Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

When I earnestly asked, “What exactly does the South Manchuria Railway Company do?” even the president made a slightly exasperated face and said, “You really are quite the fool.”
Being called a fool by Korekimi didn’t unsettle me in the least, so I remained silent.
Then Korekimi, laughing, proposed, “How about it? Shall I take you along this time?”
This habit of Korekimi’s—this “Shall I take you along?”—stretched back many years; ever since he’d brought me to that dubious tempura shop before Kogawa-tei in Kanda some twenty-four or twenty-five years prior, he’d periodically repeated the offer to me.
Yet despite this, he had never once taken me anywhere of consequence.
I supposed this latest “Shall I take you along?” was cut from the same cloth, so I merely answered with a noncommittal “Hmm.”
The President, hearing this indifferent reply, declared, “Well then, you ought to go see what our countrymen are doing overseas.”
He added something rather pointed—that if someone as ignorant as I went about acting self-important, it would only trouble those around me.
From what I’d gathered through Korekimi—how they left gratuities at inns in places like Shimonoseki, tips so excessive even they deemed them unnecessary—I found myself wanting to walk alongside him and observe what effects these lavish payments had on innkeepers, maids, and menservants.
So when I made my request—“Then I should like to tag along obediently and see for myself”—he replied, “Suit yourself. If you’d rather not keep company, going separately poses no difficulty.”

After that, while wondering when this accompanying would occur and waiting with mild amusement, a messenger came in mid-August pressing whether I was prepared to depart at any time.
If departing was possible given my circumstances, then depart I could—so I answered that I would.
Then after about ten days came a letter inquiring whether boarding a ship from Shimonoseki on a specified date would be acceptable.
I took note of that as well.
Next arrived word asking if postponing by one ship departure would be suitable since matters had arisen.
This too I gave my consent without hesitation.
Yet even as I consented, I suddenly came down violently with acute gastritis.
Even I, who prided myself on honoring commitments, found myself unable to assure whether I'd recover before departure—my condition was deteriorating.
When stabbing pains seized my chest, promises became irrelevant.
Shimonoseki's gratuities, Korekimi's plans, Dalian's prospects—all dissolved into chaos.
The world appeared as nothing but an ink-black mass.
Still, some lingering curiosity about accompanying him must have remained hidden within me, for never once did I tell Korekimi to proceed ahead alone.

Before long, my stomach became filled with gas or something. The clatter of rice bowls irritated me. Humans are such unfathomable creatures—what need is there for them to eat meals? I began to feel that if one could just keep chewing ice like this, remaining pure and unblemished, there would be no lack of anything. When someone spoke by my bedside, I thought there could be nothing as pitifully base as those chatterboxes who can’t live without talking. I opened my eyes and looked around the bookshelf—it was crammed full of books. Those books each bore different colors and all held separate names. There were so many bothersome things. What drunken whim led someone to create such distinctions? And what karma made them display it all so pretentiously? What a truly bothersome world this was. I came to feel like saying, "Just die already."

Teiji-san came to the side of the futon and asked how I was doing, but responding felt so foolish that I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
The substitute doctor came and admonished me, saying, "Traveling is impossible in this state. As a physician, I must insist you cancel," but I had no desire to respond with either agreement or disagreement.

Days passed mercilessly.
The illness remained stubbornly where it had been.
When the day before departure finally arrived, I called Nakamura and informed him I couldn’t go.
Nakamura said to take care and went on ahead.

II

No sooner had I disembarked from the small steamer and climbed aboard the Tieling Maru than Mr. Ōkōchi of the shipping company said, "I heard you were supposed to be with the President."
When the ship began to move, Mr. Saji, the chief purser, asked me, "I heard you were supposed to be on the same ship as the President."
When I encountered the captain at the saloon exit, he questioned me with, "I heard someone say you were supposed to be traveling with the President."
As everyone kept repeating "the President," I suddenly found it terrifying to call him Korekimi.
Having no choice, I began economizing on "Korekimi"—a name I had used familiarly for twenty-five years—explaining instead that I was supposed to be with "the President" and had agreed to board the same ship as "the President."
This verbal thrift began aboard the Tieling Maru, spread from Dalian across Manchuria, and finally reached Korea via Andong County—a progression that left me thoroughly mortified.
The term "President"—I care not how it's used in society—but as a noun representing my old friend Nakamura Korekimi, it felt excessively grand, absurdly pompous, utterly impersonal, and stiff beyond measure.
It lacked all flavor.
No matter what others might say, I alone still wished to call him Korekimi-Korekimi as of old—but outnumbered and overruled, I reluctantly spent fifty days treating my dear friend as a stranger, a compromise I shall ever regret.

The inside of the ship was relatively comfortable.
Having departed Kobe on the bright 210th day—a date traditionally associated with storms—I had steeled myself for rough seas; yet the weather proved unexpectedly tranquil, and from Kobe all the way to Dalian we mostly droned on uneventfully.
If I were to say that a young Englishman lay sleeping peacefully on the deck with a dog in his arms, one could likely imagine the state of the sea as well.

When I asked Mr. Saji, the chief purser, “What’s that?” he replied, “Oh, that’s the British vice-consul.”
He might have been the vice-consul, but to me he appeared nothing more than a beautiful youth of twenty-one or twenty-two; in contrast, the dog bore a most peculiar visage.
Admittedly, being a bulldog, its lineage must have long diverged from ordinary countenances.
Therefore, to single out this specimen for censure would be cruel—yet given its astonishingly odd features, one could hardly help remarking on them.
This dog later crossed over to Dalian and took lodging at the Yamato Hotel.
Unaware of this development, I was dining in the cafeteria when I suddenly found myself confronted by that remarkable face and started in surprise.
It was certainly no establishment for canines, but seemed the dog had blundered in through some error.
Moreover, its owner happened to be present in the cafeteria at that moment.
The owner—apparently deeming it ungentlemanly to hold loud discourse with his dog amidst company—abruptly scooped up that peculiar face complete with its attached body under his arm and exited the cafeteria.
The manner of this retreat proved exceedingly graceful.
He cradled the heavy bulldog as effortlessly as one might a furoshiki-wrapped parcel and strode soundlessly through the rows of diners before vanishing beyond the doorway.
At that moment, the dog uttered no bark.
It voiced no growl.
Like some pliant warm machine yielding obediently to natural forces, it suffered itself to be borne away without protest.
While its face remained—as I have oft remarked—exceedingly strange, its conduct throughout displayed remarkable nobility.
After that day, I never again encountered this singular creature.

III

Feeling bored, he went out to the deck and looked ahead to see a black shadow spewing smoke, moving through an indeterminate sky that was neither clear nor cloudy, tainting the tranquil air as it went.
He gazed at its wake for a while before eventually sitting back down on the rattan chair.
The usual Englishman had today chained his dog to the leg of a chair and was reading a book with his long shins stretched over it.
Another foreigner was busily writing something in the saloon.
His wife was nowhere to be seen.
The American missionary couple relocated their seats beside the captain’s cabin.
The deck was as uneventful as ever.
Only the sound of the engine roared with such intensity that it reverberated through the very soles beneath him.
In that reverberation, he dozed off before he knew it.

After waking up, I entered the saloon and leafed through an American illustrated magazine.
Beside me were five or six Japanese magazines piled up.
All bore a stamp reading “Saji Bunko.”
This was something I heard from Mr. Saji himself—that as chief purser, he would purchase magazines when going ashore to read for himself, and after finishing them, donate them to the ship’s library.
Mr. Saji seemed to be fond of literature and even read my works.
Since he said he was from the same hometown as my friend Kaishū Henmi, I took the opportunity to speak a bit about Kaishū’s reputation.

Once again, I exited the room and gazed out at the sea.
Then, the ship that had been moving far off in the distance, leaving a black shadow upon the waves, now appeared right before my eyes.
In terms of size, it appeared roughly comparable to the Tieling Maru, but judging by the considerably slower speed, the ship had already closed this much distance in such a short time.
Leaning against the railing with my cheek propped on my hand, I watched as the Tieling Maru steadily closed in from behind moment by moment.
By the end, even the three characters for Yingkou Maru, written in yellow letters, had become clearly legible.
Eventually, my ship’s bow emerged ahead of Yingkou Maru’s stern.
And then, from stern to hull, it inched its way forward.
The ships were proceeding almost parallel to each other at a distance of about a hundred meters.
In another seven or eight minutes, it seemed my ship would completely overtake the Yingkou Maru.
At that moment, the interval between the ships—which had been about a hundred meters—began to narrow unnervingly.
The figures of passengers on the opposite deck had become clearly countable.
When I looked, they were all Westerners.
Among them were some who had put on glasses and were gazing our way.
However, as they watched on, the glasses became unnecessary.
The ships had drawn so near that those standing on the decks could clearly make out each other’s vivid features—the color of their hair, the contours of their eyes and noses.
The sight was truly beautiful then. No sooner had I thought this than the ship began surging forward with more than double its previous speed, closing in instantaneously.
As the Yingkou Maru’s hull divided the seawater like a narrow mountain stream and loomed blackly about six feet before my eyes, I thought, “Ah, we’re going to collide.”
At that instant, the bow of the other ship grazed past my eyes while closing in, until it finally reached the corner of the middle deck and crashed with a thud.
Simultaneously, two lifeboats suspended on the deck capsized.
The iron rod that had been securing the lifeboat bent haphazardly.

The crew of the Yingkou Maru clapped their hands and raised a clamorous cheer.
The foreigner standing beside me let out a strange voice and exclaimed something like “Damned…”.

An hour later, Mr. Saji came and asked, “Mr. Natsume, how should one write the character for ‘kawasu’ in ‘mi o kawasu’ [to dodge]?” I replied, “Let me see,” though in truth, I did not know.
When I answered with the character for “kawase” used in “exchange”—an unscholarly response unbefitting a literary man—Mr. Saji made a disapproving face and pressed, “But that character is used when exchanging things, isn’t it?” so I had no choice but to advise, “Then perhaps kana would be better.”
Mr. Saji left in exasperation.
Later, I heard he had wanted to include the phrase “this ship dodged” in his collision report.

IV

The ship snugly docked sideways against a stone embankment reminiscent of Iidagashi—it was hard to believe this was the sea. A crowd of people lined the embankment above. However, most were Chinese coolies; even one looked filthy, but two together were even more unsightly. When clustered in such numbers, they became downright grotesque. I stood on the deck, gazing down at this throng from afar, and thought to myself, *Huh—we’ve landed in quite a peculiar place*. As the ship gradually neared the embankment, people ashore began waving hats to greet acquaintances. The wife of a missionary named Win laughed and remarked, “Mr. Nakamura has likely come to welcome you,” but since I’d sent no telegram nor announced my arrival time, even a president of such illustrious authority couldn’t have anticipated my coming. Leaning against the railing with my cheek propped on my hand, I mused, *Well now, what to do? Perhaps I’ll first go to Korekimi’s house to inquire about lodging before moving there*—and as I pondered this, the ship majestically docked sideways before that grubby mass of coolies. The moment it halted, the coolie swarm began buzzing like an enraged beehive. Their sudden clamor unnerved me slightly, but since this body of mine was fated to disembark eventually anyway, I kept my cheek propped and watched the chaotic scuffle ashore, trusting matters would resolve themselves. Then Mr. Saji approached and asked, “Mr. Natsume, where will you be staying?” As I replied, “Well, I suppose I’ll first visit the president’s house,” a tall gentleman in a navy summer suit appeared, producing a business card from his pocket with a courteous bow. This being Secretary Mr. Numata, it proved most convenient for me—still leaning and watching the commotion indefinitely—as he’d come to escort an elderly man summoned from his hometown but had specially presented his card upon learning I too was aboard the Tieling Maru.

Then Mr. Numata said to Mr. Saji, "By the hotel’s carriage."
Looking up at the embankment, sure enough, carriages were lined up.
There were also many rickshaws; however, since all were pulled by the clamorous crowd, they appeared far shabbier compared to those in mainland Japan.
Most carriages too seemed managed by this clamorous crowd.
Thus they were all filthy objects belonging to the clamorous sort.
As for the carriages—there was this tale from the Russo-Japanese War days: when the Russians withdrew from Dalian and dutifully buried them underground, reluctant to simply hand them over to the Japanese. The coolies supposedly sniffed out their earthy scent—digging up one to stir commotion, then another for more commotion—until they'd unearthed enough to set Dalian abuzz in every direction. Though mere hearsay (the truth being unclear), this tale was such that none could deny its ingenuity among all hearsays—and thus were these carriages caked in mud.

Among them were two carriages so new and clean that even in central Tokyo they would have been hard to find.
The coachman, wearing a splendid livery and polished long boots, held the reins of a well-fed horse from Harbin as he stood waiting.
Mr. Saji crossed the bridge spanning from ship to embankment, cut through the clamor, and deliberately led me to that splendid carriage.
"Please get in," he urged while immediately turning toward the coachman's seat and instructing him to proceed to the president's residence.
The coachman promptly took up his whip.
The carriage began swaying forward through the clamor.

V

The carriage passed through the gate, and as soon as its wheels had crunched over a few meters of gravel, the horse came to a quiet halt before the grand entrance.
As I climbed the stone steps and stood at the entrance, a fair-skinned bellboy of fourteen or fifteen opened the sturdy oak door from within and greeted me while looking at my face.
When I asked if he had already returned, the bellboy replied, “Not yet.”
If he’s not here, there’s nothing to be done.
Wondering what to do, I stood still on the stones and tilted my head when, hearing footsteps behind me, I turned around to find Mr. Numata, whom I had met earlier aboard the Tieling Maru.
Being told, “Well, please come in,” I entered.
Mr. Numata led the way and opened the thick door at the end of the hall.
I stuck my head through the door and surveyed the room’s interior, thinking, This is incredibly spacious.
Being of a disposition poor in numerical sense, I couldn’t grasp how many tatami mats it spanned, but it gave me the impression of a long, narrow main hall of a temple.
The spacious parlor was entirely covered with a single carpet, and only the squares faintly reflected the vibrant hues of the textile, leaving the room dimly aglow.
On this large carpet, reception chairs and tables were sparsely arranged in two places.
One table and the other were separated by a distance akin to that between neighboring houses’ tatami rooms.
Mr. Numata guided me to one of them, and I was given a seat.
When I looked up, the ceiling was absurdly high.
It was meant to be high.
At the room’s entrance was a second floor, and from its railing, the structure allowed one to look down directly at where I sat—so ultimately, the space above my head served as both the first-floor ceiling and the second-floor ceiling.
I later learned from someone’s explanation that this sprawling reception room was in fact a ballroom, and that the second-floor railing overlooking it was apparently designed for an orchestra to perform.
If only they had told me that earlier, I would have been at ease; but being suddenly ushered without warning into what felt like a Buddha-less main hall, I was first and foremost astonished.
During my stay in Dalian, I crossed this room countless times to reach Korekimi’s study, so while the surprise only occurred once initially, each time I passed through, I couldn’t help recalling the absent Amitabha Buddha.

To the right upon entering the room was a window facing the street; from the center of the left side hung a long curtain partitioning off the next room. In the front stood two bonsai trees about five feet tall in pots, with a beautiful elephant ornament placed beside them. It was roughly the size of a piglet. Since this matched what I had seen in the guest room of the Tanuki-ana branch office, I concluded it must be one half of a separated pair. Above the long curtain hung an additional large framed object. At its left edge appeared small characters reading "President Gotō Shinpei of the South Manchuria Railway Company." The calligraphic style resembled Shanghai shop signs, its strokes remarkably precise. While initially impressed that Mr. Gotō's penmanship had improved through his Manchurian tenure, I soon realized my admiration actually belonged to none other than the Qing Emperor's own brushwork. Having overlooked the character for 'bestowed' on the right margin while Mr. Gotō's name appeared too diminutive, I had committed unintended discourtesy. No doubt Mr. Gotō himself would find such petty inscription beneath his dignity after meeting the Emperor. This reinforced my conviction that frequent interactions with great personages bring more trouble than honor.

Mr. Numata called a bellboy and had him telephone various places to inquire about Korekimi’s whereabouts, but they discovered nothing.
As the American fleet lay anchored in the harbor, there was supposed to be a baseball game that day as part of the welcoming events; it was suggested he might have gone to watch it.

Before long, the spacious room began to grow dim.
When I said, “Then perhaps we should go wait at an inn,” Mr. Numata kindly replied, “Since it’s a company lodging, the Yamato Hotel would be most suitable,” and personally escorted me there.

VI

Having had a bath drawn, I was lying stretched out in unsalted fresh water for the first time in ages when something began steadily knocking at the bathhouse door. Never having received visitors mid-bath before, I floated hesitantly in the tub—but the knocker seemed determined to observe visiting formalities at all costs, their raps growing more insistent. However persistently they knocked, I couldn’t possibly leap out naked to unlock the door. From the bath I shouted, “Hey! What is it?”

A voice beyond the frosted glass replied, “Open up a bit.”

Recognizing the voice as safe, I undid the bolt stark naked, water dripping from my body—and there stood Korekimi leaning on his cane at the threshold.

“You could’ve at least wired ahead if coming,” he said.

When I asked where he’d been, he answered he’d watched baseball then gone rowing.

He said he’d send a guide after I ate, so I agreed and closed the door again. As I shut it, I remarked, “This inn’s rather cramped—I suppose yukata strolls are forbidden?”

“If you hate it here, go shack up at Liaodong Hotel!” he retorted before leaving.

At the usual hour, I went down to the dining hall and ate, then was seated at a table with a Westerner I didn't know. The man said, "Pardon me—I believe I'm about to sneeze," pressing a handkerchief to his nose, but no sneeze followed—so I mentally urged him on with silent encouragement. He declared himself an Englishman. Then he asked me, "Have you seen Port Arthur?" When I hadn't, he explained in detail which trains to take when, what sights to visit, and which return trains to catch—exactly as he himself had done. I listened with murmured acknowledgments. Next he asked, "Have you seen Moji?" Then followed with, "I suppose the coal there isn't being produced in large quantities anymore?" "I don't suppose it is," I answered. The truth was, I hadn't the faintest idea about coal production levels.

After a while, he started asking again, “Have you ever been to Port Arthur?”
It was a bit odd, but to avoid complications, I gave the same reply as before: “No, not yet.”
Then he told me once more—in exactly the same guiding tone as earlier—that there were trains to Port Arthur at eight and eleven in the morning...
Since things were following the same pattern, I kept repeating my “I see, I see” just as before.
Finally, he abruptly demanded, “Are you Japanese?”
Though I had answered truthfully, wondering what nationality he’d taken me for until now left me vaguely unsettled.

No sooner had I given my characteristically Japanese response than the man began showering me with flattery—"I too went to Yokohama forty years ago," he said, "but really, the Japanese are so polite, kind, courteous—truly a model nation!"
Though I thought it regrettable, given my appointment with Korekimi, I ended the conversation at an opportune moment and parted ways with this old man.

When I stepped outside, acacia leaves settled serenely still in the clear night air as footsteps echoed from ahead along the sidewalk. From the darkness emerged a Westerner in white clothes riding a carriage. He must have been returning to the hotel. The horse’s hooves seemed to halt before the entrance. The slender tower jutting from Korekimi’s roof stained black a portion of the lapis lazuli sky, while Dalian’s early autumn set sparse stars glittering in depths of color unseen in Japan’s interior.

VII

"The American fleet has been here with four ships for some time now," Korekimi suggested. "We've been entertaining them with various activities daily, but there's supposed to be a ball tomorrow evening—you should come see it."

