Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part I

Upon a chariot drawn by several lions stood vigorously the statue of the goddess Bavaria; it was said that the late King Ludwig I had installed it upon this triumphal arch.
From beneath that arch where Ludwigstraße curved leftward rose a grand edifice built of Trento marble.
This was Bavaria’s capital city’s renowned attraction—the art school.
Principal Pirocchi’s fame echoed far beyond German lands; from New Greece and Italy to Rumania and farther still, countless sculptors and painters had gathered here.
Having completed their daily studies, they would cross to the shop facing the school—Café Minerva—where they alternated coffee with wine amid their diversions.
Tonight too, gaslight glimmered on half-shuttered windows while laughter spilled through them—and at the corner lingered two figures.

The one who stood ahead—his russet hair disheveled and unkempt, a broad cravat loosely tied at an angle—would appear to any observer as one of the local art students.
He halted and turned to the dark-skinned, small-statured man behind him. "Here we are," he said, opening the door.

Tobacco smoke first assailed their faces; to eyes newly adjusted from darkness, even discerning those within proved difficult.
Though evening had fallen in this sweltering season, the windows remained only half-opened—lingering in such haze had likely become customary.
"Is that not Ekister? Returned without anyone noticing."
"He still lives!" came scattered cries through the din—those students must have been regulars among this crowd.
Meanwhile, nearby patrons stared curiously at the man who had entered behind them.
The object of their scrutiny—perhaps disliking this collective gaze—momentarily knit his brows, then reconsidering, allowed a faint smile as he surveyed the assembly.

Since this person had come by the train that had just arrived from Dresden, he gazed at how the tea shop's appearance differed from those elsewhere and here. Among several marble round tables, those covered with white cloths were likely remnants from the finished evening meal that had yet to be cleared away. On the bare table before the leaning guest sat an earthenware cup. The cup was cylindrical in shape, large enough to hold four or five flasks combined, with a bow-shaped handle and a golden lid attached by hinges. Looking at the coffee cups placed on unoccupied tables—all turned upside down, with small dishes bearing several lumps of sugar atop thread-patterned saucers—one found charm in the arrangement.

Though the customers varied in both appearance and speech, their hair remained uniformly uncombed and their clothes disheveled. Yet they did not appear entirely vulgar—no doubt because they dwelled within the realm of art. Most prominent and lively among them was the group occupying the central large table. While other areas held only male patrons, here alone sat a girl. Now meeting eyes with the man who had arrived with Ekister, they seemed mutually astonished.

Perhaps because this newcomer was an unusual guest among the crowd. The girl’s figure held more than enough power to stir one encountering her for the first time. Wearing a plain hat with a broad front brim, her features—appearing seventeen or eighteen years old—could rival an ancient Venus statue. Her bearing naturally carried nobility; none would mistake her for a country lass. Ekister tapped the shoulder of someone at a neighboring table, exchanged words, then called out: “Not a soul here tells an interesting tale."

“At this rate, who knows what wretched sights we’ll endure—folk fleeing to card games or dashing off to billiards."

“Why not join us with your companion?” he invited with a smile, his voice so crystalline that the newly arrived guest leaned closer to listen.

“Who would not go where Miss Marie resides?”
“People, listen! This man I’ve brought today to join our ‘Minerva’ circle is Mr. Kose—a painter from distant Yamato.” When introduced by Ekister, the man who had accompanied him stepped forward to exchange greetings; only the foreign students stood to introduce themselves by name.
The rest responded without rising—not from disrespect, but according to their group’s custom.

Ekister began, "Everyone knows I went to Dresden to visit relatives."
"I met Mr. Kose at a gallery there, where we formed a connection. Now that Mr. Kose plans to stay awhile at this art school, I accompanied him on the return journey."
The crowd expressed delight at meeting someone from distant lands, then said, "We occasionally see your countrymen at the university, but you're the first to come to the art school."
"Since you only arrived today, you've yet to see the Pinakothek or our exhibition halls."
"But you must have seen Southern German paintings elsewhere."
"What brings you here this time?" they pressed in unison.
Marie intervened, "Wait now—can't you see how rude it is to bombard Mr. Kose with questions all at once?"
"If you want to hear him speak, be quiet." The group laughed: "How stern our hostess grows!"
Though his cadence sounded foreign, Kose spoke in competent German.

“My arrival in Munich did not mark my first encounter with this city.”
“Six years prior, I passed through here on my way to Saxony.”
“At that time, I merely viewed the paintings hung in the Pinakothek, unable to form any connections with the school’s members.”
“This was because my heart had been driven solely toward reaching Dresden’s galleries—the goal I set when departing my homeland.”
“Yet having now returned and joined your circle, I find that bond was actually forged long ago.”

