During the ten days that followed the incident with the snake eggs, one ill-fated thing after anotheroccurred to intensify Mother's unhappiness and shorten her life.
I was responsible for starting a fire.
That I should have started a fire. I had never even dreamed that such a dreadful thing would happen tome. I at once endangered the lives of every. one around me and risked suffering the very seriouspunishment provided by law.
I must have been brought up so very much the "little lady" as not to have been aware of the obviousfact that carelessness leads to conflagrations. Late one night I got up to wash my hands, and as I passed bythe screen in the entrance hall, I noticed a light coming from the bathroom. I gave it a casual glance only todiscover that the glass door of the bathroom was a glowing red, and I could hear an ominous crackling. Irushed to the side door and ran outside barefoot. I could see then that the pile of firewood which had beenstacked beside the furnace was blazing furiously
I flew to the farmhouse below our garden and beat with all my might on the door. "Mr. Nakai. Fire!Fire! Please get up! There's a fire!"
Mr. Nakai had apparently already retired, but he answered from inside, "I'll come at once." While Iwas still urging him to hurry, he dashed out of his house, still in his bedclothes.
We raced back to the fire. Just as we began to draw water from the pond with some buckets, I heardMother call from the gallery next to her room. I threw down my bucket, climbed up to the gallery, andcaught Mother in my arms. She was on the point of collapse. "Mother, please don't worry. It's all right.Please go back to bed." I led her back to bed and having persuaded her to lie down, I flew back to thefire. This time I dipped water from the bath and passed it to Mr. Nakai to throw on the burning woodpile.The blaze, however, was so intense that we could not possibly have extinguished it that way.
I heard voices shouting below, "There's a fire. Fire at the villa!" Suddenly four or five farmers brokethrough the fence and rushed up to us. It took them just a few minutes to get a relay of buckets going andput out the blaze. If the fire had lasted just a little longer, the flames would have spread to the roof.
"Thank Heavens" was my first thought, but in the next instant I was aghast at the sudden realization ofwhat had caused the fire. It was only then that it occurred to me that the disaster had taken place becausethe previous night, after I removed the unburned sticks of firewood from the furnace, I had left them nextto the woodpile, thinking that they were already out. This discovery made me want to burst into tears. As Istood there rooted to the ground, I heard the girl from the house in front say in a loud voice, "Some-bodymust have been careless about the furnace. The place is gutted."
The village mayor, the policeman, and the head of the fire brigade were among those who appeared.The mayor asked, with his usual gentle smiling face, "You must have been terribly frightened. How did ithappen?"
"It was all my fault. I thought that the firewood had burned out." This was all I could say. The tearscame welling up, and I stood there incapable of speech, my eyes on the ground. The thought came to methen that the police might arrest me and drag me off like a criminal, and at the same moment I suddenlybecame aware of the shamefully disheveled appearance I made as I stood there barefoot in my nightgown. I felt utterly lost
The mayor quietly asked, in a tone of sympathy, "I understand. Is your mother all right?"
"She is resting in her room. It was a dreadful shock for her."
"Anyway," said the young policeman, trying to comfort me, "it's a good thing that the house didn't catchfire."
Just then Mr. Nakai reappeared, having changed his clothes in the meanwhile, and began to shout allout of breath, "What's all the fuss about? Just a little wood got burned. It never turned into a real fire." Hewas obviously trying to cover up my stupid mistake
"I understand perfectly," said the mayor nodding. He spoke for a few minutes with the policeman, thensaid, "We'll be going now. Please remember me to your mother." They all left except for the policeman,who walked up to me, and in a voice so faint it was only a breathing said, "No report will be made onwhat happened tonight."
After he had gone Mr. Nakai asked in a tense voice what the policeman had said. I answered, "He toldme that they wouldn't make a report." The neighbors who were still standing around apparently caught mywords, for they began gradually to drift away, murmuring expressions of relief. Mr. Nakai wished me agood night and started off. Then I stood alone, my mind a blank, by the burned woodpile. In tears I lookedup at the sky, and I could see the first traces of the dawn.
