Pathway to Japanese Literature

I Oishi was taken into the Suzuki household in the Frost Month of the third year of Shōhō. Two retainers had accompanied her from Edo bearing a letter from his father; Heinojō was eleven years old at the time, but when he first saw her, he thought she was a rather dark-skinned, unsightly child.

“Oishi-dono is the child of Honorable Father’s esteemed old friend.” At that time, his mother said this and introduced her to him, “Her parents have both passed away, leaving her with no one to rely upon—a truly pitiable circumstance. From this day forward, please consider that you have gained a sister and look after her with care.” When Mother said this, Oishi stepped forward after her and aligned her hands neatly, “I humbly entrust myself to your care.” Saying this, she looked up at him. Her gaze and the manner of her greeting carried an air of maturity unbefitting a child of five. As an only child, Heinojō had occasionally wished for a brother or sister—but this girl standing before him was smaller than average, thin and dark-skinned, with reddish hair that made even a boy’s eyes perceive her as shabby and utterly lacking in charm. Though he now had a sister of sorts, this was nothing to boast about; such thoughts passed through his mind as he gave a slight nod and remained silent.

Oishi was a lively child. Though not particularly beautiful in features, she possessed bright limpid eyes that would gaze fixedly at her interlocutor whenever speaking or listening—a habit seemingly meant to ensure her words were conveyed precisely and others' speech received full attention. Yet being met with those pure, unblinking eyes left one strangely abashed, compelling them to avert their gaze first. Her deportment remained impeccable at all times; there lingered not a shadow of the melancholy typically expected from an orphan. She acted without hesitation in voicing necessary words and undertaking required actions, endowed with a refreshingly forthright disposition. Of course, at Heinojō's age such nuances lay beyond his perception and held no inherent interest to begin with, yet his initial impression of her as an unsightly child gradually faded unnoticed, until within about a year's time something faintly akin to affection had taken root. The Suzuki residence stood in a district called Kamiumabanaka no Kōji, its garden spanning five terraces rich with natural variations—hills, groves, and spring-fed ponds left unlandscaped—where friends of similar age would often gather to rampage. Initially they too ignored Oishi, but as they came to understand her nature they naturally grew fond of her, frequently wanting to include her in their games whenever occasion arose. Among them was a boy named Matsui Rokurō who associated with Oishi more closely than any other. Being from another elder retainer household with adjacent quarters, Rokurō was Heinojō's closest companion. Having a sister just a year Oishi's junior, he seemed versed in handling girls' preferences—occasionally bringing her exquisite items like a patchwork incense case, doll accessories, shell-matching game pieces, or small cosmetic jars. Yet even this well-intentioned Rokurō would sometimes sigh and remark, "Still, she is dark-skinned." Consequently the other boys—following the customs of their age—took to calling her nicknames like "Okuro-dono" or "Karasumaru" behind her back. Initially he gave this no thought, but one day sudden pity moved him; reasoning that if she must endure epithets regardless, he might at least propose a marginally better alternative himself, he insisted: "Since she's dark, Sumimaru would suit her." The name "Sumimaru" pleased the ear; heard without prejudice it carried an almost antique elegance. Thus all the boys came to use this appellation.

Her father Sōbei, who had been an elder statesman stationed in Edo, returned to Okazaki six years later in the fourth year of Keian. He had come to assume the status of senior councillor while also serving as investigator. With their father’s return after his long absence, the household’s daily rhythms could not remain unchanged; yet even amidst these shifts, Oishi’s presence began to stand out with increasing clarity. This was because Sōbei began entrusting her with various tasks—whereas she had previously remained still at Mother’s side most of the time, her figure now became visible throughout the estate, diligently attending to duties. She often came to Heinojō’s room as well. Messages such as “Lord Father summons you” or “The meal is ready,” along with other miscellaneous errands, became almost entirely Oishi’s role. Ever since they had begun living together, he gradually developed a sense of closeness and even came to feel a kind of affection akin to that for a true younger sister; however, as even that was not particularly profound, once Heinojō underwent his coming-of-age ceremony that year, he grew indifferent toward Oishi once more.

It was the year Oishi turned thirteen. It was early spring when she abruptly entered Heinojō’s room and sat down. When he asked if she had some business, she fidgeted uncharacteristically and said, “Might I borrow the paperweight?”

