Let’s appeal to Fuji. The idea came to me suddenly. Hey, look out for these girls, will you? Inwardly muttering the words, I turned my gaze toward the mountain, standing tall and impassive against the wintry sky and looking for all the world like the Big Boss, squared off in an arrogant pose, arms folded. Greatly relieved, I forsook the band of courtesans and set out in a lighthearted mood for the tunnel down the road with the six-year-old boy from the teahouse and the shaggy dog, Hachi. Near the entrance to the tunnel, a skinny prostitute of about thirty stood by herself silently gathering a bouquet of some dreary sort of wildflowers. She didn’t so much as turn to glance at us as we passed but continued picking the flowers intently. Look after this one, too, I prayed, casting an eye back at Fuji and pulling the little boy along by his hand as I walked briskly into the tunnel. Reminding myself it all had nothing to do with me, I strode resolutely on as the cold water that seeped through the ceiling dripped down on my cheeks and the back of my neck.

It was at about that time that my wedding plans met with a serious hitch. I was given to understand, in no uncertain terms, that my family back home was not going to lend their assistance. Once married, I fully intended to support my household with my writing, but I had been selfish and presumptuous enough to assume that my family would, at this juncture, come to my aid to the tune of at least a hundred yen or so, allowing me to have a dignified, if modest, wedding ceremony. After an exchange of two or three letters, however, it became clear that this would not be the case, and I was thoroughly at a loss as to what to do. Having come to terms with the fact that, as things stood, it was entirely possible that the young lady’s side would call the whole thing off, I decided there was nothing for it but to make a clean breast of everything, and came down from the mountain alone to call at the house in Kōfu. I was shown into the parlor, where I sat facing the girl and her mother and told them all. At times it sounded, disconcertingly enough, as if I were reciting a speech. But I thought I at least managed to describe the situation in a relatively straightforward and honest manner.

The young lady remained calm. “Does that mean your family is opposed to the idea?” she asked, tilting her head to one side.

“No, it’s not that they’re opposed.” I pressed softly down on the table with the palm of my right hand. “It just seems to be their way of telling me I’m on my own.”

“Then there’s no problem.” The mother smiled graciously. “As you can see, we’re not wealthy ourselves. An extravagant ceremony would only make us feel awkward. As long as you have real affection for her and you’re serious about your work, that’s all we ask.”