The Makioka Sisters

by Junichiro Tanizaki

  On the matter of Yukiko, we are most grateful for all the trouble you have gone to. I showed the picture and letter to Tatsuo, who seems to have had a change of heart. He no longer raises the objections he once did, and he says he is willing to leave everything to you. He only points out that a fisheries technician in his forties cannot expect to go much farther, and that since the man has no property it will not be easy to live on his income; but if Yukiko has no objections he will raise none. He says too that if Yukiko is willing you can arrange a miai whenever it is convenient. “We should of course wait until we have finished investigating the man, but if he is as eager as you say, possibly we should put off the detailed investigation and have the miai first. Teinosuke has no doubt told you of the trouble we have had with Yukiko, and I have, as a matter of fact, been trying to think of a way to send her back to you for a while. I mentioned the matter to her yesterday, and found her disgustingly eager. She agreed immediately to the miai, seeing that it meant a chance to go back to Osaka. She has been all smiles this morning. I really am quite put out with her.

  If you will arrange a schedule, we can send her off to you whenever you suggest. We will say for the record that she is to come back four or five days after the miai, but it will not matter if she stays a little longer. I can manage Tatsuo.

  I have not written since I came here, and now that I have begun 1 see that I have trouble stopping. I feel as though someone had poured cold water down my back, though, and my fingers are nearly frozen. I am sure it is warm in Ashiya, but take care all the same that you do not catch cold.

  My best regards to Teinosuke.

  As ever,

  TSURUKO

  Sachiko, who knew little of Tokyo and to whom names like Shibuya meant nothing, could only imagine something like the distant views she had had of the Tokyo suburbs from the Loop Line, of well-wooded hills and valleys and intermittent clusters of houses, and overhead a sky whose very color made one shiver—of a wholly different world, in short, from Osaka. As she read of Tsuruko’s “frozen” fingers, she remembered how the main house in Osaka, true to the old fashion, had been almost without heating. There was of course the electric stove in the guest parlor, but that was rarely used except for special guests on the coldest days. The main family for the most part was satisfied with a charcoal brazier, and Sachiko herself felt as though someone “had poured cold water” on her when she made her New-Year call and sat talking with her sister. Too often she came home with a cold. According to Tsuruko, stoves had at length become common in Osaka in the twenties. Even her father, with his taste for the latest luxuries, had put in gas heaters only a year or so before he died. He then found that the gas made him dizzy, and the daughters had thus grown up knowing only the old-fashioned brazier. Sachiko herself had done without heating for some years after she was married, indeed until she moved into this Ashiya house; but now that she was used to stoves and fireplaces, it was hard to imagine going through a winter without them. She could not believe that she had really passed her childhood with only the primitive brazier. In Osaka, Tsuruko had persisted in the old fashion. Yu-kiko, with that strong core of hers, could stand the cold, but Sachiko was sure that she herself would very soon have come down with pneumonia.

  With Mr. Hamada acting as go-between, it took a very long time to choose a date, but presently they learned that Mr. Nomura had consulted the horoscope and preferred to have the miai before the day in early February that signifies the beginning of spring. On January 29 Sachiko sent for Yukiko. Remembering their telephone trouble of the year before, she had had Teinosuke install a desk telephone in his study, out in the garden cottage. On January 30 she received a postcard that had evidently crossed her letter. The Tokyo house was in a turmoil. The two youngest children had influenza, and the youngest, three-year-old Umeko, was in danger of developing pneumonia. They thought of calling a nurse, but, since the house was so small and there would be nowhere for her to sleep, and since they knew from their experience with Hideo that Yukiko was better than a nurse, they had finally decided against it. Selfish though they knew it was of them, they wondered if Mrs. Jimba could be asked to wait a little longer. Sachiko, seeing that Yukiko was not likely to be free for some time, passed the request for postponement on to Mrs. Jimba. The latter replied that Nomura was willing to wait as long as necessary. Even so, Sachiko could not help feeling sad for Yukiko, always the nursemaid, always the loser.