“Don’t you have one, Oishi?”

“No, I do have one, but…” Having started to say that, she lowered her eyes as though dazzled. “You already have one—yet you want it?” When he asked this, Oishi nodded resolutely—or so it seemed—and said: “Might I borrow the paperweight that always rested atop the writing box?”

II Heinojō looked at the top of the writing box. It was something he had received from his deceased grandfather—a jade piece seven bu in width and over five sun in length, its surface adorned with peony leaves and flowers carved in high relief. Though not of gemstone quality by jade standards, its beauty lay in the deep green hue tinged with langgan-like tones that flowed in streaked patterns, along with its smooth coolness to the touch and the perfectly balanced weight that felt satisfyingly substantial in the hand. Among his possessions, this remained one he treasured deeply. Oishi must have known this—gazing up at him with doubtful eyes, her deeply resolute manner drew a bitter smile from Heinojō. And then,

“Don’t lose it,” he said and retrieved it for her. Shortly after Father returned home, Oishi began taking lessons under Muroi Naohaku—a scholar of Japanese studies—and by that time had already started composing waka poems. Of course, these remained mere imitations that barely satisfied formal requirements like syllable counts—and even when Mother occasionally showed him verses while remarking, “She’s composed this quite well,” Heinojō retained no particular memory of being impressed. He smiled wryly at the thought of her pretentiously arranging that paperweight while poring over poetry anthologies. As she repeatedly showed him her compositions over time, he eventually discovered a poem about bush clover bearing the name Sumimaru. When he inquired about this,

“That is that child’s art name,” Mother said with a laugh. “They chose it because of her dark skin—I remarked how masculine and odd-sounding it was—but when the Master found amusement in this too, they settled upon it.” “…………”

Heinojō suddenly felt a faint pain in his chest. Upon seeing the characters, he immediately recalled—it was the nickname he had once chosen for Oishi. Knowing he would be scolded if discovered, he had never let it slip beyond his circle of friends—yet Oishi must have heard and remembered it. What must she have felt? Now nineteen years old, he could painfully imagine how Oishi must have felt at that time. There was nothing more painful for a woman than having her appearance disparaged—though still young, Oishi being an orphan with an attentive nature likely could not remain unaffected upon hearing such gossip—a terrible thing to have done. Heinojō thought this and felt ashamed of himself; from that moment onward, his attitude toward Oishi became consistently gentler.

The Suzuki household often hosted traveling artists and calligraphers who would stay for periods of time. As Sōbei took pleasure in such arrangements, rooms were specially prepared for these guests, meals were separately provided, and during their stays, they were treated with considerable hospitality. Being itinerant by nature, most of these so-called artists and calligraphers amounted to little. Yet among them—though exceedingly rare—there occasionally emerged those who left behind exceptional works. For Sōbei, this brought incomparable delight......It was among such visitors that there once came a koto virtuoso known as Master Kengyo. He appeared to be over sixty, with a crane-like slender frame that suited such a comparison. Snow-white, thick eyebrows hung down as if concealing his sightless eyes, imparting an air of striking dignity to his overall appearance. What circumstances and particulars lay in his past? None in the household besides Sōbei knew anything. Master Kengyo stayed for over four years, and during that time taught Oishi the koto. At first, he seemed reluctant, but upon recognizing her potential, gradually grew more dedicated—his teaching methods strict, with occasional outbursts of fierce reprimands echoing through the halls. Heinojō had no interest in the koto, so he would simply let the practice sounds pass by unheeded. But one day, when the three of them—Heinojō, his father, and Master Kengyo—shared a meal, Master Kengyo repeatedly praised Oishi’s innate talent, leaving him astonished.

“Learning music and discerning sounds may be simple, but grasping what exists before and after each note proves exceedingly difficult. Yet Lady Oishi does so effortlessly—the resonance linking every note she plays possesses an exceptional quality. One could rightly say she is endowed with extraordinary innate talent.” “Then could she establish herself in that field?”

Father asked that. "Ah, that would likely be difficult." Master Kengyō quietly shook his head. "For teaching people, a simpler approach would be preferable. Lady Oishi’s koto—how should I put it—is perhaps too refined in style. To put it plainly, ordinary ears cannot follow along." "And those who possess such a special sensibility," he continued, "are prone to meet unfortunate ends unless they are exceedingly careful."

