Eminent Authors of Contemporary Japan/Volume 2/Autumn

by Ryunosuke Akutagawa

Autumn
By
Ryunosuke Akutagawa

(A Short Story),

Translated by
Eiji Ukai and Eric S. Bell.

Autumn

Nobu-ko was a very beautiful and talented young woman. She had received an excellent schooling, and at quite an early age had entered a woman’s university. Even before her graduation she had completed over a two-hundred-page autobiographical novel, which was much talked about and praised by her friends and admirers. Everyone therefore predicted a very brilliant future for her as a successful authoress and novelist.

But when Nobu-ko graduated from her university, she found that her family affairs did not give her the freedom she would have liked to follow and develop her talents in this direction, for her poor mother who was a widow with small means, was the only supporter of her and her younger sister.

The younger girl, Teru-ko, was still attending a girl’s high school. It was therefore necessary for Nobu-ko to decide upon the question of marriage before she began novel writing.

She had a cousin named Shunkichi, who was then a student of some literary college, and his future hopes also lay in becoming a writer. Being related, they had known each other since they were children, and as they happened both to be interested in the same subject, and were able to discuss literature together, naturally their intimacy had much increased after they had grown up. But their tastes differed. Nobu-ko rather admired the new school of literature, but the young man showed little toleration for what he termed “the new literature” such as the problem plays of Ibsen and others which were quite in vogue then. He was rather inclined to talk satirically of this class of literature,—perhaps his criticisms were influenced by his study of French literature. This satirical attitude of Shunkichi’s often irritated Nobu-ko, for she took everything rather seriously. But even though at times her irritation became almost unbearable when listending to him, she could not help finding something in his cynicisms and aphorisms which stirred her deeply.

During her school life she often went to concerts and exhibitions with Shunkichi, and nearly always she took her younger sister Teru-ko with her. Going or coming back from these entertainments the young people would talk and laugh together with the utmost freedom. But it was seldom that the younger girl was included in their conversation, and happily she showed quite a childish and innocent contentment in gazing at the various window-displays of bright parasols, shawls, and other pretty articles of wearing-apparel which she saw on the way. When, however, Nobu-ko became aware that she was excluding her sister too much from their conversation, she would quickly turn her talk into other channels, and would strive to draw the younger girl into their chattering again. But even though at times she endeavoured to be considerate in these matters, she was usually the very one who forgot all about her when she got interested in some particular topic.

Shunkichi, who was rather indifferent in his manner, would stride nonchalantly along the crowded streets, talking rather wittily, and would delight in flavouring his conversation with smart jokes and aphorisms.

The intimacy which existed between Nobu-ko and her cousin was of course apparent enough to their friends to cause everyone to anticipate their early marriage. Many of Nobu-ko’s school chums even became envious and jealous of her coming happiness. This was especially the case with a few of her friends who did not even know anything of the true personality of the young man, and they seemed to delight in inventing unkind and disastrous predictions for Nobu-ko. As for her younger sister, she tried hard not to bring herself to listen to all this idle talking, yet at the same time she often hinted in her remarks to her sister that there was a possibility of some of their suppositions coming true. So Nobu-ko’s school-mates had become quite reconciled to the fact that she and Shunkichi would soon be wedded, and they always had in their young minds rather a clear picture of the young bride and bridegroom.

But quite to the surprise of all her friends, no sooner had Nobu-ko finished her school course, than she suddenly married a young fellow who was a graduate of a higher commercial school, and who had just been appointed as clerk in a certain firm in Osaka.

A few days after their marriage the young couple started for their new home. According to those who saw them off at Tokyo Station, Nobu-ko seemed very cheerful indeed. Her face beamed with smiles, and she was kindly trying to console her younger sister who would be left alone in Tokyo. The younger girl seemed to be feeling the parting very much, and her eyes brimmed with tears.

Nobu-ko’s friends all wondered. A mixture of relief and spiteful jealousy took the place of their former feelings. A few of them still had faith in Nobu-ko, and attributed her sudden change of mind to the influence of her mother. There were some, however, who doubted her and talked in an unkind way about her fickleness. But they all realised that their opinions were nothing but mere supposition.

