Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“What are you messing with now? Quit it! What’re you doing there? That’s no place for a man to poke around! Can’t you hear me? After I slaved to tidy up, you’re ruining everything! Stop it! I said stop doing useless things!”

The mornings in that tenement row house began with such shouting. It came from the home of Hirano Matagoro, a painter—a high-pitched yet astonishingly fluid rapid-fire delivery. Then, as if signaled, noises started rising from every direction.

“Hey you, get up! The master's started up again at his place. Go rouse the boy while you’re at it!”

“There’s Oishi-san’s voice! Quit dawdling—chop that firewood now or we’ll be stuck!”

“Mr. Hirano’s place is already going! Stop lollygagging or you’ll miss your chance! Everyone—get your chores sorted quick!”

In this way, the alleyway gradually grew lively as the day’s routines began stirring into motion.
Yet in the Hirano household, this wasn’t the end.
His wife Oishi’s shrill voice carried on—
as though they lived in some lone house out in the wilds, shouting with brisk sharpness and not a care for the neighbors—

"My sketchbook’s missing. I’m sure I left it on this desk."

“If you left it there, then it should be there, shouldn’t it? Why don’t you look where you left it? You’re always like this—no—there’s nothing there! Where could you have put it? It can’t just vanish! All this ‘it slipped’ or ‘it fell’ nonsense—if you left it somewhere, go look there! Stop tearing through that area! I said stop! It’s not there! Don’t touch where you shouldn’t—I tidied everything properly, so quit making a mess! Why can’t you understand when I say no? Honestly, you—!”

“—It was here, wasn’t it?”

“If it’s there, then that’s fine! No reason to complain! Told you it was here! I put it away proper—of course it’d be right where I left it! All that ‘I left it on the desk’ nonsense—yammering on and on—making a big fuss over nothing, just creating more work for me in the end! Like that time when—”

Matagoro silently surveyed the room.

In the kitchen, Oishi’s shrill shouts continued incessantly with no sign of ceasing.
Mismatched painting tools, a dwarfish cheap wooden desk, a chipped-corner tea cabinet, a charcoal brazier, a coal scuttle—these comprised all that could be called furnishings.
Not only the closet’s sliding doors but even the aged tatami mats were patched with persimmon-tanned paper at their worn-through spots.
The low ceiling, peeling walls stained with rain... He frowned, sighed, then thrust the sketchbook into his breast and descended vacantly to the dirt-floored entryway.

“What are you doing? Where do you think you’re going? The soup’s about ready—what’s the meaning of this? If you’re going out, at least eat your meal first!”

“I don’t need it. I don’t want to eat.”

“Don’t wanna eat? What’ll you do starving yourself? Planning to drink with someone this early again? Fine then! Drink yourself silly for all I care! I wash my hands of it—get going! But what about your work? What’ll we tell Master Awa-ya when he comes? ‘Still not done’ like always? You think I can keep making excuses? What proper response you expect me to give? This time you gotta say something definite, no matter how much—”

Matagoro exited into the main street from the alley with a pale, sunken expression, remaining silent throughout.

It was a cloudy late autumn morning, with mouse-gray clouds forming heavy layers that completely blanketed the sky.
There was not a breath of wind, but the temperature had dropped severely—it was cold enough to feel like snow might fall at any moment.—He walked toward the Edo River.
His friend Inoue Kohei was at Ushigome’s Yaraishita; his feet had started heading there unconsciously, but noticing this abruptly, he stopped and stared at his own feet for a while.

"How pointless—the same thing, the same relentless cycle... I can't take this anymore."

Muttering this under his breath, he reached the Edo River and walked along its banks all the way to Sekiguchi’s Ōarai Dam.
This area was sparsely populated, known among cultured connoisseurs for its expansive views of fields and woods, and for the abundant natural scenery that flourished through each of the four seasons.
――From Ōarai Dam, Matagoro went upstream two or three blocks and sat down in autumn grass near the river.

“Distant mountains... layers upon layers of azure.”

He muttered this, dropped his head onto the knees he clutched with both hands, and let out a deep sigh.

II

Hirano Matagoro was born the third son of a low-ranking samurai family. From childhood he loved painting, rejected a favorable adoption proposal, and at sixteen entered as an inner disciple of Kano Nobuchika.

This resulted in his disownment by his parents, but he—fully conscious of this consequence—believed he needed neither parents nor siblings so long as he could keep painting, required neither wealth nor fame, and poured all his being into artistic study.

Though Nobuchika had not yet achieved the ecclesiastical rank of Hokkyō, he already stood as a Kano school elder and commanded formidable influence as a court painter whose reputation overwhelmed both eastern and western Japan.
From the outset Matagoro had been acknowledged by Nobuchika for his promising talent; at eighteen he received the art name Kinkō and came to be hailed as the academy's prodigy.

At that time, Oishi was a maid in the Kano household—small-framed, stocky in build with an unshapely figure, her face bearing faint ammonite-like patterns that did little to enhance her appearance. Yet her cheerful disposition and brisk efficiency, coupled with sharp perceptiveness despite occasional carelessness, earned Nobuchika’s favor, leading her to handle workshop-related tasks exclusively.

She began harboring affection for Matagoro after he received the art name “Kinkō.”
Oishi appeared enamored more with his artistic prowess and future prospects than with the man himself.
Oishi concealed nothing of her feelings toward him.
With her innate briskness and unreserved nature, she openly displayed affection toward him and spoke of it freely to other disciples and maidservants alike.

“He may not lack masculine charm, but I didn’t fall for some trifle like that. I believe he’ll make his name—become a painter who surpasses even Master himself. That’s why I fell for him.”

A court painter’s household naturally maintained prestige with etiquette as strict as any samurai family—servants would never use such crude language. Yet Oishi boldly spat out her words without restraint.

To those around them, it was both laughable and not quite detestable.
The short and stocky, shabbily dressed, and graceless Oishi was already parading around Kinkō—the prodigy hailed as the Kano family’s genius—as if he were her personal possession.
No matter who considered it, this was utterly absurd—nothing but a self-aggrandizing delusion.

――“So when’s the wedding, Oishi-san?”

The fellow maidservants spoke in such manner while secretly ridiculing her behind her back.

At twenty-three, Matagoro rebelled against his master Nobuchika and left the Kano household.
He had grown weary of the court painter’s lifestyle and become thoroughly disenchanted with its antiquated artistic style—trapped within conceptual and formal constraints, devoid of progress or creativity.

