Pathway to Japanese Literature

When Yuki, the morning maid, came to light the charcoal in the brazier, Mrs. Gojō looked uneasy and said, “The light was on in Hidemaro’s room again last night.”

“Oh.”
“Was that so?”
“When I came earlier to light the gas heater, he had turned off the light and was smoking in bed.”

As she gave this reply, Yuki recalled that morning’s moment—opening the door to enter, seeing the glow of a large cigar in the dark, silent room brightening faintly then fading—and how, though such sights were common enough, she had still started and nearly let slip an “Oh” before swallowing it whole.

“I see,” said Mrs. Gojō, watching with the same uneasy expression as Yuki—after lighting the fire and neatly heaping the pure white ashes in the large framed brazier—rose to leave.
Even though gas was used freely throughout the mansion, Mrs. Gojō insisted it caused her dizziness and clung to charcoal fires.
In the mansion, electric lights remained on all night in every bedroom.
However, Hidemaro had a habit of always turning off the light when going to bed, so if it was on, one could tell he had stayed up all night reading.
And so, every time Mrs. Gojō rose for her morning ablutions, she would look from the corridor and worry about the light leaking through the gaps in the Western-style room’s window where Hidemaro stayed.

――――――――――――――――

Hidemaro entered the College of Humanities from Gakushūin and graduated with distinction from the History Department.
For his graduation thesis—declaring that he could not bear to hastily commit brush to paper on Japanese history, which he intended to study as his life’s work—he chose a topic from ancient Indian history: “King Kanishka and the Compilation of the Buddhist Canon.”
This was because while King Aśoka’s case had already been examined, this king’s had yet to be studied.
However, having no prior specialized research in this area, Hidemaro encountered tremendous difficulties at every step. Concluding that accurate judgment was utterly impossible without Sanskrit knowledge, he abruptly rushed to Dr. Takakusu and received introductory instruction in Sanskrit studies.
Yet such scholarship could hardly be hastily cobbled together—the more he gradually came to understand it, the more his difficulties multiplied.
Even so, unyielding, he somehow managed to resolve the chosen problem.
Though he himself found it deeply unsatisfactory, Hidemaro’s candid account—stripped of all embellishment—was said to have few parallels among previous graduation theses.

It was precisely around the time this graduation thesis issue arose.
Though not ill, Hidemaro grew listless—his complexion pallid, eyes unnaturally blazing—and this man who had never been much for socializing now withdrew further from company.
At the Gojō residence, beginning with Mrs. Gojō, they were extremely worried and tried to have him see a doctor, but he said, “I have no such thing as an illness,” and absolutely refused to listen.
Mrs. Gojō discreetly inquired when Dr. Aoyama came.
Dr. Aoyama made a look of someone who had been posed an unexpected question and said:

“Mr. Hidemaro? Without an examination, I really can’t say anything definitive.”
“Hmm.”
“I see.”
“He insisted there was no illness, so he wouldn’t see a doctor—was that it?”
“That may be the case.”
“I’ve seen many students in my time, and all the slightly capable ones have that sort of look about them around graduation.”
“Every year at graduation ceremonies, when I observe from the sidelines, the honor students who come forward to receive their watches usually have faces much like Mr. Hidemaro’s—to the point where I think it’s a wonder they don’t faint on the spot.”
“They come right to the brink of neurasthenia yet manage to avoid it.”
“He’ll recover once he graduates.”

Mrs. Gojō too came to think that must indeed be the case; forcing down her worries through sheer willpower, she endeavored to hypnotize herself with repetitions of he would recover soon—he would recover soon—until she nearly believed it.
When Hidemaro wasn’t present before her eyes, she would savor Dr. Aoyama’s words phrase by phrase like sacred incantations: Yes—exactly so—what possible illness could afflict Hidemaro? He’ll surely recover—he must.
Then Hidemaro would appear with his pallid face and vacant eyes—mutter some distracted phrase before retreating into silence.
When she ventured conversation herself, he’d respond with replies hollow as dried gourds—words gentle in cadence yet armored against penetration.
Her speech seemed to rebound from him like children’s blow darts glancing off bronze statuary—leaving her skin tingling with phantom impacts.
Each time this happened, the elaborate mental architecture she’d constructed from Dr. Aoyama’s assurances would shudder on its foundations—and Mrs. Gojō found herself plunged back into worry’s dark waters.

―――――――――――――――

Hidemaro went abroad immediately after graduating.
Though there had been no significant grade difference between Hidemaro and this new graduate from the same department—who had received a silver pocket watch as an honor student and was slated for dispatch by the Ministry of Education—the funds could not be released until one individual already stationed in Europe returned. During this bureaucratic delay, Hidemaro was instead sent ahead by Viscount Gojō, head of the family.
This arrangement proved feasible because the Viscount’s substantial financial means rendered sustaining his heir’s student-level lifestyle abroad relatively effortless.

After it was decided that he would study abroad, Hidemaro—who had grown considerably more energetic—sent letters from along the way and after arriving in Berlin, all of which appeared to have been written with keen interest in his surroundings. He wrote about dark-skinned children diving like fish to collect silver coins in Indian ports, and about an international troupe of female performers with stereotypical smiles playing various instruments that he claimed to have seen upon disembarking at Port Said. He described strolling through a Western city for the first time in Marseille—purchasing goods at a shop that "didn’t deal in lies," where prices required no haggling—and how when he tried to carry his purchases home, the staff insisted a gentleman needn’t walk about with such items dangling from him, promising delivery to his lodgings; upon returning, he found the goods had arrived first. Then during his Paris stay, when a young lord of their lineage guided him to the opera: how a distinguished noblewoman approached them in the foyer and spoke, only for the young lord to brusquely declare “We don’t speak French,” then—noticing Hidemaro’s astonished expression—boomed loud enough for the woman to hear, “Tout ce qui brille, n'est pas or,” making him grasp the situation at last. These accounts, down to trivial details of his first Berlin impressions, amused the Viscount and his wife. The viscount bought a copy of Sanshōdō’s world map for his wife and handed it to her. Every time a telegram or letter arrived, he would mark points and draw lines with a pencil, explaining that Hidemaro had arrived there or was passing through there.