Why didn’t she marry Shunkichi? This was the chief topic of conversation between all her friends for a long time afterwards. Whenever they met they discussed it over and over again as if it were quite a serious and important matter to them. After two or three months, however, they gradually began to forget all about it, and they even forgot to mention about the novel their friend had written.

In the meanwhile Nobu-ko settled in her new home which was in one of the suburbs of Osaka, and she rather anticipated a blissful married life. The house was built right in the centre of a grove of high pine-trees, and she enjoyed their fragrance as it was wafted into the open windows with the bright sunlight which flooded the rooms of her newly-built, two-storied house.

When she had nothing to do during the absence of her husband, she enjoyed her new life immensely. But there were afternoons when she found it terribly lonely all by herself. Whenever this mood came upon her, she would take out her workbox, and from the bottom of it she would take out some pink sheets of letter-paper, and would pore over them for a long time. One of the letters she read contained the following passage:—

“… Realising that today is the last day that I can sit close to you, my dearest sister, I cannot stop the tears from falling down my cheeks as I write this letter. Oh, my dearest, I entreat you to forgive me. I entreat you with all my heart. Your poor little sister does not know what to say, or how to express her love for your most noble act of self-sacrifice.

“I know quite well that you decided this hurried marriage only for the sake of your poor sister. Even though you may deny it from your kindness of heart, I know that it is true. Do you remember asking me, while we were at the Imperial Theatre together a few nights ago, if I liked Mr. Shunkichi? And when I told you that I did, you kindly advised me to marry him, promising that you would do all in your power to help me in every way that was possible.

“That evening you must have already read the letter which I had ready to post to him. When I lost that letter, I bore you a terrible resentment. But now I understand, and I beg you to forgive me, my dearest, for now I realise how I wronged you.

“I must tell you now that even your gentlest and kindest words sounded cruel and cynical to my ears that evening. I remember that I was unable to find words then to answer you as I wanted to. But a few days afterwards when I heard of your decision to be married to another man, I was so ashamed that I wished to die. I wanted to die in the depths of hell, and to ask your forgiveness as I passed away.

“I know well that you love Mr. Shunkichi. I am sure of it, so do not conceal it, my dear. I am sure you would have married him if it had not been for your great love for me. But you told me that you did not love him, and now you have married someone whom you do not love.

“O my dearest sister, do you remember that when I went to see you off at the station I carried my pet hen in my arms, and I whispered to her to ask your forgiveness. I wanted to feel that even the fowl which I loved most of all would join me in entreating your forgiveness. Then our mother, who knew nothing of the matter, wept!

“Tomorrow you will have reached Osaka. But, my dearest sister, never desert your poor little Teru-ko. Every morning, as I go about my work, I will weep when I think of you …”

The tears fell as Nobu-ko read her sister’s letter, for it was brimming over with true and tender girlish feeling. She recalled to mind her pretty figure as she stood on the station platform, and she remembered how she had secretly handed her the mysterous letter. She had felt very sorry for the younger girl. Yet, had her marriage been such a sacrifice? She did not like to doubt the sincerity of her younger sister’s sympathy, and yet a rather gloomy feeling took hold of her. But she tried to shake it off, and to think of pleasanter things by looking up into the bright sunshine which was tinging the tops of the pine-trees with the golden hue of the coming twilight.

For about three months Nobu-ko and her husband were as happy as most newly-married people are. He had rather an effeminate character, yet at the same time his manner was somewhat taciturn.

He always made it a rule to spend a few hours after supper with his wife. Nobu-ko, with her knitting in her hands, would discuss the latest novels and dramas which were attracting notice at the time in the literary and dramatic world. Sometimes she discussed Christian philosophy, and sometimes she would drift on to the subject of the tastes of university girl-students. Her husband, whose cheeks were slightly flushed after his dinner wine, would listen with a kindly curiosity. He would sit, with his half-read evening paper on his knees, listening to all she said, but he never by any chance ventured his opinion about anything she discussed.