The sorrowful hue that appeared on Father’s face at that time was unforgettable. Though the reason was unclear, as if Master Kengyō’s words had confirmed the fears harbored in Father’s heart…… Father furrowed his brows, closed his eyes, and for a time remained utterly still in contemplation. What could have so grieved Father’s heart—Heinojō could not begin to imagine, and it would require many more long years for him to come to know it.

III

In the spring when Heinojō turned twenty-three, Matsui Rokurō hosted a cherry blossom viewing banquet attended by only five of their closest acquaintances. Matsui maintained both a mansion within the castle compound and a secondary residence along the Ōhira River. The gathering occurred at this riverside annex, where thirty to forty young cherry trees stood in a broad garden stretching to the water's edge. Though only forty percent in bloom, the swelling buds across every branch shone more vividly than full blossoms......They spread felt carpets beneath riverside boughs and savored their modest banquet, catching flowering branches in wine cup reflections as they drank. Unlike their days of youthful rambunctiousness—now holding official posts with some even married—their talk naturally turned to political matters. As men their age were wont to do, numerous sensitive subjects arose. Then Higuchi Tōkurō lowered his voice abruptly and,

“I’ve heard Lord Uemonnosuke is a scion of Mito—does none of you know this?” he uttered something wholly unexpected. Lord Uemonnosuke referred to Tadaharu, the feudal heir of the Mizuno clan. He was Tadayoshi’s second son who became heir after his elder brother Sakenosuke’s premature death. Two years prior at fifteen years of age, he had visited this Okazaki too—they being the group granted ceremonial cups of honor. “Such absurdity!” Matsui Rokurō laughed,

“I think so too, though,”

Tōkurō said, still lowering his voice, “This rumor appears quite credible. None could deny our lord’s infatuation with Lord Mitsukuni of Mito—so infatuated that he entreated Lord Mitsukuni even before the child’s birth, securing a promise to adopt the infant. They say when the child was born, they welcomed him into the mansion still swaddled in birthing cloths—what commoners call a ‘parentless child,’ taken straight from the delivery room. As proof, Lord Uemonnosuke’s short sword is said to bear scattered hollyhock crests.”

Tōkurō’s father had once served as a close retainer to Tadayoshi, and since the account was coherent, Rokurō did not laugh this time.

“Regarding that matter, there is another secret.”

Higuchi Tōkurō looked around at everyone’s silent faces and continued, “Over a decade ago, a man named Koide Kojūrō committed seppuku and died at the Edo mansion—that incident caused quite a stir even in Okazaki, so you must know of it.”

They all remembered that incident. Koide Kojūrō was a rōnin who served with distinction in the Shimabara Rebellion and was recognized by Lord Tadayoshi, who then employed him with great trust. He was renowned for his unwavering dedication to service—boldly offering admonishments that even veteran retainers dared not voice—and his dealings within the household were celebrated for their peerless integrity. It was precisely twelve years prior, in the second year of Shōhō, that he incurred Lord Tadayoshi’s wrath and received the rare punishment of lifelong house arrest—yet on the very day the sentence was issued, he committed seppuku and died.

“At that time, despite the severe punishment, the reason remained unclear, but”

Higuchi Tōkurō continued, “The truth is, he apparently made direct remonstrations concerning Lord Uemonnosuke. At that time, Lord Sakenosuke was still alive. Kojūrō repeatedly advised that Lord Uemonnosuke be deposed and Lord Sakenosuke reinstated as feudal heir for the sake of the clan’s lineage. But when he presented this to His Lordship, he became furious—‘You speak nonsense!’—and ultimately imposed that severe punishment.”

“Haven’t you said enough…?” Heinojō interrupted, “If His Lordship declared these claims baseless, then they must indeed be false. Unless those who hear such rumors suppress them, they’ll grow embellished tails and leave unforeseen calamities in their wake. Let us speak of other matters.”