I went to wash my hands, feet, and face. Somehow the thought of appearing before Mother frightenedme, and I idled around the bathroom, arranging my hair. I went then to the kitchen where I spent the timeuntil it grew light in making a quite unnecessary rearrangement of the cooking utensils.
I tiptoed to Mother's room only to find that she was already completely dressed and seated, lookingabsolutely exhausted, in an armchair. She smiled when she saw me, but her face was dreadfully pale.
I did not smile in return but stood without a word behind her chair. After a little while, Mother said, "Itwasn't anything, was it? Only firewood that was meant to be burned."
I was swept by a wave of happiness. I remembered from childhood Sunday school classes the proverbin the Bible, "A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver," and I thanked God from thebottom of my heart for my good fortune in having a mother so full of tenderness.
After finishing a light breakfast, I set to work disposing of the burned woodpile. Osaki, theproprietress of the village inn, came trotting up from the garden gate. "What happened? I just heard aboutit. What happened last night?" Tears shone in her eyes.
"I am sorry," I murmured in apology.
"There's nothing to be sorry about. What about the police?"
"They said it was all right."
"Oh, that's a relief." She looked genuinely glad.
I discussed with Osaki how I should express my thanks and apologies to the village. She was of theopinion that money would be most suitable and suggested the houses I should visit with presents of moneyand apologies. She added, "If you had rather not make the rounds all by yourself, I'll join you.
"It would be best, wouldn't it, for me to go alone?"
"Can you manage it alone? If you can, it would be."
"I'll go alone."
When I had finished disposing of the wood, I asked Mother for some money which I wrapped in littlepackets of 100 yen each. On the outside I wrote the words "With apologies."
I called first at the village hall. The mayor was out, and I gave the packet to the girl at the receptiondesk saying, "What I did last night was unpardonable, but from now on I shall be most careful. Pleaseforgive me and convey my apologies to the mayor."
I next visited the house of the fire chief. He himself came to the door. He gave me a sad little smile butdid not say anything. For some reason, I burst into tears. "Please forgive me for last night." I took aprecipitous leave and ran through the streets with the tears pouring down my face. I looked such a frightthat I had to go back home to put on some fresh make-up. I was just about to set out again when Motherappeared. "Not finished yet? Where are you going this time?"
"I've only just begun," I answered, not lifting my face.
"It must be a terrible ordeal for you." Mother's tone was warmly understanding. It was her love whichgave me the strength to make all the rest of the calls, this time without once weeping.
Wherever I went the people sympathized and attempted to console me. Mr. Nishiyama's young wife -I say young but she's already about forty - was the only one who rebuked me. "Please be careful in thefuture. You may belong to the nobility, for all I know, but I've been watching with my heart in my mouththe way you two have been living, like children playing house. It's only a miracle you haven't had a firebefore, considering the reckless way you live. Please be sure to take the utmost care from now on. If therehad been a strong wind last night, the whole village would have gone up in flames."
I felt the truth of Mrs. Nishiyama's accusation. Things were really exactly as she described, and Icouldn't dislike her in the least for having scolded me.
Mother had tried to comfort me by making the joke about the firewood being for burning, but supposingthere had been a strong wind, the whole village might have burned down, just as Mrs. Nishiyama said. Ifthat had happened, not even my suicide could have served as sufficient apology, and my death would notonly have caused Mother's but have blackened forever my Father's name. I know that the aristocracy isnow not what it once was, but if it must perish in any case, I would like to see it go down as elegantly aspossible. I couldn't rest in my grave if I died in atonement for having started a fire.
I began from the following day to devote my energies to working in the fields. Mr. Nakai's daughtersometimes helps me. Ever since my disgraceful act of having started a fire, I have felt somehow as if thecolor of my blood has turned a little darker, as if I am becoming every day more of an uncouth countrygirl. When, for instance, I sit on the porch knitting with Mother, I feel strangely cramped and choked, andit comes as a relief when I go out into the fields to dig the earth.
