Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

Daishirō would enter his mother’s room at least twice daily; his fixed routine was to ask, “Mother, do you have anything?”
There were times when he remained silent without uttering a word.
Owing to their long-standing custom, Sugime—whether he spoke up or stayed quiet—would turn toward the tea chest and say, “Open the top compartment; there should be some sweets in the bowl.” While there might be Kasen’s manjū buns or sasa-mochi rice cakes, or Chadaira’s yōkan jelly desserts, it was usually those black hard candies; he would take as many as he wanted onto a plate, return to his room, and fiddle with his old books while sucking on them contentedly.

Daishirō was the fourth son of the Shibayama family.
Their father Matazaemon had died several years prior, and the eldest brother had succeeded to the name and inherited the household.
Second brother Kumenosuke received fifty koku from the family’s three-hundred-koku stipend to establish a branch family, and third brother Matasaburō was adopted into Nakamura Sanroku’s household.
The Nakamura household, with its newly formed battalion stipend of 190 koku, was quite prosperous.
Daishirō was twenty-six years old—what they called a room-dweller, dependent on his brothers. There were no promising adoption prospects, and since his second brother had taken fifty koku, there was no way for him to receive a share of the family stipend.
If no opportunity arose, he would have no choice but to live out his days as cold rice.
While it was an inescapable fate shared by all second and younger sons of less affluent samurai families, Daishirō did not seem particularly troubled by it.
Not just him—indeed, the entire Shibayama family was full of carefree souls; no one showed active concern about the fourth son. They simply entrusted matters to fate with a lighthearted attitude, thinking, “Something will work out eventually.”

However, the time came for Daishirō to become aware of his stifling fate; he took a fancy to a certain beauty.
He didn’t know her name or where she lived; she wasn’t exactly beautiful either. Yet he fell hopelessly for her.
……Saving up his monthly allowance to purchase old books had been his pastime.
Even in a castle town of a million koku, there were no used bookstores at that time; due to the domain lord’s vigorous promotion of arts and scholarship, about five branches of bookshops from Edo, Osaka, and Kyoto operated there—these handled old books, and occasionally one could find rare volumes even in antique shops. Works like Rinkeishi, Saireiyōten, Taiheiki-jinbutsukō, and Kaigenki counted among his collection’s most prized possessions, yet all had been discovered amidst the junk in antique shops.
The books he acquired were usually damaged—torn pages, curled edges, frayed binding threads, ripped covers—many lacking title slips. He would painstakingly repair them, rebind them to his liking, attach new title slips, and finally stamp them with his Sōudō Collection seal. This work brought him indescribable joy, so absorbing that he lost all sense of self while engaged in it.

It was during his pastime of scouring for old books that Daishirō first took notice of the girl.
As soon as he stepped out of the antique shop on Katamachi Street and began walking, that person came from the direction of Karinbō.
As they passed each other, she looked his way and blinked three times—intelligent, clear eyes whose sparkle in that instant seemed to speak volumes. He started and quickened his pace to move past her.
About five days later, they met again on the same road—then three times, four times, generally encountering each other at the same hour along the same streets. [...] Her pale complexion made thick eyebrows appear almost green against skin white enough to show the precise hairline of her triangular forehead, thin lips pressed tightly together. She was no beauty—at best ordinary among ten—yet her eyes alone stood strikingly lovely, particularly when looking his way; their rapid blinking made blossoms seem to bloom there momentarily. [...] Both obi and kimono bore subdued patterns, always accompanied by a young maid. Her hem flared crisply with each brisk step as she walked straight ahead, gaze fixed forward—the impression akin to seeing a bellflower beneath clear autumn skies.

However carefree Daishirō might be, he wasn’t so dense as to remain unaware of what his growing feelings toward that person meant. The moment he recognized their significance, he went to consult his mother.
Daishirō’s brand of guilelessness was rare indeed; Sugime sat mending clothes.

“Open the middle compartment,” she said upon seeing Daishirō enter, turning toward the tea chest as always.
“They’re just leftovers, but there are chestnut buns here.”

There were chestnut buns.
He took two onto the plate but did not leave, sitting there instead.
Sugime tightened the seam with her nail and said, “Shall I make some tea?”
He picked up a bun and seemed to consider whether to eat it, but returned it to the plate and looked at his mother’s face.

“Mother, I’ve turned twenty-six...”

“That’s right.”
Sugime also looked at her son. “Has something happened with that?”

“It’s only just recently I realized—if not for that, I might still be unaware. Humans can be so careless, can’t they?”

“It’s not humans—it’s you. But... if not for that, did something related to your age catch your attention?”

“I’ve gone and taken a fancy to someone.”

2

Sugime stopped her hands and looked at him.
Even a samurai woman would know such words.
Yet doubts lingered about whether this carefree fourth son had truly grasped the weight of his own words when he spoke them.