“I was just about to say that.” Rokurō raised his hand. “Everyone, look over there—truth be told, that is today’s feast.” Being told this, they turned toward where he pointed as though delivered. Across the spacious garden stood seating arranged with kosode-patterned curtains hung all around, where about ten beautifully adorned girls now emerged like scattered blossoms of varied hues. They too must have gathered for the cherry blossom banquet; upon closer look, two kotos were placed before a splendid Momoyama-style screen. The girls initially kept deferring to one another, but once seating settled, they began taking turns playing. Under cherry blossom boughs—the rows of kosode curtains, polychrome screen, dazzling girls and their attire—from this resplendent artistry arose koto melodies so exquisitely beautiful that those who beheld them felt not joy but piercing melancholy. Even Mitsudera Ichinosuke—a youth ever quick with cutting remarks—seemed unable to find any opening for barbs; he merely grunted deeply and fell silent. After a while he stood up and, muttering “I’ll go choose a bride from among them,” stole along the tree shadows. Heinojō had been intently watching one figure among the girls all this while. That was Oishi. When she first emerged, he thought her merely familiar—but realizing it was indeed her, he involuntarily widened his eyes. He felt genuine astonishment at how she had grown.

IV In Heinojō's memory, Oishi had been a dark-skinned child with russet hair—small-bodied, thin, and unremarkable in appearance. Yet the Oishi he now beheld was anything but "unremarkable"—among the dozen or so girls present, she stood out as preternaturally beautiful. This beauty stemmed neither from elaborate coiffure nor fine garments, nor even from facial features; it seemed rather to exude from her entire being—not mere surface comeliness but an inner radiance that overflowed outward.—Ah, she's seventeen now—Heinojō thought with sudden awareness of passing years, narrowing his eyes as he continued gazing at her form. The koto players likely each performed pieces they had mastered; judging by their evident skill, even to Heinojō's untrained ears many performances carried solemn dignity. When about half the performers had taken their turns, there came a girl who executed an exceptionally intricate piece with consummate skill. Its resonant tones rose markedly above previous performances—the beauty of its timbre and brilliance of modulations proved positively intoxicating.

“That’s my younger sister Sode.” Rokurō whispered to Heinojō, “Today we made such elaborate preparations intending to hear Lady Oishi’s koto—yet she likely meant for us to listen to her own performance instead. She might even be aiming to outplay her.” “I’m practically tone-deaf, but Lady Sode’s koto seems extraordinary, doesn’t it? Oishi shouldn’t even factor into this.” “No—that’s not it.”

Rokurō said as he took his cup, "The kengyo who used to serve at our house once came for a visit. Sode had him refine her playing technique then—though I didn’t hear it myself, they say he praised Lady Oishi’s skill extravagantly during that session. Ever since, our household’s been wanting to properly hear Lady Oishi’s performance someday and have Sode match skills with her. Beyond those kosode-patterned curtains over there—Mother must’ve come to listen too."

Had Oishi's koto truly gained such renown? Even Heinojō could no longer remain indifferent. After witnessing Sode's masterful performance, he adjusted his posture slightly and awaited Oishi's turn, wondering what level of skill she would demonstrate.

When Sode finished playing, a wave of admiring voices arose—audible even from where they sat. A lively commotion ensued for some time, and soon it seemed to be Oishi’s turn. But Oishi made no move to rise. Those around her pressed her insistently, and Rokurō’s sister went to her side, seeming to plead. But Oishi simply smiled gently and shook her head, refusing to rise no matter what. At that moment, Mitsudera Ichinosuke returned.

“Lady Oishi isn’t coming out, I tell you.”

“Lady Oishi isn’t coming out, I tell you.” He said as he sat in his seat,

“She lacks such skill—is too embarrassed and just keeps saying that. Is that really true?” “I suppose so.”

Rokurō smiled and nodded. "If Master Kengyō’s assessment was accurate, she would never play at such an event—Sode had been far too optimistic in her expectations."