Manual labor, I suppose one would call it. This is not the first time I've done such work. I wasconscripted during the war and even made to do coolie labor. The sneakers I now wear when I work inthe fields are the ones the Army issued me. That was the first time in my life I had put such things on myfeet, but they were surprisingly comfortable, and when I walked around the garden wearing them I felt asif I could understand the lightheartedness of the bird or animal that walks barefoot on the ground. That isthe only pleasant memory I have of the war. What a dreary business the war was.
Last year nothing happened
The year before nothing happened
And the year before that nothing happened.
An amusing poem to this effect appeared in a newspaper just after the war ended. Of course all kindsof things actually did take place, but when I try to recall them now, I experience that same feeling thatnothing happened. I hate talking about the war or listening to other people's memories. Many people died,I know, but it was still a dreary business, and it bores me now. I suppose you might say I take a veryegocentric view of it. Only when I was conscripted and forced to do coolie labor in sneakers was I ableto think of it except in terms of its dreariness. I often had harsh thoughts about the coolie labor, but thanksto it I became quite robust, and even now I sometimes think that if ever I have difficulty in eking out aliving, I can always get along by performing manual labor.
One day, about the time that the war was entering its really desperate phase, a man dressed in a kind ofmilitary uniform came to our house in Nishikata Street and handed me conscription papers and a schedulelisting the days I was required to work. I discovered that from the following day I would have to report onalternate days at a base in the mountains behind Tachikawa. In spite of myself, I found myself in tears.
"I suppose a substitute wouldn't do?" The tears kept flowing and I had begun to sob.
The man answered firmly, "The Army has work for you, and you yourself must go."
The next day it rained. An officer delivered us a sermon as we stood lined up at the foot of themountain. "Victory is a certainty," he said by way of preamble. "Victory is a certainty, but unlesseverybody does exactly what the Army orders, all our plans will be thwarted, and we will have anotherOkinawa. We want you without fail to do every bit of the work you are given. Next, you are to be on guardagainst one another. There is no telling whether spies have been planted among you. You will now beworking in military positions just like soldiers, and we want you to exercise every possible caution not toreveal to other people under any circumstances what you have seen."
The mountain was smouldering in the rain as we stood there, close to five hundred men and women.We listened with all due reverence to his address, in spite of the drenching rain. The unit also includedboys and girls from the elementary schools, all of them with frozen little faces on the verge of tears. Therain went through my coat, penetrated my jacket, and finally soaked through to my underwear
I spent that whole day carrying baskets of earth on my back. The next time at the base I tugged ropes ina team of laborers. That was the work I liked best.
Two or three times while I was out working in the mountains I had the impression that the schoolboyswere staring at me in a most disagreeable manner. I was shouldering baskets of earth one day when acouple of them passed by, and I heard one of them whisper, "Think she's a spy?"
I was astonished. I asked the girl carrying earth next to me what made the boy say such a thing. Sheanswered seriously, "Perhaps because you look like a foreigner."
"Do I? Do you also think I'm a spy?"
"No," she answered, this time with a little smile.
"I am a Japanese," I said and couldn't keep from giggling at the obvious silliness of my own words.
One fine morning which I had spent hauling logs along with the men, the young officer suddenlyfrowned and pointed at me. "Hey you. You, come here."
He walked quickly toward the pine forest, and I followed him, my heart pounding with nervousnessand fear. He stopped by a pile of timber just brought from the saw mill, and turned around to me. "It mustbe very hard working that way every day. Today please just watch over this lumber." He spoke with asmile, flashing his white teeth.
"You mean I should stand here?"
"It's cool and quiet, and you can take a nap on top of the pile. If you get bored, perhaps you'd like toread this." He took a small volume from his pocket and tossed it shyly on the boards. "It isn't much of abook, but please read it if you like."
It was called Troika. I picked it up. "Thank you very much. There's someone in my family also wholikes books, but he's in the South Pacific now."
He misunderstood. "Oh, your husband. South Pacific. That's terrible." He shook his head in sympathy."At any rate, today you stand guard duty. I'll bring your lunch box myself later on. You just rest withoutworrying about anything." With these words, he strode off rapidly.
I sat on the lumber pile and began to read the book. I had read about half when the crunching of hisboots announced the officer's return. "I have brought your lunch. It must be very tedious being here alone."He deposited the lunch box on the grass and hurried off again.
