十三夜 English

Part One

Usually the loud, glossy black carriage would stop at the gate and her parents would hurry out to welcome their daughter home, but tonight she had sent even the hired rickshaw away at the crossroads and stood forlornly outside the lattice door. Inside, her father's voice rang out with its customary vigor—he was saying that he too counted himself among the fortunate, that his children had grown up well-behaved and given him no trouble and earned him nothing but praise, and that so long as he harbored no extravagant desires he could wish for nothing more, and how grateful he was, so very grateful—his listener must surely be her mother. Ah, they know nothing and rejoice like this, she thought; what face could she put on to ask that they accept a bill of divorce? A scolding was inevitable. She had a child named Taro, and she had left him behind—she had turned the matter over in her mind endlessly before finally coming, yet even now, to startle these aging parents and turn all their happiness to foam on water

would be too cruel. Perhaps it would be better to say nothing and go back—but to go back meant being called Taro's mother forever, being the mistress of the Harada household as long as she lived, allowing her parents to boast that their son-in-law held a position of rank; and so long as she pinched and scraped, she might at least occasionally afford them something palatable and slip them a little spending money. But if she followed her heart and it ended in divorce, Taro would know the misery of a stepmother, her parents' proud boast would be abruptly deflated, and there was what people would think, and her younger brother's future to consider—ah, everything stemmed from this one self of hers; she must not throw away the path forward. Should she go back, should she go back, should she go back to that husband of hers who was like a demon—back to that demon, that demon of a husband—oh how hateful, how hateful! she thought, shuddering, and just then she swayed and her hand fell against the lattice with a clatter, and her father's voice called out sharply from inside: Who is it?—probably taking her for some ruffian boy playing tricks.

The person outside gave a gentle little laugh. "Father, it is I"—her voice quite endearing. "What? Who is it?" He slid open the shoji. "Oh, it is Seki! What are you doing standing out there? Why have you come at such a late hour, without your carriage, without a maid? Good grief, come in quickly—come in, come in. You gave me quite a start. Here, you need not latch the lattice—I will do it. Let us go to the inner room. Come, step onto the cushion, onto the cushion—the tatami is in such a state; I have spoken to the landlord about it, but he says the workmen are busy with one thing or another. No need to stand on ceremony—your clothes will get dirty, lay something down to sit on. Good grief, what a late hour to come out. Is everyone at your house well?" And she was fussed over as warmly as ever,

which felt to her like sitting on a bed of needles, being treated as an honored guest when her heart was breaking. She swallowed her tears and replied quietly: "Everyone is in good health and there is nothing amiss with the season. I am ashamed of having neglected you so long—are you and Mother both well?" "I have not even sneezed, I am so well," her father said heartily. "Your mother starts up now and then with that ailment of hers, what they call a blood rush, but it is the kind of thing that clears up if she puts the quilt over her head and lies still for half a day—nothing serious." And he laughed loudly with a ringing, cheerful sound. "I do not see Innosuke—where has he gone this evening? Is he still studying as hard as ever?" she asked. At that her mother beamed and poured tea, saying: "Innosuke just stepped out to his evening classes. He has done so well—thanks to you—he received a raise not long ago, and the section chief is so fond of him that I feel quite at ease. Of course

it is all because of our connection to the Harada family—we say so every day at home. I know you never fall short in such things, but please, going forward as well, when Harada-san is in a good humor—Innosuke is as you know a quiet, reserved sort, and whenever he meets the gentleman I am afraid he can manage nothing beyond a rather flat greeting. So I am counting on you to stand between them and make sure our feelings get through, and to look after Innosuke's future as well. And by the way, since the weather has been changeable—is little Taro always up to his mischief? Why did you not bring him tonight? His grandfather was longing to see him, you know." Hearing this, she felt a fresh wave of sadness, and said: "I thought of bringing him, but the child is an early sleeper and had already gone to bed, so I left him as he was. He really does give endless trouble—