“Do explain properly—what’s come over you?”

“I’ve gone and taken a fancy to a certain girl.”

“Daishirō.”
Sugime instinctively glanced toward the Buddhist altar. “How can you speak so improperly? The ancestral tablets are listening.”

“So I’ve come to consult you about what I should do.”

He said without pretense, “Come to think of it, I’ve turned twenty-six—it wouldn’t be too soon for me to take a wife now.”

“It certainly wouldn’t be too soon, but…”

Sugime faltered here; Daishirō’s logic flowed so naturally that she’d almost been carried along by it herself—until abruptly remembering his standing as a fourth son enduring Cold Rice.

“But… I can’t?”

“That isn’t out of the question, but taking a wife isn’t quite feasible.”

“Why is that?”
After saying this, he noticed for the first time from his mother’s expression. “Ah, right—Cold Rice.”

“Kumenosuke has already established a branch family, and on top of that, it would be difficult to divide [the stipend] for you. But what is that person’s social standing?”

“I don’t know anything about her—we’ve only occasionally passed each other on the street.”

“I do hope she’s someone suitable for marriage.”

Sugime said this, but her tone held no hope even as consolation.
Even if that girl were in a position to take a husband, there could be no marriage proposal where the man would enter her family as an adopted son. With an air of resignation already about him, Daishirō rose from before his mother, plate of buns in hand, feigning composure.

He spent four or five days in a daze.
The fate of a fourth son—something he had never before contemplated—now loomed before him like a thousand-foot precipice, its immovable mass and weight pressing down as he sighed repeatedly while surveying his room.
There were countless precedents.
Among them rose the memory of his maternal uncle Nakai Okusaburō—a man already nearing fifty.
Though third-born, he still remained a room-dweller at that age, passing his days playing the shakuhachi flute, puttering in the garden, or quietly arranging Go stones while clutching board diagrams in dim, cheerless rooms.
For a time he had cultivated dye plants like indigo, safflower, and gromwell alongside some twenty varieties of medicinal herbs in his garden.

“It’s not some idle pastime—far from it.”

The uncle smiled with an amiable expression, forming a circle with his left-hand fingers as he pantomimed drinking. “This here—it’s all drink money.”

Daishirō now recalled that and felt a wave of disgust.
He then gazed around his surroundings—at the stacks of old books he had fully restored and rebound, at the haphazard piles of volumes left untouched since purchase—and surveyed the room where winter-bleached light from the north-facing window fell upon tatami and sliding doors alike, both worn with age. There, he found himself shut in by an unbearable melancholy, thinking how he too would likely end up spending his days in dreary stagnation like Uncle Nakai.

However, that state did not last long.

Naturally easygoing by disposition and too young to dwell indefinitely on such shadowy thoughts, he resumed his outings to hunt for old books—though he prudently avoided Katamachi Street. Over there stood an antique dealer with whom he felt quite at ease, a man who made a special effort to collect old books for him. Most were trifling things, though occasionally something rare turned up; sipping the tea the man served while listening to his tedious boasts about worthless curios proved oddly enjoyable.

“I don’t deal in imitations or cheap trickery—though that path might line one’s pockets quicker. By nature, I simply can’t bring myself to handle anything without proper integrity. Take this tea caddy here—you…”

Saying this, he would solemnly twist and present what resembled a weather-beaten clay pot transformed into a tea vessel.
Greedy yet oddly likable, his charm lay in that unshakable conviction of his own connoisseurship.
Daishirō would sometimes find his feet carrying him toward that shop, half-minded to hear more bragging tales—yet upon reaching Musashigatsuji, he’d remember the girl’s form and turn aside with a pinched expression.

Spring came late and departed early in the north country; when the castle’s cherry blossoms scattered, fields and mountains alike began greening all at once, and the town’s roads dried until even a slight wind stirred up dust.

...On one such day, his third brother—adopted into the Nakamura family—came visiting. Daishirō was rebinding a book titled *Military Strategy Analysis* when his sister-in-law notified him, but being unable to pause his work, he kept at it—until the third brother came barging in, demanding, “Hey, what’s going on?”

3

“Your room’s as chaotic as ever—still haven’t given up that hobby?”
Matasaburō slid open the shoji and peered in. “You’re just hoarding things you don’t even read—planning to open a bookstore?”

“I do read them—I do!”

“Do you now? What’s the point?”

“What d’you mean why? ’Cause I want to read ’em.”

“This is just going in circles! Enough already—let’s head over there. I’ve had sake and snacks brought over. Kumenosuke should be here soon—today we’re drinking with all four of us.”

“Did something happen?”

“Just felt like drinking.”

Even after Matasaburō had left, Daishirō continued rebinding for a while longer.

