In the heart of Edo City stood a modest dwelling - the Yukishiro household, home to a Gokenin. Among neighbors, it was known as "The house with the Camellia garden," a title that stuck, even though it wasn't its official name. A decade prior, it had been an ordinary Gokenin's residence. The inhabitants, however, were an enigma. Their lineage belonged to a noble branch, a status far surpassing that of a Gokenin and even elevated above a Hatamoto. Yet, their illustrious heritage served as little more than a decorative veneer; they were, in reality, just another Gokenin, navigating life with a modest stipend of 30 Ryo.
The young master of the house failed to inherit the talents of his distinguished lineage. However, within him resided an immense sweetness. He refrained from speaking ill of others, and it was a rare sight indeed for anyone to catch a glimpse of him without a smile. His love encompassed all, and in return, the affection of everyone surrounded him.
When his betrothal was arranged with the daughter of a court noble, it raised eyebrows among some. She hailed not from a Samurai family, and though, in name, they belonged to a noble Samurai clan, the deviation from the expected sparked curiosity about the young bride. In Edo, a domain of the Samurai, such occurrences stirred interest in what a woman from the house of a court noble in Kyoto might be like.
Rumors circulated that, despite being mere nobility in title, court nobles often fared worse than peasants. There was an air of arrogance, a pride in their profound cultural knowledge and education, yet their daughters sometimes resorted to a life of prostitution due to poverty. The word on the street suggested that despite their plight, these daughters harbored a disdain for Samurais, treating them as uncultured beings. So, when the time came to meet the wife, they approached with a combative instinct.
Upon meeting the wife, confusion replaced their initial expectations. She possessed an impeccable beauty, almost incongruent with the house of a Gokenin. Yet, these Gokenin hailed from nobility, and the observers speculated that financial turmoil might have led to a hasty marriage. Her appearance resembled that of a Bijinga-pale skin, seemingly untouched by sunlight, straight black hair with the sheen of silk, and a face exquisitely sculpted. Local women dedicated substantial time to searching for a flaw in her beauty.
In stark contrast to her husband, the young wife was reserved; her melodic voice graced their ears sparingly. Some neighbors found their judgments dissolving, leaving behind traces of pity. They pitied the young, fragile wife, wondering how she would navigate the challenging life of a Samurai's partner. Yet, she resisted becoming fully entwined in the role. Instead, the house took on her essence-painted in her colors, adorned with flowers, and visited by butterflies. It soon earned the moniker "The house with the Camellia garden."
As the days melted into months and months into years, neighbors and relatives began to unravel the mystery of the enigmatic young wife. Despite her sparse words, if anyone faced trouble, be they samurai, peasant, neighbor, friend, or even a doubtful foe, they left the house with the Camellia garden not empty-handed. This reinforced the notion that she was ill-suited for a Samurai household, perhaps better suited for a temple. Her generous nature even led to clashes with elderly relatives who disapproved of her boundless benevolence.
She never grasped the intricate social structures of Edo. Her speech was forever cloaked in formality, an unwavering tone that remained untouched whether conversing with neighborhood children, house retainers, or peasants. The household's elderly women tried, in vain, to correct this habit, yet it persisted, the silent resistance of a determined young wife.
Over time, it seemed the stubborn women had conceded defeat. The young wife, though reserved, proved unyielding.
In the close-knit community, it became evident that while her husband possessed a cheerful disposition and profound kindness, she was endowed with a profound talent for literature and the arts. A lament echoed among the neighbors, "What a shame," as they realized that in the realm of bloodshed, only the sword held sway. Being wedded into a Samurai family, her literary and artistic prowess would forever languish without due recognition.
She, however, displayed no remorse. All their preconceptions about court nobles, she effortlessly dispelled. In her, there was neither arrogance nor pride in her education and talent. It was only those who stood at a distance, unfamiliar with her intimately, who interpreted her silent demeanor as that of an arrogant woman-a misconception far removed from reality. She willingly imparted the arts of Waka, Sado, and Kado to the children in the neighborhood, bringing joy to the neighbors.
What irked both kin and neighbors alike was her inclination to educate the peasants, imparting the gift of reading and writing to those unable to access Terakoya and condemned to an existence of illiteracy. Despite vehement protests claiming such conduct befitted not the lady of a Samurai house, she reluctantly ceased this benevolent endeavor. Yet, in surrendering this pursuit, it seemed as if something within her had withered and perished.
