Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Yamamoto Shugoro

I

On the night of the wedding ceremony, it began to snow.
She could hardly remember the details of those few days, but she could still vividly recall—in many ways—how shortly after the ceremonial cups had been exchanged, one of the guests had said "It’s finally snowing," how the banquet had grown particularly lively thereafter, and how she had felt that snow was blessing her future.

At last, a place to settle down had been found.

I thought this inside the wedding hood.

This will be the home to which I entrust my entire life.

I did not consider anything else.
People are either precocious or late-blooming—I was apparently among the latest of late bloomers.
Even though I was already sixteen years old, I knew nothing about marriage and was simply immersed in warm tranquility and happiness—solely because I now had a home of my own and because the Hosogai parents I had met in the dressing room seemed like the kind, true parents I had yearned for since childhood.

I had no home, no parents or siblings.
In my hometown stood the Tokiwa household with its parents and brothers and sisters.
I was raised as their youngest daughter but was not their true child.
My real father was Sugimori Azusa—a scholar who studied national learning under the Hagiwara Munekata school and served as an instructor at the domain academy.
My mother Chinami too was said to excel at waka poetry; yet both had succumbed to illness when I was four years old, leaving not even a shadowy memory of their faces.
Being their only child meant our family line perished with me—thus I was taken into that distant maternal relation’s home called Tokiwa.

This was not my home.

From around autumn when I was nine years old, I began to think such things.
These parents and brothers and sisters were all strangers.

My real home was also somewhere else.

My real home was also somewhere else.
The fact that I had remembered things in such a way dated from before I knew of my circumstances; it was not as though I alone had been treated like a stepchild or met with coldness.
Rather, I even think I was treated well.
Why then did I come to think such things?
It was likely due to my own disposition, but I think the Tokiwa household’s strict customs and the peculiar chill between its family members also contributed as one of the causes.

The Tokiwa household was a senior guard with an income of about three hundred koku; between the husband and wife, they had one son and two daughters, with the youngest daughter being seven years older than she was.
She didn’t want to sound like she was speaking ill of the house where she had been raised, nor was there any need to do so, so she would omit the details—but that house in Naginamachi was always hushed, damp like an icehouse, dark, and cold.
From early morning until bedtime, not only her foster father’s departure for the castle and return from it but even the timing and order of various household chores were strictly regimented, leaving no room for leisure or warmth.
Family relations were much the same—whether between husband and wife or brothers and sisters, they were as disjointed as a gathering of strangers, sharing not a single common thread of joy or sorrow, worry or pleasure, affection or toil.
A detachment so complete there wasn’t even mutual hatred—that was what she found unbearable.

After entering the Hosogai household as a bride, while adjusting her preparations in the dressing room, her father-in-law Hachirobei and mother-in-law Sachie entered.
Her father-in-law was a large man with a somewhat stout build, his ruddy complexion bearing a gentle smile as he squinted his eyes at me and nodded slowly several times.
Though petite, she had a softly rounded figure, and her speaking voice carried a delicate clarity like a young girl’s.

Father remained silent and only nodded gently with a smile.
Mother said in an enviably beautiful voice—What a lovely bride—while running a comb through my hair.
Though it was merely that, I was so moved that pain welled deep in both my breasts—I thought I had finally met my true parents.

――These are my true Father and Mother.

Throughout the wedding ceremony, and even after being led to the bedchamber by the matchmaker couple, I remained entranced—caught between the warmth brought by that profound emotion and my peacefully settled mood.
In the bedchamber, we exchanged cups once more; when I removed my wedding hood and faced that person for the first time, I acknowledged him as the man who would become my husband—but beyond that, no other emotions arose.
Was it certain? Had there truly been no emotional turmoil—no anxiety, shame, or fear?
I remember there had been none.
What remained dimly in my memory was only this vague sense of having acquired a new older brother.

She stood in the next room, had Mrs.Saito, the matchmaker, help her change into a white nightgown with a pale pink sash fastened at the waist, then loosened her hair.

"The morning attire has been placed here," Mrs.Saito indicated the lacquered clothes basket. "A maid will come if called, but you should dress yourself."

"Yes," I answered.

While adjusting the collar of my nightgown, Mrs. Saito whispered in a casual tone about keeping my body relaxed and maintaining a calm state of mind.

"As for retiring to the bedchamber," Mrs. Saito said with a slightly concerned expression, "you do understand how it works, don't you?"

I did not even know the term "retiring to the bedchamber," yet I answered "Yes" without understanding.
When we returned to the bedchamber, Mrs.Saito had me lie down in the bedding, adjusted the disarray of my loosened hair, pressed beneath the pillow, and whispered, "It's here."

Where had the man who was to become my husband been at that moment? Mrs. Saito had arranged the screen around the bedding, dimmed the paper lantern’s flame, and then departed almost soundlessly.
When I faintly heard the sound of the sliding door, that person who was to become my husband soon entered.
Right—when I returned to the bedchamber, that person had not been there.
And shortly after Mrs. Saito had left, that person entered carrying a tray with three warmed sake decanters and small dishes of appetizers, then sat unsteadily beside the bedding.

“Stay lying down,” that person said without looking at her. “Need to drink more to work up courage. In my whole life—never had a night needing more guts than tonight. Yeah.”

I wavered.
Should I rise and serve him? Would staying prone be disrespectful?
If he instructed me thus, perhaps compliance was wisest?
Caught in this limbo, I missed my moment to rise—lying supine, eyes shut tight.

“I will be reborn,” that person muttered as if to himself. “You must have heard the rumors about me—I won’t deny them. Rumors tend to be exaggerated, but I’ll admit it plainly: I was a libertine. Just one thing—let me say just one thing. No one knows why I became a libertine. No one even tries to know. Father and Mother never tried to understand. Who—who in their right mind would choose to become a libertine?”

