The Makioka Sisters

by Junichiro Tanizaki

  “And Katharina?”

  “I hadn’t started to school. I remember nothing.”

  “And why the pictures of the Japanese Emperor and Empress in the other room?”

  The old lady’s expression was suddenly very serious. “Of course. We, White Russians, live here. Because of them.”

  “All White Russians feel that way. Japan will fight longest against the Communists.” After a pause, Kyrilenko added: “What do you think will happen in China? Do you think the Communists will win?”

  “I really know very little about politics. It would be nice, though, if Japan and China could be friends.”

  “What do you think of Chiang Kai-shek?” Vronsky had been sitting in silence, an empty glass in his hand. “And of what happened last December in Hsian? Chiang Kai-shek was kidnapped by Chang Hsüeh-liang. And then rescued. Why?”

  “There must be more to it than we read in the newspapers.”

  Teinosuke had considerable interest in international affairs, and was well enough informed on at least what appeared in the papers. He had never been more than a passive onlooker, however, and, the times being what they were, it seemed better not to let reckless talk invite trouble. In particular before foreigners, whose motives and ways of thinking were so mysterious, he had resolved to offer no opinions. But for these people, driven from their homeland and forced to wander, the international question was one they could not forget for a single moment. It was their very life. For a time they debated among themselves. Vronsky seemed to be the best informed, and the other Russians would listen while he developed some point at length. They used Japanese as much as possible, but Vronsky, when the discussion became complicated, tended to lapse into Russian. Occasionally Kyrilenko would interpret for Teinosuke and the rest. “The old one” was an accomplished debater, and not one to listen quietly while the men argued. She had no trouble holding her own, except for the fact that when she became excited her Japanese collapsed, and neither the Russians nor the Japanese had any idea what she was talking about. “Say it in Russian, Mamochka,” Kyrilenko would now and then put in.

  Presently, for some reason that the Japanese did not understand, the discussion became a quarrel between Katharina and “the old one.” The latter quite indiscriminately assailed the English— English character, English policies—and Katharina fought back. She had been born in Russia, she said, but when she was driven to Shanghai she lived on the generosity of the English. She was educated by the English and she paid not a cent in return, and it was the English who had helped her make her way as a nurse. What could be wrong with such a country? But “the old one” answered that Katharina was still too young to understand. Soon the two were glaring at each other, and Kyrilenko and Vronsky interceded to prevent a real fight.

  “Mamochka and Katharina are a great problem. They are always fighting about England,” said Kyrilenko.

  When they had spent some time at cards in the other room, they were summoned again to the dining room. The Japanese were not up to another feast, whatever it might be, and the result as far as they were concerned was only stuffing Boris fuller. Still Teinosuke managed to drink with Vronsky and Kyrilenko to the end.

  “Be careful,” said Sachiko when, after eleven, they started back through the rice paddies. “You are staggering.”

  “The wind feels good.”

  “Really, I wondered what could have happened. Katharina all by herself, and not a thing to eat or drink, and there I was getting hungrier and hungrier.”

  “Then when she finally brought it out I began to eat with both hands. But how do you suppose Russians manage to eat so much? I can drink with them well enough, but I am no match when it comes to eating.”

  “The old one seemed delighted to have all of us. They enjoy guests even in that tiny house.”

  “They must be lonely. They must want to make friends with Japanese.”

  “That Mr. Vronsky,” called Taeko from the darkness one or two steps behind them. “It is really very sad. It seems that he was in love when he was young, but he and the girl were separated at the time of the Revolution. He learned some years later that she was in Australia, and went to Australia himself. He did find her, but almost immediately afterwards she died. And with that he decided he would never marry.”

  “There was something very sad about him.”

  “He had a dreadful time in Australia. He was even a miner for a while. Afterwards he went into business and made some money, and now they say he has five hundred thousand yen. Katharina’s brother has borrowed from him, I suspect.”

  “What a nice smell,” said Sachiko. They were walking down a hedge-lined street. “The cloves are in bloom somewhere.”

  “Only one more month to the cherry blossoms. I can hardly wait.”

