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  Though for ever so many years it has always been a joyous occasion, the festival of our parish-temple to-day is more pleasant than ever before, because of our being thus happily assembled together.

  Matsuri toté,

  Ikka atsumaru,

  Tanoshimi wa!

  Géni Ujigami no

  Mégumi narikéri.

  —By the wife.

  To-day being a day of festival, and all of us meeting together,—what a delight! Surely by the favour of the tutelar God [Ujigami] this has come to pass.

  Futa-fūfu

  Sorōté kyo no

  Shitashimi mo,

  Kami no mégumi zo

  Médéta kari-kéri.

  —By the wife.

  Two wedded pairs being to-day united in such friendship as this,—certainly it has happened only through the favour of the Gods!

  Ujigami no

  Mégumi mo fukaki

  Fūfu-zuré.

  —By the wife.

  Deep indeed is the favour of the tutelar God to the two married couples.

  Matsuri toté,

  Tsui ni shitatéshi

  Iyō-gasuri,

  Kyō tanoshimi ni

  Kiru to omoëbar.

  —By the wife,

  This day being a day of festival, we decided to put on, for the joyful meeting, the robes of lyogasuri,1 that had been made alike.

  Omoïkya!

  Hakarazu sōro

  Futa-fūfu;

  Nani ni tatōën

  Kyō no kichi-jitsu.

  —By Goto (the brother-in-law).

  How could we have thought it! Here unexpectedly the two married couples meet together. What can compare with the good fortune of this day?

  Matsuri toté

  Hajimété sorō

  Futa-fūfu,

  Nochi no kaëri zo

  Ima wa kanashiki.

  —By O-Kō the married sister.

  This day being a day of festival, here for the first time two wedded pairs have met. Already I find myself sorrowing at the thought that we must separate again.

  Furu-sato no

  Matsuri ni sorō

  Futa-fūfu:

  Katarō ma saë

  Natsu mo mijika yo!

  —By O-Kō.

  At the old parental home, two married couples have met together in holiday celebration. Alas! that the time of our happy converse should be only one short summer night!

  On the fifth day of the seventh month, went to the Kanazawa-tei,1 where Harimadayū was then reciting; and we heard him recite the jōruri called Sanjūsangendō.

  On the first day of the eighth month we went to the [Buddhist] temple of Asakusa [Kwannon] to pray,—that day being the first anniversary [isshūki] of the death of my husband's former wife. Afterward we went to an eel-house, near the Azuma bridge, for dinner; and while we were there—just about the hour of noon—an earthquake took place. Being close to the river, the house rocked very much; and I was greatly frightened.

  —Remembering that when we went to Asakusa before, in the time of cherry blossoms, we had seen a big fire, this earthquake made me feel anxious;—I wondered whether lightning would come next.1

  About two o'clock we left the eating-house, and went to the Asakusa park. From there we went by street-car to Kanda; and we stopped awhile at a cool place in Kanda, to rest ourselves. On our way home we called at father's, and it was after nine o'clock when we got back.

  The fifteenth day of the same month was the festival of the Hachiman-jinja2; and Goto, my sister, and the younger sister of Goto came to the house. I had hoped that we could all go to the temple together; but that morning my husband had taken a little too much wine,—so we had to go without him. After worshipping at the temple, we went to Goto's house 5 and I stopped there awhile before returning home.

  In the ninth month, on the occasion of the Higan3 festival, I went alone to the [Buddhist] temple to pray.

  On the twenty-first day of the tenth month, O-Taka-San [probably a relative] came from Shidzuoka. I wanted to take her to the theatre the next day; but she was obliged to leave Tokyo early in the morning. However, my husband and I went to the Ryusei theatre on the following evening; and we saw the play called Matsumaë Bidan Teichū-Kagami"1

  * * * * * *

  On the twenty-second day of the sixth month I began to sew a kimono which father had asked me to make for him; but I felt ill, and could not do much. However, I was able to finish the work on the first day of the new year [1897].

  ... Now we were very happy because of the child that was to be born. And I thought how proud and glad my parents would be at having a grandchild for the first time.

