Pathway to Japanese Literature

The train stopped.
I could read kana characters spelling "Kashiwazaki" on the gas lamp.
I hurried with preparations to disembark.
Three or four station workers walked through without calling out the station’s name.
The sound of shoes clack-clacked as they simply walked through.
The passengers each opened their train doors and disembarked.

With their weather-worn clogs clattering, three female passengers began walking ahead of me.
Four or five masculine-looking passengers came out from behind again.
When I glanced at my watch, it was 9:20.
I hurried out through the ticket gate without hesitation, but the night was unexpectedly dark.
Plunging abruptly into the pitch-dark night, I couldn’t immediately set foot on the path I should take.

The male and female passengers who had just exited the ticket gate together vanished into the darkness like shadows in an instant.
Left alone at the station where the eaves lantern cast its dull and dim light, I could not help standing there in a daze for some time.
As if he had emerged from nowhere, a rickshaw driver appeared before me before I knew it.

“Where to, sir?”
“I’ll take you for cheap—please have a seat.”
He was a rickshaw driver with a weak, thin voice and an air of profound loneliness.
Being in an unpleasant mood, I ignored him and made for the waiting room.
I needed to check tomorrow’s departure time and send an urgent postcard to my friend in Naoetsu.

The whistle shrilled sharply.
A steam whistle answered as the train began moving into the darkness.
Dragging a long hollow echo behind it, the night train raced toward Nagaoka.

This was the third time I had gotten off at this station that night, but in such pitch darkness I could hardly tell east from west.
It was only a short distance, but with no alternative, I resolved to take the rickshaw and suddenly called out to stop the driver who had begun leaving.
The wind began blowing fiercely as rain-heavy clouds loomed ready to burst.
When I looked at the rickshaw driver holding out a lantern over his vehicle and urging me aboard, his face appeared utterly lifeless.
A pale round visage—he seemed about twenty-five or twenty-six yet bore no semblance of health.
I felt profound pity.
That he had a wife and children at home suffering through hardship was etched plainly across his features.
In this moment when loneliness too coiled within my chest, his presence amplified my traveler’s unease beyond measure.

I remained silent; the rickshaw driver remained silent.
Passing five or six blocks of indistinct land—whether they were rice paddies or fields—and traveling through a dimly lit town for about thirty minutes, the rickshaw driver slowed his vehicle.

“This area would be Yotsuya Town, but…”

“I see. Though I’ve actually come to this house twice before myself—with it being this dark late at night, I can’t tell at all.
“It’s a house with high wooden fences—there should be a gas lamp with ‘Okamura’ on it at the gate.”

After some time, I finally figured it out.
When I got down and looked, there was indeed a gate structure I recognized; not a single house in the vicinity had its front open.
To the rickshaw driver, in addition to the fare he had mentioned, I gave a small tip.
The rickshaw driver repeated with deliberate emphasis, “Thank you kindly.”

Wondering apprehensively if they had already gone to bed, he placed a hand on the sliding door and opened it carelessly.
The door swung open easily, but his steps dragged.

Under normal circumstances, having arrived at the house of the friend I had come to visit, I ought to have felt relieved—Ah, finally!—yet strangely, waves of anxiety churned in my chest, and now that I was here, I found myself regretting having come at all. Even to myself, I could not fathom why. However, in this moment, there was no time to interpret this sudden surge of anxiety. My limbs and body, controlled by some incomprehensible will, entered through the lattice door.

A light shifted in one of the rooms.
The upper part of the shoji screen turned red.
At the same time, the shoji screen slid open, and Okamura appeared holding a Western-style lamp in one hand.

“Oh, you’re terribly late! I thought you’d come on the seven o’clock train.”

“I know—I hadn’t meant to be this late either. Well…I must apologize for startling you so late at night…”

“Well, come on in, please.”