not a shred of obedience in him; he follows me outside whenever I go out, and when I am home he does nothing but hover at my side. Truly, truly, he is more than I can manage. Why on earth must he be like that?" She started to say more, but then the tears welled up inside her like rising water—for though she had steeled herself and left him, at this very moment he must have woken and was no doubt calling out "Mother, mother," pestering the maids, and all the rice crackers and puffed sweets in the world would not calm him, and everyone must be holding his hands and threatening to feed him to the demons. Oh, the poor little thing—she wanted to cry aloud—but her parents looked so cheerful that she could not bring herself to speak. She smoked two or three puffs of tobacco to mask her feelings, gave a dry little cough, and hid her tears in the sleeve of her underrobe.

"Tonight is the thirteenth night of the old calendar—old-fashioned as it is, I made rice dumplings as a kind of moon-viewing offering and set them out for the moon. I knew you were fond of them and thought of having Innosuke carry some over, but Innosuke was embarrassed about it and said to stop such nonsense, and besides, since we had not offered them on the fifteenth it would make for an unbalanced moon-viewing if we sent them now—I wanted you to have them but simply could not manage it. And now here you have come tonight, as if you had sensed it—it truly feels like a miracle. Surely some sympathy of hearts brought you. You can eat all the fine things you like at your house, of course, but what a mother prepares has its own special taste. Please, forget about being a grand mistress for tonight and be the old Seki of days gone by—never mind appearances, eat as many of the beans and chestnuts as you like and let me see you enjoy them. Your father and I often talk about it: your rise in the world is undeniable, and to others you look splendidly well—

associating with ladies of high rank and distinguished families, and going about as the wife of Harada must take considerable strength of spirit. Managing the servants, keeping order with all who come and go—those in a position above others have that much more to worry about, and with your family in such circumstances as ours, you must take extra care not to let anyone look down on you. When I think about all that, even though your father and I long to see the face of a grandchild, we hold ourselves back from visiting too often. Indeed, even when we happen to walk past your gate, if I happen to be wearing my cotton kimono and carrying my satin-covered umbrella, I walk right past though the bamboo blind on your upstairs window is in plain sight, thinking to myself—ah, what is Seki doing in there—and just going on by. If only our family were in somewhat better circumstances, your standing would be easier,

and even as things are, at least you could breathe a little. But there you have it—even to send over these moon-viewing dumplings, is it not shameful to use an old lacquered box like this? Truly, when I think of your thoughtfulness I am happy, and yet unable to do as I would wish, I cannot help venting a little complaint about this humble station of ours." She said it with sorrow. "Truly, I feel I am an undutiful child," Seki replied. "I know that when I put on my fine clothes and ride about in a carriage I must look grand enough, but I cannot do a single thing for Father or Mother—it is as though only my own skin benefits. It would be far better to do piecework and live by your side." "Don't be foolish—don't say such things, not even in jest," her father broke in. "A married-out daughter thinking she will support her parents—the very idea is unheard of. When you were

here at home you were the Saito daughter; now that you are married you are the mistress of the Harada household. So long as you keep Isamu-san in good humor and manage the house properly, there is nothing more to it. The work is hard, but if you are fortunate enough to live as you do, you ought to be able to bear it—there is no reason you cannot. Women are such complainers. Your mother goes on with this kind of thing and makes everything worse. I was quite put out all day that I could not send you the dumplings—she seems to have put real effort into making them, so eat your fill and set her mind at rest. I expect they are quite good." And he made a little joke of it. With that the moment slipped away again, and she accepted the chestnuts and soybeans offered to her with polite gratitude.

In the seven years since her marriage, she had never once come visiting after dark, had never walked over alone without a gift or an attendant—it was utterly without precedent. Perhaps it was her imagination, but her clothes seemed less brilliant than usual. Her parents had been so delighted at this rare visit that they had not paid close attention, but her husband had sent no message of any kind, and though she kept forcing a smile, there was a hollowness beneath it that surely had some reason behind it. Her father glanced at the desk clock and said, as if testing her: "It is nearly ten—Seki, can you stay the night, or do you need to go?" The daughter looked up at him as if waking from a dream. "Father, I have come because I have a request to make. Please hear me out"—and she placed her hands formally on the tatami. For the first time she let fall a single drop, releasing the grief of many long-accumulated sorrows.