And that person continued speaking at length about his difficult circumstances and how much he had suffered through his struggles.
As I listened, I thought: This person is chanting a lament.
Until that moment, I had known nothing about him.
When the marriage arrangements had been finalized, I first heard from Mrs. Saito that "he'd been quite the libertine," but I hadn't understood what that meant nor considered it particularly significant.

"If you would take me as your wife, I will reform my conduct—that is what he is said to have declared."

Mrs. Saito earnestly repeated that.
"He has no other wish—he just keeps saying that if only he could have Suzu of the Tokiwa household," she reported.
I did not understand where that person had seen me or why he was so insistent.
Yet my foster parents had consented, and I felt no inclination to refuse.
The Hosogai household held seven hundred koku as middle-ranked retainers but were said to be a family of distinguished lineage within the domain.
To be truthful, this too appealed to me—but more than anything, I wanted to leave that house in Naginamachi.
Even if their status were humble, I wished to go to a slightly warmer home where I might live like a human being.
It was with these thoughts that I gave my consent.

That person’s voice lamenting his misfortune sounded as if he were singing his misery for pleasure.
It felt not like repentance, but as though he were peddling repentance.
And then it happened.

When he drained every last drop of sake, that person crawled into the bedding.
Though the two pillows laid side by side should have made clear what was expected, to me it seemed crude and vulgar—I swiftly shifted my body away within the quilts.
What followed I refuse to recall.
Soon I sprang upright.
Convinced I might be killed, I shoved that person away with all my strength, leapt from the bedding onto the tatami mats, and tremblingly straightened my disheveled collar and hem.

“What’s wrong?” that person said. “Why are you running away?”

I remained silent, panting.

**Two**

Panting violently, I silently stared at that person.
On that person’s bare chest—the dull blackish, sinister skin—ribs formed a stepped pattern, with a single clump of hair growing at the center.

“What do you think you’re doing?” that person said in a terrifying voice. “You came here as a bride.”

I tightened the collar with both hands.

At that moment, that person’s face changed.
His eyes took on an unusual gleam, and his entire face seemed to narrow and elongate.
I closed my eyes.
I closed my eyes before that person lunged, and while being slapped violently on the cheeks, kept them firmly shut.

“Don’t give me that arrogant face!” shouted that person in a suppressed voice as he struck my cheek with his palm. “—What do you take me for with this refined act? What do you take me for? Come here—you’re my wife!”

That person struck with his palm, struck with the back of his hand.
Each time, my face shook left and right, but I did not feel any pain at all.

“Bitch! You bitch!”
That person panted and shouted, “I know what kind of beast a woman is! You think acting refined will fool me? You’re a woman—take a good look at yourself!”

That person wrenched my hands free and spread open the collar of my nightgown to both sides.
Then, roughly undoing my obi, that person pushed and struck me as he stripped me naked.
I did not resist.
Still with my eyes closed, I sat with my hands on my bare knees.
Since it was snowing outside, the temperature must have dropped, but I felt no cold, nor did I feel any shame.

“Look at that chest,” that person sneered between ragged breaths, “look at that front. That’s a woman. That’s a woman’s true form. You’re just the same beast as any other woman.”

She could feel that person’s eyes roaming over the entire naked body.
It felt as though being physically touched; wherever his gaze fell, the skin puckered in succession.

“Stay put.”
“Stay put,” that person said. “Don’t move a muscle—stay exactly like that.”

With unsteady steps, that person left the bedroom.

I opened my eyes, put on the garments I had been stripped of one by one, and tightened my obi. As I did so, tears began to spill. I did not feel sad, nor did I feel pitiful. Without any emotion whatsoever, tears simply spilled forth. Before long, that person returned with a square cask, poured sake into a soup bowl, and began to drink. I had thought I would be stripped naked again, and at that time had resolved myself to it—but that person sat cross-legged beside the bedding, continuing to drink in a hurried manner as if pursued by something.

“I’ll be reborn,” that person said as if talking to himself. “If you become my wife, I can do it. I’m a weak person—I need something to lean on. This will be fine. With you as my wife, I’ll make a proper recovery.”

Before the square cask emptied, that person had become utterly drunk and collapsed into the bedding to sleep.

I remained sitting on the tatami in my nightgown until dawn. Except for when I covered that person with bedding and once rose to wash my hands, I did not move an inch from where I sat. What had I been thinking during that time? What I still faintly recall is this: my desperate attempt to erase from memory that person's chest—its dull blackish hue, that clump of hair where ribs formed stepped ridges—and one other thing: having resolved to "die and be done with it."

I should die—there was no other way.

Knowing almost nothing of the world—though sixteen, still a late bloomer—I could think of nothing but this: that person terrified me utterly, and to escape from that person, there existed no path other than death.

From somewhere out back came the sound of a well pulley.
I rose quietly and went to the adjoining room, changing into the kimono Mrs. Saito had prepared for me.
Should I go to the sea, or to the mountains?
Thinking these thoughts as if they belonged to someone else, I slipped silently into the hallway.

I had meant to steal away unnoticed, but unlike the Nagimachi house, this residence was far larger in layout. Having just arrived, I found myself utterly lost as to where the exit might be.
Guided by rough intuition through the twisting corridors, I came upon a young maid opening storm shutters and Mother-in-law Sachi gazing at the garden.
She had been contemplating the snowscape when she noticed me—turning abruptly with a startled expression, she hurried toward me in quick steps.

“My, you’re up early,” Mother said. “Have you already risen?”

When I saw that slender beautiful voice and gaze brimming with earnest care, I desperately clung to Mother’s chest and, gripping her tightly with the hands that held on, began to cry.