  * * * * * *

  On the tenth day of the fifth month I went out with mother to worship Shiogama-Sama,2 and also to visit Sengakuji. There we saw the tombs of the Shijin-shichi Shi [Forty-seven Ronin], and many relics of their history. We returned by railroad, taking the train from Shinagawa to Shinjiku. At Shiocho-Sanchome I parted from mother, and I got home by six o'clock.

  * * * * * *

  On the eighth day of the sixth month, at four o'clock in the afternoon, a boy was born. Both mother and child appeared to be as well as could be wished; and the child much resembled my husband; and its eyes were large and black.... But I must say that it was a very small child; for, though it ought to have been born in the eighth month, it was born indeed in the sixth.... At seven o'clock in the evening of the same day, when the time came to give the child some medicine, we saw, by the light of the lamp, that he was looking all about, with his big eyes wide open. During that night the child slept in my mother's bosom. As we had been told that he must be kept very warm, because he was only a seven-months' child, it was decided that he should be kept in the bosom by day as well as by night.

  Next day—the ninth day of the sixth month—at half-past six o'clock in the afternoon, he suddenly died....

  —"Brief is the time of pleasure and quickly turns to pain; and whatsoever is born must necessarily die"1;—that, indeed, is a true saying about this world.

  Only for one day to be called a mother!—to have a child born only to see it die!... Surely, I thought, if a child must die within two days after birth, it were better that it should never be born.

  From the twelfth to the sixth month I had been so ill!—then at last I had obtained some ease, and joy at the birth of a son; and I had received so many congratulations about my good fortune;—and, nevertheless, he was dead!... Indeed, I suffered great grief.

  On the tenth day of the sixth month the funeral took place, at the temple called Senpukuji, in Okubo, and a small tomb was erected.

  The poems composed at that time1 were the following:—

  Omoïkya!

  Mi ni saë kaënu

  Nadéshiko ni,

  Wakaréshi sodé no

  Tsuyu no tamoto wo!

  If I could only have known! Ah, this parting with the flower,2 for which I would so gladly have given my own life, has left my sleeves wet with the dew!

  Samidaré ya!

  Shimérigachi naru

  Sodé no tamoto wo.

  Oh! the month of rain!3 All things become damp;— the ends of my sleeves are wet.

  Some little time afterward, people told me that if I planted the sotoba1 pside down, another misfortune of this kind would not come to pass. I had a great many sorrowful doubts about doing such a thing; but at last, on the ninth day of the eighth month, I had the sotoba reversed....

  On the eighth day of the ninth month we went to the Akasaka theatre.

  On the eighteenth day of the tenth month I went by myself to the Haruki theatre in Hongō, to see the play of Ōkubo Hikozaëmon.2 There, having carelessly lost my sandal-ticket [gésoku-fuda], I had to remain until after everybody else had left. Then I was at last able to get my sandals, and to go home; but the night was so black that I felt very lonesome on the way.

  On the day of the Sekku,3 in the first month [1898], I was talking with Hori's aunt and the wife of o
ur friend Uchimi, when I suddenly felt a violent pain in my breast, and, being frightened, I tried to reach a talisman [o-mamori] of Suitengu,1 which was lying upon the wardrobe. But in the same moment I fell senseless. Under kind treatment I soon came to myself again; but I was ill for a long time after.

  * * * * * *

  The tenth day of the fourth month being the holiday Sanjiu-nen-Sai,2 we arranged to meet at father's. I was to go there first with Jiunosuke [perhaps a relative], and there wait for my husband, who had to go to the office that morning for a little while. He met us at father's house about half-past eight: then the three of us went out together to look at the streets. We passed through Kōjimachi to Nakatamachi, and went by way of the Sakurada-Mon to the Hibiya-Metsuké, and thence from Ginzadori by way of the Megane-Bashi to Uyeno. After looking at things there, we again went to the Megane-bashi; but then I felt so tired that I proposed to return, and my husband agreed, as he also was very tired. But Jiunosuke said: "As I do not want to miss this chance to see the Daimyō-procession,3 I must go on to Ginza." So there we said good-by to him, and we went to a little eating-house [tempura-ya], where we were served with fried fish; and, as luck would have it, we got a good chance to see the Daimyō-procession from that very house. We did not get back home that evening until half-past six o'clock.