When I refused, saying, "You tell me to 'go see it,' but I don't have a tailcoat or anything—there's no way I can go," Korekimi remarked, "What an impossible man you are."

That tailcoat—I'd had it made at a dubious tailor shop on Tottenham Court Road during my London studies, the cheapest one available—had lain buried at my dresser's bottom ever since, so thoroughly that even close friends scarcely knew of its existence.

However modern Dalian might be, when departing Tokyo I'd never imagined this old tailcoat proving useful—thus it remained stored in that dresser's depths.

"Well then," Korekimi insisted, trying to drag me out regardless, "I'll lend you my hakama and haori—go in Japanese clothes! Just see what it's like!"

I nearly retorted that attending without dancing would be pointless anyway, so we might abandon Japanese attire—but knowing Korekimi's straightforward nature would disapprove of such honesty, I simply refused: "No haori and hakama."

Undeterred, Korekimi appeared determined to show me the ball. Next afternoon on the company's second floor, he cornered Mr. Ueda: "How about lending this fellow your tailcoat? Yours should fit him perfectly."

Mr. Ueda must have been flustered by this sudden request.

With an awkward laugh, he demurred: "No, mine wouldn't suit anyone."

The ball came to an end with that, but after a while, Korekimi began his usual routine of insisting, “I’ll take you to the club now,” as he started pressing the matter again.
Though I thought it seemed quite late, as Kunizawa-kun, who was present, was urged to go, the three of us went out under the cool night lights.
After walking a block or two along the wide street, we came to Nihonbashi.
The name was Nihonbashi, yet in reality it was purely Western in style—so elegantly and sturdily constructed that one would expect to find such a structure only in the heart of Europe.
The three of us entered a brick building in front of the bridge.
We peeked into the billiard room, wondering if anyone was there, but only the electric lights were brightly lit, with no sound of balls clattering.
We entered the reading room, but Western magazines were neatly arranged in rows, with no sign of hands turning pages anywhere.
We entered the shogi and karuta room, sat down, and looked around—but apart from our three seated figures, all the chairs and Western-style tables stood completely empty.
“Since it’s late today and there are no Westerners, it’s dull,” Korekimi said.
Korekimi’s conversational ineptitude was such that one might call it celestial refinement; when I asked in surprise, “Do you usually come here to socialize with Redbeard?” he coolly replied, “Well, I haven’t really come.”
“In that case,” I pressed, “wouldn’t their absence make you not just bored but downright blissful?” “Even so,” he explained nonchalantly, “I’m this club’s president. I became president on condition that I don’t have to attend.”

The members' name tags indeed bore many foreign-style spellings.
Kunizawa-kun spread out a large book, had me write down my full name, then urged Korekimi, "Here."
Korekimi answered that it was fine and added "proposed by" before his name.
Then Kunizawa-kun added “seconded by” as well, granting me access to come and go from the club at will during my stay in Dalian.

Then the three of us went to the bar.
The bar was operated by Chinese staff.
Using words that blurred English, Chinese, and Japanese to place orders, we drank an unnaturally red wine while talking.
When we stumbled outside drunk, the thick sky had grown denser still and crystal clear, unveiling starlight in depths of height I'd never witnessed before.

Kunizawa-kun was escorted all the way to the hotel entrance.
As we entered through the doorway, the clock directly ahead struck precisely twelve.
Kunizawa-kun, hearing this twelve o'clock strike, said, "Well then, good night," and took his leave.

VIII

At the hotel entrance, when Korekimi said, “A carriage,” the attendant asked, “Shall I prepare a brougham?”
“No—an open one will do,” he ordered.
I stood on the stone steps and gazed at the wide thoroughfare stretching straight from the entrance to Nihonbashi.
Dalian’s sunlight indeed shone more brightly before my eyes than Japan’s ever had.
The sun hung distant, yet its light felt near—so crystalline was the air that one might describe it thus—as road, trees, roofs and bricks each emerged vivid before my eyes.

Before long, the sound of hooves rang out, and Korekimi’s carriage came to a halt before the two of them. The two of them crossed Nihonbashi, swaying gently through this radiant air. Beyond the bridge lay the city district. Passing through it would bring them to the South Manchuria Railway Company headquarters. The carriage did not enter the city area but immediately turned right. When I took notice, a tall obelisk stood in the distance upon a hill, rising sharply like a white sword to tower against the blue sky. Beyond it loomed an equally white large building. Its roof had been painted a dull red. Before the obelisk spanned an elegant bridge. The house, tower, and bridge all shared the same hue, each gleaming under the fierce sun. From afar, I gazed upon the positioning, relationships, and forms of these three structures and marveled at how skillfully their balance had been struck.

When I asked from the carriage, “What’s that?” he replied, “That’s called an Electric Park—something you won’t find even back home.”
“It’s an electrically powered setup running various amusements,” he explained, “prepared by the company to provide leisure for Dalian’s people.”
Though I was humbled by the Electric Park, thinking that if it were something not even found back home, it must be exceedingly rare, I pressed again: “What exactly do you mean by ‘amusements’?” To this, he replied, “Amusement is amusement, you see,” and I began to feel somewhat uneasy.
Upon thorough inquiry, it turned out that it was actually set to open around the end of this month, and as for what exactly they would do, they said not even the President would know until the day arrived.

Before long, the carriage emerged where railway tracks were being laid.
The tram, like the Electric Park, was said to be opening at the end of this month—the company had now hired Chinese conductors and drivers who were conducting trial runs on certain sections for training.
While they were rehearsing Chinese announcements like “Any forgotten items? We’re departing shortly,” there was nothing inherently suspicious about the tracks being extended this far. Yet upon closer inspection, the method of laying the iron rails appeared slightly unusual.
Apparently, it was planned not to use stone ballast like in the home country.
When I asked, “Is there a granite shortage?” Korekimi immediately scolded me: “Don’t joke around!”
“This is the latest method—preparing the foundation somehow or other,” he boasted like an engineer himself, “filling between rails with alloy to solidify them into one continuous bar...”
No wonder those from the mainland were treated like rustics.
“Admirable—truly admirable,” he said. “By trusting engineers and not meddling—letting them work freely—such projects become possible.”
“Back home there’s no shortage of meddlesome busybodies poking into everything.”

The carriage emerged onto the hill.
As the road remained unfinished there, distinctive Manchurian loess began accumulating before our eyes—from boot tips to the knees of Western trousers—in fine layers as we watched.
Though this area too would soon become a hard-surfaced road like before the hotel, voicing such observations would only inflate Korekimi’s self-satisfaction further, so I deliberately held my tongue.

IX

“This is the unrefined soybean oil, and this is the refined version.”
“It’s not just the color that’s different—the scent has changed slightly too.”
The technician urged, “Take a sniff,” so I did.

“Its uses? Well, primarily for cooking.”
“In foreign countries where animal fats are costly, this would prove quite convenient.”
“First and foremost, it’s remarkably inexpensive.”
“With this, it costs merely a fraction of olive oil.”
“Yet their efficacy remains nearly identical.”
“From that perspective too, it’s exceptionally practical.”
“Moreover, this oil doesn’t cause indigestion like other plant-based varieties.”
When told it was as digestible as animal fats, I suddenly felt grateful for soybean oil.
When I asked if it could still be used for tempura frying, he replied “Certainly,” so resolving to try soybean-oil tempura someday soon, I left the room.

As I was about to leave, he said, "Please take this if I may trouble you," and handed me a long, narrow box. Wondering what it could be, I opened it immediately to find three bars of soap lined up inside.
It was explained that this soap too was manufactured from the same materials, but since it appeared no different from ordinary soap, I merely said "I see" and continued staring at it.
Then came an additional explanation—that the curious feature of this soap was its ability to dissolve in saltwater, making it quite peculiar—whereupon I suddenly felt compelled to accept it and snapped the lid shut.

When they laid out threads taken from oak silkworms and explained, "This is the conventional one," I saw that indeed the color was black.
"This is the refined one," they said, and when placed beside it, it was entirely white.
It was finished without any joints.
When I asked if there was anything woven with this, they replied that unfortunately there was none.
However, when I asked what might result if they were to weave it, they replied that they intended it to produce something akin to habutae silk.
Moreover, they said the price would be half.
If habutae silk could be woven from oak silkworms and purchased at half the domestic price, that would surely be excellent.

As a technician brought out sorghum liquor and poured it into Western-style cups while launching into “This is the regular version, and this is the refined one,” I declined, saying, “No more liquor for me.”
Even Korekimi—normally an avid drinker—appeared unenthused by the comparative tasting of sorghum liquor, refusing both the standard and premium varieties alike.
According to Korekimi, Mr. Takamine Jōkichi had recently visited and been intensely researching whether whiskey could be extracted from sorghum.
Were whiskey ever producible at this testing facility, Korekimi would surely revel in drinking it.

There appeared to be a room where ceramics were being made, but this remained in the experimental stage, with neither mass-produced nor premium-grade items yet in evidence.

After leaving the Central Testing Facility and traveling five or six chō, they alighted from the carriage and wandered into the grass. They descended into pathless valleys and climbed foothills without secure footing until sweat poured out and their facial skin began to sting. Moreover, his stomach ached incessantly. When I asked Korekimi about it, he declared he would take me to the shooting range; out of deference to this characteristic offer of guidance, I endured my abdominal pain until reaching the designated house, where I immediately collapsed into a chair. Korekimi persisted in discussing firearms, but none of it registered in my mind. Apparently this house alone had been donated by the company. Even so, only one fact finally penetrated my awareness—that it had cost two or three thousand yen.

Just then, two or three unkempt Chinese men came along carrying beautiful birdcages.
“Those Chinese have a refined taste,” he remarked.
“Though paupers without proper clothes, they go dangling birds about—wandering mountainsides—hanging cages from tree branches—sitting beneath them—listening quietly without eating.”
“If two gather, they’ll hold singing contests.”
“Ah! Truly refined!” he kept exclaiming in praise.
I took Zemu from my pocket and swallowed it.

X

I was slightly surprised to hear that Lord Masaki had become the customs director of Dalian. I had last met Lord Masaki ten years ago in Shanghai. At that time, he had become a subordinate of Sir Robert Hart and was working at the customs there as well. Lord Masaki had graduated from university two years before I did, and since we both came from the same English literature department, our connection remained relatively close despite our differing professions.

Lord Masaki's surname was Tachibana, and since he was from the Yanagawa Domain, he must have been a proper samurai. As for why we did not call him Mr. Tachibana but referred to him as Lord Masaki, it was because there had been another man from the same domain who shared his surname and attended the same faculty around the same time. Moreover, since both were living in the dormitory, using "Tachibana-kun" or "Tachibana-san" would have caused confusion. Since one was named Masaki, we called him Lord Masaki, while the other went by the common name Senzaburō, so we called him Mr. Sen. Why one was addressed as "Lord" while the other received "-san" was something I could never quite grasp. Mr. Sen had gone abroad to study around the same time as I did, but unfortunately contracted tuberculosis and died in Hong Kong on his return journey. Thus, only Lord Masaki remained. Therefore, even if we were to stop calling him Lord Masaki and instead say Mr. Tachibana, there would be no confusion whatsoever—yet somehow Lord Masaki inevitably came to mind before Tachibana. It was probably akin to how we had grown accustomed to calling him Korekimi rather than Nakamura or President.

When Korekimi said it was here, we alighted from the carriage and entered the customs house, only to find unfortunately that Lord Masakikō had already returned home earlier due to feeling unwell.
Since we had our own schedule to keep and no desire to trouble an ailing man, we left the customs house resolving to return another day.
Then our carriage pulled up alongside Mantetsu headquarters.
We ascended the broad staircase to the second floor, turned right, then left at the end to reach the executives' office.
All executives except those who had gone to Tokyo were present.
They introduced me to each one in turn.
Among them, I recognized Mr. Tanaka's face from years past.
When asked, "What were your first impressions upon arriving in Dalian?" I answered truthfully: "The area from where we disembarked to here looks rather like scorched earth." To this came the reply: "That's military land—we can't erect buildings there. Everyone gets that impression."

After sitting in a chair for a while and quietly observing the work proceedings, it was soon noon.
“Well then, let’s eat,” I was guided to the cafeteria.
When I sat down at what was indicated as my seat and picked up the serviette, the waiter came over and said, “That is Mr. Kunizawa’s, so I will bring a new one right away.”
The cafeteria was a grand hall on the second floor of the company’s main building, so large that come evening, it transformed into a ballroom.
This was said to be open to all employees, but when it came to the number of people seated at the dining tables, it was no more than about thirty.
To infer from this number that there might be some restriction was nothing more than my imagination.

The dishes were said to be brought from the Yamato Hotel, and all thirty-odd people sharing the table were finishing identical plates.
Though moving knife and fork like anyone else due to stomach pain, he was truly just forcing both meat and vegetables down his gullet.
When Mr. Tanaka across offered me a gourd-shaped Western pear with "How about one?", I lacked even the courage to reach out.

XI

When I went to greet Mr. Kawamura, the head of the research department, he offered me a chair with a “Please, have a seat,” then earnestly inquired, “What is it you wish to investigate?”
Since I was hardly someone engaged in investigations, I found myself thoroughly discomfited by this question.
Earlier, when Mr. Kawamura had entered the executives’ office, Korekimi introduced me and instructed him, “Please later give this man a full explanation about the types of enterprises undertaken by the South Manchuria Railway”—and so I ended up visiting the research department. Yet being but an ordinary man as the world knows me, to be solemnly asked what field of study I intended to pursue left me utterly confounded.
That said, it being equally common knowledge that I harbored no ill will nor came to mock him, I found myself in no position to offer jests that might disrespect Mr. Kawamura.
With no alternative, I adopted a grave expression and declared my desire to gain a general understanding of the South Manchuria Railway’s various undertakings—or at least believed I had done so.
Of course, this declaration sprang from no firm resolve within me; thus while my countenance maintained solemnity, the substance of my words must have drifted as insubstantially as a red blanket adrift in fog.
Even now in recollection, what affords me some satisfaction is the awareness that my demeanor at the time must have appeared perfectly composed to Mr. Kawamura—as though my very soul were anchored immovably in my core.
To deceive someone then feign ignorance being unseemly, I shall make full confession here: in truth, my stomach throbbed with dull pain throughout that encounter, and though I strained to modulate my speech or project vigor into my voice and bearing, I had become so preternaturally composed—transcending even my own self—that not a trace of struggle remained.

Just then, five or six large printed volumes appeared.
On the very top was written "First Business Report."
The second volume must be the second installment, the third volume the third installment, and the fourth volume the fourth business report.
When Mr. Kawamura placed this large volume on the desk and said, "This should cover most of what you need to know," I thought, Oh no, this is bad.
If I were forced to study these voluminous business reports in the midst of this stomach pain now, I could never endure it.
Before I had even opened the business reports, I quickly devised a plan and said: “As I am not a specialist, I doubt I would understand even with a detailed investigation. It would suffice if I could simply witness firsthand how you all are working across various departments. Would you kindly mark the sections I should review?”

Mr. Kawamura said, “Ah, I see,” and obligingly took up his brush right away.
Just then, from somewhere, a peculiar little man suddenly appeared and called out, “Hey!”
When I looked closer, it was Matano Yoshirou.
When I wrote *I Am a Cat* in the past, I had claimed within its pages that there resided in Kurume, Chikugo Province, an eccentric named Tatara Sampei.
At the time, Matano was stationed at the Miike Coal Mine, but due to some misunderstanding, rumors suddenly spread that Tatara Sampei was none other than Matano Yoshirou, and in the end, people began cornering Matano with calls of “Hey, Tatara-kun!” and the like.
At this, Matano became greatly indignant, promptly sent me a confidential document, and insisted that I retract it without fail.
I felt some sympathy for his plight, but deleting every mention of Tatara Sampei would necessitate reprinting the entire volume. So I inquired whether we might instead place a straightforward newspaper advertisement clarifying that “Tatara Sampei is not Matano Yoshirou”—but he rejected this outright.
After sending as many as three or four vehement letters, he finally presented this condition.
The reason I am mistaken for Sanpei is that we are both residents of Kurume, Chikugo.
Fortunately, there’s a famous spot called Tatara Beach in Hizen Karatsu—so at least move Sanpei’s family register over there.
Since he had insisted that this was his one non-negotiable request, I ultimately revised Sanpei’s residence to Hizen Karatsu.
Even now, if you read *I Am a Cat*, you will see.
In Hizen Province, the residence of Tatara Sanpei has been properly revised to Karatsu.

Given these circumstances, I had never imagined I would encounter Matano—with whom I shared such a complicated history—there so unexpectedly. Moreover, being invited to his home for lavish meals, being thoughtfully guided from dawn till dusk for several days, and being able to set aside past disputes to rekindle former warmth was an unforeseen blessing. To confess the truth, I had been under the impression that Matano remained stationed in Fushun all this while.

In Dalian, I had Mr. Kawamura and Matano organize the South Manchuria Railway's enterprises and other notable sights worth visiting into a tabular format.

XII

Because my stomach was aching intensely, I retreated to the bedroom and lay down on the sofa when the sound of rain striking the window gradually intensified. Thinking that those heading to the dance party must be having quite the ordeal by now, I pulled out the invitation from my pocket and lay there gazing at it again. On one side of the thick postcard-sized paper was printed a beauty by Utamaro in vivid colors; on the other was an invitation jointly signed by Nakamura Korekimi and his wife addressed to Natsume Kinnosuke. I marveled that they’d found time to prepare such a thing and was just drifting off when the head bellboy came in. He said there was a call from the President asking whether I would attend tonight’s dance party, so I requested he reply that I wouldn’t and finally fell properly asleep.

When I opened my eyes, the rain had ceased without my noticing, and within the expanse of a sky so uniformly clear it seemed polished, a bright moon hung.
I peered through the glass at this grand spectacle and, without thinking, celebrated the success of the dance party for Korekimi’s sake.

When I later asked him about it, Korekimi had apparently crowded into the club’s bar that night with numerous American officers after the dance ended.
There, as the officers showered Korekimi with praises—calling tonight’s event a great success, remarking on its liveliness—Korekimi had no choice but to muster a loud voice and shout, “Gentlemen!”
Then, the crowd that had been clamoring until then—likely thinking the President was about to begin a speech—all fell silent at once, and the entire hall became as still as water.
Korekimi, of course, had to follow up his “Gentlemen!” with something.
However, unfortunately, not a single word of English besides “Gentlemen” came forth.
Every last bit of English had been washed clean from the depths of his mind by liquor, so with no alternative, he abruptly switched to Japanese and bellowed after “Gentlemen,” “Let’s drink heartily!”
The phrase “Gentlemen, let’s drink heartily” was not something most Americans would comprehend—but such was the nature of a bar that no sooner had he delivered this line than the officers whooped and hoisted their raucous leader onto their shoulders.

I think it was around Meiji 20. There was an instance when about seven guys idling around the same boarding house undertook a day trip to Enoshima. They carried red blankets on their backs, hung lunchboxes from their shoulders, and each kept twenty sen in their pockets; after trudging until about ten at night, they finally reached this side of Enoshima—reach it they did—but not a soul dared cross the sea. As if by prior arrangement, they wrapped themselves in blankets and lay down to sleep on the sandy beach. When they awoke in the dead of night, raindrops pattered against their faces here and there. To compound matters, a dog came and snatched Masamizu Hideo’s gaiters clean off his legs. As night paled and shapes gained faint color, they looked around at one another’s faces to find everyone splendidly coated in sand. When they rubbed their eyes, sand spilled out. When they dug into their ears, sand spilled out. When they scratched their heads, sand spilled out. The seven of them thus crossed over to Enoshima.