  “Me, hardly wait too,” said Teinosuke, after the manner of “the old one.”

  18

  NOMURA MINOKICHI, born September, 1893.

  PERMANENT RESIDENCE: 20 Tatemachi, Himeji, Hyōgo Prefecture

  PRESENT RESIDENCE: 559 4-chōme, Aodani, Nada Ward, Kobe

  EDUCATION: Graduated from the School of Agriculture, Tokyo Imperial University, 1916

  OCCUPATION: Fisheries technician, Agriculture and Forestry Office, Hyōgo Prefecture

  FAMILY: Married in 1922 to Tanako Noriko. One son and one daughter. Daughter died at the age of two. Wife died of influenza in 1935. Son died in 1936 at the age of thirteen. Both parents died early. Only sister, whose married name is Ota, lives in Tokyo.

  The small photograph, on the back of which Mr. Nomura himself had written this information (he used a pen rather than the formal writing brush such occasions really called for), had come late in March from Mrs. Jimba, a classmate of Sachiko’s. Sachiko had almost forgotten how, late in November the year before, as the Makiokas were marking time in the Segoshi negotiations, she had met Mrs. Jimba in Osaka. They talked for twenty or thirty minutes, and in the course of the conversation Yukiko’s name was mentioned. She is not married yet, then, said Mrs. Jimba, and Sachiko asked her friend to let them know of any likely prospects. At the time, the negotiations with Segoshi seemed promising, and Sachiko meant only to be pleasant; but Mrs. Jimba evidently took the matter to heart.

  This was the substance of her letter:

  She wondered how matters were with Yukiko. She had carelessly not thought to mention the fact earlier, but a cousin of Mr. Hamada Jōkichi, to whom Mr. Jimba was much obligated, had not long before lost his wife, and an urgent request, complete with photograph, had come from Mr. Hamada that they help find a suitable second wife. Mrs. Jimba had thought of Yukiko. Her husband did not know the man personally, but, since he had Mr. Hamada for a guarantor, there could be no question about his worth. She would send the photograph under separate cover, and they might perhaps conduct an investigation based on the material they would find on the back. If they then decided that the man seemed a promising candidate, Mrs. Jimba would be glad to arrange an introduction at any time. Such a matter should really be discussed face to face, of course, but, since she did not want to seem to be pressing them, she thought she might first try writing.

  The photograph arrived the next day.

  Sachiko immediately sent off a note of thanks. With the Itani affair of the year before still fresh in her memory, she was careful not to make easy promises. She was most deeply grateful for Mrs. Jimba’s thoughtfulness, she wrote, but she hoped Mrs. Jimba would not mind waiting a month or two for an answer. Yukiko had just been through the ordeal of unsuccessful marriage negotiations, and it might be best to wait a while before beginning again. Sachiko wanted this time to be very deliberate, and if, after a thorough investigation, it seemed that they would want to ask Mrs. Jimba’s good offices, they hoped they might be able to do so. As Mrs. Jimba knew, Yukiko was well past the age when most girls marry, and it would be too sad—Sachiko herself could hardly bear it—if failures were to pile one on another too rapidly. So she wrote, making no attempt to hide the facts.

 
She and Teinosuke had decided that this time they would conduct their own investigation at their own pace. If it seemed advisable, they would consult the main house, and in the course of time broach the matter to Yukiko herself. The truth was that Sachiko was far from enthusiastic. They could of course know little until they had investigated, and they had no information about the man’s resources. Even so, Sachiko knew immediately that the conditions were far worse than with Segoshi. In the first place, the man was two years older than Teinosuke. In the second place, it was not his first marriage, though of course the children were dead and would be no trouble. But what made Sachiko quite sure that Yukiko would never accept was the face in the photograph, the face of an old man. Photographs could be misleading, but it seemed likely that, although the man might look older than the photograph, he would not look younger. They did not ask that he be especially handsome, or that he be younger than Teinosuke. It would be sad to see Yukiko exchanging marriage cups with an old man, however, and the older sisters, even now that they had found her a husband, would not be able to lift their heads before the assembled relatives. If it was unreasonable to ask for a young bridegroom, Sachiko hoped that they might at least find someone healthy, vigorous, buoyant. Everything considered, she could work up little excitement over the photograph. She did nothing for a week or so.