  While they were waiting, the investigation progressed. The detective agency reported that Mr. Nomura was a senior civil servant third grade, with a yearly salary of 3600 yen, and that, with bonuses, he had a monthly income of about 350 yen. Although he was the son of a Himeji innkeeper, he no longer had property in that city. His sister was married to one Ota, a pharmacist in Tokyo, and two uncles, one an antique dealer who gave lessons in tea ceremony, the other a clerk in the records office, still lived in Himeji. The only relative of whom he could be proud, a man whose ward he had been, so to speak, was a cousin, Mr. Hamada Jōkichi, president of the Kansai Electric Company. (It was this Mr. Hamada to whom Mrs. Jimba’s husband was indebted, Mr. Jimba having worked his way through school as gatekeeper for the Hamadas.) The report from the agency said little more, except that Mr. Nomura’s wife had died in 1935 of influenza, and that the deaths of the two children had not been from hereditary ailments.

  Teinosuke meanwhile asked acquaintances what they knew of Mr. Nomura’s character and behavior. He found that, although the man apparently had no real vices, he did seem to have one strange quirk: occasionally and quite without warning, one of his fellow workers said, he would begin talking to himself. He talked to himself only when he thought he was alone, but sometimes he was overheard. By now there was no one in the office who did not know of the odd habit. His dead wife and son had known of it too, and had often laughed, Teinosuke was told,, “at the funny things Father says.”

  To give an example: one of his fellow workers was in the toilet one day when someone came into the compartment next door. “Excuse me, but are you Mr. Nomura?” a voice asked twice. On the verge of answering, the fellow worker suddenly realized Oiat the voice was that of Mr. Nomura himself. Since Mr. Nomura obviously thought he was alone, the man held his breath and did his best not to be noticed. Finally he grew tired of waiting and slipped out. There could be no doubt that Mr. Nomura knew he had been overheard. Unable to guess who the man next door might have been, however, he presently came out and took up his work quite as if nothing had happened. The things he said were harmless—and indeed made the listener want to burst out laughing. Although the urge to talk to himself seemed to come upon him in unguarded moments, it was clear from the way in which he waited until he thought no one was around that he was able to control himself. Sometimes when he was sure there was no danger of being overheard, he would break forth in such a loud voice that the startled listener thought he had lost his mind.

  It was not a really serious defect, but they need hardly be so eager to find a husband for Yukiko that they had to accept such a man. A greater defect, Sachiko thought, was the fact that he looked so old in his pictures, a good fifty or more, well beyond the forty-five reported. She was sure that Yukiko would not like him and that he was doomed to fail in the first miai—this was hardly a proposal to be enthusiastic about. Still, since it would give them a pretext for calling Yukiko back, Sachiko and Teino-suke felt that they must at least go ahead with the miai. The proposal being one that was not likely to be accepted in any case, they concluded that there was no need to tell Yukiko the unpleasant details, and they decided to keep the secret of the man’s strange habit to themselves.

  26

  “LEAVE TODAY on Seagull Express—Yukiko.”

  Etsuko was back from school. The long-awaited telegram was brought in as her mother and O-haru were helping arrange her festival dolls.

  It was the practice in Osaka to celebrate the Doll Festival in April, a month later than in Tokyo, but this year they were bringing the dolls out a month ahead
of time. They had heard some four or five days earlier that Yukiko would be coming. A dancing doll Taeko had made for Etsuko—it was of the actor Kikugoro—had suddenly reminded Sachiko of the festival.

  “Etsuko, how would it be if we were to put out your festival dolls? They will want to say hello to Yukiko too.”

  “But do we bring them out in March, Mother?”

  “We have no peach blossoms yet,” said Taeko. The doll stands are traditionally decorated with peach blossoms. “And they say that a girl who brings her dolls out at the wrong time of the year has trouble finding a husband.”

  “Mother did say that, I remember. She was always in such a hurry to put away the dolls after the festival. But it makes no difference if you bring them out early. Only if you leave them out too long.”

  “Really? I had not heard that part.”

  “Be sure to remember it. Is it like our Koi-san not to know these things?”