"I've had enough of classical conventions! Court painters merely toy with the dregs of classical conventions. A painting must create unknown truths pulsating with life—I'll paint my paintings exactly as I desire!" He declared this and rebelled against his teacher Nobuchika.

He was young. And in rebelling against tradition, he felt a kind of pride and joy. That very feeling also became the motivation for taking Oishi as his wife. He knew full well that Oishi held affection for him and that this had become an object of ridicule among the Kano household members.

Their contempt toward Oishi fanned his rebellious spirit, and he even felt a kind of exhilarating pride in leaving with her by his side.

Over ten years had passed since they acquired a house in the back tenement row house of Koishikawa Hisakatamachi.
Following his departure, the three disciples—Shimada Keinosuke, Matsuya Sadazo, and Inoue Kohei—also left the Kano household and resolved to restart their careers, centering around Matagoro with the aim of establishing a new painting style.
Shimada and Inoue were children of poor, low-ranking samurai, while Sadazo was the fourth son of Matsuya Yohei, a fabric merchant in Kanda Imagawabashi.

Moreover, through these connections and drawn by the appeal of their new painting style, many young individuals began gathering until the single room in Hisakatamachi's tenement row house thrived with visitors coming and going ceaselessly day and night.

For about the first two years after establishing their household, things continued in that manner—there were still quite a few people commissioning paintings, and the new faction surrounding him appeared to be growing rapidly.
However, in the autumn of the second year, after he held a painting exhibition at Kameiro in Nihonbashi Yanokura, the situation completely reversed.

At that exhibition, four sets of triptychs and a two-panel folding screen depicting pink flowers were his confident works. Having discarded classical traditions and established conventions through utterly original techniques and audacious compositions, not only Shimada, Matsuya, Inoue and others but even the surrounding young men applauded and marveled—but. However, the exhibition proved a complete failure. Both the invited guests and those who came lured by reputation uniformly expressed disappointment and resentment. Some whispered furtively to each other, others sneered derisively, and a few made sure their insults were just loud enough to be heard.

At such gatherings, it was customary to draw fan surfaces and poem cards on the spot and distribute them to invited guests. Though he thought it a pointless custom, since this was Matagoro’s first exhibition, he had prepared accordingly—yet not a single guest he considered worthwhile appeared. When they glanced at the paintings, many left without even offering greetings, retreating as if fleeing.

Among the customers who supported him most was a man named Awa-ya Kahei, proprietor of a large dry goods store in Nihonbashi Ishichō.
He had loved his painting style from the time when he was still with Kano and continued to look after him well even after he established a household in Hisakatamachi.

At that exhibition too, Awa-ya had bought a two-panel folding screen and a triptych, and with that they had barely managed to cover the event’s expenses—had it not been for that, they might have had to flee Edo.
This failure proved decisive, and from that point onward, he spiraled precipitously into decline.

“The world is full of blind fools—those idiots can’t comprehend true artistic merit.”

The young companions raised their shoulders with those words.

Matagoro began drinking alcohol, debating with his young companions, frequenting pleasure quarters, and spent days—twenty or even fifty at a stretch—without touching his work, leaving his paint dishes dried out.

Debts kept mounting, those commissioning paintings dwindled steadily, the young men who had surrounded them drifted away one by one, and their life grew increasingly harsh and bleak.

Shimada, Inoue, and Matsuya never left his side.
They believed in Matagoro’s talent and trusted that their own path forward lay within it.
By holding Matagoro’s paintings in high regard, they sought to confirm the righteousness of their own ambitions while simultaneously attempting to prove both the poor discernment of ordinary people and the vulgar, inferior nature of celebrated painters’ works and the artworks lauded by society.

However, it was difficult for humans to always remain pure.
They began feeling contempt and hatred toward a world that refused to accept them—so fiercely did they believe in themselves.

"I've figured out why that exhibition failed! It wasn't just that they couldn't grasp the paintings—the Kano family had their hands in it!"

When Inoue Kohei proclaimed this with vehemence, claiming he'd heard it from a reliable source, Matagoro laughed coldly.

“What’s this—only realizing it now?”

“I knew from the beginning—the drying up of painting commissions was also the Kano faction’s scheme. Hasn’t this been obvious all along?”
With these words, he sneered derisively once more.

It was around this time that Oishi began shouting without restraint.
Until their first exhibition, she had loved him with near-excessive devotion, respected him to an embarrassing degree in others’ eyes, and taken pride in him being her husband.

But as he declined, she gradually changed, and as if flipping her palm over, began behaving bluntly and without reserve.
The friends who gathered now numbered only three, but when they came, she would become sullen and wouldn’t even offer tea with a pleasant expression.
If anyone so much as mentioned sake, she would immediately start shouting sharply.

“Sake? Don’t go spouting such carefree nonsense! I don’t even have rice to cook tonight! You all can stay good and drunk for all I care, but I’ll starve without food! Want me to buy liquor? Go try saying that yourself! There’s not a shop in the next town that’ll sell on credit! If you want to talk like decent folk, act like it once in a while—loafing from morning till night, blathering about worthless nonsense! Aren’t you ashamed before heaven? If you’re thirsty, go drink well water till you burst! Water’s all you lot deserve!”

Matagoro abruptly raised his eyes.

Beyond the withered grassland, the Edo River meandered gently along its course.
The leafless oak grove cast a lonely shadow on the steel-colored water's cold-looking surface.
Beside the grove stood a bamboo thicket with leaves faded to pale brown, and beyond it in the field, a farmer could be seen silently turning over the soil with weary motions, working at a leisurely pace.

"No good. That painting won't do either."

He muttered this and shook his head.

Even now, Awa-ya Kahei alone—though admittedly not as accommodating as before—still commissioned paintings and provided some financial flexibility in unavoidable circumstances.
He had been working extensively on Awa-ya’s commission since half a year prior.

It depicted the Edo River he now saw before his eyes and the various human lives of recreation, farming, and labor in the woodlands and fields along that winding river.

That concept held profound significance for him.
There lay a new path forward—if he could paint this work as it demanded to be painted, then at last he would be able to devote himself wholeheartedly to his craft.

"But no good—there's something missing there, something incomplete. I should rip it up."

Matagoro muttered in anguish.
He had spent over fifty days refining compositions from sketches, then produced at least fourteen or fifteen ink line drawings.
With this foundation laid, three months had passed since he began painting in earnest—he'd already scrapped five attempts—and now the sixth piece, which he'd believed would finally succeed, had hit another dead end.
No matter how he wrestled with it, nothing worked; there was simply no breaking through.

“Let’s go to Yaraishita. Sake.”

He groaned and stood up.