In the throes of heated disputes, as she sought to persuade the elders of the household, it's rumored that she was heard saying,
"Why do you not understand?"
"Those children are no different from our own!"
Neighbors, aghast at such audacious sentiments, would often scoff,
"What preposterous thoughts!"
"Comparing the children of those peasants with our own?!"
These murmurs lingered for a time, but eventually, her voice fell silent, and the rumors dissolved into the hush of forgotten whispers.
Two years later, a daughter entered the world, in mid-winter. Due the woman's delicate constitution, her labor was strenuous, raising concerns about her ability to bear children in the future. While the elderly relatives expressed some worry about the child possibly being the only one and not a son, it was as if those sentiments never reached her ears. The luster in her eyes, dimmed by societal expectations, rekindled with the birth of her daughter.
In the Yukishiro residence, surrounded by Camellia flowers, stood a solitary white plum tree. It was said that on the day of winter the daughter was born, the plum blossoms unfurled. Despite the initial disappointment of not having a son, one elderly family member, cradling the beautiful child, couldn't help but exclaim in wonder, "A winter flower, isn't she!"
As the child, named Tomoe-Tomoe-chan in my address-grew to the age of five or six, neighbors began to observe that she was even quieter than her mother and distinct from other children her age. Rarely smiling, almost never displaying anger or irritation, she, though beautiful as a porcelain doll, often struck other children as unsettling. Only Akira, the second son of their neighbors and her age-mate, managed to engage with her. Yet, to be fair, he could easily play with anyone. That child was loved.
Tomoe-chan often carried a book with her, finding a quiet spot to immerse herself in its pages. "Such an odd child," the neighbors would occasionally ponder. Every afternoon, the lady of the house would take Tomoe-chan on extended walks. It wasn't long before whispers began to circulate, suggesting that the lady, under the guise of these walks, was covertly venturing to the outskirts of the city to educate the peasants once again. Initially dismissed as outlandish, it was nothing compared to what would transpire later.
As the Sonno Joi movement gained momentum, a peculiar fear took root in the hearts of the neighbors regarding the lady's family possibly being affiliated with the movement. They were not samurais; they were court nobles, serving the emperor. The lady's ventures to the city's outskirts became not merely a topic of discussion but one of contempt.
"I think she might be secretly meeting with her family after all."
"Do you think she is supporting them against the Bakufu?"
"How scary..."
"..And she always made such a fragile, innocent face."
Such whispers permeated the air.
One day, news spread that someone had hurled a rock, slightly smaller than a fist, aimed at her face. Had it not fortuitously missed her, her very life might have been extinguished. Soon after, the lady and Tomoe-chan's outings came to an abrupt halt. The neighbors, mindful of her husband's disposition, did not prolong the issue. The light in the lady's eyes once again dimmed. However, this time, it wasn't just the light in her eyes fading, but the light of her life diminishing. It seemed as though she grew frailer with each passing day.
Before long, word circulated that the lady was pregnant with her second child. No one had anticipated that, after seven childless years, she would conceive again. The pregnancy proved arduous, rendering her bedridden for the most part. The daughter ceased playing with the other children, remaining mostly by her mother's side. Whatever tenuous connections she had with the neighborhood children were lost, and perhaps, along with that, her childhood slipped away. The only one who continued to visit her home was the neighbor's second son, Akira. Then again, Akira played with everyone, and everyone played with him. The adults adored him, and the children admired him. In a way, he was the antithesis of Tomoe-chan. I wondered how they could be friends. Perhaps it was Akira's sweetness.
Not long after, the second child was born. As the elderly relatives of the family had hoped, it was a son. With his arrival, the faint light of her life was extinguished.
The master of the house clung to his wife's lifeless form, tears streaming down uncontrollably. The anguish cut so deep that the wives of neighboring households found themselves unable to withhold their own tears. Despite a relative's reminder that such tears did not befit a Samurai, the master remained inconsolable.
Akira's mother tenderly took the newborn and, with the assistance of a retainer, tried to soothe him. Amidst this scene, the seven or eight-year-old daughter displayed an unusual composure, devoid of tears or any visible signs of pain. She sat there, calmly. Akira gazed at her, the perpetual smile wiped from his face. Neighbors whispered:
"What an eerie child. Her mother is gone, and she hasn't shed a tear."
"I always knew there was something strange about her."
Initially hushed, the murmurs waned with each passing minute, as if they ceased to matter to the child, who paid them no attention.
Yet, as if the grief had never occurred, the Camellias continued to bloom in breathtaking splendor until the end.