When I had finished the lunch, I crawled up on top of the lumber pile and stretched out to read thebook. I read the whole thing through and nodded off. I woke after three with the sudden impression that Ihad seen the young officer before, but where I could not recall. I clambered down from the pile and wasjust smoothing down my hair when I heard the crunching of his boots again.
"Thank you very much for having come today. You may leave now if you wish."
I ran up to him and held out the book. I wanted to express my thanks, but the words did not come. Insilence I looked at his face, and when our eyes met, mine filled with tears. Then tears shone also in his.
We parted without words, just like that, and the young officer never again appeared at the place whereI worked. That was the only day I was able to take it easy. From then on I went every other day toTachikawa to do my stint of hard labor. Mother worried a great deal about my health, but the workactually made me stronger than ever before, and even now I am, at least, a woman who is not particularlydistressed even by the hardest labor in the fields
I said that I hate to discuss the war or hear about it, but now I find I have told all about my "preciousexperience." But that's about the only memory of the war I ever feel the slightest inclination to relate. Therest might aptly be summed up by the poem:
Last year nothing happened
The year before nothing happened
And the year before that nothing happened.
Idiotically enough, all that remains of my war experiences is the pair of sneakers
The mention of the sneakers took me off again on another digression, but I should add that althoughwearing what may be called my unique memento of the war and going out into the fields every day helpsto relieve the secret anxiety and uneasiness deep in my heart, Mother has of late been growing weaker dayby day.
The snake eggs.
The fire.
Mother's health has shockingly deteriorated while I, quite on the contrary, feel as though I am steadilyturning into a coarse, low-class woman. I can't escape the feeling that it is by sucking the life-breath out ofMother that I am fattening.
Mother has never said a word concerning the fire except for her joke about the firewood being forburning. Far from reprimanding me, she seemed to pity me, but the shock she received was certainly tentimes as great as mine. Ever since the fire Mother sometimes groans in her sleep, and on nights when astrong wind is blowing, she slips out of bed any number of times, however late it may be, and goes aroundthe house making sure that everything is all right. She never looks well. Some days even walking seems agreat strain for her. She had expressed a desire to help me in the fields, and although I had discouragedher, she insisted on carrying five or six great bucketfuls of water from the well. The next day her back wasso stiff she could barely breathe. She spent the day in bed. After that she appeared to have given up theidea of manual labor. Once in a while she walks out into the fields but only to observe intently what I amdoing
Today, while Mother was watching me work, she suddenly remarked, "They say that people who likesummer flowers die in the summer. I wonder if it's true." I did not answer but went on watering theeggplants. It is already the beginning of summer. She continued softly, "I am very fond of hibiscus, but wehaven't a single one in this garden."
"We have plenty of oleanders," I answered in an intentionally sharp tone.
"I don't like them. I like almost all summer flowers, but oleanders are too loud."
"I like roses best. But they bloom in all four seasons. I wonder if people who like roses best have todie four times over again."
We both laughed.
"Won't you rest a bit?" Mother asked, still smiling. She added, "I have something I'd like to talk overwith you today."
"What is it? If it's about your dying, no thanks."
I followed Mother to a bench under the wisteria trellis. The wisteria blossoms were at their end, andthe soft afternoon sunlight filtering through the leaves fell on our laps and dyed them green.
"There's something I've been meaning to tell you for quite a while, but I was waiting for a momentwhen we were both in a good mood. You see, it's not a very easy thing to discuss. But today I feelsomehow as if I can talk about it. I ask you please to restrain yourself and listen until I have finished. Thetruth is that Naoji is alive."
I stiffened all over.
"Five or six days ago I had a letter from your Uncle Wada. It seems that a man who used to work forhim has recently returned from the South Pacific. He went to your uncle's office to pay his respects, andthen, quite by accident, it came out that he had been in the same unit with Naoji and that Naoji is safe andwill soon be returning. He had one unpleasant thing to report. According to this man, Naoji has become arather serious opium addict."
"Again!"