“Listen without making such a commotion.”
“It was the first day of the Carnival.”
“When I left the Pinakothek building, the snow had just cleared—the branches of the trees lining the central avenue, each sheathed in thin ice, glimmered under newly lit street lamps.”
“People wearing bizarre costumes and white or black masks studded with countless eyes thronged about, while woolen drapes hung from windows here and there as makeshift viewing spots.”
“When I entered Café Lorien at Karlsplatz and looked around, they vied with each other’s carnival hues—even ordinary garments mingling among them somehow gained elegance.”
“They must all be waiting for dancehalls like the Colosseum and Victoria to open.”

As he spoke thus, a maid wearing a white apron fastened with a chest piece entered—grasping four or five of those customary large mugs at a time in both hands, their handles pressed together, filled to the brim with foamy beer—and said, "I thought it was from a new cask, but it took longer than expected."
"Pray forgive me," she apologized as she handed mugs to those who had emptied theirs in front. The girl called out "Here, here," drawing near to place one before Kose, who still lacked a cup.
Kose took a sip and continued speaking.

“I too sat on a stool in the corner, observing the bustling scene, when the door opened and in came a grubby Italian chestnut seller of about fifteen. He carried a box stacked high with paper cylinders filled to bursting with roasted chestnuts, his voice booming ‘Marroni, signore!’ (‘Chestnuts for you, sir!’). Following behind him entered a girl who appeared twelve or thirteen.”
Wearing an old falconer's hood pulled down low, she stretched out her reddened, frozen hands to grip the rim of a shallow wicker basket.
In the wicker basket, evergreen leaves were spread thickly, and upon them lay bundles of out-of-season violet flowers tied charmingly.
“Feilchen, gefällig?” (“Violets for you?”)—the crystalline clarity of that voice uttered with her head still bowed remained unforgotten to this day.
“Since the boy and the girl did not appear to be companions, it seemed likely that she had come in by waiting for him to enter and using this as her opportunity.”

"The striking contrast between these two immediately seized my eye."
The chestnut seller—nearly contemptuous in his disregard for others—and the gentle, pitiable violet seller pushed through the milling crowd until they reached the room's center before the counter. There lay an English mastiff brought by a university-student-looking man; the dog that had been sprawled on its belly now rose up, arched its back, stretched all four legs, and thrust its nose into the chestnut box.
Seeing this, as the boy tried to shoo it away, the startled dog collided with the girl who had followed behind. With a frightened "Oh no!", she dropped her wicker basket.
The beautiful violet bouquet—stems wrapped in tin foil, petals glittering as they scattered—became prey to that dog, which trampled them underfoot and tore them apart with its teeth.
The floor, thawed by the stove's warmth and slick with boot-melted snow, became a stage for chaos; while some nearby laughed and others shouted curses, the blossoms were utterly trampled into mud without remnant.
The chestnut seller boy bolted away at full speed, the student-like man nursed his injury while scolding the dog, and the girl stood dumbfounded, clutching herself.
That the violet seller didn't weep secretly suggested either that hardship had dried her wellspring of tears, or that she was too stunned to grasp this might end her day's livelihood.
After a moment, as she feebly tried gathering two or three crushed bouquets, the proprietor emerged—alerted by the woman at the counter.
A red-faced man with thrust-out belly wearing a white apron.
He planted thick fists on his hips, glared at the flower girl, and declared: "In my establishment, we don't permit peddlers hanging about like curtain-hangers."
"Out! Now!" he roared.
The girl departed wordlessly as a hundred eyes in the packed hall watched her go without shedding one tear."

“I flung the white copper coins for my coffee onto the slate counter, grabbed my coat, and went out—only to find the flower-selling girl walking away alone, weeping quietly. Though I called out, she did not turn back.”
I caught up and said, “Hark, good child—let me buy your violets.” Upon hearing this, she finally looked up.
The beauty of her face—those deep indigo eyes holding unknowable sorrow—a single glance from them could wrench the heart.
Having taken seven or eight Marks from my purse, I placed them on the leaves in her wicker basket and gave them to her. In her astonishment—before she could utter a word—I walked away. Yet her face, her eyes remained etched in my vision, never fading.
Having gone to Dresden and obtained permission to copy paintings in the gallery, no matter which work I faced—Venus, Leda, Madonna, Helena—strangely, like mist, the violet seller’s visage would stand between me and the canvas, forming an obstruction.
“Thus concluding that my work would never progress,” there was a time when I shut myself away on the second floor of an inn and even began piercing holes in the sofa’s leather covering—until one morning rousing great fierce resolve—I determined to pour every ounce of my being into eternally preserving this flower-selling girl’s form.
“Yet the eyes of the flower seller I saw held neither the joyful hue of one gazing upon spring tides nor the dream-laden heart of one bidding farewell to evening clouds.” When I tried placing her amidst Italian ruins with a flock of white doves flying about—it proved wholly unsuitable.
My imagination settled on placing that girl upon the rocky crags of the Rhine’s shore—making her grasp a single harp in her hands—and emit a choked voice.
“In the current below—I floated a single boat; facing the far shore—she raised both hands high—her face showing boundless love.”
Around the boat emerged countless Nixen and Nymphs from the shaped waves—sneering.

