Eminent Authors of Contemporary Japan/Volume 1/A Case of Child Murder

by Yuzo Yamamoto

A Case of Child Murder
(“Eiji-goroshi”)
(A Play in One Act)

By
Yuzo Yamamoto,

Translated by
Eric S. Bell & Yoshinobu Tada.

Yuzo Yamamoto

Yuzo Yamamoto

Yuzo Yamamoto, the author of the following drama, “A Case of Child Murder,” was born in the little town of Tochigi-machi, in the prefecture of Tochigi, Japan, in the 20th year of Meiji (1887).

He studied at the Tokyo Imperial University, particularly specializing in German literature. After graduating from the College of Literature there, he translated a number of things from German literature, but his success lies solely in play-writing. He is undoubtedly one of the best known play-writers in Japan today.

Mr. Yamamoto’s best known works published in book form are: “The Crown of Life,” “Sakazaki Dewanokami,” and “Kindred Spirits.”

His Plays, when presented on the stage, always prove most successful, because he understands the technique and management of stage productions; and his clever dramas never fail to make an appeal to his audiences, because of the author’s great gift of psychological analysis, which enables him to write deeply and also very naturally.

“A Case of Child Murder” has been presented in Japan many times, and has always proved most successful, drawing large audiences.

Eric S. Bell.

A Case of Child Murder (“Eijigoroshi”)

Characters

• Keisuke Koyama. A Policeman, about 43 years old.
• Tsugi. His Daughter, about 18 years old.
• Asa Sugihara. A woman coolie, about 30 years old.
• A Ragman.
• The Errand Boy of a Wine Merchant.
• The Wife of a Neighbour.

Time

The Season of Spring. Present Day.

Place

A Suburb near the City of Tokyo.

Scene

A Police-station; used at the same time as the dwelling-place of the Resident Policeman. A sitting-room and kitchen directly adjoins the office. The kitchen has an entrance from the back in the form of a Japanese sliding door, the upper half being papered. Through the open shoji window at the side of the kitchen, branches, thickly clustered with pink cherry blossoms, are seen. It is evening.

Miss Tsugi, the daughter of the house, sits absent-mindedly an the tatami of the sitting-room. The office door, which leads into this room, opens quietly, and Koyama, the Resident Policeman, comes in from his finished duty.

