Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Mori Ōgai

Hachi the plasterer, wearing a workman’s jacket turned inside out and resewn with patches layered over patches, stood dazedly at the foot of the slope beside Sendagaya Station, bathed in the light spilling from the ticket gate. It must have been around eight o'clock in the evening. Hachi's mind was in chaos. The pain of being unable to drink the alcohol he craved was his most intense emotion, and it had nearly completely paralyzed both his reason and will. Inside Hachi’s head, his imagination painted a certain scene. In the corner of the dirt-floored area sat a large water vessel, filled to the brim with clean water. From a rubber hose fitted into the faucet, water trickled faintly into it. On the water’s surface floated two or three small barrels. Above where the water vessel sat, a shelf was suspended, and there a cup lay overturned. So vividly did the cup seem to hover before him that Hachi was on the verge of reaching out to grab it.

The fact that he couldn’t stand there like that forever was something even Hachi understood. Then where should he go? Under normal circumstances, he should return home—to that new row house with its leaky wooden-shingled roof they’d recently moved into because the rent was cheap. But there was a terrifying enemy there. Hachi never hesitated to pick fights with his friends. After all, with friends—whether you hit or got hit—things would at least come to some conclusion. But that enemy holed up under those shingles wouldn’t play by those rules. No matter how much he hit or struck her, no resolution ever came. She would come shouting at him. He’d strike her until welts rose. The welts would fade. Again she’d come shouting. Again he’d raise welts. Again they’d fade. No matter how many times Sisyphus’s stone was pushed up that hill, it always rolled back down again. The only time Hachi dared face this enemy was when liquor burned in his gut. Once that ran dry, he couldn’t muster himself against her camp at all. Truly—of all possible enemies—none terrified him more than this mountain deity.

Hachi was standing dazedly. The darkness around him grew gradually thicker, and the rain falling intermittently from the gray sky struck the bald spot at the crown of his head with a chill. A train came to the station and stopped.

The trio of military personnel exited the ticket gate and came towards where Hachi was standing, talking loudly in raised voices. Apparently no one had gotten off outside, and the train departed as it was. The raincoat of the military man leading the way brushed against Hachi’s workman’s jacket sleeve, and that military man passed by. Hachi had suffered burns as a child, leaving a large scar running from the outer corner of his right eye to his temple, which was why he hadn’t been conscripted. Therefore, he didn’t really understand things like military ranks. However, regarding the square-faced, stout man who had walked ahead, Hachi could only tell that he was in his forties and was probably a colonel or lieutenant colonel. Since the collar insignia weren’t a striking color like red or green, he might have been artillery. That man passed by without so much as a glance in Hachi’s direction. The two men following behind both had red collar insignia—one an exceptionally tall man with a ruddy complexion, the other a compactly built man with a bitter countenance. Both men seemed to be of roughly the same rank as the one who had gone ahead. All of them looked at Hachi’s face as they passed by. But most of all, the man with the bitter face looked at him like a policeman would, Hachi thought, which grated on his nerves—yet he found himself cowering and looking down.

The trio continued talking as they headed toward the newly built houses. From halfway up the slope onward lay pitch darkness, but evidently familiar with the path, they skillfully avoided puddles as they walked. Viewed from behind, their long boots' spurs glinted. Hachi began following them almost unconsciously. This was a path Hachi could have walked blindfolded. He crossed two railroad crossings. The trio passed through a black-linteled gate beneath an eaves lantern inscribed with Arakawa—though Hachi couldn’t read it—from a lighting company. From bettō quarters on the gate’s left side emerged Bettō, who shouted “Welcome back!” The square-faced military man—clearly the master—took the lead in guiding the two guests inside. A pedestal lamp burned in the entranceway. Two boys—one twelve or thirteen, the other about eight—ran out to the entrance and clung to their father’s right and left sides. The guests, appearing to be regular visitors, addressed the children with familiar remarks. Host and guests alike removed their raincoats, hung them on nails along the wall beam, and moved deeper inside. Bettō aligned the guests’ long boots on the boot-removal stone, carried his master’s boots back to his room, then promptly returned to shut the gate door.

Hachi stood drenched in the rain on the opposite side, by the cedar fence entwined with five-clawed dragon vines, blankly watching this scene; but when Bettō came out to close the gate, he almost unconsciously began walking along the muddy path. However, once the gate had closed completely, Hachi stopped again. Right where he had stopped stood a small gate, also bearing a glass eaves lantern. This was the gate of the house with the cedar fence, situated diagonally across from Araki’s residence. Hachi entered under that roof.