  Then it occurred to her that Yukiko might have seen an envelope marked “Photograph” in the mail. If so, might she not think something was being hidden from her? Yukiko as always showed nothing, and yet she had quite possibly been hurt by the Segoshi affair. Sachiko had thought it better to refrain from bringing up another proposal so soon, but it would only look like a conspiracy if indeed Yukiko was wondering why Sachiko did not have the honesty to tell her of the new photograph. Indeed, in view of Sachiko’s own lack of enthusiasm, an easy solution might be to consult Yukiko at the outset, and hear the views of the person most concerned.

  One day, when Sachiko was dressing to go shopping in Kobe, Yukiko came into the room.

  “I have another photograph, Yukiko.” Without waiting for an answer, Sachiko took the photograph from a drawer. “Read what is on the back.”

  Yukiko glanced at the photograph in silence, and turned it over.

  “Who sent it to you?”

  “You remember Mrs. Jimba? Her name was Imai when we were in school.”

  “Yes.”

  “We happened to speak of you one day in Osaka, and I asked her to let me know if she heard of any good prospects. She seems to have taken it seriously.”

  Yukiko did not answer.

  “There is no need to decide immediately. As a matter of fact, I thought of investigating the man before I spoke to you, but I decided it would not do to have you think I was hiding something.” Yukiko had laid the photograph on a shelf, and was looking absently down at the garden from the veranda. “If you would rather not think about it yet, you can wait. And if the man does not interest you, you can pretend you never heard of him. I think, though, that I ought at least to go ahead with the investigation. After all, Mrs. Jimba was kind enough to send the picture.”

  “Sachiko.” Forcing herself to smile, Yukiko turned to her sister. “I want you to tell me when something like this comes up. I feel much better when I know something is being done. It is hearing nothing at all that upsets me.”

  “I see.”

  “But the miai. I would like you always to put it off until you have finished investigating. There is nothing else you need worry about.”

  “I see. That makes things easier.”

  Sachiko finished dressing and went out, with a promise to be back for dinner. Yukiko hung the discarded kimono on the clothes rack and folded the obi and accessories into a neat pile. For a time she leaned on the railing and looked down at the garden.

  This section of Ashiya had been farms and fields until the mid-twenties, when the suburbs of Osaka began to encroach on it. For all its being rather small, the garden had in it two or three old native pines, and beyond the hedge it gave way to the hills of the Rokkō chain, off to the north and west. Yukiko always felt that she had come to life again when she was back in Ashiya after four or five days in the Osaka house. She looked to the south. Just below her were the lawn and flower beds, and beyond them was an artificial hillock, from between the boulders of which a shrub trailed branches of tiny white flowers down into a dry lake. On the right shore of the lake, a lilac and a cherry were in bloom. The cherry had been planted two or three years before—Sachiko, extremely fond of cherry blossoms, wanted to go cherry viewing at home. Each spring, when the proper season came, she dutifully spread a carpet under the tree, but for some reason there were never more than a few sickly blossoms. The lilac, on the other hand, was always a rich mass of blossoms. To the west of the lilac were a plane tree and a sandalwood not yet in bud, and to the south of the sandal wood was a syringa. Mme Tsukamoto, the French lady from whom Sachiko took lessons, felt most nostalgic when she saw the garden. This was the first syringa she had come upon in Japan, she said, although it was very common in France. The syringa, which bloomed with the yellow yamabukil by Teinosuke’s study after the lilac had fallen, had only begun to send out buds. Farther on was the net-wire fence that separated the garden from the Stolz yard, and under the plane trees by the fence, on grass warm in the afternoon sun, Etsuko and Rosemarie were playing house. From the second-floor railing Yukiko could see all the properties: the dolls’ beds, cabinets, chairs, and table, and the Western dolls themselves. The two little girls, quite lost in play, did not know they were being overheard.