III

At Inoue’s place in Yaraishita, Matsuya Sadazo was present, and they drank sake with unusual delicacies laid out.
Sadazo had gone to his mother’s house at Imagawabashi and gotten money.

“It’s shameful to deceive her like this, but Mother’s a real saint, see? Father and Big Brother just line up a million complaints—wouldn’t give a hundred coins between ’em. But Mother? She just wells up quiet-like... wells up and hands over her secret nest egg without a word. Bless her heart.”

“Only praising her at times like that—the real hypocrite’s Mother herself.”

Kohei said that and laughed.

After leaving Yaraishita, they didn’t reach Shimada’s house until around noon.
They started drinking in that neighborhood and by dusk were at a boat inn in Yanagibashi.
In an upstairs tatami room overlooking the Kanda River below, he engaged in his usual art debates with three already quite intoxicated companions and grew impassioned as always.

“Taiga’s garbage—that’s just decorative fluff! Korin’s no better—all empty showmanship! They’re all fleeing true painting with their affected elegance! Flaunting ‘refinement’ and ‘literary grace’ in some realm divorced from raw truth!”

He was repeating the same things he’d said dozens upon dozens of times before.
Even as he thought this himself, the very act of thinking it made him raise his voice higher and intensify his words with greater force.

“Okyo’s work ain’t nothing but formulas! Just painting by rote! Even that pompous Sesshu’s no different—strip it all away and they’ve all got prototypes lurking underneath! Only pre-Kamakura stuff holds up—the picture scrolls and painters from those days had something truly unique.
"The Tosa school works do have considerable originality, but in recent times you’ll barely find anything beyond Sōtatsu worth mentioning. The rest are mostly imitations or frivolous play—that’s not real painting! True painting must pulse with life! Unless it’s got vitality that speaks piercingly clear even a thousand years from now, you can’t call it genuine art!"

“Things that pulse with life!”
Inoue Kohei said in a loud voice.
“—A new true painting, through our own hands!”

“Let’s smash these common customs to pieces, live by noble ideals, and bury all paintings made for profit like greengrocers and fishmongers! True painting resides within us!”

Shimada Keinosuke also said this and slapped his knee.
As if those very customs were right there on his knee.
And then what had happened? When he came to his senses, he found himself lying in a small room of a shop in Yoshiwara.
It was a house he had visited many times before, and even the narrow, dingy room looked familiar.

—Did it again. What a pathetic fool.

He frowned, twisted his lips, and shook his head unsteadily as if unable to bear the disgust.
Rather than remorse, he felt filthy through and through—repulsive—unbearably wretched beyond measure.

—The woman lying beside him suddenly lifted her head.—She squirmed restlessly beneath the bedding before turning toward him.

“Have you woken up? How do you feel? — Has the pain gone away?”

“It’s nothing serious. Where are the others?”

“They’re all over there. Shall I bring you water?”

Matagoro couldn’t bring himself to look at the woman’s face.

“What time is it now?”

“It’s still early. You said you’d keep at it today too, didn’t you?—I’ve already brought the sake here. Shall I warm it up a bit?”

“No—I’ve had enough sake.”

He got up to wash his hands.
The lattice-paned shoji glimmered faintly white; his head felt clouded, his body unsteady—like an empty husk.
His wife Oishi’s form rose before him—that shrill voice ringing sharp in his ears.
In the tenements, households would be stirring by now.
The humble sounds of simple living—daily routines whose monotony brought unexpected calm.
...What expression did Oishi wear as she heard those sounds?
Matagoro emitted a low groan, then shook his head violently, lips twisting into a laugh.

“What does that matter? I’m not some peddler hauling goods from wholesalers to sell for a living. I’m neither a carpenter nor a cloth merchant—I’m not one of those who lives by profit.”

He muttered this and, as if confronting an invisible enemy, lifted his brow and squared his shoulders.

“To soar high I must break free from common sense; I must destroy worldly notions—what manner of man I am shall be proven by my paintings.”

“What are you muttering to yourself? How long will you stay out here in the cold doing nothing?”
The woman came up behind him and pulled his arm.
Matagoro turned and, embracing the woman’s shoulder, said.

“Let’s drink. Go wake the three and bring them here.”

IV

They left there at dusk, spent that night at Shimada’s house, and the next day Inoue scrounged up money from somewhere—after making another drinking round through town, they wound up at the same establishment in Yoshiwara. But there was no excitement left nor any stimulation—the four men’s minds had already fractured apart, and staying together only deepened their shared loneliness.

It’s all a farce—what insipid, hollow pretense. Let’s escape.

As soon as they separated into their respective rooms, Matagoro dashed out of the house.
Though the hour seemed only slightly past dusk, the road had already frozen as if coated in frost, while a wintry wind blew fiercely. — He wanted to hail a palanquin, but he didn’t possess a single coin.
His body and spirit utterly exhausted, shivering ceaselessly from the cold, he walked on with a half-running gait.

He probably returned home around ten o'clock; his extremities were frozen from the cold, and what's more, with the sake wearing off and hunger setting in, his teeth clattered miserably and uncontrollably. How harshly he’d be berated—with this thought weighing on him, he entered the alleyway. Among the row houses with their storm shutters closed and plunged into darkness, there was one house alone where the lights blazed brightly, filled with the lively sounds of women laughing and carousing.

It looks like my house, but surely not…

He tilted his head.
As he approached, it was indeed his own house, and amidst the women's chatter, Oishi's high-pitched laughter was clearly audible.

What was this? What had happened?

He couldn't bring himself to enter right away. However, driven by half-formed anxiety, he opened the lattice door and called out—whereupon the women burst into shrill laughter: "Look, Oishi-san! Your darling husband's home!" "Husband? Don't be absurd—isn't this the world-renowned great master?" "Please do come in, sir! By all means!" While saying such things, a woman inside opened the shoji.

In addition to the andon lamp, three candles made the room dazzlingly bright. Six or seven neighborhood women sat around trays, drinking sake before dishes and bowls—likely ordered from a caterer—that had been devoured, all in high spirits from intoxication and making a raucous.

“Don’t make such a strange face and come over here! You there—right here!”

Oishi said this and slapped the tatami.

At that, the wives shrieked again—clinging indiscriminately to those beside them, pushing and jostling as they all clamored in unison.

Matagoro stood dumbfounded, confusion giving way to utter helplessness. Mumbling something resembling an excuse, he slid the shoji shut from his side and fled outside. When entering the alleyway, he noticed Gobei’s house—the tenement manager’s home—still awake.