Almost every Sunday the young couple visited some of the pleasure resorts in the suburbs of Osaka, and would enjoy themselves thoroughly. Nobu-ko thought the people of Osaka and the vicinity a little vulgar. They took their meals at very odd times, and something about all these people and their manner of living displeased her. She felt that her own husband had far better manners than any of the other people she saw. He dressed very neatly, and always looked respectable, and everything about him seemed to give out a fresh and fragrant atmosphere of good health and breeding. When she was with him on these excursions she had the feeling of one who is basking in the sunshine of an early spring morning. His hat, the cut of his coat, his polished brown shoes, in fact everything about him, easily distinguished him from the vulgar people she met with.

One day during the summer holidays, when they were on a trip to Maiko Beach, she felt especially proud of her husband. Many of the other members of his office staff happened to be there, and she could not help contrasting him with them all. He was so diferent, so much more refined. But she was rather surprised to notice the intimacy with which he treated those unrefined people.

Before long, Nobu-ko again began to think about the literary career which she had intended to follow before her marriage. She made up her mind to start it anew by writing regularly for one or two hours each day, and only when her husband was at his office. But he soon got to know how she was occupying her time, and one day he said to her with gentle smile:

“You are going to become an authoress at last, aren’t you?”

But somehow or other, whenever she sat down to write, her pen would not run freely at all, and often she found herself with her chin resting on her hands, listening to the chirping of the cicadas in the pine-grove outside the window.

One morning, very early in Autumn, her husband, before leaving the house for his office, was looking for a clean collar to wear, but unfortunately he found that all his collars had been sent to the laundry, and he had only one soiled one to put on. Being rather particular about his appearance, he hated having to wear soiled linen, and he became rather annoyed. As he finished dressing he turned to his wife and said rather cynically, “You had better not be always writing novels!” Without answering, she bowed and continued brushing his coat.

One night a few days later, her husband, after having read something in the evening paper about the food shortage, asked her if she could not curtail their monthly expenses a little. “You are not a mere school-girl any longer now, you know!” This last remark was made rather unkindly. At the moment she was busy embroidering a new neck-tie for him, and she answered in rather an absent-minded way. He therefore continued with some persistence, “As for that neck-tie, wouldn’t it be less expensive to buy a new one?” Again she hesitated to answer. After a while, getting no response, he ill-naturedly picked up a commercial magazine which lay near him, and began to read it.

His wife then switched off the light in their bedroom, which adjoined where they had been sitting. She remained in that room for a while, and then she spoke very quietly and decidedly, but almost in a whisper, “I shall never again write novels!” As her husband made no reply, she again repeated the remark. Then tears came to her eyes, and she began to weep. Her husband reproved her a little for her childishness, but still her sobs came from the stillness of the further room. At last he went to her, and soon she found herself clinging to him.

The next day they were again the same happy and contented couple as before.

There were some evenings when her husband did not come home from his office until shortly after midnight. When he eventually did return, he was so drunk that he could not take off his overcoat without some assistance from his wife. Naturally she was annoyed with him, but she endeavoured to be as kind as possible, and would help him to remove his clothes. Often when he was fuddled with drink he would say very unkind things to her, such as, “If I had not come home at all this evening you would have made better progress with your novel!” He often made this remark, and there was something quite feminine in his tone of voice when he spoke. When she got into bed after these unhappy episodes, the tears would roll down her cheeks. She often thought how sorry her sister would have felt to witness such scenes, and she knew how she would sympathise with her at such times. She often felt the need of talking to her younger sister, and her heart would often utter these silent words, “Oh, Teru-ko! Teru-ko! You are the only woman in the whole world whom I can depend upon!” When her husband came home in this condition, his breath smelt terribly of drink, and the poor young wife, turning over and over in her bed, would scarcely get any sleep at all.

But these little incidents were soon forgotten, and the following day the couple were quite reconciled again.

As the autumn advanced, these little troubles repeated themselves more often. It was seldom she sat down to write now, and she seldom took up her pen. Her husband showed very little interest in her literary talk, and they got into a habit of discussing only such trifling matters as running the house more economically. As they sat beside their oblong brazier, they would talk of nothing but these matters, and she gradually began to see that it was the only topic that interested her husband at all. After taking their supper, the young wife often watched her husband with a bitter disappointment in her heart. On the other hand, he never for one moment seemed to notice her anxiety. As he talked, he would chew the end of his rather long moustache.