At that moment, the dawn wind swept around the island, and the trees sprawling across the mountains swayed with a great rustle.
Then Korekimi, who had been standing beside me, for some reason suddenly exclaimed, "Look at those trees! Aren’t they trembling in fear?"

Korekimi was the first to earnestly describe the way trees and grasses swayed in the wind as “trembling in fear,” and for some time afterward, everyone referred to Korekimi as “Trembling in Fear.”
He himself likely still believes there’s no harm in continuing to “tremble in fear,” and no doubt assumes that even his “Gentlemen, let’s drink heartily!” was accepted by the officers as proper American English on that occasion.
He’s precisely the sort of man who, when drunk, would declare something like, “As proof it got through, didn’t they hoist me up?”

XIII

Last evening came an invitation from Mr. Suda of Kawasaki Shipyard proposing we dine together, but with my stomach pain as usual, I regretfully declined, drank some broth in my bedroom, and slept.
The moment I awoke that morning—thinking surely I must be better now—I directed my nerves toward my abdominal region and probed about, only to find things still amiss.
A vague anxiety persisted that my stomach had been scheming since dawn to betray me.
Yet when I tried pressing various spots to locate this unease, none responded.
Only a dull ache spread thinly across the expanse like overcast skies.
With a pained expression I descended to dine, finished my meal, returned to my room and sat blankly when Mr. Kawamura appeared at the doorway to deliver his courteous message: tonight those from the South Manchuria Railway would host and wished to invite your party of two or three to Senhōtei.
When I declined with "Much obliged but..." he responded "Indeed—the President himself is too fatigued tonight to attend," then took his leave.

No sooner had Kawamura left than Matano arrived unannounced.
He was wearing an open-collared kimono with a white undershirt and white collar that day, which struck me as commendable.
While I was speaking with Matano, another guest materialized.
On the calling card brought by Boi was printed "Professor Hashimoto Sagorou of Tohoku University," at which I thought, *Well now?*

Around Meiji 17 (1884), I once shared a rented second floor of a temple near Koishikawa’s Gokurakusui Spring with Hashimoto Sagorou, where we cooked for ourselves. At that time, we paid rent, ate beef every other day, cooked first-class rice, and thus managed on two yen per month. Of course, we would prepare a large pot filled with broth and eat the beef floating in it. With seven people sharing ten sen worth of beef, we had no choice but to prepare it this way. We ate the rice by scooping it straight from the pot. It was no easy task to hoist the large pot up to the high second floor. There, Hashimoto and I prepared to enter the Preparatory School. Hashimoto was my senior in English and mathematics. During the entrance exam, when I was utterly stumped by the difficult algebra, I discreetly received help from Hashimoto at the neighboring desk—thanks to that, I barely managed to gain admission. However, Hashimoto himself failed spectacularly. After entering the school, I soon contracted appendicitis. This was because I had eaten sweet bean soup sold nightly at the temple gate with clockwork regularity. The soup vendor would flap his fan noisily upon arriving at the gate as his signal. Whenever I heard that flapping sound, I simply couldn’t resist buying a bowl. Therefore, I might as well have been given appendicitis by that old soup peddler.

After that, Sagorou—at the time, we used to call Hashimoto "Sagorou, Sagorou"—
In truth, he had been born to a farming family in Okayama.—Sagorou did pass the make-up exam afterward, but no sooner had he done so than he failed again.
Then, declaring it all pointless, he went off to Hokkaido and enrolled in an agricultural school.
After that, he went to Germany.
He went to Germany and never returned, no matter how much time passed.
In the end, he stayed for five or six years.
That is to say, he ended up living abroad for double or more the duration of his study abroad—how he had scraped together the funds for that remained utterly beyond me.

Strangely enough, this Hashimoto had responded to the South Manchuria Railway’s request two or three months before me, had come to investigate livestock conditions in Mongolia, and just as he had completed his survey and returned to Dalian—there I ran into him.
When I saw his face—which had always borne a fierce countenance—that very fierceness was now remarkably active, having forged a new connection with Mongolia.
The moment he pushed open the door and entered, he could not help but ask, “So, still in robust health, eh?”

XIV

“Well, same as ever,” I replied, though Hashimoto’s composure ran contrary to all anticipation.
Back when we entered the Preparatory School and clamored over exam results—passing or failing—he had never been this tranquil.
Just as the tip of his nose curved upward, he possessed both wit and bite.
I still recall how often that nose left me thoroughly deflated.

At that time, a large group of us took up residence at a boarding house called Suefumiya in Sarugakuchō.
This group—when accounting for those who came and went over time—numbered nearly ten people, all uniformly foolish mischief-makers who regarded scorning study as if it were their divine calling.
They hardly did any preparatory reading, barely managing a precarious balancing act from term to term.
When called on in English class, they would simply improvise slapdash translations for whatever they didn’t understand.
For mathematics, they made it their custom to stand before the blackboard until they solved the problems.
Someone like myself would often find myself stranded there for a full hour at a stretch.
Everyone would tuck their algebra books under their arms, mutter things like “I wonder if we’ll get beriberi again today,” and head out.

Being such a group, they generally clustered at the rear of the class and were always haphazardly arranged.
At the time of enrollment, someone like me did sit next to Haga Yaichi, but with each exam, my rank would fall, until finally I barely managed to keep my footing not far from the edge of the ring.
Even so, they were all self-satisfied.
Looking at those at the top of the class, they would puff themselves up, saying things like, "What grade-grubbers!"
And then, at the slightest provocation, we would declare that we were cultivating potential energy, recklessly devouring beef and rowing boats.
Once exams ended, from that very evening we would stack desks and pile them up in the corner of the veranda, devising ways to make studying impossible for anyone, then gather in the relatively spacious room to arm wrestle.
A man named Okano procured a toy cannon from somewhere and fired it with a *pop-pop* at the walls of the tatami room.
The walls were riddled with holes.
When the exam results came out, because it was scary to go alone, they rounded everyone up and went together to look.
Then they were all barely scraping by with scores in the sixties.
Since Hashimoto was a high-spirited man, he once composed a poem and presented it to the whole group.
It was a long poem devoid of rhyme or tonal pattern, but when a line appeared within it—something about “the convenience of calculating seat order from below in times of worry”—no one could make sense of it.
As they gradually inquired and pieced it together, “the convenience of calculating seat order from below” meant that tallying ranks not from the top down but from the bottom up made for quicker comprehension.
It was a phrase as cryptic as a fortune slip.
We were all on edge about this fortune slip.

Before long, those who factored into neither lower nor upper calculations at all began gradually appearing.
As one vanished, then another vanished, there was Hashimoto.
There was Korekimi.
I, too, was among them.

When I met Korekimi in Dalian and the topic of failing came up, Korekimi said, “Oh, so you failed back then too?”
“That guy Raiboshi iya was so damn pleased about it—but even failing’s got its grades, y’know?”
“I answered that mine was an honorable injury.”

While the likes of Korekimi, myself, and Port Arthur’s current police commissioner-general kept failing and clinging on, Sagorou alone resolutely made his escape to Hokkaido.
That he—the very instigator of those failures—would become so courteous with age was something I could never have imagined.
He said that today, starting in the afternoon, he would go to the South Manchuria Railway Company office and discuss the Mongolia trip.

XV

Looking at the table Mr. Kawamura had prepared, under the heading "Entertainment Facilities," about ten items bearing names like "clubs" and "associations" were listed.
Among them, even ones with stylish names like Golf Clubs and Yacht Clubs could be seen scattered here and there.
The parenthetical note "(only one yacht)" beneath Yacht Club likely meant that, being newly established, they only had one yacht so far.

Under the heading "Places to Visit" were listed about fifteen or sixteen items: Dalian Hospital in Yamashirochō, the Employee Training Institute in Kodamachō, the Lodging House in Ōmichō, the Power Plant in Hamachō, and whatnot.
Indeed, under these circumstances, it was no wonder people said that unless one stayed in Dalian for about a week, one couldn’t properly survey all of the South Manchuria Railway Company’s projects.
Moreover, Korekimi had imperiously cautioned that I absolutely must observe everything thoroughly, so it was no easy task.
Furthermore, he insisted I observe thoroughly and voice any observations I might have—as if formally appointing me an inspector—which made it all the more mortifying.
While glancing over the table I held in my hand, I said to Matano beside me, "Hey, shall we head out for a bit?"
Matano had come fully intending to drag me all around Dalian from the start.
It wasn’t as though the company had specially assigned him to me, but it seemed he’d resolved of his own volition to neglect his duties.
And before we knew it, he had ordered a carriage to the hotel.

I went to Kita Park with Matano in a splendid carriage we shared, riding together. To call it that sounds grand, but after the carriage wheels had turned five or six times, we were already at the park—and no sooner had we entered than we had passed straight through it. Then I was taken to what was called the Employees’ Club, where I heard the Noh instructor received a monthly salary of 150 yen. After boarding the carriage once more, we peered into Mr. Sudou’s factory at Kawasaki Shipyard from outside, then entered the neighboring office to thank him for yesterday.

In front of the office was the sea, and the water in the dock basin was a clear blue.
When I asked how many tons of ships could enter there, Mr. Sudou answered that it could accommodate vessels up to about three thousand tons.
He also stated that the dock basin’s entrance measured forty-two shaku.
Gazing down from the window at the dock basin—its waters still as if binding waves that longed to stir under the high sun piercing directly into their depths—I thought how splendid it would be to plunge into this vast stone-lined bath and swim about in midsummer.

When I asked Matano where we were going next, it turned out we would be visiting the electric factory. When the Tieling Maru had entered Dalian’s port, the first thing that struck my eyes was this factory’s chimney—tall, red, and perfectly straight. The ship’s crew had said it was the tallest chimney in the Orient. Indeed, precisely because it possessed this distinction, when we entered inside, it proved a fearsome sight. In one section, they had pierced through the ceiling to reveal the blue sky while building up surrounding walls high. It must have been necessary to increase the roof height, for not only did the blue sky loom far above the bricks, but a dreadful noise reverberated so violently that ordinary conversation became impossible; standing there showered with dust, I felt a peculiar sensation. In some areas, even beneath our feet had been hollowed out, where in the darkness below various mechanisms operated fiercely. Impressed that even in the industrial world there existed things more sublime than a literary scholar’s mind, I practically fled the building. In the end, all I grasped was having heard a tremendous noise and witnessed equally tremendous motion.

Matano was running around during that time, calling out, “Hey, where’s so-and-so?” as he kept searching for an engineer.
It seemed the engineer wasn’t idle enough to be caught by Matano, for he ultimately couldn’t be found.

XVI

When I mentioned having visited the haunted house today, Mr. Tanaka laughed and asked, “Mr. Natsume, do you know why they call it a haunted house?”
I had merely surveyed the interior of the so-called haunted house as a specimen of the lower-ranking employees’ dormitory, having yet to investigate the origins of its haunting.
However, when told “This is the haunted house,” I responded with “Ah, this is it,” and stepped inside without the slightest hesitation.
Why such a dreadful name clung to this building—there had been no time for me to stop and wonder.
The so-called haunted house was constructed to be that gloomy.
To say it was completed carries the implication of being newly built, so this might be rather inappropriate as a descriptor for this architecture.
The haunted house bore such an aged hue.
The walls were likely brick, but the exterior was uniformly gray, and inside, it seemed to be filled with a dim air through which no sunlight could penetrate.

I walked back and forth along the mansion’s long corridor between the first, second, and third floors several times. A hard sound echoed with each step. When ascending the stairs, they clanked even more loudly. The stairs were made of iron. Both sides of the corridor were lined with rooms, every last one shut tight. On the doors hung nameplates indicating each room’s occupant. With eyes accustomed to intense light, when I tried to read them immediately, the corridor proved too dark to make them out clearly. I paused and asked Matano, “Is there no way to look inside the rooms?” Matano promptly tapped the right-hand door with his walking stick. No response came—neither assent nor invitation. He rapped twice on the second door. This interior too lay silent. Undeterred, Matano wandered about tapping everywhere with his stick until the end, yet never struck an occupied room. I felt as though walking through an abandoned town. Upon reaching the third floor, at a narrow corridor’s bend, we encountered a woman cooking food in a pot. There stood a kitchen. In this haunted house, five or six households supposedly shared one kitchen. When I asked Mikami-san if water was available upstairs, she replied, “No—we draw it up from below.” I wondered how many toilets existed in this dark quarter and where they might be, but without inquiring, attempted to pass by her only to be warned: “That way’s a dead end.” No wonder it lay in utter darkness.

According to Mr. Tanaka’s account, this building was supposedly a hospital during the Russo-Japanese War.
As the war intensified and the number of wounded increased, not only were they unable to provide adequate care to those they had taken in, but pitifully, they ended up having to abandon great numbers of soldiers—and the voices of resentment emanating from their wounds resounded so horribly throughout Dalian that thereafter this entire block came to be called the Haunted House.
However, since Mr. Tanaka himself had laughed while saying he couldn’t vouch for whether it was true or false, I had even less reason to vouch for it.

It remains an indisputable fact that when the South Manchuria Railway executives first crossed over to Dalian, they established their headquarters in this haunted house.
At that time, the building stood like a skeletal ruin—so dilapidated even specters would shun it—a charred remnant of what had once been.
The men who occupied it waged a desperate campaign against weather, scarcity and discomfort with death-defying resolve.
They nearly suffocated burning charcoal in train compartments; boarded freight cars only to have lanterns extinguish mid-relief; drank from siphons that froze solid after two drops—each trial mirroring some arctic expedition.

“It was back then that Kiyono wore half a dozen woolen undershirts layered together.”

“Kiyono was so startled that he never came back after that.”

As I listened to Mr. Tanaka and Korekimi having such a conversation, I ended up forgetting all about the haunted house.

Seventeen

When I went up to the third floor and looked, there was nothing but beans.
Only along the window side was there floor space about wide enough for someone to pass through.
I quietly walked round and round between the beans and the wall.
If I wasn't careful, there was a risk of crushing beans underfoot; moreover, I had grown troubled by pointlessly echoing through the uninhabited attic space.
The beans undulated like sand dunes underfoot.
When I gazed from one end to the other, an impressively long mountain range of beans had formed.
Through its center, about three holes had been dug in a shape resembling a square wooden lattice.
The beans were said to constantly fall down through them and be flattened and split.
From time to time, there would be a thud, and a new sand pile would form in one corner of the third floor.
This occurred when coolies carried sacks of beans up from below, assessed an optimal location, and scattered them loose from the sack's mouth.
At that moment, a choking smoke would billow up, and the dust lurking between countless beans would all at once dance into the air.

The coolies were docile, sturdy, strong, and hardworking—simply watching them was oddly soothing.
The bean sacks they carried on their backs were said to weigh nothing like rice bales.
They would plod up from some distant lower floor only to empty their loads on the third.
No sooner had they emptied and left than they returned to repeat the task.
However many worked in shifts to haul them up one after another remained unclear, but their pace, demeanor, timing, and intervals showed perfect uniformity.
The path had been built by laying thick planks across slopes—a makeshift scaffold stretching from ground level to third floor.
They would climb one slope only to descend another.
Even when ascending and descending parties met midway on left and right ramps, they scarcely exchanged words.
Like tongueless automatons they worked from dawn till dusk, hauling these heavy sacks up to the third floor only to trudge back down.
Their silence, their mechanical motions, their endurance and vigor seemed almost like shadows cast by fate itself.
Standing there observing them in truth, I soon found myself gripped by peculiar thoughts.

As soon as the beans that had fallen from the third floor made their way down, a large hemp cloth received them and promptly transported them into the cauldron.
The steaming of beans in the cauldron was remarkably swift.
No sooner had they put them in than they were taking them out.
When removing them, they would grab the four corners of the hemp cloth and toss the steaming contents—billowing with vapor—onto the floor.
From between the smoke, their bronze-like flesh glistened with sweat, appearing formidably robust.
When I gazed upon the physiques of these naked coolies, I suddenly recalled the Han-Chu Military Chronicles.
The heroes who once crawled between Han Xin’s legs must have been precisely such men as these.
They exposed their powerfully built upper torso muscles and wore stiff shoes crafted from roughly stitched raw cowhide on their large feet.
When the steamed beans had been encircled with rush and secured under a round frame until reaching about two feet in height, the coolies immediately stepped into the frame with those same boots and began vigorously trampling the beans into firmness.
Then, they pressed it beneath the spiral press rod and began turning the handle round and round.
The oil was simultaneously pressed out and flowed thickly into the gutter beneath the floor.
The beans were reduced to nothing but dregs.
The entire process took roughly two or three minutes.

The oil was pumped by the pump’s force into enormous iron buckets—each measuring roughly ten feet square—where it settled quietly, appearing unnervingly deep. When I climbed to the second floor and peered into three or four of these vessels, I grew terrified.
When I asked the guide, “Does anyone ever fall in here and die?” he replied with a calm face, “Well, such incidents rarely occur,” but I could not help feeling I might fall in nonetheless.

“The coolies work truly splendidly, and are extremely quiet,” I remarked admiringly as we left.
The guide responded, “No Japanese could ever imitate them.”
“They manage to eat on just five or six sen a day,” he added.
“I truly don’t understand how they can be so strong,” he concluded, thoroughly exasperated.

Eighteen

“Professor, why don’t you come to my house? There’s an eight-tatami room available—bedding and futons included.”
“It’d be more carefree and comfortable than staying at a hotel,” he kindly insisted.
“By all accounts, from the tatami room of Matano’s house, not only can one take in all of Dalian at a single glance and view the sea as though reaching out to grasp it, but even the towering mountain ranges beyond the sea—when seated—seem to come right through the window toward you. It’s said to be a most convenient house.”

At first, I listened half-heartedly to Matano’s bragging, offering vague responses, but considering his genuine kindness and my own fickle nature, I began to think accepting his offer might not be so bad under the circumstances. When I casually mentioned this to Korekimi later, he immediately rebuked me: “Don’t you dare go there!”
“If you hate the hotel, come to my place—I’ll stick you in that room,” he said, showing me the tatami-matted chamber next to his study. But since I hadn’t particularly tired of Western-style lodgings, I refrained from taking him up on it.

Korekimi sat cross-legged on the large chair in his study, chewing dried blowfish and drinking sake.
When I thought about how such hard things could be accommodated in the stomach, I became truly terrified.
In the midst of this, he said, “Hey, if you’ve got any Zem, give me some,” and reached out his hand, muttering something about his stomach acting up too.
“When your stomach’s acting up, you’ve got to gobble down whatever’s at hand—dried blowfish or whatnot—and give that stomach ailment a good scare.”
“If you do that, it’ll surely heal,” he said.

He must have been drunk.

I took the requested medicine from my pocket and handed it to him.
This was something I had bought at a Dalian pharmacy two or three days prior, when Korekimi and I rode around the city in a carriage together after borrowing twenty sen from Korekimi’s coachman.
At that time, I noticed that Korekimi’s attitude toward the coachman was remarkably courteous and found myself somewhat surprised.
It was extraordinary how he told me, “You there—stop by one of those pharmacies and buy me some Zem.”

When I advised you, "You’re being too courteous to the coachman," you began chewing dried blowfish again as if suddenly remembering, "Hmm, come to think of it, I still haven’t paid back that twenty sen from that time."