He lived with his wife O-Katsu in a household of two, selling writing brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones—though this was merely a retirement side job for pocket money. Their son ran a fairly large paper wholesaler in Kanda, from whom they seemed to receive monthly provisions, allowing them to live quite leisurely while indulging in composing haiku and playing shogi. [...] Though his constant haiku recommendations and shogi challenges to anyone within earshot proved somewhat bothersome—not to mention his talkativeness—he secretly looked after those in need and devoted himself wholeheartedly to managing tenement affairs.

Matagoro had been quite a burden—the unpaid rent went without saying, and there were numerous small debts besides.
However, Gobei had never once made an unpleasant face.

"In any endeavor, one can’t produce good work without knowing true hardship—why don’t you grit your teeth and start painting something worthwhile?"

Saying such things, he would sometimes bring expensive paper—the kind not easily obtained—from his son’s shop and give it to him.
Exiting the alley onto the main street, at the second house—where one storm shutter stood open—the light still shone brightly on the tall shoji screen bearing a mountain-shaped mark with the character '五'.

“My, what a rare sight—returning home at this hour?”

When he opened the shoji, O-Katsu greeted him with a laugh.
In the six-mat room connected to the shop, Gobei was playing shogi with a young man named Shu from the rice shop.

“There’s a fire here—please come this way. When you returned home, wasn’t it all too lively? You must have been startled and run off.”

“Please come over here, Master. I’ll brew some tea.”
Gobei said while keeping his eyes fixed on the board.
“Tea won’t do for the Master. Old woman—quickly fetch a bottle for him.”

“Oh, there’s already plenty of sake—truly more than enough.”

“So it’s a perpetual hangover you mean? Fine by me, but wait—wait, wait, wait—if I move this silver general here like this, then like this... what next?”

Matagoro went to sit beside the charcoal brazier.
The shogi game had entered its endgame phase, where an ambiguous move seemed to have sparked a dispute; both Gobei and Shu were so engrossed that their eyes, if one exaggerated, had taken on a different intensity.
O-Katsu brewed fresh tea, pushed forward a bowl of sweets, and with laughter began recounting the story of Oishi's unexpected feast.

"It's unfair how men always get to have their fun—we thought women should enjoy themselves for once too! They even invited me just to show my face. With Okane-san from the bucket shop and Gen-san from Yoshida's place leading the charge—what with shamisen playing, singing, and dancing—your house was packed with spectators for quite some time!"

“Women havin’ their fun once in a while’s fine—drinkin’, eatin’, singin’, dancin’ just themselves—good for ’em to forget their household troubles sometimes. Ain’t my business to mind, but that’s goin’ a bit too far.”

Gobei said while scrutinizing the board.

“Heard Master’s paintin’ sold an’ brought in unexpected coin—reckon that’s why you ain’t been home two-three days stewin’ over some long-winded trouble. But causin’ that ruckus while you’re away—no matter the reason—that’s downright reckless. I’m old-fashioned—can’t abide such carryin’-on.”

Matagoro could find no way to respond; warming his hands with the tea bowl, he silently hung his head.
However, Gobei's words—"The painting sold"—startled him.
There shouldn't be a single painting worth selling—whether to sell or not, he hadn't painted anything resembling proper work in quite some time.

—What could have happened?

He looked up at the ceiling—and at that very moment, he suddenly remembered the unfinished painting commissioned by Awa-ya that he had stored away in the closet.

But surely... surely not that one…

Oishi knew his temperament—no matter how desperate things became, he would never sell a painting he himself disliked.
Knowing that, there’s no way she would bring out that painting.
But what else could there be? There might be sketches and line drawings, but surely no eccentric with refined taste would buy such things.

But more importantly, who on earth could have bought that painting?
Recently, those coming to request paintings had been almost exclusively limited to Awa-ya Kahei alone.
Awa-ya... Matagoro gripped his teacup tightly.
The day before yesterday, when leaving the house, Oishi had said—what response would I give when Master Awa-ya came?
Right—Awa-ya was supposed to come pressing for it. If he came while I was away and Oishi showed him that unfinished painting—

"Oh no—that’s it."

Matagoro nearly cried out, set down his teacup, and stood up.
O-Katsu started, and Gobei turned around still clutching a shogi piece.
But Matagoro grew flushed with agitation,

"I've intruded long enough—something urgent requires my attention. Thank you for your hospitality."

Muttering these flustered words, he stepped outside.
Entering the alleyway, he found the drinking party had finally ended—wives dispersed amid raucous laughter and brazenly indecent banter.

The voices faded away, and as soon as everyone had retreated into their respective houses, Oishi was seen poking her face out from the doorway.
Matagoro hurried in that direction and, startled, pushed past Oishi—who was trying to say something—as he entered the room.

True to a woman's nature, despite the previous messy disarray, she had at least tidied up somehow.
Matagoro went straight over and opened the closet.

There was a five-tiered shelf there, upon which untouched paper, sketchbooks, preliminary drawings, and half-finished paintings had been sorted and organized.
The painting that was always kept on the top shelf—the very painting he had been worried about—was not there.

“What’re you doing messing about now? We’re going to bed—I won’t have you rummaging and scattering things everywhere! Quit it already! Shouldn’t we be sleeping?”

“What did you do with the painting kept there?”

“The painting? Oh, I gave that to Master Awa-ya. What else could I say? He kept insisting—‘Surely it’s finished by today regardless’—so there!”

“You should know it’s still unfinished.”

“It’s no use saying that now—I won’t be fooled anymore!” Oishi’s drunkenly flushed face twisted grotesquely. “No—this one’s no good! This is unfinished! You can’t show this trash to people! All that smooth talk—‘It slipped,’ ‘It fell’—you’ve been deceiving me all along! Then you’d claim you tore it up or ripped it to shreds—but really, you’ve been sneaking off to sell them all behind my back! Hiding away to peddle them so you could drink away the money!”

“How much did you get from Awa-ya?”

“None of your business! I don’t know! Master Awa-ya declared it—he took one look at the painting and immediately declared—‘What do you mean unfinished? It’s completely done! There’s not a single stroke left to add!’ That’s what he said!”

“Shut up! How much money did you get?”

Matagoro stood up, his face fearsome, and violently grabbed Oishi’s shoulder. Oishi shook him off, eyes blazing, and screamed.

“None of your business! Men shouldn’t meddle in money matters—how shameful, changing your tune over pocket change!”
“Shut your mouth!”

A sharp crack resounded against Oishi’s cheek.

Five

“You hit me! You hit me!”