Then he grew more jolly again after a while, and sometimes he would joke with her, saying, “In the event of our having a child ….”

About this time they often saw Shunkichi’s name appearing in different literary magazines. Since her marriage Nobu-ko had ceased corresponding with him altogether, and seemed as if she had quite forgotten all about him. Lately she had been told quite a lot about his literary work, how he had graduated so successfully from his college, how he had started his own magazine in co-operation with a few of his friends, and many other things about him. As time went on, she learnt more and more, for her sister would write and give her all the news about her husband. But somehow she had no wish to hear so much. Then one day she found a story written by Shunkichi in some magazine, and again her yearning for him welled up in her heart. As she turned over the pages of his story, she smiled again and again. In his writing she again detected the same jokes and sneers. They were as sharp and cutting as the attacks the ancient warrior Miyamoto-Musashi made with his wonderful sword. It even seemed to her that behind her cousin’s satire there lurked something desperate which had never appeared in his writing before. But she realised that perhaps it was her own conscience which made her notice this rather changed attitude in his expression.

After this she began to consider her husband more and more. When he returned home late during winter, he would find her sitting up for him. She always welcomed him with a cheery smile. And she always had a warm brazier ready for him to warm himself. She took infinitely more pains with her toilet and made herself look younger and fresher than before. Even though the hour was very late, she would take out her sewing, and would chat pleasantly, reviving old recollections of their early married life.

The minute way in which she remembered even the smallest details was a surprise and a joy to him, and he would remark jokingly, “I wonder that you can remember such little details!” As he teased her, she would only smile. But she often wondered why she remembered these little details so very plainly.

Not long after this her mother wrote to her, telling her that her younger sister’s betrothal had been definitely settled. The letter also stated that Shunkichi had built a nice house in a suburb of Tokyo which was to accomodate both Teru-ko and hereself. At once Nobu-ko hastened to write a letter of congratulation to them both. In it she remarked, “… As I am very shorthanded here, I much regret not being able to go to Tokyo for dear Teru-ko’s wedding, but …” As she wrote she found it rather hard to collect her thoughts properly. As she paused at intervals, she raised her head and looked out into the pine plantation. It seemed very dense and green in the early winter daylight.

That evening she talked to her husband about the coming marriage of her sister. As usual he listened smilingly to all she said, and was amused and delighted at the way in which she so cleverly imitated her sister’s way of talking. But somehow or other Nobu-ko always seemed to be talking to herself, for het husband seldom ventured any remarks. After listening to her for two or three hours he would rise from the side of the brazier where they had been sitting, and stroking his moustache with the tips of his fingers, he would say, “Now, my dear, let us get to bed.” Nobu-ko sat wondering what kind of a wedding-gift would be most suitable, and as she was thinking, she poked the ashes in the brazier with the small tongs. Suddenly looking up she said, “How funny to think that I shall have a brother-in-law!”

“It isn’t funny at all. It’s quite natural as you have a sister, “said her husband. She watched him rather curiously as he spoke.

At last the long-talked-of wedding took place in the middle of December. On that day, just before noon it began snowing quite hard in Osaka. After finishing her lunch all by hereself as usual, she began to feel desperately lonely. The fish she had eaten seemed to have left an unpleasant taste in her mouth.

“I wonder if it is snowing in Tokyo, too?” thought she. She remained thinking for some considerable time, leaning her arms on the edge of the kitchen brazier.

Outside the snow began to fall more heavily, and she gazed at it absently. She still had the taste of fish in her mouth.

Time passed by. One day, during the following autumn Nobu-ko and her husband went up to Tokyo. She had not been there since her marriage. He had been sent there on some business connected with firm, and so the first few days after arriving in that city he was so busy with his work that, with the exception of one visit paid to his wife’s mother, he had no chance of going out anywhere with his wife.

When Nobu-ko went out alone to visit her sister’s new home in one of the suburbs she book a rickshaw which made its way along a rough road made through newly reclaimed land and led to her sister’s residence from the tram terminus. The new house stood next to a large vegetable field at the end of a small street, and in the vicinity were rows of new and rather pretty houses irregularly huddled together. Most of them had gates of simple design, and hedges of Chinese-hawthorn. On the drying poles of each house newly washed clothes were hanging out to dry in the warn sunshine. These seemed to be the general features of all the residences round about, and the rather common-place atmosphere of the neighbourhood somewhat disappointed her.