“Mother,” I said. “What should I do?”

“The servants will see you.”
Mother said while wrapping an arm around my shoulders, “We can’t stay here. Let’s go to my room.”

Mother held me close as she entered her own room and sat us down beside a well-stoked brazier.

“It’s all right here,” she said. “Now cry as much as you need.” Taking my hand, she continued, “But Miss Suzu—this isn’t yours alone to bear. I too have known it. Every woman must endure this once. It’s like a gate all marrying women must pass through once in their lives.”

I prostrated myself on Mother’s lap and wept.
Mother gently stroked my back and patted me as if soothing a baby while saying that though I must have been startled due to my youth, it was all over now—that such hardships to endure do not last forever, and that I would eventually come to think of it as something that had merely happened.
She spoke words to that effect.

——Mother is mistaken.

I thought so.
Through last night’s experience and Mother’s manner of speaking, something like a woman’s instinct sensed something—I thought that what happened last night differed from what Mother was imagining, that this was not how it was—but I lacked the courage to put it into words.

“Whenever you feel worried or troubled from now on, please don’t hesitate to tell me so,” Mother continued. “From the very beginning, Miss Suzu, I’ve felt you were truly my own daughter. Might you come to think of me as your real mother?”

Soaking Mother’s lap with tears and unable to speak, I clung to her knees with all my strength.

That day was spent until nightfall tidying my own room.
Apart from greeting Father, I met with no one else and did not eat any meals.
That person seemed to have gone out after breakfast and did not return even for the evening meal; around ten o'clock, having received Mother's permission, I slept in my own room.
Perhaps both body and spirit had been utterly exhausted—though resolved not to sleep until that person returned, I lay down and soon fell asleep, knowing nothing until Mother woke me the following morning.

Thus, the second night passed without incident.
In this domain, it was customary for samurai families not to have brides return to their parents’ homes.

Even if bridal homecoming had been permitted, I had no desire to return to Nagimachi.
This may make me sound ungrateful and heartless, but the Nagimachi family would not welcome my return either.
That was something I had understood from ordinary times, and it had been clearly stated at the time of the wedding.

What would become of tonight?

My head was filled with that worry.
Since separate sleeping quarters were permitted except on the wedding night, I slept in my own room on the third night as well.
Mother seemed to have sensed something, for she had the maid prepare that person’s bedroom before saying, “If you’re sleepy, go to bed first.”
That day too, that person went out and did not return even when night fell; I stayed up late talking in Mother’s room.

I returned to my room and got into the bedding; it must have been past eleven o’clock.
Unlike last night, my eyes stayed fully awake, and I heard Kōkōji Temple’s bell strike nine—midnight.
And before long, that person returned.
That person seemed to have gone around from the garden and entered through his own room’s window.
When I heard that stealthy sound, I shuddered, every hair standing on end, then involuntarily leapt up, took the dagger from the chest of drawers, gripped it, and sat upright in my sleeping robes atop the bedding.

――Please don’t let him come.

I prayed.
The oil lamp had been dimmed. Though I thought I should brighten it, I could no longer bring myself to stand.
The sound of that person’s staggering footsteps and sliding doors reached my ears—he was probably drunk.
I gripped the dagger so tightly it hurt and clenched my teeth.

That person’s bedroom faced mine across a central hallway.
Footsteps echoed through the hallway, and the sliding door to my room opened.
I was assaulted by a suffocating agony as though my heart were surging into my throat, and my breath stopped.
That person gazed this way through the gap of the opened sliding door, then slowly entered.

Three

That person remained standing, curled his lips, and gazed fixedly at me.
On his pale, mask-like face, a distorted sneer remained motionless as if carved into place, while bloodshot eyes emitted a bestial glint.
It felt not like the eyes of a beast stalking prey, but rather those intimidating an enemy.

The dagger remained in its sheath.
I thought I should draw it from the sheath, but I remained motionless, never once breaking my gaze from that person’s eyes.
That person staggered unsteadily forward.

“Hey,” that person jerked his chin, “hey, splendid, noble, beautiful Madam—though only in appearance, you know?”

I remained silent.

"You'll be crying with that face soon enough."
With a venomous sneer and his face peering into mine, that person whispered, "You'll curl your limbs like a crab, weep yourself hoarse, then beg for more... all night long..."

I couldn't understand what he was saying, but I dimly sensed lewd implications.

"I'll make you remember that taste soon enough," he said, "with these hands of mine. I'm a patient man—once I set my mind to something, I'll see it through without fail. Count on it."

Then that person left.

I strained my ears and kept sitting rigidly until hearing him lie down. Thinking myself safe now, I tried to set down the dagger, but my fingers had stiffened from gripping it too tightly—I couldn't open my hand right away. Cold sweat drenched my body; the underrobe at my armpits and back became like soaked cloth, needing changing.

I was okay; that person was no longer scary.

I thought so. He may be a base person, but he is not a frightening one—a man who complains in front of women, puts on a brave front with mere words, or makes grand vows is not someone to fear. Is a woman’s intuition for discerning a man’s nature an innate faculty? Once I thought this, my mind settled completely, and even when that person came in at midnight, no terror arose that would make me break into a cold sweat. That person only ever came at midnight, and I would sit with the dagger on my lap, never responding no matter what was said, silently staring straight into his eyes. At times he would persist for over an hour—nagging, threatening, or whining—but my heart remained utterly unmoved.

Approximately forty days had passed since the wedding with this life continuing, but when late March arrived, that person was disowned by Father.