In Europe, he spent three years in Berlin.
In his third year—as the university was holding its tricentennial celebration under President Erich Schmidt—Hidemaro too joined the torchlight procession through Berlin, carrying a torch fitted with a metal guard.
During his time at the university, Hidemaro had sent detailed notices to the Viscount about attending specific lectures each term—among them were courses on historical subjects like the Italian Renaissance and the origins of religious reform, alongside abstract historiography lectures such as *Principles of Historical Research*; there were also offerings like ethnopsychology and mythogenesis.
There was one examining pragmatism’s position in philosophical history.
Another covered Friedrich Hebbel in literary history under a certain associate professor.
Far removed from these were theology faculty courses on ecclesiastical history and doctrinal development.
Each semester followed this pattern: for the Viscount—unversed in specialized scholarship—some subjects remained incomprehensible, yet he could at least perceive that Hidemaro appeared to be pursuing remarkably heterogeneous studies.
The Viscount, however, gave it no particular concern.
His motives for enrolling his son in university and sending him abroad were never about steering him toward professional specialization.
After succession to family headship, it would suffice if he acquired the foundational discernment needed to become—however presumptuous—a bulwark of the Imperial Household and discharge duties befitting his station.
To this end, he had aimed to provide an education surpassing ordinary schooling.
Thus he deemed it entirely proper to let him freely select whatever academic disciplines caught his interest.

During his time in Berlin, Hidemaro had often praised Erich Schmidt’s literary talent and oratory skills in letters discussing scholars’ reputations. Yet what he repeatedly wrote to Father about—the nature of theologian Adolf von Harnack’s endeavors and influence—seemed to carry particular significance. His writing brimmed with an eagerness akin to wanting Father to fully grasp this through correspondence before his return, so impatient was he to see his father’s face and share these tales in person.

When Hidemaro had written to inform him particularly about the university’s three hundredth anniversary, he portrayed Harnack as the central figure of this dazzling celebration. He stated that the relationship between Wilhelm II and Harnack—where a sovereign trusts a scholar, and the scholar devotedly contributes to academia while simultaneously serving the state—was exemplary when viewed from this perspective. To clarify the foundation of Harnack’s work, Hidemaro had even traced back to his father Theodosius, providing a detailed account of Protestant theology’s development.

Though he had never written with such intensity about history—the field he claimed as his specialty—why did he keep sending letters that focused so singularly on Harnack? The Viscount found this suspicious and pored over this particular letter repeatedly.

And he made efforts to grasp the letter’s main points.

Summarizing the letter’s contents yields the following.

Politics is an endeavor that engages the majority.

Therefore, to engage in politics, one must place great importance on religion—which still sways the masses even now.

Domestically, Germany must unify the North and South—which adhere to entirely different religions—and guide their people’s allegiances; while in foreign affairs, however diminished its influence may be, it cannot disregard the Roman Pope, who still retains deep-rooted power.

Therefore, German politics must restrain Southern Germany’s Old Church adherents without antagonizing them, while pursuing cultural progress through Northern Germany’s Protestant spirit.

For this, the monarch must possess a solid foundation in religion.

That foundation lies in Protestant theology.

The scholar who currently represents that Protestant theology is Harnack.

Harnack, who occupies such a position of significance, has not in the slightest bent his theological views to suit political expediency.

The monarch is not attempting to make him do such a thing.

Therein lies Germany’s strength.

Thus Germany spreads its wings across the world and maintains its resolute stance.

Thus even in this present era when the Social Democratic Party runs rampant, Wilhelm II can dash about Berlin without escort guards—riding in an automobile with his aide-de-camp, sounding the horn as he goes—to make impromptu visits to exhibitions or shops.

One need only compare it with Russia.

They leave Greco-Russian Orthodox churches mired in stagnation, superficially swaddling them in silk floss while leaving them untouched—a governance one might call deliberately keeping the masses ignorant.

If those masses, kept in ignorance, awaken even slightly, they become extreme anarchists.

Therefore, the Tsar cannot walk unless plainclothes police officers form a cordon around him.
After all, theology isn't required to believe in religion.
In Germany too, studying theology serves those becoming pastors; at first glance, it appears superfluous to those outside religious institutions.
Yet it remains unnecessary for the uneducated masses whose intellectual development has stagnated.
For those who pursue scholarship, it becomes indispensable.
Fundamentally, educated people lack the "faith" proclaimed by religious authorities.
To such individuals—those possessing education but no genuine belief—mere exhortations to revere God or venerate scripture prove futile.
Thus they abandon not only faith but religion's very necessity.
These become dangerous ideologues.
Among them exist those who feign belief while privately rejecting it, or affect recognition of religion's utility while denying its foundations.
In truth, multitudes engage in such dissimulation.
Hence when rigorous systems like German Protestant theology emerge—thoroughly examining doctrines and temple histories—the educated may inspect these expert-refined teachings, purged of dross.
Through such examination, even non-believers come to acknowledge religion's societal necessity.
Thus moderate thinkers emerge.
Germany possesses significant numbers of such grounded individuals.
This constitutes the basis for claiming theology underpins German strength.
Hidemaro extolled Harnack precisely in this context.
The Viscount had roughly comprehended the letter's intent.

The Viscount—a man who had come of age during the heyday of Western studies and geographical compendiums, who could manage practical affairs through translated books, and who had cultivated himself merely to the extent of holding conversational standing among fellow aristocrats—possessed no knowledge of spiritual matters beyond having heard lectures on the Analects interpreted through Zhu Xi’s commentaries. Yet being a man of keen intellect, after reading this, he privately turned his gaze inward to reflect.
The "religion" mentioned in my son’s letters is Christianity, and "God" refers to the Christian deity.
Such things have nothing whatsoever to do with me.
In our household, there had been a temple designated as our family’s ancestral place of Buddhist worship since time immemorial.
During the Restoration, the previous head had all but severed those ties and entrusted the family’s funeral rites to Shinto priests.
Since then, we have had no connection whatsoever with Buddhism, and now acknowledge nothing beyond ancestral spirits.
Indeed, within the estate grounds, there exists a shrine dedicated to ancestral worship, where solemn rituals are conducted.
However, do I truly believe that these ancestral spirits exist?
Whenever performing the ancestral rites, the phrase from the Analects—"sacrifice as if [the spirits] were present"—rose in my mind.
Yet this principle—that one must perform the rituals believing the ancestors exist—when examining myself, I likely did not truly believe they existed.
I might not even believe they could exist at all.
Might it not be that I am merely making an effort to convince myself they could exist?
Looking at it this way, I appear to fall into the category of people my son describes—those who lack faith yet acknowledge the necessity of religion.
No—
That is not so.
What my son asserts is this: even if one peers into theology and rationally judges that while these doctrines need not be believed, their necessity must still be acknowledged—it is this acknowledgment following rational judgment that matters.
I have never peered into Shinto texts or the likes thereof.
Moreover, whether there even exist any books that I might peer into—I remain unaware even of that.
That being said, since this differs from uneducated believers who intuitively accept spiritual existence without harboring doubt, my performance of rituals remains purely formal—devoid of substance.
Even if I strive to think as if they exist, that effort is hollow.