  The dolls, ordered in Kyoto for Etsuko’s first Doll Festival, had been put out each year in the parlor. Although the parlor was in the foreign style and therefore not entirely appropriate for an old festival, the dolls seemed to fit best in the room where the family gathered.

  Sachiko suggested, some days later, that they begin the festival immediately, in early March, and leave the dolls out through the April festival customary in Osaka. It would please Yukiko, back after six months in Tokyo, she said, and Yukiko might even be able to stay with them through the whole month. Everyone thought that a fine idea. Today, March 3, they were busy arranging the dolls.

  “See, Etsuko. Just as I said,” boasted Sachiko.

  “You were right. She is coming for the festival.”

  “She is coming with the dolls.”

  “It must mean good luck,” said O-haru.

  “Will she get married this time?”

  “Etsuko, you are not to speak of that in front of Yukiko.”

  “Oh, I know that much.”

  “And you too, O-haru. Remember the trouble we had last year.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you do know about it, and I suppose you may talk when Yukiko is not around.”

  “I understand.”

  “Shall we telephone Koi-san?” asked Etsuko excitedly.

  “Shall I telephone her?”

  “You do it, Etsuko.”

  Etsuko ran off to telephone Taeko’s studio.

  “Yes, today. She comes today. Get home early. The Seagull, not the Swallow—O-haru is going to Osaka to meet her.”

  Arranging the diadem on the head of the Empress doll, Sachiko listened to the shrill voice.

  “Etsuko, tell Koi-san to meet the train herself if she has time.”

  “Listen, Koi-san. Mother says if you have time you should meet Yukiko yourself. Yes. Yes. It gets to Osaka at about nine. You are going, then? And O-haru can stay home?”

  No doubt Taeko knew what Sachiko meant. Although Aunt Tominaga had taken Yukiko back to the main house the year before on the understanding that Taeko was to follow in two or three months, the main house was in such confusion that there had been no thought of summoning her, and, freer than ever, Taeko might well think she had cleverly let Yukiko draw the booby prize. It was her duty at least to meet the train.

  “And shall I call Father too?”

  “Why call Father? Father will be home any minute now.”

  Teinosuke, back at seven, thought how good it would be to see Yukiko. Reproving himself for having felt, if only for a time, that he did not want her in Ashiya again, he fussed over details— she would want a bath as soon as she arrived, he said, and, though she had perhaps had dinner on the train, she might want something more before she went to bed. Sending for two or three bottles of the white wine Yukiko was so fond of, he made sure as he wiped away the dust that he had good vintages. Etsuko was told that, she would have time the next day to talk to Yukiko, but she quite refused to be sent off to bed. At about nine-thirty, O-haru led her away by the hand. Soon afterwards they heard the bell at the gate. The dog Johnny ran out.

  “Yukiko!” Etsuko bounded downstairs.

  “Welcome back, welcome back.”

  Yukiko stood in the doorway pushing off Johnny. Possibly from the strain of the trip, she was astonishingly pale beside Taeko, who followed with her suitcase. Taeko was looking healthier than ever.

  “And where are my presents? What have you brought me?” Etsuko promptly opened the suitcase. She had no trouble finding a package of colored cutting paper and several handkerchiefs.

  “I am told you collect handkerchiefs.”

  “I do. Thank you very much.”

  “Look farther down, now.”

  “Here it is, here it is.” Etsuko came on a package that carried the mark of a well-known Ginza shop. Inside was a pair of red-enameled sandals.

  “How beautiful,” said Sachiko. “Tokyo is so much better for this sort of thing. Take very good care of them, Etsuko, and you can wear them next month when we go to see the cherry blossoms.”

  “Yes. Thank you very much.”

  “You were waiting just for the presents, then?”

  “We have had enough of you, Etsuko. Suppose you take all this upstairs.”

  “Yukiko is to sleep with me tonight.”

  “Yes, yes. But Yukiko has to have a bath first. You go ahead with O-hara.”

  “You are to hurry, Yukiko.”

  It was in fact nearly twelve when Yukiko came from the bath. Afterwards the three sisters and Teinosuke had their cheese and white wine. A wood fire was crackling in the stove.