Korekimi’s coachman owed him only twenty sen, but that attendant was utterly eccentric. For one thing, he wasn’t Japanese. He proudly let his queue hang down, wore yellow Western-style trousers and woolen boots, and dangled a ritual fly-whisk roughly three feet long from his hand. Then he would dash ahead of the horse. He could run so fast that one marveled he managed such speed in gentlemanly attire without sweating. Moreover, his legs were long. He stood nearly six feet tall.

The attendant and the coachman can be left at that, but to return to Matano—I, having been scolded by Korekimi, ultimately did not move to Matano’s house. But I did go there for a visit. Indeed, it was a fine company residence built atop a small hill. However, it was not a single detached house. Among several long gray buildings lined up, the second floor of the one at the farthest end—bearing the last number—was his family’s domain. Viewed from below the hill—so much so that a Westerner had remarked it looked as if one had gone to a British summer resort—the exterior was built in Western style with thick walls, but inside lay beautiful tatami mats that carried the scent of Japan. The view was truly pleasant. Dalian’s cityscape was visible, Dalian’s sea was visible, Dalian’s distant mountains were visible. It was almost too good for Matano’s house. I met Mr. Muraii there, met Matano’s wife, and returned home after being treated to a lavish meal.

Nineteen

“Let’s take a look at a Chinese inn,” Matano said as he opened the door on the left side of the road and went inside.
There were about three Japanese people sitting at desks handling business.
Matano grabbed one of them—a man in a navy suit—and began talking.
“You’re asking if this is an inn, aren’t you?”
“It’s not an inn,” he replied while standing up.

Things were starting to feel rather strange.

Before long, I was introduced to this man in the navy suit.
Upon being introduced and observing him, this was Mr. Tanimura—a graduate of a commercial school and certainly no innkeeper.
Mr. Tanimura operated a bean business here in partnership with Chinese.
Therefore, due to business necessity, he had to make contact with bean shippers coming to Dalian from the interior; however, according to local custom, such shippers never stayed at ordinary inns.
When they came out, they invariably lodged with their business partners and remained there until their affairs were concluded.
Moreover, their number was never just one or two.
Therefore, Mr. Tanimura’s inner parlor had been organized in a manner resembling an inn.

When I said, “May I take a look at that inner parlor?” Mr. Tanimura promptly rose from his seat and kindly offered to show us around.
I followed Mr. Tanimura out to the back of the office.
Matano also tagged along and came out.
The back formed a perfectly square garden.
No trees, grass, or flowers could be seen—it was simply a flat expanse.
The room beyond that space served as the reception area.
The entrance to the reception area had a low wooden floor, with a futon laid out on a raised platform at the far end.
They supposedly sat there to conduct negotiations, yet audaciously, even a large round pillow had been provided.
However, whether it was meant for propping elbows or resting heads, I did not bother to ask.
They drank opium during negotiations.
If not that, they smoked tobacco.
The pipe resembled an apparatus more than a conventional smoking implement.
Its tin body held water through which smoke from the bowl would pass before reaching the mouthpiece—a design that risked inexperienced users drawing water into their mouths.
When urged to try a puff, I did so only to hear a gurgling noise and feel as though I were swallowing grease.

Since it was said the second floor housed the shippers’ quarters, going up to look revealed many rooms indeed lined up.
In one of them, four people were gambling.
The gambling implements were remarkably elegant.
They divided some fifty or sixty tiles—each about the thickness and size of shogi rooks and bishops—among themselves, rearranging them in various configurations to decide the match.
The tiles were made by joining polished bamboo and thin ivory back-to-back, with various patterns carved into the ivory side.
It seemed laying out several tiles with matching patterns might bring victory, but ultimately there was only the clatter of bamboo against ivory—I couldn’t grasp what made this gambling at all.
I simply wanted to get hold of a few of these bamboo-and-ivory tiles.

In one room, five or six people had gathered to listen to one of them play the flute.
When someone opened the curtain and peered in, the flute player stopped abruptly.
Thinking he might resume playing, we stood in the room awhile, but he never did.
Strange calligraphy hung garishly on every wall.
Though crudely executed, each piece bore pretentious inscriptions like “Respectfully composed for Honorable So-and-so.”
When Matano spoke something, the Chinese man across responded with words of his own.
Yet their utterances seemed to pass each other like ships in fog.

Twenty

If you ascended from the pier and went straight ahead, you would reach Dalian's town.
Without continuing straight along it, you immediately turned left and passed through the shadow of the long warehouse for three or four blocks—there lay Mr. Aioi's house.
The second floor of the Western-style building had been turned into a parlor and decorated beautifully with old Buddha statues, mirrors, bronzeware, pottery, and the like—so that seeing only this parlor would make one appear nothing more than an ordinary person of refined taste.
Mr. Aioi served as director of the pier office as an employee of the South Manchuria Railway Company.

To put it in more colloquial terms, he was the boss of dockworkers employed in cargo handling.
In the past when workers in Moji went on strike against Mitsui, Mr. Aioi had stepped forward to take charge of the situation—it was said he skillfully brought about a resolution—and had essentially been recruited by the South Manchuria Railway as a dockworkers' boss.
Indeed Mr. Aioi was truly cut out to be a boss.
When the South Manchuria Railway Company made him a job offer—even though his child lay critically ill—Mr. Aioi promptly came to Dalian.
A week after arriving came word that his child had died.
It was said Mr. Aioi had already steeled himself to receive this tragic news when leaving Japan.

Mr. Aioi, upon arriving in Dalian, gathered dockworkers and all others involved in pier operations and built up a community there.
When one passed by Mr. Aioi’s house, all the buildings lining both sides were those under his management.
Among them was a library.
There was a club.
There was a sports field.
There was a training hall.
There were, of course, residences for subordinates.

At the club, they were playing billiards.
In the library, there was The Complete Works of Shakespeare.
There was Palgrave’s Economic Lexicon.
There were also two or three volumes of my works.

According to Mr. Aioi’s explanation that this building served as a judo dojo but occasionally hosted storytelling sessions or lectures, peering inside revealed a structure perfectly suited as a training hall. At its far end stood a raised platform equipped for holding rakugo performances or public speeches at any time. When I asked, “What sort of lectures do you mean?” Mr. Aioi answered, “We generally ask visitors from the mainland or such to give them.” It struck me that I might soon be cornered into delivering one here myself, but deeming it impolite to preemptively refuse with “Please exclude me” before being asked, I merely nodded in acknowledgment and continued onward.

Finally, they came to the front of the longest two-story building.
"This is where they carry out communal living," Mr. Aioi said as he led the way inside.
The interior was arranged like a bazaar, with a central passageway down the middle and what would correspond to shopfronts in such a market serving as the entrances to each row house.
Thus, the row houses—separated by nothing more than a single wall—not only stretched for approximately one chō, but a mere three-shaku passageway separated one from the house opposite.
If one were to lie down using the entrance as a pillow, they would be close enough to exchange pipe tobacco.
Mr. Aioi led the way through this narrow passageway, and all the workers sewing or putting children to sleep greeted us politely.
However, among them, some could be seen talking without noticing.

Even if all the people living in this settlement were mobilized and even if tens or hundreds of times more coolies were employed, during the peak bean season cargo would pour out one after another in such quantities that they couldn’t handle it. According to Mr. Aioi, during peak periods the amount of incoming cargo was said to reach five thousand tons per day. Because of this, I heard that last year’s tonnage carried over from the rainy season had been forty thousand tons, and this year it reached a hundred and fifty thousand tons. Beside a pier measuring fifteen hundred shaku north-south and four thousand two hundred shaku east-west, piling up this many beans must have made for quite a bustling sight.

Twenty-One

A call came from Port Arthur inquiring when they would be arriving here.
“Hey, I wonder who’s calling us,” I asked Hashimoto, but he only replied with a vague “Hmm...” and gave no clear answer.
“Hey, don’t you know the name?” I reluctantly asked Boi again, but he merely repeated the same thing: “It’s from the Civil Administration Office,” just as before.
Assuming it was probably Tomokuma, Hashimoto and I made an educated guess and had him send a reply.
This—that the inquiry had stemmed from Governor Shirahito’s goodwill—was something I only learned after arriving in Port Arthur.

In Port Arthur there was an old friend named Satō Tomokuma, who served as Superintendent General of the Metropolitan Police—a position demanding severity.
This Tomokuma embodied his name’s Satsuma origins, his face and temperament forged as boldly as a shop sign.
I first knew him at a grubby school called Seiritsu Gakusha in Surugadai, which Satō and I attended to prepare for entrance into the preparatory academy—a matter dating back quite some years.
In those days Satō would arrive clad in a straight-sleeved kimono and hakama that left his shins exposed.
To eyes like mine—born and raised in Tokyo—this attire struck one as profoundly strange.
It seemed precisely as if some Byakkotai youth had botched his stomach-cutting and come to Tokyo for entrance exams.
He of course wore his geta straight into the classroom.
Not that this was unique to Satō.
We all kept our geta on when entering.
The place hardly being the sort where one wore indoor sandals or went barefoot, there was no helping it.
The floorboards gaped with holes; should you misstep, you might plunge below the veranda and scrape your shins—a hazard scarcely better than walking outdoors.

Because they had converted an old mansion into a school without modifications, even the entranceway already served as a classroom. One rainy day, as I waited in this entranceway for the appointed time, a postal courier wearing a black oiled coat and domed bamboo hat entered through the gate. Strangely enough, this postal courier carried an iron kettle. Moreover, he was completely barefoot—no tabi socks, nor even straw sandals. Then, where one would ordinarily approach the front entrance and loudly announce “Mail!”, he wordlessly stepped briskly up from the entrance platform and entered the classroom. I was greatly impressed to find this postal worker was none other than Satō. Why he had been carrying an iron kettle—to this day I have never had occasion to ask.

After that, Satō entered the lodging house of Seiritsu Gakusha. During their mess hall protests there, he somehow sustained a forehead wound and temporarily wrapped his head in white cloth—a bandage tied at the back that made him look remarkably gallant. Because they teased him about being struck during the commotion and he endured harsh treatment, I still vividly remember that dashing figure of his.

Satō had notably sparse hair at that time. Not yet balding with age, his scalp resembled poor-quality grassland where growth never turned thick and lush. In classical Chinese terms, one might have described it as exhibiting “various forms of short hair.” When wind blew, each strand would sway individually with its own inclination. This head remained sparse even after he entered the preparatory school. Thus everyone collectively jeered at him as “Cold Sparrow! Cold Sparrow!” Back then, I didn’t know what a Cold Sparrow was. Yet assuming Satō’s head must exemplify this creature, I joined in chanting “Cold Sparrow! Cold Sparrow!” just like the others. The man who coined this nickname later became an engineer and now resides in Hokkaido.

This may disrupt the chronological order of the story, but upon coming to Port Arthur and meeting Satō for the first time in over a decade, when I carefully examined that head of his, I found it now thickly covered with a uniform growth of hair to my astonishment.
However, it wasn’t all black.
"Lately I’ve been cutting it this short for self-defense," he said, laughing as he ran his hand through his dense buzz cut.

The morning after the second call came from Port Arthur, Hashimoto and I boarded a train from Dalian to meet this old friend and to see the Russo-Japanese War battle sites.
As we boarded, Korekimi sent his regards to Tomokuma.
Korekimi, seeming to have some business, crossed the station grounds with Mr. Kunisawa and walked off in an odd direction.
Before long, their figures were obscured by objects and disappeared from view through the train window.
And then, the famous sorghum fields of Manchuria came into view for the first time.
The train now entered a vast expanse of wilderness.

Twenty-Two

When I suggested to Hashimoto—"Once we reach Port Arthur after all this time, why not stay at a Japanese-style inn?"—he readily agreed: "Splendid idea! We can lounge about in yukata robes."
Having recently returned from Mongolia, Hashimoto launched into repeated complaints about his ordeal at a Chinese inn.
He claimed its walls were plastered with grandiose advertisements declaring things like “Famed throughout Saibei for our reputation; our flavors surpass even Jiangnan!”
Hashimoto had meticulously copied these slogans into his notebook.
With no better use for such phrases, he proceeded to recite every last one to me during the train journey.
Chuckling over visions of an elegant Japanese inn, we alighted at Port Arthur Station.
A carriage awaited us there.
Someone inquired after our names.

When we discovered this carriage belonged to the Civil Administration Office and that Secretary Watanabe had come to meet us, both of us grew rather abashed. Looking back at Hashimoto, I saw him still tilting his nose upward while wearing what might have been a Taiwan Panama hat—now thoroughly battered into submission. When I quietly asked, “Hey, what about the inn?” he replied, “Hmm, right,” but soon we reached the point where both had to board the carriage. Whenever walking with Hashimoto, it had long been established that he would handle everything proactively; assuming he’d manage this too, I left matters be. True to form, he began consulting Mr. Watanabe: “We came intending to stay at a Japanese-style inn.” However, Mr. Watanabe advised, “There are no Japanese inns suitable for your stay—you’d better choose the Yamato Hotel.”

Before long, the carriage began moving toward the new city area.
Fifteen minutes later, they were guided to the hotel’s second floor and took two adjoining rooms side by side.
After taking out a brush from a leather suitcase and dusting off their clothes, they sat down in armchairs to rest for a while when suddenly everything around them fell into profound silence.
Inside the hotel there seemed to be not a single guest.
Outside too there appeared no sign of people living nearby.
When he stepped out onto the open corridor and looked at the street below, he found it surprisingly wide.
From between pavement stones directly beneath the handrail grew two or three stalks of grass over a foot long.
Though midday, faint insect chirps could be heard.
Next door stood what seemed an abandoned house, its locked gates and doors thickly entwined with ivy.
Looking across the street I saw a red brick building larger than our hotel.
Yet its walls stood merely stacked brick - no roof tiles covered it nor glass filled its window frames.
It remained half-built even to retaining scattered lumber from its scaffolding.
What struck me as loneliest was how this structure - abandoned for who knew how many years - seemed fated never to change however long time passed.
This desolation permeated house and street alike until even clear skies felt heavy with stillness.
Leaning on the corridor rail I called back to Hashimoto: “How lonely this place feels.”
Port Arthur’s harbor gleamed dark green like polished jade.
Mountains encircling it stood utterly bare.

Thinking it resembled nothing so much as a ruin, I reentered the room to find snow-white sheets spread over the bed. A soft carpet lay upon the floor. Plush armchairs stood arranged about the space. Every implement bore the mark of modern design. All stood in perfect order.

The outside and the inside were complete opposites.
Until I recalled that this hotel operated by the South Manchuria Railway Company was never meant to be a profit-making venture from the outset, this sense of incongruity refused to leave my mind.

When we went down to the dining room and quietly took our seats at the lunch table, Hashimoto and I inhaling the scent of clustered flowers outside the window, I thought that if the opportunity arose, I would like to come here and spend a carefree summer.

Twenty-Three

When we arrived in Port Arthur and stuck our heads out of the train window, there was a tall cylindrical tower on the mountain right before our noses.
Because it was so excessively tall, we had to crane our necks uncomfortably upward, leaning forward from the shoulders just to look up to its summit.

When the carriage passed through the new city area and came out directly beneath this tower again, someone explained that this was Hakugyokuzan and that the tall tower above was Hyochuto.
When I looked closely, it was shaped like a tall lighthouse.
It was said to be two hundred and some-odd shaku tall.
Passing through the foot of this mountain and exiting the old town, they came upon a mountain path again.
A short way to the right of that entrance, there was a war spoils exhibition hall.
Satou brought the two of them here intending to show them that first.

The exhibition hall stood as a solitary house on the mountain, rendered utterly desolate by the complete absence of any vegetation worthy of being called trees. Lieutenant A, who had participated in that earlier war, stood guard there alone. This lieutenant not only painstakingly explained each of the dozens of war spoils arrayed in the exhibition hall, but also led the two men up to Keikansan. From that barren height devoid of grass or trees, he pointed to distant foothills while recounting every last one of his military experiences from those days.

When Satou had first requested the gun emplacement tour, Lieutenant A stipulated he could only guide them until about four o'clock due to prior obligations. Yet once they reached the mountain's edge and he began using his Western sword as a pointer to indicate directions, he utterly disregarded his pressing matter, never once suggesting their return even as Manchuria's crimson sun swelled near the peaks of far-off mountains.

When we grew concerned he might have forgotten and ventured a reminder, he dismissed us with a "No need for that" while redoubling his explanations. Finding this behavior too peculiar, we cautiously inquired what urgent business required his attention—to which he replied his wife lay ill.

Even those two shameless men found themselves incapable at this juncture of suggesting, "Well then, since you've troubled yourself this far, you might as well show us more." The words never left their lips.

The long day ended halfway up the mountain, and when our carriage finally returned to the old city at that hour when one could no longer discern faces without electric light, Lieutenant A bowed at a certain brick wall and said, "Well then, I shall take my leave here," before alighting from the carriage and hurrying through the gate.
The complex surrounded by this brick wall was a hospital.
And so it was that Lieutenant A’s wife lay in one of this hospital’s rooms.

It was exceedingly rude of me to forget the name of someone who had been so helpful and put him to such trouble, but try as I might, I simply could not recall it.
When I asked Satou to pass on my regards, I simply wrote "that Lieutenant A."
Here in this account, it would be too discourteous to refer to him coldly as "a certain lieutenant," so I had no choice but to designate him as "A."

Were I to describe each of the war spoils that A had so kindly explained, even an account of this exhibition hall alone would likely require no fewer than twenty or thirty pages—yet regrettably, I have forgotten most of them.
However, there is just one thing I remember.
It was a single shoe that a woman had worn.
The fabric was satin, and the color was a light mouse-gray.
The other hand grenades, barbed wire, fish-shaped naval mines, and counterfeit cannons have all become mere words, no longer remaining distinctly in the depths of my mind; but this single shoe—whether its color or its shape—I can vividly recall at any moment, whenever I will it.

After the war, a Russian officer had come specially to Port Arthur to view this exhibition hall.
At that time, they say he was greatly startled when he saw this shoe at a glance.
And they say he told A that this was something his own wife had worn.
As for whether the owner of this small white delicate shoe had died during the war or still survived—that detail had slipped through in the telling.

Twenty-Four

Until now we had been riding in Satou's white horse-drawn carriage with an air of dignity, but no sooner had we reached the mountains than we were thrown into that mud-covered rickety contraption.
Since they said an ordinary carriage couldn’t make it up, there was no helping it.
"Even so, true to their nature as Russians, they built gun emplacements on every mountain in sight and constructed wide roads allowing carriages to reach each summit—a truly impressive feat," remarked Lieutenant A.
Indeed, at that time, it appears they could ride their fine carriages all the way to the gun emplacement sites without damage and in complete comfort.
However, with the war over and no further need for regular travel, they lost the opportunity to maintain those painstakingly built mountain roads—leaving hapless souls like us reduced to occasionally reviving such dilapidated carriages.
There is no place like Port Arthur, where small hills occupy every direction, their bald pates exposed to the scorching sun.
When relentless torrential rain strikes the tree-scarce soil, the slopes of the mountain path—riddled with inclines—immediately crumble onto the roadway.
What crumbled was by no means ordinary soil.
It was hard stone.
Moreover, it was stubbornly angular.
In some places, the roadway was piled high with flint stones—some five to ten inches across—completely blocking the path.
The dilapidated carriage jolted mercilessly over them, making it more perilous than crossing an uneven riverbed.
On the way to 203 Meter Hill, we finally surrendered to these flint stones and dismounted the carriage.
And so, with aching stomachs, we walked until drenched in sweat.
As we descended Keikansan, the horse’s hoof began acting strangely; upon closer inspection, a large stone was tightly lodged in its left foreleg.
The stone must have been quite thick, as about an inch protruded beyond the hoof.
Therefore, the horse proceeded to move the carriage forward with a slight limp.
Leaning out from my seat to observe this state of affairs, I felt such pained sympathy for the creature that remaining comfortably seated seemed almost cruel.
When I alerted the driver, he muttered something in Chinese, threw down his whip, and climbed down. But as the stone proved immovable—resisting both pounding and pulling—he laboriously clambered back up to his seat.
Then, turning toward me behind him, he grinned slyly and began cracking his whip anew.