With this shout, Oishi lunged at him.
Matagoro landed two or three more open-handed strikes, hooked her legs to pull her down, then straddled her torso and pressed her immobile against the floor.
She planted her feet against the mats, snapped teeth toward his forearm, then broke into desperate sobs when resistance proved futile.

“Hit me! Hit me more! Go on, hit me all you want! Someone like me… it’s not like I matter anyway!”

“You were at Kano—it’s been ten years since we’ve been together.”

Matagoro clenched his teeth and said in a suppressed voice.

“You should at least understand what being a painter entails—especially since I’m trying to do work different from others.
“I’m trying to pioneer a new path in painting—creating true art unlike anything previous painters have done. Because of that, I’m making you live in poverty. I’m sorry—I know it’s terrible. But I’m not carefree either—I’m suffering too.”

Oishi shook her grotesquely contorted face left and right, screamed that she didn’t want to hear such excuses, still writhed, and continued sobbing.

"No matter how I scheme and struggle, I can't create the paintings I envision. However much I paint, they turn vulgar. Sleeping or waking, my mind brims with this torment. In night's depths I start awake—helpless—groaning and writhing alone. If selling that botched painting would spare you poverty—"
"I wouldn't endure such hardship either!"

"I get it already! Enough of your pious lecturing! Let go—you're hurting me!"

"What happened to the money? How much did you take?"

"If you want it so badly, I'll give it to you! Get off me and let me up—won't you release me?"

When Matagoro released his grip, Oishi—not bothering to straighten her disheveled hem—went to the sewing box and moved it aside.
Underneath lay a worn-out hand-sewn wallet that had been hidden there.
Oishi took out a paper-wrapped bundle from inside and threw it toward him with deliberate spite.

“Is this everything? This is all you received?”

“I paid the manager and settled all the other petty debts. Even the rice merchant and sake merchant need to be paid something occasionally, no matter how shameless I am.”

“I don’t care about that! I’m asking how much you got from Awa-ya!”

“The five ryō I received—that’s all he said to take for now. Who knows what’ll happen next, but since that’s what he handed over, I took it. So what’re you gonna do? What’re you planning with that money?”

Matagoro wrapped the money, tucked it into his sleeve, stood up, and retightened his obi.

"What do you think I'll do? I'm returning the money and tearing up that painting."

"You're really returning it? You're actually doing that?"

Matagoro wordlessly stepped down to the dirt-floored entryway. Oishi—her face paling—chased after him, then shrieked with a voice fit to rend cloth.

"Fine! Understood! Go return it! I've had my fill—completely fed up—my patience is spent! I'm taking my leave now! Going back home! You'd better believe it!"

Matagoro stepped outside with those words ringing at his back.

The wind had died down somewhat, but the cold bit fiercely—the road’s muddy patches now crackled with ice. At each town gate he refused entry with claims of a parent’s sudden illness, half-running in his haste until he reached the Ishimachi shop long past midnight.

Though he knew Awa-ya's five-ken frontage shop had a single-bay gate with a low entrance on its left side for accessing the rear quarters, Matagoro knocked on the main merchant door.

“I humbly request an audience—Hirano of Hisakatamachi here to see you.”

He kept repeating this plea while continuing to knock.

The store clerk awoke and listened to the request from inside before presumably relaying it to the rear quarters. After some time, geta clattered on the stone-paved alley beside the shop, and immediately the side door opened.
Kahei himself had come to answer.

After being guided to a room on the second floor at the back, his wife brought a charcoal brazier containing embers topped with fresh coal. “It might be lukewarm by now—” she added while preparing tea.

Matagoro sat down and immediately took out the money bundle from his sleeve, then—trembling from agitation, cold, and hunger—explained that since he had been away, Oishi had used part of the five ryō without permission; that only this much remained; that the spent portion should be considered a loan to be reclaimed through his next painting; that while this was inexcusable now, he wanted them to accept what remained; and that he needed the painting returned.

“Is that why you came all the way from Hisakatamachi in the dead of night?”
Kahei appeared dumbfounded.

“I’ve long known your temperament, Mr. Hirano, and money matters little here—but why must you reject that painting? Isn’t it excellent? Forgive my bluntness, but among all I’ve seen of your work, this composition stands apart. In fact—though this may be presumptuous—I’ve even conceived a title for it: ‘Rustic Meandering Stream.’”

“It won’t do. That painting is unacceptable. No matter what, I must tear it up.”

Matagoro simply kept insisting.
After trying in vain to placate him for some time—with Matagoro refusing to yield—Kahei, visibly exasperated, stood up, fetched the painting, and demanded in a confrontational tone: "Then show me exactly what's wrong with it."

“Ah… There’s nothing wrong with any particular part—it’s the whole thing.”

He stared fixedly at the painting and groaned these words as if talking to himself. His eyes gazing at the painting shone sharply, and his expression contorted as if weeping.

“It won’t do... No good at all.”

No sooner had he said this than Matagoro seized the painting, and before Kahei could cry “Ah!” to stop him, tore it, ripped it, and crumpled it into a ball.

“This is no joke—I bought that! Once money changes hands, it’s mine!” Kahei said, his face flushing crimson. “I don’t care how great a painter you fancy yourself—since when does disliking your own work give you the right to destroy someone else’s property? This is outright savagery!”

“I’ve no excuse—I know full well this is lawless brutality—but I cannot let that painting stand. It might sound preposterous saying this now, but I swear I’ll create something worthy in its place—I’ll make proper amends without fail.”

With both hands planted on the floor and head bowed deeply, Matagoro spoke in the manner of one begging forgiveness.

Kahei's anger had been genuine.
However, when he saw Matagoro in that state, he realized that he himself was also at fault, and this time nodded gently.

“Well now, I must admit it was wrong of me to go while you were away and take it without your consent, Mr. Hirano.
“Having waited so long that my patience wore thin—well, I ended up acting on impulse—but tell me, Mr. Hirano, would you consider painting this design on a grander scale?”

“When you say ‘larger’...”

“What about a six-panel folding screen? Ideally a pair would be best—but would you consider painting even a half-pair?”

“I’ve thought about that—I do want to try creating a six-panel pair using just ink—but as you well know, given my current circumstances...”

“Well now—if you truly have the intention, Mr. Hirano—”

Kahei said this and readjusted his seating.

“If you truly have the intention to attempt this, let me offer my Koume villa as your workspace. I’ll gather whatever materials meet your approval. Though it may seem presumptuous, I’ll personally handle all mundane tasks until completion. Why don’t we take the plunge and have you give it a try?”

“Thank you very much—you’ve already done so much for me, and now to impose such trouble again...”