With that, Okamura—still holding the Western-style lamp in his hand—guided me from the formal guest room at the entrance to a narrow tatami room next door that could be called a tea room.
I was pulled into an unexpected place, and the anxiety of my unsettled heart grew even stronger.
The seating was terribly uncomfortable.
Looking around, I saw shelves containing dishes close at hand.
An iron kettle was hanging over the long brazier.
It was the room adjacent to the kitchen where the family normally ate their meals.

This was exceedingly rude, and as a hot surge welled up inside me, it took considerable effort to pretend to be unperturbed.

“What about dinner?
“I had it ready, but you were just too late—”

“Yeah, I’ve come.”
“I’ve already had dinner with a train bento.”

“I see. Then you go take a bath for a bit.”
“I’ll make some tea properly later. Hey, bring out those rice dumplings.”

Okamura busied himself preparing the tea.
I hurriedly took a bath.
Okamura placed a square tea tray beside the brazier and prepared tea while waiting.
Seated before a tea tray of the sort one would only find at a Tokyo beef hot pot or eel restaurant, I kept telling myself that Okamura meant no harm—that his carefree nature and lingering youthful thoughtlessness kept him oblivious to how he’d wounded the feelings of a guest who’d traveled so far. Yet somewhere deep within me, an irrepressible resentment seethed.

I had intended to sit down and exchange proper greetings after our long separation, but Okamura never gave me the opportunity.
As I sat somewhat dazed,

“Since the tea will get cold, please go ahead and drink it.”
“Hey, can’t you bring it here quickly?”

The house was quiet, and there was no answering voice.
Okamura, perhaps to use the restroom, stood up and went into the back.
Greetings were naturally omitted.
When I think about it, I do recall that even when I came the year before last and before that, we didn’t exchange formal greetings. However, Okamura is now undoubtedly over thirty.
I am nearing forty.
Yet despite both being established men with families—if you could call it open-heartedness, you might—Okamura was by no means a man of open-hearted disposition.
Even so, Okamura’s family was of distinguished samurai lineage, and I had heard they held an upper-class status even in this region.
I wondered if Okamura interacted with the locals in this manner as well.
Having traveled a hundred ri to visit a friend who shared my interests, only to grow bored so quickly, I fumbled in my sleeve out of sheer restlessness and lit a cigarette I didn’t even like.
Okamura, who had come out holding some sweets or something,

“Do you smoke nowadays? I thought you didn’t smoke.”

“Well, I do—just some trivial indulgence of mine.”
“Speaking of which, I hear you’ve had another child—a boy this time. Congratulations—that’s auspicious news, isn’t it?”

“Oh, thank you.”
“And thank you for that thoughtful letter back then.”

“People change so quickly.”
“When one’s life steps onto a certain staircase, it proceeds without hesitation—astonishing, really.”
“But they enjoy the present circumstances of each moment and press on.”
“Those who follow life’s natural course are fortunate.”

“It would be fine if I were making progress, but merely having more children hardly counts as progress—how dreary.”
“But children are certainly adorable.”
“Having them really does change your outlook.”
“Since this one’s a boy, Father’s been rejoicing all by himself.”

“When I came two years ago, you were newly married—a dreamlike time—but a couple with two children must have a different sort of charm.”

“Hey, still not ready?”

Okamura barked.
There was no answering voice, but the sound of wooden clogs echoed from the kitchen’s earthen floor.
The sliding door beside the brazier opened.
A woman with a heavily powdered, pale face extended her hands from a half-crouch and placed two plates of rice dumplings on the tea tray.
I recognized her as his wife, but since this was our first meeting, I waited for Okamura to make the introductions—yet he remained utterly nonchalant.
His wife, half-rising from her seated position, began a formal greeting toward me; though her words were unclear, the ceremoniousness of her manner had me flusteredly performing the customary greeting of a first meeting.
I simply could not see her as a wife with two children.

“Yashiro, please help yourself.”
“They’re not particularly tasty, but I was told they’re Nagaoka’s special rice dumplings.”