I wasn’t told the details, but Tome, a young maid, informed me only of this much: that even after marriage, he continued his debauchery without cease; that he accumulated debts in various quarters; and that he fought with lawless companions, injuring two or three opponents.
Father’s anger had apparently been tremendous.
Simultaneously with the disownment, he ordered [him] to leave the domain and formally reported the removal from the Hosogai family register to the authorities.
I later heard that when that person left the house, he took all the money from the small chest and Mother’s valuable trinkets with him.
From when that commotion occurred until that person left, we never once met face-to-face.
I learned this from Mother—it was out of Father’s consideration that he had strictly ordered, "The two of you must not meet."

Ah, finally, I felt unburdened.

I thought so.
That person’s departure felt no more significant than a visiting boat from elsewhere cutting its mooring rope and sailing away.
Years later—perhaps around when I turned twenty—I recalled that time and felt ashamed of myself.
That person’s failure to cease his debauchery, and his eventual disownment and expulsion—weren’t they all my responsibility?
Since we had held our wedding ceremony and become husband and wife, it was surely a wife’s duty to love her husband, support him with all her might through diligent encouragement so that he could regain his footing.
In complete opposition to that, from the very night of our wedding ceremony, I rejected that person and cast nothing but eyes of hatred and contempt.

I am a weak person; I need someone to support me.

Even though that person had been told as much, I—far from supporting him—had done something akin to pushing him over the edge.
Moreover, at the time of parting, I feigned ignorance; far from interceding with my parents, I even thought to myself that this was a clean break.

What a terrible woman I was.

I felt ashamed of myself and blamed myself.
However, when I thought it through carefully, I felt that such thoughts were rather presumptuous.
What that person gave me in the wedding night’s bedchamber was neither love nor affection.
That I knew nothing about marriage was not my fault.
I was inexperienced to begin with, and since there had been no one in my foster home to teach me such things in the first place, I think it was only natural that I was seized by the fear that I might be killed.
Having exhausted his debauchery, that person must have immediately realized that I knew nothing.
If that were the case, then he should have gently guided me with more love and consideration.
That person did not possess even a shred of such emotion.
As I trembled in terror, he struck me in his drunkenness and called me a "beast."

No, I was not a bad woman.

I remember that midnight well.
That person mercilessly struck me, stripped me naked, and repeatedly humiliated me while declaring that women were beasts.
Then, getting drunk again, he began to voice his own grievances this time.
Everything revolved around himself; he never tried to consider others.
When his own desires weren’t met, he wouldn’t even attempt to consider the other person’s feelings, resorting only to tantrums, intimidation, or attempts to make them cry.

Yes, no one could have made that person reform—that much was certain.

Just as a peach tree bears peaches, that person had borne his own fruit.
No matter who might have lent him support, in the end that person would have inevitably rushed toward the precipice of disownment and expulsion.
To think that an ignorant sixteen-year-old bride might have saved him—entertaining such notions was sheer presumption, I reflected.

I could well imagine how deeply Father and Mother had been disappointed and grieved.
Though they never showed any semblance of pitying that person as they apologized to me and offered comfort and encouragement, within their solace and support I could feel—with painful clarity—how they mourned and lamented over him.

“I’m sorry for having you come as that man’s bride,” Father said. “You’re still young—you can find happiness yet. I will make this up to you.”

“Please forgive us, Suzu-san,” Mother said through tears. “We’ve done you a terrible wrong—truly, we have. Please find it in your heart to forgive us.”

I hugged Mother.
Even now, I cannot forget how, in that moment, something warm and powerful was born within me, filling me with a happiness so intoxicating it felt almost dreamlike.

“Please don’t cry.”
While stroking Mother’s back, I said, “Suzu will stay by your side for life, so please don’t cry.”

The emotion I felt when first meeting them in the dressing room—when I thought, “These are my true father and mother”—came back vividly to my chest. I vowed silently that now we had truly become parent and child, and that I would serve them both for the rest of my life.

The daily life of the Hosogai household did not change in the slightest. Father never missed a single day of work, nor could any difference be seen in the warm smile that hovered at his lips or the gentle nods he gave with narrowed eyes when looking at me compared to before. As for Mother, there was only the slight concern that she spoke somewhat less and always wanted to keep me by her side; beyond that, no changes whatsoever could be perceived.

Approximately half a year after that person had left—shortly after September arrived—I was consulted by Mother about divorce.

"There’s been no change in your condition, I see," Mother said first.

Though vaguely, I realized this meant becoming pregnant, and while answering “Yes,” I felt my face grow red.

“That was a stroke of luck within misfortune,” Mother said. “You are still sixteen, and from now on you will surely be blessed with any number of good matches—of course we will do our best as well—but how would you feel about returning to your family home for a time there?”

Without listening to the end, I shook my head while smiling.
Though I hadn’t anticipated such a topic arising, without even waiting to hear it through, I stated firmly.

“Suzu is the daughter of the Hosogai household. I have no family home apart from this house.”

“That may be so, but...”

“No,” I said, shaking my head again, “Mother said from the beginning that she could only think of me as her true daughter, and that I too should regard her as my real mother—from the moment I first met you both, I believed you were my true Father and Mother, and that feeling has not changed.”

IV

“If there are aspects that displease you, I will correct them should you reprimand me. I believe you haven’t forgotten that I vowed to remain by your side for life.”

“Please never speak of this again,” I said firmly.

“If you stay in this house,” Mother said slowly, “I fear Genjiro will become an obstacle to you. Father worries about this too.”

I remained silent.

"But if that is your wish," Mother said with a sigh, "—we shall set this matter aside for now."

I smiled gently while gazing into Mother’s eyes.
Mother also smiled, but immediately turned her face away and, as if to prevent me from seeing, seemed to press a hand to her eyes.