• Koyama.—(Slipping off his shoes as he enters,) A shower of rain would improve the road, for it is very dusty outside.
• Tsugi.—Yes, Father, you must be tired. You better change your clothes at once. (She brings her father’s kimono.)
• Koyama.—I will do so now. (He removes his uniform, and puts on his kimono). There are such crowds of people outside this evening. Everyone seems to be out flower-viewing.
• Tsugi.—Yes, Papa. Many of them are very merry too, and crowds have been passing here all day.
• Koyama.—Well, wouldn’t you like to go for a picnic tomorrow? I will be off duty, and will very gladly mind the house for you if you care to go.
• Tsugi.—To-morrow?
• Koyama.—Yes, child. You look very tired and fatigued from too much nursing, and it will do you a world of good to go off for the day on a cherry-viewing trip.
• Tsugi.—I’m sorry, Papa, but I really feel that I would rather not go. I feel as if all my energy had left me. Nothing seems to interest me these days, not even the cherry blossoms.
• A Ragman.—(Passing the house) Rags! Rags! Any rags for sale?
• Koyama.—Yes, you may feel tired, but such a trip would cheer you up. Please go, my child.
• Tsugi.—It is strange, papa, but when I see all these happy people passing the house, I feel as if I hated them!
• Ragman.—(Outside) Any rags for sale? Have you no old rags to sell me?
• Koyama.—There is a ragman outside. You better call him in.
• Tsugi.—Very well, papa. (Calling through the window to the man) Kuzuya-san! We want you.
• Ragman.—(Sliding open the back door) Did someone call me from this house?
• Tsugi.—Yes, please come in.
• Ragman.—Thank you for your kindness to me, Sir. We are having very pleasant weather these days. (He comes into the house.)
• Koyama.—(Opens a closet, and takes out some six or seven suits of clothes from an old basket. He sets them before the ragman.)
• Koyama.—You buy old clothes, don’t you?
• Ragman.—Clothes? Of course, Sir. I like to get them better than anything else, and I always give good money for them too.
• Koyama.—But I am afraid that all of these are rather old.
• Ragman.—That’s all right, Sir. You know there are many classes of men in my trade; some won’t touch such things, but I prefer old clothes to anything else you could offer me, and so, I am sure that I can offer you a far better price than most others can do. (Examining the clothes) They are all women’s clothes!
• Koyama.—Yes, all of them are. I have lost my wife.
• Ragman.—I’m sorry, Sir. I sympathize with you in your grief. You must miss her very much. (Still looking closely at the clothes) Oh, I see some boy’s clothes here too!
• Koyama.—Oh, yes; I forgot to mention them. My son has also died, so they are no further use to me now.
• Ragman.—Eldest son, perhaps?—What a tragedy, Sir. You must indeed be greatly grieved. As you have told me of your sad loss, I will give you my best possible price for all these things, Sir.
• Koyama.—How much will you give me?
• Ragman.—Let me see—(thinking for a moment) I will give you seven and a half yen for the lot. That is the very highest price that you would get from anyone.
• Tsugi.—(Picking up one of the garments, and looking at it sadly) Papa, is it not a pity to sell them in thi way?
• Ragman.—(Taking the garment from her gently) But this, Miss, is too plain for you to wear.
• Tsugi.—Oh, it is not that at all. It is not that I wish to wear it—
• Ragman.—Of course, Miss, if this garment did not have such a narrow neck-band, I would give you far more for it, but unfortunately the cut of it is too narrow, and it will be hard to sell again at any profit at all.
• Koyama.—But can’t you give me a little more for these things?
• Ragman.—Very well, Sir,—I will give you thirty sen more. I would like to offer you eight yen, but it is impossible, for I would make nothing myself. They are all rather old, you know.
• Koyama.—That will do, then.
• Ragman.—Thank you. Sir. (He takes the money out of his purse.) ('Counting) Seven yen, fifty, sixty, seventy eighty sen. Please see that it is right, Sir.
• Koyama.—(Taking the money and putting it away). How is business these days with you? Is it good?
• Ragman.—To tell the truth, Sir, we are having rather a hard time lately. It seems hard to get enough to earn one’s daily food. Sometimes I walk all day, and get little for my pains.
• Koyama.—Yes, indeed; things are not good at present. All of us experience the same thing.
• Ragman.—Times are hard indeed. Has any one told you that there is a woman coolie going about disguised as a man, so that she may earn more money?
• Koyama.—Yes, I have read it in the papers. Perhaps the poor woman could no longer live on a woman’s wage, which is small.
• Ragman.—Yes, Sir; it sometimes seems to me that we cannot get along at all, if we always do what is right and honest and just. Man sometimes is driven to anything in order that he may live, but—pardon me, Sir; I have been too talkative. I must be going. And again, thank you, Sir, for your kindness. (He goes out, and his voice is again heard outside, as he walks away.) Rags! Rags! Any rags for sale?
• Tsugi.—(Sadly) Now all of them have gone, I feel as if I miss them.
• Koyama.—But, my child, if we kept them here, they would be constantly bringing back old memories and trouble, and so that is why I determined to part with them. Moreover, you know that we must pay for medicine.
• Tsugi.—Oh, I see! Of course we have not yet paid for it.
• Koyama.—I only wish that I could have earned more money to pay for medicine and ice.
• Tsugi.—Yes, Papa; we have always been short of money, and we have had to be careful in the past as to how we spent it. We were unable to do more than we did, you know.
• Koyama.—You are right, but it seems to me sometimes when I think about it, that, if we had been able to spend more, we should have been able to let them live.