No—
There can be no such thing as hollow effort.
That is impossible.
Looking at it this way,I must conclude that the faith of uneducated people has been inherited and faintly lingers within me.Yet this line of reasoning accepts my son’s premise—that education destroys faith.Is that truly so?
It very well may be.People receiving modern education cannot conflate myth with history.When one engages with scholarship—however superficially—they inevitably ponder,in fragmentary ways,the origins of our world’s formation and humanity’s development.Such contemplation forbids viewing myth as factual reality.As we distinguish myth from history,doubts naturally arise about ancestral spirits’ very existence.Doesn’t terrifying peril await down this path?
How does society regard such matters,I wonder?
Do people blithely accept that moderns deem false what ancients held sacred?
Do they indifferently watch rituals become empty forms?
Do they complacently teach children myth as history?
Does everyone—while privately separating truth from fable—deliberately blend them for pedagogy without compunction?
I myself disbelieve utterly in spirits,yet follow convention with half-hearted rationalizations.As for customs born of spirit-believing eras persisting in our skeptical age—whether they endure or perish—do we care?
We feign belief where none exists,brainwash children without considering psychological consequences—is this not our reality?
My son claims we must acknowledge religion’s necessity even without faith.

Since people do not even consider the necessity of acknowledging this necessity—the necessity of acknowledging that one must acknowledge it—they remain utterly indifferent, never attempting to contemplate how religion’s necessity might be recognized in the present or sustained in the future without conflating myth with history or believing in deities’ existence.
One might surmise that the majority of educated people in society are precisely like this.
Of course, there existed those who stood apart from this majority and strove to reverse the current decline.
Such people were of the type my son described—those who insisted, “Simply believe in God! Believe in the Gospel!”
There were also those who blindly followed them.
They were what my son called imitators.
Could such people be relied upon?
Furthermore, looking to the opposing camp, one could discern through certain individuals’ statements those who had lost all faith and ceased acknowledging religion’s necessity—openly confessing as much.
My son declared such people dangerous ideologues, yet those laboring to root out dangerous thinkers here appeared surprisingly oblivious to this reality.
In truth, under pretexts like public order disturbance or moral corruption, we had witnessed no actual cases of such individuals being apprehended here.
But even were one to scrutinize these matters thoroughly, would it not prove difficult to obtain definitive results?
Was this not beyond human capability?
If so, would not such scrutiny prove more perilous than society’s indifference?
Might my son have thrust himself headlong into this dangerous pursuit?
While engaged in his specialized studies, my son had perhaps stumbled upon these issues and—grown anxious himself—sent me that letter.
Or was he placing undue emphasis on this problem?

After reading Hidemaro’s letter, Viscount Gojō engaged in self-reflection and surveyed society’s state, arriving at roughly this extent in his considerations.
However, realizing that even through repeated correspondence with his son on the matter he could likely achieve no resolution satisfying himself—and with Hidemaro’s return approaching—he deemed it acceptable to wait until then. Thus his reply avoided delving into religious issues or such matters, merely acknowledging receipt of details while stating only: “Please cultivate as moderate an ideology as possible and return as someone useful to the nation.”
As for Hidemaro, he remained unaware how much of what he had said Father had comprehended.

Hidemaro would try discussing the very thoughts occupying his mind at that moment with others or expressing them in letters, yet he never pressed to ensure they were fully grasped, nor did he attempt to convert anyone to his views or make them submit.
Rather, he found satisfaction in clarifying his own thoughts while speaking or writing letters.
And his thoughts, receiving new stimuli, moved in a different direction.
So even if the Viscount had sent a detailed reply at that time, Hidemaro might no longer have offered words that would satisfy Father regarding the same issue.

――――――――――――――――

Hidemaro—who had been concerned about his health when being sent abroad—seemed to regain vigor once he embarked on his journey; even in the frequent letters he diligently wrote back there was a vivid liveliness evident; relatives who visited after his return—claiming closeness from their time together in Germany—reported that while he studied diligently he also moved with such ease among high society that at Madame Pangionat’s gatherings (where young male and female lodgers would attend theater premieres) they insisted Viscount Gojō’s presence was essential for any real enjoyment; thus delighted by this news were the Viscount and his wife that they eagerly awaited their son’s return as a robust young man.

Hidemaro returned at the end of last year carrying an immoderate quantity of books.
Though vestiges of boyishness had lingered before his foreign studies, three years abroad rendered him thoroughly masculine—his complexion now robust, his frame slightly fleshed.
Yet when Mrs. Gojō scrutinized her long-awaited son's demeanor with care, his manner of speech struck her as curiously lifeless.
She had presumed his reticent conversational style—that perfunctory responsiveness masking perpetual preoccupation from graduation through departure westward—would have wholly vanished by his homecoming. Now confronted by its unaltered persistence, she found herself disquieted.

It was the day they arrived at Shinbashi.
Among the relatives and close acquaintances who had come to welcome them, some even followed all the way to the residence; at the Gojō household, they served such people sake with light snacks.
After that had concluded, a conversation took place between Viscount Gojō and Hidemaro.

The Viscount Gojō sat wearing hakama trousers, smoking shredded tobacco through a pipe. The sunken eyes of his gaunt face creased into numerous wrinkles as he gazed fixedly at his son with apparent delight and uttered a single word: "Well?"

"Yes," said Hidemaro, meeting his father's gaze, but to Mrs. Gojō observing from the side, his splendid Western attire appeared no different from when he had attended to the earlier guests—showing not a trace of relaxation—which left her unsettled.

Viscount Gojō, thinking his son would say something more, remained silent for a while; but when nothing further came, he resumed speaking.
"I hear you brought back a great many books."