Araki’s estate had Bettō’s quarters and the adjoining stable fronting the thoroughfare, while the rest was enclosed by a black plank fence. As Hachi stared fixedly at the estate, the window of Bettō’s quarters, which had been faintly lit until now, suddenly went completely dark. Before long, Bettō opened the wicket gate, came out holding an oil-paper umbrella, and went off in the direction opposite to where Hachi was.

The question of where to go now arose once more in Hachi’s mind. And Hachi resolved to enter this black plank fence. To himself, it felt as though he had arrived at this thought entirely abruptly, but in truth, that was not the case. The subconscious beneath the threshold had been at work all along—what surfaced now was merely its result. Hachi had stood at the base of the slope beside the train station, not knowing where to go. When a military man happened to pass by there, he had started following him. At that moment, Hachi had felt some inexplicable connection between himself and this military man. And when the military man disappeared into the house, he had felt as though he had lost his anchor. At the same time, upon seeing Bettō’s figure, he had sensed that this servant was obstructing some relationship forming between himself and the military man. Then, when he saw Bettō depart, it had seemed as though that obstacle had been removed. Behind these sequentially arising sensations, the will to steal something had lain concealed even more obscurely than those impulses lurking beneath consciousness’ threshold. And so now, when he clearly resolved to enter within this black fence, that thieving will too came leaping up across consciousness’ brink all at once.

Hachi diagonally crossed the thoroughfare and approached the black-linteled gate. When he pushed the wicket with his hand, it opened without a sound. Hachi stepped inside the gate. At that moment came a terrifying clattering thud. Startled, he grabbed for the wicket door behind him. But the noise had merely been a horse rolling over on its bedding straw. Hachi let go of the door and surveyed his surroundings. To the right of the entrance stood a bamboo fence, beyond which lay what seemed to be a garden - two or three treetops resembling arborvitae peeking through. He passed in front of Bettō’s quarters and turned left. When he reached the stable’s far end, light spilled from the kitchen where women’s voices could be heard. The mistress and her maid appeared to be occupied with some task. Peering through the illumination, Hachi saw that from the stable’s edge to the left neighboring boundary stretched an expanse of bamboo thicket. After watching awhile, he removed his clogs, left them beneath the stable’s eaves, and slipped into the bamboo grove. Keeping close to the left neighbor’s fence line, he moved through the lighted area. Though rain pattered down relentlessly, his feet made no sound against the sodden layers of fallen bamboo leaves.

He came to the deepest part of the bamboo grove. From here, he could see an eight-tatami room with its shoji screens removed. The lamplight illuminated the trifoliate orange hedge marking the boundary of the back field, and the raindrops caught in a spiderweb glistened.

The master and his guests had changed into yukata and sat near the veranda, where the master and the tall red-faced man played Go while the small-statured guest watched. From a square black brazier—like those used with foot warmers in Hachi's own home—smoke from mosquito-repellent incense billowed thickly. The small-statured guest periodically scooped flea powder from a tin can beside him using a lotus-shaped spoon to replenish the incense. All three kept beer cups close at hand. On the earthen ground beside the veranda sat a hand bucket where beer bottles chilled. The small-statured man intermittently refilled all three cups. Each time they emptied an opened bottle, they corked it and set it leaning upside-down against the threshold. Hachi thought it strange as he watched them perform these rituals.

The thicket was densely overgrown, but the rain poured relentlessly through. Hachi's work jacket clung tightly to his skin, and as the rain pelted down on him, an unpleasant sensation crept over him. When he looked around, at the junction where the side fence and the back trifoliate orange hedge met, there stood a large tree, thickly grown in jet-black. It seemed to be a camellia tree. Hachi entered beneath it and squatted. Here, the rain didn't come through. Just as he was thinking the situation was favorable, mosquitoes began biting his face and legs. He wanted to swat them dead, but thinking he mustn't make a sound, he rubbed at the bites instead. The mosquitoes, as if mocking his efforts, would flee only to immediately return and alight. Hachi was alternately rubbing around his face and the areas of both ankles.

The mistress came out from the direction of the kitchen holding something. She seemed to have brought out pickles. The small-statured guest said, “This is too kind,” and accepted the bowl from the mistress’s hands.

The master turned to his wife and said the following.

“Did you hang the mosquito net in the six-tatami room?”

“Yes.” “I have laid it out.” “What about the child?” “I’ve put them to bed in the four-and-a-half-mat room.”

