Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Natsume Soseki

I

Therefore, I intended to spend this entire evening of April 9th reporting something.
There were many things I meant to report.
Since coming here, people had somehow become strangely serious, you know.
As I saw and heard various things, the problem of Japan’s future constantly arose in my mind.
Don’t tease me by calling it out of character.
For someone like me to ponder such matters wasn’t at all due to the weather or “biscuits”—it was simply heaven’s doing.
How flourishing this country’s arts and literature were; how profoundly that flourishing culture influenced national character; how far material progress had advanced here; what undercurrents lay beneath that advancement; how Britain lacked the word “samurai” but had “gentleman”—what meaning did that “gentleman” hold? How generous and diligent ordinary people appeared—all these observations struck me at once, accompanied by countless irritations.
There were times when I grew sick of England and wanted to return to Japan as soon as possible.
Then, when images of Japanese society floated before my eyes, I was overcome by a disheartening sense of its unreliability.
The fact that Japanese gentlemen were sorely lacking in moral, physical, and aesthetic education weighed on my mind.
How composed and self-satisfied those gentlemen appeared; how superficial they were; how empty they were; how short-sighted they remained—complacent in present-day Japan yet blind to how they led the general populace toward moral decay—such grievances multiplied within me.
The other day, I wrote a long letter concerning Japan’s upper society and sent it off to relatives.
However, these matters were merely things I’d come to keenly perceive since arriving in Britain—they had absolutely no connection to Britain itself. Since there was no need to tell you about them—nor would you care to hear—I decided to skip ahead and talk of something else.
What should I talk about? The moment I tried to speak, nothing came to mind—how vexing.
Since there was no help for it, I wrote down the events from when I woke up today until now—as I penned this letter—in a cuckoo-style diary format and presented it to your eyes.
As for events—given this wandering soul’s existence—there was nothing amusing; they were utterly ordinary.
If one were to speak of losing Ann in Oxford or witnessing a duel at Charing Cross, there’d be some flair to it—but given how pitiful my existence was, it all seemed rather trivial.
However, you would get a slight idea of what I’d been doing since coming to London.
For those of you who knew me, there might have been some interest in that.

Last Friday was “Good Friday,” marking the start of Easter observances.
All shops in town were closed, with shopping entirely forbidden.
Holy Saturday began normally; then came Easter Sunday when shopping was again prohibited.
When the next day arrived and one thought it safe at last, it turned out to be Easter Monday—so shops closed once more.
By Tuesday everything finally returned to normal—such was the usual pattern.
The landlord and his wife had traveled to Mrs.Kami’s rural hometown during the festival period.
Mr.Tanaka went off to investigate Shakespearean sites at that interminably named place—Stratford-upon-Avon.
Left behind were Mrs.Kami’s younger sister, the maid Pen, and myself—we three.

When I awoke in the morning, sunlight streamed through the gaps in the shutters, so bright it was almost dazzling.
Thinking I had overslept, I dragged out that nickel watch from under my pillow to check—it was still 7:20.
It wasn’t yet time for the first gong to sound.
There was no point in getting up, but I wasn’t particularly sleepy either.
So I turned over from facing the wall and looked toward the window.
On both sides of the window hung makeshift curtains of some unidentifiable material—perhaps cotton or linen—left open.
Behind them, the shutters remained lowered, with sunlight streaming through each slat’s gap.
Hah—how grateful I was that spring finally approached! I had thought such weather couldn’t exist in London, but realized even this human-inhabited place received sunlight after all.
Then I looked at the ceiling.
It remained cracked and gloomy.
A clattering sound came from above.
The maid must have been putting on her shoes in the fourth-floor room.
The room grew increasingly brighter.
The gong showed no signs of ringing yet.
This time, I lowered my gaze from the ceiling and scanned the entire room.
Yet there was nothing particular to see.
It was a dreadfully embarrassing room.
Before the window stood what they called a dresser.
To call it a dresser flattered it—it was merely a painted box.
In the upper drawer lay undergarments, collars and cuffs; in the lower one rested a tailcoat.

That tailcoat was cheap, but I had never worn it once.
I thought what a pointless thing someone had made.
On top of the box stood a roughly one-shaku-square mirror, with a bottle of Carlsbad Spring water to its left.
Beside it peeked half-visible dirty brown leather gloves.
Under the left side of the box lay two pairs of shoes—one red, one black—lined up neatly.
The shoes I wore daily were polished by the maid and left before my door each morning.
In the cupboard were stored shiny formal shoes; regarding footwear alone, I felt somewhat ministerial pride.
If I were to move from this house, I wondered how I would transport these four pairs of shoes.
One pair I would wear, two might fit into the leather suitcase—but carrying the remaining pair by hand seemed impossible. Should I toss them loose into the carriage? Yet surely one pair would tear before moving day arrived.
The shoes mattered little compared to my books—those proved truly troublesome.
Surveying this considerable burden, my eyes swept over volumes arrayed across floorboards, mantelpiece, desk, and bookcase alike.
Recently Roch had sent a secondhand catalog mentioning Dodsley's Collection—seventy yen seemed dear, yet how I wanted it! And bound in leather too!
The copy of Wharton's *History of English Poetry* I'd acquired earlier—antiquated Kartobā binding and all—stood as a genuine bargain find.
But without remittances arriving, books remained beyond reach—a vexation tempered by faith that funds would eventually come... Clang-clang-clang! There rang the first gong—rising now meant dressing before the second gong's summons to breakfast belowstairs.
As I pulled on undergarments, chuckling at imagining someone roused by metallic clamor instead of rooster cries, I finally quit my bed for the washstand's domain.