“Is it because they’re made differently? I absolutely love these things.”
“I’ll gladly have plenty!”

“In other places, they knead rice flour and wrap it neatly in bamboo leaves, but here we wrap the rice directly in the leaves and steam it, so when you remove the leaves, it ends up looking something like Tokyo’s ohagi rice cakes.”

“Hmm, fascinating. These are delicious.”
“From their very name alone, I’ve always been fond of rice dumplings—it’s not so much that they taste good, but even just seeing them fills me with an inexplicable nostalgia.”
“First, the traditional tale behind them is deeply poetic, and the season itself is this refreshing time of young leaves—and whether it’s how they’re made or how they look, doesn’t it all embody the unadorned hearts of simple people?”
“The feeling of breathing in the scent of steamed bamboo leaves mingling with their light flavor—it’s an indescribable pleasure.”

“That’s what someone from Tokyo would say.”
“It’s nothing rare for those of us living in the countryside.”

“That’s not it at all. How could someone from Tokyo possibly understand this kind of taste?”

“Even country folk don’t understand the kind of refined tastes you’re going on about.”
“Whatever the case—don’t be greedy and just take plenty.”

“Perhaps it’s what they call rustic charm—or maybe an ethereal flavor.”
“Somehow, this feels utterly natural, as if detached from worldly concerns—don’t you think?”
“Whenever I enter a sweet flag bath and eat rice dumplings, I always become unbearably happy about this country called Japan.”

Okamura laughed and

“If someone like you gets excited about everything from the start, then anything becomes interesting—but Mr. Yashiro, getting all worked up over tastes like rice dumplings is just outdated, isn’t it?”

“Ha ha ha ha! I must say, this is rather humbling.”
“To receive such an unexpected reprimand—and in such an unexpected place.”
“Okamura-kun, making a fuss about being behind or ahead of the times is what greenhorns without self-awareness or clear convictions say.”

“Call me greenhornish if you will, but read a few new books and you’ll lose all taste for rustic dumplings.”

“Precisely—since mere knowledge can’t grasp true taste, reading new books would naturally leave you blind to their charm.”

Okamura offered an unpleasant, icy smile that met my gaze before his dull eyes drifted back to the tea tray.

“Though perhaps it’s rather uncouth,” he said, “to accept hospitality only to disparage it.”
“Ha ha ha ha!”

“They’re hardly worth the trouble, but since I set them aside for you, I’d be content if you’d just praise them and eat.”
“There’s plenty—help yourself generously if it pleases you.”

When I spoke with added intensity, the Okamura before me now was not the Okamura of his Tokyo days. His words held neither heat nor strength. Without thinking, I looked at Okamura’s face and felt pity for this absence of fervor. Okamura abruptly cut in—

“People like you who play at literature shouldn’t cling to outdated ideas, should you?”

Like a parrot mimicking human speech—if he kept saying such things, then Okamura was truly beyond hope, I thought to myself as—

“This has gotten complicated.”
“When you say such things, you seem to grasp them superficially, but in truth, it’s what someone who doesn’t understand them at all would say.”
“Forgive my bluntness, but haven’t you mistaken this aping of the West—this peddling of Western literary trends—for what you call the spirit of our times?”
“In that case, what you’re talking about isn’t the era of the Japanese people, nor is it their spirit.”
“It is not that we become people of the era; we are the era itself.”
“How could there possibly be an era outside of ourselves?”
“Our spirit, our tastes—that is precisely the spirit of the era, the taste of the era!”

No—it’s not like I’m saying anything grand.
I’m not saying this out of arrogance.
As long as you have an ordinary mind and use it adequately, there’s no way you could fall behind the times.
“If you were to state it bluntly, the notion of whether one might be falling behind the times is likely nothing more than the thinking of those who have strayed from the era’s center.”