The brothers shared remarkably similar dispositions—in their easygoing nature, their lack of worldly desires, their carefree optimism—save for the third son Matasaburō alone, whose silver tongue could effortlessly sustain enough chatter for four men combined. According to their mother, this trait had persisted ever since he fell from the veranda and struck his head at age three; in his boyhood days, he would begin chattering the moment he awoke at dawn, his tongue scarcely resting until sleep claimed him at night.
Though Father had patiently scolded and even disciplined him, there wasn’t a single instance where it proved effective for even half a day; until finally losing all patience, he threw up his hands and declared, “This one’s mouth has no string!”
Now it wasn’t quite so pronounced, but when the brothers gathered, he would freely demonstrate his tongue’s vitality.

When his sister-in-law came urging him along, he finally tidied up and rose.
In the guest room, lamps had already been lit and his second brother Kumenosuke arrived; the three had already started drinking.
His seat was placed beside his third brother.
Matasaburō appeared to have been chattering alone per usual, but when Daishirō sat down, he turned toward the eldest brother while pouring sake into his cup and began uttering something odd.

“Elder brother, do you know about this romantic rumor surrounding Shirō?”

“Can’t say I do.”
Matazaemon turned to look at his youngest brother with an astonished expression. “Does such a thing truly exist, Shirō?”

“Shirō here doesn’t have a clue—apparently some family’s daughter has taken a fancy to Shirō.”

“Is that really true?”
Kumenosuke, his face already flushed from drink, laughed skeptically. “Isn’t this just Matasaburō’s usual fabrications?”

“This is a serious matter—half of today’s sake carries celebratory meaning. After all, if some girl has taken a fancy to Shirō, that’s worth a toast.”

“If that’s true, it’d be well worth a celebratory toast—but what’s this ‘half’ business?”

“That’s precisely the issue. First, let’s get Shirō a bit drunk.”

Daishirō wanted to get up and leave.
To him, his third brother’s story clearly referred to Katamachi Street; he felt that reversing who had taken a fancy to whom was meant to annoy him, and he anticipated that some uniquely crafted sarcasm would follow.
However, of course he did not stand up; moreover, Matasaburō’s story turned out to be quite different from his speculations.
...The other party was indeed the girl he had met on Katamachi Street, and it seemed she had deliberately timed their repeated encounters along the way.

“Do such girls even exist in samurai families these days?”

“There’s more to the story.”
Matasaburō continued in an increasingly animated tone, “So while she kept timing their encounters on the street, Shirō suddenly stopped coming. She tried changing the hour and altering her route—but still they never crossed paths. Until finally, in quite the old-fashioned manner, the girl fell ill.”

“We’ve got to start taking Saburō’s stories with a grain of salt from this point on.”

“Now listen here—when I say illness, of course she alternates between lying down and sitting up. Pale-faced, shut in her room, lowering teary eyes to fold cranes from colored paper. She hangs the folded cranes on strings in neat rows, sighing as she gazes up at them. One day you’d find her crying secretly under the covers, then refusing meals to fold more cranes. That’s how she spends her days doing nothing but crane-folding. Every doctor who’s seen her can only diagnose melancholy.”

“That’s what they call crane disease,” Kumenosuke said, emphasizing the pun on ‘kaku’ (diaphragm) and ‘tsuru’ (crane).

This time Matazaemon joined the teasing: “For those who develop cancers in their stomachs—bursting a wisteria vine’s knot cures them.”

“Everyone grew more and more worried but remained clueless,” Kumenosuke continued. “Until finally, the maid who always accompanied her out caught on. When she discreetly tested her suspicions, they proved true. So the maid secretly began searching for Shirō—to go into detail here would be too heartrending—but after many days, she finally tracked him down. ‘You visited our house about ten days back, didn’t you—Shirō?’”

“Wasn’t that the day when the wind was blowing?”
Daishirō said this and recalled that on his way back from his usual old book hunting, he had passed by the front of the Nakamura residence and stopped in—and how the mountain camellias by the earthen wall had bloomed in blood-red competition at that time.

4

“The maid followed you all the way from Musashigatsuji, saw Shirō enter your house, and went back to report everything to the girl’s mother. I don’t know the full details, but two days ago, her brother came to my office asking if we had a young master like Shirō here. ‘He’s not here,’ I said—but he insisted, ‘No—he must be here.’ When I thought about it, I realized it was Shirō. So I asked what this was about, and he said he wanted you to marry his sister.”

“A sudden marriage proposal—now that’s quite bold.”

“I became acquainted with that man through official duties after going to Nakamura, and I related everything in detail from her taking a fancy to him all the way to her crane disease.”

“Starting with the awkward part in your discussion, eh?” Kumenosuke said. “But he must truly love his sister.”