Her father's expression changed and he leaned forward with growing seriousness. "I have come having made up my mind not to return to the Haradas after tonight. I did not come with Isamu's permission—I put Taro to sleep, put Taro to sleep, and came away having decided never to look at that child's face again. The child who will not accept anyone's care but mine—I deceived him into sleep, and while he was dreaming, I hardened my heart and left. Father, Mother, please understand me. Until today I have never once told you anything about life at the Harada house, have never spoken to anyone about what passes between Isamu and me—but I have weighed it again and again a thousand times and more, and have cried out two and three years' worth of tears, and today, this very day, I have at last made up my mind firmly: I must have a bill of divorce. I beg you,

please obtain a letter of divorce for me. I will do piecework or whatever else it takes and do my best to be a help to Innosuke—please allow me to remain single all my life." She burst into sobs and pressed her face into the sleeve of her underrobe to muffle them—even the ink-painted bamboo seemed to take on the purple hue of grief.

"What is the reason for this?" Both father and mother drew close and pressed her to explain. "I have held my silence until now, but if you were to watch the two of us face to face for even half a day, you would understand most of it. He speaks to me only when he needs something, and only in curt, peremptory commands. If I venture to ask after his mood in the morning, he turns away quite deliberately and makes an affected show of admiring the garden flowers—I resent it, but he is my husband and I hold my tongue. I have never once quarreled with him in words. Yet from the moment he rises at breakfast his criticisms never stop; he heaps abuse on my clumsiness and bad manners right in front of the servants. I could endure even that, perhaps—but every other word is that I have no education, no education—he sneers at me for it. Of course I was not raised seated on the chairs of a peers' girls' school, and the distinguished ladies who are his colleagues' wives

have all studied flower arrangement and the tea ceremony, poetry and painting, and I cannot converse with them as their equal—but if that is so, he could have had me instructed quietly without making a fuss. There was no need to openly advertise my family's failings and let me be shamed in front of the servant women. For about the first six months after our wedding he kept me close, calling my name over and over, and could not do enough for me—but after the child came it was as though he became a completely different person, and even to think back on it now I tremble. I have been as one cast into a dark valley who has never once seen a ray of warm sunlight. At first I told myself he must be teasing on purpose, making a show of coldness for some reason—but in truth he had grown tired of me and was tormenting me to see whether this would make me leave, trying this and that to provoke me into asking for a divorce. And so he tormented and tormented me without end.

"Father and Mother both know my nature—even if my husband were to go wild over a geisha, even if he were to keep a mistress, I am not the kind of woman to be consumed by jealousy over such things. I do hear such rumors from the maid servants, but I told myself that a man of his ability—such things are to be expected—and I took care with my appearance when he went out and did my best not to cross him. Yet there is simply not one thing I do from beginning to end that pleases him, and he says it is because of my poor management that there is no happiness in the house. I would not mind even that—if only he would tell me specifically what is wrong, where this displeases him, where that bothers him. But it is nothing but: tiresome, worthless, incomprehensible creature, utterly unfit to hold a proper conversation—

and then: I am keeping you on as Taro's wet-nurse. That is all he deigns to say, with contempt. Truly, he is not a husband to me—that man is a demon. He has never said with his own lips that I should get out, but I am such a weak-spirited creature, and my love for Taro holds me back; I can only bow my head and say yes, yes to his criticisms—and for that he calls me a spineless, witless fool, and says that displeases him too. Yet if I were to stand up for myself even a little and answer him back without yielding, he would certainly use that as grounds to tell me to leave. Mother, leaving itself is nothing to me. To be divorced by the celebrated Harada Isamu—not even in my dreams do I regret that. But the thought that poor innocent Taro might be left with only one

parent makes me lose all resolve and courage; I apologize and soothe his temper and make myself submit to things that do not matter, and that is how I have managed to keep silent all this time. Father, Mother—I am a woman of no fortune." She poured out all her bitterness and grief, speaking of things her parents had never imagined, and the two of them looked at each other, stunned to learn of the wretchedness she had been living inside, and for a while neither could find a word to say.