• Tsugi.—Yes, Papa; but we did all we could, and our regrets cannot bring them back to us now.
• Koyama.—Yes, the more I think about it, the more I feel that it was I who cruelly killed them both.
• Tsugi.—No, no, Papa, you must not talk in such a way. You have nothing to blame yourself for.
• Koyama.—But it was my fault that I was not able to afford to help them more beneficially.
• Tsugi.—There are many people in this world who lose their dear ones, even though they try ever so hard to bestow care upon them, so, Papa, you must not blame yourself so unjustly, for you did your best.
• Koyama.—In spite of what you say, I still hold myself responsible. I will always feel that I let them die, when I could have done far more.
• Tsugi.—Please say no more; but all the same, I wish that we were a little richer.
• Koyama.—But, we are not; so it is useless to complain further! Let us have our supper at once, for I am very hungry.
• Tsugi.—Very well; but, I am sorry that to-night I have nothing very tempting for you. Shall I go out and buy some tofu?
• Koyama.—No, no, I want nothing more. I think you have some boiled beans, haven’t you?
• Tsugi.—Yes,—
• Koyama.—That will do then.
• Tsugi.—(Brags a small table into the room, and prepares for supper, while Koyama turns on the electric light, and sets some incense sticks before the household shrine. It becomes darker outside. Many people pass by the door. At last Tsugi and Koyama seat themselves at the table.)
• Koyama.—I feel so lonely when we sit down to a meal.
• Tsugi.—Yes, I wish it were possible to have Kenchan with us now—
• Koyama.—If he were alive, and with us now, how happy we should be!—but, what use is it to talk about such things? We must try to be happy.
  (The two begin to eat in silence. Suddenly, the glass-door of the office is opened from outside, and a peasant rushes into the room.)
• Peasant.—Good evening, Sir!
• Tsugi.—Who is it? And what do you want?
• Peasant. A horrible thing has happened! We want you to come at once, Sir!
• Koyama.—What is the matter?
• Peasant. The matter, indeed!
• Koyama.—Yes. Is there another railway suicide?
• Peasant. No, no, far more serious than that.
• Koyama.—What is it, then?
• Peasant. A baby has been found in the bamboo grove.
• Koyama.—A baby?
• Peasant. Yes; I wanted to take to take some bamboo shoots to the market tomorrow, so I entered the bamboo wood behind my house, and began to dig, when suddenly a baby, a dead baby, revealed itself in the hole that I was digging. As it seemed to me a very serious thing, I came at once to tell you, Sir.
• Koyama.—I see. Yes, I will go with you at once.
• Peasant. I am very sorry to disturb your supper, Sir, but I felt that I must tell you without delay.
• Tsugi.—Must you really go, Papa?
• Koyama.—Of course, my child. Please get out my uniform again.
• Tsugi.—All right, Papa. (She goes to the closet, and unfolds his uniform.)
• Koyama.—(Quickly dressing,) (Speaking to the peasant) Have you told them of this at the town office?
• Peasant.—Yes, Sir; I sent a man there a little time ago. But you must come now, for it seems rather an extraordinary case to me, and we cannot do anything without your kind assistance.
• Koyama.—Of course. It does seem strange.
• Tsugi.—What about your supper, Papa?
• Koyama.—I will have it when I come back. But you better have yours now, and not wait for me, for I may be late.
• Tsugi.—Very well.
• Koyama.—(Preparing to put on his shoes) I am ready. I will go with you at once.
  (Tsugi is left alone. A moment after the wife of a neighbour comes in from the back door.)
• Wife.—Good evening!
• Tsugi.—O, good evening, Madam! (She motions to her guest to be seated, and leaves the table.)
• Wife.—You are taking your supper; pray, don’t stop for me. I will wait till you have finished.
• Tsugi.—Thank you. (Continuing quickly to eat.)
• Wife.—Will you not go to the bath-house after supper with me?
• Tsugi.—I wish that I could go, but—
• Wife.—Where is your father? Is he absent?
• Tsugi.—He was suddenly called away, a few moments ago. He had just returned from his duty, and had not started his supper, but had to go out again at once.
• Wife.—Poor man! He must be very busy. What has happened this time?
• Tsugi.—They say that a dead baby has been found in the bamboo wood.
• Wife.—Oh, horrible! I suppose some immoral young woman must have got rid of her unlawful baby there.
• Tsugi.—Yes, I suppose that is it.
• Wife.—What a shameful creature such a girl must be! And your poor father is always the one to be troubled with such distressing things. He must sicken of such cases.
• Tsugi.—Yes, Madam; but he cannot help it; it is his duty, you know.
• Wife.—I know it is his duty, but there is no one who would be so conscientious as your father. Why is it that such honest folks should have so much trouble? To lose one’s wife and child; it is terrible!
• Tsugi.—It is our sad karma. So we just resign ourselves to it.
• Wife.—You say it is our sad karma, but it is exceedingly hard for us to have such misfortunes.
• Tsugi.—But fate is fate, so we must resign ourselves to it.
  (She finishes her supper, and moves away from the table.)
• Wife.—I am angry with this world. It seems a wicked and unjust world sometimes.
• Tsugi—(Going into the kitchen, washes up her dishes.) Why, Madam?
• Wife.—While I was making match-boxes to-day at the factory, I was thinking about the world in general, and I wished that I could be a match-box rather than a woman.
• Tsugi—Why? What an extraordinary thing to wish?
• Wife.—Nevertheless it is true, Miss Tsugi! It may be my karma, but so long as this world remains unjust, I would rather by far be a match-box!
• Tsugi—(Lauding softly) Ha, ha, ha!