When she knocked at her sister’s door, she was rather surprised to be welcomed by Shunkichi. As she had never been to see them since their marriage, he welcomed her with unusual hilarity with, “Hello! Nobu-ko San!”

Nobu-ko found that her new brother-in-law had quite changed in his appearance. His hair was very carefully trimmed and he wore it long instead of cropped short.

“How do you do, Mr. Shun?

“Oh, I’m very well, and how are you? Come in, sister! I’m all alone just now.”

“Where is Teru-ko? Is she out?”

“Yes, she’s out shopping, and so is our maid.”

Feeling strangely bashful, Nobu-ko took off her gaily-lined woolen coat in the corner of the entrance-hall. Then she followed Shunkichi into an eight-matted room, which served as both study and drawing-room. Against the wall, numbers of books were piled up in disorder. Round about his red sandal-wood desk, which was placed near the sliding-door, and which was lighted by the rays of the afternoon sun, she saw newspapers, magazines, and sheets of copy-paper strewn everywhere in the same untidy confusion. Among all the things she saw, the only article which suggested the existence of his young wife was a koto-harp. It leaned against the wall in the alcove.

Nobu-ko’s inquisitive eyes wandered round the room for a minute or so taking in all her surroundings.

“Though we knew from your letter that you were coming, I never expected the pleasure of welcoming you today, Nobu-ko San,” he said, as he put a match to his cigarette. There was a look of deep affection in his eyes, and as he gazed at her, he added, “And how are you enjoying your new life in Osaka? Are you very happy in your new home?” As he chatted to her she began to feel conscious of her old love awakening in her again. During the previous two years she had managed to forget her old feelings of affection, and she had not corresponded with him all that time. As they now sat over the same brazier warming their hands, they talked of all kinds of things … the novel she had written, their mutual friends and other things which interested them both. They also drew comparisons between living in Tokyo and the life of Osaka. As they had not seen each other for such a very long time, they were at no loss for subjects to chat about. But by some natural and instinctive bashfulness neither of them once touched upon private matters concerning their household affairs, and this naturally made her feel more at ease, enabling her to talk much more freely with her dear cousin.

After a little time, however, their conversation began to drag a little, and sometimes they would both become silent. Whenever this happened, she would drop her smiling eyes, and would gaze at the burning coals in the brazier. In the depths of her heart she had a feeling of expectation, but it was the merest suggestion of expectancy only. Whether it was done purposely or not, her cousin always managed to drive this feeling from her mind by suddenly finding some other new topic to discuss. This caused her a slight feeling of misgiving, and she would at once raise a questioning face to see if she could detect anything at all which betrayed his feelings towards her. But she noticed nothing at all. He seemed very calm in his manner and continued to puff leisurely at his cigarette. She would have rather liked to believe that he was feigning a little, yet his manner was quite collected and serene as he chatted to her.

Shortly after this Teru-ko came back, and finding her elder sister waiting for her, she was beyond herself with excitement and joy. Though Nobu-ko smiled, there were a few stray tear-drops in her eyes.

For a while the two sisters, forgetting all about the presence of Sunkichi, plied each other with eager questions concerning their respective lives during the past year or so. The younger woman’s cheeks glowed with the healthy colour of youth, and as she talked of one thing and another, she did not forget to mention such trifling things as her fowls.

Shunkichi, with a cigarette between his lips, sat gazing contentedly at the two young women, but there was something cynical in his smile.

When the maid-servant came back, she came into the room and handed him some post-cards. Taking them from her, he went over to his desk, and sitting down, he commenced to write letters. Teru-ko had an uneasy feeling regarding her maid having been absent when her sister arrived, and she quietly remarked:

“Was there no one here to welcome you when you arrived today, my dear?

“Only Mr. Shun,” was Nobu-ko’s reply. She had a feeling that she was endeavouring to feign indifference. When Shunkichi heard this, he remarked with humour, “Thank your husband, my dear. It was he who made that tea!”

Later in the day the three young people sat down to supper. Teru-ko told her that the eggs which had been prepared for their meal had been laid by her own fowls.