The horse, surprisingly unfazed, continued on as they finally returned to the Yamato Hotel.

Hashimoto and I departed from the old city in such a carriage, to be jolted along such roads.

When viewed from afar, that which was said to be General Stoessel’s house appeared quite splendidly built. When the war had not yet intensified, it was said that the general could be seen from afar driving a splendid carriage around the area. Among the places Lieutenant A pointed out and explained, there was only one small, plain house enclosed by wooden planks. It was exactly like an ordinary wooden house one might see in mainland Japan, which struck me as curious. It had been explained to be the residence of a certain famous general, but unfortunately, I had forgotten the name of that famous general. By all accounts, he was a man of great esteem and was said to have been the first to die in battle during the war. Lieutenant A respectfully expressed his admiration, stating that residing in such a modest house must have been one reason for his esteemed popularity. This general appeared to have been fervent about war alone and rather indifferent to all other matters. The residences of Russian generals and such in this area were all splendid in a manner befitting their status. When we visited Director Shirahito’s house in the new city district and remarked on its splendid residence before asking who had originally lived there, we were told it had been the home of a certain colonel. “If one lives in such a house and sees this kind of view below one’s eyes, it should be ample compensation for leaving the mainland,” I remarked, to which Director Shirahito replied with a laugh, “In Japan, we could never afford to live in such a place.”

Before long, the carriage climbed recklessly up the mountain path until Port Arthur's cityscape lay spread far below.
Lieutenant A halted the carriage midway up the slope and declared, "I shall take a shortcut on foot and await you ahead," then began briskly ascending the steep rocky path to the left.
Our carriage creaked into motion once more.

Twenty-Five

Looking down, the mountainside was not so steep, but there was scarcely a hint of greenery worthy of being called a tree to obstruct the view. Not only could one see clear through to the foothills in a single glance, but beyond them stretched over a mile of fields converging straight beneath one’s brow. The air here was far clearer than that of the mainland, making distant objects appear vividly close as if right before one’s nose. Among them all, sorghum’s hue dominated one’s vision most thoroughly.

“Do you see that small white speck over there—like the tip of a little finger? Starting from that point, they dug their trench toward this direction,” said Lieutenant A, pointing into the distance. “Digging holes in this area generally means breaking through rock—excavating even a hundred meters is no easy task.” “In fact,” he continued, “when they were cutting a path from the outer moat to the tunnel, working from dawn till dusk to dig forty-five centimeters in a day counted as their greatest feat.”

I compared the high mountain's promontory where I stood with the distant white speck ahead, worked out the intervening distance through rough mental calculation, and found myself thoroughly impressed by the military men's extraordinary tenacity.
When I asked how far they had dug, he pointed with his saber and replied, "Just up to here."
He said they had been digging from September 2nd to around October 20th—a testament to their astonishing endurance.
At that time, the enemy had also dug what they called a counter-tunnel from their gun emplacement.
It was said that while Japanese soldiers carried out their usual construction work, the clanging sound of stone being split somewhere alerted them to the enemy's approach—inch by inch through the darkness.
"It was during this time that we collapsed the outer moat using explosives," declared Lieutenant A, standing atop the collapsed earthen mound as he turned to address us.
We too were standing upon it.
"They say you'll find endless corpses if you dig beneath this," he added.

A corner of the earthen mound had partially crumbled away, revealing a dark hole halfway down its slope. The ceiling was constructed of cement said to be six feet thick. Turning sideways and crawling into the hole, we made our way down the stone corridor—only when looking up did we first realize its sturdiness. For the attackers, destroying this thick wall after demolishing the outer moat presented an immense challenge in neutralizing the gun emplacement. Moreover, forcing their way through this narrow fissure to claim the cement-reinforced tunnel they had painstakingly built inch by inch became nothing less than a test of endurance surpassing human limits. At that time, soldiers from both armies fought in this darkness across a mere barricade, maintaining barely a foot between them. I seem to recall Lieutenant A mentioning they had constructed the partition by stacking sandbags. If anyone raised their head above it, he said, they would be shot immediately—so they kept their bodies hidden while firing wildly. When exhausted from this, he added, they would cease shooting and sometimes converse across both sides. They might demand liquor if available, request pauses to collect corpses, or even propose abandoning the fight as too trivial—exchanging all manner of words across that barricade.

The three of them crawled out of the dark corridor and stood once more atop the earthen mound.
The sun shone crystal-clear and bright upon Bōzu Mountain.
Small flowers resembling wild chrysanthemums could be seen here and there.
When we stood still, bathed in sunlight, a faint insect sound reached us.
I couldn’t tell whether it came from behind the grass or within the collapsing tunnel.
In the distance appeared two Chinese figures who hid in the grass upon noticing us.
“That’s how they come to dig for things.”
“Since they’re terrified of being caught, they flee immediately—it’s quite difficult to apprehend them,” said Lieutenant A with a wry smile.

As they circled around to the rear stood an imposing two-story barracks within a broad dry moat.
It appeared there had once been a bridge for crossing over it though now one could not even descend.
The barracks' back was naturally enclosed by mountains making it invisible from outside.
The three passed sideways across this moat and climbed higher still.
At last nothing surrounded them but mountain peaks.
And every single one had formerly been a gun emplacement.
Lieutenant A knew each name by rote.
I stood directly beneath an unobstructed high sky surveying endless mountain ridges while thinking touring these emplacements was no simple task.

Twenty-Six

A few days after arriving in Dalian, there came a request from Mr. Itou of the Manshu Nichinichi newspaper urging me to give a lecture during my stay.
With a noncommittal response—something between acceptance and refusal along the lines of "If circumstances permit"—I came to Port Arthur.
Then, since Mr. Itou had checked into the same Yamato Hotel a day before us, a mere casual greeting like "Oh, you're here" would no longer suffice.
According to Mr. Itou, he had already advertised in his newspaper that a lecture would be held with my consent, leaving me immediately cornered.
Mr. Itou pleaded as though it were absolutely necessary while I found myself in no mood to comply; settling into an armchair, I bitterly resisted.
Then Hashimoto, smirking, chimed in with unsolicited advice from the sidelines: "Well, just do it then."
To tell the truth, no sooner had I arrived by carriage at the hotel than I was also approached by Mr. Waki here requesting a lecture.
Of course, since this gentleman lacked availability himself, the request remained pending; however, once back in Dalian, I could hardly afford to appear so occupied.
Hashimoto saw right through this and began interjecting remarks like "You should agree cheerfully when asked" or "Someone like you has an obligation to do it."
That I ended up speaking in Dalian was entirely this man's doing.
Moreover, I was made to do it twice within a short period.
On one such occasion, having nothing to say, I resorted to declaring, "Tonight I shall lecture on why lecturing is no easy task—that is, I shall expound upon the reasons one cannot lecture," delivering this peculiar explanation.
Korekimi came to hear this and remarked, "Hmm, you're quite clever! From now on, go give speeches wherever you like—I'll allow it," which I appreciated.
Yet Hashimoto, the very instigator of this advice, remained nonchalant and off amusing himself elsewhere, never bothering to attend.
Then when asked again in Yingkou, he promptly insisted, "You should do it—it's a special request," as was his habit, forcing me to throw off the quilt over my aching stomach and go deliver the speech.
In return I declared I'd go first instead, then returned straight to the inn without waiting for Hashimoto and laid the quilt over my stomach again.
When Hashimoto witnessed such situations, he would casually inquire, "Does it pain you while speaking?"
To his credit, whenever refusing invitations or such matters—or rather, whenever necessary—he would always testify that "This man truly suffers from stomach trouble."
Considering this, Hashimoto might reserve his cold indifference solely for lectures.
Even in Fengtian where I nearly found myself elevated to some podium, the day's scheduling mishap left no room for even Hashimoto to repeat his customary "You really ought to do it when asked."

In Keijo, not only were the arrival and departure times reversed, but even the inn was different; thus, I had the composure to calmly decline the lecture.
This was entirely thanks to Hashimoto’s absence.

Amusingly, no sooner had this lecture promoter returned to Sapporo than he himself was stricken with a severe stomach illness and suddenly began to suffer.
Whereas normally he would be made to give over ten hours of lectures a week, he apparently had it reduced to a mere one hour, and would take medicine immediately after finishing that single hour.
“During our travels, even though I knew of your illness, I was terribly wrong to insist on you giving lectures.”
“One cannot understand anything until they experience it themselves—it was only after suffering from a stomach illness that I realized how utterly impossible it is to give speeches when in pain.”
“It was truly admirable how you courageously took the podium that time,” he said, coming to me with both effusive praise and apologies.
In reality, it was just as Hashimoto had said.
However, if my stomach had indeed been as agonizing as Hashimoto inferred, no matter how many times he urged, “You really should go since it’s a special opportunity,” I would have ultimately refused to give the lecture.

Twenty-Seven

When Mr. Shirahito treated us to a formal dinner, many gentlemen from the Civil Administration Department were present.
They were all uniformly dressed in khaki-colored uniforms.
As we finished eating and returned to a separate room to talk, Satou said, “It would be best to visit 203 Meter Hill early tomorrow morning. I’ll provide a guide.”
“That sounds good,” I replied.
Then, laughing that it likely wouldn’t require such formal arrangements, I broached the matter.
“We’re merely private citizens here for sightseeing—it wouldn’t do to trouble someone with official duties. But since you’re kind enough to offer a guide, even a janitor would suffice.”
“Please arrange for someone off-duty or unoccupied,” I requested.
This was, in truth, genuine humility on my part.

At that moment, Satou took out his own business card from his pocket, wrote something with a pencil on its edge, and said, "Then this person will come tomorrow morning at eight o'clock. When they arrive, you should go together," before parting ways.

The next morning at eight o'clock, as usual, the fierce sun blazed across sky, mountains, and harbor alike. When we abandoned the carriage to climb the mountain, the air stood so crystalline that sunlight seemed to seep through every pore of our bodies. These remained mountains without trees—nothing above them but sun—so wherever one looked left or right, front or back, all lay bathed in radiant clarity. From this bright-lit ground at our feet came a sudden rustle as something burst forth. No sooner had our guide Sergeant Ichikawa said "Quail" than the bird flashed past our eyes and vanished into empty sky. When I looked up to where it had disappeared, there hung a vast distant mirror.

By then, we were already near the summit.
When I asked if cannonballs had come flying around here as well, he replied that many of those killed here had been victims of our own cannonballs themselves.
Or rather than saying it was due to the cannonballs themselves, it was because when they struck the mountain, shattered stones would ricochet off.
Given how steeply this area slopes, when the moment came, they couldn't rush over from afar to repel the enemy - everyone had to flatten themselves against this ground and cling on.
Then when our cannonballs would fall right before their eyes, sending up great clouds of sand and dust in an instant, they'd take advantage of that momentary blindness to crawl forward one or two ken at a time - inevitably ending up covered in wounds from stones whipping through the sandstorm.
Sergeant Ichikawa provided this detailed explanation.

Thinking how excessively cruel such battles were—where victory couldn’t be decided unless struck by friendly cannonfire—we climbed to the summit. There stood a granite square pillar resembling a waymarker. To its right, where the slope descended gently, the earth appeared whitish-brown like freshly turned soil. Curiously, patches here and there showed blackened discoloration. "This is where they soaked rags in oil, lit them, and hurled them up from below," explained Sergeant Ichikawa, deliberately climbing down onto a collapsed earthen mound. Surveying the distant terrain—mountains, valleys, fields—he proceeded to recount how Japanese forces had painstakingly advanced along specific routes to this position. Yet having ostensibly reached 203 Meter Hill’s summit, we found ourselves utterly disoriented, unable to distinguish east from west. Only a vast expanse stretched before us—undulating mountain peaks and two flat patches of indigo sea in the distance. I stood beneath the clear sky, gazing where Sergeant Ichikawa pointed.

Sergeant Ichikawa’s account, informed by his own experience of having stormed this very place, was remarkably detailed.
According to Sergeant Ichikawa, he had apparently never once slept under a roof from June to December.
At times, he would soak himself from the waist down in water-filled ditches and remain crouched for hours on end, his lips turning pale.
Meals were timed for moments when there was no gunfire and carried to their mouths without hesitation.
There were times when even those meals—when rain fell and cart wheels sank into mud—could not be transported by horse power.
If one were to attempt such a thing now, they would surely become gravely ill within a week, but when I asked a doctor about it, he laughed and said that during war, the body’s tissues temporarily transform, becoming entirely like dogs or cats.
Sergeant Ichikawa is currently serving as the police sergeant of Port Arthur.

Twenty-Eight

The harbor of Port Arthur narrowed like the mouth of a cinched sack as it continued out to the open sea.
The inside of the sack always appeared as flat as if oil had been poured in.
When I first viewed this color from afar, I was delighted.
Yet the water's light reflected so intensely that the inner bay seemed a single solid sheet, and I felt not the slightest desire to row a boat across its surface.
I had no intention of catching fish.
I found no time to even wonder where the Russian warships had sunk.
Only a flat, keenly honed glint flickered through my mind.

I also viewed this vivid color from the second floor of the Yamato Hotel.
When exiting or entering the hotel entrance as well, my eyes were pierced time and again by these sharp fragments of light.
Even so, I merely perceived it as nothing more than an intense, beautiful hue and radiance.
Until Satou guided me with his offer to show me the harbor’s interior, I had apparently unconsciously concluded, deep within my mind, that this was no place for humans to enter.

When urged with "Let’s go," I thought that indeed, having come to Port Arthur, we must be heading to the kind of place one would naturally be urged to visit.

Today’s group, including Mr. Tanaka who had come from Dalian that morning, numbered five people.
When entering the port affairs department, a sailor saluted the five of them.
It was their very first time being saluted by soldiers.
Satou was the first to go inside and soon came back out, so I thought we might finally be able to board the boat, but then he called out, “Hey! Get in here! Get in here!”
We were standing on the stone wall.
At our feet lay a moored small steamer.
Our feet pointed more toward the water than toward the house.

Ten minutes later, the five of us left the building together with Lieutenant Commander Kouno and immediately transferred to the small steamer.
The manner in which naval officers commanded petty officers and sailors was truly efficient and clear-cut.
The vessel advanced at whatever speed Lieutenant Commander Kouno dictated, moving exactly in his intended direction.
At the harbor entrance, air was being pumped down to diving apparatuses from ships scattered about.
There were nearly ten vessels present.
They all rose and fell ceaselessly under the waves' assault.
Our group of five had been unsteady from the very beginning.
I hadn't anticipated that the harbor mouth—which had appeared mirror-smooth—could churn so violently.
With my body pitching from the waves and fierce sunlight beating down on my head, my stomach began to turn.
Being a military man, Lieutenant Commander Kouno naturally paid no heed to such discomforts.
"Those pumps they're using to send air are antiquated, you know—they occasionally end up killing divers," he lectured.
Mr. Tanaka listened with an impressed hum.

According to Lieutenant Commander Kouno, it remains unknown how many ships sank in these waters during the Russo-Japanese War.
Even counting only those vessels the Japanese deliberately scuttled themselves amounts to a staggering number.
That they still haven't completed salvage operations years after the war gives some indication of the scale.
As for mechanical naval mines, he claimed they'd planted three thousand in these coastal waters.

When I asked, "So it remains dangerous even now?" and received his emphatic "Dangerous indeed," I thought to myself, *Ah—that explains it.*
I pressed him about salvage methods—this I recall precisely—where they'd use a hundred kilograms of explosives to dismember hulls section by section, bind them with six-inch cables, then weight a six-hundred-ton buoyancy vessel with water at low tide before leveraging high tide's surge and pump power to raise the wreckage.
Yet throughout our observation, nothing showed any sign of surfacing.

The harbor entrance had cliffs that towered as though mountains had been cleaved through on either side, with gun emplacements atop them.
When the searchlight was shone from over there, it became most troublesome.
When one became utterly disoriented, Lieutenant Commander Kouno pointed to a high place.

Before long, the small steamer belched smoke backward and returned to the inner harbor.
Turning sideways past where battleships had been lined up and sunk, we arrived back beneath the original stone wall.
On the opposite shore lay many war spoils—buoys and anchors—lined up.
“That’s valued at approximately three hundred thousand yen,” Lieutenant Commander Kouno said.
At the gate’s exit lay a single specimen of defense material.
From its tip protruded something resembling a pointed sword.

Twenty-Nine

When I had ordered a bath, it seemed preparations were complete, for in the room across the way came the vigorous sound of hot water splashing.
I took off my shoes, slipped into slippers, and was about to open the door when—before even stepping into the hallway—the attendant arrived.
It was an invitation stating that Mr. Tanaka asked if we would care to join him for sukiyaki.
The name sukiyaki had a novel ring to both of them at this juncture.
To be honest, I had not the slightest desire to eat.
When I asked, “Is the sukiyaki prepared at home?” he replied, “No, at a nearby restaurant.”
The phrase “nearby restaurant” was an even more mysterious term than “sukiyaki.”
Even gazing out at the hotel window all day would rarely reveal a pedestrian.
Stepping outside to look up the wide road toward the hilltop showed houses lining both sides—few enough to count.
And they were all Western-style buildings.
Moreover, one-third remained half-built skeletons exposed to rain.
Another third stood vacant.
The final third naturally housed residents.
Yet these occupants could only be imagined as salarymen subsisting on monthly wages.
Though called “New City District,” it amounted to little more than a quiet enclave of decaying mansions.
Wondering where among these estates one might serve sukiyaki stirred feelings akin to those evoked by fiction.

All he wanted was to quickly get into the bath and sleep peacefully under a lace mosquito net—to forget the fatigue of the day and escape the unease in his stomach. So I asked the attendant, “I’m just about to get in the bath now—might have a moment free—please tell Mr. Tanaka to go ahead without me.” Then Hashimoto, standing nearby as usual, blurted out: “That won’t do!” “When someone’s kind enough to invite you,” he began—and fearing another interminable lecture—I reluctantly yielded: “Fine! Tell them I’m bathing now but will come straight away—make sure you say it properly! Understood?” With this emphasized, I immediately plunged into the tub.

And so he left the hotel accompanied by everyone without showing the slightest sign of distress.

The sky was clear, a night when stars could be seen in the distance, but with no moon, the streets were dark.
“It’s rather dangerous, so allow me to guide you,” said the hotel boy, who then accompanied us.
After crossing a square grassy vacant lot and moving dimly through an area without gas or electricity for about two blocks, a strong light suddenly shone from beyond a gate.
At the entrance stood two or three women.
They greeted us as if they had been waiting for our arrival.
The room had tatami mats laid out for cross-legged sitting.
When he looked at the window, the wall’s thickness of about one shaku made him realize this was no ordinary Japanese house.
The window’s height was less than one shaku from the tatami—by bracing one’s foot against it, one could climb onto the thick wall.
“It’s dangerous,” said one of the women.
When he peered outside, there was only pitch-black stillness.