“Now that I have come to Munich today, though I seek to borrow an atelier at the art school for a time, in my luggage there remains only this single sketch. I wish to deliberate upon it among you, my teachers and friends, and bring it to completion.”

Kose had unwittingly become absorbed in his narration, and when he finished speaking, even his narrow eyes of Mongolian shape gleamed intensely.

“How masterfully he has told it!” cried two or three voices.

Ekister listened with a dispassionate smile. “You all should go see that sketch as well,” he said. “Mr. Kose’s atelier should be ready within about a week.”

Marie had turned pale halfway through the story, her eyes fixed solely on Kose’s lips, the cup in her hand seeming to tremble once.
When Kose first joined this gathering, he had already been startled by the girl’s resemblance to his violet seller; yet as he became engrossed in the story and met her fixed gaze, he could not help but think it was unmistakably her.
Was this too the work of his habitual fantasy?
When the story concluded, the girl gazed at Kose for a moment and asked, “Did you never see the flower seller again after that?”
Kose seemed unable to immediately find words to reply.
“No.
“I left Dresden on the evening train when I saw the flower seller.”
“However, if you do not take offense at my crude words, I would make myself heard.”
“In both the violet seller girl and my Lorelei painting, it is Your Ladyship who appears without fail from time to time.”

The crowd laughed loudly.

“So between my actual self—not the painting—and you, that flower seller child stands, I see.”
“Who do you take me for?”
She stood up and spoke in a voice that could not be discerned as serious or playful.
“I am that violet seller.”
“This is how your affection is repaid.”
The girl stretched up on her toes, pressed down on Kose’s bowed head with her open hand, and kissed his forehead.

In this commotion, the wine before the girl overturned, soaking her skirt; what had spilled onto the table crawled like a serpent, threatening to flow toward the people.
Kose felt hot palms on both his ears; before he could even register surprise, even hotter lips touched his forehead.
“Do not let your eyes wander toward my friend,” called Ekister.
People half-rose from their chairs; when one person said, “What an exquisite jest,” another laughed while saying, “How vexing that we are but stepchildren!” All those at distant tables watched with apparent interest.

A man sitting beside the girl said, “Would you deign to indulge me too?” and thrust out his right hand to grab her waist.
The girl shouted, “What ill-mannered stepchildren you are! A kiss befitting your kind awaits you,” shook free and sprang to her feet—her beautiful eyes flashing as though lightning might erupt from them—and glared at the entire gathering.
Kose could only stare in utter astonishment, for at this moment the girl’s figure resembled neither the violet seller nor “Lorelei,” appearing instead precisely like the Bavaria statue atop the Triumphal Arch.

The girl took the “cup” that had been placed beside someone’s coffee bowl and appeared to take water into her mouth, but only spurted it out once.
“Stepchildren, stepchildren—are you not the stepchildren of art?
Those who study the Florentine school become ghosts of Michelangelo and Leonardo; those who study the Dutch school become ghosts of Rubens and Van Dyck; even if one studies our country’s Albrecht Dürer, it would be rare indeed not to become a ghost of Albrecht Dürer.
Once two or three Studies hung in the hall fetch a fine price, we shall presumptuously style ourselves as the Seven Stars, we as the Ten Heroes, we as the Twelve Apostles—all in self-praise.
How could Minerva’s lips ever touch such dregs?
Be satisfied with my cold kiss!” she cried.

Beneath the mist from her spray-drenched rebuke, Kose could not fully comprehend this speech yet surmised it must be satire belittling contemporary painting. When he looked up at her face, his earlier impression of dignity akin to the Bavarian colossus showed no sign of crumbling. Having concluded her words, she retrieved her wine-soaked glove from the table and strode out with broad steps.

Everyone wore appalled expressions—when one cried “Madwoman!”, another declared “We must report this at once”—as she turned back at the doorway.
“Do you think this merits resentment? Peer through the moonlight—no bloodstain shall remain on your forehead.”
“What I sprayed was merely water.”