“Human life consists only of plundering, doesn’t it? From these eggs to …” said her husband in an argumentative tone of voice, as he offered a glass of wine to Nobu-ko. He seemed to have forgotten that eggs were his favourite kinds of food. Teru-ko was very amused at his witty remark, and laughed.

As Nobu-ko sat there she could not help thinking about the lonely evenings she had spent in her own kitchen in Osaka, with the dark pine-grove outside, and she contrasted it with the jolly atmosphere of this supper-table.

They chatted on gaily until after the dessert and fruit was finished. Shunkichi, who had drunk a little too much wine, lounged on a cushion under the dim light of the lamp. He was happy, and fired off quite a number of his own witty epigrams, and his ever-ready flow of wit quite rejuvenated Nobu-ko as she listened to him. After a time she looked up very earnestly and said, “I want very much to write novels myself!” Shunkichi made no answer, but rambled on again with some quotation from Gourmont as follows, “The Muses being females, men alone were free to capture them.” Both the young women disagreed with Gourmont. Teru-ko remarked rather seriously, “Then could no one expect a woman to be a musician? Wasn’t Apollo a man-God?”

And thus they chatted on, and as they talked they never noticed how the time was passing, and when they eventually discovered that it was very late, they prevailed upon Nobu-ko to stay for the night.

Before going to bed, Shunkichi opened an ‘amado’ sliding-door on the outside of the verandah, and stepped into the garden. After a little while he called apparently to no one in particular, “Just come out here and look at the wonderful moon!” Nobu-ko slipped on a pair of garden-clogs which she found on the steps, and alone followed him into the garden. The cool night dew felt extremely pleasant to her bare feet. The moon hung like a silver boat between the branches of a slender cypress-tree which grew in a corner of the garden. Under the tree stood Shunkichi, gazing up into the moon-lit sky.

“The grass is quite thick, isn’t it?” said Nobu-ko as she approached him nervously across the weedy garden. But he did not turn his gaze from the sky, and merely muttered, “It seems to be almost full moon!”

There was a short silence, and then he looked at Nobu-ko and asked, “Will you come with me to look at our hen-house?” She nodded her consent.

The hen-house was in a corner of the garden just opposite the cypress-tree, and the young people strolled leisurely over to it. It was lined on two sides with straw-matting, and all they could see inside were shadows and slanting moon-beams. The place smelled rather strongly of fowls.

Peeping into the shed, Shunkichi whispered, “They are all asleep.”

Nobu-ko thought of his remark during supper-time, and repeated quietly to herself, “Yes, man deprives the poor creatures of their eggs.” Then they went back into the room again, and found Teru-ko gazing absently at the electric lamp on which a tiny green-hued rice­ insect was creeping.

Next morning, soon after breafast, Shunkichi, dressed in his best lounge-suit, and ready to start for his work, came into the front-hall. He said that he was not going at once to his work, but would first visit the grave of one of his late friends as it was the first anniversary of his death.

“I shall come back before noon for certain. Be sure and wait till I return, won’t you, Nobu-ko?” he remarked with some emphasis while he was putting on his overcoat. As Nobu-ko passed him his hat, she smiled.

After seeing her husband off at the porch, Teru-ko went back into the sitting-room with her sister. They sat down near the brazier, and Teru-ko offered the elder one some tea. She seemed to have quite a number of things to tell her sister, subjects which women like to discuss among themselves, such as the character of her neighbour’s wife, who was woman-interviewer of some magazine, the foreign opera company whose performance she had seen with her husband, and many other topics they chatted pleasantly about. But somehow or other Nobu-ko felt depressed. She tried hard to shake the feeling off, but she found herself answering her sister’s questions rather absent-mindedly. At last Teru-ko began to notice it. She peeped into her sister’s face solicitously and asked, “Why are you so meditative, my dear?” But Nobu-ko herself did not know the reason.

When the clock struck ten, Nobu-ko languidly raised her eyes and said, “Your husband will not return soon, I suppose?”

Teru-ko looked at the clock and answered very briefly, “No, not so soon.”