  “How warm it is in this part of the country. I noticed the difference as soon as I got off the train,”

  “The Spring Festival has already begun in Nara.”

  “Is the climate really so different from Tokyo?”

  “As different as you can imagine. The air in Tokyo never feels soft against your skin. And those dry winds. The other day I was in the city shopping and a gust of wind blew the packages right out of my hands. They rolled and rolled, and there I was chasing them and at the same time trying to hold down my skirts. People are right about those dry winds.”

  “It is amazing how quickly children take to the language of a place. I noticed even when I was in Tokyo last November. They had been there no more than two or three months, and they all had the most beautiful Tokyo accents. The younger they were the better the accents.”

  “I suppose Tsuruko is too old to learn/’ said Sachiko.

  “Much too old. And besides, she has no intention of learning. All the passengers on the bus turn and stare when she breaks out with her Osaka accent, but she never seems to mind. She lets them stare. And sometimes someone says, “That Osaka accent isn’t bad at all.’“ For this last remark, Yukiko herself took on a Tokyo accent.

  “Women that age are all the same,” said Teinosuke. “They care less than nothing what people think. I know an old geisha—she must be in her forties—who always uses an Osaka accent on a Tokyo conductor when she wants to get off a streetcar. She says she can make them stop wherever she wants.”

  “Teruo is ashamed to go out with his mother because of that accent.”

  “I imagine most children would be.”

  “Does Tsuruko feel that she has really moved?” asked Taeko. “Or is she still just off on a trip?”

  “She finds it easier than Osaka, she says. She likes being able to do what she wants with no one watching her. And she says that Tokyo women pay less attention to fashions. They make a great thing of being individuals, and they wear exactly what they think suits them.”

  Perhaps the wine was responsible—Yukiko was in high spirits, quite delirious at being back in Ashiya after half a year, at being able to talk late into the night with Sachiko and Taeko.

  “I suppose we ought to go to bed,” said Teinosuke.

  But the talk went on, and he had to get up again—how many times did this make?—to put wood on the fire.

  “I will be joining you in Tokyo before long,” sai
d Taeko. “But I understand the house is very small. When do they mean to move?”

  “I wonder. There is no sign that they are looking for a new place.”

  “They might not move at all, then?”

  “I suspect not. Last year they said it would be impossible to live in such a tiny house, and they talked and talked of moving, but this year I have heard little about it. They seem both of them to have changed their minds.”

  Yukiko then told them something surprising. These were her own inferences, she said. She had heard nothing directly from Tsuruko or Tatsuo. It was a desire to advance in the world that had made them resolve to move, however, much though they disliked the prospect; and since one might say, with but a little exaggeration, that this desire to advance had been brought on by certain difficulties in the supporting of a family of eight on the property left by the sisters’ father, might it not be that, though they complained at first of the tiny house, they had learned that it was not at all impossible for them to endure even such cramped quarters? The low rent, only fifty-five yen, they found most alluring. They spoke a little apologetically of how low it was even for so unpretentious a house, and they had in a sense been made captives of the low rent. It was not at all odd that they should be moved by such considerations. Whereas in Osaka they did have to maintain certain forms for the sake of the family name, in Tokyo no one had ever heard of the Makiokas, and they could dispense with ostentation and accumulate a little property. Tatsuo’s salary was higher now that he had become a branch manager, Yukiko pointed out, and yet he was far thriftier than he had been in Osaka. Both Tatsuo and Tsuruko had become remarkably clever at economizing. With six children to feed, it made a difference if one planned in advance the buying of even a single vegetable, but what astonished Yukiko most was how the menu had changed from the Osaka days. Tsuruko planned meals with stew or meat chowder or rice curry, so that the whole family could have their fill on but one simple dish. They almost never had meat except a bit floating here and there in a stew. Sometimes the two sisters had dinner with Tatsuo after the children had finished, and as a special treat they would have tuna, say— tuna was edible even in Tokyo, though sea bream was out of the question. It seemed that these special dinners were less to please Tatsuo than to please Yukiko. Tatsuo and Tsuruko worried about her: they thought she might find it trying to be surrounded by children.