My mouth twisted as if I had eaten something bitter. When Naoji was in high school, in imitation of acertain novelist, he had taken to drugs, and he finally ran up such an enormous bill at the pharmacist's thatit had taken Mother two years to pay it in full.
"Yes. He seems to have taken it up again. But the man said that he's certain to be cured by the time hegets back because they won't let him return otherwise. Your uncle's letter goes on to say that even if Naojiis cured when he returns there's no immediate likelihood of finding a job for someone in his frame ofmind. Even perfectly normal people become rather peculiar nowadays if they work in Tokyo - what withall the confusion - and a semi-invalid who has just recovered from narcotic poisoning might go berserkin no time. There's no telling what he might do. It Naoji comes back, the best thing would be for us to takecare of him here in the mountains for the time being and not let him go anywhere else. That's one thing.And, Kazuko, your uncle had another thing in his letter. He says that our money is all gone, and what withthe blocking of savings and the capital levy, he won't be able to send us as much as he has before. It willbe extremely difficult for him to manage our living expenses, especially when Naoji arrives and there arethree of us to take care of. He suggests that we should waste no time in finding for you either a husband orelse a position in some household."
"As a servant?"
"No, your uncle wrote that he knew of a family that's related to us and in the peerage where you couldhave a position as governess to the little girls. That probably wouldn't be too depressing or awkward foryou."
"I wonder if there isn't some other job."
"He says that any other profession would be impractical for you."
"Why impractical?"
Mother smiled sadly but did not answer.
"No! I've had enough of such talk!" I burst out hysterically, knowing even as I did so that I would regretit. But I couldn't stop. "Look at me in these wretched sneakers - look!" I was crying, but I brushed thetears away with the back of my hand and looked Mother in the face. A voice within me repeated, "Imustn't, I mustn't," but words, having no connection with my expressed self, poured forth, as if from thedepths of my subconscious.
"Didn't you once say that it was because of me, because you had me, that you were going to Izu? Didn'tyou say that if you didn't have me you would die? That's why I've stayed here without budging from yourside. And here I am wearing these sneakers because my only thought has been to grow vegetables youwould like. Now you hear that Naoji's coming home, and suddenly you find me in the way. 'Go off andbecome a servant!' you say. It's too much, too much."
My words seemed horrible even to myself, but they could not be stopped, as if they had an existence oftheir own
"If we're poor and our money's gone, why don't we sell all our expensive clothes? Why don't we sellthis house? I can do something. I can get a job working at the village office, and if they won't hire methere, I can do coolie work. Poverty is nothing. As long as you love me, all I want is to spend my wholelife by your side. But you love Naoji more than you love me, don't you? I'll go. I'll go. I've never beenable to get along with Naoji and it would only bring unhappiness to all three of us if I stayed. We've livedtogether for a long time, and I have nothing to regret in our relationship. Now you and Naoji can staytogether, just the two of you. I hope for your sake he'll be a very good son to you. I'm sick of it. I'm sick ofthis life. I'll go. I'll leave today, at once. I have somewhere I can go."
I stood up.
"Kazuko!" Mother spoke severely. Her face was filled with a dignity she had never shown me before.When she stood and confronted me, she looked almost taller than I.
I wanted to beg her pardon, but the words would not come from my mouth. Instead I uttered quitedifferent ones. "You've deceived me. Mother, you've deceived me. You were using me until Naoji came.I've been your servant, and now that you no longer need me you're sending me away."
I let out a cry and burst into tears.
"You are very foolish." Mother's voice as she spoke these words was shaking with anger.
I lifted my head. "Yes, I am. I've been taken advantage of because I'm a fool. You're getting rid of mebecause I'm a fool. It's best I go, isn't it? Poverty - what's that? Money - what's that? I don't understandsuch things. I had always believed in love, in my mother's love, in that at least."
Again I spoke in that stupid, unforgivable way
Mother turned her head away abruptly. She was weeping. I wanted to beg her pardon and to cling toher, but my hands were dirty from my work in the fields, and this involuntary embarrassment kept medistant. "Everything will be all right if I'm not here. I'll go. I have somewhere I can go."