Nobu-ko thought that her sister’s short answer showed the contentment of a young wife who placed the utmost confidence in her husband’s true love. The thought of it caused her pensiveness to increase, and she said, “You seem very happy, my dear.” She spoke good-humouredly, yet she could not keep back a certain veiled tone of jealousy as she talked to her sister. Her sister, however, seemed quite unconscious of it, and smiling vivaciously, she said, “Don’t forget that your remark applies to yourself too, my dear,” and she pretended to glare at her sister. Then she added rather caressingly, “But aren’t you also happy?” These last words struck Nobu-ko’s ears rather sharply.

“Do you think I am?” answered the elder sister, looking up. But as soon as she had made the remark, she regretted what she had said. Teru-ko looked at her sister curiously for a moment, and noticed her blush of repentance. The latter forced a smile and said, “Yes, I suppose I’m happy.”

For a little time there was silence between them, and the only sound in the room came from the boiling kettle on the brazier, and the ticking of the clock.

“Isn’t your husband very kind?” asked Teru-ko rather timidly after a while. There was a tone of gentle compassion in her voice. Nobu-ko noticed it, and as she did not wish to reply, she took up a newspaper, and placing it upon her knees, she began to read it. In the paper she found some articles dealing with the price of rice, and she commenced to read them. Suddenly her reading was interrupted by the sound of weeping, which seemed to be coming from the next room. She at once put down her paper, and rising to her feet, she went to see what was the matter. She found her sister sitting beside a brazier, sobbing into the sleeves of her kimono.

“Oh, don’t cry, my dear!” said Nobu-ko gently, but her words had little effect upon Teru-ko, and she continued to sob very bitterly. The elder woman then began to feel a kind of cruel triumphant joy as she watched the quivering shoulders of her younger sister. At last she spoke again in a gentler voice, “Forgive me, my dear sister, I was in the wrong. I’ll be quite contented if I am sure that your life is perfectly happy. Please believe what I say. If Mr. Shunkichi loves you …!”

Then she began to feel in rather a sentimental mood. Her sister lifted her face and looked at her. In her eyes there was no sign at all of deep sorrow or anger, but an expression of envy and jealousy lurked in her tearful eyes.

“Then why … why did you … last night …?” crired Teru-ko, but before she could complete her sentence, she buried her face again in her long sleeves and burst into another paroxysm of weeping.

In an hour or two Nobu-ko, enclosed in a covered rickshaw, was hurrying toward the terminus of the tramway. All she was able to see through the small square window of the covered vehicle were rows of suburban houses mouing backwards one by one as the rickshaw raced on its way. Variegated leaves of miscellaneous trees growing by the roadside drifted slowly past her. The only immovable thing to be seen through that small, murky, celluloid window was the clear, cool sky of early autumn, relieved have and there by streaks of downy cloud.

Nobu-ko's mind was now tranquil enough, but it came from a kind of cool resignation, not from actual peace of mind.

After Teru-ko’s fit of crying had subsided, the two young woman soon smoothed things over, and were again the same loving sisters as they had always been before. But the fact that they had quarrelled still remained a reality in the mind of the elder woman. When she had hurriedly settled herself in her rickshaw, without waiting for Shunkichi’s return, a cold, irritated feeling of determination came upon her that she would henseforth become a stranger to her sister. Her heart seemed frozen and cold.

While she was being carried along she happened to lift her eyes, and through the window of the vehicle she saw Shunkichi, stick in hand, coming along the dusty road towards her. Her heart beat violently as she watched him coming nearer. Should she stop her rickshaw, or should she pass on unnoticed? She tried hard to check the violent throbbing of her heart as she sat hidden under the cover of her rickshaw. The distance between them had now lessened considerably, and she watched him carefully picking his way along the road between the numerous puddles. Just as he reached the rickshaw she almost cried out, “Mr. Shun!” But something made her hesitate, and she stifled the cry in her throat. While she hesitated he passed by, and the distance increased more and more. Then Nobu-ko looked behind her, but all she could see was a bright autumn sky, a few sparse houses dotted here and there, the yellowing branches of some tall trees, and the loneliness of the suburban street.

“It’s autumn!” she thought, and she felt its meaning in the depths of her young heart, and as her rickshaw moved swiftly on, she shivered with cold and loneliness.

 

The End