“That may not necessarily be the case.” Heinojō interposed. “Claiming to lack skill is probably her genuine feeling as herself, and she must feel embarrassed since she’s unaccustomed to such social interactions. After all, she’s Sumimaru.” “Ah, Sumimaru.” Someone chimed in from the side, and they all recalled those days and laughed warmly. It was from then that Heinojō came to see Oishi in a new light. When he began to see with different eyes, he found himself frequently startled by glimpses of Oishi’s true character revealed in fragments of matters he had previously overlooked without realizing. In places unnoticed by others, in corners unseen by any eye—all concealed beneath the surface rather than displayed openly—a meticulous and diligent heart had been fully exercised. Taking over the maid’s duties to clean the bathhouse, tending the kitchen hearth, and making firewood alongside the manservant—even Mother had remained unaware of these acts for a long time. She showed particular skill in cooking, often preparing dishes from humble ingredients that one might mistake for something far more costly. On one occasion when she made dumplings for tea sweets—their light, crumbly texture carrying a rustic yet novel flavor—even Heinojō reached for a second serving. Later, it was learned they were barnyard millet dumplings—moreover, that she had gathered the millet herself from what farmers had uprooted and discarded in the fields, then dried it, pounded it, and ground it into flour to make them.

“I’m often astonished by the things she does.”

In Mother’s words, there always lingered a warmly admiring tone. The complexion he once thought dark had transformed into a fine-grained wheat color, gaining a lustrous and healthy fullness. Her hair had lost its reddish cast, and her height had grown to surpass the average. As he observed attentively, each of these transformations made Heinojō’s eyes widen and his heart become inescapably captivated. After pondering it repeatedly, having come to believe this was both most natural and desirable, he frankly consulted his mother,

“I believe she would not bring shame as a Suzuki bride. What do you think?” “Well…” Mother had likely never imagined such a proposal; at first, she seemed quite hesitant. However, when told this and reconsidering, she now became more enthusiastic than Heinojō. “In any case, please try asking Father.” Having said that, he entrusted everything to Mother with relief.

Five

Father too had initially shown disapproval.

“There is another marriage proposal…”

Thus the matter was temporarily put on hold. And when even Father deemed it acceptable and gave his consent, Mother spoke to Oishi about it for the first time. Thereupon, Oishi did not even consider it, shaking her head firmly as she refused. “I wish to make my living through the koto, as I intend never to marry anyone my entire life.”

When asked for the reason, she replied thus: "But your koto playing is ill-suited for teaching others—didn't Master Kengyo himself remark as much some time ago?" Mother said with genuine surprise, "Even were that not so, it's difficult for a woman to live alone. Youth may suffice, but they say the loneliness of old age becomes unbearable." Mother then presented various reasoned arguments and urged her to reconsider, but Oishi kept shaking her head with an obstinacy that clashed with her usual docile nature.

“Please spare me this conversation. Moreover, I have been intending to soon request your leave to go to Master Kengyo in Kyoto.” The increasingly unexpected words left Mother dumbfounded for some time. “Is this because you made some arrangement with Master Kengyo?” “Yes, when he departed from here, I personally made the request.” “So Master Kengyo instructed you to come, I take it?”

“Yes…” Oishi bit her lip tightly and looked down. “I could scarcely believe it.” While recounting the entire sequence, Mother glared as though she herself had been betrayed. “I won’t speak of how we’ve cared for you until today—we had no such intention from the start. But if there were any human feeling in you, you couldn’t have refused like that. That alone would be one thing, but to have secretly made such arrangements with Master Kengyo without our knowledge—it is beyond all bounds!”

“There’s no use in your anger now—let us wait a while and see how things unfold.” While calming Mother, Heinojō considered trying to speak directly himself once. However, before that time could come, the father suddenly collapsed—having fallen ill in the castle, he was carried home by palanquin but remained unconscious, and after three days of illness, passed away.

Even in his grief, Heinojō realized he had done something irreparable. That was how Oishi’s true lineage had ultimately remained unknown. When first taking her in, he had merely stated she was “the child of an old acquaintance,” never telling even Mother whose daughter she was or where she came from. Heinojō had tried asking about it indirectly on two occasions, but each time was met with “I’ll speak of it another time,” and ultimately that opportunity never came. But there might be something found among Father’s belongings. He had clung to that faint hope, but became swept up in funeral preparations and found no time amidst inheriting the household headship and Father’s responsibilities. Moreover, soon after mourning ended, Oishi finally left the Suzuki household for Kyoto. …It must have been Oishi who arranged it: her teacher of Japanese studies Shōhaku Munekiyo came and persuaded both Mother and Heinojō.