“Absolutely—he was completely earnest. But unfortunately, he had to marry off his sister. So when I explained our circumstances—that we’re dealing with a fourth son who can’t establish a branch family—he left terribly disappointed.”

“Just who is this person anyway?”
Now Matazaemon asked seriously in turn.

“If it were a settled matter, I’d tell you, but since both parties’ conditions are unfavorable, I’ll refrain from naming them. Besides, she’s not such a regrettable match anyway.”
Matasaburō said breezily, “It’s just that we were so ridiculously pleased to hear Shirō had caught some girl’s fancy that we all wanted to raise a toast—after all, the three of us have been utterly stolen away by our youngest brother here.”

“So fortune lay in the leftovers after all.”

“Then we’ll have to increase your allowance, Shirō.”

Matazaemon laughed while glancing his way. “If matters stand thus, you can’t go on pestering us for sweets forever.”

Thus, the three elder brothers chatted merrily and drank.
The fact that their youngest brother, whom they had still thought of as a boy, had now reached such an age and become the subject of amorous talk delighted them to no end.
No discussion whatsoever arose about attempting to formalize that match or considering ways to do so.
Since the other party had to send a bride and his side was a fourth son of cold rice, there was naturally no room for consideration—he had understood this perfectly well—yet Daishirō found himself gripped by a lonely, sorrowful sense of isolation, and after gauging the moment, rose from his seat.

Matasaburō's story lacked any sense of reality for him.
The girl's silhouette that reminded him of bellflowers still floated vaguely before his eyes; he could vividly recall her dignified walk with swift, precise steps at her hemline. Yet no matter how he tried to imagine it, he couldn't attach reality to this girl supposedly pining for him—lying down and sitting up like an invalid, weeping as she folded paper cranes alone.
First and foremost, the very notion of being longed for in this way gave him an oddly uncomfortable sensation—as if he were being manipulated, a hollow and insubstantial feeling.

"It’s all so vague anyway."
He muttered to himself, "The maid might have misunderstood something in her own assumptions, and folding nothing but cranes with colored paper isn’t going to solve anything. In the end, that’s all there is to it."

And within about thirty days, even such matters had eventually sunk to the depths of his memory.
At the end of the following month, the eldest brother truly increased his allowance—and what’s more, gave him three months’ worth all at once.

“I’ll keep handling it this way from now on—gives you a proper way to spend it.”
Matazaemon said, “But once you’ve blown through it all, I won’t hand over another coin till the third month rolls around—no advances permitted.”

“I should be fine for the most part. I’ll take it.”

Daishirō felt a flutter of excitement. While the sum itself wasn’t particularly grand, he’d never before held such a lump sum as his own. With this amount, he could purchase things without anxiety, and if he wished, even manage some slight extravagances. And for the first time, he contemplated the notion of entertainment.

"I'll treat myself to one extravagant outing."

At the edge of Hikosamachi stood an establishment called Kawajū—a refined house with a rustic garden overlooking the Asanogawa River, often used by wealthy domain retainers for their banquets. Among young companions, casually remarking "Last night at Kawajū" became something of a status symbol, making it a place somewhat out of reach for ordinary people.
If he was going to indulge himself, better once at Kawajū than five times at some dreary place—so Daishirō resolved, and one day he dressed properly and set out.

As it was midday, there were few customers, and a faint early summer breeze blew through the room with its sliding paper doors left open.
At the edge of an unpretentious garden—where young cedars and oaks stood among bush clover and silver grass—the Asanogawa River curved like an unfurled bolt of indigo-blue cloth.
The wind swept straight from the river over the young grassy plain, rustling the groves of trees as it carried the crisp sound of rapids all the way to that room.

“Will you be resting here, or would you prefer to have lunch?”

“I want to drink sake.”
Daishirō answered honestly, “I don’t know any of this establishment’s customs. What dishes do you serve? Could you write them down for me?”

五

In a small tatami room across the corridor sat a middle-aged samurai of respectable attire, quietly drinking alone.
Daishirō remained unaware, but this man had been observing him with sidelong glances since his arrival.
What began as a cold, reproving stare gradually softened into amiable regard—whether from taking a liking to Daishirō’s manner—until upon hearing “I don’t know any of this establishment’s customs,” even the hint of a smile surfaced at the corner of his lips.

“This must be the carp sashimi, then?”
In the other room, Daishirō was looking at the menu the waitress had brought and said, “Is ‘medetai’ the garnish? Well, I’ll start with this then.”

“Carp sashimi and sake, then?”

“Right, but wait a moment—how much is the sashimi? And how much for the sake?”

“Well…”
The waitress froze in bewilderment. “I’m afraid I don’t know, but shall I inquire?”

“Ah yes, go ahead and check.”

The guest in the small tatami room who had heard this exchange smiled once more. And taking care not to be noticed as much as possible, he kept his gaze steadily fixed on Daishirō’s demeanor.