Now my toilette would begin.
In the West, it didn’t proceed as simply as a cat washing its face—truly troublesome.
I poured water from the bottle into the metal basin with a splash and dipped my hand in—ah! I realized I had to take my Carlsbad salt every morning before washing my face.
I withdrew my hand from the basin.
Since wiping them was a bother, I faced the wall and shook my hands a couple of times before mixing the Carlsbad salt.
I drank it.
Then I tightened my face slightly, grabbed the shaving brush, and smeared it recklessly across my face.
The razor being a safety one worked well.
I shaved my beard smoothly, like a carpenter planing wood.
It felt good.
Then I combed my hair, wiped my face, put on a white shirt, fastened the collar, attached the necktie, and rolled up the shutters—whereupon the maid thudded my shoes down in front of the room and left.
After a while, the second gong rang.
It all worked out a bit too perfectly—if I do say so myself.
Then I descended two steps and entered the dining room.
As usual, I ate oatmeal first.
This was the Scots’ staple food.
Of course, over there they ate it with salt; we ate it with sugar.
It was something like barley porridge, and I was quite fond of it.
“Johnson’s dictionary states that ‘oatmeal’… in Scotland it was eaten by people, while in England it was fed to horses.”
However, for today’s British, using this for breakfast didn’t seem any particular exception.

The British must have become closer to horses, I supposed.
Then came “Bacon”—the standard arrangement being one egg per slice or two slices of bacon.
In addition there were two slices of toast and a cup of tea—that concluded the meal.
Just as I had finished four-fifths of my two bacon slices, Mr. Tanaka descended from the second floor.
He had returned late last night from his travels.
To be precise, Mr. Tanaka was perpetually tardy—never once had he come downstairs at the appointed hour.
“Why, good morning.”
Mrs. Kami’s younger sister returned his greeting with a “Good morning.”
I too uttered “Good morning” in English.
Mr. Tanaka set about munching vigorously.
“Excuse me,” I said, opening the letter on the dining table.
“Edgehill”
It proved an invitation from Mrs. Kami—she wished to enjoy a leisurely chat at three o’clock on the seventeenth, and would I deign to attend?
Well now, I thought.
Even in Japan I had detested socializing.
How much more loathsome here in the West, attempting intercourse through my halting English!
Moreover London’s vastness meant social calls devoured time recklessly—one couldn’t appear in a soiled shirt, nor with trousers sagging at the knees! Rain necessitated humiliating expenditures on cabs—exhausting! Costly! Time-consuming! Though I’d rather not, refusal would be discourteous given this capricious invitation’s arrival—as I agonized thus, Mr. Tanaka commenced his travel narrative.
He pressed upon me a plaster Shakespeare statuette and album; I had no choice but to accept with thanks.
Then he produced a photograph of Shakespeare’s tombstone rubbing—“What’s this then? English rendered in classical script? Can’t make head nor tail of it,” he declared.
Presently Mr. Tanaka departed for his company.

Now I shall read *The Standard* newspaper as usual.
Western newspapers are truly substantial.
If one were to read them from start to finish without omission, it would likely take five or six hours.
I first read the section on China-related articles.
Today’s edition contained a commentary on Japan by *Rokoku Shimbun*.
The opinion was that if war became unavoidable, it would be unwise to attack Japan directly; thus, it would be better to decide the outcome in Korea.
I thought Korea must be truly inconvenienced.
Next came the topic of Tolstoy.
Tolstoy had recently been excommunicated for scorning Russia’s state religion.
Since they excommunicated the great Tolstoy, it caused quite an uproar.
A report stated that at a certain art exhibition where Tolstoy’s portrait was displayed, a mountain of flowers had piled up before it; then, after everyone discussed sending some sort of gift to Tolstoy, the Tolstoyites worked themselves into a fervor and confronted the government.
Amusing.
In the midst of all this, it was 10:20.
Today, as usual, I had to go to Mr. Tanaka’s house.
First, I went to the toilet, hurried up to the third-floor room to get ready, came back down and checked—there were still about twenty minutes left until eleven o’clock.
I looked at the newspaper again.
Yesterday was Easter Monday, so there had been performances here and there.
There were various reports.
The paper stated that at the *Aquarium*, a bear handler employed bears.
It stated that bears rode horses around the enclosure, jumped over poles, and went through hoops.

That looked amusing.
This time I checked the advertisements.
It mentioned Irving performing Shakespeare’s *Coriolanus* at the Lyceum.
The other day at Her Majesty’s Theatre,
I had seen Tree’s *Twelfth Night*.
It proved far more engaging than reading the script.
I found myself wanting to see Irving’s rendition too.
The clock showed five minutes to eleven.
Clutching my books, I stepped out of the house.

My lodging would correspond to Fukagawa if we were speaking of Tokyo—the shabby outskirts beyond the bridge. I endure this gloomy district for its cheap rent—no, rather, I’ve lived in seclusion here throughout my English sojourn. In return, I seldom venture downtown—only once or twice weekly—for such excursions prove troublesome indeed. First comes a fifteen-minute walk to Kennington, then passage beneath the Thames via underground railway, followed by train transfers toward that glittering West End they speak of.

Reaching the station, I paid ten sen and boarded the lift alongside three or four others. The attendant shut the gate and yanked the rope hard; with a groan we descended into subterranean depths—this being London’s method for tunneling underground. When ascending, one might fancy oneself Niki Danjo emerging from his kabuki trapdoor! Electric lamps illuminated our earthen cavity where trains depart every five minutes—mercifully sparse today.