The resentment smoldering deep within his gut had, without his realizing it, fanned the flames of his fervor, leading him to speak far more harshly than intended.
At my excessively blunt words, Okamura seemed utterly taken aback.
He silently stared at my face.
I also felt somewhat awkward—it wouldn’t do to accept hospitality only to speak ill of it.
“My bad! My bad!”
With this, he tried to smooth things over.
Even the usually calm Okamura wore a cold, wry smile on his face, yet remained as robustly cheerful as ever.

“When someone like me stays in the countryside, removed from what you call the center of the times—well, we don’t understand anything.”
“Anyway, you’re being too rude here.”
“You come over here.”
With this, Okamura took a lamp in one hand and went ahead.
While murmuring “Ah, right,” I too rose to follow.
It wasn’t that I had spoken with deliberate scorn toward Okamura, but realizing he might have taken it that way made me feel terribly sorry.
And so I suddenly grew quiet and followed behind.

Passing through the inner corridor, turning right along the outer veranda, crossing a plank about three feet long from the dead end to the left, I arrived at a detached guest room in a corner of the garden. Though I couldn’t make out anything in the late-night darkness, having been put up there twice before—last year and the year before—coming here felt somehow nostalgic. Perhaps because the door was usually left unopened, the familiar musty smell of stagnant air filled the room.

“Since there’s no maid, you can see we can’t keep up with cleaning.”
“To be honest, I wanted to notify Shibukawa and Sugino about your visit too, but without a maid…”
Okamura spoke as if making excuses while placing the lamp by the floorboards, even handling tasks one would expect his wife to do.
He fetched a broom from the adjacent room, swept only the center of the tatami floor with brisk strokes, then laid out cushions for me.
With that, he departed.

Two days before coming here from Niigata, I had sent a letter to Shibukawa in Kashiwazaki. If Shibukawa came as instructed, he would arrive here around ten tomorrow—but given how things stood, I regretted having told him at all. Still, I tried sitting cross-legged on the cushion. Was it my imagination, or did some unnatural dampness make my hips rest uneasily? My nerves had always been oversensitive in such matters. Did they see me as a nuisance now? This wasn’t like my visits last year or the year before. Their hospitality felt like mere obligation—tolerating me because I’d forced my presence upon them. I shouldn’t have come—this was a proper disaster. Before I knew it, a sigh escaped me.

Isn't Okamura being unreasonable? When I told him I'd visit, he sent such an earnest reply saying he'd eagerly await me—even suggesting you should decorate with antique pieces you like while waiting! Yet his own father spoke so warmly last year—and here I am after traveling a hundred ri! Even if I'm imposing, it's just for a night or two at most. I simply can't make sense of it. What could have happened to everyone in the house? His father, his mother—and Oshige—have they all gone to bed already? Oshige must certainly not be here at home. If she were here, she'd never let them make me feel this wretchedly unwelcome. That's right—Oshige must absolutely not be here.

I sat huddled alone in the eight-mat room with only the lamp for company, my thoughts scattered and my spirits sinking into a muddle of loneliness, stifling discomfort, and bitter frustration.
Like a complete fool with my mind gone numb, I unconsciously muttered again, "I never should've come to this place!"
Amidst this self-reproach—not even considering what Okamura might be doing—the clinking sound of mosquito net rings announced Okamura's arrival with his wife leading the way, carrying nighttime provisions.
I rose to my feet and greeted them at the entrance,

“It’s quite an imposition to trouble you so late at night,” I said.
“You don’t seem to have any mosquitoes here at all.”
“Compared to Tokyo, it feels much cooler.”

“Hmm, tonight’s rather cool,” he replied.
“Still can’t do without a mosquito net.”
“They’ll come out if you close the door.”

His wife withdrew.
Okamura hung the net himself.
I laid out my own futon.
We lingered outside the netting, exchanging superficial updates about Tokyo acquaintances—nothing beyond routine news.
“You must be exhausted—best get some sleep,” he said.
With that parting remark, Okamura left like an innkeeper who’d finished registering a guest—polite small talk dispensed before retreating behind professional courtesy.

