Cherry Blossoms and The Magic Flute
(Hazakura to mateki)
Osamu Dazai

"When the cherry blossoms have scattered and the trees are adorned with green leaves like this, I'll surely be reminded of those memories." the old lady said.
--The story of her unfolded.

My father was still alive at the time, and my mother had passed away seven years earlier when I was 13. We did not have a suitable house to rent, so we rented two rooms in a separate building at a temple that stood alone on the outskirts of town near the mountains. I lived there until I transferred to a junior high school in Matsue in my sixth year.

I got married after I came to Matsue in the fall when I was 24, which was considered very late at that time. My mother died early in life, and my father was a stubborn scholar who was not adept at worldly affairs. I had many offers to marry into other families, but I could not bring myself to abandon my home and marry someone else.

If only my younger sister had been healthy, I would have been a little more at ease, but she was not like me. She was very beautiful, had long hair, and was quite capable and pretty, but her body was weak. In the spring of my second year in the castle town, when I was 20 and she was 18, she passed away. This is a story about those days.

My sister had been in poor health for a long time. She had a terrible disease called renal tuberculosis, and by the time it was discovered, both of her kidneys had already been severely damaged. The doctors clearly told my father that she would die within a hundred days. One month passed, then two months, and as the 100th day approached, we could only watch helplessly.

My sister, who knew nothing and was relatively well, was bedridden all day, but she still sang cheerfully, joked with me, and doted on me. When I thought that in just thirty or forty days, she would die—it was certain, it was decided—my chest tightened, and I felt an agonizing pain throughout my body as if pierced by needles. It drove me to the point of madness. March, April, May, yes. I will never forget that day in mid-May.

The fields and mountains were a vibrant green, so warm that I wanted to strip naked. The fresh greenery was dazzling to my eyes, which burned brightly as I walked in agony. A faint yet frighteningly vast and dreadful noise echoed constantly, as if rising from the depths of the spring soil, from hundreds of millions of different earths, like a great, loud drum beating in the depths of hell. I thought I must have truly lost my mind. I just stood there, my body stiff, and then suddenly, "ah!" said, I couldn't stand and sat down on the grass, crying out.

I later learned that the terrifying and mysterious sound was the boom of a warship's cannon during the Battle of the Sea of Japan. Under Admiral Togo's command, we were in the midst of a fierce fight to destroy the Russian Baltic Fleet in one fell swoop. It was around that time.
Navy Anniversary Day will come again this year.
The sounds of cannon fire could be heard in the coastal castle town, and the townspeople must have felt they had no reason to live. I sat in the meadow for a long time, weeping without lifting my face. When the sun was setting, I finally got up and returned to the temple in a daze.

My sister was calling out to me, "Hey, Sis!" She seemed to know that she did not have much longer to live, and she was no longer so demanding and indulgent, which pained me even more.

She asked, "Hey, when did this letter arrive?" I felt a sudden jolt in my heart and was acutely aware that the blood had drained from my face.

"When did it come? " My sister appeared unmoved. I tried to regain my composure. "Just a few minutes ago. While you were asleep. You were laughing as you dozed off. I secretly placed it under your pillow. You didn't know, did you?"

"Oh no, I had no idea." She laughed beautifully in the dim room, where evening had nearly fallen, and said, "I read this letter, Sis. It's strange. I don't know him."

There is no way she doesn't know him. I knew the letter's sender, a man named M.T. I knew him. I knew him well. No, I had never met him, but five or six days prior, when I was quietly going through my sister's drawers, I found a bundle of letters hidden in the back of one drawer, tightly bound with a green ribbon. I knew it was wrong, but I untied the ribbon and took a look. About 30 letters, all from Mr. M.T. I found a letter at the front of the bundle.
However, M.T.'s name was not written on the envelopes. It was written inside the letters. On the envelopes, there were various women's names as senders, all names of my sister's friends. For this reason, neither my father nor I had even imagined that she was corresponding with so many men.

This M.T. must have been very cautious, as he must have obtained the names of many of her friends from my sister and sent letters one after another using those numerous names. I was secretly appalled at the audacity of these young people and shuddered to think what would happen if my strict father found out. Even though, as I read through each letter in chronological order the sheer silliness made me chuckle to myself at times, by the end, I felt as though a vast, wide world was opening up even to me.

I had just turned 20 at the time and, as a young woman, was going through a great deal of unspeakable suffering. I read through the 30 or so letters as if they were rushing down a valley, and when I was about to read the last one from the previous fall, I couldn't help but stand up. I was so struck by the shock, as if hit by thunder and lightning, that I couldn't remain seated. I was so stunned that I nearly lost consciousness. The love between the sisters was not merely of the heart. It was far uglier. I burned the letters, every single one of them. M.T. seemed to be a poor poet who lived in the castle town, and in one of his letters, he wrote that he had abandoned my sister upon learning of her illness and that they should forget each other. Since it seemed that he hadn't sent a single letter since then, if I had not told anyone about it, my sister would have died as a beautiful maiden. I felt even more sorry for her now that I knew this fact, and various strange fantasies came to my mind. Only a woman her age could understand such pain. I suffered alone, as if I had experienced such sorrow myself. At that time, I was truly a little mad myself.