My neighbors fore and aft all perused newspapers or magazines—a local custom this reading mania! Yet I find books unreadable in these holes—what with stinking air and jostling carriages that nauseate even on still days—truly insufferable! Four stations later came Bank where we moles transfer between burrows.

There, I transferred trains, moving from one hole to another.
It’s just like being a mole keeper, isn’t it?
After going about one chō through the hole, there was what they called the two pence Tube.
This was the new underground railway that began at Bank in the east and crossed straight west through London.
No matter where one boarded or alighted, since it cost two mon—that is, ten sen in Japanese currency—it had been given this name.
I boarded.
With a roar, the train from the opposite tunnel departed in the other direction; taking their cue from this, our train too began advancing with a roar, as if refusing to be outdone.
The conductor announced “Next station, Post-office,” and clattered the train door shut.
The distinctive feature of this railway was that they announced the name of the next station each time it stopped.
In the opposite direction, a young woman and a woman in her forties had taken seats facing each other.
To my right, about six feet away, an old woman and a young woman were chattering away.
The group over there was reading magazines while gnawing on “biscuits” or something.
An ordinary commute.
It wasn’t the least bit novel-worthy.

I’ve had enough of this, so I must beg your leave here. Actually, I want to talk about my teacher, but... After all, he’s quite an eccentric and fascinating fellow. However, as I have a slight headache, I must beg your leave here.

April 9th, Night.

II

Another "Cuckoo" has arrived, so I shall begin anew and pay my respects once more.
The condition of my lodgings, as I previously recounted, presents an utterly pitiable state—yet you must surely wonder whether one can preserve the dignified countenance of a man in his thirties while inhabiting such circumstances.
Even should you refrain from asking, it would prove inconvenient for me to proceed without acknowledging this inquiry, so I shall first grant its premise.
Now then, I shall answer you all—since these responses concern matters of no consequence, you must hear them with that understanding.

I too occasionally try to say things with an air of enlightenment, like some eccentric philosopher or Zen monk, but in the end, as you well know, I remain a common sort—thus I have no right whatsoever to be praised as wise for enduring such a constrained life without reforming its pleasures.
You might well ask why I don’t move to a more agreeable place—but there most certainly exists a significant reason for this.
First, listen.
It was true that the scholarship funds for international students were so meager as to not even be worth mentioning.
In London, they were scarcer still.
Though meager, had I allocated this entire scholarship fund to food, clothing, and shelter, even someone like me could have managed a somewhat comfortable life.
It was uncertain whether I could have maintained my dignity back home (for had I been there, counting down five ranks from first-class officials would immediately have brought my turn around, you see).
(Though if counted from the bottom, it would have arrived at four—so I couldn’t exactly boast even in Japan.) In any case, I could have moved into a house more comfortable than this.
Now, the reason I practiced such extreme frugality and lived in this wretched dwelling was twofold: first, I strongly felt that I was no longer the person I had been in Japan but merely a student; and second, having come all the way to the West, I desired to buy as many specialized books as possible to take back home.
So I forgot about owning a house and employing maidservants, thinking only of the past—ten years prior in my university dormitory, eating “beefsteak” as tough as geta sandal heels—was this not some slight improvement?
I supposed it was passable enough.
People might laugh and say I smoldered away in a poor town like Camberwell, but there was no need to concern myself with such things.
Even in such a wretched alley, I had neither become acquainted with touts nor spoken to streetwalkers.
I could not vouch for the depths of my heart, but at least in conduct, I was doing what a gentleman ought to do.
I comforted myself by thinking it a truly splendid thing.

Yet there were times—when winter nights howled with wind and stove smoke reversed course to blacken the room with soot; when frigid air crept unsparingly through gaps in windows and sliding doors, chilling me from groin to waist; when the wooden chair hardened like a hemorrhoid sufferer's seat; when my fading clothes made me feel myself sinking into degradation—that I wondered why I endured this pared-down existence.
Ah, it didn’t matter.
Even if I couldn’t buy books or anything else, I resolved to pour all my remittance into lodging costs and live like a proper human.
Then I would swing my walking stick and stroll about the neighborhood.
When I ventured out, every person I encountered stood disconcertingly tall.
Moreover, their faces all lacked charm.
In such a country, I mused that taxing human height might breed more economical creatures—but this was mere petty defensiveness refusing defeat, for in fairness their side remained undeniably superior.
I somehow felt inferior.
From ahead came an exceptionally short fellow.
Assuming confirmation of my hopes, I passed him—only to find him two inches taller than myself.
Next time, thinking some thumb-sized man approached with strange coloring, I realized it was my own reflection in a shop mirror.
I forced a wry smile; the reflection did likewise.
This stood to reason.
Then at the park trailed women resembling acrobats netted like lion dancers.
Men walked among them.
Craftsmen too.
Admirably, most wore attire surpassing Japanese commissioned officials'.
In this country, clothing revealed nothing of status.
Beef deliverymen sported silk hats and frock coats on Sundays with perfect composure.
Yet their popularity remained generally favorable.