• Wife.—Don’t laugh at me, Miss Tsugi. Match-boxes do not feel any hunger. Therefore they need not work, and are not scolded by the overseer. Theirs must be a very easy life indeed!
• Tsugi.—But, Madam, …
• Wife.—But what I say is true. Match-boxes are treated very carefully. If you visit my factory some time, you will find that we treat match-boxes as they treat the sons of noblemen. They are never put on the bare floor, and they must not be too dry, or too wet. We, who make these boxes, are very miserable. They are always finding fault with us, and we are always being scolded in the presence of others; “You are always dozing!” or “You are too talkative!” or “Your efficiency is very low.” I just hate the life! Why, in our factory, a mere match-box is thought far more of than a human being!
• Tsugi.—Is that really true?
• Wife.—If we could get enough to keep the life in us, none of us would ever go into such a place. We hunger and we thirst, and we cannot overcome it, so we must be fed, and so to get our daily food we must turn to, and be treated shamefully.
• Tsugi.—Yes, the hardest thing in life is to live.
  (A boy from a wine merchant’s shop comes in from the back door.)
• Boy.—Please excuse me, I am behind time.
• Tsugi.—Have you brought miso?
• Boy.—Yes, Miss; also some kindling wood and salt. (The boy seems to be peering intently under the floor at the door.)
• Tsugi.—What are you looking for? Have you lost something?
• Boy.—I am seeking for a dog.
• Tsugi.—Dog! Why, there is no dog here. There may be a few rats under the floor, but there is certainly no dog there!
• Boy.—It might come here, Miss.
• Tsugi.—If you play with dogs instead of hurrying with your rounds I will have to tell your master.
• Boy.—I don’t mind if you do, Miss.
• Tsugi.—O, what a naughty boy you are!
• Boy.—All the same, if I find it, it might bring me 500 yen.
• Wife.—What are you talking about? What is likely to bring you such a sum?
• Boy.—You know that big new brick house that belongs to a new rich? Well, a dog has run away from there, and the one who finds it is to receive 500 yen.
• Wife.—Shame on the owner I say! To spend 500 yen on a dog that has strayed is scandalous, when there are so many people these days suffering for want of food. If he can spend so much money on a dog, why doesn’t he spend it on the needy?
• Boy.—Yes, and they say that every day his dog is fed with the best beef that money can buy.
• Wife.—And his poor servants are fed on the cheapest Chinese rice, I daresay!
• Tsugi.—I think it is very wasteful to spend all that money on a dog.
• Wife.—But, my child, there is often much money where it is not needed. Those who do not want often have too much.
• Tsugi.—And some of us need it so badly, and we cannot get it. Oh, if only we had had enough money, I should never have lost my dear mother and brother.
• Wife.—I think that perhaps you are wrong there, Miss Tsugi. Very often the rich die young, because they are rich.
• Tsugi.—What is the reason?
• Boy.—Perhaps it is because they eat too much. Ha, ha, ha! (He puts his box on his shoulder quickly.) Good-bye, and many thanks. (He passes out of the door, shutting it behind him.)
• Wife.—Oh, I have been talking too long. I must go to the bath before you. If your father returns soon, please come, and I will see you again there.
• Tsugi.—Very well, I shall come presently.
• Wife.—Good-bye, then. (She goes out, looking up to the sky.) Oh, what a gloomy sky it is!
• Tsugi.—Is it raining again?
• Wife.—No, it is not raining, but it is very cloudy and dark. The weather is very uncertain during the cherry-blossom season. Goodbye, Miss Tsugi.
• Tsugi.—Good-bye. (After a short silence Koyama, the policeman, comes in from his office.)
• Tsugi.—Oh, Papa, you are back again. Will you change your clothes first, or will you have your supper? (She goes to get his kimono, which is hung from a hook on the wall.)
• Koyama.—I will have my supper first, for I feel very hungry.
• Tsugi.—Yes, your supper was interrupted by the sudden coming of that man, and I knew that you would be very hungry when you returned, so I kept it for you.
  (Tsugi pushes out the table again before Koyama, and fids his bowl with rice. Koyama begins his supper, with his back to the audience.)
• Tsugi.—Papa, has the woman who buried her baby been arrested?
• Koyama.—Not yet. It was only a little while ago that the corpse was found,—but I think that the criminal will soon be caught. Such a heartless wretch could not be allowed by God to escape.
• Tsugi.—Yes, Papa, you are right. To think that a life should be destroyed, when we so badly miss our little Ken-chan!
• Koyama.—The poor little baby was strangled to death with a towel perhaps. Its little throat was all bruised and blue.
• Tsugi.-Oh, what a cruel and wicked deed! Its murderer must have been heartless and vile.
• Koyama.—One who has never lost a dear one cannot understand what a joy and blessing it is to live. The man who kills his own child, even though it may be a new-born baby, must be a devil. The thought of arresting such a criminal makes my old body and nerves active again. Please give me a cup of tea.
• Tsugi.—Have you finished your supper?
• Koyama.—This pickled radish is a bit over-salted.
• Tsugi.—Yes, I know it is. Papa, you seem so tired. You had better go and take your bath now, and then go to bed.
• Koyama.—I don’t want to take one to-day. You had better go instead, for it is several days since you have been to the bath-house.
• Tsugi.—All right, I will go now.
• Koyama.—You had better go at once, for this neighbourhood is rather unsafe late in the evening, and I feel uneasy when you go out alone after dark.
• Tsugi.—Then I will go at once.
• Koyama.—Take care of yourself. (He takes a note-book from his pocket and begins to write in it.)