I watched his retreating figure and realized—as if only now—how he had changed as a person. The passion of his youth—such things were now entirely absent from him. Even if he remembered the names of old friends, the sentiments of friendship had likely vanished from him. To put it bluntly, he had completely shed his scholarly disposition. He had become an ordinary human father.

What a relief, I thought; visiting him as an old friend had been a mistake.
I was considered a bother, yet I hadn't even thought to get angry.
With these thoughts, all the congestion in my chest dissipated completely.
At the same time, he—as an old friend—delighted in happiness without ambition.

If one speaks of desires, there's no end to them.
It was unreasonable to expect anyone and everyone to maintain superhuman diligence.
Having children, accumulating wealth, becoming a comfortable townsman—this couldn't be denied as life's ideal.
For him, now an ordinary human father, to pity his own circumstances—wouldn't that be presumptuous overreach?
"Well, I should get some sleep," I thought, and as I went to close the storm shutters, I felt the refreshing coolness of the night air and lingered in the doorway a while longer.

The wind calmed.
Though cloudy，the moon seemed to have risen，the clouds faintly glowing white，allowing the garden’s outlines to be dimly discerned．
In the narrow garden—the scent of groves pressing against the eaves，the scent of moss—I，nearly forgetting reality，found myself gazing at the dimly visible garden．

The sound of the North Sea’s waves; a ceaseless rumble like the collapse of something; the feeling of being far from home surged abruptly in my chest.

Not a single cough came from the main house.
The entire world had fallen silent in sleep.
I couldn't bring myself to sleep.
Like one starving who has yet to eat, I found no peace in this mental frailty born of sharp dissatisfaction.

I recalled the listless, pitiful rickshaw driver.
I remembered the loneliness I had felt when passing through this house’s gate.
Then, each and every one of Okamura’s mannerisms that had left me dissatisfied came back to mind.

What’s become of Oshige? She doesn’t seem to be here now.
Okamura has not yet told me anything about his sister.
I—who had desperately wanted yet ultimately refrained from asking whether Oshige was safe—lost myself in solitary thought and could no longer endure this growing sense of incompleteness.

When I left Niigata, a trivial matter had made me miss the train by two hours, and even after alighting at Kashiwazaki, I found myself assailed by nothing but loneliness—nor had I found any satisfaction in my heart since arriving at this house either.
Among all these many dissatisfactions, the greatest was not having heard Oshige’s voice in this house.
Ah yes—even if everything else proved dissatisfying, had I been able to meet Oshige—she who showed me sympathy and above all understood me—I surely wouldn’t have been left tormented by such stifling, unpleasant feelings.
No—even had they put me up for just one night, it felt wrong to speak ill of them in my heart. Resolving to think no more of such trivial matters, I shut the door.

As I tried to shift the oil lamp aside, my gaze suddenly fell upon a half-size ink landscape on paper mounted in the alcove—unmistakably a genuine work by Takaku Aigai. Though seen by dim nighttime light, the deeply saturated ink tones greatly pleased me. In this agreeable state of mind, I resolved to settle straight into my pillow.

I forced my mind blank and closed my eyes, yet sleep would not come; the earth-resounding roar of the waves only grew louder as I tried not to think.
As I associated the sound with white waves and blue waves, Ban’gandō rose before my eyes.
Last year it had been slightly later than now.
It was early autumn—yes, late August, when the beach chrysanthemums were in bloom.

Oshige had just graduated from a certain girls' school in Tokyo and returned home, and because her longing for Tokyo still burned fresh, she naturally grew close to me, a guest from Tokyo.
One day, Okamura, Oshige, and I spent the day at Ban'gandō.
Oshige was not a beauty beyond ordinary standards, but her face and figure bore the refined sharpness of a Kanto-style woman, and her spiritedness matched her appearance—open-hearted and refreshing.
As I dwelled on these thoughts, Oshige's vivid demeanor floated clearly before my eyes.