“I see. In that case, since there’s nothing more requiring attention, have the maid go to bed and you should rest as well.” “Yes. Then I shall take my leave from everyone.”

The red-faced man, holding a stone and deep in thought, said to the mistress: “Oh no. “You really shouldn’t have to take on providing lodging so often—it must trouble you.” “Ha ha ha!” “Not at all. “It’s no trouble whatsoever.” These exchanges rang out clearly. The mistress withdrew to the kitchen. After a moment came the sound of the kitchen door closing. Then followed two or three instances of shoji screens or sliding doors being opened and shut, after which silence descended. A clock ticked. When Hachi counted the chimes, it was ten o'clock.

The master seemed to have lost the Go game. Taking out the handkerchief tucked into his loosened collar, he wiped sweat from his forehead while laughing loudly—Ha ha ha! The red-faced man settled his large frame comfortably and smiled. This time, the small-statured man came forward as the red-faced man’s opponent. The master stood up and looked outside. It was as if he had met Hachi’s gaze, though of course he couldn’t possibly see into the thicket. Hachi felt not the slightest fear; instead, he thought the master seemed like a decent fellow. The master pulled a beer bottle from the hand bucket where it had been cooling, uncorked it, poured into three cups, and downed his own in a single gulp. Hachi involuntarily swallowed his saliva.

This game seemed to be taking considerably more time than the previous one. The small-statured guest was deep in thought and did not readily place his stone. The master watched for a while, then suddenly stood up, went to the center of the room, lay down spread-eagled, took a nearby fan, and began fanning himself. Only the clack... clack of stones at rather long intervals could be heard amidst the sound of rain, and the gathering fell completely silent.

After entering beneath the camellia tree, where the rain barely leaked through at all, Hachi felt his work jacket drying on its own. The night had deepened yet remained stiflingly humid, making the chill on his skin feel oddly pleasant. Only the mosquitoes' relentless buzzing tormented him. Though Hachi thought he should just give up already, it seemed he was making no progress whatsoever. The intervals between the clack of stones only grew longer still. The small-statured man replenished the mosquito-repellent incense, then sat cross-armed and deep in thought. At this, the master began snoring thunderously. The small-statured man rose and went to shake him awake.

“You’ll catch cold if you sleep there.”

“Hmm.” “Ah…” “Did I fall asleep…?” “Ah…”

The master abruptly sat up. Having slept briefly, he seemed greatly restored and cheerfully approached the side of the Go board.

“Hey.” “The battle situation hasn't progressed one bit, hasn't it?” The red-faced man settled himself comfortably and smiled at the master.

“Still not quite.”

The small-statured guest once again faced the board. As expected, he still did not readily place his stone. The eleven o'clock bell rang. Hachi squatted beneath the camellia tree, patiently observing the Araki household. Though it might be called patience, in truth, it was simply that Hachi’s nature wasn’t hasty, so he wasn’t all that restless. During the Meiji 37-38 Campaign, the phrase “to hold standby positions” was often used in directives. Hachi did not particularly mind guarding standby positions. Every time the beer passed through the throats of the host and his guests, Hachi swallowed his saliva and endured. This was the hardest part. Hachi also found himself thinking such things. He wondered if he could sneak to the far end of the veranda, make his way beneath it to that hand bucket, and retrieve the bottle. However, even Hachi could not help but admit that this plan was too reckless. Even if he managed to retrieve the bottle successfully, removing the cork would be difficult. In stories from those who became soldiers and went to war, they said you could drink the liquor the Russkies left behind by breaking the bottle’s neck with a bayonet, but unfortunately, I don’t have anything like that to break a bottle’s neck. There were no suitable stones nearby. And breaking the glass bottle would make noise. In Hachi’s head, such impossible deliberations came and went. And what made it laughable was how at times he had entirely forgotten why he kept squatting there like this. At such times, he’d think unthief-like, carefree thoughts—how heavy the rain was, what a disaster it would’ve been without this camellia tree, how nice it’d be if at least the sky above would clear.

The match between the red-faced man and the small-statured man showed no sign of concluding. The beer was drunk copiously. Among them, the master was drawing cup after cup. Having drunk too much, the master apparently needed to urinate and entered the toilet. The toilet was located at the far end of the veranda, opposite the direction where Hachi crouched. The sound of the master coughing, spitting phlegm, and urinating could be heard. When Hachi heard that sound, he too felt the need to urinate.