A mother is always soft toward her child; every word she heard cut deeper into her own flesh. "I do not know what Father thinks, but to begin with, we did not go begging them to take her—it was they who came asking for her. How very convenient of him to speak of her background and her schooling! He may have forgotten, but we remember clearly—even the very day. It was the New Year of the year Seki turned seventeen, the seventh day, when the New Year's pines had not even been taken down. There was our house in the old Sarugaku-cho, and Seki was out in front playing battledore with the little girl next door—the girl hit a white shuttlecock and it fell right into the carriage of Harada-san as he was passing. When Seki went to retrieve it, he saw her for the first time—or so they said—and after that he pestered us through go-betweens, saying he simply had to have her. We told him the social positions did not match, that the girl was still completely a child and had been taught none of the accomplishments, and that

our means were as you see them, and we refused him I cannot count how many times—but he said there were no difficult in-laws to contend with, it was he who wanted her and he who was taking her, so there was nothing to say about rank; and as for accomplishments she could learn those after she came to him, so there was no need to worry about that either. He urged and urged us, burning with impatience, and we could not hold out. We never begged him for the match—he even furnished the trousseau himself. She was, so to speak, his beloved wife, taken by his own desire. Your father and I hold ourselves back from going in and out of the house—this is no mistress arrangement; we sent her off as a proper wife after being asked on bended knee a hundred thousand times and could come and go as we please in any rightness. But because their household is so splendid while ours is so

meager and plain, people might say we are leaning on our daughter and relying on the son-in-law's assistance—that is what stings us, and poor though we are we try to keep up appearances suited to their station, and so we go about without seeing the face of the daughter we long for. And now for him to act as if he had done something magnificent by taking in a parentless child—how dare he say such things! If we keep quiet it will only grow worse and become a fixed habit. The first thing to suffer is her authority in front of the servants—if it comes to the point where no one listens to her and even Taro is raised to look down on his mother, what then? You should say firmly what must be said, and if he scolds you for that, tell him you have a home of your own and come away—surely that is the right course.

"Truly it is outrageous—how can you have kept silent about something like this until today? It must be that you were too gentle, and that is what allowed his selfishness to grow. Just hearing it makes me furious. There is no need to go on holding back. Whatever his rank may be, you have a father and a mother, and though he is young Innosuke is your younger brother—there is no need to sit still inside a fire like that. Come, Father—should we not meet Isamu-san once and give him a thorough talking-to?" The mother raged on, heedless of all consequence.

The father had been sitting with arms folded and eyes shut for some time. "Now, now—none of that reckless talk. This is the first I have heard of it and I am at a loss myself to know what is best. Seki is not the sort to speak up lightly about such things, and she has plainly come to us out of genuine suffering. Tell me—is your son-in-law not at home tonight? Has something in particular happened? Or was it he who told you to leave?" He asked calmly. "My husband has not come home for two days now. Being away five or six days at a time is quite ordinary for him, and I do not find it particularly unusual—but when he was leaving, he was displeased about the way his clothes had been set out, and though I apologized as much as I could he would not listen. He took off what he was wearing and flung it down, changed into his Western suit himself, and said—oh—that there could be no more unfortunate creature in the world than he, having a wife such as me, and went out just like that. What an impossible thing to say. Three hundred and sixty-five days of the year without a word between us, and when he does speak it is to say something as heartless as that. Yet was I to go on wanting to be called Harada's wife, to keep my face dry and tell myself I am Taro's mother? Even I cannot understand my own endurance any longer. I am done with it—I have no husband, no child; I will think of myself as the girl I was before I ever married. The fact that I was able to make up my mind to leave even as I gazed at poor innocent Taro's sleeping face means that I can no longer live at Isamu's side. They say even without a mother a child will grow—it would be far better for Taro to be raised by a stepmother or by someone his father truly cares for than by a wretched, ill-starred mother like me; in the end it would serve the child better. I