"Well, actually I have my own reasons as well—though I can’t go into details now—you see, a certain obligated party had previously requested that Mr. Hirano create a folding screen. If you become willing to take on the task, I would be most glad to assist in making it happen."

"I fully understand, and I’m truly grateful—I very much want to do this, but..."

Matagoro answered cautiously that while he fully intended to accept, he wanted to return home first, carefully refine his concept until he gained solid confidence, and give his formal response after five or six days.――Thereupon Kahei roused his wife to prepare sake and said, "We have bedding prepared next door—have a drink and stay the night."

The next morning.
After the meal, he was shown a Shitao landscape painting that had been recently acquired.
After leaving the Ishimachi shop, his mind became completely occupied with thoughts of the six-panel folding screen pair—he stopped abruptly in odd places and took wrong turns along the way.

“Rustic Meandering Stream”... Hmm... Not bad.

Before he knew it, he had uttered these words aloud to himself.

“If that title resonated with Awa-ya... And if it wasn’t entirely misguided...”

Having lingered on his path like this, it was already past ten o’clock when he returned to Hisakatamachi.
Upon entering the alleyway, tenement residents stared at him strangely; paying them no mind, he approached his house only to find manager Gobei sitting on the entrance step—face contorted with intensity—puffing on tobacco.

“Ah, you’re back—but Oishi-san isn’t here.”

Gobei blurted out.

“Said she couldn’t take it no more an’ quit—that everythin’ was settled with you, Master. Showed up at crack o’ dawn, bundled up her own gear, an’ took off ’bout half a bell ago.”

“Oishi... left?”

Matagoro stood rigidly, like a man drained of all spirit.

"I heard all about why you went to Ishimachi—my hat’s off to you for that, Master. But Oishi-san wouldn’t understand—anyway, ain’t no use moping round here. Come on over to my place—we’ll chase away the demons with a drink and have ourselves a proper talk about what comes next."

Six

That day he drank at Gobei’s house until dusk and returned home when the lamps were lit—but come morning, Matagoro was already gone.

Gobei had assumed he was at a friend’s place, but when Inoue and Matsuya came three days later and they inquired with Shimada, it became clear that none of the three had met since they had parted ways in Yoshiwara.

Gobei still couldn't believe he had run away. Remembering how Matagoro had drunkenly spoken about Awa-ya and declared he would borrow the Kōme villa to paint a folding screen, he assumed the painter had likely gone there instead. To be thorough, he immediately went to Ishimachi to verify.

However, he hadn't gone to Awa-ya either—they said he hadn't shown his face since that morning he returned.
There, everyone finally panicked and scrambled to search; however, ten days passed, then thirty days passed with no word, until his disappearance was finally confirmed.

“I think he must have died—he couldn’t paint anymore… That’s how it feels.”

“That might be true. Actually, it seems he hadn’t been able to paint for over half a year.”

“Having been called Kano’s prodigy and even gaining considerable public attention as a pioneer of new painting methods for a time—with that sensitive disposition of his, he might not have been able to endure any longer.”

Inoue, Sadazo, Shimada, and the others had been saying this as if it were their own plight.
But Manager Gobei said he did not think so.

“Mr. Hirano will return—I believe this, yes he will return—I ain’t touching that house, I’ll keep it as is and wait for years if need be.”

However, the days and months marched relentlessly onward.
One year passed, then two years went by.
Thus nearly three full years had slipped away with no word from Matagoro.

By inclusive reckoning, in September of the fourth year, Matagoro appeared at Awa-ya’s shop in Nihonbashi Ishimachi.

Not only was his arrival sudden, but he looked so thoroughly like a begging monk that even Kahei couldn’t recognize him at first glance.

He wore a faded old kesa robe with a pilgrim’s satchel slung across his shoulder, a woven sedge hat riddled with holes atop his head, and straw sandals on his feet—his entire figure coated in dust.

Having bathed and changed into a borrowed lined kimono, he sat facing Kahei before a tray of sake and delicacies, offered his first greetings after years of absence, and apologized for having disappeared without notice.

“That doesn’t matter; it’s enough that you’ve returned—but where in the world have you been all this time?”

“There’s no fixed place—I did various manual labor jobs, worked as a cook and woodcutter too.”
“I entered Zen temples as well; became an unsui and begged for alms; wandered through areas from Kyoto to Nara, Kaga, Shinano to Kai.”

Not only was he sunburned—his entire frame had become sturdy and robust, his countenance brightened, exuding a solid, immovable strength that seemed impervious to pushes or prods.—As they exchanged cups and finished discussing his period of wandering, Kahei suddenly adopted a solemn expression,

“So then, what exactly do you intend to do now?”

“I will paint.”
Matagoro answered with a keen expression.
“First, I want to complete that six-panel folding screen pair.”

“Splendid. By all means, I would like you to paint it.”

“Furthermore, given my present circumstances as you see them, I would like to request the villa we discussed earlier and your support until I finish the work.”

“Certainly, I shall have the arrangements made immediately—but might I ask if your journey yielded valuable revelations?”

Matagoro lowered his eyes.
Then, in a quiet tone, he spoke, pausing after each word.

“I was born the third son of a low-ranking samurai, loved painting from childhood, entered the Kano school as a disciple, and grew up thinking of nothing but art day and night. I believed painting held more noble significance than any other work—but this time, going out into the world to survive with nothing but my own body, working as a laborer, assisting farmers, cooking at inns... I came to realize that had been arrogance—a mistaken belief.”

Kahei set down his sake cup.

And as if carefully weighing each of Matagoro’s words, he placed his hands neatly on his knees and listened intently.

“Farmers, hunters, greengrocers, sake merchants—no occupation ranks below or above painting. That humans work to sustain themselves is inherently noble regardless of profession. Painting holds no special significance… This is what I realized—it may seem obvious—but I came to understand it through my own body: by carrying stones and hauling earth. Only then did I truly desire to paint again, which is why I have returned.”

Kahei nodded.

And without addressing the words he had heard, he poured sake into his cup, lifted his eyes with a semblance of a smile, and said.

“I would very much like to see that six-panel folding screen pair soon.”

Seven

Matagoro entered Kōme's villa.

He had been told to keep it secret until completion, but Kahei couldn't manage that—he informed Hisakatamachi, Shimada, and two others of his return while emphasizing they shouldn't visit Kōme until the painting was finished.

At Kōme's villa, there were only an elderly couple named Uyoshi and Ogen who took care of Matagoro.
It was located five or six chō east of the Mito family's lower residence, with Genshinji Temple's forest to the left and a broad eastern vista of hazel groves, fields, rice paddies, moats, and farmhouses.
The surroundings were scattered with samurai lower residences and wealthy families' villas here and there, most of which had gardens abundant with trees encircling them, making it as serene and quiet as if one had entered a mountain retreat.