There was not a soul who would seize upon me to speak ill or berate me.
They wouldn't even turn their heads to look.
In this land, maintaining composure and indifference in all matters counted among a gentleman's essential qualifications.
Fussing about like pickpockets or staring curiously at people's faces was considered vulgar here.
Even ladies glancing back over their shoulders was deemed unrefined.
Pointing at others with one's finger stood as the height of impropriety.
Yet despite these customs, London—that great workshop of the world—refrained from gaping at foreigners as if they were curiosities.
Moreover, most people here were frightfully busy.
Their minds so stuffed with money matters they'd no leisure to mock us Japanese—we yellow folk (though 'yellow' flatters us).
Utterly yellow.
In Japan I'd never thought myself particularly pale, yet I'd fancied my complexion approximated what one might call a human hue; here I realized we must be deemed that three-she-distance shade—the color that makes men retreat—and it was we of this hue who plodded through crowds to attend plays and spectacles.
Still, there were times when folk took pains to comment on my homeland beyond my hearing.
Just the other day while standing in some shop, two women approached from behind and passed judgment as they left: "least poor Chinese."
"Least poor"—what a mealy-mouthed adjective.
Once in a park I overheard a couple disputing—"That's Chinese," "No, Japanese."
Two days past, summoned to some function in silk hat and frock coat, two workmanish fellows approaching from ahead declared, "a handsome Jap."
Whether compliment or insult remained unclear.
Recently I attended a play.
Finding it sold out, I stood watching from the gallery when those beside me opined that yonder pair must be grape-eared folk.
—I hadn't meant to speak of such things.

I’ve lost the thread of my narrative.
I’ll take a short break and then begin anew.

First, if I went for a walk and returned, my mood would change a bit and I felt refreshed. After all, this life was merely a matter of two or three years. If I returned to my country, I could wear the clothes ordinary people wore, eat the food ordinary people ate, and sleep where ordinary people slept. "It's just a little endurance—endure, endure," I would mutter to myself before falling asleep. When I fell asleep, it was fine—but when I couldn't sleep, I would start thinking again. To tell oneself "Endure!" was inherently to find no peace in the present—matters grew increasingly complicated—the occasional bouts of desperation stemmed from the torment of poverty. Where had the principles for living that I had conceived and somewhat carried out over the years gone? Sever past from future; cling not recklessly to what was; pin no vain hopes on what may be; labor in the present with all thy might—this had been my doctrine. Yet to endure hardships now by anticipating comfort upon returning home was a fleeting delusion. No one had promised that they would let me live comfortably if I returned to my country. It was merely I who had decided this. It would have been acceptable if I could decide for myself—if, when comfort eluded me, I could pivot sharply and forget the delusions of the past. But as things stood, with me beseeching the future like this, when that future inevitably transformed into an unsatisfied past, I doubted I'd be able to cast off this present so lightly. Not only that, but to labor solely for reward was the height of foolishness. The vulgar logic that one should perform good deeds in this world because dying granted passage to Heaven and future rebirth on lotus leaves alongside tree frogs—this was an even more despicable notion than that. In the five or six years before I had left Japan, such base thoughts had never arisen. I had simply acted in the present, fulfilled my duties in the present, and felt joys and sorrows in the present—there had been no room for borrowing trouble, grumbling, or complaints, not merely on my lips but even deep within my heart. Having grown somewhat self-satisfied from this, I had prided myself on the belief that even if I went abroad with little money, I could live carefree and composedly—nay, even stylishly—with a single basket of food and a gourd of drink.

Foolish pride! Foolish pride!
If things continue like this, I’ll stray three thousand miles from the path.
First, starting tomorrow, I shall reform myself and devote myself entirely to my studies.
Having made this resolution, I fell asleep.

Under such circumstances, I resided from the end of last year until today in this dimly lit, squalid, and famously impoverished town neighboring Camberwell.
Not only did I reside there, but I might have continued residing there until my study abroad period expired.
However, when a certain incident occurred there that forced me to vacate the premises despite my desire to stay—which sounds rather novelesque—the actual reason turned out to be quite mundane.
The majority of worldly affairs are mundane—there’s no helping it.
This house was not originally a lodging.
Until last year, it had been a girls’ school; thus, Mrs. Kami and her younger sister—lacking experience, funds, or any clear future objectives—embarked on this peculiar venture, a business that seemed quasi-respectable yet somewhat base, in their pursuit of self-sufficiency.
They were not inherently dishonest people.
They worked as much as they could while adhering to the proper path.
Yet the Christian God proved surprisingly half-hearted, showing no inclination to lend a hand in times like these.
Thus, the rent fell into arrears—London’s rent was high—debts accumulated, a fever spread among the boarders.
One student withdrew, two withdrew—until finally the school closed.
……When fate spins backward, this is how it goes.
Pitiable they—no, let me retract that, for neither was pitiable in the slightest—Ah, wretched, truly wretched they—resolved to battle hardship to the bitter end and finally opened a lodging.
Into that newly opened establishment—where smoke still rose from its fledgling operations—I plunged.
After plunging in and gradually learning the circumstances, I silently concentrated my prayers: *This time, let these two girls—no, these women standing three inches taller than I—find success.*
If asked whom I had directed my prayers to, I would have been at a loss.
Having no association with any god worth petitioning, I merely cast my prayers into the void.
Yet no spiritual response manifested.
Not a single guest came.

“Mr. Natsume, might you know anyone among your acquaintances who would deign to stay here?”
“Alas, I would gladly make introductions—it pains me deeply—but in London I’ve no companions to speak of—”
Still, until recently there had been one Japanese lodger.
This gentleman proved far too jovial for such a house.
The fellow who, upon seeing me read *Hototogisu*, inquired, “Can you manage Emperor Tenji’s verses too?”
That Japanese finally fled.
Only I remained.
Thus came the inevitable shuttering of the house.
And so we arrived at London’s southern fringe—though “fringe” means little in this boundless city—a desolate hinterland by any measure.
There stood a passably neat new dwelling, prompting discussions of relocation.
One day, with landlord and Mrs. Kami abroad, as I dined facing the younger sister, she murmured drably, “Might you move with us?”
This “Might you...” bore no trace of coquettish fiction.
It was a “Might you...” bleached of allure, steeped in domestic tedium.
Hearing this, I was seized by loathsome pity.
At heart, I am Edo-born through and through.
Yet spawned in those ambiguous districts straddling pleasure quarters and slums—this dubious soul has never performed Edo-style charity.
Now I scarcely recall my reply.
Had I possessed an ounce of gallantry, I should have declared: “Aye—wherever you go, I follow.”
It seems I gave no such answer.
There lies reason for this failure.