will not return after tonight no matter what"—and so saying she flung these words and left; what an impossible thing to say. Three hundred and sixty-five days of the year without a word, and when he does speak it is something as heartless as that. Yet was I to go on wanting to be called Harada's wife, to keep my face dry and tell myself I am Taro's mother? Even I cannot understand my own endurance. I am done—I have no husband, no child; I will think of myself as the girl I was before I ever married. The fact that I was able to make up my mind to leave even as I gazed at poor innocent Taro's sleeping face means that I can no longer live at Isamu's side. They say even without a mother a child will grow—it would be far better for Taro to be raised by a stepmother or by someone his father truly cares for than by a wretched, ill-starred mother like me; in the end it would serve the child better, with his father showing him more affection. As for me, I will not return after tonight, no matter what.

Though she spoke these words so cleanly and firmly about the child she could not bear to part from, her voice trembled as she said it.

The father sighed. "It is not unreasonable—it must indeed be hard to stay. What a trouble things have come to." He gazed at Seki's face for a while. Her hair dressed in a large round coiffure, the root wrapped with a gold ring, a black crepe haori jacket—nothing out of place about her; and yet she was his own daughter, who had imperceptibly become every inch a mistress of a fine household. Could he bear to have her dress that hair in a plain knot again, wear a quilted cotton short coat, and tuck up her sleeves for kitchen work? And she had a child named Taro. To throw away a hundred years of fortune in a moment of anger, to become an object of ridicule, to revert to being a daughter of the old Saito Kazue—to laugh or to weep, she could never again be called the mother of Harada Taro. Even if she felt no attachment to her husband, the love for her own child that she could not cut away would only make her lonelier after the separation, and she might well come to long even for the suffering she knew now. Born with such fine looks and burdened with such misfortune—bound to a match beyond her station, made to endure so much—his pity for her deepened; and yet the unbecoming

circumstances that bound her and made her suffer so—he felt deepening pity. Yet: "No, Seki—do not think from what I am about to say that your father is heartless and refuses to understand you. I do not blame you at all. When station differs, what each person values naturally differs too, and something done with true devotion may appear unpleasant depending on how it is taken. Isamu-san is, as you know, a man who understands reason, a clever man, even something of a scholar—he would not torment you wholly without cause. The fact is that men known as capable and accomplished in the world tend to be extremely headstrong; they maintain a smooth face outside but bring home their work grievances and take them out on those around them. Being the target of that must indeed be painful. Yet the duty of a wife who has such a husband—a man who carries a lunch pail walking to a ward office is a different matter entirely—

accordingly things will be demanding and difficult—but it is the wife's role to keep him in good humor. What the world sees from outside may not show it, but it is not as though every lady of society spends her days in nothing but pleasure and ease. Think only of yourself and resentments will arise—but this is the way of the world, and given the difference in your circumstances it stands to reason that your hardships are greater than ordinary. Your mother may speak broadly, but Innosuke's recent steady salary came about, when all is said and done, through Harada-san's intercession, did it not? Seven lights of that house shine on you—ten lights, you might say—and you cannot claim you owe no indirect debt. However painful it may be, endure it in part for your parents, in part for your brother; and there is a child named Taro. If you have managed to endure until now, there is no reason you cannot go on. Is it better to take a divorce—

to leave with a divorce? Taro belongs to the Haradas; you would revert to being a daughter of the Saitos. Once that bond is severed you could never again go to see the child's face. If you are to weep in misfortune either way, then weep mightily as Harada's wife. Come now, Seki—is that not so? If you understand, put everything in your heart, pretend you know nothing, go home tonight, and live quietly as before. Even if you say nothing, your parents understand; your brother understands. Let each of us weep our own share of tears." He wiped his own eyes as he consoled her. Seki wept aloud. "Then the divorce I asked for was nothing but selfishness on my part. Of course—if I am to be separated from Taro and never permitted to see his face, there is no point in remaining in this world. What good is it merely to escape the suffering right before me? Truly, if only I myself were to disappear—there would be no ripples in any direction, and at any rate

