it makes me shudder!
But it would be terrible if Mr. Husband heard about this, wouldnât it?
Be careful!
Why do you sign your letters Sonoko?
Why donât you say âYour sisterâ?
(May 18, from Sonoko to Mitsuko. Envelope length, 5 inches; width, 2 7/8 inches. The design is crosswise on a crimson ground dotted in a silver splash pattern: above the tips of three large cherry blossom petals appears the upper half of a maiko dancing girl, seen from the back. This is an exceptionally rich five-color print of crimson, purple, black, silver, and blue; and the address is on the other side, since any writing on the face would be difficult to read. As for the letter itself, a sheet of paper 8½ by 5½ inches bears an almost 10-inch-long design of a white lily with a curved stem stretching off to the left, against a shaded border of faint pink, leaving only a third of the space ruled. Minute, delicate handwriting, its characters smaller than 8-point type, covers the page.)
It finally happened, what Iâve been expecting for some time . . . it finally exploded.
Last night was truly violent. If youâd been there, Mitsu, how it would have shocked you. My own husband and Iâoh, forgive me for talking about us that wayâthat awful husband and I had our worst quarrel in ages. And not just in agesâin our whole married life! Weâve had our differences before, but never a shouting match like the one last night. To think that a mild, docile man like that can get utterly furious! But I suppose it was natural, now that I think of it. I really did say some terrible things. Why am I so stubborn when Iâm with him? And why was I especially strong-minded last night? . . . Not that I feel I was in the wrong. That man himself behaved outrageously, calling me a loose woman, shameless, corrupted by reading trashy novelsâand as if that wasnât enough, he accused you of being a home-breaker, of intruding into our bedroom. I could put up with his attacking me, but I couldnât bear to hear him talk about my dear Mitsu.
âIf Iâm such a loose woman, why did you marry me?â I lashed out at him. âYouâre no real manâdid you marry a woman you despise just so her family would pay for your education? You knew what I was like, didnât you? Youâre a spineless coward!â
All of a sudden he had grabbed up an ashtray, brandished it threateningly, and dashed it against the wall. But he didnât dare touch me; he just turned pale and stood there glaring.
âGo ahead and hit meâI donât care what you do,â I taunted him, but even then he didnât answer back. I havenât spoken to him since.
. . . Now Iâd like to tell you more about the quarrel I described in that letter. Maybe Iâm repeating myself, but my husband and I were basically incompatible; it seemed to be physiological too. We never enjoyed a happy marital life. According to him, I was too self-centered. Itâs not that weâre incompatible, he said; you just wonât make an effort. Even though Iâm trying my best, itâs impossible, with your attitude. Thereâs no such thing as a perfect marriage. Thatâs how it may look from outside, but do you suppose anybody has no complaints, if you really knew them? I wouldnât be surprised if people envied us too; maybe we are happy, compared with most. Youâve been so spoiled by your sheltered upbringing that you expect too much, you donât know how lucky you are. A person like you would never be satisfied, even if she had an ideal husband.
Thatâs the kind of thing he kept saying, but his worldly-wise, know-it-all manner only provoked me all the more. âI donât think youâve ever felt deeply about anything ,â I told him scathingly. âA man like you is simply not human.â Maybe he was trying to get along with me, but our temperaments clashed.