“She has expressed her desire to continue her studies beyond the koto, and fortunately, in Kyoto, there is a scholar named Kitamura Kigin with whom I have maintained a cordial correspondence for some time. If I make the request, he will surely provide assistance. Given that Lady Oishi possesses talent in national studies as well, depending on circumstances, I believe she could establish herself through this path.” “Please grant her wish,” he said in his characteristically plainspoken manner, as befitting an elderly scholar.

Heinojō realized it was now beyond remedy. Mother too had no choice but to resign herself. But how bitter it must have been—

“I am already sick of thinking about that child—let her do as she pleases.”

She kept repeating these harsh words, yet on her face, the hue of sorrowful disappointment lay plainly visible. It must have been sadder, more painful, and more bitterly frustrating than had her own flesh-and-blood daughter rebuffed her. Even so, as the day of departure for Kyoto drew near, “For she is a child without family,” she said while preparing summer and winter garments, purchasing meticulously chosen implements, and personally arranging her hair when the time came to depart. “Once your dwelling place is settled, send word.”

At their parting, Mother cried while saying this, “The world is harsher than you think—you never know when you might encounter some sorrowful event.” “Since you are just like a daughter of the Suzuki family, when such times come, do not be stubborn and return—for I will always be waiting joyfully.” Oishi did not cry; she merely lowered her slightly pale face and answered with faint “Yes”es. To Heinojō, she appeared as someone whose heart was no longer present—and he felt anger toward Mother, finding himself unable to exchange words. ……And so Oishi departed for Kyoto—unbelievably simply, as though a traveler rising from a night’s lodging—unburdened, she left the Suzuki household behind.

VI

It took Heinojō a considerably long time to forget Oishi. Only after Oishi was gone did he realize how indispensable she had been—how profoundly necessary she was to him. Having gone so far as to propose marriage, it was of course no mere simple fondness. Yet he had never imagined being left with emotions so deeply rooted and fiercely persistent. From her days as an awkward child through her first poetic compositions, after initially catching his eye at Matsui's garden banquet—her figure grown familiar through countless dawns and dusks; those myriad mundane gestures filled with unspoken care in unnoticed moments; even the taste of millet dumplings—all returned to him with a vivid rawness sharper than their original occurrence. How could someone burrow so deeply into another's heart yet depart without lingering attachment? In the unbearable frustration of having memories stirred by every object and incident, Heinojō found himself emitting sighs he deemed unbecoming of a man. Come to think of it—he'd never learned her origins. Realizing this one day, he meticulously examined his father's effects. Yet there was nothing to serve as a clue. Discovering a diary from his father's youth, he strained his eyes deciphering the cramped script—still finding no mention of Oishi. He passed days in bewilderment, chasing after vanished traces like one pursuing the memory of a departed bird.

He married in the spring of his twenty-seventh year. Since Mother urged him out of loneliness and he had no particular reason to refuse, he married Matsui Rokurō’s sister, with whom arrangements had been made during Father’s lifetime. Some time had passed since the wedding celebrations had concluded when Rokurō came to visit, and during a shared drink,

“Do you remember that cherry blossom viewing event from years ago?”

he said with a laugh, “To tell the truth, that was to have you meet Sode. Didn’t you realize?” “Yeah...” Heinojō recalled the resplendent scene of that time—and within it, he suddenly caught sight of Oishi’s figure—but there was no longer any heartache, and that figure too had already faded into a hazy, fleeting impression. He let out a deep sigh and poured sake into Rokurō’s cup. An ordinary yet warm and quiet married life began. The following year saw the birth of their eldest son, and a year later came their eldest daughter. Sode had a bright and straightforward nature, rather inclined toward lively matters. She had a plump build, a face with eyes that always smiled, constantly radiating a lively atmosphere about her. However, after conceiving her third child, her health began to decline, and in the sixth autumn since her marriage—still carrying the child due in July—she passed away as if in a lie, all too abruptly.

