”

Ohisa gazed at it curiously, turning it over in her hands.
It was a hand mirror cast in bronze with an eight-petaled shape, roughly four sun in diameter—about twelve centimeters—adorned with a dragon relief on its back.

“It seems quite old, doesn’t it?”

“Since it’s called a Han mirror, it must be over a thousand years old.”

“Then it must be worth a considerable amount.”

“I’m not certain, but if sold, it would likely fetch a considerable sum.”

Ohisa was gazing at the mirror endlessly, as if enchanted.
And she let out a deep sigh, then with great reluctance, put it back into its original box.

“It’s too good for someone like me.”

“It’s yours.”

“Such a precious, valuable thing—it’s too good for someone like me.”

Ohisa returned it to its original place.

“When was that?” asked Tōjirō.

“Just about twenty days ago.”

“And then I came, didn’t I?”

“The first time Sugimaru came,” said Keinosuke, “when I saw his face, I thought this would finally bring an end to it all.”

At that moment, he had been in a frenzy from the very beginning.

Tōjirō tried to speak calmly.
Tōjirō had endured as much as he could endure, and had reached the point where he could endure no more.
Moreover, Tōjirō had intended to speak calmly and had spoken as calmly as he could endure.
But since he was flying into a rage, their voices immediately grew rough, and their words turned sharp against each other.

“Stop with the sanctimonious talk—why don’t you just say what you really think?”

Keinosuke sneered and said.

“Telling me to break up with that woman isn’t for my sake—it’s to make me leave her so you can get me together with your sister, isn’t it?”

“Don’t speak Fukae’s name—this is none of her concern.”

“Fukae-san and I have been engaged for five years. That’s something most in the household know. Having it destroyed over some woman would disgrace me.”

“Shut up, shut up, Fujiyoshi!”

Tōjirō shouted.

“Have you truly sunk so low? For that woman’s sake—have you become such a base human being?”

“What about the woman?”

“No matter how base that woman may be, for you to sink to her level—what a pitiful wretch.”

“I won’t forgive those words!”
“Because you called her base?”
“You slandered her. Retract it.”
“What if I refuse?”
“No need for debate—we duel.”

Then Tōjirō sneered and said.
That he still clung to some shred of dueling spirit—the thought almost amused him.
“I won’t refuse.”

“Name the place and time.”

“The morning after tomorrow at five o’clock—let’s meet at Kannonji Hill.”

6

“The next morning—the morning after Sugimaru had come,” said Keinosuke, “I woke up and the woman was gone. I thought she’d gone to wash up or gotten up to prepare breakfast. But no matter how long I waited, there was no sound or sign of her. Suddenly it struck me—I felt the woman’s futon. It had turned completely cold. I knew she’d fled. Until that moment, I’d never once considered it—that she might run away—I hadn’t doubted it even a fingernail’s worth.”

Despite this, he intuited that "the woman had fled."

But that couldn't be possible.

Keinosuke immediately dismissed his own intuition.
She must have gone to arrange money, he told himself, soothing his doubts as he waited with growing impatience.
Of course, there was no sign of Ohisa returning. When afternoon came and he could bear it no longer, he set out for Kihanamachi.
And he made inquiries—disregarding appearances—at the house where the woman had been living and the teahouses she frequented.
The woman was nowhere to be found.
Keinosuke drank sake—even foul-smelling liquor at a shop frequented by horse handlers and laborers—drank himself sick, and upon returning home, collapsed in a drunken stupor.

“I woke up past midnight—seems I remembered it in a dream—and the moment I opened my eyes, I realized about the Han mirror.”

“It wasn’t there.”

“It wasn’t there,” said Keinosuke. “When I went to search, only the box remained—the Han mirror inside was gone. There was no room left for doubt. It became clear she had fled.”

That was the only golden item left to Keinosuke.
It was a family heirloom passed down through generations, and the woman knew it could fetch a high price.