Hachi felt the need to urinate and simultaneously thought such things: that military man drank alcohol and urinated, while he himself urinated without even having drunk any alcohol. He found himself contemplating his own hopeless circumstances. Before long, the urge to urinate had become utterly unbearable. But if he relieved himself here, there would likely be a sound. The rain had also unfortunately lightened to finer droplets, making the sound of urination stand out all the more. After much deliberation, Hachi mustered every ounce of his ingenuity and pressed himself against the camellia tree's trunk. Even so, the stream would occasionally veer off course. Each time this happened, Hachi started in alarm, but fortunately no one noticed.

At this moment, Hachi recalled such a thing. He had heard that when breaking into a place as a thief, one should defecate beforehand. He thought about going ahead and trying it, but he didn’t want to. The author considers that when a thief defecates and then places a tub upside down, it is undoubtedly a warding ritual, but there seems to be a somewhat deeper reason why such a ritual came into practice. When someone breaks into a house to steal, nerve stimulation can involuntarily cause intestinal peristalsis. It’s exactly the same as how students sometimes feel the urge to defecate when heading out to take exams. Among the soldiers who attacked Nanzan during the 37-38 Campaign, there were those who defecated in sorghum fields while under enemy artillery fire. It had been written up in the newspapers as a bold act. That too was due to nervous stimulation. Hachi’s mental functions had dulled entirely, so no nervous stimulation occurred whatsoever. Therefore, he did not want to defecate.

The twelve o’clock bell rang out. After some time, the game was decided. It seemed the small-statured man had won this time, for the red-faced one was laughing and scratching his close-cropped head. The master, as if struck by an idea, rose from his seat. “Wait, wait. This time I’ll take my turn.” “But since we’ve run out of beer, I’ll bring a substitute!” Having said this, he took out a bottle of cognac from the cupboard beside the alcove, added three small cups, and placed them beside the Go board. The cognac had been uncorked but not much had been drunk yet. The small-statured man took the bottle in hand and examined the label.

“Far from being a substitute.” “This is rather fine stuff.”

Having said this, he poured [the cognac] into the three cups. The red-faced man immediately took his own, put a little in his mouth, and clicked his tongue. The master, sitting across from the small-statured man, took his own cup and poured it down his throat in one gulp. “Cognac should be drunk like this.” The small-statured man said, “Pardon me for a moment,” and stood up. He took a beer cup out to the veranda edge, washed it with water from a hand bucket, poured hot water from a small kettle on the tea tray into it, and then dumped the cognac from a small cup over it.

The master and the small-statured man began their game of Go. The small-statured man continued to ponder each move carefully, but the master placed his stone the instant his opponent withdrew his hand. The small-statured man drank diluted liquor while pondering and placed his stone. The master placed his stone and drank the undiluted liquor without deliberation. No matter how swiftly the master’s hand moved, the small-statured man had to think through every consideration before acting. Thus, an appropriate amount of time passed. After a while, the red-faced man who had been watching nearby suddenly laughed with an “Ahaha” and said, “Once it’s come to this, there’s no hope of recovery.” Before long, the master began dismantling the stones he had arranged while saying, “When you lose, lose gracefully.”

“When you lose, lose gracefully. Well then. Let’s turn in, let’s turn in.”

“It must be quite hot inside the mosquito netting.” While putting away the stones, the small-statured man said. The master was carefree.

“Nonsense. Since I’ll leave the storm shutters slightly open, it’ll be fine.”

The master rose and pulled out shutters from their compartment, whereupon the two guests left gaps of about a foot between each panel before closing them. The host and guests left the room in disarray and seemed to have gone into the next room to sleep inside the mosquito net that had been hung there. The clock struck one.

Hachi emerged from the grove and came to the outside of the room where everyone was sleeping, peering in to assess the situation. Light shone from the direction of the eight-tatami room, but the space where the mosquito net hung lay in utter darkness. At first came the sound of fans being used, but after a while this ceased, replaced by the rise of snoring. The master’s and the red-faced man’s snores seemed audible as distinct rhythms. Before long, he could discern the small-statured man’s breathing too. Hachi understood the three men had fallen deeply asleep.

Hachi’s state of mind differed slightly between when he was in the grove and when he came to the storm shutters. He had grown quite timid. Beneath his thoroughly soaked garment, sweat emerged, trickling down particularly along the central line of his chest. In the grove, even when it was hot, he hadn’t experienced such a thing. Yet Hachi had more than enough resolve to quickly get into the house. And within his consciousness, the clearest image taking form was that of drinking alcohol. The reason he wanted to get in was primarily to drink alcohol. At the same time, he wasn’t entirely without the thought of taking something. This was because he thought that now that he had become a thief, he must take something—not that he particularly wanted to. The desire to drink alcohol was a ferocious instinct. The thought of taking things was nothing more than a sense of obligation—the need to take something and maintain a thief’s dignity.