Indeed, this younger sister was exceedingly shy, quiet, and moreover a staunch religionist; I felt not the slightest discomfort sharing a house with this woman. However, her elder sister was somewhat flighty.
I had heard this elder sister’s background story too, but since it would take too long, I’ll omit it here. Were I to briefly list the aspects that displeased me: first, she was arrogant; second, she pretended to know everything; third, she would sometimes use trivial English to ask things like “Do you know this character?”
To itemize each fault would know no end.
The other day she had asked if I knew the character for ‘tunnel.’
Then she had asked if I knew the character for ‘straw,’ that is, wara.
Even a student specializing in English literature would have found no cause left for anger at such provocation.
Lately she seemed to have gained some self-awareness and no longer made such impertinent remarks.
Moreover, her general behavior had grown markedly polite.
This marked how Soseki had subdued this flighty woman through silent resolve without uttering a single argumentative word.
But enough of such self-congratulatory tales—when it came to the women of this country, particularly old women, it might have been what they called an old dame’s kindness, but they habitually appended unsolicited annotations to their English usage and asked things like “Do you understand this character?”
The other day I had been summoned to a certain place where I conversed with the lady of the house.
Thereupon I found her to be an insufferably ardent Christian.
She had effusively expounded on divine virtues.
Truly she was a dignified and refined elderly lady.
Yet then she inquired, “Are you acquainted with the word ‘evolution’?”
“Though worldly affairs may appear chaotic and lawless at first glance,” she continued, “upon closer inspection all are governed by evolutionary principles… Evolution… Do you understand?”
It felt akin to being sermonized as an infant.
Since she spoke out of kindness, I could only respond with noncommittal murmurs.
I couldn’t prattle on like this old woman did.
Even greetings became mere exercises in dredging words from one’s throat to catch breath—no wonder they looked down on us—yet by the measure of disparate languages known, I might well have retorted that I knew more than you.

I often cite that elderly lady as an example, but there existed another elderly lady.
This elderly lady had recently sent a letter using the word 'folk'.
There would have been nothing strange in merely using it, but she had appended a foot note to that character.
It stated this was an ancient British character.
Attaching a “note” to her own letters was amusing enough, but the content proved even more so.
When I once shared a boat with this elderly lady and she demanded “Write something—I’ll correct it,” I produced a diary excerpt and entrusted her with the task.
Declaring herself deeply impressed, she returned it with one or two characters corrected in several places.
Upon inspection, she had altered passages needing no correction whatsoever.
Outrageously erroneous explanations filled those very notes.
This elderly lady was by no means low-class.
She belonged to respectable middle-class society.
In a Britain where one encountered such specimens, there seemed little need to humor Mrs. Kami’s impertinence—yet having come all this way to Britain, I longed to lodge among people of some learning worth conversing with daily, cramped squalor notwithstanding.
Harboring such hopes, I refrained from noncommittal assent—though whether lodgings matching my ideals existed struck me as profoundly doubtful.
In this vast world they must exist.
But lighting upon them would prove most arduous.
Had my teacher’s residence contained a vacant room I might have lodged there—but no vacancy meant no solution.
At such times Western newspapers proved convenient.
In this advertisement-saturated world lodging notices abounded.
When previously seeking rooms I had perused the *Daily Telegraph*’s lodging columns.
I distinctly recall requiring three hours to read them through from start to finish.

I no longer take the *Telegraph*; it’s *The Standard* now. Since this was a respectable newspaper, I assumed any advertisements appearing there would be reliable. But when I began reading the April 17th listings, I found an unexpectedly large number of business-oriented offers and surprisingly few seeking private lodgers. However, there were all sorts. "Low rates, bath included, food excellent." Such things were common. “Facing Hyde Park, three minutes to the Underground Electric, five minutes to the Underground Railway—convenient for socializing with you.” There was one that went like this. “Billiards available at will, piano provided; gay society, late dinner.” This too was not uncommon. “The term ‘late dinner’ is quite the fashion these days.” For someone like me, this was extremely inconvenient. Among them, I found the following one. “A widow with her sister, possessing splendid rooms, seeks a gentleman not overly ostentatious to share lodgings.” “Those who are interested are kindly requested to contact XX Stationery Store.” I decided to first try approaching this one there, so I immediately wrote a letter requesting they inform me of the lodging fees and other particulars, stating my status as such-and-such and my occupation as such-and-such, boldly writing that I wished to reside in as inexpensive and agreeable a place as possible.

Around ten o’clock that night, as I was reading in my room, there came a knock at the door.
When I said, “Yes, come in,” the landlord entered with a grin.
“As you are well aware, we’ve settled on moving this time. How about it? The new place is far cleaner than here, and we’ll furnish it with much finer things. Wouldn’t you consider joining us?”
“If it’s you who insists I come…”
“I’m not asking you to force yourself—but if it suits your convenience… You see, we’ve grown quite accustomed to you, and my wife and sister dearly wish for it.”
“I understand you want lodgers at your new residence,” I explained the circumstances, “but I thought it needn’t necessarily be me.” As I spoke these words, the landlord’s expression darkened slightly.
I found myself somewhat at loose ends.
“Then let’s do this—once their reply comes, I’ll first go inspect the room. If it doesn’t suit me, I’ll come to your place and cease looking elsewhere.”
“Had I known your requirements before sending that letter, I’d have accommodated them without further discussion—but as matters stand, there’s no help for it.”
“It all hinges on their reply.”
“In return, I shan’t search anywhere else.”
“If that falls through, I’ll certainly come to yours.”
The landlord said, “Thank you for your time,” and descended the stairs.

