The Makioka Sisters

by Junichiro Tanizaki

  In any case, she had four or five days to wait before she could take Etsuko to see Dr. Sugiura. How were they to pass the time? Sachiko had thought that the great actor Kikugorō would be playing in September, and that Etsuko could go to the Kabuki. Since Etsuko liked the dance, she would like the dance-drama too; and it being quite possible that the Kabuki would have collapsed by the time she was grown, she really must see Kikugorō now— Sachiko remembered how her father had taken her to the theater whenever the Osaka actor Ganjirō was playing. But the really good Kabuki had not yet opened at any of the theaters. Aside from a stroll each evening along the Ginza, then, there was very little she wanted to do. Suddenly, she was homesick. She began to agree with Etsuko that they should put off the examination and leave for Osaka immediately. And if she could be so homesick in less than a week, she understood how Yukiko might sit in the Shibuya house and weep to be back in Ashiya.

  At about ten there was a call from O-haru. Tsuruko would like to visit the inn, and O-haru would show her the way. A letter had come from Mr. Makioka. Was there anything else Sachiko needed? Nothing, answered Sachiko. She did want to have Tsuruko for lunch, however, and she hoped they would hurry. This would be a good chance to send Etsuko off with O-haru and to have a quiet, leisurely meal with her sister for the first time in a very great while. Where, she wondered, might they go? She remembered that her sister was fond of eels, and that there was an eel restaurant called the Daikokuya to which her father had often taken her. Was it still in business, she wondered. The lady at the desk did not know. There was a famous place called the Komatsu, but the Daikokuya—she looked in the telephone book and found that there was indeed a Daikokuya. After making reservations, Sachiko sat down to wait for her sister. Etsuko could go to the Mitsukoshi Department Store with O-haru, she said as she and Tsuruko set out together.

  Yukiko had finally succeeded in luring Umeko upstairs, and Tsuruko had dressed in a great rush and slipped out. No doubt poor Yukiko had a problem on her hands by now—but Tsuruko had escaped, and she meant to enjoy herself.

  “This reminds me so of Osaka. I had no idea there were such places in Tokyo.” Tsuruko looked out over the canal from the restaurant.

  “It really is very much like Osaka. Father used to bring me here when we came to Tokyo.”

  “Do you suppose it was once an island?”

  “I wonder. This is the place, certainly, but these rooms on the canal are new.”

  In the old days, there had been houses along but one side of the street. Now, with houses on the canal side too, the waitresses apparently brought the food across from the main building. The canal rooms were built on the stone embankment at a bend in the canal, and the view was even more like Osaka than Sachiko had remembered. The cross fonned by two branch canals joining the main canal at the bend made one think of the view from the oyster boats at Yotsuhashi, “Four Bridges,” in Osaka. Although there were, across one arm or another, not the four bridges of Yotsuhashi, there were at least three bridges here. Unfortunately this old downtown district, which had once had the dignity and repose one expects of such districts, had been rebuilt after the earthquake. The buildings, the bridges, and the paved roads were all new. With so few people passing by, one was reminded of a rude, unfinished frontier community.

  “Shall we have ginger ale?”

  “We could.” Sachiko looked at her sister. “But what would you really like?”

  “Ginger ale would be good, I suppose. It is only noon.”

  “Suppose we have some beer.”

  “If you will drink half of it.”

  Sachiko knew that Tsuruko was the best drinker in the family. There were times when she fairly longed for a drink—especially of Japanese saké Beer, however, would do as well.

  “You must not have much time these days for a good drink.”

  “As a matter of fact, I keep Tatsuo company at dinner. And then we do have guests.”

  “What sort of guests?”

  “Tatsuo’s brother from Azabu. We always have something to drink when he comes. He says sake tastes better in a shabby little house full of children.”

  “It must be hard for you.”

  “Not really. We never go out of our way to entertain him. He eats with the children, and we give him a little to drink, and that is what it comes to. And then O-hisa can plan a meal with no orders from me.”

  “She really has learned to take care of things very well.”

  “In the early days we both disliked Tokyo, and we used to have our cries together. ‘Send me back to Osaka, send me back to

  Osaka,’ she would say. But lately she has stopped. I hope I can keep her until she gets married.”

  “Is she older than O-haru?”

  “How old is O-haru?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “They are the same age, then. You must keep O-haru too. She seems like such a good girl.”

  “I have had her nearly six years now—she was fourteen when she came. She would never go to work for anyone else, I know, even if I ordered her to. But she is really not as good as she seems.”

  “So Yukiko says. But the way she worked night before last— O-hisa was fussing and holding back, but not O-haru. Tatsuo was quite amazed.”

  “At times like that she is very good. She was a great help in the flood too. But …”

  To go with the beer, Sachiko offered her sister a review of O-haru’s faults.

  It was not unpleasant to have one’s maid praised, and Sachiko, not wanting to unmask O-haru, always listened quietly when she heard something flattering about the girl; there were few maids who enjoyed such a good name. O-haru had a clever way with people. She was most liberal in giving away her own things and the Makiokas’, and her generosity made her very popular with tradesmen and craftsmen who were in and out of the house. Sachiko was often surprised, moreover, at the way in which Etsuko’s teachers and her own friends came out of their way to tell her what an admirable maid she had.

