That should wrap it up nicely, the eldest son thought, smiling to himself. It would also serve as a good admonition for the younger brothers and sisters. If it hadn’t been for this passage from Paul, his argument would have seemed incoherent, treacly, and conventional to a degree, and might even have invited the scornful laughter of the younger siblings. It had been a close call, and he gave thanks to Paul for helping him escape disaster. The eldest son never forgot to include a moral for the others. The moral, in fact, was his main concern, which was why he always grew overly serious, preventing the story from proceeding smoothly and turning it into a sermon. Being the eldest, he felt he had to be sober-minded at all times, and his sense of responsibility would not allow him to participate in the younger brothers and sisters’ nonsensical jesting.
At any rate, with this more or less superfluous lecture on morality, the eldest son had somehow managed to bring the story to a close within the appointed time. Today was the fifth day of the new year. The second son had recovered from his cold. It was shortly af
ter noon when the eldest left his study in high spirits and walked about the house informing the others that the story was complete and instructing them to gather in the drawing room. The grandfather joined them, grinning, and in a while the grandmother also suffered herself to be dragged into the room by the youngest son. The mother and Sato busied themselves heating up the brazier, preparing tea, serving confections, laying out sandwiches for lunch, and fetching a bottle of whiskey for the grandfather.
First the youngest son read his passage haltingly, embarrassed and distracted by the grandmother’s ejaculations of approval each time he paused for breath. In the confusion of the moment, the grandfather drew the whiskey bottle to his side, uncapped it, and began helping himself quite freely to the contents. The eldest son quietly whispered: “Grandfather, aren’t you overdoing it a bit?” But the grandfather replied in an even quieter whisper: “Any connoisseur knows you’ve got to be drunk to really enjoy a good romance.”
The youngest son, the elder daughter, the second son, and the younger daughter all read their contributions in turn, making use of a rich variety of dramatic vocal techniques, and then the eldest brother read his part in the sorrowful screech of someone delivering a fiery patriotic oration. The second son tried not to laugh but finally, unable to contain himself any longer, dashed out into the hall. The younger daughter displayed her absolute scorn for the eldest son’s literary talent by sarcastically feigning wide-eyed admiration and even applauding from time to time. She was, as has been noted, an impertinent thing.
By the time all of them had finished reading, the grandfather was more than a little drunk. “Bravo! Bravo! Very well done, all of you. The part by Rumi [the younger daughter] was especially good,” he said, singling out his favorite grandchild as usual. “However,” he continued, opening his bleary eyes wide and launching into an unexpected criticism. “It’s too bad you all concentrated on Rapunzel and the prince and scarcely touched upon the king and queen. Hatsué wrote a little bit about them, as I recall, but that wasn’t nearly enough. The only reason the prince and Rapunzel were able to get married in the first place, and the only reason they managed to live happily ever after, was because of the king and queen’s generosity. If they had been less tolerant and understanding, no matter how deeply Rapunzel and the prince loved each other, it would have all been for nothing. The story’s incomplete if you ignore the magnanimity of the king and queen. You kids are young yet. You concentrate only on the prince and Rapunzel’s love and don’t notice the forces behind the scenes that make it all possible. You’ve still got a lot to learn. Look at Victor Hugo, for example. I’ve been a fan of Hugo’s works for years, ever since Shinnosuke, your father, recommended them to me. Now there’s an author who overlooks nothing. Old Victor Hugo would never—”
His voice had risen to a near shout when his wife cut him off.
“What sort of nonsense are you babbling?” she snapped. “Just when the children are enjoying themselves!”
The grandfather was not only sharply reprimanded but relieved of his whiskey bottle. Though his critique may have had its merits, the manner in which he’d presented it had been decidedly less than tactful, and no one rose to support him. They all looked on in stony silence. When a dejected shadow fell over the old man’s face, however, the mother, who couldn’t bear to see him like that, quietly handed him the famous silver-coin medal. She’d been awarded the medal on New Year’s Eve, when she’d paid off a certain small debt the grandfather had secretly incurred.
“Grandfather’s going to bestow the medal on the person who did the best job,” she announced, smiling, to the children.
This, obviously, was a means by which she hoped to perk up the old man’s spirits, but he, with an untypically somber expression on his face, shook his head and said: “No. No, I’m going to give it to you, Miyo [the mother]. It’s yours permanently now. Promise you’ll always take good care of these fine grandchildren of mine.”
The brothers and sisters were all quite moved. It seemed to them a very special honor indeed.