Kahei came about once every ten days.

“I happened upon a rather rare delicacy. Please have it as a snack with your nightcap.”

Having said this, he never asked a single question about the painting, chatting for a while before leaving each time.

Matagoro did not set foot outside even once, working in near-total seclusion within a sixteen-mat room created by combining two eight-mat spaces......From the rainy season through the height of summer, even as autumn winds began to blow, his frame and features grew increasingly gaunt at this unvarying pace.

Kahei, who came to visit, seemed to grow increasingly uneasy; he would ask Uyoshi and Ogen about the daily state of affairs, tilting his head in puzzlement or letting out sighs.

“When push comes to shove, he likely can’t maintain such resolve—but if this continues, his body won’t hold up. Make sure to give him nourishing foods.”

And so he gave various instructions about food, having his store staff deliver all manner of things.

In October, joiners and mounting artisans entered.
Then, after over fifteen more days had passed, when Kahei came at the beginning of November, he announced that the folding screen had been completed for the first time.

Matagoro had grown even thinner since around September, appearing to have exhausted all vitality, yet his countenance sharpened and eyes took on a fierce light—the profound fulfillment of having completed his work seemed to throb through his entire being like a pulse.

“This is an impertinent request, but I would like you to summon Matsuya, Inoue, and Shimada—the three of them. Only after they arrive, after those three have come, do I want you to see it too. Please refrain from viewing it until then.”

“Certainly, I shall make those arrangements at once.”

Kahei hurried off back home.

After a day had passed, first Kahei came, then Shimada arrived, followed a little later by Sadao and Inoue.
Having all gathered after a long time, they sipped tea and talked for a while.
Shimada and Inoue Kohei had taken wives, and Matsuya had started a picture book shop—still with his good-natured laugh—

"Well, what with my mother passing away and my money source drying up, I took advantage of my old man saying if I was going into business..."

With that, he scratched his head.

After everyone had settled down, Matagoro stood up and guided them all to the inner room.
With his back to the sixteen-mat room’s alcove stood a six-panel folding screen pair.—A single river flowed in an arc from the upper left edge of the left half to the lower right edge of the right half, meandering sinuously—there were waterfalls, rapids, and deep pools.

And along both banks of this river stretched layered mountains, hills, forests, plains, farmlands, villages, and towns, with the downstream area broadening into a bustling urban district.
Moreover, everywhere along its course were depicted people engaged in their respective occupations—farmers, fishermen, artisans, and merchants—along with scenes of the lives connected to them.

The entire composition used nothing but gradations of ink, without a single speck of color.
Moreover, every possible variation of color was so magnificently rendered that it seemed to prove the adage "ink contains seven colors."

"I wanted to paint humans—the forms of humans actually living their lives."
"The focal point of this painting is that."

Matagoro said as if making a confession.

“I can no longer paint landscapes and birds while prattling about mysterious profundity or refined elegance or austere simplicity. A painter is human—if we live as humans, we must paint humans living their lives. To dismiss things as vulgar while looking down on the world from some lofty perch—that’s mere dilettantism. I paint as farmers grow rice. I paint as carpenters build houses and plasterers coat walls... This work expresses barely a tenth of what I’ve contemplated. But I believe I can gradually manifest more—I’ll strive through my work to make it so. Please view this with that understanding.”

Neither Kahei nor Shimada, Inoue, and the others seemed to fully grasp the meaning of his words.
Rather than comprehending his speech's literal meaning, perhaps the emotion evoked by the painting before their eyes struck them as far more profound.

Even after Kahei rose and departed—soon followed by celebratory food and drink being brought in—the three disciples remained before the folding screen, groaning and sighing as though bound there, utterly unable to move.

It later became known that this folding screen had been commissioned by Matsudaira Awa-no-kami.
Awa-ya had long served as purveyors to their feudal lord Matsudaira Awa-no-kami. Once when presenting a two-panel screen titled "Nadeshiko" that pleased His Lordship, they brought along Matagoro's paintings they'd stockpiled in response to his request for more works.—They say Awa-no-kami became so profoundly enamored that he absolutely demanded a six-panel pair of folding screens.

Matagoro's folding screen seemed to have surpassed Awa-no-kami's expectations. Through Kahei came word that he would receive a thirty-koku stipend along with instructions to have a residence constructed for him.

Matagoro meekly accepted. Rather than constructing a new house, since Kōme's villa could be used as-is for his work, after consulting with Kahei it was decided he would take possession of that place.

The year turned to February.
Matagoro hosted a modest celebratory banquet at Kōme’s new residence.
The invited attendees consisted of Shimada and the other two disciples, Gobei and his wife from Hisakatacho, five people from the tenement with whom they had been close, and Awa-ya Kahei.

Gathering before noon, at first the tenement residents appeared stiff and formal, but as trays of food and drink were laid out and cups began to circulate, their conversation gradually loosened, and a relaxed, congenial mood spread through the gathering.
Among them, Gobei was in an exceptionally good mood,

“Ain’t that right? My eye for judging folks ain’t off! I sized up Master Hirano proper-like from the start—not to brag or nothin’, but I know how to read a man! This ain’t no boast, I’m just so damn happy I gotta say it!”

Though he’d never been one to hold his drink well, Gobei ended up spilling tears along with his words. Soon some struck up songs while Matsuya Sadazo began dancing—the celebration had reached full swing—when unexpected guests arrived.

The go-between, hearing “They’re Hirano’s kin,” must’ve thought them well-wishers too, ushering the man and woman into the banquet hall.

Amid the eruptive commotion, no one had noticed at first, but one of the tenement residents suddenly spotted them,

“Look! Isn’t that Oishi-san?”

Startled, he cried out.

“What nonsense are you spouting?”
Gobei choked on his sake, hastily wiping his lap as he spun around. “What’s with that shrill outburst? What’s going on? Oishi-san of all people...”

Then Gobei too gasped aloud.
Everyone ceased singing and talking at that sound; the festive uproar abruptly stilled as all eyes turned.
At the entrance to the adjoining eight-mat room sat Oishi and an unfamiliar old man, shoulders hunched as they knelt.

“This is unexpected – Ms. Oishi!”
Awa-ya was the first to address her calmly, “It’s been quite some time... What brings you here?”

“If I may beg your pardon, I shall offer my greetings.”

The unfamiliar old man placed his hands on the floor and spoke with utmost formality.