“Thinking it wouldn’t interfere with my work here, I also brought back books not for reading but for looking things up, which is why the volume became so large.”

“Hmm.”
“You must be eager to start your work soon, I suppose.”

Hidemaro appeared to hesitate slightly in his response.
“I considered it thoroughly even on the ship, but I’m afraid I don’t seem able to set my hand to it anytime soon.”
Having said this, he wore a pensive expression.

“There’s no need to rush.
“It’s not as though yours needs to be sold, nor do you desire a degree.”
Once he had said this, the viscount added with a laugh, “Though it wouldn’t be bad to receive a degree.”

Mrs. Gojō, who had been listening up to this point, began talking about various things as if unable to wait any longer, and Hidemaro responded gently.
At this moment, Mrs. Gojō formed her first impression that Hidemaro’s responses lacked enthusiasm—that he seemed merely to be going through the motions.

Then, after Hidemaro rose from his seat, Mrs. Gojō said to the Viscount:
“His health has greatly improved, but is he not speaking rather reservedly—as if weighing each word?”

“That’s because he has become an adult.
“A man must not speak thoughtlessly from the mouth like you do.”

“Oh!”
Mrs. Gojō widened her eyes.
Though past halfway through her forties, she remained a woman whose bright gaze still held a pitiable charm.

“Don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry at all,” said Mrs. Gojō with a small laugh, though this laughter seemed more perfunctory than Hidemaro’s reply had been.

――――――――――――――――

Nearly a year had passed since that time.
They welcomed their first New Year in some time.
Hidemaro, due to his court rank, was not as busy as Father but still had to perform certain ceremonial duties.
Wearing newly tailored ceremonial attire without any slovenly expression, he completed them.
“What were New Year’s like in the West?” Mother inquired, and Hidemaro smiled affably.
“It’s quite hopeless.
Students go to restaurants from New Year’s Eve onward and prepare a drink called Bowlē—mixing champagne, wine, sugar, carbonated water—warming it all together, adding lemon slices cut into rounds, then waiting for midnight.”
“Then just as the clock begins striking twelve—‘Now it’s the new year!’—they each take glasses filled with that drink, clink them together noisily, shout ‘Prost Neujahr!’ loudly, and down them.”
“Afterward they walk back through town fooling around, then stay in bed on New Year’s Day without rising until noon.”
“In town too most houses keep their doors shut and stay quiet. Well—having already done all their festive things at Christmas—New Year’s ends up rather neglected.”
“But there must be ceremonies at court I suppose?”
“That does indeed exist.”
“The New Year’s audience was said to be at two in the afternoon.”
In this manner—whenever asked about anything—he would speak of Europe’s ways too, but never volunteered such stories himself.

The coldest time of February and March had also passed.
Mother inquired, “It’s not like this over there, I suppose?”
“That’s what they call Glatteis—when during the coldest spell there comes a slightly warm evening, causing accumulated snow to melt on the surface before freezing solid by morning.”
“The tree branches become as though sheathed in glass.”
“The sidewalks along Berlin’s Unter den Linden boulevard turn into something like uneven mirrors, making it impossible to walk without slipping—so laborers carry baskets of sand under their arms and scatter it as they go.”
“Those are indeed the coldest times, yet even then, unlike in Russia, one’s nose won’t rot off while walking through town.”
“There being no houses without stoves nor people without furs, the cold never truly penetrates the body.”
“Here we dwell in summer rooms with summer preparations yet shiver as if chilled to the bone.”
Hidemaro related such stories.

The spring when cherry blossoms bloom had also passed.
When asked by Mother about the cherry blossoms, Hidemaro said:
“In cold countries like Germany, spring arrives all at once, and all flowers bloom together.
There’s an expression they use—‘beautiful May.’
Cherry blossoms do grow there, but since people think cherry trees exist solely for bearing fruit, they don’t hold flower-viewing parties.
About halfway between Berlin and here lies a village called Stralau along the Spree River banks, where many cherry trees are planted.
Once, students from Japan all gathered there for hanami.
Female workers from a carpet-weaving factory happened by and watched in surprise, saying ‘What could those people be doing under the trees?’”

The hot summer had also passed.
Hidemaro, asked by his mother, "What do they do in Berlin on days like this?", tilted his head in thought for a while before finally saying with a laugh:
“It’s the most boring season.
Everyone ends up traveling.
Young girls go off to Switzerland and climb high mountains.
Those left behind with nothing better to do go to concerts at park-side restaurants to cool off until midnight.
Since it’s a country quite near the Arctic Circle, by the time you return from such outings and try to sleep past midnight, your window is already growing light.”

Amidst all this, autumn arrived.
“In Europe, the cold arrives early, so one cannot savor the taste of such fine autumn weather,” said Hidemaro, offering Mother a somewhat cheerful smile.
Generally, such conversations occurred only around mealtimes, and at all other times, Hidemaro would shut himself away in the Western-style room that served as his study.
Because there were so many books he had brought back from the West that the regular bookcases were no longer sufficient, he had shelves installed on every wall of this single room and packed them full with books.
He had thin pale green curtains hung before the shelves, which served as a kind of decoration, but since this made the walls effectively more than double their former thickness, the room grew considerably darker and, at the same time, became an utterly silent space where no sounds from outside could be heard.
Even when the late autumn sky cleared pleasantly and everyone took to strolling outside, Hidemaro remained shut away in this silent space, reading by his desk without ever leaving its side.
The window light slanted in diagonally from the left, half-illuminating the desk covered with green serge.

―――――――――――――――

This autumn, while people kept remarking on how warm it was, the infrequent rains had gradually taken on the character of late autumn showers, and for the past two or three days now, even the hood-shaped gas heater in Hidemaro’s room had required Yuki, the housemaid, to come and light it.

When he woke in the morning and stepped out onto the small veranda built toward the garden, he found the grounds entirely carpeted with large yellow paulownia leaves and small red mountain maple leaves, their scattered hues coloring even the stone steps descending from the veranda into the garden, leaving scarcely a gap uncovered.
Along the stone wall, dew-soaked broad leaves of aged green flourished on the eight-lobed hydrangea in full bloom, its white stems extending here and there like branched candlesticks to bear white flowers above, while pale sunlight seeped through the thinly clouded sky and two or three sparrows flitted about chirping.