“Sis, please read this. I have no idea what it’s about.”
I despised my sister's dishonesty with all my heart.

"May I read it?" I whispered, my fingers trembling perplexingly as I took the letter from my sister. Even without opening it, I already knew the words written inside. However, I had to maintain a nonchalant expression while reading it. I read the letter aloud without examining it carefully.

The letter said, "I apologize to you today. The reason I have been so patient and did not write to you until now is entirely due to my lack of confidence. I am poor and incompetent. I cannot do anything for you on my own. I am so tired of my own inability to do anything other than prove my love for you with words, words that do not lie in the slightest. I have never forgotten you, not even for a day, not even in my dreams. But I cannot do anything for you. That's why I felt it was so hard that I decided to say goodbye to you. The greater your unhappiness, the deeper my love for you, the more difficult it is for me to get close to you. Do you understand?
I am not saying anything deceitful. I interpreted it as my own sense of righteous responsibility. But I was wrong. I was clearly wrong. I apologize. I was just being selfish, trying to be a perfect person to you.

I now believe that since we are so lonely and helpless, and since there is nothing else we can do, it is a true, humble, and beautiful way to live that we should at least give you our words with sincerity. I believe that we should always strive to accomplish this to the best of our ability. It doesn't matter how small it is. I believe it is the most courageous and manly attitude to give even the smallest gift of a dandelion flower without shame. I will not run away anymore. I love you. I will compose a song and send it to you every day. Then, day after day, I will whistle it for you outside your garden fence. Tomorrow night at six o'clock, I will whistle for you right away. You know, My whistling is good. That's all I can do for now.Please do not laugh at me. No, please laugh. Please always stay healthy and happy. God is watching somewhere. I believe that. You and I are both God’s chosen child. I am sure we will have a beautiful marriage.

Waiting, waiting, longing for spring,
Peach blossoms blooming, pure and white.
Yet whispers reached me, colors bright,
Not white, but red, a marvelous sight.

I am studying. Everything is going well. See you tomorrow.
Sincerely,
M.T."

"Sis, I know what's going on," my sister murmured in a clear voice. "Thank you, sister, I know this is your writing."

I was so embarrassed that I wanted to tear the letter into a thousand pieces and pull out my own hair. I guess that's what "I can't stand it anymore" means. I wrote it. I was going to write a letter every day, imitating M.T.'s handwriting, until the day she died, and compose poor waka poems with great effort. Then, at six o'clock in the evening, I would sneak outside the wall and whistle.

I was embarrassed. Writing such a clumsy poem, it was truly embarrassing so that I couldn't even respond right away.
"There's nothing to worry about, sis."
She smiled, strangely serene and sublimely beautiful.
"I believe you came across the letter secured with that green ribbon, right? That letter was a lie. I was so lonely that since last fall, I had been writing those letters myself and mailing them to myself. Don't make fun of me, sister. Youth is a very important thing. I have come to understand that since I became ill. Writing a letter to myself, all by myself, is dirty. It's mean. It's stupid. I really should have played boldly with men. I wanted him to hold my body tightly. Sis, I had never even talked to a man before, and I certainly had never been in a romantic relationship. You're just like me, sis. We were wrong. We were too clever. Oh, I can't stand dying. My hands, my fingertips, my hair - they're all so pitiful! I hate the very idea of death. No, no, no, I really do!"

I was so overwhelmed with sadness, fear, joy, and embarrassment that I couldn't comprehend what was happening. I pressed my cheek firmly against my sister's thin cheek and gently held her in my arms as tears began to flow.
Then, ah, I could hear it. It was low and faint, but it was the whistling of the warship march. My sister also strained her ears. I glanced at the watch and saw that it was six o'clock. We held each other tightly and, without even moving our bodies, in a state of indescribable fear, listened to the mysterious march coming from the depths of the leafy cherry trees in the garden.

God is real. Surely, He is there. I have come to believe it.
My sister passed away three days after that day. The doctor was perplexed. I suppose it was because she died so quietly and quickly. But I was not surprised. I believed that everything was God's will.

Now, I am ashamed to confess that as I get on in years, my worldly desires and greed only seem to increase. Perhaps my faith has diminished a little. At that time, after returning home from his work at the school, I occasionally wonder if my father, who was very strict and stern, might have played the fool of a lifetime when he overheard us talking in the next room, taking pity on us. However, I can't believe he would do such a thing. If my father were still alive, I could ask him about it, but it has been about 15 years since he passed away. No, I think it must have been a blessing from God.

I would like to believe that and feel at peace, but as I age, my worldly desires increase, and my faith diminishes. It's a pity, the way time erodes one's devotion.