• Tsugi.—I will shut the back door, for it is safer, I think.
• Koyama.—(Still writing) Yes, please do.
• Tsugi.—(Stepping from the floored part of the kitchen, opens the shoji of the back door, and tries to shut the outer sliding door. Suddenly she cries out:) Oh!
• Koyama.—(Looking up in surprise) What ever is the matter?
• Tsugi.—There is someone here,—something—something black!
• Koyama.—Something black? (He rises quickly and goes to the back door.)
• Tsugi.—It seems to be moving to and fro, I fear—
• Koyama.—(Looking out of the door) There is nothing at all!
• Tsugi.—Yes, there is. Look there! (pointing).
• Koyama.—Yes, I see now. Someone is standing there. (He calls to the object in the dark outside.) Who is it? What do you want? (He seems not to have caught what is said from outside.) What? Do you say that you want to ask the way somewhere?
• The one outside.—No, I have something to ask you.
• Koyama.—To ask me?
• One outside.—Yes.
• Koyama.—Why were you standing so silently at the back door then?
• One outside.—Please excuse me, but I was rather uneasy about knocking at your door.
• Koyama.—You need not feel uneasy if you have nothing to fear. Please come round to the front door, if you have something to see me about.
• Koyama.—(To his daughter) I will shut the back door. You go to the bath at once.
• Tsugi.—Very well, Papa.
• Koyama.—Please be careful, and look after yourself; I feel rather anxious about your going alone. You had better take your umbrella, for it seems that it is going to rain.
• Tsugi.—Yes, Papa. (She opens the front door. There stands Asa Sugihara, a woman coolie. She looks timidly into the room.)
• Asa.—Excuse me, Miss, I have frightened you, I think?
• Tsugi.—Oh, never mind. I was a little startled at first when I saw your figure in the dark. Please come in.
• Asa.—(Enters the office very timidly. By her dress, it can be seen that she has just come from her work.)
• Tsugi.—Goodbye, Papa; I will soon be back. (Exit.)
• Koyama.—Was it you that was wanting to see me?
• Asa.—Yes.
• Koyama.—What is it you want, then?
• Asa.—(Presenting a box of cakes to Koyama) Will you kindly accept my poor present?
• Koyama.—I’m sorry, but I can’t accept it.
• Asa.—Oh,—then please give the cakes to your boy.
• Koyama.—I have no boy.
• Asa.—(Confused)—Well—then,—then—
• Koyama.—I really wish you would tell me your business quickly. What is it that you wish to ask me?
• Asa.—But I wish you would accept my present, for I have something particular to ask you.
• Koyama.—I will listen to what you have to say, but, as I told you before, I cannot on any account accept anything from you.
• Asa.—Perhaps your refusal is right,—
• Koyama.—You don’t seem to understand that an official cannot receive presents from any stranger. I am sorry, but please try to understand. Also please remember that I am not the man to be influenced by gifts. My duty is my duty and there it ends; so kindly state your business now.
• Asa.—(Very timidly) Well, then—
• Koyama.—Oh, please put that box down—what is it you want?
• Asa.—(After hanging her head for a while) Must we register with you when we have a child?
• Koyama.—Of course you must.
• Asa.—But supposing that child died soon after its birth,—is it still necessary to register in such a case, Sir?
• Koyama.—Even though the child is dead, you must of course report it.
• Asa.—But is it not the same as if the child were not born, if it died immediately after birth?
• Koyama.—Your supposition is entirely wrong.
• Asa.—Then you mean to tell me that we must register the child as born?
• Koyama.—Have you got your child?
• Asa.—(After a pause.) Yes, Sir.
• Koyama.—Why did you not report it until now?
• Asa.—Because we had no one to send.
• Koyama.—You could have asked your husband?
• Asa.—But I have no husband.
• Koyama.—Is he dead, then?
• Asa.—Yes.
• Koyama.—I’m sorry. Under the circumstances I will register the child’s birth for you, though it is behind time.
• Asa.—Must I really do it?
• Koyama.—Yes, of course you must do it. If you don’t, you will be punished by law.
• Asa.—(Hanging her head) I don’t know what to do. (She timidly picks up the box that she had laid down, and presents it to Koyama.) I ask you, I entreat you, Sir; can’t you make an exception this time, and pass over this matter for me?
• Koyama.—No, I cannot.
• Asa.—Sir, I don’t want to register, and I want to escape any punishment. For mercy’s sake, please try to settle the matter privately for me as I ask?
• Koyama.—(Suddenly seizing the arm of the woman) You have killed your child!
• Asa.—Oh, no! God forbid! I never, never could do such a——
• Koyama.—You lie! Why are you so afraid of registering your child if you are telling me the truth?
• Asa.—No, no, to kill my child—Oh, I tell you I am innocent!
• Koyama.—Then how did it die?
• Asa.—It died,—only died.
• Koyama.—It died? How? What happened that it should die?
• Asa.—It was ill—it was very ill,——
• Koyama.—Illness? When was it taken ill?
• Asa.—The day before yesterday.
• Koyama.—The day before yesterday? (Sternly to the woman) And what did you do with the corpse?
• Asa.—(Tries to shake herself free from his grasp, and to get out of the door.)
• Koyama.—You devil! (He runs after her and catches her, but as she seems strong, he throws her to the ground in his doorway, and binds her hands behind her with cord.)
• Asa.—What are you going to do with me? (She tries to fight against being bound, but he overcomes her.)
• Koyama.—What! So you are trying to fight me, are you? I must bind you. (He again continues to tie her arms and she struggles.)
• Asa.—If I am arrested—If you arrest me now— (She again struggles with Koyama.) Please! (Pathetically) Please!
• Koyama.—Silence! Keep still, I say, and cease your fighting!