The indigo-gray satin obi, said to be her mother’s hand-me-down, suited the local white kasuri fabric perfectly.
Behind Ban’gandō, where they had avoided the western sun, there happened to be a teahouse with benches where no one else was present; the three of them settled leisurely and gazed out at the sea.
Perhaps the wind shifted—the sea began to clear.
Sado Island came into clear view.
When Sado came into view, the entire seascape sprang to life.
Three white sails were heading east.
Motionless fishing boats, returning boats with visible oarsmen—all of them began to exude vitality.
“We talked about how mountain views were one thing,” someone said, “but sea scenery’s no good unless it’s clear.”
The conversation turned to talk of Tokyo before we knew it.
When it came to talk of Tokyo, Oshige’s energy was on another level.
“We don’t miss Tokyo at all anymore,” said Okamura.
“If my brother says that,” Oshige retorted, “Brother—that’s exactly why you’re no good.”
“Not missing Tokyo at your age? For a man—that’s proof you’ve grown stodgy.”
“I know this sounds impertinent,” she added, turning to me with a sparkle in her eyes, “but we can’t have you forgetting Tokyo just because you’re in Kashiwazaki now—Mr. Yashiro.”
“Absolutely,” I said at once. “I wholeheartedly agree with your sister’s opinion.”

In this manner I argued to Okamura that for someone of his standing to adopt reclusive attitudes now showed deplorable lack of courage—that whether viewed through societal obligations or personal fulfillment prospects—this path was fundamentally misguided.
Okamura laughed coolly and said,“Your reasoning stands firm—yet my thoughts run differently.”
Oshige interjected with laughter,“Brother’s notions always carry that dubious air!”
“Your sister speaks true,”I countered.“To profess distaste for Tokyo betrays fear of endeavor.”
“Such fear stems purely from deficient ambition and desire.”
“Erroneous—this notion that greatness needn’t concern us!”
“Even without aspirations toward eminence—ambition remains humanity’s vital necessity!”
“From life’s happiness perspective—precisely this proves essential!”
“Those feeble in ambition inevitably overvalue existence itself!”
“Extreme life-worship breeds death’s sorrow tormenting them beyond measure!”
“Thus follows—the ambitionless wander joyless through existence!”
“Doesn’t Confucius’ maxim—‘Hear truth at dawn; die content by dusk’—perfectly crystallize this spiritual resolution?”

Okamura bit his lip. “No—thank you. I understand well.”
Oshige appeared disheartened by her brother’s cold expression and exclaimed, “Brother, you’ve been no good since getting married!”
Okamura scowled at her impertinent remark.
I suddenly burst into laughter and dispelled that quarrel.
And then I shifted the conversation to another topic.
Oshige, seemingly against her will, suggested we leave now and then did so.
I thought it would be amusing if Oshige and Okamura were reversed in their roles—but what a shame it was.

Lying awake, I began methodically recalling every detail of that time. Thinking of that, there was nothing unreasonable in Okamura’s cold treatment today with Miss Oshige absent. To confess from the depths of my heart—after Miss Oshige’s New Year’s card this January came her earnest wish for me to visit Kashiwazaki again this summer too. One might even say I had been moved by her message expressing a desire to meet once more and discuss matters of faith. Yet having come here, Miss Oshige was nowhere to be found… She must have married—to what sort of person? A man worthy of Miss Oshige wouldn’t be found so easily. Should I ask Okamura? No—I wouldn’t ask. I’d take my leave first thing tomorrow…

Before I knew it, I felt weary and began to doze off—indeed, this was the countryside—and even in town, the crowing of roosters heralding dawn could be heard here and there.
I had just thought, *Ah, the rooster’s crowing*, when I fell soundly asleep—and when I awoke, it was past nine.

The morning sun was shining down from above the main house, and when I opened the rain shutters, it was so bright it nearly blinded me.