The waitress soon returned and announced the prices of the sashimi and sake.
Daishirō assumed a relieved expression and began drinking alone, though his grip on the sake cup remained awkward and his orders for side dishes came in disjointed succession.
After grilled fish he would take a soup bowl; instead of proper palate-cleansing dishes he ordered small bowls; following steamed chicken came requests for roasted chicken—and with each item he unfailingly asked the price.
To describe this might make it seem boorishly vulgar, yet in truth quite the opposite prevailed—an overwhelmingly open-hearted, carefree atmosphere permeated the scene.
A waitress who normally should have shown irritation at such troublesome demands instead appeared positively amused, cheerfully complying with every instruction—though she might have listed all prices on the menu at once, she kept making separate trips to inquire about each item individually.
Thus Daishirō's unconstrained manner stood out all the more distinctly.

"There's quite a fellow here."
The guest in the small tatami room kept his eyes fixed on the scene as he muttered this. When the woman who appeared to be the establishment's mistress entered to refresh his sake, he asked in a hushed tone, "Is that one a regular here?"

"I don't believe we've had the honor of serving that sir before."

"If he's unfamiliar, there's a matter I'd have you handle. Can't risk being overheard—step closer."

And after whispering something to the mistress, this guest soon rose and left the small tatami room.

Daishirō was pleasantly drunk.
The sake was delicious and the food superb; the view of the Asanogawa River flowing beyond stands of young leaves, and the dazzling midday light brimming over the spread-out expanse of grassland left nothing to be desired. Doing some mental math suggested that even after all this drinking and eating, money seemed likely to remain—so even a place called Kawajū wasn’t beyond his means after all. Thinking this made him feel even better, and he even began entertaining grand notions like inviting his cold-rice companions here someday.
While he was thus occupied, the waitress came and said they would like him to change rooms, apologizing for the inconvenience.

“As a large party will be arriving here shortly, we must ask you to move—though we deeply apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Of course.”
He rose casually.

“This way, please…”

The waitress gathered the dishes and led him across the corridor to a smaller tatami room—the same one where the elderly samurai had been seated earlier, now impeccably tidied with fresh floor mats.
After transferring his meal things and taking his sake order, she withdrew. Daishirō settled onto the matting and surveyed his new surroundings.
The room far surpassed the previous one in refinement. A tea ceremony scroll hung in the alcove beside a celadon incense burner wafting thin smoke. His gaze lingered on young reeds arranged in a boat-shaped basket atop staggered shelves. “What a lucky find,” he murmured—then stiffened as something hard pressed against his knee.
Shifting position revealed an object beneath the matting. Lifting the edge exposed a purse crafted from antique imported calico, clearly valuable.

――A guest must have forgotten this.

He set it aside and took up his cup again.
Before long, the waitress brought sake, so when he showed her the item he had found, she appeared perplexed and made no move to take it.

“Then I’ll open it and check—please witness this.”

He casually said this and examined the contents.
There seemed to be a considerable amount of money inside, but he didn’t touch it. Instead, he found a name card and took it out—it read Nakagawa Hachirōbei, Tsutsumi-chō.
Nakagawa of Tsutsumi-chō was a senior councilor of the domain with a 5,000 koku stipend.
When he tried to leave it with them, the waitress first went to inquire at the front desk, then returned with a refusal: they couldn’t keep custody of it here.

“It seems Lord Nakagawa hasn’t visited today, so there’s no reason for his purse to be here. If we were to keep it, we might get entangled in some trouble...”

“Then I’ll deliver it.”
Feeling this was too much trouble, he said, “Tell the front desk I’ll deliver it on my way back.”

Six

Once his so-called Extravagant Outing concluded, he dozed off for about an hour.
Though likely due to his drunkenness, it required some nerve; then he washed his face, sipped tea leisurely, and departed Kawajū.
The sun finally began to sink, and a slightly chilled breeze caressed his skin still flushed with lingering intoxication. He walked leisurely, filled with newfound confidence as though having accomplished something momentous... Though taking the route to Tsutsumi-chō meant a detour, it was not particularly far. Recognizing the estate, he reached it without needing to search.
True to its 5,000 koku status, the estate stood grandly encircled by earthen walls with a fire watchtower beside its gate.
There must have been stables nearby—the neighing of horses carried clearly through the air.
After brief consideration, he approached the side entrance.

“As I found this item at a certain location,”
When the retainer came out, he said this and presented the purse.

“Since your esteemed household’s name card was inside, I have come to deliver it. Kindly accept it.”

“That must have been an inconvenience for you. Please wait here for a moment.”

The retainer took the purse and went inside, but the one who came out in his place was the master, Nakagawa Hachirōbei.
Dear readers had already met him in Kawajū’s small tatami room; the old man, with a sullen expression even more sour than before, first glared piercingly as if delivering a rebuke.