“She wrung me dry,” said Keinosuke. “And once there was nothing left to wring out, with even our family’s survival at stake, she took that last mirror I’d kept back and fled.”

“The previous night—” said Tōjirō, “wasn’t it because Fukae’s situation came up in talk?”

“No—Fukae-san had known about it from before.”

There were no more words to exchange.

"I thought about killing myself."

“I did more than that,” said Tōjirō. “Fujiyoshi came to Kannonji Hill as promised and laid bare every fact without concealment. This cannot be done without courage.”

Tōjirō poured sake into two cups and said, “Take them together.”

“Make use of this experience,” Tōjirō said in a low voice. “What Fujiyoshi has endured is no common ordeal. Most men would be broken by it—but I believe in Fujiyoshi. He will surely regain his footing, and when he does, this experience will prove invaluable. I entrust this to you.”

Keinosuke kept his eyes downcast.
As if carving Tōjirō’s words into his heart, he listened with his gaze fixed downward, then drank sake from the shared cup with him, and still looking at the floor, spoke.

“Will Ms. Fukae ever forgive me?”

“I don’t know,” said Tōjirō. “Since she hasn’t said anything until now, she might be enduring it. From how she seemed that morning the other day, I’d think so—but unless you ask her, you won’t know her true feelings.”

“Then don’t ask.”
Keinosuke said, “When the time comes, I’ll ask her myself—if she’s still waiting for me by then, that is—”

Tōjirō looked into his eyes and nodded.

Fujiyoshi Keinosuke had recovered.
Far sooner and more decisively than Tōjirō had anticipated—the Keinosuke who had recovered was no longer his former self.
Before the incident with the woman, he had been a gentle, scholarly, sheltered young man.
Though raised with strictness, his timidity as an only son and shy disposition had stood out.
That had completely changed.
In both countenance and bearing, a latent strength and core fortitude emerged, while his manner of speech grew clear and direct.
It resembled how one recovering from grave illness might become far healthier than before.

The following February, Keinosuke assumed the position of middle councilor and married Fukae.
He did not offer anything resembling an apology, nor did Fukae show any sign of reproaching his transgressions.

In their second year of marriage, their eldest son, Kotaro, was born, and a year later, their second son, Suginosuke, was born.
At that time, Keinosuke said to his wife.

“Two boys are sufficient—I’ll see to it we have no more children.”

Fukae replied, “Is that so?”
At that time, she had no idea why her husband would say such a thing.
However, as days passed, her husband began adopting unnatural methods, and since this continued indefinitely, she could no longer endure her doubts and asked.
“Do you truly intend to have no more children?”

“Did you think I was joking?”

“Why do you say that?” said Fukae. “While I would not call two boys insufficient, there is no guarantee these two will grow up safely. What if one were lost—no, what if both were taken from us?”

“If you dwell on such worries, there will be no end,” said Keinosuke. “I was an only child myself, yet I grew up without incident.”

“Of course I was speaking metaphorically,” said Fukae. “But even setting such metaphors aside, for a family of the Fujiyoshi’s standing, I don’t think it would be strange to have three or four children.”

“Have you ever calculated it?”

“Calculations?”

“What kind of life we must maintain on a 530-koku stipend—that’s what I mean,” said Keinosuke. “Having and raising children is something even day laborers can manage. But what do you do once they’ve grown? Day laborers can make their sons horse handlers or palanquin bearers—but samurai can’t do that. No matter how poor we are, we can’t have our children take up such work. Surely even you understand that.”

Fukae lowered her head.

“Only one will inherit the Fujiyoshi family. The rest must either be adopted out or resign themselves to living as dependents their entire lives,” said Keinosuke. “If we were of higher status, we could divide the stipend through bunchi—but as a middle councilor with 530 koku, it’s impossible.”

Fukae shuddered as if seized by a chill, her shoulders drawing in slightly.
Keinosuke said.

“Two children are plenty.”