The women numbered three or four, and none of them spoke in the Tokyo dialect.
Tanaka-kun was deliberately imitating a Nagoya dialect to tease them.
The women were saying things like “How skilled!” and “So talented!” as they praised him.
However, the promised sukiyaki showed no sign of appearing.
He wasn’t drinking alcohol and was idly picking at appetizers with nothing to do.
Even when the sukiyaki appeared, due to his stomach’s condition, it was neither tasty nor anything.
“In all the world, there’s nothing as delicious as sukiyaki, I tell you,” said Tanaka-kun.
Tanaka-kun, true to his role as the main advocate of sukiyaki, ate a great deal.
He ate with such gusto that it was enviable to watch from beside him.
I had no choice but to lie supine on the tatami.
Then one of the women said, “Shall I offer you a pillow?” while bringing her own knee near my head.
She was explaining something about how he probably wouldn’t find this pillow comfortable.
“It’s fine,” I requested, asking her to move it a bit closer, and lay my head on her knee to rest.
Strangely enough, Hashimoto too—apparently finding no opportunity for activity—had imitated me and lay stretched out on the opposite side.
By the pillow, Tanaka-kun was making a tremendous racket, playing a game of flicking Go stones with one of the women.
Because I was being so still, the woman who had lent her knee—thinking I had fallen asleep—tickled under my chin.

When we were leaving, a priest-like figure kept urging us to stay overnight.
As we passed through the gate, darkness abruptly deepened again.
Walking like shadows through hushed streets devoid of human vitality back to the hotel, recalling that extravagant sukiyaki spread from earlier, he felt once more that peculiar sensation of living within a novel.

Thirty

It was an invitation stating, “Come—we’ll serve quail for breakfast.” As for breakfast treats, I only had a hazy memory of being invited by Mr. Hamaguchi when I went to Cambridge, so this felt exceptionally rare. Of course, there was no way in the world to serve dinner to a guest departing at eleven in the morning—it couldn’t be helped. As for quail, I’d hardly eaten any since the day I was born. When Masaoka Shiki once summoned me via letter to Ōmiya Park long ago and made me eat what he called “quail”—that had been my first taste of it. That Satou would specially invite us just to prepare this quail breakfast marked him as a man of peculiar tastes indeed. He then emphasized, “Listen—there’s nothing else here but quail.” Wondering how many birds he meant to serve us, I asked where he’d procured them. “Quail’s a local specialty in Port Arthur,” he replied. “It’s just the season now—perfect timing.” He added that he’d already caught some quail.

When I arrived slightly late after bidding farewell to Mr. Shirahito, Mr. Tanaka—who had recommended the sukiyaki—was already present.
Mr. Tanaka too appeared to be joining the quail repast.
Satou kept going in and out to oversee the dining table preparations.
Though wearing an imposing Sendai-hira silk hakama, its waist panel gaped open peculiarly like a split clam.
He dragged this downward behind him as he moved.
With that settled, he announced "Let us eat" and guided everyone to the dining room in the adjacent chamber.
Upon the Western-style table stood four traditional Japanese meal trays arrayed in formation—thus began the quail breakfast in earnest.

When he first removed the lid of the lacquer bowl, there lay a quail.
Since it was the so-called quail bowl, he ate it without finding anything strange.
There was also one on the plate; this one appeared to have been grilled in soy sauce.
This too he ate with relish.
The third dish, he seemed to recall, had been boiled with potatoes or something of the sort.
However, regrettably, he did not distinctly remember its taste.
When these were gradually consumed, Satou said, “There’s still more,” and called for the next dish.
That too was unquestionably quail.
However, it was merely prepared in the Western style of frying, making it all too easy to mistake for the previous grilled dish.
Moreover, it seemed they had prepared a considerable amount of this easily confusable fried dish, for even before they could finish eating, the next serving arrived.

Due to such abundance of quail, we ended up overeating.
The quantity of bones alone that had entered my stomach was considerable.
When I returned to Dalian and my stomach pain worsened, I consulted Hashimoto about whether it might be from eating too many quail bones. Hashimoto agreed it certainly could be.
After finishing our meal and returning to the parlor, Satou suddenly asked me: “By the way—I hear you’re working on something?”
When I met Korekimi in Tokyo earlier, he had smirked while asking me: “So you’re a newspaperman now—writing anything?”
When faced with such questions, Korekimi and Tomokuma proved equally relentless.

“If you’re going to do something, you should write one thing before leaving,” he said, producing an odd-looking slip of paper.
As he talked with it placed beside him, he pressed, “Why don’t you write one?”
When I excused myself by saying I was still thinking about it, he said, “Ah, I see,” and resumed talking.
In the end, he ground the ink and finally wrote: “Parting hands with the ancient capital—the quail cries.”
I thought that given Satou’s nature, he probably wouldn’t understand what I had written, but Satou picked up the slip of paper and read aloud, “What’s this? ‘Parting years with the ancient capital—’”.

Carrying the quail in our bellies, we returned to the hotel to settle the bill and hurried to the station—where a large net basket sat on the platform. Inside it, live quails were packed so tightly that they squirmed like stuffed chicks. Since there was some time before departure, Mr. Tanaka went to the basket’s side and began negotiating with its owner. When I approached, they were saying things like three sen or four sen per bird. Just then, a station employee arrived and said, “Very well—we will load them onto this train and deliver them,” thus agreeing to the request. The three finally parted with the quails and boarded the train.

Thirty-One

At last, his stomach ached.
He chewed zem, took Hōtan pills, administered laxatives, and used powdered medicine brought from the mainland.
He might have seemed to be eating his meals each day and strolling about carefree, but inwardly, he felt it was nearly unbearable.
When he went to see the hospital in Dalian, in his desperation, he said to Director Kawanishi—the hospital director who was guiding him—"Perhaps I should request an examination too." Without making a face as though he were some unexpected guest, Director Kawanishi kindly agreed, saying, "Please come by around ten tomorrow."
However, when tomorrow’s ten o’clock arrived, he had completely forgotten about the examination and, as usual, donned his hunting cap, scorching under the strong sun as he dashed about.

Hashimoto asked, “Just how far do you plan to go?” so I answered that we’d likely have to go as far as Harbin to fulfill our obligations—but I couldn’t fathom what Hashimoto himself intended to do. When I thought about it, back in the mainland, September’s semester had already begun, and the professors would soon be starting their lectures. I countered by asking, “And what do you plan to do now?” “Well—I’d like to go as far as Harbin myself—but given I’ve been away from school since June,” he said with indecision. The fact that I was able to entice such a duty-bound man to head in a direction contrary to his obligations was entirely due to my efforts. In return, no sooner had they seen Harbin and returned to Fengtian than Hashimoto received a telegram from Sapporo. As he looked at the telegram that had finally come urging his return and gave a wry smile, I said, “Well, just send word that you’re hurrying back,” and offered some rather witty advice, as this was a different matter altogether.

Once it was decided that Hashimoto would indeed accompany me north, I entrusted all the planning to him and idled about.
Hashimoto looked at train timetables, calculated the distances between lodging places, and for two or three days kept busily jotting things down in his notebook with a pencil.
Occasionally I would consult him with remarks like, "Hey, this isn't working out—if we depart on Tuesday's express from here," to which I'd air such ignorant suggestions as, "Well, if Tuesday doesn't work, let's take Wednesday's express," leaving even Hashimoto exasperated.
Upon properly investigating, I finally understood—though it turned out express trains connecting to Harbin ran only twice weekly.
Even ordinary passenger trains didn't operate as frequently as on the Keihin line.
They seemed to run merely two or three times daily.
Thus Hashimoto scolded me: "Making carefree statements like yours won't do."
Indeed, it wouldn't do.
Moreover, my inadequacy extended beyond trains.
Even regarding geographical routes, I remained utterly clueless.
While I remembered names like Liaoyang and Fengtian, I hadn't the faintest notion of their locations or relative proximity.
Given my complete indifference even to where we'd lodge next or which places we'd traverse hereafter, Hashimoto's exasperation proved inevitable.
Yet when someone might ask, "Hey, are we alighting at Tieling?" only to be told "No," they'd simply accept this with an "Ah, I see."
I simply felt no particular urge to disembark and explore.
Thus Hashimoto gained a most agreeable travel companion, while I secured myself an excellent attendant.

When the itinerary was finally settled and I brought up the matter of departure to Korekimi, he offered an extravagantly grandiose suggestion: that we go to Fengtian, proceed to Beijing, come to Shanghai, return to Dalian via a South Manchuria Railway ship from Shanghai, then go back to Fengtian again, this time passing through the Antung-Mukden Line to reach Korea.
Moreover, he added: "If you run out of money, I'll give you some."
If the money ran out, I naturally intended to accept his offer.
However, since having surplus funds would prove troublesome, I refrained from taking it recklessly.

Setting aside the matter of money, I refrained from executing this grandiose travel plan simply due to time constraints.
Yet when leaving Fengtian and finally moving on to Korea, I noticed my wallet was insufficiently filled and made a small plea for funds to Korekimi.
Of course, it wasn't a request made with any intention of repayment, so the money remains spent without reimbursement.

When departure time came, Korekimi—along with newly acquainted Mantetsu staff members—were all seen off to the station.
"I'll make you ride a train you've never boarded since birth," declared Korekimi as he guided Hashimoto and me to a compact compartment.
After the train began moving, Hashimoto examined the timetable and remarked, "Listen—this room requires paying twenty-five dollars extra even after buying a first-class ticket."
Sure enough, this was plainly stated on the notice.
It was an impressive chamber equipped with private toilet, washroom, and dressing room.
I lay down inside it, my aching stomach momentarily forgotten.

Thirty-Two

I rode something called a trolley for the first time.
When I got off at the station, beyond the fence I could see only five or six low houses resembling row houses, giving me a vague sense of having been abandoned by the train. But when I heard it would take fifteen minutes by trolley from here, I finally understood.

The trolley appeared to be using what soldiers had constructed long ago without any maintenance.
Grass grew between the tracks.
Grass grew outside the tracks as well.
Looking ahead，two iron-colored lines ran straight through sparse grass.
But even after gazing until those thin lines vanished from sight，not a single building-like structure could be found.
Both sides of the tracks were entirely sorghum fields.
Their large tips absorbed sunlight as if dyed red ochre across every visible horizon.
Hashimoto，I，and our luggage moved—seeming dazzled—through this vast field while being jostled by the trolley.
The trolley might best be imagined as a sturdy，elongated platform for shade with an iron car attached.
Viewed from afar rolling along its tracks，it seemed smooth and swift，but riding it shook one’s stomach painfully.
Those pushing it were，of course，Chinese people.
They would thrust it forward vigorously for twenty or thirty meters，then abruptly sit down.
At times，the sweaty pale-yellow loincloths brushing against suit hems felt unsettling.
Then，judging when momentum slowed，they’d leap down barefoot and push again with shoulders and hands，grunting.
The car spun so fast you’d think they needn’t push—yet this very speed jostled passengers’ innards relentlessly.
Being transported on this trolley had severely worsened my already troubled stomach.
Aboard，I kept gritting my teeth，wishing only to reach our destination quickly.
The more vigorously they propelled us，the more excruciating it became.
That my legs dangling from the platform didn’t snap still felt fortunate.
I’d heard someone drunk once sat there and shattered their shinbone.

When I looked, the brim of Hashimoto’s hat was fluttering in the wind.
I had deeply lowered the front brim of my hunting cap and was trying to keep my back turned to the sun as much as possible.

After a painful fifteen or twenty minutes, the trolley finally came to a stop.
Only the left side of the tracks had been cleared and leveled into a flat field.
They had cleared over a hundred tsubo of sorghum that had covered one’s vision, turning it into black sandy soil where they erected a long low building stretching left and right.
The walls still looked freshly painted.
When we entered through the entrance and were shown to the sitting room, only about six feet lay before the window.
Along its edge grew morning glory-like vines that—with no bamboo poles or stakes to cling to—tangled together indiscriminately in chaotic clusters engulfing blossoms whether vine, leaf or flower.
Beneath these morning glories lay an immediate cliff drop-off beyond which spread a wide riverbed.
The water flowed only slightly right beneath the cliff edge.

Hashimoto and I stood as if by prior agreement, gazing out the window. When we stuck our heads out, there was a house at the base of the cliff as well. However, we could only see the roof tiles. It was an old Chinese-style building that seemed to connect via stepped cloister-like corridors to the section where I was. I asked, “What is that?” “It’s used as a kitchen and a place to leave children,” they answered. I surmised that “children” referred to the likes of hostesses and geisha. A bridge had been laid below. It was nothing more than thick planks—each less than a foot wide—joined together in eight sections to form a bridge. The water flowed just enough to wash the sand. If one merely wetted the tops of their feet, wading across on foot was easy. Following behind Hashimoto with a hand towel dangling from me, when I crossed this bridge and stopped in the middle of the planks to peer down below, there was only shifting sand with no trace of water’s color. It’s said that if you go upstream about ten ri, you can catch sweetfish. I ate fried sweetfish on the train and thought it a rare dish in Manchuria. It was likely that coolies had come down from upstream to sell them.

Thirty-Three

When you stepped into your geta，they sank in with a squelch.
When you lifted your heels，the sand would scatter in clumps.
It was sandy ground more treacherous than a shore.
If it weren’t for the cold，walking barefoot would have felt more pleasant.
Dragging along as if on a cutting board made each step feel like a retreat，growing ever more frustrating.
After proceeding about a hundred meters along it and peering into a plank-walled hut，we found a hot spring.
It was a trough resembling a large square bucket buried in the ground up to its rim.
The hot spring was filled to the brim，but it was so clear you could see straight to the bottom.
Somehow，both the bottom and edges had become tinged with blue moss.
Hashimoto and I jumped without hesitation into the hot spring trough.
When viewed from afar，we looked like people buried alive in the sand，with only our heads protruding above the horizon.
Among Chinese people，there are those who actually undergo hot-spring therapy by being buried alive.
As for the width of this riverbed—since we never reached the sorghum fields visible in the distance，its full extent remains unknown—but in any case，it was so vast that the eye flattened against the horizon.
Since wherever you dig on that flat ground，hot water springs up，all you need to do is strip naked，part the sand with your hands，lie down in the hollow，and you can manage without spending a single penny.
Moreover，if you lie there and cover your stomach with sand，you can create a makeshift hot-spring wrap.
The water that emerges from within the sand is indeed hot.
When they collected the oozing water into a large bath trough，its color alone appeared remarkably beautiful—but should one be deceived by this and carelessly leap in，they would meet with a harsh ordeal.
Hashimoto and I once threw off our yukata with vigor，competitively plunged our hairy shins into the water，then suddenly met each other’s eyes and shrank back.
For grown men to go out of their way to strip naked only to fumble awkwardly with their own nudity was hardly a dignified affair，so we exchanged wry smiles，bolted from the hut，made our way to a communal bath a quarter of a *cho* away，and plunged in with nonchalant air.

Standing in the sand after exiting the bath and looking out over the river upstream, I saw it curve gently around.
On the other side, I could see five or six large willow trees.
In the distance, there seemed to be a village.
Five or six cows and horses came wading across the water.
Because of the great distance, they appeared small in their movements, though their tawny color remained distinct.
They all approached beneath the willows in that dull brown hue.
The cattle herder was even smaller than his charges.
Everything bore such a striking resemblance to what people call Southern School paintings that it fascinated me.
Among them, the tall willows—their slender leaves gathered on branches in perfect stillness—felt utterly Chinese.
Even viewed from afar, they seemed to possess a different charm compared to Japanese willows.
The water vanished where the willows grew thickly, but when I traced its path beyond, a massive mountain range suddenly loomed before my eyes.
Perhaps due to its sharply carved ridges, some sections appeared as white as settled snow.
That was how dark the surroundings were.
Chinese has many words for such mountains—towering peaks and jagged crags—but Japan lacks any equivalent.
I asked Mr. Ōshige beside me what those mountains were called, but he didn't know either.
Mr. Ōshige was a man who had accompanied Hashimoto to Mongolia as a Chinese interpreter.
The moment I asked my question, he vanished somewhere only to return later and inform me it was called Kōrai Jōshi.
Apparently he had caught some locals and asked them.
He had originally learned the name in Chinese pronunciation—which I had since forgotten.

Hanging a wet hand towel, I trudged back through the sand toward the bridge when a young woman descended barefoot from the cliff above.
The bridge was less than a foot wide, so I thought one of us would have to wait, but since she hadn't fully descended the embankment yet, I stepped onto the planks without hesitation.
When I clattered my geta two or three times and had come about six feet, the woman stood level with me.
Contrary to my expectation that she would stop there, she fluttered across the planks like a dancer approaching me.
The woman and I met where the planks joined.
When I cautioned, "That's dangerous," she laughed with a slight bow and brushed past my shoulder.

Thirty-Four

When Hashimoto informed me we'd visit the pear orchard tomorrow, I agreed and went to bed—though truthfully, the thought of being jostled in that trolley again churned within me.
It likely wasn't the sole cause, but sleep wouldn't come.
Hashimoto was already snoring.
And what a thunderous snore it was.
Such clamor ill-suited satin quilts.
To make matters worse, a gilded screen stood solemnly at the bed's foot.

Morning brought overcast skies and drizzling rain.
Leaning out the window to survey rain-sodden riverbanks stretching endlessly, I ventured we might forgo the orchard and rest instead.
Hashimoto however flourished his raincoat and overshoes with gusto.
True to his agricultural expertise, he burned twice as keen as any man to inspect pears, chestnuts, swine and cattle.
Without delay he readied himself and departed with Mr. Ōshige in tow.

I sat quietly gazing out, the mountains, water, riverbed and sorghum reflected in the window arrayed before my eyes. The shallow river flowed at barely two or three inches deep as yesterday, but noticing an iron conduit buried in the sand with its tip protruding midstream, I asked the maid, "What's that?"
"That's where they drilled a borehole," she answered.
A proper Manchurian maid indeed, versed in technical terminology.
She explained how until recent rains washed sand downstream, the river had followed an entirely different course there—they'd planned to build a new bathhouse at that spot.
But with the river shifting its bed after every rainfall, one couldn't just erect bathhouses willy-nilly.
Even now the cliff beneath our window showed severe water erosion.

Before long, the rain stopped.
Because I was bored, I lay down.
About ten minutes had passed, I think, when the maid came again, saying there had just been a call from the station: if you were going to the pear orchard now, they would prepare a trolley from the station—such was the inquiry.
The rain had stopped, so my excuse for lying in the tatami room had vanished, but thinking I couldn’t bear being subjected to a trolley ride now, I deliberately looked up at the cleared sky and furrowed my brow deeply.

When I asked whether we would make it in time if we left now, she explained that since it was a mechanical trolley, it could go nearly as fast as a train.
Though my stomach remained achingly unsettled, I felt compelled to experience this mechanical trolley they claimed matched a train's speed—if only to understand it—and so I began preparing almost casually.
Then three or four guests from the neighboring room announced they were taking the eleven o'clock train to Dalian and started getting ready too.
The maid who would see them off began her own preparations.
Thus our group had grown considerably.
Among them was the woman I had encountered on the bridge the previous day.
She ended up riding in the same vehicle as me, seated back-to-back.
Since we faced opposite directions, we exchanged no words.
Neither of us properly saw the other's face.
Yet those words alone I distinctly heard.
Moreover, they were in Chinese.
Naturally I couldn't grasp their meaning.
But she was vigorously denouncing the coolies.
Her verbal dexterity proved astonishing.
I simply couldn't reconcile this with the woman who had smiled, bowed gracefully, and slipped past me yesterday.
This woman had first appeared to serve us on the eve of our departure.
I'd noticed her applying face powder in the lamplight's glow, yet she'd remained silent then too.