Soon after that, I began practicing the hand drum.
Father enjoyed Noh chanting, and once every five days, a teacher by the name of Hōshō something would come to instruct him.
He had practiced in his youth, then stopped for twenty years before starting over again last year—though it seemed he wasn’t particularly skilled.
The teacher often appeared perplexed, and Father would remark things like, “The teacher’s drumming is too intense—it makes chanting difficult.”
“My chanting is just for digestion” became his constant refrain—which also sounded like an excuse for his lack of progress—so I conceived the idea that I should learn the hand drum to accompany him.

At the Tokiwa household, beyond daily discipline we engaged in no lessons or practice of any kind, and since I myself was not particularly adept, when about half a year had passed since beginning my training, I grew so disheartened that I considered abandoning it altogether.
However, Father appeared to be counting on me—praising me with remarks like “you’ve quite a natural talent”—and urged me to endure a while longer, so I steeled myself and continued practicing.
Then after another half year or so, at Father’s insistent urging, I began providing precarious accompaniment—a situation that led to many comical mishaps—and this remained unchanged even after welcoming Hisaya-sama as my husband; to this day, whenever we perform the chants, I cannot help but laugh once or twice without fail.

In the spring of the year I turned eighteen, I said to Mother, "How about adopting an heir?" Kasamatsu Tosho was a man who had married into the Hosogai family and was Father’s younger brother, but at that time he already had four sons. I said that since the youngest child, Shinzo, was about to turn five and the bloodline was close, if they would allow me to take him in, I would raise him myself—but then Mother said, "Rather than that, there is the matter of finding you a husband."

“No, I don’t want that.”
I shook my head in surprise, “I must clearly decline that particular matter.”

Mother widened her eyes, then looked at me intently with a suspicious expression.
My tone was too vehement, so she must have thought there was some reason behind it.
I too thought it was finally time to speak, so I recounted the details of that wedding night and honestly confessed that I never wanted to experience such a thing again.

To Mother, this seemed completely unexpected; for a while, she kept her eyes closed and appeared unable to say anything.

“So that’s how it was,” Mother said at last with a deep sigh. “Then you’re still a maiden after all. Oh, thank goodness.”

“I am not a maiden anymore, for I had a wedding ceremony with Genjiro-sama.”

“No.” Mother cut me off with a soft smile, “I’ll explain that properly later so you’ll understand. If what you’re saying now is true, you’re still a maiden—and having a husband isn’t like that at all. But—” she began, then laughed in her slender, lovely voice— “—you’re eighteen years old and still such a peculiar thing.”

Though I didn't understand what was "peculiar" about it, I too laughed while blushing.

A few days later on a certain night, I was summoned to Father’s sitting room. Mother was also present, and the discussion concerned a marriage arrangement.

“You are our daughter,” Father said. “Didn’t you yourself say that we are your real parents? Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

“We too consider you our real daughter, and isn’t it natural for a real daughter to take a husband?” Father declared in an uncharacteristically strong tone. “Humans have their likes and dislikes, so I don’t mean to force this upon you outright—but I believe this man would serve well both as my successor and as your husband. I’ll have him visit within two or three days. At least see him with your own eyes.”

"And then he said that the man also enjoyed Noh chanting," Father added with a laugh.

After three days had passed, Hisaya Sawa-sama came invited for the evening meal.
That day, Mother attended solely to me—joining me in the bath, remaining by my side until my hair was dressed, makeup applied, and kimono fastened, issuing instructions so numerous they verged on vexation.
I argued that wearing a furisode would hinder my serving duties, but Mother refused to listen—her resolve to adorn me as lavishly as possible appeared almost touchingly earnest.

Hisaya-sama was the second son of Sawa Mataemon-sama, twenty-six years old and eight years my senior, yet he seemed remarkably mature—appearing closer to thirty in age. Although he was slender, he was muscular, tall in stature, and had broad shoulders. His movements and gestures were relaxed and free, and his voice was rich and low, as if he spoke from deep within his throat. Father too did not drink much alcohol, but Hisaya-sama—no, I should call him husband now—my husband too was quite weak when it came to drink; after just three cups, his neck would flush red, and his breathing would grow slightly labored.

It appeared the two men had long been acquainted, for they continued conversing with apparent interest on shared topics. Both were reserved in speech and spoke few words, yet they seemed to understand each other’s feelings well—when one began to say something, the other would start laughing before hearing it through, and such occurrences happened not just three or five times.

“Well then, shall we do some digestion practice?”
Shortly after the meal trays were cleared and tea sweets served, Father proposed, “Let’s have Suzu take the hand drum and go through Momijigari.”

“Will I be laughed at?” Husband replied.

Since my drum practice had shown no progress, being heard by someone new should have been painful—yet at that moment I prepared obediently without feeling embarrassment.
To be honest, I remember feeling something like joyful anticipation in my chest at the prospect of accompanying Husband.
Father took the shite role while Husband sang the waki accompaniment.
This went well enough initially, but Husband proved just as unskilled as Father—from the very opening duet line “The autumn showers hasten the maple hunt—”, their rhythm went astray. Each trying to adjust to the other’s tempo, they staggered about like newborn fawns taking first steps—lurching this way and that—until before reaching the sashiuta passage beginning “I am but a woman dwelling in these parts—”, both men burst into stifled laughter.

“My throat isn’t cooperating tonight,” Father said. “Shall we stop here for now?”

“Let’s stop here for now,” my husband said with a laugh. “Mother claims my voice is rather peculiar—she says when I sing Noh chants, every dog within four blocks disappears.”

“Such a thing could never be,” Father said, laughing again, and Mother and I too could no longer contain our laughter.

――Father was fond of this person.

While laughing, I muttered those words to myself.

I too could spend my entire life with this person.