Hachi advanced along the outside of the storm shutters to where the hand bucket was placed. The eight-tatami room remained with its shoji screens removed, and the lamp, turned down, had been left in this room. Yet despite having hung the mosquito net where the three slept in the six-tatami room, the sliding door at the boundary was firmly shut. Hachi listened for a while to the sounds of their sleeping breaths, then turned sideways through the gap in the storm shutters and climbed up onto the veranda. While on the veranda, Hachi thought that if anyone were to wake up, they might see him from inside the mosquito netting, so he hurried past the Go board and entered the room. Because he had walked on bamboo leaves in the grove and moss in the garden, his feet were relatively clean. Only wet traces remained on the veranda.

Hachi first noticed four or five beer bottles lined up on two serving trays. Though he suspected they were likely empty, he picked them up to check, but not a single drop remained in any of them. Next, he picked up the cognac bottle beside the Go board. It was still about seventy or eighty percent full. Hachi poured it into a beer cup until full and downed it in one gulp. He found it a bit strong, but as it went down his throat and settled in his stomach, the tingling, almost warm sensation felt undeniably pleasant. Hachi drank the large cup of cognac in three gulps. By the time he finished the third gulp, his entire body had begun glowing warmly, and he felt as if steam might rise from his rain-soaked workman’s coat. He poured what remained from the bottle into the cup but left it as it was. He intended to take a breath before drinking it.

Hachi swatted away the mosquitoes beginning to gather around him as he surveyed the room. A room this dreary was unusual. In the alcove, instead of a hanging scroll, two large artillery shells were displayed. Around them were books, magazines, and the like piled haphazardly. On the decorative beam hung a large framed panel. Though Hachi couldn’t read it, it was a four-character inscription by a certain marshal: "Moving Through the Nine Heavens." A desk had been pushed close in front of the alcove. In the uncovered inkstone box, black and red ink bottles were crammed in, and brushes, pens, and pencils were all haphazardly thrown in. On top of stacked papers—ruled sheets resembling manuscript paper and Western-style graph paper—a triangular ruler and a pair of compasses were placed to serve as paperweights. Apart from these, there was only a Go board, a mosquito-repellent incense burner, and an opened bowl containing bottles and pickles—nothing else of note.

When Hachi had been outside the storm shutters, he had stood there timidly fidgeting, but now his nerves had settled—the gradually intensifying effect of the cognac likely contributing to this composure. Being separated by just a single sliding paper door from the adjacent room where three large men—soldiers no less—slept hardly troubled him at all. Yet even in this calm, Hachi found himself wondering: If those men were to wake now, what would happen? Would they cut him down with a saber? Or shoot him with a pistol? And where would such weapons even be kept? Perhaps taken to where they slept? This conjecture proved accurate. Colonel Araki, master of the house, always kept his uniform and sword in his bedroom. Though fundamentally an easygoing man who once left his military garb strewn about for his wife to tidy, a certain incident had since made him keep them close even while sleeping. Tonight’s guests—the ruddy-faced Colonel Annaka and diminutive Lieutenant Colonel Utsunomiya—followed their host’s commendable example, never letting their uniforms leave their sides even when visiting others’ homes.

What Araki had felt referred to an incident during the Russo-Japanese War of 37-38 [1904-1905], after the Battle of Mukden had concluded and our army was encamped near Changtu. To keep the soldiers from growing weary, they set up theaters here and there and had them perform plays. One day, when Araki had business and went to stay at the Kogusa Army headquarters, there too was a theater. After finishing dinner, he went to see it. It was a cold evening, and everyone was bundled in fur coats watching. Almost none had brought their swords. At that moment, General Kogusa arrived. This man alone had brought his military sword and, even while watching the performance, removed his sword belt and kept it close by his side. This greatly pleased Araki. Araki had heard tales of martial exploits from the time of the Kōetsu War. Among these tales was one of a certain samurai who, having gone unarmed to a neighboring house to play Go, found himself caught off guard when a fight broke out. After the matter was later reported to his superiors, there was an instance where he had his position and stipend confiscated. Araki recalled this and recognized the commanding officer’s disciplined mindset. From then on, Araki never parted with his military sword under any circumstances.