“I am a farmer residing in Senju, called Sadashichi, and I humbly inform you that I am this Oishi’s uncle.”
"Though her parents should properly come themselves, Oishi feels such shame that she cannot appear. They insisted I come as her proxy—though I most humbly beg your pardon—to pay my respects. To Master Hirano, upon this most splendid advancement of yours, I offer my heartfelt congratulations.”

“Please wait—no, let me speak.”
Gobei stood up, came over before the two, and plopped down.

“Now I’m Gobei from Hisakatacho, see? Yeah, the manager of Master’s old tenement row house—but let me get straight to the point. I’ve acknowledged your congratulatory greetings, and thank you kindly for coming all this way... But did you come just for that? Ain’t there some more crucial matter you’re here about?”

“I most humbly beg your pardon—if you put it that way, this is indeed exceedingly... difficult to articulate.”

“Nah—let’s hash this out proper. This ain’t the magistrate’s interrogation chamber—no one’s gonna blame you or tie you up no matter what’s said. Spit it out clear-like—no, Master Awa-ya, don’t meddle—y’all leave this to me—c’mon now, Mr. Sadashichi or whatever yer called, let’s hear this ‘important business’ o’ yours.”

The old man called Sadashichi took out a hand towel, wiped the sweat from his brow, smoothed the knees of his properly seated legs, and finally declared with an air of resolution that he actually wanted Oishi returned to Hirano.

Oishi, with that temperament of hers, had left Hisakatacho without consulting her parents.
Even when told to return home, she wouldn’t listen, and before long she entered service at the Kano household again as a maid.
There were two or three marriage proposals, but she paid them no heed and continued working at the Kano household.

Though she had left impulsively, there must have remained lingering attachments, for she had been constantly monitoring Matagoro's whereabouts. Upon hearing that he had now been recognized by Matsudaira Awa-no-kami and that even Kano school painters were praising his folding screen as a masterpiece, she could no longer contain herself. She rushed to her parents' home and tearfully pleaded: Let them restore the marriage bond; she would apologize however needed for her wrongs; henceforth she'd reform herself to become a good wife; she'd endure any hardship required.

“At my age, making such a request truly brings me shame—indeed, this is not something I should presume to ask—but she remains my own flesh-and-blood niece—”

“No—I’ve heard you clear enough. As for the reply—though it’s bold of me—I’ll let Oishi-san speak for herself.”
With that, Gobei turned toward Oishi.

“Oishi-san, I’ve heard your uncle’s request—that you want to return to the Master. Huh! You who slipped away like a dog kicking up sand with its hind legs in the depths of poverty—now that the Master’s risen in the world... Now that he’s become what they call a painter of renown, you wanna crawl back? Huh! Real convenient, ain’t it? A fine calculation! But maybe it’s convenient for you—who knows what the Master’ll say—but I’m refusing this. Presumptuous as it is, I’m flat-out refusing.”

“Mr. Gobei, wait.”
Matagoro suddenly said, “I get how you feel, but hold off on that.”

“No—Hirano shouldn’t speak.”

Shimada Keinosuke shouted as he cut in.
Inoue Kohei and Sadazo also shouted in succession.

"That's right—Hirano should stay silent.
Mr. Gobei and we will settle this—just keep quiet and watch."

"No—that's not it."
Matagoro shook his head and declared, "I understand everyone's feelings—but this is a matter between me and Oishi."

"Well enough—the matter's clear as day. There's no problem here at all. We just need to draw a clear line and be done with it."

“What are you saying? What clear line?”

Matagoro suddenly grabbed Shimada by the collar, poised as if about to strike, and shouted at the top of his voice.

“Oishi is my wife! I don’t know what complaints all of you might have, but don’t go speaking so selfishly overstepping me—the husband!”

Everyone was startled and held their breath at Matagoro’s terrifying glare and roaring voice—Matagoro, who had never once shown anger before.

“Oishi has that temperament—she’s neither a good wife nor some paragon of virtue. You all probably disapproved of her—might’ve thought her an unpleasant woman. But she endured tremendous hardships for my sake. People toss around the word ‘poverty,’ but none here truly know what destitution we endured as a couple.—Mr. Gobei the manager, Master Awa-ya—we owe you much and caused you no small trouble—but even you two couldn’t fathom the depths of it.”

Releasing Shimada's collar and reseating himself, Matagoro continued in a pleading tone.

"Inoue! Shimada! Matsuya! You know nothing! You three who've come here religiously for years—you truly understand nothing! After I lost my ability to paint, Oishi began her nagging."
"She stopped serving sake and meals because she couldn't—when possible, she'd skip her own portions to feed you."
"I stopped painting completely—pawned everything down to my last rag—exhausted every borrowing channel! When we wondered how to get tonight's rice—how could I even mention sake? There weren't just ten or twenty times we couldn't buy a single measure of rice—surviving on potato scraps and boiled greens for days! Some paragon wife might've smiled through that—invented impossible solutions—but Oishi's just an ordinary woman! Temperamental as you know her—uneducated too—yet she endured hardships for me that no one should bear!"
"She withstood poverty too wretched to describe—all for my sake!"
"When her endurance finally snapped—that's why she left! Do any of you grasp that? A wife's faults are her husband's failing—blame me if you must! Oishi is Matagoro's wife!"

A voice wailed in broken sobs.
It was Oishi. She covered her face with her sleeve, writhed in anguish, then collapsed face-down on the tatami mats weeping.
Through her tears, she spoke in fragmented bursts.

"No—I am not your wife—exactly as everyone here has declared."
"When poverty cornered me, I fled. Then hearing you'd risen in the world—greed took hold—thinking if I could slip back—so here I came without shame or care for dignity."
"I'm a shameless, brazen woman."
"When you graciously called me your wife—your words just now awakened me—please forgive me, everyone. I'll never again presume to ask reinstatement—I'll take my leave now."
She cried out as if screaming and tried to rise.
But Matagoro moved faster—reaching her side and seizing Oishi's hand.

"I haven't divorced you—right, Oishi?"

"No, no—I couldn't possibly—"

"Don't say a word—I'll likely remain poor going forward too. You're the only one who'd ever live in poverty for my sake—you came back after all, Oishi."

Oishi began crying violently again and clung to Matagoro’s hand while weeping.—Then came sounds of eyes being wiped and noses being blown from here and there.
He lifted Oishi to her feet and said with a forced bright laugh.

“Come on—let’s go over there. My apologies to everyone, but today’s special. Go sit beside me over there, and for the first time in ages—I’ll have you give me a good proper nagging!”