“Was it you who delivered the purse?”

“That is correct.”

“Return it…”
With these words, the old man thrust the purse back into Daishirō’s hand. “I cannot accept this.”

“But there is a name card inside, though.”

“The name card is inside—this is unmistakably my purse—but the money within falls short.”

“Ah...”
Daishirō didn’t fully grasp the old man’s meaning. “Is that so?”

“There should be three ryō, two bu, and two shu here. Yet there’s only two ryō, one bu, and two shu—a shortage of one ryō and one bu.”

“That’s quite puzzling.”
Having no alternative, he replied, “I needn’t mention this, but I know nothing of the money inside. I merely came to deliver it after seeing your name card.”

“No—this won’t end here. Since there’s suspicion regarding the delivered item, it stands to reason the one who brought it can’t be free of responsibility. As for me, I won’t accept a purse that’s clearly short on money—you’d best understand that.”

Even the normally easygoing Daishirō flared up in irritation at this.
The amount of money inside meant nothing to him—to go out of his way to return something only to be met with suspicion instead of gratitude was utterly preposterous. “Very well.”
With these words, he put the purse into his pocket.

“In that case, I shall take it back and return it to its original place.”

“What do you mean by ‘to the original place’…?”

“Since you refuse to accept it, I will return it to where it originally was.”

“Wait—that won’t do!”

“However, there is no other course of action available.”

“Do you think this will just go away?”
The old man glared furiously and shouted, “A samurai bringing a purse with questionable funds and claiming ignorance—you think this can be settled with a simple explanation of returning it to where it was found? Nor will I let this matter rest!”

This—he had encountered a formidable old man—Daishirō thought.
Concluding that nothing would get through to this stubborn elder, he grew annoyed and stepped outside the entrance. “Please wait here,” he said.
Since the remaining money wasn’t enough, he took out a gold coin from his personal funds, added one bu to it, and placed them into the purse.
Even in poverty, keeping a one-ryō gold coin on one’s person was a samurai’s cultivated duty; having no choice, he had diverted those funds.

“Then please inspect it once more.”
With these words, he returned the purse to the old man.

“Indeed, everything is properly accounted for this time.”
The old man nodded after meticulous inspection. “I’m indebted to you for taking the trouble to deliver this. For formality’s sake, might I inquire your name?”

After Daishirō identified himself as Jōban—the younger brother of Shibayama Matazaemon—and walked away nonchalantly, Hachirōbei watched his retreating figure with admiration before turning around and calling out, “Did you see that, Kaji?”

Answering “Yes,” a woman emerged from between the pillars—the old man’s wife named Kaji.

“What an extraordinary man!” Hachirōbei said cheerfully as he entered the inner room. “To swallow that unreasonable treatment without arguing or getting angry—then adding his own money! That’s remarkable! It’s not mere broad-mindedness or generosity—it’s his very nature! That’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

“His character also had an unhurried refinement about it.”

“I’ve decided—Ya’e will marry him!”

“Though you may say that…”

“Hah! I’ll show you!”
The old man squared his shoulders confidently. “You’d be more eager than me if you’d seen Kawajū’s state of affairs! Starting with their carp sashimi preparations…”

Seven

Daishirō sobered up completely.
The extravagant outing itself had been enjoyable enough, but when all was settled, three months’ worth of pocket money had vanished—even the coin he kept against his skin was gone.

*I can’t even pick up something carelessly without ending up paying my own money to return it—what a farce.*
Muttering this, he suddenly tilted his head. *What a farce… What on earth does “what a farce” even mean?*

People often said things like “what a farce” or “a carp climbing a waterfall” in such situations. He’d uttered the words himself without thinking, but now that he considered it, their origin eluded him. As he cocked his head wondering *Now why would that be?* his easygoing disposition swept all thoughts of the Nakagawa residence clean from his mind.

When he tried to return home and head to his room, his sister-in-law stopped him.
He was informed of a guest—his brother was hosting someone in the parlor—so he went to the parlor. There sat Hiramatsu Yoshinosuke, a friend who had shared desks with him at the domain school. Since Yoshinosuke had become an inner page and started working at the Seikei Library, their contact had all but ceased.
...After his brother withdrew following him and the greetings concluded, Yoshinosuke promptly declared, “Let me see your collection.”

“I hear you’ve amassed quite a collection of rare books.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—I’d be ashamed to call it a collection. It’s just some odds and ends I’ve gathered out of interest. There’s nothing worth showing anyone.”

“However, I heard you possess Rinkeishi.”

“Ah, I do have a couple of historical works.”

“At any rate, won’t you show me? I’ve been waiting every moment since coming here precisely for this.”