Hidemaro gazed for a while, let both hands hang limply at his sides, arched his back in a stretch, and let out a deep sigh.
Then he entered the room, went to the washstand, used the water Yuki had prepared, and hung up his suit.
Since returning from his time abroad, he always wore Western-style clothing.

At that moment, Mother entered.
“Since today is Sunday, Father is taking his time, but I’m about to have my meal—won’t you join me?”
Having said this, she peered at her son’s face from the side and continued:
“You were up very late again last night, weren’t you? I know I keep saying the same thing, but when you first returned from abroad, you were in such good health—yet with all this excessive studying, you’ve been growing paler and paler.”

“What.
“There’s nothing wrong with me.
“Because I’m not going out, I suppose I’m not getting any sun.”
Saying this with a laugh, they left the Western-style room together.

However, to Mrs. Gojō, his laughter felt like a stab to the heart.
Mrs. Gojō instinctively knew that Hidemaro had unwittingly cultivated this habit—laughing not from sincerity but pelting others with laughter as if hurling sand to blind them—all without ever becoming conscious of it himself.

When they returned after finishing their meal, the sky that had been thinly overcast at dawn had cleared completely, and sunlight—as if driven by a prying curiosity to stubbornly invade Hidemaro’s cluttered room—gilded the edges of window drapes and bookshelves, cast a broad luminous stripe across the desk to make the inkpot glint, and breathed momentary life into the carpet’s fantastical floral patterns sprawled upon the floor.
In this manner, the sunlit air took on a hue like young leaves beginning to yellow, within which motes of dust whirled.

Disliking the excessively high temperature in the room, Hidemaro closed the furnace valve by about a third, placed a cigar between his lips, and threw himself into the exercise chair.

To put Hidemaro’s psychological state simply, it could be described as nothing other than suffering from ennui.
That too differed from the boredom felt by those who, unable to accomplish anything, hunger for meager stimulation.
It was a feeling of being crushed by undertakings lying dormant within.
It was the pain of latent potential.
The hero of the Three Kingdoms period lamented upon seeing flesh grow on his thighs.
In the same way, Hidemaro—who appeared thin and pale to others—perceived his own strength yet worried that his brain might succumb to what doctors termed “inactive atrophy.”
And, intending to exercise his intellect, he was immersed in reading philosophy books and such.
The Viscount—less pessimistic than Mother about Hidemaro’s health—once turned to his son during a meal and remarked with a meaningful laugh, “A bellyful of untimeliness, perhaps?”
Hidemaro answered with his usual smile on his face, “I am not a complainer.”
Father seems to suspect that I might harbor some extreme liberal ideas.
That is a misunderstanding.
However, Hidemaro thought, being a father after all, he did seem to grasp at least one aspect of my psychological state more earnestly than Mother.

Hidemaro, having recalled one of Father’s remarks as the impetus, now recalled another of Father’s remarks.
It was another day during a meal when Father had said, “This business of humans being descended from apes simply won’t do.”
Hidemaro jolted.
Even Hidemaro did not think it would be good to endorse Haeckel’s *Anthropogenie* and make that his own declaration.
Yet within the depths of Father’s words, there seemed to lurk something incompatible with his own ideology.
Surely even Father did not believe that myths created by a nation in its primordial age were literal history—but if one were to openly declare that myths were not history, would he not fear that a crucial cornerstone of human existence would begin to crumble, allowing materialistic ideologies to seep in like water through a breach in the hull, inevitably sinking the ship?
Thinking this, Hidemaro wondered if he might not unwittingly be falling into the same pit as obstinate men and masked ideologues.

Thinking thus, Hidemaro hesitated to press forward in attempting to dispel his father’s misunderstanding.
For Hidemaro, to declare that myths were not history was what his conscience commanded.
Even if one declared it, he believed that what was important in life enveloped in myths would continue to be protected—just as a fruit contains a sturdy core at its center.
To acknowledge him and maintain this was not only the duty of a scholar but also, he believed, the duty of being human.

Thus, Hidemaro felt there was a narrow yet deep valley between his father and himself.
At the same time, observing how Father would adopt an attitude of gingerly trying to peek under the lid of a box suspected to contain something dangerous whenever speaking with him—only to immediately withdraw his hand—Hidemaro found this both frustrating and pitiable, making him feel he must compassionately refrain from reaching out himself.
He thought it better to let suspicion linger over the box’s contents than for Father to open its lid, see a demon in broad daylight, and fear something that wasn’t poison at all as if it were.

It was only natural for Hidemaro to think this way.
The astute Viscount father, having seen Hidemaro’s letter about Harnack and withheld his response to it, would repeatedly turn over religious issues in his mind during sleepless nights.
The more he pondered them, the more he inclined toward viewing this problem as intractable; consequently, he came to regard engaging with it as dangerous.
Therefore, he did not want his son delving deeply into such matters.
If possible, he wanted his son’s ideological focus redirected toward other directions.
Because of this conviction, he would never broach religious issues himself.
And fearing how deeply this problem had taken root in his son’s mind, he was secretly attempting to observe the situation.

This was why, even a full year after Hidemaro's return from Europe, their exchanges persisted like two armies facing off across a battlefield—each sending out scouts who would fire distant volleys upon glimpsing the enemy's shadow before withdrawing—resulting in neither decisive clashes nor candid revelations.

The white ash of the cigar Hidemaro held between his lips—having grown quite long—finally broke off, leaving thin scale-like fragments on the vest of Hidemaro leaning back in his exercise chair before falling onto the carpet and shattering.
When remaining idle as now, Hidemaro would always feel within himself something like the oppression of his undertakings while sensing a certain tension in the household atmosphere from without—and this was unpleasant.

Hidemaro thought he might read a book again.
To write his country's history—which he had long planned as his life's work—he found he could not proceed without first clearly delineating the boundary between myth and history.
Rather, it would be better to first academically clarify myth formation through scholarship, explicitly document accompanying beliefs in doctrinal histories, and distinctly record sacerdotal institutions in temple histories.
Even doing this would parallel how Protestantism remains intact through its doctrinal and ecclesiastical histories; thus ancestor worship's doctrines and institutions need not suffer particular harm.
When considering how easily this could be completed, he already envisioned concise documentation before him.
Once finished, he could presumably approach history with peace of mind.
Yet this conviction—that circumstances would never permit him to grasp what lay visibly before him—had gradually crystallized in Hidemaro's consciousness since Berlin days when preparing his return home, like mineral formations growing around suspended motes.
This dark mass lodged in his brain obstructed all progress in his planned work.
Therefore he blocked creative arteries and read books solely as mental exercise.
When reading commenced, he strangely concentrated fully—neither feeling work's oppression nor household tension.
Thus he ended up reading books exclusively.