When morning came and I went to the dining room, there was no one.
It was after everyone had finished their meal.
Ah, I thought, feeling sorry for oversleeping again today—and when I looked at the table, there lay a sealed letter in a pale purple envelope, its four corners dyed a deep violet for about a quarter-inch each.
This must be the reply that came for me.
Thinking a lodging that uses such showy envelopes must be rather too high-class for my means, I opened it with a knife to find: “We hereby inform you regarding your inquiry.
This residence is owned by Lady (the word ‘Lady’ has a line drawn beneath it here), where not only are the interior decorations splendid, but every room employs electric lighting and fine servants, with care taken to suit refined and elegant living.
The lodging fee is thirty-three yen per week.
Though we humbly fear it may not meet your approval, should you deign to visit, we would be delighted to show you around each room. Respectfully yours,”
While eating my meal, I pressed the call bell and summoned Mrs. Kami of the lodging.
“I’ve finally decided to come to your place.”
“Since I can’t possibly pay thirty-three yen a week for lodging, I’ll come to your place.”
“Oh, I see. Thank you very much. I’ll do my best to be attentive, so please do entrust it to me.”
After Mrs. Kami left, the landlord’s head appeared halfway through the door. “Thank you, Mr. Natsume, thank you,” he said, grinning.
I, too, felt a faint sense of happiness.

Mrs. Kami and her younger sister were busy all day preparing for the move.
At seven o’clock when having tea, he met them in the dining room.
“Today I sold the parrot we kept,” said the younger sister.
Not to be outdone, her elder sister said, “I sold the signboard from the school we used to run.
They bought it for ten yen,” she said.

The wheel of fate was ceaselessly turning. What events lay ahead before me and before the two of them? The three of us might all have been doing something foolish. It might have been foolish; or perhaps clever. Yet it was a fact that my fate was gradually drawing closer to theirs. Looking back, I imagined that noble lady in pale violet and her sister with their gate-adorned house; looking ahead, I envisioned these two impoverished yet honest sisters and the latticed gate structure they anticipated as their future paradise—and in their disparity, I perceived something akin to aesthetic interest. I also sensed that the gap between rich and poor was something so devoid of allure. It also felt akin to David Copperfield living with Micawber.

April 20th.

III

Regarding the sister companions—those companions with whom I share my life alongside their own companion—I had touched upon them somewhat in my previous account; yet there remains one more companion whom I most respect and yet find most exasperating.
Since I cannot rest without briefly reporting on this saintly figure whose surname is Pen and nickname is Bedge Pardon, I shall now speak a little of her, and from next time onward, I will present observations and accounts from changed perspectives.
Now, as to why I bestowed this nickname upon Pen—that is, our maid Pen—it is because she, being a good-natured soul whose tongue (whether too short or too long) struggles slightly with articulation, invariably says "bedge pardon" instead of "I beg your pardon."
Bedge Pardon is, as her name suggests, every bit a Bedge Pardon.
However, she was such an extraordinary orator that when she launched into speech—her tongue spraying saliva unsparingly onto my face—her words would flow in a turbulent torrent, this kind-hearted yet loquacious soul showing not the slightest compunction about mercilessly squandering others’ precious time.
This benevolent orator Bedge Pardon, though born in London, knew absolutely nothing about the city.
As for the countryside, she naturally knew nothing of it.
Moreover, she seemed to have no desire to know them either.
She worked nonstop from morning till night and night till morning, then climbed up to the fourth-floor attic to sleep.
When the sun rose the next day, she descended from the fourth floor and began working again.
Breathing in labored gasps—she suffered from asthma—it was pitiful enough to watch from afar.
Yet she harbored not an ounce of pity toward herself.
Uncertain whether her form resembled the letter A or B, she showed not the slightest sign of inconvenience.
I found myself so filled with reverence for this saintly woman through our daily interactions that I could scarcely contain it; yet when accosted by Pen, whether this proved fortunate or unfortunate must be left for others to judge.
People in Japan may think that any English spoken by anyone is roughly the same, but just as in Japan itself, there are regional dialects and distinctions of social standing, making it a matter of thousands upon thousands of variations.
However, the language of the educated upper class was generally comprehensible, so there was no issue—but when it came to this so-called Cockney language of London, I found it utterly incomprehensible.
Not only did this language used by the middle and lower classes there employ pronunciations absent from dictionaries, but they gabble away so rapidly that one cannot discern where one phrase ends and the next begins.
I was always baffled by Cockney, but when it came to Bedge Pardon’s Cockney, I grew so wearied from being baffled past bafflement and then baffled once more that I had to rest a moment after opening my mouth just to endure it.
When I first took up lodging here, I often found myself overwhelmed by Pen’s relentless onslaughts.
When I reluctantly reported this matter to Mrs. Kami, poor Pen received a stern scolding.

"How could you show such impertinence to a guest? You must mend your ways henceforth," she decreed.
After that, the obedient Pen never spoke to me.
However, this silence held only when Mrs. Kami remained present; once the Mountain Deity ventured out, Pen reverted wholly to her original self.
This original Pen—vexed by being forced into mute labor—came at me with such ferocity, seizing every chance to reclaim both principal and interest accrued through silence, that it became unbearable.
There was something admirable in this scholar who, after enduring seven days of forced fasting, waged desperate battle on the eighth day while clutching his rice tub.