To write about what came next, I could hardly bear the discomfort.
But if I did not write, this account would lack coherence—no—I had to write even if I did not wish to.

I opened the rain shutters myself, tidied the bedding myself, and sat absentmindedly in the shade of the shoji screen, gazing out at the garden. Okamura was on the veranda of the main house, raising his hands and moving his legs as he exercised. A young maid brought water for washing. Okamura had stopped exercising and was talking with his family members but showed no sign of coming over to my side. Of course, they didn’t even serve tea. It was now clear that Miss Oshige was indeed absent.

Though I had steeled myself for cold treatment since last night, the sheer tedium of having nothing to do proved overwhelming—and at my age, encountering such an experience for the first time, I found myself at a loss.

Finally, Okamura’s wife brought breakfast, placing everything—a flat lacquered tray atop what’s called an ohachi—as if to say, “Please eat.”
Okamura’s wife left everything there and departed—in a word, it was the treatment of a boarder.
I couldn’t very well get angry, nor could I refuse to eat.

Around the time I finished my meal, Okamura arrived.
When I looked at Okamura’s face, it didn’t appear particularly hateful.
He showed no sign of deliberately distancing himself from others.
I was entirely unsure whether this was my own resentment.
If Okamura kept an indifferent expression, I had to feign even greater nonchalance.
Could anything be more absurd than this?

“You—this Aigai is rather splendid.”

“Yeah, Father bought it five or six days ago. He was quite proud of it.”

“If there remain any I’ve yet to view, show me two or three.”

“Well, nothing particularly remarkable—but I’ll show you two or three.”

Okamura stood.
Though I wanted to escape this torment immediately, resigning myself to stay a while longer thinking Shibukawa might arrive before noon, I kept uttering empty words.
What interest could paintings hold at such a moment?
I viewed about three scrolls by Qing artists that Okamura had brought - all thoroughly mediocre. Being forced to appraise them without voicing criticism became another agony, making me regret ever asking to see them.
This torture of constant dissonance between speech and thought drove me to devise an escape from this chasm of pretense - I went out to telegraph Sugino in Naoezu about visiting today.
When I returned, they said Shibukawa had come.

When I stepped out onto the veranda from the inner corridor, I was startled.
Okamura’s father—whom I had thought might be bedridden with illness given his absence of greetings—was there in the small sitting room playing Go with someone.
I could not even greet those playing Go.
Yet I had no choice but to pass through that space.
Compelled to walk through in silence, I felt a pain unknown since my birth.
Though they may not have meant contempt, I could not suppress a profound sense of displeasure.

The moment I met Shibukawa, I urged him to accompany me to Naoezu and forced him—despite his bewilderment—to agree.
When I asked Okamura, who had brought tea, what time the westbound train departed Kashiwazaki, he said there were departures at 11:20 and 12:20.
Then I settled on that 11:20 departure.
Okamura said, “In that case, you must leave immediately.”

Out of social obligation, Okamura should have at least said something like "There's no need to hurry so much," but seeing as he didn't say it, the Okamura household must have considered me rather troublesome.

When I left Okamura’s house, I did not bid farewell to anyone. Okamura’s wife, her face thickly coated in white powder, stood in the earthen-floored entryway and merely bowed two or three times. Okamura had gone out to the gate before us. Even so—what must Okamura have been thinking?—he even bought a platform ticket at the station to see me off. I left Kashiwazaki Station feeling as though I had narrowly escaped a prison. The way Okamura had treated me seemed understandable in some respects yet remained utterly perplexing in others. There is a proverb that love is blind—though there should be no romantic meaning in my regard for Miss Oshige, perhaps there had been some blindness after all. In any case, to continue believing that a friend from one’s student days remains an old comrade and pay visits without thought—such things ought to be approached with caution.

According to what I heard, even Shibukawa—though it was a trivial matter—had been greatly displeased.

(September 1908; Meiji 41)