• Asa.—(Reeling, as if faint, and overcome.) Oh, if I am arrested now—(She sinks to the floor weeping piteously.)
• Koyama.—(Tightening the cords behind her, so that she cannot escape) You impudent woman! You are a rascal! You tried to bribe me with the box of cakes, I say, you tried to—Hold up your head and listen to what I say!
• Asa.—(She remains silent, and rolls over on her face, crying.)
• Koyama.—Hold up your face, I say! (Seizing her by the collar, he forces her to lift her face.)
• Asa.—(Still silent, she lifts her face. Her eyes shine with a bitter light.)
• Koyama. Woman, why did you kill your child?
• Asa.—(Silent)
• Koyama.—You must tell me all about it. What made you commit such a cruel deed?
• Asa.—(She remains silent.)
• Koyama.—(He shakes her roughly.) Tell me, I say! Confess the truth!
• Asa.—(Rather shaken by his rough handling, falls in a heap, but still remains silent.)
• Koyama.—What an obstinate woman you are! Why don’t you answer me? You must answer my question?
• Asa.—(Still remains motionless, and silent.)
• Koyama.—You know that you are a criminal. You have committed adultery, for you said that you had no husband. Your child must be unlawful.
• Asa.—(Shakes her head sadly, but is still silent.)
• Koyama.—You lie again! You have committed this crime because you were at your wit’s end what to do. Answer me, who is the man? I command you to speak!
• Asa.—(Mumbles something unintelligible in a low voice.)
• Koyama. (Seeming to understand what she says) What! Not an unlawful child, you say? Your husband’s child!—But you told me a few minutes ago that you had lost your husband? What do you mean by lying?
• Asa.—(In a very low voice) It is quite true that he died, but it was only three months ago.
• Koyama.—Died three months ago? Then are you sure it was your husband’s child that you have killed?
• Asa.—(In a voice full of grief) Yes, Sir.
• Koayma.—Then you are more cruel than any beast. You are not a human being. To kill your own child! It is horrible! Have you no human love in you?
• Asa.—(She weeps silently and piteously.)
• Koyama.—Only the other day I lost my own child. He died of sickness. I grieve bitterly over my loss, so how could any woman with motherly instincts kill her own child?
• Asa.—The young are very precious indeed, Sir; I sympathize with you if you have lost your child, too.
• Koyama.—Don’t speak to me of sympathy, for it sounds unnatural from you.—You can’t possibly understand what it is to love one’s own child; your heart is too cruel to understand anything!
• Asa.—Sir, poor as I am, I have as much maternal love in me as any other woman.
• Koyama.—Then why did you kill your child, I say? You are only trying now to arouse my sympathy. You are trying to move me with false words. Answer me now truthfully. Why did you commit this crime upon your own flesh and blood?
• Asa.—(Weeping again) I killed it—out of pity. Sir! That is why I killed it!
• Koyama.—What! Out of pity, you say! Nonsense! If you had the maternal love you speak of, you would have cherished it and would have died yourself to save its precious life. What makes you say “Out of pity,” when you took its wee life?
• Asa.—Yes, what you say is right, Sir.
• Koyama.—Then, why did you do it? Tell me.
• Asa.—It is every parent’s duty to cherish and to care for her child. Every parent in the world does it, but—I cannot—I cannot do it, Sir.
• Koyama.—Why?
• Asa.—Why, Sir——
• Koyama.—Now, come; tell me all about it.
• Asa.—It would be no use telling you. Sir. It would be too much to tell——
• Koyama. Well, then, I will question you more slowly. You told me that your husband died three months ago. How did he die?
• Asa.—He died of illness, Sir.
• Koyama.—Died of illness?
• Asa.—Yes; he had a dreadful cough. One day he coughed up more than one sho of blood, and died. They say that he had some lung disease, but I don’t know——
• Koyama.—I see. Then, after that you became a woman coolie?
• Asa.—No, Sir; I have been working as a coolie for over a year.
• Koyama.—Then your husband has been ill all that time, and you had to work to help him?
• Asa.—He had been ill for a long time before that, Sir, but a year ago, he had to cease work, for he was too ill….
• Koyama.—And then you took his place?
• Asa.—Yes.
• Koyama.—You must have been in rather straightened circumstances then, eh?
• Asa.—Often we had nothing at all to eat for two or three days at a time. Worse than that, Sir; during that time, we lost two children.
• Koyama.—From the same disease?
• Asa.—Yes, they were always coughing up blood, and it was awful to see them suffer, for the blood in their throats nearly choked them. I often had to put my finger down to pull out great clots of blood so that they would not die.
• Koyama.—And so, during that one year and a half, you lost your husband and two children?
• Asa.—Yes.
• Koyama.—If what you tell me is true, then you should have been more careful in bestowing greater love on your last born.
• Asa.—Oh, yes, yes, I know you are right, Sir!
• Koyama.—Then, why did you kill it?
• Asa.—(Bursts loudly into tears again.)
• Koyama.—What is the matter now, woman?
• Asa.—(She again falls in a heap on the floor weeping.) Because you do not understand, Sir.
• Koyama.—Why?
• Asa.—It was far better to let it die than live. It was far more merciful to lose it, than for it to live and be tormented in this merciless world.
• Koyama.—Are you not crazy to talk in such a way?
• Asa.—No, Sir; I am sane. It is a terrible thing to let the sick linger and live on without being able to help them and to give them relief.
• Koyama.—But it is very sinful and cruel to kill a healthy child.
• Asa.—Yes, but I was sure that that child would grow up sick like the rest of them. Even now, the one that came before him lies in his bed deadly sick.
• Koyama.—But still, I cannot see any reason for taking its life.