Midscene

After the mysterious girl left, before long the people dispersed.
When I asked Ekister on our way back, he replied: “She’s one of the art models at the art school—Fräulein Hansuru.
“As you’ve witnessed yourself, some call her a madwoman due to her strange behavior; others say she’s eccentric because unlike other models, she won’t bare her skin to anyone.”
“Though no one knows her history, being educated with an uncommon air and having no tainted conduct, many art students gladly befriend her.”
“She has a fine head for modeling, as you’ve observed,” he answered.
Kose said, “My painting should indeed take such form.
“When they’ve prepared the atelier, have them come notify me.”
“Understood,”
“But she’s no thirteen-year-old flower seller—do you not consider nude study perilous?”
Kose said, “You yourself spoke of one who doesn’t model nudes.”
“So I did,”
“Though seeing her kiss a man—that was today’s first.”

At Ekister’s words, Kose turned red, but as they were near the dimly lit "Schiller Monument," his friend did not notice.
Before Kose’s hotel, the two parted ways.

It was about a week later.
Through Ekister’s mediation, a room in the art school’s atelier was secured for Kose.
To the south ran a corridor; the north-facing wall was half occupied by a large glass window, while the partition with the neighboring room had nothing but a sailcloth curtain.
Though it was already mid-month, with many students having departed and no one in the neighboring room, he rejoiced at having no worries of his work being disturbed.
Kose stood before the easel, pointed to the “Lorelei” painting for the girl who had just entered, and said, “What you inquired about is this.
“When you laugh in that amusing, playful manner, it seems of little consequence—yet there are moments when your shadow here aligns perfectly with this unfinished figure.”

The girl laughed loudly.
“Do not forget.
“You are the true model for ‘Lorelei’—that the violet seller girl is me, I told you the other night.”
Having said this, she suddenly composed her expression.
“You do not believe me—indeed, that too is only natural.
“Since all the world calls me a madwoman, you must think so as well.”
Her voice carried no trace of jest.

Kose stood half-convinced yet doubtful, but unable to endure further, said to the girl: “Do not torment me so long with this game.”
“What burns upon my brow even now is your lips.”
If I considered this but a fleeting jest—though countless times I’d tried forcing forgetfulness—the fog never lifted.

“Ah, if your true circumstances are not painful to recount, deign to let me hear them.”

On the small desk beneath the window—where an old illustrated newspaper recently taken from a trunk, a tin tube of oil paints with its stopper removed, and a crude pipe still holding remnants of rolled tobacco lay scattered at one corner—Kose leaned his cane.
The girl sat down in the wicker chair before him and began to speak.

“Where should I begin?”
“When I received my art model’s permit at this school, I went by the name Hansuru, but that is not my true name.”
“My father was Steinbach, a painter cherished by the present king who prospered for a time.”
“When I was twelve, there was a night banquet at the Winter Garden of the Royal Palace, and both my parents were invited.”
When the banquet was nearing its end and the king was nowhere to be seen, the alarmed guests searched here and there beneath the glass roof where transplanted tropical plants grew all the more luxuriantly.
In a corner of the garden stood the renowned stone statue of Faust and a maiden, carved by Tandarujinisu.
When my father came near that place, there was someone letting out a heart-rending voice crying “Help! Help!”
Following the voice, he approached the entrance of the ‘Kiosk’—its golden dome overhead—where gaslight filtered through palm leaves cast multicolored shadows through stained glass into the dim interior, revealing a woman struggling to flee while being restrained by none other than the king.
What must have been in my father’s heart when he saw that woman’s face?
“She was my mother.”
Overwhelmed by the situation, Father paused briefly before crying “Forgive me, Your Majesty!” and pushing the king down.
In that moment while Mother fled, the king—struck unexpectedly—rose up and grappled with Father.
Against the stout and powerful king, how could Father possibly prevail? Overpowered, he was struck hard with a nearby candlestick.
Having learned of this matter and admonished him, Cabinet Secretary Tiegel was to be confined in Neuschwanstein Tower; however, he was rescued by others and saved.
“I was at home that night waiting for my parents to return when the maid came and said they had come back.”
“When I joyfully went out to greet them, Father was carried back, and Mother hugged me and wept.”

The girl fell silent for a time.

The sky, overcast since morning, turned to rain, and now and then drops pattered against the window with a light sound.

Kose said,
"I read in yesterday’s newspaper that the king, having gone mad, was moved to Berg Castle near Lake Starnberg—so it was around that time these events occurred."

The girl resumed her account.
"The king had long abhorred bustling cities, dwelling in rural areas and sleeping by day while rising at night."
“During the Franco-Prussian War, when he overcame the Catholic Diet and allied with Prussia, the king’s midlife valor gradually became eclipsed by whispers of tyranny. Though none dared voice it publicly, Minister of War Mellinger and Minister of Finance Riedel—marked for execution without grounds—were secrets known to all yet officially concealed.”
"When the king took his daytime rest, all attendants were ordered away, though some reportedly heard him murmur 'Marie' repeatedly in his fevered sleep."
"My mother too was named Marie."
“Was it not this hopeless love that sustained the king’s malady?”
"My mother’s countenance shared features with mine, and her beauty was said to be unparalleled within the palace walls."