"...This was no small blow to Heinojō. Crushed and heartsick, he said, 'It seems I am fated to have little luck with wives.'" He said this to his mother—a reminiscence that surely included Oishi—and at that moment, Mother surmised he would likely never remarry. Time steals away all things; no sorrow, however profound, no pain, however acute, remains unhealed by its passage. While the death of his wife proved devastating in a different way than Oishi's departure had been, fortunately Mother remained robust enough to undertake raising the two children, and unrelenting duties eventually helped Heinojō regain his footing. ……From then on, there was little left to tell—as his mother had discerned, he never remarried. There were many who urged him to remarry, but he always declined with a smile. There were frequent increases to his stipend, an instance of falling ill with a stomach ailment that kept him bedridden for about half a year—if one were to record his life, these would be the extent of notable events. No—he encountered an unexpected calamity just once: when he was thirty-two and appointed as chief attendant to Lord Uemonnosuke Tadaharu, the feudal heir, envious individuals filed false accusations against his promotion, leading to an official inquiry before assembled elder statesmen. Though baseless in terms of personal conduct and quickly resolved, the cunningly fabricated slander left even him—who had no recollection of wrongdoing—momentarily startled. Yet from then on, he came to be entrusted with greater responsibilities, counted among the indispensable figures within Uemonnosuke’s retinue.

Thus, Heinojō turned fifty. Kenmotsu Tadayoshi had already passed away, and Tadaharu had been appointed to Junior Fifth Rank, Uemon-no-Taifu. He had become a senior councillor five years prior and was considered a central figure in domain governance, but that autumn—while returning from Kyoto on official business—he encountered an entirely unexpected person in an unforeseen place.……When he arrived at Chiryu Station—still three *ri* from Okazaki—he recalled the nearby famed historic site known as “Yatsuhashi.” He had long wanted to visit it once; since his duties concluded early with ample time to return to the castle, he dismissed his attendants from that point onward and went alone to look around.

He entered the eastern stretch of the highway and followed a narrow path overgrown with grass—said to have once been the Kamakura Road—until at the edge of Ushida Village's pine grove stood a moss-covered marker stone. Following that guidepost and turning left, then crossing the hill where silvergrass had begun to seed, he saw beyond the ripened rice fields the flow of the Gusai River. ……That place called Yatsuhashi—so named because one crossed eight bridges over a river winding through mist—and the passage from *The Tales of Ise* about “sitting in the shade of a tree by that riverbank, composing verses about withered lodgings” came to mind, until Heinojō’s heart was filled with nostalgic reverie. Having circled a small pond nestled in the hollow of a hill—said to have once held irises—and seen sights like the Narihira Mound, he grew somewhat weary. Spotting a single modest residence nearby, he decided to visit its gate to rest awhile. Within the brushwood fence, an ancient pine spread its branches magnificently, while the not-so-spacious garden was entirely overgrown with bush clover and silver grass. Sitting in the shade of a tree by that riverbank and comparing himself now to the passage about “withered lodgings,” he opened the lattice gate and entered the garden—where a person on the veranda turned toward him: a middle-aged woman with short-cut hair.

“I have come to see the Yatsuhashi ruins—abrupt as this may seem, might I trouble you to let me rest awhile?”

When he made this request, the woman rose gracefully,

"Do take your seat," she said, promptly setting up seating there, "Though it's shamefully disordered here, please do not stand on ceremony..." While entering, Heinojō thought the woman's figure seemed somehow familiar; when he reached the veranda's edge, he halted abruptly in surprise. And then in a voice that had risen without his realizing, "Could it be Oishi-dono?!" he cried. The woman's eyes widened as she looked his way, but—

“Oh—” She let out a shuddering cry and collapsed to her knees as though her legs had given way.

Seven

The lingering glow of dusk cast a mournful light through the paper-paneled doors. Over twenty-five years had unfolded between Heinojō and Oishi since their parting, while the measured voices of those who had entered early middle age had already continued their conversation for nearly an hour. "If you came here twenty years ago," he said, "then you didn’t stay long in Kyoto."

“Yes…” “By what connection did you come to settle here?” “It was through Master Muro’s kindness.”

“And so you’ve remained unmarried all this time, working as a koto teacher?” “No—never the koto.” As she said this, Oishi smiled.

“I have been teaching the children in this area reading and writing.” “Was that the wish you had when leaving home?”

When told this, Oishi lowered her eyes. Heinojō was staring intently at the area around her eyebrows. Then, abruptly adopting a formal tone, he called out "Oishi-dono."

“……I am fifty, and you have passed forty—an age when we might at last speak truth to one another. Oishi-dono… why did you leave that day?” “…………” “Was refusing what I so desperately wanted and Mother also wished for merely to hide away here as a temple school teacher? Oishi-dono—I want to hear the truth. Won’t you tell me?”