As usual, when I returned from my walk on Denmark Hill, Pen—who had opened the door for me—immediately started talking.
As expected, all the household members had gone to the new residence to organize the luggage, leaving only me and Pen remaining in the temple-like hall.
She spoke for about fifteen minutes as fluently as water cascading down a standing board, but I couldn’t understand a single word.
The eloquent Pen was launching into her oration at such speed as to allow me no opening to interject even a single question.
Since there was no help for it, I resigned myself to not understanding the conversation and began scrutinizing the features of Pen’s face.
For a time, I gazed blankly at her gentle double eyelids; her nose, its tip slightly upturned and drawing near the root; her robust complexion, unwaveringly ruddy; her tongue moving freely and wantonly; and the white saliva flowing down both sides of that tongue—until at last arose a feeling akin to pity, endearment, absurdity, and the chaotic disarray of mixed ingredients.
I curved my lips into a slight smile to express this feeling.
The innocent Pen would never notice such things.
Seeming to have concluded that others were laughing along with her engrossing tale, she formed dimples on her red cheeks and giggled merrily.
Because of this absurd incident, I found myself growing increasingly odd in mood; Pen, for her part, became ever more animated—a thoroughly unmanageable situation.
Taking what she was saying—there a word, here a phrase—and synthesizing only the parts I understood, it seems to go like this.
Yesterday the agent came to negotiate.
The women of the household, feeling awkward, used their absence as an excuse to send him away.
It was Pen who accomplished the mission of turning him away at the entrance.
I dislike lying.
I feel guilty toward Mrs. Kami.
However, my master’s orders were impossible to refuse, so I had no choice but to lie.
First, estimating that it must generally be around there—as if observing a distant fire—she finally retreated to her room.
My trunk and books had been carried off to the new residence by the landlord around three o'clock this morning, so all that remained was my body.
I somehow felt a sense of desolation.

Around eight in the evening came a knock-knock at the door—it was Pen, of course—with a report that the agent had come four times that day. Then she said something else, but I could not make out a single word. Since it was too much trouble, I sent them away with a perfunctory response... Around ten o'clock, Pen came again. She wondered what to do if the agent came next. This time it was for consultation. I told her there was no need to worry, comforted her, and sent her away. It was half past ten, but the others from the house still had not returned. If the landlord here were a swindler who had abandoned me and taken only the luggage, I realized I would be the very picture of a fool and would surely be laughed at by others. Soon there came the sound of the gate door opening. They seemed to have returned. At least I had managed to avoid becoming a fool. Grateful, I went to sleep.

The next day was April 25th. When I got up around nine and went downstairs, the landlord and his wife had just finished their breakfast.
Taking my seat at the table as her cue, Mrs.Kami asked, “Do you know about last night’s commotion?”
I sleep on the third floor.
I knew nothing at all about what had happened downstairs.
When I asked what commotion she meant, it turned out to be that ongoing dispute with the agent.
Last night, the moment they returned from the new residence and entered the house, the agent who had lain in wait at the entrance rushed in after them so swiftly that the landlord had no chance to shut the door, demanding, “How dare you move at midnight without notice—is this how a gentleman acts?” To which came the retort: “When I move my own luggage aside, whom need I ask permission?”
The landlord retorted that regardless of when they moved their luggage, wasn’t it entirely their own business?
From there, the argument grew heated, their bold words startling the neighbors—it was quite a commotion, I heard.
Originally, this house had been rented under Mrs.Kami’s name.
However, a slight delay in rent payment from seven years ago had haunted them to this day, rendering them unable to vacate.
Moreover, his property would eventually be seized as collateral for rent—such was the predicament.
However, the pitiable sisters possessed no belongings worth seizing that would cause them distress.
The agent hadn’t taken notice of that.
However, this old agent had his sights set on the landlord’s own household belongings.
The landlord, being a twentieth-century man, hadn’t overlooked that aspect.
He had gone to consult with a lawyer.
He knew that since it was after sunset and before sunrise, even if he moved his furniture out, the agent would have to stand by watching helplessly—or so he understood.
Therefore, from around three in the morning, he had hired a handcart and worked through the night without sleep to move his own belongings to the new residence.
He had an exceedingly large, utterly unrestrained face.
To this end, he had grown a token mustache beneath his nose as an excuse, but he appeared to be a shrewd man who would not be outwitted by the agent.

When I asked the landlord when I could move myself over, he replied that today would be acceptable, so after lunch, I decided to relocate to the new residence together with Mrs. Kami.