  “This is the father,” said Rosemarie, taking up a doll in her left hand. “And this is the mother.” She pressed the faces together, and there was a resounding smack. Rosemarie seemed to be providing the sound effects. “The baby came.” She took a baby doll from the skirts of the “mother.” “Baby came, baby came,” she repeated happily.

  Foreign children believed that babies were brought by storks and fastened to trees, Yukiko had always heard, but at least Rosemarie knew the truth. Yukiko smiled on and on as she watched the play.

  1 A shrub related to the rose.

  19

  TEINOSUKE had laughed when, on their honeymoon in the Hakone mountains south of Tokyo, he asked Sachiko what her favorite fish was and learned that it was the sea bream. The sea bream was far too ordinary a fish to have for a favorite. Sachiko said, however, that the sea bream, both in appearance and in taste, was the most Japanese of all fish, and that a Japanese who did not like sea bream was simply not a Japanese. Teinosuke suspected that his wife was secretly boasting of her native Osaka. The Osaka region produced the best sea bream, and, it would seem to follow, was most truly Japanese. And when Sachiko was asked what flower she liked best, there was no hesitation in her answer: the cherry blossom.

  All these hundreds of years, from the days of the oldest poetry collections, there have been poems about cherry blossoms. The ancients waited for cherry blossoms, grieved when they were gone, and lamented their passing in countless poems. How very ordinary the poems had seemed to Sachiko when she read them as a girl, but now she knew, as well as one could know, that grieving over fallen cherry blossoms was more than a fad or a convention. The family—Sachiko, her husband and daughter, her two younger sisters—had for some years now been going to Kyoto in the spring to see the cherry blossoms. The excursion had become a fixed annual observance. Sometimes Teinosuke or Etsuko would be missing because of work or school, but at least the three sisters were always together. For Sachiko there was, besides pleasant sorrow for the cherry blossoms, sorrow for her sisters and the passing of their youth. She wondered whether each excursion might not be her last with Yukiko, at least. And her sisters seemed to feel much the same emotions. Not as fond of cherry blossoms as Sachiko, they still took great pleasure in the outing. Long before—at the time of the Spring Festival in Nara, early in March—they began waiting for it, and planning what they would wear.

  As the season approached, there w
ould be reports on when the cherries were likely to be in full bloom. They had to pick a week-end, for the convenience of Ftsuko and Teinosuke, and they all had the anxiety of the ancients over the weather, anxiety which had once seemed to Sachiko merely conventional. With each breeze and each shower their concern for the cherries would grow. There were cherries enough around the Ashiya house, and cherries to be seen from the window of the train into Osaka, and there was no need to go all the way to Kyoto; but Sachiko had firm views on what was best. When it came to sea bream, only Akashi bream seemed worth eating, and she felt that she had not seen the cherry blossoms at all unless she went to Kyoto. Teinosuke had rebelled the year before and taken them instead to the Brocade Bridge; but Sachiko had been restless afterwards, as though she had forgotten something. She complained that spring did not feel like spring, and finally took Teinosuke off to Kyoto in time for the late cherries at Omuro. The annual procedure was fixed: they arrived in Kyoto on Saturday afternoon, had an early dinner at the Gourd Restaurant, and, after the spring dances, which they never missed, saw the Gion cherries by lantern light. On Sunday morning they went to the western suburbs. After lunch by the river at Storm Hill, they returned to the city in time to see the weeping cherries in the Heian Shrine; and with that, whether or not Teinosuke and Sachiko stayed on another night by themselves, the outing proper was finished.

  The cherries in the Heian Shrine were left to the last because they, of all the cherries in Kyoto, were the most beautiful. Now that the great weeping cherry in Gion was dying and its blossoms were growing paler each year, what was left to stand for the Kyoto spring if not the cherries in the Heian Shrine? And so, coming back from the western suburbs on the afternoon of the second day, and picking that moment of regret when the spring sun was about to set, they would pause, a little tired, under the trailing branches, and look fondly at each tree—on around the lake, by the approach to a bridge, by a bend in the path, under the eaves of the gallery. And, until the cherries came the following year, they could close their eyes and see again the color and line of a trailing branch.