The marriage arrangement was settled, and on March 7th, we held the wedding ceremony.
When the marriage arrangement was settled, I received an explanation about marital relations from Mother.
Around that time, I had begun experiencing inexplicable feelings of distress, anxiety, and irritation toward the various sensations arising within my body, so while listening to Mother’s explanation—alongside intense embarrassment—I felt a thrilling excitement in my chest, as though a thick fog were gradually lifting to reveal a delightful landscape I longed to see.

On our wedding night, when I entered the bedchamber, the memory of that time must have resurfaced.
Despite having heard from Mother and fully understood, I was again seized by terror and could not stop my body's trembling.

“You needn’t worry—let’s just sleep like this,” Husband whispered in a low voice. “Truth be told... I’m a bit frightened too.”

I held my breath.

“We’ll have to endure just for tonight,” Husband said again, “but starting tomorrow evening, we can sleep separately. Let’s not force anything until our feelings have properly blended.”

I answered “Yes,” but the words never formed into sound.
Enveloped in sweet tenderness like warm water overflowing through my chest, I gently pressed both hands over my eyes.

In truth, I too was a little frightened.

I think I will never forget those words of Husband’s for as long as I live.

Five

My eyes had been right.
One should say Father’s decision had been correct, but I wanted to take pride in how my intuition when we first met had not been off.

It would have been quicker to list what might be considered flaws than to enumerate how admirable Husband was.
This was something I had felt from the beginning—his movements were frustratingly slow.
By then it had become something steadfast and reliable, but to me back in those days, it had felt slightly exasperating.
Next came his being a man of few words, and though likely born from his deeply considerate nature, his attentiveness even toward family retainers and maidservants—these were among them.
—It was not long after I had given birth to my first child, Matsunosuke, when the maid Tome broke a jar Father had cherished while cleaning.
Apparently a valuable piece from Tang China, Tome broke down in tears, utterly distraught.
It was my husband who discovered this.

“There, there, I’ll apologize to Father,” Husband said to Tome. “You don’t need to worry about it, so just keep quiet.”

I heard about it from Tome and answered, “That should be fine,” but in my heart, I wasn’t convinced.

――A mistake is a mistake.

Tome’s mistake was Tome’s responsibility to bear—wasn’t making her shoulder that responsibility what discipline meant? Even if done out of kindness, concealing facts was not right, I thought. This too I came to realize years later—though my way of thinking had been rigid—that to deepen love and trust between people, one must be like Husband.

Shortly after Matsunosuke was born, Father’s position remained unchanged, and Husband was promoted to the Shoinban.
It seemed high-ranking officials had noticed him from early on, and Father’s joy was profound.
Though he never spoke of it aloud, his demeanor made this plain enough—the Hosogai household’s daily life grew ever brighter, filled with renewed vigor.
I believe I mentioned this before in passing, but even now Father and Husband still occasionally perform Noh chants accompanied by my drum.
Having likely abandoned hope by then—for they no longer studied under a teacher—not only did their skills fail to progress, but their intonation and rhythm gradually grew erratic, until at times they even muddled the lyrics’ order if one wasn’t attentive.
With my drum now added to this cacophony, they rarely sang through to the end—Mother, claiming compassion as her reason, would always withdraw from the room.

When my second child, Kozue, was born, I was twenty-five years old, and Matsunosuke had turned four.
Kozue was a large baby for a girl, and the delivery was somewhat difficult, but my recovery progressed smoothly afterward, and the child was perfectly healthy.

In June of that year, on a clear afternoon after the rainy season had ended, I took Kozue for her newborn shrine visit.
The shrine was Utsumi Hachiman, situated atop a modest hill north of the castle town.
Tome had already been married off, and our new maid was a seventeen-year-old girl named Ine. Since the sun beat down fiercely, I carried Kozue myself while having Ine shade us with a parasol as we walked.
Kozue’s weight left me thoroughly drenched in sweat, forcing me to borrow the back room of a tea shop to wipe myself dry before proceeding to the shrine.

Though called a tea shop, it wasn’t a simple roadside stall.
It had four or five tatami rooms and could serve simple meals and drinks.
The tatami rooms faced south at the edge of the hill, and beyond the pine grove on the slope, part of the castle town spread open into view.
Ine carried Kozue down to the backyard, and I had her fetch water in a basin to wipe the sweat from my skin.—Then, as I finished wiping myself and was fastening my undergarments, a man entered from the adjacent room where the sliding doors had been removed.
I hurriedly adjusted my collar while giving the man a reproachful look.
I thought he might be from this household, but that didn’t appear to be the case.
He wore a grime-stained, threadbare summer kimono with a three-shaku underbelt, his shaven pate and beard both grown out in wretched disarray; with both hands thrust through his collar to fold his arms, he left his chest nearly exposed.

“Can’t you remember?” the man said. “I’m your husband.”

He spoke in a dry, hoarse voice as if from a ruined throat, and bared his teeth in a grin.
As I listened to the man’s words, I saw a patch of sparse hair growing on his exposed chest and held my breath in shock.

“We must have passed each other two or three times on the road, but you didn’t seem to recognize me,” the man said. “Though to be fair, it’s been nearly ten years, and I look like this now—can’t blame you.”

I couldn't speak.

“Looks like your nursemaid’s coming back,” the man said. “—Sorry ’bout this, but bring five ryō here tomorrow. Around this time’s good. I’ll be waiting.”

And then swiftly, without waiting for my reply, he left through the original tatami room.

After completing the shrine visit, even on the way home and while preparing the evening meal after returning, my mind remained in complete disarray—I simply couldn’t gather my thoughts.

—That person had returned.

—I must take five ryō.