Seven

At age thirty-five, Keinosuke was assigned to Edo and assumed the role of overseer of the Edo liaison office while retaining his position as middle councilor.
As was commonly known, the liaison officer served as the domain’s diplomat, while the overseer managed its administrative affairs.
Though highly methodical work, this position—well-suited to gaining comprehensive insight into domain governance—later proved immensely beneficial to him.

The standard term for Edo assignments was three years; however, due to his appointment to this post with responsibilities, Keinosuke remained in Edo for six years. During this period, he twice returned to his home province—and each time those around him distinctly perceived the transformation unfolding in his character.
His frame had grown solid and sturdy, while his countenance now bore both resolute will and an air of dignity.
When returning home, it became customary for him to meet Sugimaru Tōjirō and share meals alone together—occasions where they appeared relaxed and genuinely convivial, yet through which their disparity in social standing remained unmistakably palpable.

“He’s made a splendid recovery,” Tōjirō said to Fukae. “There’s no mistake—he’ll surely become an Elder.”

The reputation that had once been anticipated gradually coalesced into the collective expectation of the entire household.

After completing six years as overseer of the Edo liaison office, he was promoted to Chamberlain and granted an additional 200 koku.
The Chamberlain’s role proved arduous—a position that invited censure regardless of execution.
Standing between feudal lord and senior retainers meant even trifling matters swiftly became seeds of criticism.
It imposed ceaseless burdens both physical and mental, demanding exceptional health and intellect to endure.

When he became Chamberlain, he changed his name to Yoritomo and had his eldest son Kotaro take the name Keinosuke.
He performed his duties as Chamberlain splendidly.
In both Edo and his home province, his reputation was excellent, and he enjoyed particularly deep trust from the feudal lord, frequently being rewarded with swords and garments bestowed upon him.
After four years, when the time finally came for him to become an Elder, he submitted a request to retire, citing physical ailment, astonishing everyone in the household.

While the Chief Elder’s position was effectively lifelong, the four Elders below second rank—across both Edo and the home province—served five-year terms, with one selected from among the middle councilors.
It was precisely the year when the middle councilors were to be replaced that Yoritomo submitted his request to retire.
Those around him urged him to reconsider, and even the feudal lord issued a formal request for him to remain, but he absolutely refused to withdraw his resignation.

“Due to my poor physical condition, I can no longer adequately fulfill my duties as things stand; to be of service in the future, I wish to humbly request two or three years’ leave to restore my health.”

Having said this, he finally resigned from his post.

Of course, this was merely a pretext; he had confided his true intentions only to Sugimaru Tōjirō.

“I’ve advanced too smoothly,” Yoritomo said. “Until now, I’ve fortunately avoided earning disfavor—but becoming an Elder like this would surely invite resentment. I can see it as clearly as if it were before my eyes.”

“That may be so,” said Sugimaru Tōjirō, “but the next replacement won’t come for five years.”

“It does seem that way.”

“Do you think the situation will remain unchanged for five years?”

“Hard to say,” said Yoritomo. “If I were waiting for an Elder’s replacement, I might consider that point—but I don’t intend to idle away five years.”

Sugimaru Tōjirō looked at Yoritomo’s face.
Yoritomo nodded with a smile.

“So it is,” said Yoritomo. “I’ll confide this only to you, Sugimaru—my aim is to become Chief Elder.”

Sugimaru Tōjirō was overwhelmed and could not utter a word.

"He’s become a remarkable man."

Sugimaru Tōjirō muttered inwardly.

But truly, this man might become Chief Elder.

Yoritomo’s retired life began.
The eldest son, Keinosuke, was fifteen years old, and the second son, Shinnosuke, was thirteen.
Yoritomo showed almost no interest in his children. He would borrow books from the domain’s library and lose himself in reading them, don straw sandals to carry a lunchbox while walking meticulously throughout the territory, or go fishing in the Kumaigawa River.
He showed not the slightest sign of aiming for the position of Chief Elder; to any observer’s eye, he appeared precisely as a man taking his ease.