that child would be raised by both parents. I was foolish to have thought of it and to have made you hear such an unpleasant thing. From tonight on I shall think of Seki as already gone, with her soul alone watching over that child—and knowing that, even a hundred years of my husband's cruelty seems something I could endure. Your words have truly settled in my heart. I will say no more of such things, so please do not worry." Even as she wiped her face the tears came again. Her mother burst into loud weeping—what an unfortunate child!—and sobbed on for a while. Even the moon that shed its clear light seemed lonely just then, and on the earthen bank behind the house, a bundle of pampas grass that Innosuke had cut from where it grew wild and placed in a bottle—its plumes beckoned and swayed, and it was a sorrowful night.

Her parents' house was at the foot of the new slope in Ueno, on the road toward Surugadai—beneath the thick wooded grove it was gloomy, but tonight the moon was clear, and out at Hirokoji it would be as bright as day. As they kept no regular rickshaw man on call, her father called to a passing rickshaw from the window. "Now that you have made up your mind, just go home. You went out without leave while your husband is away—if you are called to account for it, there will be nothing to say in your defense. It is a little late, but in a rickshaw it will be no time at all. I will come to hear more another day. First go home tonight"—and taking her hand he led her out, gently insistent, with a parent's compassion that would not make a scene of things. Seki, resigned to her fate, said: "Father, Mother—tonight ends here. Once I go back I am Harada's wife. It is not right for me to speak ill of my husband, so I will say nothing more. Please be glad thinking that Seki has a fine husband and that it is good for her brother too—she is a strong support for him. Ah,

be at ease and be glad, and there is nothing for me to worry about either. I will absolutely not do anything rash—please do not worry about that. From tonight on I shall think of this body as belonging to Isamu entirely, and let him do with it as he will. Well then—I am going now. When Innosuke comes home, please give him my greetings. Father, Mother, I wish you good health. Next time I will come with a smile." She rose, though she seemed to have no choice. Her mother rummaged in her thin purse and stepped outside to call to the rickshaw man at the gate: "How much to Surugadai?" But Seki said: "Ah, Mother, please let me handle that—thank you so much"—and with gentle composure she paid, passed through the lattice door, and pressed her sleeve to her face to hide her tears as she climbed into the rickshaw. Inside the house, the father's cough—a low, smothered

sound—could be heard.

Part Two

The wind lent its voice to the clear moonlight, and the cricket song faded fitfully into melancholy. She had barely gone a full block into Ueno when, for no apparent reason, the rickshaw man stopped and set down the shafts. "I am truly sorry to say this, but I must ask to be excused here. I will not charge the fare—please get down." Coming so suddenly out of nowhere, Seki felt her heart lurch with alarm. "What do you mean? I am in a hurry and will give you extra—please just keep going. In a lonely place like this there will be no other rickshaw, and you know that would put me in a very difficult position. Please, do not dawdle and just go." She asked him, her voice faintly trembling.

"It is not about the extra fare. I am asking you as a personal request—please get down. I simply no longer want to pull." "Then are you unwell? What is the matter? You have brought me this far and now you say you don't want to go on—that will not do," she said, hardening her voice to scold him. "Forgive me—I simply, absolutely, do not want to," he said, and with the lantern still in hand he slipped aside. "You are a very willful rickshaw man. If that is so, I will not ask you to go all the way to where we agreed. Just take me to where there are other rickshaws—that will be enough. I will pay you—just somewhere nearby, at least to Hirokoji—please," she said in a gentle, coaxing voice. "You are right—you are a young lady, and to be put down in a lonely place like this must be quite troubling. That was indeed wrong of me. Then allow me to carry you. I will escort you—you must have had quite a fright,