  The woman who best understood the problems Sachiko faced was O-haru’s stepmother. When she came occasionally to see that all was going well, she would go over the whole story again: whatever anyone said, she could never forget Sachiko’s kindness in keeping such an unmanageable girl; she had been reduced to tears herself any number of times, and she knew well enough the troubles Sachiko would be having; if Sachiko were to let the girl go, they could never find another place for her. They hoped Sachiko would continue to put up with all the embarrassments and inconveniences—she need not pay O-haru anything, and she need not be afraid to scold the girl. Since O-haru only took advantage of kindness, it would be quite the best thing to scold her incessantly.

  When the laundryman introduced O-haru, then fourteen, and asked Sachiko to hire her, Sachiko was much taken with the girl’s general appearance and manner; but within a month she began to see what she had hired, and to understand that the stepmother was not being polite and self-effacing when she called O-haru “unmanageable.” What struck one most was O-haru’s uncleanliness. Sachiko soon realized that the dirty hands and fingernails—she had noticed them the first time she saw the girl—were a sign less of poverty and hard work than of pure laziness. O-haru had a great dislike for laundering and bathing. Sachiko was energetic in her efforts to correct the shortcoming, but as soon as she looked away, O-haru was as bad as ever again. Unlike the other maids, who had baths every night, O-haru would loll about the maids’ room and presently go to sleep without even undressing. She had no objection to wearing the same dirty underwear for days on end. One simply had to take off her clothes and lead her to the bath, or pull out all the dirty underwear and stand over her while she washed it. All in all, she was more trouble than a baby. The other maids, more directly her victims than Sachiko, were soon complaining. The closet was full of dirty clothes, they said; and when in desperation they took out O-haru’s laundry and did it themselves, they were astonished to find in it a pair of underpants that belonged to Sachiko. In her reluctance to do her laun
dry, O-haru had apparently even taken to borrowing Sachiko’s underwear. And, they added, O-haru smelled so bad that they could hardly go near her. It was not only that she was unwashed—she ate incessantly, she had chronic dyspepsia, and her breath was really enough to make one hold one’s nose. They suffered most acutely when they had to sleep with her, and they began to report that they were acquiring fleas. Any number of times Sachiko persuaded O-haru to accept the inevitable and go home, but the father and stepmother came in turn each time and begged her with elaborate apologies to take the girl back on whatever terms. O-haru was the only child of the first wife, and the second wife had two children of her own, and since O-haru was not as diligent as she might be and her grades in school were far worse than those of the other two, there was constant tension when she was in the house—the father restraining himself before the second wife, the stepmother uncomfortable before the father of the first wife’s child. The parents would plead with Sachiko. They hoped that she would see her way to keeping O-haru until she was old enough to be married. The stepmother stated the case more strongly than the father: O-haru had a ridiculously good name in the neighborhood, and even the younger children would take her part, until the poor woman found herself the very model of the wicked stepmother. O-haru had this fault and that fault, she would point out, and not even her husband would listen to her. She could not imagine what made him protect the girl as he did. Only Sachiko could understand how she felt. Sachiko, seeing how difficult the woman’s position must be, would in the end find herself sympathizing rather than being sympathized with.

  “You can tell how she is from the way she wears her clothes. The other maids laugh and tell her she is wide open in front, but that does not worry her in the least. I suppose scolding never makes a person over.”

  “But she is such a pretty girl,” said Tsuruko.

  “She is very particular about her face, whatever happens to the rest of her. She is always stealing my cold cream and lipstick … You say O-hisa can plan a meal without being told. After five years there is not a single thing O-haru can do unless I tell her exactly how it is to be done. I come home hungry at dinner time and ask her what she has ready, and she says she has not really thought about dinner.”

  “And she seems so clever.”

  “She is far from stupid. But she is too sociable. She likes talking to people, and she hates chores. She knows perfectly well that the house has to be cleaned, but if I stop watching her, she lets it go. She never gets up in the morning unless someone calls her. And she still goes to bed with her clothes on.”

  Sachiko thought of incidents and illustrations with which to entertain her sister: how a chestnut or two would always disappear between the kitchen and the dining room; how O-haru’s eyes would dart about in consternation when someone called her unexpectedly, and she would turn away to gulp down whatever she happened to be eating; how, as she gave Sachiko a massage in the evening, she would doze off and fall over, and in the end be stretched out full length beside Sachiko; how she had several times gone to bed with the gas on, or, forgetting to turn off the iron, scorched the clothes and almost set the house on fire; how on such occasions Sachiko had decided that she had had enough, and had bundled the girl off home, and then had been persuaded by the parents to take her back; and how O-haru, off on an errand, would find interesting people along the way, and take hours coming back.

  “What do you suppose she will do when she gets married?” “A husband and family may change her. But do keep her, Sachiko. She is a very likable girl.”