  From the middle of the fourth morfth I had much sorrow on account of a matter relating to my sister Tori [the matter is not mentioned].

  * * * * * *

  On the nineteenth day of the eighth month of the thirty-first year of Meiji [1898] my second child was born, almost painlessly,—a girl; and we named her Hatsu.

  We invited to the shichiya1 all those who had helped us at the time of the child's birth.

  —Mother afterwards remained with me for a couple of days; but she was then obliged to leave me, because my sister Kō was suffering from severe pains in the chest. Fortunately my husband had his regular vacation about the same time; and he helped me all he could,—even in regard to washing and other matters; but I was often greatly troubled because I had no woman with me....

  When my husband's vacation was over, mother came often, but only while my husband was away. The twenty-one days [the period of danger] thus passed; but mother and child continued well.

  —Up to the time of one hundred days after my daughter's birth, I was constantly anxious about her, because she often seemed to have a difficulty in breathing. But that passed off at last, and she appeared to be getting strong.

  Still, we were unhappy about one matter,—a deformity: Hatsu had been born with a double thumb on one hand. For a long time we could not make up our minds to take her to a hospital, in order to have an operation performed. But at last a woman living near our house told us of a very skilful surgeon in [the quarter of] Shinjiku; and we decided to go to him. My husband held the child on his lap during the operation. I could not bear to see the operation; and I waited in the next room, my heart full of pain and fear, wondering how the matter would end. But [when all was over] the little one did not appear to suffer any pain; and she took the breast as usual a few minutes after. So the matter ended more fortunately than I had thought possible.

  At home she continued to take her milk as before, and seemed as if nothing had been done to her little body. But as she was so very young we were afraid that the operation might in some way cause her to be sick. By way of precaution, I went with her to the hospital every day for about three weeks; but she showed no sign of sickness.

  On the third day of the third month of the thirty-second year [1899], on the occasion of the hatsu-sekku,1 we received presents of Dairi and of hina, both from father's house and from Goto's,—also the customary gifts of congratulation: a tansu [chest of drawers], a kyōdai [mirror-stand], and a haribako [work-box: lit. "needle-box"].1 We ourselves on the same occasion bought for her a chadai [teacup stand], a zen [lacquered tray], and some other little things. Both Goto and Jiunosuké came to see us on that day; and we had a very happy gathering.

  On the third day of the fourth month we visited the temple Ana-Hachiman [Shintō shrine in the district of Waséda] to pray for the child's health....

  On the twenty-ninth day of the fourth month Hatsu appeared to be unwell: so I wanted to have her examined by a doctor.

  A doctor promised to come the same morning, but he did not come, and I waited for him in vain all that day. Next day again I waited, but he did not come. Toward evening Hatsu became worse, and seemed to be suffering great pain in her breast, and I resolved to take her to a doctor early next morning. All through that night I was very uneasy about her, but at daybreak she seemed to be better. So I went out alone, taking her on my back, and walked to the office of a doctor in Akasaka. But when I asked to have the child examined, I was told that I must wait, as it was not yet the regular time for seeing patients.

  While I was waiting, the child began to cry worse than ever before; she would not take the breast, and I could do nothing to soothe her, either by walking or resting, so that I was greatly troubled. At last the doctor came, and began to examine her; and in the same moment I noticed that her crying grew feebler, and that her lips were becoming paler and paler. Then, as I could not remain silent, seeing her thus, I had to ask, "How is her condition?" "She cannot live until evening," he answered. "But could you not give her medicine?" I asked. "If she could drink it," he replied.

  I wanted to go back home at once, and send word to my husband and to my father's house; but the shock had been too much for me—all my strength suddenly left me. Fortunately a kind old woman came to my aid, and carried my umbrella and other things, and helped me to get into a jinrikisha, so that I was able to return home by jinrikisha. Then I sent a man to tell my husband and my father. Mita's wife came to help me; and with her assistance everything possible was done to help the child.... Still my husband did not come back. But all our pain and trouble was in vain.

