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it makes me shudder!
    But it would be terrible if Mr. Husband heard about this, wouldn’t it?
    Be careful!
    Why do you sign your letters Sonoko?
    Why don’t you say “Your sister”?
    (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 I’ve been expecting for some time . . . it finally exploded.
    Last night was truly violent. If you’d been there, Mitsu, how it would have shocked you. My own husband and I—oh, forgive me for talking about us that way—that awful husband and I had our worst quarrel in ages. And not just in ages—in our whole married life! We’ve 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 I’m 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 novels—and as if that wasn’t enough, he accused you of being a home-breaker, of intruding into our bedroom. I could put up with his attacking me, but I couldn’t bear to hear him talk about my dear Mitsu.
    â€œIf I’m such a loose woman, why did you marry me?” I lashed out at him. “You’re no real man—did you marry a woman you despise just so her family would pay for your education? You knew what I was like, didn’t you? You’re a spineless coward!”
    All of a sudden he had grabbed up an ashtray, brandished it threateningly, and dashed it against the wall. But he didn’t dare touch me; he just turned pale and stood there glaring.
    â€œGo ahead and hit me—I don’t care what you do,” I taunted him, but even then he didn’t answer back. I haven’t spoken to him since.
    . . . Now I’d like to tell you more about the quarrel I described in that letter. Maybe I’m 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. It’s not that we’re incompatible, he said; you just won’t make an effort. Even though I’m trying my best, it’s impossible, with your attitude. There’s no such thing as a perfect marriage. That’s how it may look from outside, but do you suppose anybody has no complaints, if you really knew them? I wouldn’t be surprised if people envied us too; maybe we are happy, compared with most. You’ve been so spoiled by your sheltered upbringing that you expect too much, you don’t know how lucky you are. A person like you would never be satisfied, even if she had an ideal husband.
    That’s the kind of thing he kept saying, but his worldly-wise, know-it-all manner only provoked me all the more. “I don’t think you’ve ever felt deeply about anything ,” I told him scathingly. “A man like you is simply not human.” Maybe he was trying to get along with me, but our temperaments clashed.