please forgive me," he said, not at all roughly, and shifted the lantern. For the first time Seki felt her chest ease, and with some reassurance she looked at the rickshaw man's face—a man of twenty-five or twenty-six, dark-complexioned, slight, a lean small figure. Ah—that face turned away from the moon—who did that face belong to, who did it look like—a name was on the very tip of her tongue, and almost without knowing she spoke: "Might you not be—" The man started and turned around. "Is it not you—that gentleman—surely you cannot have forgotten me?" She slipped down from the rickshaw as if she had glided out and looked at him long and steadily. "You are Saito Seki-san—I am ashamed to be seen like this. With no eyes in the back of my head I had no idea at all, and even your voice should have told me—I must have grown quite dull," he said, looking down in shame. Seki looked him over from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes and said:

"No—even if I had passed you in the street I doubt I would have recognized you. Until just a moment ago I thought you were an unknown rickshaw man I had never seen before, so of course you could not have known. What a shocking thing—but you did not know, so please forgive it. Tell me—when did you take up this kind of work? Does it not take a toll on someone as slight as you? I heard that your aunt had moved to the countryside and that you had closed the shop in Ogawa-cho—I heard that indirectly. But as I was no longer the person I once was, there were various circumstances that held me back, and asking after you, let alone writing, was simply not possible. Where do you live now—is your wife in good health? Do you have little ones? Even now, whenever I go to browse the arcade in Ogawa-cho—I do so often—I always look in at the old shop, which has become a tobacconist called Notoya, and each time I pass

I peek in at the same old shop, now the Notoya tobacconist, and think: ah, young Rokunosuke of the Takasaka family, when he was a child, would stop by here on the way to and from school and beg for loose tobacco and smoke it with such a knowing air—but where is he now, and what is he doing? He was such a gentle-hearted soul—how is he getting along in this hard world? I think of him, and every time I visit my parents I ask whether they might by any chance know anything of his situation. But it has been five years since you left Sarugaku-cho, and there has been no word of you at all. How I have missed you"—and forgetting her own circumstances she pressed him with all her questions. The man wiped the sweat running down his face with a hand towel and said: "I have come to a shameful fall. I no longer have anything I could call a home. I sleep at a cheap lodging in Asakusa-cho, upstairs at a place called Murata,

and when the mood strikes me I pull until late into the night as I have tonight, and when I feel otherwise I lie sprawled all day and pass the time like smoke. You are as beautiful as ever, my lady—when I heard that you had become a grand mistress I dreamed, as if in a dream, that perhaps someday I might be allowed to see your face once more, to exchange even a single word with you in this life. Until today I had treated this life of mine as a thing thrown away, of no use to anyone—but it is only because life remained that I can stand before you now. Ah—I am so grateful that you remembered me as Takasaka Rokunosuke." He looked down, and Seki wept quietly: "Please do not think that either of us is alone in this world of sorrow."

"And your wife?" Seki asked. "You know her—the daughter of the Sugita house diagonally across, the one everyone praised so blindly for her fair complexion and her figure and everything else. I became so thoroughly dissolute that I stopped coming home at all, and some well-meaning busybody in the family who did not understand the cause mistook the reason and thought it was because I had not taken a proper wife when I should have—and urged and urged my mother to make me marry her: have him do it, make him do it, fuss fuss fuss. Thinking let it be whatever it will be, I brought her into the house. That was right around the time I heard that you were expecting. The following year people congratulated me on my side as well, and we had little papier-mâché dogs and windmill toys lined up, as it were—but such things did nothing to end my dissipation. The world imagined that giving a man a pretty wife

would make him stop his wandering, or that having a child would bring him to his senses—but even if the two great beauties Ono no Komachi and Xi Shi had come hand in hand and Sotoori-hime herself had danced before me, I had already decided that my ways would never change. What good would the face of a milk-scented infant do to bring about a change of heart? I gambled and drank and squandered everything; I gave up even the business entirely until I could not even lift a pair of chopsticks—and that was three years ago now. My mother was taken in by my sister who had married into the countryside; my wife went back to her family with the child and I have had no word from them since. It was a girl, so I cannot say I feel great regret—but I was told that child died of typhoid last winter. Girls are precocious; at the end she must surely have said 'Father' or some such thing,

and had she lived she would be five this year. What a worthless life—there is nothing worth telling.