The evening breeze must have risen; through the garden’s ancient pine passed a sighing sound. Oishi remained silent and bowed her head for a long time, as though straining to hear that sound; then, in a voice that seemed to withdraw inward, she spoke thus.

“...Oishi was a daughter who could not become your wife—by no means could she have become your wife.”

“What do you mean by that?” “I am the child of one who incurred the wrath of Lord Tesshōin (Tadayoshi), was ordered a grave punishment, and died.” “Such a thing…” “I must speak the truth—Oishi was the daughter of Koide Kojūrō.” The name “Koide” struck Heinojō with profound shock, and he vividly recalled both the domain’s secret affairs once discussed in the Matsui family’s garden and the cause of Kojūrō’s death he had heard of then.

“...My father overheard that Lord Uemon no Tayū was rumored to be of noble birth. With his unyielding temperament, he repeatedly remonstrated with the lord about this claim—though it was likely groundless gossip. For having spoken falsely regarding matters of lineage, he incurred severe displeasure and was ordered to lifelong house arrest. Yet in that moment, Father rejoiced: ‘If the true purity of the lord’s bloodline is confirmed, my own life matters not. This repays but one ten-thousandth part of the grace shown when I was elevated from rōnin status.’ So declaring, he committed seppuku to atone for his act of disrespect.”

“…………” “As a samurai’s death, I believe it was by no means shameful—yet a grave offense remains a grave offense. Were I to become your wife and my lineage discovered, it could imperil your family’s name. No matter what, I resolved I could never wed.” Oishi cut off her words there and softly pressed the base of her eye with the fingers of one hand. This confession struck Heinojō’s heart with violent force. He stared wide-eyed at Oishi’s face, but soon shook his head and spoke reproachfully:

“I did not know whose child you were or your circumstances; even Mother had never asked—Father said nothing and died without leaving any proof. There was no risk of anyone discovering your lineage.”

“That may be so.”

Oishi nodded gently. "It might have remained unknown as you say—but I had to consider the possibility. Had it stayed hidden, that would have been well... but what if it had come to light? Even if others remained unaware, I myself knew full well." Indeed—that could not be denied. Heinojō recalled the calamity he had faced at thirty-two. He remembered the time false accusations had brought him before a council of elders for interrogation—if he had taken Oishi as his wife then. And if her lineage had been discovered—contemplating this, he found no words of refutation—he quietly lowered his head and closed his eyes.

“Then—had those circumstances not existed—would you have become my wife?” “I learned of my circumstances when I was thirteen years old; it was then that I first read my father’s will. And with a childlike mind, I repeatedly admonished myself that I must not come to love Lord Heinojo—now that I reflect upon it, it seems truly youthful.”

Having said that much, Oishi stood and brought from the inner room an object wrapped in a purple silk cloth,

“Do you remember this?” As she said this and unwrapped it, what appeared was the jade paperweight he had once been pestered into lending her. Oishi received Heinojō’s burning gaze with a soft smile. “Instead of expressing my affection, I wished to keep as my lifelong treasure the item you cherished.” “Then...”

Heinojō said in a parched voice. "You've endured such hardship, haven't you?" "Yes, I have suffered greatly." What steadfastness of heart—driven solely by fear that some misfortune might befall her beloved's future, Oishi had abandoned her own happiness. Now grown older, with passions no longer what they once were, she could calmly say she had suffered greatly. Yet how must she have felt when relinquishing her joy in those days of untouched purity, when single-minded devotion had been her very lifeblood? Though unaware of it themselves, men are ever sustained by such women's hearts. With a sensation akin to bowing his head, Heinojō murmured this within his heart.

“It seems to have grown dark.”

Before long, Oishi turned toward the window. “If it would please you, might you be so kind as to stay? After all this time, I would offer my poor cooking, and I would like to speak of the days when I was called Sumimaru.” “Ah, such things did happen—indeed.” Heinojō said in a voice that seemed to choke his chest. “That was so long ago.”

Both the veranda's shoji screens and the windows were already steeped in dusk's deepening hues of pale blue haze, and through the ancient pine in the garden, the wind passed ceaselessly.