“Maybe I’ll read a book again,” Hidemaro thought.
And he rose from the exercise chair.

At that very moment came a solid knock at the door. After awaiting Hidemaro’s response, Yuki entered.
Her small face glimmered with round eyes black as lacquer; her petite yet sharply defined nose tilted slightly upward in a manner that seemed profoundly pitiable.
When Hidemaro had first returned home, Yuki had not yet served in the Western-style room—thus she crouched from within to shut the opened door and spoke with palms pressed against the carpet.
Hidemaro started slightly before smiling and instructing her on Western-style etiquette.
Whatever she was told once, she would memorize thoroughly and perform thereafter as if long accustomed.

Standing with his back to the fireplace, Hidemaro's face brightened as he saw Yuki enter through the doorway.
Hidemaro—whose erotic life had fallen entirely dormant—found that even in this peaceful yet gloomy house, one might say the only time he felt genuinely refreshed was when he saw this little maid.

“Mr. Ayanokōji has arrived,” said Yuki, turning her large, round eyes—like those of a caged bird observing a human—toward Hidemaro’s face.
Every time an opportunity arose for Yuki to speak to the Young Master, triumphant cheers echoed within her chest to such an extent—so devoid of meaning, so free of desire—that she worshipped Hidemaro.

The door Yuki had closed was brusquely opened from the corridor, and a man of Hidemaro’s age wearing a tea-colored velvet suit burst in as if charging forward, suddenly grabbing Yuki’s shoulder with a plump red hand.
“Hey, Yuki.
If you keep staring at the Young Master’s face and forget to announce me, that’ll be trouble, won’t it?”

Yuki’s face turned crimson.
She left the room silently as though fleeing.
Ayanokōji did not even glance back.

A faint crease formed between Hidemaro’s brows—so faint one had to look closely to notice it—yet it vanished too quickly to be seen even when looked for, leaving his expression one of utmost solemnity.
“Please spare me your trivial jests here.”

“To be greeted first thing with a lecture from you—now that’s a surprise.”
“What pleasant weather we’re having.”
“Your household’s old man would probably call this something like an ‘autumn clear sky,’ I suppose.”
“Admittedly, the *saison* may already be winter—but in transitional periods, days alternate between winter and autumn.”
“I’ll still consider today autumn, I suppose.”
“Somewhere in its depths lurks winter’s piercing essence—yet as the sun begins to sink, blazing fiercely, there remains a sorrow-laden refreshing clarity to it all.”
“Well, it’s rather like a middle-aged beauty, I suppose.”
“On a day like this, holing up inside like a mole and reading books—the world may be vast, but you’re likely the only one doing such a thing.”
“Still, I’ll at least commend you for not being hunched over your desk.”

Serious yet wearing an expression that showed no aversion, Hidemaro watched Ayanokōji holding forth volubly. Simply put, this man bore the expression of a ringleader of brats. The hair—trimmed slightly longer from forehead to crown and combed straight back—stood erect like the bristles of a wild boar as seen in Japanese paintings. At the slightly downturned corners of his narrow eyes, he held a mocking smile, while around his broadly stretched mouth, deep wrinkles like large parentheses gathered on both cheeks.

Ayanokōji continued to prattle on.
“Don’t just gawk at my face like that.
You must hold me in utter contempt.”
“What’s wrong with that?
So you’re Roa and I’m Buffon?
In German they call it *Hofnarr*.
Would you dare treat His Majesty as some court jester?”

Hidemaro burst out laughing involuntarily.
“How could I entertain such insulting thoughts?”
“Then you shouldn’t be dishing out harsh rebukes right from the start.”

“Yeah.
“I was wrong.”
Hidemaro opened the cigar box’s lid and offered it while muttering as if to himself.
“I feel as though I’m pouring poison into people’s imaginings.”

“That’s precisely what’s *santimentaru* about it,” said Ayanokōji as he took a cigar.
Hidemaro struck a match.

“Merci,” said Ayanokōji as he took a drag.

“You’d prefer somewhere warm,” said Hidemaro, pushing a chair in front of the fireplace.

Ayanokōji placed his hand on the chair’s backrest but did not sit down immediately; instead, he glanced around and fixed his eyes on the thick, temporarily bound Western book that had been left open on the desk since the previous evening. Beside it lay a broad, spatula-shaped tortoiseshell paper knife. “Biting into another monumental project, I see?” Having said this, he settled into his seat while keeping his gaze on Hidemaro’s face.

――――――――――――――――

Ayanokōji was a man who had passed through Gakushūin as Hidemaro’s contemporary.
While Hidemaro went on to university, Ayanokōji declared he would become a painter and began attending the Tameike Western Painting Research Institute.
Then, while Hidemaro was still in the liberal arts department, Ayanokōji had gone abroad ahead and was in Paris.
When Hidemaro disembarked at Marseille and stayed in Paris for two or three days en route to Berlin, he kindly looked after him—guiding him around without sparing time, whether for strolls along the Champs-Élysées or playgoing at the Théâtre Français and Gymnase Dramatique—and even after Hidemaro went to Berlin, he had him order clothes to be tailored there.

Ayanokōji was a man who lived almost entirely through sight and sound—one who did not even treat art with particular seriousness—yet his keen mind perpetually hungered for something. Thus, though Hidemaro—who had been living reclusively since returning to his hometown—never sought him out, Ayanokōji would nevertheless visit from time to time, and while playfully mocking the discussions about the books Hidemaro was reading, he would seriously listen and ponder them.

Ayanokōji walked over to the desk and flipped over the cover of the open book to examine it.
“*Die Philosophie des ‘Als Ob’*?”
“What an odd title.”

At that moment, Yuki brought an oval nickel tray bearing the utensils for fragrant tea.
And she carried the small table before the fireplace, placed the tray upon it, glanced toward Ayanokōji while pretending not to look, and quietly left the room.

Yuki wondered if he would say something. If he did speak, he would probably say something embarrassing again. What would it be? She lingered with a desire to hear him speak, but this time Ayanokōji remained silent.