The man gave a faint, lonely smile. "Not knowing it was you, I behaved in a terribly rude, willful manner—please, get in; I will escort you. You must have had quite a fright. What pleasure is there in pulling these shafts, what hope in imitating a beast of burden? Is it a pleasure to earn a few coins? Is it a joy to be able to drink sake? When I think about it, everything—everything—is hateful, and whether I have a passenger or am running empty, when the urge to stop comes I stop without apology. What a hopeless, willful man—you must be utterly disgusted with me. Please, get in—I will escort you," he urged her. "Ah—now that I know who you are, how could I get into that same rickshaw? And yet this lonely place makes me fearful to go alone—so just until we reach Hirokoji, would you walk beside me as a companion?

We can talk as we go"—and Seki raised her skirts a little, and the sound of her lacquered clogs seemed lonely too.

Among her old friends, this was one she could not forget—a person bound to her by something special. The young Takasaka of Ogawa-cho, the only son of a neat little tobacco shop: though he was now dark and worn to an unrecognizable man, in his days of prosperity in his striped cotton kimono with a smart little apron, so clever with a word and so charming, seeming mature beyond his years—the shop had been praised as more lively in his time than even in his father's. And yet what a transformation. When rumors of her betrothal first spread, his wild carousing began—wild and bottomless—and people said that Takasaka's son had become a completely different person, as if bewitched, as if cursed, surely there was something more to it. And now, tonight, to see him in this wretched state—who would have imagined he would come to sleep in a common lodging house? He loved me, she thought, and I too had loved him—from the age of twelve

until seventeen, every day morning and evening when we met, I had vaguely thought that someday I would sit in that shop and read the newspapers while minding the customers—but my fate was decided by an unexpected person, and what my parents said could not be refused. As for the tobacco-shop Roku-san—that was nothing more than a child's fancy; he had never said it aloud, and she had said even less. It was nothing but a fleeting, dreamlike love, which she had told herself firmly to cut off, cut off, put aside—and with that resolve her marriage to Harada had been arranged. Yet even at the very last moment, tears had fallen and she could not forget him. He must have loved her as much as she loved him—perhaps his ruin was the result of that very love. How much he must resent seeing her in this fine, settled, married-lady's round coiffure and composed bearing—not such a happy life as it might look—

and yet what a far cry from any happiness this life of hers truly was—and Seki turned to look back at Rokunosuke; his face wore a vacant, absent expression, and in meeting her after so long he seemed to show no particular sign of joy.

When they came out to Hirokoji there were rickshaws about. Seki took some bills from her purse and wrapped them neatly in small chrysanthemum-patterned paper. "Roku-san, I know this is rude, but please buy yourself a handkerchief at the very least. It has been so long since we met and I feel there is much I want to say, yet I cannot get the words out—please understand. Well, then—I shall bid you farewell. Please do take care of your health and not fall ill. Please also set your aunt's mind at ease as soon as you can. I shall pray for you quietly in my heart. Please, I beg you—become the Roku-san of old again. Let me see the day when you open a fine shop and make something of yourself. Farewell." She said her farewells, and Rokunosuke received the little paper-wrapped packet and bowed. "It would be proper for me to decline, but since it comes from your own hand, I will receive it gratefully and keep it as a keepsake. I am sorry to part from you—but if this is only a dream,

then there is nothing to be done. Come, please go on your way. I too am going home—the night grows late and the road will be lonely"—and he turned away pulling the empty rickshaw. One person heading east, the other going south. The shadow of the willow swayed in the moonlight along the broad avenue, and the sound of lacquered clogs—weary, without strength—echoed away. In Murata's upstairs room and in the inner chambers of the Harada house alike, sorrow was their companion in this world, and both had much to ponder.