"Father soon fell ill and died."
He had many acquaintances and was generous, but being utterly naive in worldly matters, left not a speck of inheritance.
After that, at the northern end of Dachauer Street, we rented the vacant second floor of a backhouse to live in—but once we moved there, Mother too fell ill.
"In such times, what fades is the flower within human hearts."
Countless bitter experiences made my childish heart quick to resent all people.
In January of the following year during Carnival season—when we had sold off all household goods and clothes, and could no longer even light our daily fire—I joined a group of poor children and learned to sell violets.
"That we spent Mother's last three or four days in peace was your doing."

“When tidying up Mother’s remains, it was a seamstress living upstairs who helped. Deeming it pitiful to leave an orphan alone, they took me in—something I welcomed then but now recall with bitter shame. The seamstress had two fastidious daughters who preened themselves; after moving in, I noticed frequent nighttime visitors. They would drink sake until they laughed and cursed, sometimes singing. The guests were mostly foreigners—students from your country too, it seemed. One day the mistress told even me to wear new clothes, but that man’s smile as he looked at me chilled my childish heart. One afternoon, a fortyish stranger suggested visiting Lake Starnberg, which the mistress endorsed. Remembering outings from Father’s time, I reluctantly agreed. ‘What a good girl,’ they all praised. The man treated me gently en route. We boarded a saloon boat named Bavaria where he fed me in the dining room. He offered wine too, but I refused—unused to drink. At Seeshaupt he rented a skiff for ‘pleasure.’ Dusk made me anxious—I urged return—but he rowed shoreward until reaching desolate reeds. At thirteen I understood nothing—until his face changed terrifyingly and he leapt into water himself! When I awoke later, poor fisherfolk tended me lakeside. Claiming no home, I stayed days—their simplicity grew familiar. When I confessed my plight, they pitied and adopted me. Hansuru’s that fisherman’s name.”

“Thus I became a fisherman’s daughter, but with my frail body I could not manage to row a boat, so around Leoni I was employed by a wealthy Englishman living there and became a maid.”
Although my Catholic foster parents detested being employed by the English, my learning to read came through the governess who worked in that household.
“The governess was an unmarried woman over forty who loved me more deeply than the haughty daughters of the household—in about three years I read through all her books, no more than what a teacher might own.”
There must have been many misreadings.
Moreover, the books were of varied kinds.
“Where there was Knigge’s social codes, there was Humboldt’s art of longevity.”
I half-finished Goethe and Schiller’s poetry anthology, leafed through König’s popular literary history, spread out photographic plates of the Louvre and Dresden’s art galleries, and rummaged through Taine’s translated works on art theory.”

"After the Englishman returned to his country with his family last year, I thought to find proper employment in a respectable household—but with my background being unsavory, I was not employed by the local nobles or such."
By chance I was discovered by a certain teacher at this school, and through working as an art model eventually obtained my license—yet no one knows I am the daughter of the renowned Steinbach.
"Now I mingle among artists and spend my days merely amusing myself."
"But Gustav Freytag did not write those words idly after all."
"There is nothing in the world as ill-mannered as artists; when dealing with them independently, one must not let down one’s guard even for a moment."
"Wishing to keep my distance and avoid causing trouble, I unwittingly became an eccentric with peculiar habits—as if perpetually gazing into emptiness."
At times I cannot help but wonder if I myself am not also a madwoman.
In this I wonder if the books I read in Leoni exert some curse—but if that be so, what manner of madmen must those called doctors in the world be?
The artists who denounce me as a madwoman—they should instead worry that they themselves are not mad!
To become heroes and great men—renowned masters—one cannot be satisfied without a measure of madness; this truth needs not wait for Seneca’s essays nor Shakespeare’s words!
Behold the breadth of my learning!
The sorrow of seeing someone whom one wishes were mad turn out not to be mad...
A king for whom it would have been better not to become a madman—I hear he has become one; that too is sorrowful...
Since there are only sorrowful things, by day I weep with cicadas and by night with frogs—yet there is none to say 'Ah, how pitiful.'"
Since you alone would heartlessly sneer at me—do not blame me for speaking as my heart dictates!
Ah—is this too madness?"