Hachi hoped the military men wouldn’t wake up. The thought of being cut down or shot didn’t sit well with him. Yet he couldn’t fully grasp the immediacy of this danger to himself. He acknowledged the possibility in theory. But he found himself unable to believe it might actually happen—not here, not now.

The cognac had begun taking significant effect on Hachi. Those fond of drink aren’t necessarily heavy drinkers. Especially as those who drink grow older, their tolerance for alcohol weakens. Even someone like Hachi had been able to hold his liquor well until around thirty. By the time he neared forty, while his fondness for drink remained, his tolerance had weakened. Hachi felt slightly lightheaded. Yet despite this, his throat was dry and craving a drink, so he took a sip of the cognac he’d poured into a cup. It now seemed too strong. Hachi diluted it with hot water from the nearby kettle and took another sip. Finding the taste agreeable, he took a hearty gulp.

The clock struck two.

The clock’s chime jolted Hachi into partial alertness while reminding him of his thief’s obligations. He recalled needing to steal something—anything—and scanned his surroundings anew. Yet nothing caught his eye. Venturing beyond this room felt beyond his strength. His facial muscles hung slack, burn scars pulling his features into a drunken mask as bloodshot eyes glazed over. Even the notion of taking something now threatened to slip from his muddled mind. Rallying himself with a muttered “Hmph—treatin’ folks like fools,” he pressed palms against cross-legged knees, squared his elbows, and surveyed the room once more.

At that moment, Hachi noticed the desk pushed against the bed had a drawer. He stood up and hauled his sluggish body to the desk. When he rose, he felt as if floating on a balloon, but settling cross-legged before the desk returned his mind to its usual state. The desk—crafted from distylium wood or something equally sturdy—had brass fittings on its drawer. Gripping it, he pulled and it slid open smoothly. The drawer brimmed mostly with discarded letter scraps. Some lay in envelopes. Others did not. Western script mingled among them. Picture postcards scattered throughout. Pushing aside some papers revealed lacquered boxes in one corner. Opening them showed emptiness within—medal presentation cases. Opposite sat a sizable box of grained reddish wood bearing two items: a small silver box adorned with a gold chrysanthemum crest and what resembled a green leather wallet fitted with silver hardware. Seeing this, Hachi's eyes faintly gleamed.

Hachi took out these three items onto the tatami and first opened the large red wooden box. It was packed with brass tools of various shapes. This was a set of geometric instruments that had been placed in a Mahagoni box. Then he opened the silver case bearing the chrysanthemum crest. This was a cigarette case. It had been given to his master Araki by a certain prince who had received assistance during his time at Saint-Cyr. Finally, Hachi opened the leather case that appeared to be a wallet. From the moment he first picked it up, he had known only that something inside was jingling and heavy. Hachi, though he didn’t understand what it was, had pinned his hopes on this.

What Hachi had opened was undoubtedly a purse. It was fashioned from green leather into a square shape, with silver edges and hinges, scale-shaped ornaments at each corner, and an initial "A" in silver at the center of the front. This was something Araki had bought in Paris during his initial stay in France, when everything still held the allure of novelty. The opening had become misaligned, requiring one to twist a small silver knob to open it. Hachi twisted this knob open with his knotted, clumsy fingers. The interior was pleated like folds, with several compartments formed to hold items. And in every compartment were two or three coins each. The coins varied in size and type, with most being silver coins. However, none of them seemed to be the familiar fifty-sen, twenty-sen, or ten-sen coins. What most caught Hachi’s attention was a slightly larger, brilliantly golden coin. When Hachi saw it, he felt that taking just this would suffice. And with those clumsy fingers of his, he picked out each item from the purse one by one and placed them into his workman’s apron.

With this, Hachi felt as though he had finished his business and could relax. He thought to make his exit now, but his eye caught the cup of cognac diluted with water—still unfinished. There was still something lacking. He picked up the cup and took another hearty gulp. This time it didn't taste good. That sharp, stinging flavor from when he'd first drunk it seemed better after all. Hachi poured cognac straight from the bottle into a small cup there and gulped it down undiluted. This time, the sensation that seeped all the way to his gut was indescribably pleasant.