With these words I ran off to the bathroom where I washed my face and hands, still sobbing. I went tomy room, changed my clothes, only once again to be overcome with weeping. I wanted to weep more,more, until I had drained every tear from my body. I ran to the foreign-style room on the second floor,threw myself on the bed, and covering my head in the blankets, wept my very flesh away. Then my mindbegan to wander aimlessly. Gradually out of my grief, the desire for a certain person crystallized in me,and I yearned unbearably to see his face, to hear his voice. I had that very particular sensation oneexperiences when the doctor prescribes cauterization of the soles of one's feet, and one must bear the painwithout flinching.
Toward evening Mother came softly into the room and switched on the light. She approached the bedand called my name in a very gentle voice
I got up and sat on the bed, sweeping both hands over my hair. I looked at her face and smiled
Mother also smiled faintly and then sank into the sofa under the window. "I have just disobeyed youruncle for the first time in my life. I wrote a letter in answer to his, requesting him to leave my children'saffairs to me. Kazuko, we'll sell our clothes. We'll sell our clothes one after another and use the moneyjust as we please, for whatever useless things we feel like. Let's live extravagantly. I don't want to let youwork in the fields any more. Let's buy our vegetables even if they are expensive. It's unreasonable toexpect you to spend every day working like a farmer."
To tell the truth, the strain of daily work in the fields had begun to take its toll. I am sure that the reasonwhy I wept and stormed as if I had gone off my head was that the combination of physical exhaustion andmy unhappiness had made me hate and resent everything.
I sat on the bed in silence, my eyes averted.
"Kazuko."
"Yes."
"What did you mean by saying that you had somewhere to go?"
I could tell that I had turned red to the nape of my neck.
"Mr. Hosoda?"
I did not answer.
Mother gave a great sigh. "May I bring up something that happened a long time ago?"
"Please do," I whispered.
"When you left your husband and returned to the house in Nishikata Street, I did not intend to say aword of reproach, but there was one thing that made me say that you had betrayed me. Do you remember?You burst into tears and I realized that I had been wrong to say such a terrible thing."
But my memory was that I had felt grateful to Mother at the time for talking to me in such a way, and mytears had been of happiness
"When I said that you had betrayed me it was not because you left your husband's house. It wasbecause I had learned from him that you and that painter Hosoda were lovers. That news came as aterrible shock. Mr. Hosoda had already been a married man for years and had children. I knew it couldnever come to anything, no matter how much you loved him."
"Lovers - what a thing to say. It was nothing but groundless suspicion on my husband's part."
"Perhaps. I don't suppose you can still be thinking of Mr. Hosoda. Where was it then that you meantwhen you said you had somewhere to go?"
"Not to Mr. Hosoda's."
"Really? Then where?"
"Mother, recently I have discovered the one way in which human beings differ completely from otheranimals. Man has, I know, language, knowledge, principles, and social order, but don't all the otheranimals have them too, granted the difference of degree? Perhaps the animals even have religions. Manboasts of being the lord of all creation, but it would seem as if essentially he does not differ in the leastfrom other animals. But, Mother, there was one way I thought of. Perhaps you won't understand. It's afaculty absolutely unique to man - having secrets. Can you see what I mean?"
Mother blushed faintly and gave a charming smile. "If your secrets only bear good fruit, it will be all Icould ask. Every morning I pray to your father's spirit to make you happy."
Suddenly there flashed across my mind an image of driving with Father through Nasuno and getting outon the way, and how the autumn fields looked. The autumn flowers - asters, pinks, gentians, valerians -were all in bloom. The wild grapes were still green.
Later Father and I boarded a motorboat at Lake Biwa. I jumped into the water. The little fish that livein the weeds brushed against my legs, and the shadow of my legs, distinctly reflected on the bottom of thelake, moved with me. The picture bore no relation to what Mother and I had been discussing, but itflashed into my mind, only to vanish.
I slid off the bed and threw my arms around Mother's knees. "Mother, please forgive me." I was at lastable to say it
Those days, as I remember them now, were the last in which the dying embers of our happiness stillglowed. Once Naoji returned from the South Pacific, our real hell began.