After an agonizing fifteen minutes, the vehicle arrived at the station once more.
The guests immediately boarded the train and departed for Dalian.
The maids all returned to the hot spring inn.
I wandered alone through the station premises.
The so-called mechanical trolley did not even show its form.
Thereupon, a station attendant came and informed us that it had apparently just departed from Matsuyama.
That Matsuyama lay far off in the distance.
I stood on the railroad tracks and gazed at the straight, flat road stretching as far as my eyes could see.
However, there was no sign of the trolley coming.

Thirty-Five

A man in Western clothes, who seemed affiliated with neither the inn nor the station, had followed along.
Under this man’s guidance, when we entered the village, the road became pure sand.
The depth appeared to measure five or six sun—about six or seven inches.
A woman had been standing outside an earthen gate but fled inside the moment she glimpsed our shadows.
The long smoking pipe gripped in her hand caught my eye.
A dog barked incessantly from beyond the gate.
Before long, the village ended and we reached Matsuyama.
To call it such sounds grand, but in truth it resembled nothing more than an enlarged Asukayama with cherry trees replaced by pines—no different from strolling through a pleasant flat garden.
The pine trees—all young specimens of thirty or forty years—stood lined up across a grassy lawn.
It would make an ideal spot for an early spring picnic outing—yet here in Manchuria alone did such a place feel incongruously rare.
Clutching my aching stomach, I finally climbed to the summit.
There stood a small shrine.
As I faced its front to read the plaque with couplets, a shuttle’s clatter sounded beside me.
Thinking there might be a shrine keeper present, I slipped through an entrance carved into a whitewashed wall.
Passing through a dark earthen-floored space and peering deeper inside revealed an old man by a window—sparse white beard quivering—who had set up a loom and was diligently throwing his shuttle.
What he wove was coarse white cloth.
When our guide spoke a few words of Chinese, the old man paused his hands and answered in a carefree boom.
“He’s seventy,” our guide interpreted.
Finding him utterly alone here made me wonder how he managed meals—so I asked through our interpreter.
He apparently ate food brought from a house below.

The guide explained that the house below was indeed where the owner of the pear orchard lived.

Eventually, we intended to descend the mountain and head to the pear orchard, but finding it troublesome to enter through the main gate, the guide suggested, “How about we climb over the embankment instead?”
I immediately agreed and hurried down the semicircular earthen embankment to the other side.
My stomach was truly in pain.
After passing under the trees for about thirty-six meters, over yonder Hashimoto and the others were seated on camp stools, eating pears.
Even the stationmaster with golden lines on his arms was among them.
I too joined the group and ate one or two.
This was because putting something in my stomach would temporarily stop the pain.
And then I began walking around and around in the field.
The pears here were as red as apples.
They were less than half the size of Japanese pears.
However, precisely because they were small, their clustered forms bending branches under abundant weight looked truly splendid.
The master had his servant pick out what he claimed were the tastiest ones—I can’t recall their name—filling a basketful to treat everyone.
The master stood tall and large with composure befitting a Chinese man.
According to our guide’s tale he owned twenty million or even two hundred million yen—likely an exaggeration.
He smoked a pungent American cigarette.

When we had grown tired of eating pears, Hashimoto asked the interpreter Mr. Oshige to convey that he wished to buy about thirty sen worth of pears to take back as thanks for all their assistance.
As Mr. Oshige translated this into Chinese with an extremely solemn face, the master burst out laughing midway.
He said something like, "If it's about thirty sen, I'll give them to you—take them home."
Hashimoto neither said he would accept them nor tried to revise the amount from thirty sen to thirty yen.
When we returned to the inn, the maid told us how she had gone to the pear orchard with a guest and bought seven yen's worth of pears as souvenirs.
At that moment, Hashimoto remarked nonchalantly, "Hmm—when I thought I'd go buy another thirty sen's worth, he said 'If it's thirty sen, I'll just give them to you.'"

Thirty-Six

When one speaks of walls, it evokes something plastered solid with a trowel, but this wall was simply ordinary sun-dried mud. Only where it rose perpendicular from the ground did it resemble walls rather than mere earthwork. Its upper section bore several neatly squared holes like those of a Western castle, giving it the appearance of a turret. Yet what most caught attention were the red flags visible through these apertures. The flags matched the holes in number—and as there were far more than just one or two—the effect appeared quite festive. When I first saw this spectacle, I imagined village youths had crafted decorations half in jest for some festival.

But upon learning these turrets had been erected by the pear orchard owner at his compound’s four corners against bandit raids, I felt equal parts astonishment and amusement—though why each hole displayed a red flag remained utterly perplexing until I circled to the rear and climbed makeshift steps to discover each banner represented an antiquated musket of museum-worthy dimensions, every barrel rusted through.

The guns leaned so precariously that even loaded bullets would likely jam in their muzzles—though only the scarlet pennants received meticulous fastening, hung precisely where they’d catch eyes beyond the wall’s apertures below lounged grimy-faced “guards” in a back hut—coolies really, earning thirty sen daily to play sentry against phantom marauders.

Before descending, I requested via interpreter to see inside—but the owner refused with a headshake, claiming women’s quarters couldn’t be shown. Instead he sent a clerk to guide us across the road to what passed for a guesthouse—a lone structure where a willow trailed slender leaves skyward like ink brushed on silk.

Upon entering the nagayamon gate, a mouse-grey mule stood tethered to a tree stump. No sooner had I seen this creature than I recalled *Romance of the Three Kingdoms*. Somehow it resembled the very horse Xuande had ridden. This being my first encounter with what they called mules in Manchuria, I noted their stout bellies, low-slung backs, and rounded robustness—thoroughly decent animals devoid of any wickedness. When Hashimoto launched into his lecture on mules, beginning with pedantic distinctions between hinnies and common hybrids, I let my straightforward mind grow befuddled in silence while contemplating the saddleless beast before me. The mule kept dipping its head to nibble at sparse tufts of grass.

The end of the gate was what they called the guest room, but entering through its double-leaf doors that swung open on either side felt like stepping into a temple compound. The interior was filthy. When we asked whether they only cleaned temporarily when receiving guests, they confirmed this was indeed their practice. After bidding farewell to the owner and passing back through Matsuyama, we found cows grazing among the pine trees. The stationmaster went about gathering the season's first mushrooms with uncanny persistence—it seemed miraculous how he kept spotting them everywhere. Hashimoto and I half-heartedly joined the search too, but found nothing at all.

As we descended the mountain, I remarked to Hashimoto: "When you traverse Manchuria by train, it appears utterly barren—yet from this height, one senses endless fertile plains stretching afar." Hashimoto showed no sign of sharing this impression, offering only a noncommittal grunt in reply. My vision of boundless fertility stemmed purely from chromatic perception—the browns and yellows beneath the high sun formed stripes, terraces, and patterns that dissolved into haze where plain met cloud. From Matsuyama's summit, these hues blanketed the land clear to the horizon's edge.

Manchuria was vast.

When we returned to the inn, Madam Okami made broth from the first mushrooms the stationmaster had sent over and served it on the dining tray that evening.
After eating that, we talked about things like the pear orchard, bandits, earthen turret, and red flags before going to bed.

Thirty-Seven

Just as he was preparing to leave, Madam Okami came out carrying a notebook.
"Please write something here before you go," she said.
Madam Okami was as fat as if two of me had been stitched together.
That’s why she’s ill, apparently.
At first, he couldn’t tell where she was from, but upon realizing it was Madam Okami, he was surprised by how different she was from ordinary maids.
Madam Okami was a good woman as her physique suggested.
It even made him wonder how she managed to handle such brazen maids.
She placed the notebook before him and folded her hands on her lap with a “Please.”
The thickness of her knees was about eight sun.

When I opened the notebook, on the first page was what Dr. H of forestry had scrawled: "Resembles the landscapes of our country." Next was written something like "such-and-such regiment commander so-and-so." It was unclear whether this was a guest register or an art album, but I found myself compelled to leave a memento on its third page. Hashimoto looked at the notebook and immediately turned away, affecting composure. Since there was no help for it, I would write—but asked her to wait a moment. Then Madam Okami, without any demurral, repeated “Please, please” twice and bowed courteously. Of course I had no intention of lying from the outset, but when I considered that my calligraphy hardly warranted such reverent entreaties, I grew utterly overwhelmed by both perplexity and shame. At that moment, Hashimoto intervened in his usual manner. “This man doesn’t tell falsehoods,” he said with a laugh. “Rest assured—he’ll write something presently.” While making small talk, I now had to devise a haiku in the interim.

I confess this because I imagine many would sympathize, but there is nothing more troublesome than being earnestly entreated for poor calligraphy while traveling.
If I were still in that era of zealous verse-making when I might have scribbled on pillars without hesitation, it would be one thing—but now that my well of material has run dry, being presented with paper slips for some commemorative inscription feels more galling than being solicited for loans during seasonal obligations.

When leaving Dalian, after packing all my hand luggage into the leather suitcase, I stood up thinking everything was settled when I suddenly noticed a slender paper package beneath the dressing table’s mirror. Finding it strange, I unfolded the crease and checked inside—it contained poetry slips. It remained unclear when or who had brought and placed it there, but I could generally infer their purpose. Someone must have come intending to have me compose a haiku but, finding me absent, resolved to return later—deliberately leaving only these slips behind. At that moment, I took down the paper package from the dressing table, stuffed it into the leather suitcase, and left the hotel. To this day, I still don’t know who those poetry slips belonged to. There were five or six cloud-patterned ones of stylish make, but after reaching Korea—each time someone earnestly requested verses—I used them until none remained.

Even at the Changchun inn, Madam Okami cornered me. Claiming harbor-town origins with spirited turns of phrase, she produced two new folding booklets for inscriptions. “Please write two identical pieces here,” she said.

When I asked, “Must they be identical?” she replied, “Yes.”

The reason, apparently, was so separating couples could each keep one booklet.

If I were to continue writing like this, I would have to recount even the incident where silk crepe was produced at a Korean banquet, so I shall cut matters short here, return to the main thread, and conclude the affair of the corpulent Madam Okami—though I, in my torment, managed to conceive a haiku in time for the train's departure.
No sooner had it come to mind than I prefaced the third page of the notebook with "At Xiongyuecheng," inscribed "Millet lies distant—people crossing to the riverside bath," and exhaled in relief.
Then, without even pausing to receive Madam Okami's thanks or anything else, I hastened aboard the train.

Noticing that the willow trunks used for telephone poles had taken root over time and were putting out green leaves beside the wires, I thought that even those could have made a good haiku.

Thirty-Eight

When I looked out the window, the sorghum had disappeared without my noticing.
Until just a moment ago, yellow roofs could be seen here and there in the distance, but they too had finally vanished.
This yellow roof was beautiful.
Hashimoto explained that those were corn drying there, so I could finally imagine that being the case—yet even as I moved beyond the corn, an image formed in my mind.
In Korea, they similarly dried red peppers on their roofs.
The solitary house visible through the pines blazed a fiery red under the autumn sky.
However, the fact that it was red peppers was immediately apparent at a glance.
The roofs of Manchuria, perhaps due to their distance, seemed nothing more than splashes of color to disrupt the boundless monotony.
However, both those roofs and the sorghum had completely vanished from sight, leaving nothing but bare ground in their place.
On that ground grew endless reddish-black brambles.
At first, I thought it might be a type of knotweed and asked Hashimoto, but he immediately shook his head sideways.
“It’s not knotweed—it’s seaweed,” said Hashimoto.
Indeed, when I narrowed my eyes and peered toward where the plain ended, I thought I could see a dull gleam in the darkened depths beyond.
“I wonder if this is the seaside,” I asked Hashimoto.
By then, it was already nearing dusk.
The endless expanse of sprawling red grasses was enveloped in a thin haze, around the time they had begun to take on a faint bluish cast.
If one looks closely at what is plainly visible right beside them, it is not dry soil.
If one were to step on it, the soil contained enough moisture that the soles of one’s shoes would likely get wet.
Hashimoto said that because the soil was saline, grain seeds couldn’t be sown here.

“It seems pigs don’t come out here either,” I asked Hashimoto in return.
When I first saw a Manchurian pig after boarding the train, I had actually felt as though encountering some sort of monster.
I was struck by such an eerie sensation that I seriously inquired what that strange black animal was.
Since then, Manchurian pigs and monsters had become inseparable in my mind.
The stubborn feeling lingered that somewhere in this dim expanse of moss-like short grass—this barren marshland—those monsters must surely be lurking.
But before encountering a single monster, the day had completely darkened.
The glaring reddish-black shadows of grass gradually transformed into night’s uniform hue.
Only in the northern sky did a bright patch remain, like sunset’s last vestige.
And thus the underside of those luminous clouds stood starkly black.
It was as though towering ramparts stretched endlessly across the sky, blocking its expanse.
Gazing at this lofty shadow, I indulged in imagining we might unknowingly be passing some ancient site akin to the Great Wall.
Then someone went running along these ramparts’ top.
Wondering “What in the world…?” I watched until another figure dashed past.
Staring unblinkingly at the ramparts in fascination, yet another figure raced by.
However I considered it, people must be passing through.
Of course, night obscured their faces and attire, but against the relatively bright sky, black silhouettes indeed dashed across the walltop in regular succession.
I became so engrossed I had no time to ask Hashimoto’s opinion, staring intently at these black figures shuttling before my eyes.
Simultaneously, the train steadily approached the ramparts.
When we reached a certain distance, I suddenly burst into derisive laughter.
What I’d been certain were human figures abruptly transformed into telegraph pole tops.

What stretched horizontally like ramparts was a large cloud.
The train mercilessly overtook the telegraph poles.
The moving objects at height finally swept from view.

Thirty-Nine

The narrow alley was flanked by brick walls on both sides; at first glance, it seemed as quiet as a residential district with few passersby.
After proceeding about twenty ken along it, they entered the gate on the left.
Since they had entered purely by chance, they naturally had no way of knowing either the house’s name or that of its owner.
Looking back now, since there were many houses of similar appearance lining the alley and several gates of like manner standing open, there was no particular reason to have chosen to look into this one alone.
I simply followed behind the guide and absentmindedly entered.
The guide also entered nonchalantly.
The guide was the proprietor of an inn called Seirinkan.
He had once traveled north with Futabatei and spoke of having suffered harsh treatment from Russians.

When we entered the gate, rooms extended both to the right and straight ahead.
Had the left side not been partitioned by an adjacent wall, it too would have been a room; thus only a narrow central strip allowed one to look up at the sky overhead.
Standing there and peering into the right-hand room evoked the charm of viewing Asakusa’s Nakamise from a narrow alleyway.
In truth, it was a room even lower and smaller than Nakamise.
The first space had its interior obscured by a hanging curtain, but when I peered into the next one, I started.
The rear portion of an earthen floor spanning about two tatami mats had been partitioned to sitting height like a step-up frame, where three young women were positioned.
Neither sitting nor lying down, they leaned against each other to support their bodies, filling the back wall.
Their kimonos overlapped seamlessly, soft silks pressed pliantly together—to describe it with slight exaggeration—as if all three were swirling a single outer garment about themselves.
From between them peeked small satin shoes.

Just as their three bodies were lined up, so too were their three faces.
The left and right ones were relatively ordinary, whereas the middle one was mysteriously beautiful.
Because her skin was pale, her eyebrows stood out distinctly.
Her eyes too were bright.
The curve enveloping cheeks and jaw was as soft as springtime.
As I stood there in surprise, gazing in fascination, the woman averted her eyes and looked up at the sky.
While I stood there, the three women did not utter a word.

The master of Seirinkan, apparently not as interested in this woman as I was, casually shifted his steps and entered the room at the end.
There too was a narrow earthen-floored entryway with an ordinary table placed at the center.
Three men were eating around it.
From plates and small bowls to chopsticks and teacups, everything was exceedingly filthy.
The men seated at the table were even filthier.
They were exactly like the coolies one saw at Dalian Port.
The moment I took in this sight, I wondered if a manservant was wolfing down his meal in the kitchen.
Yet right in the next room, they were playing music incessantly.
The place where I had just seen the beautiful woman was no more than three rooms away.
It was an utterly incongruous sensation.

I stepped back about two steps from the Western-style table and peered into the entrance of the next room.
And then I was startled once more.
Against the opposite wall stood a desk, with a man seated to its right.
To its left stood three women.
Before them stood a girl of twelve or thirteen facing the man.
A short distance away at the room's entrance sat a blind person on a camp stool.
The high-pitched strains of the kokyū and singing voices emanated from this group.
To my ears—which could grasp neither the song's meaning nor its melody—this music conveyed an uncannily intense resonance.
The man at the desk's right held something like divination sticks in his right hand, occasionally tapping them against the desktop while clutching two bamboo pieces resembling yatsuhashi sweets in his left palm, clacking them together to mark the song's rhythm.
The effect resembled Spanish castanets, but one glance at the man's face banished any thought of Alhambra's romantic past.
He thrust forward his bluish-black earth-toned visage as if pressing it upon the girl's head, emitting a voice so dreadful it seemed to twist one's innards.
The girl stared unblinkingly at him, her slender throat taut.
It could only be seen as the paralysis of one ensnared by some fearsome demon.
The blind man scraped away at his kokyū with a face as dark as his unseeing eyes, sustaining that mournful yet shrill pitch.
One of the women standing to the left looked at me.
It was a loathsome feral glare.
In this dim chamber where twilight pooled easily, this sinister troupe remained spellbound by their own eerie music-making.
I tugged my guide's sleeve and immediately withdrew outside.

Forty

Hashimoto had gone to see pigs at a distant location.
The place was said to be over four kilometers from the city.
With an aching stomach, I saw no reason to go looking at pigs now and abandoned the idea.
Instead, I went out by carriage with the master to wander about the area.
The master suggested I should view the Liao River.
When we left the carriage and reached the riverbank, it stretched before our eyes.
The water's hue resembled that of a great river after flooding.
Ash-like currents came flowing from afar with sky-swallowing force.
On our way to Harbin, Mr. Kido had told me Manchuria's loess was originally blown here from Central Asia by wind long ago, with the river's flow dutifully washing it out to sea each year.
According to geologists' calculations, he explained, the Bohai Bay would be completely silted up within fifty thousand years.
Standing at the riverside gazing across the banks, I watched turbid water—more mud than liquid—surge forward endlessly.
Fifty thousand years seemed trifling—the estuary appeared likely to clog entirely within mere months.
Yet they claimed three-thousand-ton steamships could lumber upstream without trouble—such was China's rivers' indifference.
As for humans, being inherently insensible since antiquity, they drank this muddy water, serenely bore children, and prospered to this day.

Sampans floated here and there, hoisting sails that seemed too large for their shape.
Thin bamboo strips were laid crosswise on the underside of the sails in several places, so not only did their corners stand out stiffly, but they also clattered noisily when being hoisted.
It was a sight unseen in Japan.
We crossed through them and reached the opposite shore.
There was nothing on the opposite shore.
There was nothing but a single train station.
As the express train to Beijing was said to be departing, many passengers were boarding.
When I peered into the third-class compartment, everyone lay sprawled across the bare earthen floor without even benches.
On our return, we boarded a sampan and crossed through the muddy current.
They say it becomes troublesome when the wind blows.
At spring's onset, mountain-like ice floes come flowing.
With visibility poor, one would lose their life if caught between ice floes.
There's a story of men who abandoned their boat when ice blocked their path, climbed onto the floes, dragged their vessel across, and finally boarded another boat.
This was an account of the master's actual experience.