At this moment, the nerves that had been tensed during the earlier drawer inspection suddenly slackened, and Hachi felt his body grow terribly sluggish. He pressed his left hand against the tatami. The snoring from the neighboring room that he had been anxiously monitoring seemed to gradually grow more distant. He pressed his left elbow. His upper eyelids grew heavy. Hachi forced his drooping eyes open, torn between the thought that he mustn't sleep and the mosquitoes stinging him. His upper eyelids grew heavy again. He forced his eyes open again. In this manner of repeatedly opening and closing his eyes several times, there were moments when he would genuinely fall asleep for brief periods, the snoring from the neighboring room becoming completely inaudible. At such times—when he would begin snoring from his own throat and the mosquitoes bit him fiercely—he would startle awake, opening his eyes.

In something written by Anatole France, there was a story about a boatman who, having encountered a shipwreck, rode upon a whale that had exposed its back to the sea and began gambling on the whale’s back. Hachi’s dozing might not have lost to the gambling played on that whale’s back.

Hachi dozed on and off in this manner for a full thirty minutes. During this time, the clock struck three, but Hachi remained unaware. A short doze—when taken even briefly—can unexpectedly restore one’s spirits for a time. When Hachi suddenly startled awake at something, he found he was no longer sleepy. The startle had likely come from one of the soldiers sleeping in the adjacent room—perhaps a muttered word in his sleep or the sound of him tossing over. When he opened his eyes, Hachi realized he had been sleeping and dreaming without ever intending to fall asleep. When he awoke, he was indeed in the midst of a dream. It seemed he was being harassed by this troublemaker named Kuma, with whom he normally didn’t get along. He couldn’t tell what had caused it. Ah, right—they had been talking about the gold and silver coins he had taken earlier. That’s right. Pressed by Kuma to repay the borrowed train fare, he thrust his hand into his apron out of habit, thinking there were copper coins, and grabbed some out. But what he pulled out was the gold coins from earlier. At that moment, he was terribly startled. Kuma glinted his eyes strangely, looked at his face, and said, “You’ve got some fancy stuff there.” As he wondered what to say and was at a complete loss, something startled him awake. Hachi almost unconsciously thrust his hand into his workman’s belt and fumbled around to check if the coins were there. Both his workman’s belt and jacket were completely dry. The coins were definitely there.

When he randomly grabbed one and pulled it out, the shining gold coin from earlier appeared. Its size was about that of a one-sen copper coin. Hachi involuntarily smirked. Because Hachi’s mind had cleared, when he looked outside, it had begun to grow slightly brighter. The rain appeared to have stopped unnoticed. Hachi stood up. His head no longer swayed. Suddenly fear welled up within him, and he found himself wishing he could bolt away if at all possible. His heart spent and leaving behind the lamp that was about to go out, Hachi slipped out through the gap in the storm shutters.

The cold dawn air struck his face. The raindrops clinging to the spiderwebs in the trifoliate orange hedge still glistened like pearls. A low mist drifted through the thicket. Hachi shuddered. And though he felt the urge to urinate, deciding this was no time for that, he circled back along the path he had taken when entering toward the front gate. The clogs he had removed and left there the previous night remained just as they were. After briefly considering whether to put them on or take them with him, he put them on. In the stable, the horses were clip-clopping their hooves. He peered into the bettō’s quarters, but the bettō wasn’t there. There was a box for discarding horse manure, so Hachi urinated into it. From not too far away came the sound of someone passing by while pulling a cart and talking. They were probably heading to the market or something.

Hachi kept watch on the comings and goings outside for a while, but there was no one passing by the residence. So he reached for the side gate. At that moment, the side gate was abruptly flung open from outside, and a man stepped into the compound. Hachi and the man came face to face directly, and for that first instant, they stared at each other in mute astonishment. The man who had entered was Bettō—he had secretly gone to Shinjuku and tiptoed his way back from two or three blocks away. Bettō was the first to speak. “What the hell are you?”

It was in a low voice. Hachi, seeing Bettō’s lax demeanor, tried to slip past him and escape through the side gate. Bettō’s hand almost unconsciously threw aside the umbrella he had been carrying and seized Hachi’s arm.

“Thief.” This time it was a loud shout.

The two men grappled with each other. Hachi hadn’t had much strength left since alcohol had wrecked his body. Moreover, Bettō Taikichi was a pale-complexioned man whose nose, cheekbones, and jaw formed four sharp protrusions on his face, and he too wasn’t particularly strong. But even a dog grows stronger when fighting on its master’s grounds. Bettō pressed his back against the side gate and seized Hachi’s arms with both hands, refusing to let go. And then he shouted loudly again.