  So, on the second day of the fifth month of the thirty-second year, my child set out on her journey to the Jūmanokudō,1—never to return to this world.

  And we, her father and mother, were yet living—though we had caused her death by neglecting to have her treated by a skilled doctor! This thought made us both sorrow greatly; and we often reproached ourselves in vain.

  But the day after her death the doctor said to us: "Even if that disease had been treated from the beginning by the best possible means, your child could not have lived more than about a week. If she had been ten or eleven years old, she might possibly have been saved by an operation; but in this case no operation could have been attempted—the child was too young." Then he explained to us that the child had died from zinōzben.1...

  Thus all the hopes that we had, and all the pains that we took in caring for her, and all the pleasure of watching her grow during those nine months,—all were in vain!

  But we two were at last able to find some ease from our sorrow by reflecting that our relation to this child, from the time of some former life, must have been very slight and weak.2

  In the loneliness of that weary time, I tried to express my heart by writing some verses after the manner of the story of Miyagino and Shinobu in the gidayū-bon3:—

  Koré, kono uchi é enzukishi wa,

  Omoi kaëséba itsutosé maë;

  Kondo mōkéshi wa onago no ko,

  Kawaii mono toté sodatsuru ka to;—

  Waga mi no nari wa uchi-wasuré,

  Sodatéshi koto mo, nasaké nai.

  Koshita koto to wa tsuyushirazu,

  Kono Hatsu wa buji ni sodatsuru ka.

  Shubi yō seijin shita naraba,

  Yagaté muko wo tori

  Tanoshimashō doshité to.

  Monomi yusan wo tashinandé,

  Wagako daiji to,

  Otto no koto mo, Hatsu no koto mo,

  Koishi natsukashi omō no wo;—

  Tanoshimi-kurashita kai mo nō.

  Oyako ni narishi wa uréshii ga,

  Sakidatsu koto wo miru haha no

  Kok
oro mo suishité tamoi no to!

  —Té wo tori-kawasu fūfu ga nagéki,

  Nagéki wo tachi-giku mo,

  Morai nakishité omotéguchi

  Shōji mo nururu bakari nari.

  Here in this house it was that I married him;—well I remember the day—five years ago. Here was horn the girl-baby,—the loved one whom we hoped to rear. Caring then no longer for my person [,—heedless of how I dressed when I went out],—thinking only of how to bring her up,—I lived. How pitiless [this doom of mine]! Never had I even dreamed that such a thing could befall me: my only thoughts were as to how my Hatsu could best be reared. When she grows up, I thought, soon we shall find her a good husband, to make her life happy. So, never going out for pleasure-seeking, I studied only how to care for my little one,—how to love and to cherish my husband and my Hatsu. Vain now, alas! this hoped-for joy of living only for her sake.... Once having known the delight of the relation of mother and child, deign to think of the heart of the mother who sees her child die before her!1

  [All of the foregoing is addressed to the spirit of the dead child.—Translator.]

  Now, while husband and wife, each clasping the hands of the other, make lament together, if any one pausing at the entrance should listen to their sorrow, surely the paper window would be moistened by tears from without.

  About the time of Hatsu's death, the law concerning funerals was changed for the better; and permission was given for the burning of corpses in Okubo. So I asked Namiki to have the body sent to the temple of which his family had always been parishioners,—providing that there should be no [legal] difficulty about the matter. Accordingly the funeral took place at Monjoji,—a temple belonging to the Asakusa branch of the Hongwanji Shin-shū; and the ashes were there interred.

  —My sister Kō was sick in bed with a rather bad cold at the time of Hatsu's death; but she visited us very soon after the news had reached her. And she called again a few days later to tell us that she had become almost well, and that we had no more cause to feel anxious about her.

  —As for myself, I felt a dread of going out anywhere; and I did not leave the house for a whole month. But as custom does not allow one to remain always indoors, I had to go out at last; and I made the required visit to father's and to my sister's.