Like a flash of lightning, those two phrases echoed repeatedly in my head.
The other imperative—that no one in the family must notice—the agony of suppressing screams rising from suffocating anguish—I can still recall that torment with perfect clarity even now.
I never even considered there might be another course of action.
Even when night fell and my emotions had settled somewhat, all I could do was convince myself that bringing the demanded money and discussing matters properly would somehow lead to a peaceful resolution.

Contrary to their outward appearance, samurai households everywhere operated on the barest edge of solvency.
Particularly in the Hosogai household, their status stood higher than their stipend would suggest, so their expenses far surpassed those of other families.
Though Husband had been promoted to the Shoinban guard and we had begun receiving a modest stipend, I still couldn’t secretly withdraw five ryō.

—This was something I had to resolve on my own.

I thought so.
When I left the Tokiwa household, I had received three ryō as a parting gift.
Thereupon I took out my wedding garments, wrapped them up, and quietly slipped out of the house to go to the pawnshop.
Using knowledge I had heard in Naginamachi, I visited a shop called Kinuya in Matsuimachi and somehow managed to borrow three ryō.

The following afternoon, using the excuse that I needed to have my drum adjusted after so long, I informed Mother and left home, taking a roundabout route to the tea shop on Hachimansha Hill.

When I entered, a woman who seemed to be the proprietress asked, “Are you meeting someone?” and guided me herself, saying, “This way, please.”
That person was in the eight-tatami room at the very end, drinking alone before a tray lined with food and drink.
I sat apart and placed the paper-wrapped promised sum upon my knees.

“How ’bout one?” that person said. “Ten years since we last met—surely you can spare one drink with me.”

“Before that, there is something I wish to say,” I said. “I have brought here the exact amount you requested. I will hand this over to you, so please do not come to this area anymore.”

“That’s a tough one. Real tough,” that person said while drinking. “Bounced around from place to place barely scraping by, finally made it back to my hometown—but even here I managed to stir up some trouble. Funny how trouble follows me wherever I go. Can’t help it—I’m kudzu, see?”

“But—”
He immediately continued, “That was your second child from yesterday, wasn’t it? A sturdy-looking cute baby. And the husband who came after me seems like a decent man—you must be living in bliss now.”

“There is one thing I would like to say—”

“No—it’s my turn to talk,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve got a peaceful home, a fine husband, two cute kids—someone as blessed as you ain’t allowed to complain. If anyone’s gotta say somethin’, it’s me.”

“Sometime,” he said, taking a large gulp of sake from a large vessel and belching before continuing, “sometime I’ve been wantin’ to tell ya ’bout that weddin’ night.”

“I do not wish to hear such a story.”

“Hey—don’tcha stand up—don’tcha go makin’ me angry—sit your ass back down.” His eyes turned white as he bared his teeth. “—I’m confessin’ here! That night—I’m sorry ’bout it—really sorry—I mean it—swear to god.”

What should I do—I couldn’t bear it. While thinking I mustn’t stay here too long—I need to leave quickly—but if I were to leave like this, that person might do something. I also thought that if I were to leave, I should first settle matters clearly. In the midst of being perplexed by such thoughts, I suddenly realized that the tone of that person’s speech had completely changed without my noticing.

“I was six or seven,” he continued, “playing in the garden when Genji—this old servant we had back then—was digging up weeds growing near the hedge with a sickle. I asked what they were, and he said they were kudzu. ‘Why pull them?’ I asked. ‘Why?’ ‘This here’s bad grass,’ he answered. ‘If it grows, it’ll twine round other trees and kill ’em. Even bamboo thickets ain’t safe. Gotta pull it out now.’ Kudzu—”

That person unsteadily lowered his head.

Six

“I forgot about that right away,” that person continued.
“But when I was twelve or thirteen and realized that nobody liked me—that my parents were always scolding me—I suddenly remembered Genji’s words and thought sadly that I might be like kudzu.”

“Ever since I was little—I had to bribe kids with things just to play with me—even when I’d call playmates over with sweets, they’d scarf them down and bolt—I’d just sit there dumbfounded—then feel ashamed of myself—begging for friends like that—so disgraceful—so despicable—I’d swear off it for good—but when the loneliness hit—couldn’t help doing it again.”

It must have been because he felt it was a shameful and despicable thing.
While playing, he would grow agitated and turn violent—the instances where he injured others numbered not merely three or five.
He had begun his debauchery around age eighteen—driven by that same desperate need for friends and companions—but never once had he genuinely enjoyed it himself.
While funds lasted, women would smile sweetly and companions would crowd around him in raucous fellowship.
Yet the moment his money ran out, both would turn their backs without hesitation—even meeting him on the street, they would avert their eyes—such was how it went.

“It’s the same as when I was little—I always end up hating myself afterward. The shame of my own disgustingness, my own wretchedness—it makes me want to run away somewhere.”

“When I took you as my bride,” he continued drinking heavily before adding, “I truly meant to be reborn.”
“This time—this time I swore it.”
“But see—all that debauchery—never taught me nothing ’bout real women.”
“Only knew ones like whores—and even they wouldn’t give me decent company.”
“For trash like me—you were... too clean.”
“First time we were alone in that bedchamber—that’s when it hit me.”
“Difference was so godsdamned big—only way through was liquor.”

“At that time—” he said, faltering slightly before continuing, “when I hit you back then—I think I was hitting myself. When I saw the look of contempt on your face—I was so enraged by my own wretchedness and vileness—I wanted to strangle myself with my own hands. Don’t think I’m making excuses now—that’s what I truly felt that night.”

When that person clapped his hands, a middle-aged maid brought sake.
I listened frankly to that person’s confession.
It was because I sensed sincerity in that person’s manner of speaking.
Yet I kept my posture rigid—likely because some intuition had stirred within me.
That person continued his confession-like speech awhile longer, then suddenly narrowed his eyes and adopted a tone both pleading and threatening as he said, “Get me another twenty ryō.”
I clenched my hands on my knees and silently met his gaze.