***

The rain ceased in the unsettled sky; through clouded glass panes, only the swaying of trees in the art school's garden could be seen.
While the girl spoke, various emotions battled within Kose's chest.
At times he became a brother's heart reuniting with his long-lost sister; at times a sculptor's heart agonizing alone before a Venus statue lying fallen in an abandoned garden; at others a monk's heart admonishing itself not to succumb though stirred by a temptress—but when her words ended, his breast heaved and flesh trembled beyond control, compelling him to kneel before the girl.
The girl stood abruptly. "This room swelters. It must be nearly time for the art school gates to open—and the rain has cleared."
"If it be with you, there is nothing to fear."
"Shall we go to Lake Starnberg together?" she said, taking up the hat beside her and placing it on her head.
Her manner showed no doubt that Kose would accompany her.
Kose followed obediently like a child led by its mother.

At the gate they hired a carriage and rode off; soon they arrived at the station.
Though it was Sunday, perhaps due to the poor weather, there were few people returning from nearby villages, making the place exceedingly quiet.
A woman stood selling newspaper extra editions.
When they bought one and looked, it reported that the king had been transferred to Berch Castle and, his condition having stabilized, Dr. Gudden had permitted the guards to relax their vigilance.
Inside the steam train were many people escaping the lakeside heat who appeared to be returning from shopping trips to the city.
Talk of the king dominated all conversation.
"Unlike when His Majesty resided at Hohenschwangau Castle, his mind seems to have found peace."
"On the journey to Berch, His Majesty stopped at Seeshaupt to drink water," spoke an old woman with a basket on her arm, her words thick with rural inflection, "and when he saw some fishermen nearby, he gave them such kindly nods."

The carriage ran for an hour; they arrived at Starnberg at five in the evening.
Though they had walked from Kachi for nearly a full day's journey, they already sensed—somehow—the nearness of the Alps, and even under this clouded sky's aspect, their chests expanded as if breathing freely.
The carriage circled here and there, and where the hills suddenly opened up before them spread the lake.
The station stood at the southwestern corner; though the woods and fishing village on the eastern shore were faintly discernible through evening mist, the southern area near the mountains offered an unobstructed view.

Guided by the girl who knew the way, Kose climbed the stone steps to the right and looked around. Here, before a hotel called "Bavaria Garden," in an open-air area without a roof, stone tables and chairs were arranged; today, being after the rain, it was damp and there were few people.
A waiter in a black jacket with a white apron, though muttering something under his breath, was righting an overturned chair and wiping it down.
When he looked around, there was a trellis entwined with ivy vines along one side of the eaves, beneath which a group of guests sat around a round table.
These were likely guests staying at this hotel.
Among the mixed group of men and women—there was someone they had seen at Café Minerva the previous night—Kose started to approach and speak to them, but the girl restrained him.
“That is not a group you should approach.”
“Though I came here with you as two young people, the shame lies over there, not here.”
“Since he knows me, look—they cannot endure sitting here long and must conceal themselves.” With that alone, those art students indeed rose and entered the hotel.
The girl called the waiter closer and asked, “Will the pleasure boat still depart?” He pointed to the swiftly moving clouds and said, “With this unsettled sky, it likely will not go out anymore.”
Then she gave instructions to take a carriage to Leoni.

When the carriage arrived, the two boarded.
From beside the station, they dashed along the eastern shore.
At that moment, an Alpine wind came rushing down, and mist began to thicken over the lake. When they looked back at the area they had just left, it steadily turned ashen gray, with only the rooftops of houses and the treetops appearing starkly black.
The coachman turned back and said, “Rain’s coming.”
“Shall I put up the rain cover?”
“No,” responded the girl, turning to Kose.
“What a cruel jest this is!”
“Long ago, I tried to lose my life in this very lake.”
“I regained my life in this very lake as well. Thus, thinking that if I were to bare my true heart to you whom I so adore, it must be here that I do so—this is why I have brought you.”
“When I suffered that humiliating ordeal at Café Lorian, the resolve to see you again—you who saved me—sustained my life through how many years?”
“The joy I felt when you listened to my story at Café Minerva the other night—since those art students whom I usually regard as mere wooden chopsticks were present, perhaps you found their contemptuous and audacious behavior unsightly?”
“But life is not long.”
“If in the snap of a finger when joy comes, you do not laugh with mouth agape, there will surely be days of regret hereafter.”
As she spoke thus, she tore off the hat she had been wearing and turned her face toward him—her countenance like hot blood pulsing through marble’s veins, her wind-tossed golden hair resembling the long-fluttering mane of a gallant steed.
“Today is the day.
“Today is the day.”
“What use is yesterday’s existence?”
“Tomorrow too, the day after too—only empty names, only fleeting voices.”