  “After five years I almost think of her as my daughter. She may be a little tricky at times, but she has none of the touchiness you expect of a stepchild. And she does have her good points. Even when she seems more trouble than she is worth, I can never be really angry with her.”

  18

  AFTER LUNCH they went back to the inn, where they talked until evening. Tsuruko suggested that they send O-haru with O-hisa to see the sights at Nikko—she had been such a help with the children. To keep O-hisa from returning to Osaka, Tsuruko had promised her a trip to Nikko, but for want of a suitable companion it had been put off and put off; and was this not the opportunity she had been waiting for? Although Tsuruko knew little about Nikko, she had heard that one could see the shrines and Kegon Falls and Lake Chūzenji and be back in Tokyo the same day. Tatsuo too was enthusiastic, and of course would pay the expenses. Sachiko could not help thinking that O-ham had played her cards cleverly. Still O-hisa would not be allowed to go alone, and, since O-haru seemed already to know, it would be a crime to spoil the fun. Tsuruko telephoned two mornings later: she had broken the news the evening before; they had been too happy to sleep, and had set out early that morning; she had sent them off prepared to spend the night if they had to, but she expected them back by seven or eight in the evening; and Yukiko would very shortly visit the inn.

  As Sachiko put down the receiver, thinking that when Yukiko arrived the three of them might go to the Art Academy, the maid came in and handed a special-delivery letter to Etsuko, who turned it over with a strange expression on her face and laid it on the table before her mother. The letter, in a foreign-style envelope, was addressed to Sachiko in care of the Hamaya. The handwriting was not Teinosuke’s—but only Teinosuke knew where she was staying.

  She turned it over. It was from Okubata.

  Trying to hide the return address from Etsuko, she hastily tore open the envelope. The three pieces of stiff Western stationery, crammed with writing on both sides and folded lengthwise and crosswise, crackled like a movie sound-effect as she spread them open.

  The contents were shocking.

  September 13

  DEAR SACHIKO:

  Forgive me for writing so suddenly. You will be upset to hear from me, I know, but I cannot let the opportunity pass.

  I have as a matter of fact been wanting for some time to write, and I have been afraid Koi-san might stop the letter. Today I saw her, at the studio, for the first time in several days, and learned that you and Etsuko are staying at the Hamaya. I happen to know the address, since friends of mine stay there when they are in Tokyo, and I am sure that this time my letter will reach you. I must ask you to forgive me.

  I will be as brief as possible. I suppose I should begin with the suspicions that have been bothering me. They are entirely my own, but I wonder if something is not happening between Koi-san and Itakura. Much though I would like to think, for Koi-san’s sake, that their relations are clean, I suspect that we have at least the beginnings of a love affair.

  I first began to notice it at the time of the flood. It seemed very strange that Itakura should run off to rescue her, and it was more than just kindness that made him leave his own house and

  sister and risk his life for her. In the first place, how did he know she was at the sewing school, and why was he so friendly with Mrs. Tamaki? He must have been in and out of the school for some time, and he may have been meeting Koi-san there and leaving messages for her. I have investigated and found evidence to make me very suspicious, but I need not go into if now. I would rather you investigated for yourself. I am sure you would find much to surprise you.

  I have presented my evidence to both Koi-san and Itakura, and they have denied everything. It is strange, though, that Koi-san should now be avoiding me. She rarely comes to the studio, and when I telephone the Ashiya house O-haru generally tells me, whether it is true or not, that she is out. Itakura says what you would expect him to: that he has seen Koi-san no more than two or three times since the flood, and that nothing else will happen to upset me. But I have my ways of checking on him. Is it not true that he has been visiting your house almost every day since the flood? And is it not a fact that he has gone swimming alone with Koi-san several times? I have my ways of investigating, and there is no use in his trying to hide the facts. Maybe he tells you that I have ordered him to bring messages to Koi-san, but I have given no such orders. The only possible business he could have with her would be to
take pictures, and since I have forbidden him to do any more work for her he no longer has even that excuse. And yet he goes to your house oftener than before, and Koi-san has stopped going to her studio. It is all right when you are around to watch her, I suppose; but I hate to think what might be happening now, with Teinosuke out of the house in the daytime and you and Etsuko and even O-haru in Tokyo. (You of course would not know that he seems to be visiting your house every day even now.) Koi-san is trustworthy and not likely to make mistakes, but Itakura is thoroughly untrustworthy. He has wandered around America and tried his hand at many things, and as you know he is remarkably good at meeting the right people and working his way into whatever house he chooses. And when it comes to borrowing money and deceiving women he is only too accomplished. I have known him since he was a boy in our shop, and I can tell you anything you need to know about him.

  There are many favors I want to ask for myself, but they

  can wait; the problem of separating the two comes first. Even assuming that Koi-san means to break her engagement to me (she says she does not), she will have no future if there are rumors about her and a man like Itakura. I cannot believe that a Makioka could be serious about him; but it was I who introduced them, and it is my duty to tell everything to the person who is supposed to be watching over her.

  I do not doubt that you will have ideas of your own. If there is anything you think I can do, I will of course call on you whenever you say.