While Mrs. Kami and I were having lunch together, the landlord returned from the lawyer’s office and said to her, “You must write a letter to the agent’s office and send it by registered mail,” before leaving again.
Mrs. Kami began writing something with a scratching sound.
I felt somewhat inclined to see what sort of letter she was writing.
Before long, Mrs. Kami finished writing and, with a haughty expression, began reading: “Now then, Mr. ○○—this is the sort of letter it is—please listen.”
“Respected Sir—I am utterly astonished—”
“…How about we read this a bit more slowly?… This humble servant is utterly astonished.
Yesterday Your Honor deigned to visit this vacant residence not merely three but four times, wherein you directed sundry inquiries regarding this humble servant’s circumstances at the maidservants; moreover, without permission you presumed to conduct a search of another’s household, and went so far as to propagate among those same maidservants superfluous assertions that I am unqualified to be a Lady—this humble servant must inquire as to what intention underlies such conduct.
To this outrageous conduct of Your Honor, this humble servant must assert her right to demand an explanation.”
“…This is how she put it.”
“You see, this is our strategy,” she declared, so I was somewhat taken aback; when I asked what kind of strategy she meant, she grew even more pleased with herself.
“By writing this letter and properly keeping a copy like this, if they ever take this matter to court, it will serve as evidence that the agent acted violently.”
“Up until now, they thought we were just two women and did whatever they pleased, but now that we have a man with us, they can’t just trample all over us like that,” she added, indirectly boasting of the landlord’s prowess.
Then she said, “Well then, let us depart,” so we departed.
I stuffed miscellaneous items into the handbag and lugged the exceedingly heavy thing, while also carrying a coat and two canes in my left hand.
Mrs. Kami had placed four wax-paper packages into a net bag and was carrying it in her right hand.
One of these wax-paper packages contained my sleepwear and heko obi.
In my left hand, I also held my sheet wrapped in wax paper.
Both of us had our hands full.
What a farcical procession.

They went out to the corner and boarded the horse-drawn tram.
To Kensington, it was two sen each.
Mrs.Kami said “I’ll take care of the payment” and took out one penny from her black leather frog-mouthed purse to hand to the ticket seller.
The passengers were few.
On the opposite side sat a young woman dressed in uniform.
Then Mrs.Kami suddenly asked in a loud voice “Have you read Marie Corelli’s *The Master Christian*?”
“This book has sold 150 thousand copies recently—quite famous.”
“I have copies but haven’t read them yet,” I replied.
“The writing itself is excellent,” she continued “but I simply can’t grasp what philosophical stance it advocates.”
“Everyone I know speculates about Corelli’s true beliefs,” she declared louder still for the uniformed woman’s benefit.
Though she herself hadn’t read it either—hardly proper tram conversation—I could only murmur vague assent.

Eventually, they arrived at Kensington.
There, they changed carriages.
This time, since she suggested going up top, they climbed the steps and boarded the upper deck.
"This on the left is the famous orphanage built in commemoration of Spurgeon."
"Spurgeon is a famous preacher, you know."
I knew she didn’t need to lecture me on something as basic as 'Spurgeon,' but it annoyed me so I kept quiet.
"The trees are gradually turning green—it’s quite pleasant, isn’t it? The scenery has been steadily changing for about two weeks now."
"Indeed. By the way, what do you call those trees lined up over there?"
"Huh?"
"That’s a poplar, you know."
"Huh, so that’s a poplar? Not exactly gnarled as all that."
I offered a token exclamation of admiration.
Mrs. Kami immediately jumped in.
"Poplars are often celebrated in poetry—they appear in Tennyson, among others."
"Even on windless days, the branches stir."
"They are also called aspen."
"I believe this is also found in Tennyson," she declared—it was a veritable Tennyson franchise.
And yet she didn’t specify which poem.
I could only respond with noncommittal grunts in a manner that suggested it was all rather bothersome.
A stately woman passed by on the paving stones ahead, trailing a long hem.

“I don’t particularly object to trailing hems indoors,” said the short-skirted lady to me, “but walking outside while dragging such a long skirt isn’t very becoming.”
At last, they arrived at a place called Tooting.
This time, they arrived by Entarō carriage in front of the alley of the new residence.
“Which one is ours?” I asked.
Ahead stood four or five crude brick row houses.
In front, there is nothing.
There is a large hole dug in the gravel.
It was a scene from the Koishikawa area of Tokyo.
Only one house at the end of the row was occupied; all the others had rental signs posted.
The occupied one was the landlord’s residence, and next to it was my new lodging—their so-called "New Paradise."
Even before entering, I thought it was a dreary house inferior to what I had heard, but upon entering, I found it even more uncouth.
Moreover, luggage was haphazardly thrown into every room, making it look exactly like the aftermath of an evacuation following a spreading fire.
Only the single room on the second floor that I was to occupy had been somewhat tidied up and made presentable.
The room was cleaner than the previous one.
The decorations were at least bearable.
Before long, the landlord came out and began tapping in the curtain rods.
He hung a frame above the stove and said, “How about a frame called ‘Missルトー’? Some people dislike it, but let me show it to you,” then brought it out to display.
It was merely a nude painting of a beauty.
“Haha, a nude painting, eh? Quite splendid,” I quipped half-jokingly. “Heh heh heh, I don’t mind it at all,” he replied, hammering nails into place with steady taps.
“How about this angle… Just a bit downward… So the nude beauty gazes down upon you—perfectly splendid.”

Then he said he would make a bookshelf for me, took measurements of the wall and my books, said “Goodnight,” and left.

Not a single carriage passed by the gate.
Nor were there any voices from the street.
It was profoundly desolate.
The landlord and his wife had to return to their old residence every night to sleep until the matter was settled.
In the new residence were the younger sister sleeping on the third floor, Carlo, Jack, and Ernest.
Carlo and Jack were the names of dogs, and Ernest was the name of a young human employed at the master’s shop here.
Bedge Pardon, whom I both admired and found exasperating, had been dismissed.
After the move, I heard this story and, disconcerted, imagined his future.

Russia and Japan were seeking war even as they strove to avoid it.
China was undergoing the humiliation of its Son of Heaven in exile.
Britain was attempting to dig out Transvaal’s diamonds to fill the hole in its military expenses.
While this tumultuous world ceaselessly turned day and night, generating upheavals, even within my small world there were minor rotations and ripples—and now the protagonist of my lodging staked his massive frame to settle the score with that petty overseer.
And so, I am writing this diary to console Shiki in his illness.
April 26th.