• Asa.—Oh, I thought and thought many times before it was born. I even tried to bring on a miscarriage, but the attempt made me frightened, lest I should hurt my own body in the attempt. After it was born, I tried to kill it, but couldn’t at first. Before the child was born I thought how dear life was to me, for my present child was lying sick, and needed me. It must have attention, and so I allowed the child to be born naturally.
• Koyama.—You have someone looking after the child now?
• Asa.—Yes, an old man.
• Koyama.—Is that man too old to work?
• Asa.—Yes, Sir; therefore I had to go out to earn my rice. I had to work very hard, even to the day before my child was born. Poor as I am, that baby was very dear to me. Though I could not give it enough milk, it would smile and look up into my eyes, and it made me so happy that I often pressed it to my breast and kissed it
• Koyama.—Yes, I understand.
• Asa.—But I knew that, if I spent my time in caring for two children, we must all starve. I could not bear it, for the old man and the sick child must be cared for too.
• Koyama.—I see. So you killed the child, so that you could work.
• Asa.—Yes, the baby was a drag, and it prevented me from working.
• Koyama.—Now, I begin to understand …. Ah…. (He sighs.)
• Asa.—Oh, please forgive me, Sir.
• Koyama.—But you did not realise that once you had killed your child you would be punished?
• Asa.—Yes, I did think, but I was distracted ….
• Koyama.—Why did you destroy it in such a cruel way?
• Asa.—I could not help it.
• Koyama.—You could have given the child to someone else to to look after; many women would have been glad to take it from you.
• Asa.—Give it to someone else? How could I do such a thing without money? You know that there is no one that will take a child unless he gets money. Oh, how terrible it is to be so poor, and what misery it brings us, Sir! Although I killed my baby, I did not do it wickedly; I did it from the mercy that was in my heart. It nearly killed me to do it, I tell you. Oh, Sir, be merciful this time, and overlook my crime!
• Koyama.—Now you have told me the exact truth, I feel deeply for you, but I cannot overlook your crime,—it is my duty to arrest you, and bring you before justice.
• Asa.—Oh, I know it well; but for pity’s sake, spare me that, I beg you, Sir!
• Koyama.—It is impossible, especially now that the child’s corpse is found.
• Asa.—What? The baby found?
• Koyama.—Yes. You buried your baby in the bamboo thicket.
• Asa.—I am lost! (She falls down in grief and weeps.)
• Koyama.—All I can advise you now is to confess everything, and to tell the truth; that is the only way to lessen your penalty. What is your name? (He takes out a note-book and prepares to write.)
• Asa.—(Answers nothing, but only weeps silently.)
• Koyama.—You must answer, for it will be the worse for you if you don’t; what is your name?
• Asa.—(Still weeping) Asa is my name, Sir.
• Koyama.—(Writing in his book, goes on questioning calmly.) Your husband’s name?
• Asa.—Sugihara; Sadajiro Sugihara.
• Koyama.—He died three months ago, did you say? What was his calling?
• Asa.—A coolie, like myself.
• Koyama.—Residence,—the place where you live?
• Asa.—Shimo-Meguro.
• Koyama.—Shimo-Meguro in the village of Meguro, the county of Ebara, in a suburb of Tokyo. Yes—What is the number of your house?
• Asa.—Number 2-3-5-7.
• Koyama.—Number 2-3-5-7. Have you this house to yourself, or have you other people living with you?
• Asa.—We live alone.
• Koyama.—And when was the baby born?
• Asa.—On the tenth day of the month before last.
• Koyama.—That was the tenth of February. Was it a boy?
• Asa.—Yes.
• Koyama.—And the day on which you killed it?
• Asa.—(With a woeful expression) It was on the night of the day before yesterday.
• Koyama.—How did you kill it?
• Asa.—It happened that I was on the way home from my work, just as I am today. I was walking near Gyoninzaka, and the baby began to cry. It cried and cried, as if it were being burnt. I wanted to give it milk but I couldn’t. I did not know what to do.
• Koyama.—Why couldn’t you give it any milk?
• Asa.—Because I hadn’t any to give. Perhaps the food I had been having was too poor. I had been unable to nurse my child for some days before that.
• Koyama.—And?
• Asa.—I only had to let the child suckle my dry breast, for I could do nothing more.
• Koyama.—And then?
• Asa.—The baby went on crying;—I was desperate. Then at last it fell asleep through exhaustion from crying.
• Koyama.—It was then perhaps that you killed it?
• Asa.—(Remains silent.)
• Koyama.—And how did you do it? With a towel?
• Asa.—(Silent)
• Koyama.—What did you use when you killed it?
• Asa.—(Suddenly is taken violently ill with a fit of cerebral anaemia, and falls backwards. Koyama in great confusion bends to her assistance. Just then the door opens and Tsugi comes in.)
• Koyama.—Oh, you have just come back in time. Please help me at once!
• Tsugi.—Oh, Papa, whatever is the matter—yes, what can I do?
• Koyama.—This woman is ill. Let us carry her into our room. (He and Tsugi carry her gently into the sitting-room, laying her on the floor.) There is no need for a pillow; we must keep her head low. Put something under her legs and feet. (She puts a stool under the coolie’s feet, and takes off her straw sandals. Koyama brings a cup of water, and sprinkles her face and breast with it.)
• Tsugi.—Papa, you must unbind those cords. The poor thing is in a wretched condition.
• Koyama.—(Trying to untie the cords) Yes, she looks in a sorry plight.
• Tsugi.—(Rubbing her legs) It seems to me a rather distressing case, Papa.
• Koyama.—Why, my dear, have you listened to what she has been telling me?
• Tsugi.—Yes; but I stood outside, because I did not care to enter while the poor woman was telling you all that wretchedness.