Hidemaro lifted the overturned Tass and poured tea. “And I suppose you’ll add milk,” he said, glancing at Ayanokōji.

“Please don’t put in as much as last time. What on earth is this ‘Als Ob’?” said Ayanokōji as he took a seat in the chair before the fireplace.

“Comme si.”
“You might as well call it ‘as if.’”
“It seizes upon peculiar points and expands upon them, but it strangely seems to explain my own position exactly—so delightfully that I ended up reading until three last night.”

“Until three.”
Ayanokōji widened his eyes.
“How? In what way does it exactly mirror your position?”

“So,” said Hidemaro, and he thought for a while. Having read about sixty to seventy percent of a book nearly a thousand pages long, he was now considering how best to extract and present its key points. “First, we must begin by considering the very term ‘truth’ itself. To call a verdict prepared in court through substantiated evidence a fact and regard that as truth—this is what is ordinarily meant by truth. However, facts in that sense do not exist. Even if we call it a fact, once it has passed through human perception, the synthesis spoken of by the materialist Lange comes into play. Unconsciously turning it into poetry. It becomes a falsehood. Therefore, we must establish another kind of truth. Novels are lies in the sense that they take facts as truth. However, this does not attempt to be factual from the outset—it is consciously crafted as a falsehood and given currency. And within it lies a vital principle. It has value. Noble myths were similarly formed and accepted—the only difference is that those were initially grounded in fact. No matter how much you sketch from life, your paintings are not the real thing. You paint them as deliberate falsehoods. All things that possess life’s vital principle and have value are all these deliberate falsehoods. The truth of the second meaning can be found nowhere but in this. This way of bifurcating truth originated with Kant, and nowadays the Pragmatists have merely vulgarized and reiterated the same idea to no end. I must state this much first; otherwise, we cannot properly discuss it, you see.”

“Very well.”
“The terminology doesn’t matter.”
“I understand that much myself.”
“Even my paintings aren’t real things, but since one sold at this year’s exhibition too, they undeniably hold some value.”
“So there’s no objection to considering my paintings as truth.”
“Then what becomes of *Comme si*?”

“Now wait a moment, please.”
“So then, we must examine the very foundations of all human knowledge and every academic discipline.”
“In mathematics—considered the most precise field—there exist what we call points and lines.”
“No matter how finely you strike a tiny dot, it does not become a point.”
“No matter how thinly you draw it smoothly, it does not become a line.”
“No matter how well one planes a board’s edge, it does not form a line.”
“Even a corner does not become a point.”
“Points and lines do not exist.”
“That deliberate falsehood.”
“Yet geometry cannot be established unless we think as if points and lines exist.”
“It’s the ‘as if,’ you see.”
“It’s *Comme si*, you see.”
“What about the natural sciences?”
“Matter itself does not exist.”
“They say matter is constructed from atoms.”
“Those atoms do not exist either.”
“However, unless we assume that matter exists and is constructed from atoms as if they were real, chemistry cannot be established because atomic quantities cannot be calculated.”
“What about spiritual studies?”
“Things like freedom, the immortality of the soul, and duty do not exist.”
“One must think of what does not exist as if it does; otherwise, ethics cannot stand.”

“That is what we term ideals.”
“The non-existence of what law calls free will has long been recognized.”
“Yet unless one thinks as if free will exists, criminal law becomes entirely meaningless.”
“Every modern philosopher generally views the world as relative and admits the absolute’s non-existence—yet still thinks as if it exists.”
“Even in religion, Schleiermacher long ago declared we should think of God as if He were a father.”
“Confucius too said in antiquity: perform rites as if the spirits dwell present.”
“One must worship as if ancestral spirits exist.”
“Examined thus—setting aside human knowledge and scholarship—religion and all else erect at their foundations something unsubstantiated by fact.”
“In short: this ‘as if’ lies bedrock beneath it all.”

“Now wait just a moment, will you?”
“You accuse me of chattering on and on, but when you start chattering, it turns into a sprint—I can’t keep up.”
“Well, the true nature of this ‘as if’ monster has started to come into view a bit, but I suppose I’ll need to drink another cup of tea and mull it over before it becomes clear, you see.”

“It’s probably lukewarm by now.”

“What? It’s fine.”
“When a substantiated fact like Yuki intrudes, thoughts get tangled up, you see.”
“So even with facts rolling about everywhere—utterly pointless.”
“Try connecting them and you’re forced to take something as your foundation.”
“That foundation being your ‘as if,’ eh?”
“Very well.”
“But I choose not to think about such monsters.”
“Won’t speak of them even if I do.”
Ayanokōji gulped down tepid scented tea and declared with finality.

Hidemaro frowned.
“I too refrain from saying that.
But while you may paint and keep silent, I engaged in scholarship precisely to speak.
Naturally, I cannot avoid thinking.
To think yet not express it truthfully would require either silence or crafting separate falsehoods.
In that case, my very raison d’être would collapse.”

“But listen here, you—when you say you pursued scholarship in order to speak, that means writing history, doesn’t it? Just as I paint, why not keep charging ahead with your writing—even if monsters are the foundation—without a second thought?”

“It doesn’t work that way. To begin writing, I simply must separate myth. When separated, questions arise—why separate them at all? Why not leave them entangled? History simply cannot be handled like a painting that captures a single moment.”

“In that case, it’s fine that monsters lurk within the paintings I create.”
“So you’re saying it’s no good because monsters appear in the history you write?”
“Well, that’s right.”

“Spineless, aren’t you?”
“What happens if they appear?”

“It would be labeled dangerous ideology.”
“If it were merely society saying such things, I might strive against them.”
“But first and foremost, I think your father would never approve.”

“You’re utterly spineless.”
“As for such conflicts—I settled them ages ago.”
“When I became a painter, my old man gave up on me—now he treats me as a gentleman of leisure.”
“When you declared you’d become a historian, your father gladly approved.”
“So then you graduated from university as well.”
“As for study abroad, you didn’t push yourself like I did and took it easy.”
“You’ve been putting off your conflicts all this time.”
“Why don’t you resolve now what I resolved five or six years ago and write history however you please?”
“It can’t be helped, can it?”

“However, I believe I should be able to manage without provoking such conflict.”
“A peaceful resolution seems just within sight.”
“It appears tangible enough to grasp.”
“I want to avoid fumbling when reaching for it and meeting failure.”
“That’s why I’ve been hesitating like this—and now even you call me spineless.”