“By the evening of the day after tomorrow—just get twenty ryō to me somehow,” that person said in a low voice. “—Like I mentioned earlier, I’ve caused some trouble with the local yakuza. Twenty ryō will settle it, and once it’s settled, I’ll leave this area. Then you can rest easy, right?”

“Let me tell you,” that person lowered his voice further, “I killed someone in Edo—that’s why I slipped away here—but I messed up here too. If I can’t get twenty ryō here, they’ll leave me to die in the wild. Then the Hosogai name’ll come out whether I like it or not—’cause when you’re backed into a life-or-death corner, even I don’t wanna die. So spilling the Hosogai name’s my only way out. You get it, Suzu?”

I shuddered as if ice had been pressed against my skin.
It was partly because he had called me Suzu, but more because I intuited the terror of "exposing the family name" and understood this was no mere threat.
I was happy.

The Hosogai household was peaceful and bright—it could very well be called happiness itself.
That person knew it—having fallen so low, having killed people, and now seemingly driven into a corner there as well.

When push came to shove, he would do anything.

Even if he had been disowned, the fact remained that he was the Hosogai family’s only son.
I didn’t know what trouble he was caught up in now, but if there was no other way to save himself, this man would surely declare himself the son of Hosogai Hachirobei.
He had always been a self-centered person.
This was by no means an empty threat—that was what I thought.

“Just to confirm,” I asked, suppressing the trembling in my voice, “if I give you twenty ryō, will you truly leave this area?”

“No matter what I say, you probably ain’t gonna believe me,” said that person with an unpleasant smile, “but if I can crawl out of this mess, I ain’t gonna make the old man and ma cry no more—truth is, I’m backed right into a corner here.”

"It's truly a matter of life and death," that person repeated.
Upon hearing that the location was Myoken Hall in Kaiden by the evening of the day after tomorrow, I parted with that person.

I had no choice but to consult my husband.

A sum like twenty ryō was something I could not raise alone, nor could I bring myself to speak of it to Father or Mother.
My husband would understand—there was no other way—I resolved.

That night, I had intended to bring it up once we were alone, but while nursing Kozue, I suddenly realized.
No—this wasn’t the end. First five ryō, now twenty.
That person would likely demand again.
I didn’t know how much he’d demand after twenty ryō, but as long as he could extract money that way, that person would never leave here.
The sum of twenty ryō would only serve to anchor that person here.

——Then what should I do?

That night, I could hardly sleep until dawn.

And so, after spending the entire next day thinking through everything I possibly could, I concluded that I must settle this matter alone after all.

The Hosogai household was happy as it was now.

A wet nurse could be hired for Kozue.
Even if I were gone, they likely wouldn't face much hardship.
For these ten years, I had lived in happiness.
Compared to the sixteen years I was raised in Nagimachi, the ten years in Hosogai were nearly equivalent to an entire lifetime.
If it was to protect the parents, husband, and children who had given me such happiness, I thought, I would not regret abandoning myself.

From then until the appointed hour arrived, I calmed my heart with all the self-control I could muster, never showing any unusual demeanor in daily matters or even toward the children.
And when the appointed hour arrived and I left home, I informed only Ine, the maid, that I was "going on an errand," and did not meet with Mother.

In the fold of her kimono, she carried only the dagger.

It’s a strange twist of fate.

When it comes to that person, this dagger comes out.
Having been stored away for ten whole years, I now find myself compelled to take it up again.
As that person had confessed, such things must always follow that person.
Of course, it would be resolved without using it—that was what I thought.

I had intended to risk my life persuading that person and leave here together.
If that failed, I had resolved to stab that person to death, dispose of them in the Miyase River, and then die myself in a manner that would leave my identity unknown.
Kaiden was a new road leading southwest from the castle town toward the Miyase River; once you left the town’s edge, one side continued with hills and the other with fields and paddies.
Myoken Hall stood on the mountainside a quarter mile from the town’s outskirts—but when I nearly reached it—two men appeared and blocked my path.

The area was steeped in twilight haze, mist rising and thickets overhanging the road, making their true nature difficult to discern—but their appearance and manner of speech left no doubt they were yakuza.

“Ma’am,” said one of the men, “Apologies, but this area’s blocked off. Can’t let you through here. Best turn back now.”

“I wasn’t afraid,” I said. “I’ve business there. Why can’t I pass?”

“We’ve got a bit of trouble among our comrades here,” said the other man. “Ain’t no sight for civilians. It’ll be over soon enough—why don’t you come back in a little while?”

At that moment, a scream sounded from beyond.

“Suzu—” the voice shouted, “help me!”

I staggered.
The men must have misjudged the situation; spreading their arms wide, they said, “You can’t pass.”

“This ain’t somethin’ for you folks to see—go on back,” said one of the men. “Don’t you get it?”

I turned around and began staggering back the way I had come.
Then another scream—a voice like tearing silk—was heard.
“Suzu—”

I staggered, moved to the side of the road, and froze in place.
The place was dark with overhanging bamboo thickets, and the tips of vines tangled around bamboo branches hung down and brushed against my face.

That person was being left to die in the wild—his life was in peril.

It was true—what that person had said was fact. As I thought this, I brushed away the vines persistently touching my face, but when I suddenly looked at those vines, I felt a stabbing pain deep in my chest, and before I knew it, I had begun to cry.
It was due to both a sense of relief—that the calamity had passed, that it was all over now—and because I found that person so pitiable.

I was gently touching that invasive vine with one hand, unaware that tears were streaming down my cheeks.