Daishirō smiled wryly, stood up, and guided him to his room.
As dusk was already falling, when they lit the andon lamp, Yoshinosuke carried it to the bookshelf and began examining the volumes.
Then came the books piled in room corners and alcove—those still bundled with damaged bindings... Sighing repeatedly throughout, he completed his fervent inspection before returning to sit down nearby.

“Did you collect all this by yourself?”

“Most were damaged and nearly turned to scraps, you see. Of course, had they been properly preserved from the start, I likely couldn’t have afforded them.”

“Even so, you’ve gathered quite an amount—I never imagined this scale.”
Having said this, Yoshinosuke adopted a formal tone. “My apologies—would you compile a categorized inventory of these?”

“...What would you have me do?”

“This remains confidential, but today’s visit was by our lord’s command. It seems the bookseller Nanbaya brought your collection to his attention—with reports of numerous rare volumes, I was ordered to conduct an inspection.”

“So this would mean they’re to be presented, I suppose?”

“That’s risky.”
Yoshinosuke stood up laughing. “Even just from what I’ve seen, there are quite a few items worth adding to the official library. But I suppose that counts as fulfilling one’s duty too.”

Today must be an unlucky day, he thought as he saw Yoshinosuke off.
With the meager allowance from his Cold Rice stipend, he had painstakingly collected them bit by bit—mending bindings, rebinding covers to his taste, delighting as they gradually multiplied—only for them to be confiscated there, like a kite snatching fried tofu. First that purse incident, now this—what an unlucky day it had been. Daishirō was thoroughly disheartened.

The next day, as he was writing a classified list of book titles, his sister-in-law came to announce a visitor: “Lord Nakagawa of Tsutsumi-chō,” she said.
Daishirō was startled. Worrying that he might be told the money was still insufficient—even entertaining such thoughts—he went to the entrance, where Nakagawa Hachirōbei stood with his usual stern expression.
Wondering if he was being a nuisance—though unsure of the purpose—he invited Nakagawa up to the parlor.
“I must apologize for yesterday’s matter,” said the old man as soon as he took his seat, presenting a small paper packet. “When I stated that one ryō and one bu were missing, that was my error. I had forgotten about a purchase I made—most regrettable.”

“That’s very…”
Daishirō was finally flustered.
In any case, since the one ryō and one bu had been returned—a substantial amount—Nakagawa told him to check the contents and accept it. After leaving the paper packet there with those words, he went to ask his mother for tea.

“Please prepare some sweets too—this is Lord Nakagawa Hachirōbei, the domain elder.”

“Lord Nakagawa of Tsutsumi-chō?”
Sugime’s eyes widened. “Is that true, Daishirō? Then why on earth didn’t you say so sooner?”

“There’s no need to make a fuss—I’ll explain everything later.”

With tea and sweets in hand, his mother went out to greet their guest.
Nakagawa Hachirōbei detained Sugime for a while and spoke with her.
Dear readers, you must have realized—the old man had come to observe the household, and after engaging in a rambling conversation for about an hour, he departed.
……Having regained the money he had resigned himself to losing, he spent the afternoon delivering what he had written up to Yoshinosuke’s house before cheerfully setting out to hunt for old books.
The evening meal became lively with Mother’s story about the purse.

“Both are quite bold!” his elder brother laughed. “But paying out that much yourself—what exactly were you planning next?”

“What plan could I have had? I just thought it was a farce. Ah, now that I think of it—where does the phrase ‘what a farce’ even come from, Brother?”

Eight

“A thick-faced carp climbing a waterfall, Brother?”
Matazaemon had his wife pour tea as he explained, “Well, think about it—if a carp can climb up a falling waterfall, its face must be remarkably tough. That’s why we say ‘exceptionally thick skin,’ wouldn’t you agree?”

“So it means ‘shameless’?”

“If you take the words at face value, that’s what it means.”

“So it’s the opposite then? After returning a lost item and having money taken from me, they should be the ones feeling ashamed—that’s what needs saying. But this still feels off.”

When such topics arose, the Shibayama family showed no restraint—even Mother joined in, endlessly discussing and finding amusement in trivial matters.
……Three days later, Hiramatsu Yoshinosuke arrived wearing hemp ceremonial attire, announcing he came under the lord’s private orders. When asked if this concerned book confiscation, he replied “Indeed,” though it involved more than mere requisition.
“You’ve been appointed as Inner Page with an official position at Seikeikaku—they say it’s ten koku support until establishing a branch family.”

“But what exactly would I be doing?”

“His Lordship examined the inventory and marveled—‘It would be criminal to waste the connoisseurship required to amass such a collection,’ he declared. ‘We shall employ this talent to investigate volumes for library acquisition.’”
Yoshinosuke lowered his voice. “This appointment carries over a hundred koku. Form a branch household, and you’ll qualify for an official residence.”