Hidemaro heaved a sigh.

“Hmph—why even bother trying to convince your father?”

“If only I could make them understand that my ideology isn’t dangerous or anything like that.”

“How exactly do you intend to make them understand? Pretend I’m your father—try making your case right here.”

“This is troublesome,” said Hidemaro, standing up and beginning to pace about the room.

The sundial crossed beyond the eaves of the veranda and moved onto the roof.
The perfectly clear, still-autumnal azure sky dyed the veranda’s glass doors like sapphires, their hue appearing slightly dimmed through the window.
The loneliness of a Sunday in Yamanote imparted to the garden of this rather spacious mansion a feeling reminiscent of a rural villa.
Suddenly, a single automobile clamorously passed by outside the brick wall, and in its wake, the loneliness returned as before.

Hidemaro continued speaking.
“Well, it’s like this.”
“You’ve been going on about monsters this and monsters that—but that’s precisely the ‘as if’ I mean.”
“Those are by no means monsters.”
“Without ‘as if,’ there would be no scholarship, no art, no religion.”
“All things of value in life revolve around ‘as if’.”
“Just as people of old bowed their heads reverently before a singular personal god or plural gods they believed in, I bow piously before ‘as if’.”
“That reverence is not fervent, but a clear, pure emotion.”
“Morality is no different.”
“The mere understanding that duty cannot be substantiated as fact—every time I see Ibsen’s plays treating it as some monster or ghost, I cannot contain my indignation.”
“Destruction may be unavoidable destruction.”
“But in its aftermath—is there truly nothing?”
“Though it cannot be grasped—a thing of faint appearance—at its foundation, ‘as if’ stands solemnly entrenched.”
“Humans must act ‘as if’ there is duty to the very end.”
“I intend to proceed in that manner.”
“The notion that humans evolved from apes is a matter of fact—an attempt to substantiate it as factual—hence a hypothesis, not an ‘as if.’ Yet the fundamental concept of evolution remains an ‘as if.’”
“Living beings can only be conceived of ‘as if’ they evolve.”
“I proceed forward, seeing light in humanity’s future.”
“I look back as if ancestral spirits exist behind me, practice ancestor worship, tread the path of virtue as if duty exists, and advance forward while seeing light in the future.”
“Viewed thus, I am in fact no different from an utterly ignorant, utterly submissive peasant in the mountains.”

“It’s simply that my head isn’t muddled.”
“I’m no different from the supremely obstinate, the supremely upright—those devout worshippers and moralists.”
“It’s simply that my head isn’t rough-hewn.”
“Look here—isn’t this the safest, least dangerous ideology imaginable?”
“God is not a fact.”
“Duty is not a fact.”
“I cannot help but acknowledge this now that our time has come—yet they take pride in this acknowledgment and blaspheme God.”
“They trample duty.”
“Therein lies the genesis of danger.”
“We ought to thoroughly eradicate such perils—not merely in action, but even in thought.”
“But when you see such wretches emerge—those who would return us to days of believing in heaven, who try to revert to thinking the Earth stands still while the Sun circles round—that becomes impossible.”
“To do so would require destroying universities and all else, plunging the world into Stygian darkness.”
“They would have to reduce the masses to ignorance.”
“That cannot be done.”
“There exists no position other than my own—one that reveres ‘as if’.”

Ayanokōji—who until now had been listening with his lips curled in layers of sarcastic quotation marks, an inscrutable smile playing across his face as he exhaled cigar smoke—rapped the ash from his cigar into the ashtray, rose to his feet, and with his back to the fireplace, delivered a single terse verdict: “It’s no good.” And he coolly watched Hidemaro pacing about frenetically while chattering away.

Hidemaro stopped directly in front of Ayanokōji and stared intently at his face.
The edges of his pale eyes suddenly flushed red, and deep within them burned a light akin to the fire of fanaticism.
“Why.
Why is it no good?”

“You know perfectly well why.
Even if you told people to adopt your way of thinking, who would ever do it?
Peasants press triangular charms shaped like the character ‘shi’ to their foreheads and believe ancestral ghosts come plodding along during Obon.
Moralists fancy there’s some sort of duty power plant in the heavens—their mentors keep drawing electricity from it, applying it to them, so they imagine themselves briskly moving through life thanks to that.
Because everyone sees something tangible before them, they can both worship and comply.
Even if someone were to hand out a nude painting I drew and order people not to take wives, not to visit disreputable places, and to regard this as if it were a living woman—who’d ever listen?
Your ‘as if’ is precisely that.”

“Then what are you doing?”
“Do you think a ghost comes plodding along?”
“Do you think you’re being electrified?”

“That’s not the case.”

“Then what do you think?”

“I simply don’t dwell on it.”

“Can you really not think about it?”

“Well, yeah.”
“It’s not like I never think about it at all.”
“However, I try as much as possible not to think about it.”
“I leave it undetermined.”
“When it comes to painting, it’s fine not to settle things definitively, you see.”

“Then what would you do if you were to stand in my position and had to write history?”

“I do not hold a position that requires me to write history.
“I must beg your pardon.”

The shadow of a smile had vanished from Ayanokōji’s face, leaving behind a composed, almost sullen expression.

Hidemaro let his hands drop limply as if deflated, then smiled a lonely smile himself this time.
“I suppose so.”
“Each tending to their own professions, leaving such problems untouched.”
“My way of choosing a profession was flawed.”
“A profession where handling things carelessly or wielding deceit would pose no trouble—but attempting to perform it honestly and earnestly leads to dead ends at every turn—this is what I have unfortunately chosen.”

Ayanokōji’s eyes glinted like steel for a fleeting instant.
“If you’re at an impasse, why not charge straight through as you mean to?”

Hidemaro’s eyes reddened at the edges again.
In a tone like a child standing before adults, he murmured:
“In the end... I suppose there’s no hope of compromising with Father and carrying on.”

“No good, no good,” said Ayanokōji.

Ayanokōji drew his plump frame close to the fireplace as if to warm his back, hands clasped behind his hips while standing slightly hunched forward. Hidemaro stood two or three steps before him—his slender, supple body erect like this year’s bamboo shoot still striving upward—and the two men locked eyes, remaining wordless for a long while.
The Sunday loneliness of Yamate still pervaded the space around them.