• Koyama.—There are indeed many unfortunate people in this world.
• Tsugi.—Look, she seems to be coming to herself.
• Koyama.—Let her rest awhile. In spite of her weakness, she will soon be all right, and will be able to walk again. All the sorrow and suffering that she has gone through has caused her to take this fit.
• Tsugi.—Papa, will you really arrest this woman?
• Koyama.—Yes, I really must, my child, although I have committed precisely the same crime myself, for I let my wife and——
• Tsugi.—Don’t say that, Papa. It is not true.
• Koyama.—This woman killed her child; I also killed my wife and child. The only difference is this: she did it directly, and I did it indirectly.
• Asa.—(Suddenly sitting upright, and then standing) Yes, I see now; I was wrong. I killed it. I am to blame!
• Koyama.—Oh, you feel better? You have come to yourself?
• Asa.—Yes Sir, I am better now,—I don’t know what was the matter with me; but I have heard what you have said, and now I know that I was wrong, unpardonably wrong. In the future, I will do my utmost to do what is right, so for mercy’s sake pardon me, I say. (Noticing Tsugi) Oh, Miss; when I first came here tonight I frightened you a little—I am so sorry. I have committed a very wicked deed, and so I was too timid and frightened to enter your house. When you first saw me, I was striving hard to assume a nonchalant air, but it was impossible. And when I entered your father’s house, I became so frightened. My baby’s face haunts me night and day, and, wherever I go, I seem to see it. When I am at my work, helping to drive in a post for the foundation of some building, I feel that I am striking cruel blows on my darling’s head. I cannot stand it, and it makes me desperate. If I am arrested now, all will be lost; therefore I came to see your father, and to get his kind help and advice. (She look at her hands, and seeing the cords have been removed from her wrists) Sir, you are kind indeed to take those ropes from my wrists. Oh, Sir, how shall I ever be able to thank you enough? (She bows her head several times in gratefulness.)
• Koyama.—(Remains silent.)
• Asa.—(Turning to Tsugi) Miss, I am saved, saved! I am now saved from the worst that could happen to me. (Tsugi hangs her head because she cannot answer.) I only get one yen thirty sen a day, and it is little enough, but, as long as I can work, we can get along. (Turning to Koyama) Sir, again I thank you from the depths of my heart. You are a good and merciful man to have made me free.
• Tsugi.—Papa, she is so happy now, and surely you can do something?
• Koyama.—(Hangs his heard, looks serious, but does not answer.)
• Asa.—Oh, Sir, speak! Speak to me, and tell me what is to happen! … Then, I am to… Oh! (She falls to the floor weeping.) (There is a heavy silence for a few moments.)
• Asa.—(Still crying) Sir, please bind my arms again….
• Tsugi.—But, if my father arrests you now, you will be in great trouble?
• Asa.—I must resign myself to my sad fate … I am lost!
• Tsugi.—But …
• Asa.—All through my life I shall be bound. Unhappiness, poverty, and misfortune will bind me closer than these ropes; so it is all the same to me,—bind me again, I say …
• Tsugi.—But what will become of your sick child and the old man whom you look after and care for?
• Asa.—Oh, the thought of them drives me to despair, and … (She begins to weep again.)
• Koyama.—Will you not go to your house now and see your child? I can at least manage that for you.
• Asa.—Don’t ask me to do that, Sir; I cannot! If I see them now, I shall never be able to part from them again.
• Koyama.—Yes, it will be a very painful thing for you to see them, I realise fully.
• Asa.—(Rising a little, and looking at him) Sir!
• Koyama.—Yes?
• Asa.—I have one thing to ask you.
• Koyama.—What is it?
• Asa.—I have with me here what remains out of my wages. Please will you take this money to my house?
• Koyama.—Of course I will do what you ask.
• Asa.—Oh, thank you, Sir. Please take it for me and give it to the old man. (She hands her purse to the policeman).
• Koyama.—Please trust me. I will look after the money and will hand it to your family without fail.
• Asa.—Thank you kindly. Sir. (Silence for a few moments.)
• Asa.—Sir!
• Koyama.—Yes?
• Asa.—How many years shall I have to stay in prison?
• Koyama.—I am afraid that I cannot tell you exactly,—perhaps for four or five years. Perhaps in your particular case, if you tell the truth to the court, and tell them all you have told me, they may be merciful to you, and you may be allowed to return to your home, but that is not for me to say.
• Asa.—Oh, thank you for saying that. Sir. (Short silence again).
• Asa.—Sir.
• Koyama.—What is it?
• Asa.—May I ask you just one thing more?
• Koyama.—Yes, certainly.
• Asa.—You told me that they had found my baby. Where is it now?
• Koyama.—I sent the body to the district office.
• Asa.—Cannot I look at it again?
• Koyama.—No, it is better for you not to see it, I think.
• Asa.—Yes,—perhaps you are right.
• Koyama.—If you look at it, it will be harder for you to bear your trouble.
• Asa.—Yes… but, when I buried it and laid its little body in the hole, it seemed to look at me, and its eyes seemed to pierce me with a look of terror. Oh, when I think of it! … (A short silence.)
• Asa.—Sir, I implore you to bind my hands again at once.
• Koyama.—No, no; there is no need for it now.
• Asa.—(Bows slightly with a look of sad gratefulness to the policeman.)
• Koyama.—Now, Tsugi, I must go with this poor woman to the Police Court at once.
• Asa.—Yes, please take me as quickly as you can! (Koyoma goes away with Asa. Tsugi looks after them sadly and thoughfully. Outside the rain is heard, and a melancholy wind moans round the house.)

(The End)