At that moment, a few plump raindrops struck the clothing of the two in the carriage—in the blink of an eye multiplying into a downpour—as a fierce spray swept sideways from the lake, striking the girl’s crimson-flushed cheek. Kose, peering at her, felt his heart turn utterly hollow.

The girl straightened up and said, “Coachman, keep the gratuity.”
“Drive faster!”
“Add one more stratagem, now another!” she shouted, embraced Kose’s neck with her right hand, and arched her own neck back to gaze upward.
Kose let his head rest on the girl’s cotton-soft shoulder and gazed at her form with a dreamlike feeling—when suddenly the image of Bavaria’s goddess atop the Triumphal Arch surfaced again in his chest.

When they neared Berch Castle where the king was said to reside, the rain intensified further. Looking across the lake, gusts of wind formed vertical streaks of varying density—where thick bands fell white with rain and thin ones blew dark with wind.
The coachman stopped the carriage and said, “It will be a short while."
“You’ll get drenched and catch a chill."
“It’s old, but if this carriage gets soaked through, I’ll catch hell from the owner,” he said, quickly fastening the rain cover before cracking the whip to hurry on.

The rain continued to fall ceaselessly, and thunder began to rumble ominously.
The road entered the woods, and though the summer sun of this country should still have been high, the path beneath the trees grew dim.
The fragrance of plants that had been steamed by summer days and dampened by rain blew into the carriage, and the two inhaled it like thirsty people drinking water.
In the intervals between thunderclaps, the "Nahachigaru" birds—showing no fear of the dreadful weather—trilled out their crystalline voices with particular vigor. Was this not akin to a solitary traveler on a desolate road who deliberately breaks into song?
At this moment, Marie entwined both hands around Kose’s neck and leaned her full weight against him; their faces, illuminated by lightning filtering through the trees, met and shared a smile.
Ah, the two must have forgotten themselves, forgotten the carriage they rode in, and forgotten the world beyond the carriage as well.

Exiting the forest, as they descended the sloping path, the wind scattered the massed clouds and the rain ceased altogether.
The mist over the lake cleared in an instant—as though layers of cloth were being peeled away one by one—until the houses on the western shore appeared close enough to grasp.
Each time they passed through scattered patches of tree shade, all they saw was dew lingering on the treetops being swept away by the wind and falling.

They got out of the carriage at Leoni.
To the left towered what is called Rottmann Hill, where stands a stone monument inscribed with “First Scenic Spot on the Lake.”
To the right stood a tavern facing the water, said to have been opened by the musician Leonie.
The girl who had clung to Kose’s arm with both hands and walked as if clinging to him arrived before this tavern, turned toward the hill, and said, “The house where the Englishman who employed me lived was halfway up that slope.”
“The old Hansuru couple’s fisherman’s hut is already about a hundred steps away.”
“I came here intending to take you there, but my heart grew too restless to bear, so let us rest at this tavern.”
Kose immediately entered the tavern to order dinner when someone said, “It won’t be ready before seven; you must wait another thirty minutes.”
This was a place that only had customers during the summer, and since those serving were hired anew each year, none recognized Marie.

The girl suddenly stood up, pointed to the boat tied at the pier, and said, “Do you know how to row a boat?”
Kose replied, “When I was in Dresden, I rowed boats at Karola Pond in the park. Though I wouldn’t call myself skilled, how could I fail to manage rowing you alone?”
“The chairs in the garden are wet.”
“Yet under the roof is stifling.”
“Then take me aboard and row for a while.”

Kose draped his removed summer coat over the girl and had her board the small boat; he took up an oar and rowed out.
Though the rain had ceased, the sky remained overcast as twilight descended early upon the far shore.
Perhaps lingering effects from being buffeted by the earlier wind kept waves strong enough to beat against oars.
Rowing back along the shore toward Berch, they reached where Leoni village ended.
At a place where shoreline trees gave way, a sandy path sloped gradually downward until a bench placed at water's edge came into view.