Daishirō found himself recalling his uncle Nakai for no particular reason at that moment.
About that uncle who grew dye plants and medicinal herbs to fund his drinking.

“These are all the books you’ve been ordered to present.”
Yoshinosuke spread out the catalog there. “As compensation for your efforts, thirty gold pieces will be granted from His Lordship’s coffers. I know it’s not particularly gratifying, but do bear with it. The books are to be taken to the castle together tomorrow.”

“There will likely be an official summons soon,” Yoshinosuke said before taking his leave.

……Daishirō was dumbfounded. Having resigned himself to a lifetime of Cold Rice status, he was now to receive a ten-koku stipend for his Seikeikaku appointment, a residence with over one hundred koku upon establishing a branch family, and even thirty gold pieces—a sum irreplaceable by books. The sheer unexpectedness of it all left him unable to feel joy immediately.

But the unexpected developments were not limited to that.
The next day, after he and Yoshinosuke carried the books to the castle, viewed the interiors of the Seikeikaku and the official library building, and returned home, his brother—who was off duty and at home—stopped him as if he had been waiting impatiently, exclaiming, “This is serious!” His mother and sister-in-law were also there, beaming at him.

“Inspector Lord Fuhwa has come with a marriage proposal.”

“Oh…”
He blinked rapidly.

“Who do you think it is? Take a guess, Shirō.”

“I have no idea.”

“Why, it’s that purse gentleman—old Nakagawa of Tsutsumi-chō! He has an eighteen-year-old daughter named Miss Yae, and they say he’s making an earnest plea for your hand in marriage.”

When he heard that far, Daishirō felt something in his head begin to spin.
Everything happened in such rapid succession—it all felt so unnatural, as if some curse had been cast.
Yet the sensation of spinning in his head had nothing to do with that.
Amidst the whirling motion, a flower suddenly surfaced—the vivid purple of a bellflower. It was upon hearing the word "marriage proposal" that what had lain submerged in the depths of his memory finally resurfaced.

“No.”
He stated clearly, “Please decline.”

“Daishirō.”
His mother was the first to react in shock, “You can’t just blurt out such things without thinking—”

“There’s no need to deliberate—I no longer need to marry into another family.”
“I can’t make an official announcement yet, but I’ll soon be appointed as an Inner Page and begin serving at the Seikeikaku.”

“What did you say?”
This time his elder brother was surprised.

“Mother, do you know the saying—‘Sleep with a lord or take five thousand koku?’”
He said this while standing there: “I’ll be taking a wife after all.”

Early the next morning, Daishirō visited his third brother in the Nakamura family.
It was a request to formally propose to the girl from that earlier story; only then did he learn for the first time that she was the sister of a man named Fukami Shinzō who worked at the district magistrate’s office—her name was Nuhi, and she was seventeen years old.
The second brother immediately went to the Fukami residence, and the marriage negotiations were smoothly concluded.
However, that month was terribly busy.
They were both hosting and being hosted for engagement-related gatherings.
On another front, he found himself making rounds to the households necessary for greetings after being summoned and being swamped with duties at the Seikeikaku immediately upon starting his official post—a state of affairs that left him scarcely a moment to catch his breath.

In April of the new year, they moved into a residence granted to them in Sanbanchō and held a modest wedding ceremony with Nuhi.
The stipend was 150 koku, with the remainder as duty allowance.…… Thus, on the evening of their second day after the wedding, when he peeked into his wife’s room, there was Nuhi quietly engaged in something amidst an array of scattered items.
The maid who had come from Fukami seemed to be in the kitchen.—Ah, tomorrow was the homecoming.

As he thought this, he noticed his wife’s hands folding a crane from blue paper; Daishirō recalled his third brother in the Nakamura family’s words and nearly laughed.
“Are you still folding that thing?”

“Oh.”
The suddenness must have startled her.
Nuhi shuddered as she turned around, but upon seeing her husband standing there, she blushed and hid the paper crane. “Oh my—I had no idea you were here. I deeply apologize for the mess; I was looking over the things to bring back home…”

“Paper cranes too, huh?”
Daishirō said with a laugh, “Is there some kind of custom like that?”

“It isn’t a custom—this is to be offered at the Kannon Hall near my home village.”

“So it’s devotion then, right?”

“No.” Nuhi lowered her head deeply.
Then, in a tone akin to prayer, she quietly began: “…When one has a wish to make, they fold cranes for the Kannon deity—infusing each one with a plea. Once nine hundred ninety-nine have been offered, you must simply wait and pray. And if the wish is granted… you fold the thousandth crane to present.”

“You’re acting as if your own—” Daishirō began, then suddenly fell silent as if struck, looking down at his wife with wide eyes.

“My wish was granted.”
Nuhi murmured as if unable to endure her shyness, “…This is the thousandth one.”