“Master!” “A thief!” “A thief has broken in.” When Taikichi first shouted “Thief!”, the wife, who had been lying in the four-and-a-half-mat room near the front entrance, heard it and quietly went to inform her husband. The master got up and looked around but instead of taking the saber at his side took up his wooden practice sword and came out to the entrance. The two guests—still wearing summer kimonos—each grabbed their sabers and followed their host. The three reached the entrance just as Taikichi shouted for a second time.

Colonel Araki observed the two men grappling. The thief-like man carried neither weapons nor anything else. Nor was there any indication he meant to resist. With an expression suggesting this lacked all tension, Araki spoke...

“That’s enough. “It’s fine—let him go.”

Taikichi released his grip. Hachi remained right there, crouching where he was. With his back against the sliding door and standing idly, Taikichi was addressed by Araki as follows. “What did he take?” “Did he break into your quarters?” “Yes, sir.” “Well then, I don’t know. How did you catch him?” Taikichi was quite at a loss. “Yes, sir. Well, you see…”

“When I was entering from outside, this guy was trying to get out, so we came into collision.”

“What’s this? You went to Shinjuku again? Disgraceful wretch. So you don’t even know whether that man took anything?”

At this moment, the wife came out and spoke to her husband. “Excuse me—I’ve just checked, but the Western coins that were in your desk drawer are missing. Nothing else appears to have been taken.” “I see.” The master—wearing an expression that seemed to suppress amusement—then addressed Hachi.

“Hey. Did you take the gold that was in the desk drawer?”

Once Hachi resigned himself to being unable to escape, he became remarkably composed. He had no intention whatsoever of hiding the coins stuffed into his apron. Moreover, there was something about Araki’s large, square face—an air of composure—that Hachi had taken a liking to from the very first time he saw it. In fact, it could be said that part of why he had followed him here and broken in to steal was precisely because he had taken a liking to the master. Now, when Araki sternly scolded Bettō for his nighttime outing and questioned him about the stolen items—though Hachi didn’t know why—seeing that his expression had instead softened, Hachi grew even fonder of the master. With that, he abruptly thrust his right hand into his apron, grasped a handful of seven or eight coins, placed them on the ground, looked at the master’s face, and spoke as follows.

“Sir...” “I’m sorry.”

Hachi's face had a large scar at the outer corner of his right eye, making him remarkably ugly. Moreover, the dark, dull life he had experienced thus far had left indelible marks on his face. However, there was not a trace of malice in him.

Colonel Araki’s face grew even more cheerful as he watched this. “This is your first time breaking in as a thief, isn’t it?” “Uh-huh. It’s my first time, sir.” “That must be it. Don’t go thieving anymore.”

Annaka and Utsunomiya came out to look at the coins Hachi had produced and crouched down without showing any caution toward him. Hachi was, of course, not displaying any attitude that required caution. Taikichi peered over Hachi’s head, slouching in a casual posture. Annaka said to the master as follows.

“They’re all foreign currency.”

“That’s right. I collected them when I traveled abroad, but things like pounds and twenty-franc and twenty-mark coins were converted into cash and spent whenever funds were needed. That’s why only such worthless silver coins remained.” “Even so, isn’t there one yellow one mixed in here?”

Utsunomiya, who had been examining the coins in his hand, laughed. “Ha ha ha. It’s certainly yellow, but this is just a Sou.” The master joined in the laughter as well.

“Ha ha ha. It’s definitely a Sou.” “A whole five centimes.” “I kept them because they were too new and clean.” “If you leave them unused like this, they’ll stay clean forever, I tell you.”

Lieutenant Colonel Utsunomiya, being in the intelligence section and having read foreign newspapers, made such a remark. “Even so, there’s talk that France plans to abolish copper coins and replace them with small aluminium ones, so before long, even a *Sou* might become something rare.” Colonel Annaka was showing Lieutenant Colonel Utsunomiya the Spanish Piaster and Portuguese Tostao and asking questions about them.

Hachi listened without understanding what was being discussed, but he grasped one thing: the yellow-glinting object was not a gold coin. And though he had produced them there, he couldn’t help but feel a kind of emotion resembling disappointment. Taikichi, intending to demonstrate his quick-wittedness, said to his master. “Master. Shall I hand this guy over to the constable?”

Hachi's eyes glowed as he looked at Taikichi.

Araki said to Bettō, “Don’t say unnecessary things,” and to Hachi—

“You just go on your way—you’re not cut out to be some thief,” he said. Hachi silently bowed, glared sidelong at Taikichi, and went out through the side gate.

At a nearby house, there was the clattering sound of rain shutters being opened, followed by a cough. (September 1909)