One day, just after September had begun—

Yoritomo went out to fish in the Kumaigawa River.
He had been there once before—where the current winding around Kannonji Temple’s hill curved sharply to the right, forming a fairly wide pool, and reeds grew thickly from the bank all the way into the river’s depths.
Yoritomo wore a sedge hat, carried only a short sword at his waist, and was dressed in a lined kimono.
The spot where one descended from the embankment was elevated in one area, jutting out into the water because the embankment’s soil had become brittle and collapsed.
He chose that spot and prepared his fishing rod.

A slightly chilly autumn morning wind blew.

Yoritomo’s fishing had never aimed to catch fish.
He needed only to maintain an appearance of leisurely ease should anyone observe him—the act itself held no interest for him.
Having cast his line, he thrust the rod into the soil at his feet and settled onto the embankment slope.

With each gust of wind, reeds swayed to one side while yellowing leaves produced dry rustling sounds.

Soon a crucian carp of about three sun took the bait, followed by three more.
As he tried driving the rod deeper into soil again, it met resistance below ground. When he pushed harder, he felt something crack beneath.
Likely a buried box—using his rod as a tool, Yoritomo excavated soil until an object resembling a writing box surfaced.

“It’s definitely a writing box,” Yoritomo muttered. “Why would someone bury something like this in a place like this?”

A cord was tied around the box. The cord had rotted and frayed so badly that it snapped immediately when touched, but it was clear from the metal fitting that this had been the cord used to tie the box. The box had completely decayed as well, but here and there remnants of lacquer and maki-e could be seen.

A wind came, and the reeds swiftly rustled through.

Yoritomo opened the lid. Inside was a letter. He took it out and carefully unfolded it. It seemed quite old; the paper had turned brown and stuck together from the glue. As he unrolled it, the adhered parts peeled away and tore. Moreover, the kana characters written there—though they appeared to be a woman’s unskilled handwriting—were smudged by water, leaving many portions illegible. Yet as he read them slowly and thoroughly, they conveyed the following meaning.

Lord Kei, I am going to my death.

The opening began with those words.

The reason I resolved to die was because I overheard the conversation between you two tonight.
But that alone is not the reason—to speak my true heart, I believe now is the time to die.

My body and soul are now overflowing with joy and happiness.
I met you and have been able to love each other so deeply.
I too abandoned all that I had acquired, neglected my obligations, left the land of my birth, and clung to you alone—and you, for my sake, forgot your house and name, and discarded everything.

In both my heart and body, your love still burns like fire.
I have lived more than if born three times over, tasting deeper joy and happiness.
Now I feel like crying out—has anyone else loved as fiercely as we?
I will die before this blazing happiness fades.
Though I take the mirror without permission, I'll clasp it as if it were you—please forgive this.

Ah, Lord Kei—now as I go to my death, can you understand how joyously, how blissfully happy I feel?
…Now you are sleeping soundly—the bell of Kannonji Temple has struck two.
Then with this, I bid you farewell.
Lord Kei, farewell.

At the end, a name was written, but the characters were completely smudged and unreadable.
Yoritomo snorted.

The handwriting wasn’t skilled, and the composition was clumsy.
But there, the joy of love resounded like a triumphant hymn.
It could have been called the joyous and triumphant cry of a woman dying in the intoxication of love.

Had Yoritomo remembered something? No—there was no sign he had recalled anything. He furrowed his brows in disdain.
“Joy and happiness,” he said. “Hmph—so she wrote this and died. Whatever woman she was—what a foolish thing to do.”

Yoritomo discarded the letter and once again thrust the fishing rod into the soil.

The wind swept through, and the reeds bent uniformly to one side, their leaves aligned as they swayed.
Rustling with a dry sound—the reeds seemed to be whispering among themselves.
About the incident that had occurred on a certain early summer morning eighteen years prior amidst thick fog and Yoritomo now discarding the letter…the wind swept through incessantly, and the reeds rustled as they swayed.
Yoritomo sat down on the embankment and began to enjoyably devise his plan to secure the position of “castle steward.”