Just as a clump of reeds brushed against the boat with a rustling sound，footsteps sounded along the shore，and a figure emerged from between the trees.
He stood nearly six feet tall，wore a black overcoat，and held a folded umbrella in his hand.
Following slightly behind to the left was an old man whose beard and hair were all like snow.
The figure in front walked with head bowed，the face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat．Now emerging from the trees toward the lakeside，he paused for a moment．Holding the hat in one hand and looking upward，he revealed long black hair swept back to expose a broad forehead．The ashen-gray complexion and sunken eyes bore a gaze that pierced through all before him.
In the boat，Marie—wearing Kose’s coat on her back and crouching—had been watching the figure on shore when she suddenly started in alarm．“He is the king!” she cried out，standing upright.
The coat that had been on her back fell off.
Since the hat had been taken off earlier and left at the tavern when they departed，the disheveled golden hair hung languidly over the shoulders of the white summer garment.
Standing on the shore was indeed the king，who had gone out for a walk accompanied by his royal physician Dr．Gudden.
As if beholding a phantom’s form，the king gazed at the girl’s figure in a trance，then suddenly cried out “Marie!”，discarded the umbrella he held，and began wading through the shallows toward shore.
The girl cried “Ah!” and at once lost consciousness；before Kose’s outstretched hand could reach her rigid form，she toppled face-down into the water as the tilting boat rocked with a lurch.
The lake water at this spot gradually deepened，but as the slope was gentle，even where the boat had stopped，the water was likely less than five shaku deep.
However，as the sandy shore had gradually turned into clay-mixed mud，the king’s feet sank deep，rendering him unable to struggle free.
Seizing this opportunity，the old man who had been following also discarded his umbrella and gave chase；though aged，his strength seemed undiminished as he kicked through the water for a few strides，then grasped the king’s collar firmly in an attempt to pull him back.
As he resisted being pulled back，the overcoat and jacket remained in the old man’s hands.
The old man flung them aside and still tried to pull the king closer when he turned around and grappled with him；without uttering a sound between them，they struggled for a moment.

This was but a fleeting moment.
As Marie fell, Kose barely caught hold of her skirt—but when her chest struck a hidden stake among reeds and she began sinking into dark waters—he hauled her upward with desperate strength. Glimpsing two figures locked in struggle along distant shores behind them, he turned his boat back along their original course.
Kose thought only of preserving Marie's life through any means possible; all else lay beyond his care.
He reached Leoni's tavern yet did not stop there; hearing their destination lay mere hundred paces onward, he rowed toward the fishermen's thatched hut through deepening dusk. Along banks where oak and alder branches intertwined above inlet waters—where white flowers bloomed ghostly among reeds and aquatic plants—their pale forms shimmered faintly through twilight.
In his vessel lay Marie's form—mud-streaked hair splayed across planks, seaweed clinging to rigid limbs—a sight no soul could witness unmoved.
Startled perhaps by their approach through rustling reeds—fireflies rose like fleeing spirits toward shadowed shores.
Ah—were these not her very soul taking wing?

After a short while, the light of a thatched hut—which had until now been hidden by tree shadows—glimmered into view. As he approached and called out, “Is this Hansuru’s house?”, the small window beneath sagging eaves opened to reveal a white-haired old woman peering down at the boat. “The water god demands another sacrifice this year,” she said. “My husband was taken to Berch Castle yesterday and hasn’t returned.” In composed tones she added, “If you mean to tend her, come inside,” already closing the window when Kose shouted: “The one who fell in the water is Marie—your Marie!” Without waiting to hear more, the old woman flung open the window and rushed to the pier, weeping as she helped Kose ashore and gathered the girl into her arms.

When they entered and looked, there was only a single room half laid with wooden flooring.
A small lamp that seemed newly lit glowed dimly upon the hearth.
Crude colored paintings depicting Christ's life story covered all four walls, their details blurred beneath layers of soot.
They tended to her with straw fires and other ministrations, but the girl showed no signs of reviving.
Kose passed the night with the old woman beside the corpse, bewailing this detestable world of foam that leaves no trace as it vanishes.

At seven o'clock in the evening of June 13, 1886 A.D., when King Ludwig II of Bavaria had drowned in the lake waters, his elderly royal physician Dr. Gudden perished alongside him while attempting a rescue—dying with the king's claw marks upon his face—and by this dreadful news, the commotion in Munich on the following fourteenth day was extraordinary.
On street corners, black-bordered notices bearing this obituary were posted, beneath which crowds formed mounds.
In the newspaper extras, people scrambled to buy those that sold with various baseless theories attached to the circumstances of the discovery of the king’s corpse.
Soldiers in full dress uniform responding to roll call wore Bavarian helmets with black fur linings; police officers galloping by on horseback or dashing past on foot—the tumult was beyond description.
Though His Majesty the King had long refrained from showing his face to the people, even he—moved by pity—now showed his sorrowful countenance throughout the city.
At the Art School as well, amid this commotion, there was no one who concerned themselves with the whereabouts of the newly arrived Kose; only Ekister remained anxious about his friend.

On the morning of June 15th, when the art students who had returned from welcoming the king’s coffin—transferred from Berch Castle to the city at midnight—gathered at Café Minerva, Ekister thought he might find him and entered Kose’s atelier. There he was—his appearance altered over these three days as though he had grown drastically thin—kneeling beneath the Lorelei painting.

Overshadowed by rumors of the king’s sudden death, the fact that Hansuru—a fisherman near Leoni—had lost his daughter in the same drowning went unasked and faded into obscurity.