The sampan arrived at a peculiar spot.
The bank was made of reeds laid flat.
It was not a stone wall but a reed fence.
They said this was necessary to avoid being scoured away by the water’s force.
Since reeds could absorb endless water without trouble, they seemed a safe measure.
Passing through a narrow alley, we emerged into Chinatown’s center.
A strange odor hung in the air.
My chest had been aching since earlier, so I took powdered medicine from my pocket to swallow—but there was no water.
The trick of gulping down pills without liquid was something I’d later learn in desperation, but being still an inexperienced patient then, I implored the master like a supplicant.
Though muttering “It’s nothing,” he dragged me so roughly that I nearly collapsed by the roadside before we stumbled into a shop.
We were led through an inner garden dotted with bonsai to a corner room, yet no water came.
Soon came another summons—“This way”—upstairs.
Crawling insect-like up the steps, we entered a room from the hallway to find two or three Japanese men at work.
“Please sit,” they offered chairs. Only after exchanging greetings did I realize we’d burst into the Nisshin Soybean Meal Company seeking water, and that our welcomer was an employee—Mr. Kurata.
Mr. Kurata naturally assumed I’d come all the way from Japan to Yingkou for leisure or inspection.
He couldn’t possibly fathom we’d stopped at this soybean company’s back office just to beg water for medicine.
No water flowed here either.
No hot water either.
“We’ll serve tea now,” said a boy bustling with preparations.
I resented the Seirinkan master.

However, I had to maintain proper decorum in my response to Mr. Kurata. Since beans had begun to be shipped to Dalian by train, I earnestly asked questions like whether the amount of beans coming down the river had decreased.

Forty-One

There was the curious case of Hashimoto oscillating between being recognized as a Dr. and not being one at all.

While at the Yamato Hotel in Dalian, a sealed letter arrived from the South Manchuria Railway Company.
Gazing wryly at the envelope meticulously addressed to "Dr. Hashimoto Sagorou (Agricultural Science)," he turned to me with a bitter smile and said, "This is precisely why it becomes tiresome." I concluded he resented being arbitrarily called "Doctor" for affecting scholarly airs, and thus did not pursue the matter.
If being vexed by such trifles to this degree was inevitable, I thought it would have been better never to become a doctor at all.
That settled it for the time being.

I had always believed Hashimoto to be a Doctor of Agricultural Science. Korekimi had also believed this. I had even heard him explain to someone that Hashimoto was a Doctor of Agricultural Science. As for myself, I distinctly recalled having learned through a newspaper that he had indeed become a Doctor. So even when departing Dalian and heading north, I had been fully conscious of being the companion of this honored Doctor. However, as we proceeded day and night sharing from a single pot, Hashimoto suddenly declared on some impulse: "No—I'm not a Doctor!" At that moment, no matter how he tried to prove it, I remained too astonished to accept this as truth. First, considering there could be no reason for a man who'd been a university professor nearly ten years not to hold a doctorate, and being absolutely convinced I'd seen the conferment ceremony reported in the newspaper, I protested as vigorously as possible—but he stubbornly insisted he wasn't a Doctor. Having no alternative, I said "Is that so?" and conceded. From this moment, Hashimoto finally became, regrettably, just an ordinary person.

However, it seemed the world overflowed with obtuse souls—everywhere we went echoed with cries of "Dr. Hashimoto! Dr. Hashimoto!"
Whenever I chanced upon a newspaper, there he inevitably appeared as "Dr. Hashimoto."
Eventually, even the effort to correct them—"He's not a doctor, you know"—grew tiresome.
Hashimoto maintained his composure through it all.
Though truth be told, even without such composure, one can hardly go about refuting every "Doctor" with "I'm not one."
I too have tasted this peculiar brew of mistaken identity.
Aboard the ship from Busan to Shimonoseki, when introduced to Minehachiro's wife from the Colonization Company, Minehachiro gravely presented me as "Dr. Natsume."
Whereupon his wife bowed deeply—"I've long known of your esteemed name"—leaving me no choice but to murmur "Ah..." and play the scholar's part.
Thus Hashimoto's seamless transition into doctoral dignity across Manchuria into Korea held no mystery.
Though I'd formally revoked his academic title in my mind, day by day that doctorly aura seeped back into my perception.
And so we journeyed uneventfully along the Antung-Mukden Line until reaching Antung County.
There, Hashimoto's doctorate began to chafe.
Through some clerkly blunder at the Antung inn, a tag proclaiming "Dr. Hashimoto's Luggage" found itself lashed to my leather suitcase.
Irritated yet indolent, I left it be—only for disaster to strike when parting ways at the next inn: convinced my fine case was his, a bellboy spirited it straight to the station.
"This is no joking matter!" I protested.
Hashimoto chuckled in amusement.
Precisely why he mustn't go about being called Doctor anymore.

Forty-Two

When told we'd arrived, we alighted—but in the nighttime darkness, lost all sense of direction or bearings. The station we'd depended on proved no larger than a festival stall. Leaving its meager shelter deepened our isolation. Stars glittered high above yet cast no light upon our path. Walking the railbed, lantern light revealed five or six feet of tracks ahead—steel gleaming like transient dew before fading back into void. Beyond this radius stretched pure nothingness. Veering right brought a sloping sensation like descending an embankment, but after six or seven steps, familiar earth returned beneath our shoes—level ground regained. Then came the insects. Not homey chirps at one's feet, but when recognition dawned, their chorus already enveloped us—left, right, front, back—limitless. Guided by a single lantern, we advanced through plains teeming with infinite insect voices.

Now that I think of it, it was rather poetic. Even as I take up my brush to write, the scene of the wilderness from Wei Shuzi’s *The Biography of the Great Iron Hammer* floats before my eyes. Yet trudging through those endless plains proved utterly excruciating. I had eaten a block of chilled tofu with my meal, but no sooner had it entered my stomach than it seemed to transform into a lump of lime, clogging up my insides. From the depths of my jaws came a constriction, and saliva of an unavoidable nature began to flow. If I let it lure me along, I’d feel like vomiting. Thinking to at least manage things within my mouth, I began to resist slightly—only for my legs to stiffen and refuse to move. I thought several times about trying to settle my aching buttocks amidst the insect chorus. It would be a shame to make Hashimoto worry. Even if I were misunderstood by the Chinese porters as squatting to defecate in the wild, it would hardly be an achievement worth claiming. So there I forced myself to walk.

A single light was visible in the far distance.
The path I was walking was flat.
The light was directly ahead.
Assuming we were heading there, I traced our way under the stars in silence.
This afternoon in Yingkou, I declined Mr. Sugihara from the Yokohama Specie Bank’s invitation to a meal.
In the evening, I declined a banquet that had already been prepared through Mr. Tenharu’s arrangements.
And then I boarded the train as if fleeing.
When boarding, I told Hashimoto, “Given this state of things, we’ll have to cancel the Chizan trip.”
My condition had deteriorated to the point where cancellation became unavoidable.
Resolving that the solitary light visible ahead was the lone house that would decide our fate tonight, we cut straight across the desolate plain.
In all the plain, there was not a single thing to rely on besides this light, so we felt uneasy.
When I asked if there was only one inn, the guide answered yes.
Since Tanggangzi was clearly listed in Hashimoto’s program as a hot spring town, I had imagined from the start that the springs must well up from beneath this boundless plain—but I never expected to find a single inn standing so quietly in such a desolate expanse of wilderness.

At last we arrived where there was light—a Western-style building in Heike fashion with floors so low they nearly scraped the ground. Though floored with planks, one naturally kept shoes on when entering. The innkeeper’s wife wore straw sandals. The house proved as unremarkable up close as it had appeared from afar—I imagined its inhabitants must be dwelling in this vast, featureless empty house with nothing but a Western lamp for illumination. Even the organ standing in the great hall just past the entrance could only be seen as some forgotten relic abandoned by its former owner. We were guided down a dark corridor that turned right at its end to reach a room at the wing’s extremity—divided into two sections. The lower area held a chair, Western desk, and faded sofa; the raised portion had been fitted with tatami in proper Japanese fashion. The layout transitioned from earthen-floored entryway to formal tatami room like ascending from one realm to another. I collapsed straight onto the mats. Thirty or forty minutes later dinner arrived. Hashimoto persistently urged me to rise and eat, but I never stirred—never even glimpsed what dishes graced the table. I lacked even the courage to open my eyes.

Forty-Three

When I woke in the morning, Hashimoto’s group was making a commotion about whether the horses had arrived or not.
Since there were three of them, they would need three horses if each were to ride one.
In this boundless plain, capturing three live horses would be no simple task.
They hadn’t even bothered to rise particularly early, yet now they were airing grievances—a futile endeavor, I thought. Having abandoned any notion of accompanying them, I remained coldly composed.
To tell the truth, we had come all the way here specifically to visit Chizan, but once I had given up on going there myself, it became infuriating to see the others carrying on with their plans as scheduled.
First of all, a man from the agriculture department like Hashimoto had no need whatsoever to see Chizan.
Chizan is a Buddhist temple founded during the Tang dynasty, and what remains today are neither cattle nor pigs—merely mountains, valleys, rocks, temples, and monks; therefore, it was certainly no place for a professor of agriculture to make a special trip by horseback to visit. Yet having said that, I could think of no reasonable pretext to dissuade them from going to such lengths—so I left them to their own devices.
Then, strangely enough, three horses as ordered appeared.
They never asked where they had come from, but the horses had indeed appeared.
The three of them rushed outside with irritating enthusiasm.
Since there was no other way, I prepared to spend this day in quiet recuperation as the sole master of both the Western and Japanese rooms.
First and foremost, thinking that lying down would be the best medicine, I plopped down onto a fur that might have been from a tanuki or a fox.
Then, from outside the window, Hashimoto’s voice called out, “Hey, come out and look for a second!”
When I thought he was still wandering around there and found it somewhat amusing, I went out into the open plain as requested, still in my sandals.
Then, in a wide pasture-like area, three horses stood.
That they were all such shabby packhorses was quite amusing.
Not only that, but one of them absolutely refused to let Mr. Oshige ride.
When he approached, it would jump and kick.
Saying it was because the horse was frightened, they blindfolded it with a hand towel, and the Chinese boy firmly gripped the bit with both hands.
When seen from afar, the horse looked as if it were wearing a headband, which was amusing.

The sight of Oshige approaching the horse with a wry smile was even more amusing.
And this wasn't just once or twice.
It seemed he possessed an exceedingly deferential nature toward the horse, and since he would not easily yield, everyone cheered all the more.
Hashimoto, being a resident of Hokkaido, effortlessly mounted the saddle.
The other—since I'd forgotten his name, there was no choice but to call him "the other"—was the head of Xiongyuecheng Nursery and, having once studied under Hashimoto, knew how to handle the reins.
As I stood there, I thought to myself that withdrawing from the Chizan expedition would perhaps be the way to preserve my honor as a horseman.

However, he did not let such feelings show on his face and merely watched the three figures recede with a sense of regret.
From Oshige’s posture, he surmised that riding all the way to Chizan like that must surely be a cause for concern and felt sympathy.
Hashimoto was shouting something about returning tonight and seemed to be urgently spurring his horse.
The nursery director followed suit without falling behind.
Only Oshige lagged behind.
The horse was still blindfolded.
Before long, the two figures were obscured by the sorghum, and it became momentarily unclear which direction they were heading.
The tall Chinese man who had been prowling around the area since earlier also disappeared into the sorghum.
This Chinese man was carrying a long gun slung from shoulder to back.
There were two people.
When he first noticed them, the immediate thought that sprang to mind was of bandits.
As Hashimoto and the others vanished into the depths of the sorghum, shortly after, a thunderous cannon report rang out; then, imagining what a major incident it would be if that tall fellow were to appear before the three horses from somewhere, he returned to the room and lay down on the tanuki fur.

Forty-Four

I took a hand towel and went to the bathhouse.
I had to walk about a chō through the plains.
Descending three steps from the floor into the stone-lined enclosure, my feet reached the hot spring.
Built by military personnel during the military administration era, it was quite substantial but exceedingly dreary.
The bathhouse followed exactly the structure described in a proclamation still posted at the entrance—"Bathing time must not exceed fifteen minutes."
Knowing full well I was violating regulations, I tried various methods—perching on stone steps, floating prone in the water, leaning with cheek propped on hand—and after exhausting these contrivances, went outside to circle behind the bathhouse where there was a large pond.
A young man had climbed into a broken boat and was jabbing a pole about incessantly.
When I called out, “Hey—is this pond hot water or cold?” he answered “Hot” with an exceptionally sullen face.
Finding him thoroughly disagreeable, I stopped speaking after that.
Peering into the depths from the bank, I occasionally saw bubble-like objects rising.
I thought perhaps there might be some steam too.
Truthfully I wanted to ask if there were fish—just to confirm—but given his demeanor, I turned back toward the inn.
Later when I learned fish actually swam in that pond, I found it most peculiar.
Moreover when informed not a drop of water flowed there naturally, I was utterly astonished.

There were more surprises.

On my way back from the bath, as I passed through the entrance hall heading to my room, there stood an unfamiliar woman.
I couldn’t tell where she had come from, but there she was in her purple hakama, clattering her deep-soled shoes as she paced back and forth—she had to be either a schoolteacher or a female student.
In Tokyo, such figures would leap into one's eyes merely by stepping outside, but no matter where you searched across these boundless grasslands, such a figure should not fall within one’s gaze.
I instead gazed at this woman's figure for some time with a suspicious air.

I returned to my room and went back to sleep.

When I woke up, there was an insect chorus outside the window.
Feeling lonely, I went out to the Western-style room, sat down on the long chair, and sang a noh chant.
Of course, it was nonsense.
Just then, the maid arrived.
When I asked about the woman from earlier, she merely said something like, 'She must be someone you know from home,' and I couldn't get any clear information.
Last evening after finishing dinner and smoking a cigarette, I suddenly heard organ music coming from the hall; when I asked whether that woman had played it, she said no—last night's had been our housemaid.
I hadn't expected there to be such a modern maid in these plains.
The hakama-clad woman from earlier had already left, I was told.

I sat alone on the sofa.
And then I remained there blankly until afterthe long day had waned andthe plainsturnedcoldinhue.

Then in the quiet field came a coquettish voice saying, "Do come keep me company awhile—I'm all alone here."
The intonation was unmistakably Tokyo.
I abruptly stood to peer out the window.
Regrettably, gauze covered the pane.
When I hastily opened the glass and thrust my head outside, twilight had already engulfed everything in indigo hues—pale smoke veiled the woman's form, rendering her identity unknowable.

Hashimoto's group returned that evening. At the maid’s notice, I went out to the dark back door and saw a single bean-like light in the distance. “That’s them,” the maid said. When I asked whether there might be other lanterns visible across these vast plains besides Hashimoto’s, she still insisted it was them. Indeed it was—the lantern belonged to the Chinese man sent from the inn that evening to meet them. Hashimoto, who had left his horse at the back entrance, remarked there was no need to have gone through such trouble to verify it. It seemed Mr. Oshige had fallen off his horse three times.

Forty-Five

Before we departed, Korekimi advised that when we went to Fengtian, we should stay at the South Manchuria Railway Office.
We certainly had the sly intention of imposing ourselves at the South Manchuria Railway Office, where the poet Rokkotsu was supposed to be stationed, but since Hashimoto was with us, our discussions eventually settled on it being more gentlemanly to show some restraint.
At the station, the inn’s carriage had come to meet us.
It had been dug out from the mud, its color altered as though scorched under the blazing sun.
Loaded with luggage and people, no sooner had we left the station grounds than the driver fiercely cracked his whip.
The handling was rougher than that of rural stagecoaches crossing mountain passes.
The wide streets were not particularly bad, but as we gradually approached the city center, the thoroughfare—which until then had stretched desolately like open fields—narrowed with shops crowding in on both sides. Even as a horse-drawn tram raced down its center, the shadow of that fierce whip would flash above our heads about once a minute.
The horse had to be driven relentlessly.
However, as befitting Fengtian, people were in constant motion all around us—to the right and left, front and back.
Given that a cart pulled by six mules was coming through here as well, it was dangerous even if you drove them as slowly as cattle.
Yet he drove as if traversing an uninhabited realm, showing off his speed.
For peace-loving folk like us, merely riding in this carriage had already become an ordeal.
The driver was of course a Chinaman, flinging his oil-and-dust-encrusted queue as he occasionally let out Manchurian cries.
I knit my brows into an eight and peered at the horse’s rear.
And I thought that indiscriminately laying the whip across emaciated bones to curry favor with passengers was akin to scolding one’s wife while entertaining esteemed guests.

Indeed, when we arrived near the inn on our way back from Beiling, a crowd had gathered like a black mountain on the left side. The area was densely lined with grimy shops selling Chinese tofu, meat buns, bean noodles and such, but peering beneath the mass of black heads revealed an old man of about sixty sitting firmly on the ground, his shins folded forward. Between his right knee and instep—a span of some two inches—the flesh of his shin had been gouged out as if by tremendous force, sliding over the bone down to the lower part and curling upward together. It looked precisely like a pomegranate crushed and smashed against it. Even the guide, who should have been accustomed to such sights, seemed unsettled; he immediately halted the carriage and began interrogating someone in Chinese. I too, though understanding nothing, strained my ears and kept asking, “What? What?” Strangely, the Chinese onlookers forming that blackened mass all stared silently at the old man’s wound. Their utter stillness made the scene eerily quiet. What struck me most was the complete absence of expression on the old man’s face as he sat with hands thrust back against the ground, exposing his injury to everyone. No pain was etched there. No suffering showed through. Yet neither was there any composure. What caught my attention were his eyes. The old man gazed vacantly at the ground.

“It seems he was hit by a carriage,” said the guide.
When I indirectly chided—wondering if there wasn’t a doctor and suggesting they should call one quickly—the answer came: “Oh, he’ll manage somehow soon enough.”
By now, the guide seemed to have regained his usual composure.
The shadow of the whip flashed once more before long.
The dust-caked driver showed no regard for people, carriages, or traffic as he recklessly drove the horse onward.
When I alighted at the inn’s entrance—my hat and clothes powdered yellow—I felt as though I had finally severed ties with those cruel Chinese, and it brought me relief.

Forty-Six

Since they were using an old Chinese house as it was, it resembled having partitioned a temple's main hall into guest rooms. When I crossed the covered corridor and peered into the main room ahead, antiques were lined up in abundance. Wondering what this could mean, I realized an antique dealer who had gone to Beijing for purchases had set up a temporary display there during his return journey. Entering half-heartedly to look around, I left when the time came. Thinking that this time, since it was a carriage, it should be better, I felt reassured and tried crossing my knees in a slightly modern manner and leaning back—but it turned out to be anything but safe after all. The rickshaw may have been invented by the Japanese, but as long as the pullers were Chinese or Korean, one must never let down one's guard. Operating under the notion that rickshaws were, after all, something made by others, they pulled with a method that showed not the slightest respect for the vehicle. When we went to see the ancient Goryeo ruins in a place called Kaijō, it shook so violently that my buttocks never had a moment to settle on the cushion. Being bounced up about a foot occurred at least once every hundred meters. In the end, we were treated so cruelly that I nearly felt like rapping the Korean's head. Fengtian's roads were not as bumpily constructed as Kaijō's, so there was no need to endure being jolted about recklessly on the carriage. Yet when it came to their utterly unskilled pulling technique—operating under the belief that a rickshaw man's duty was fulfilled simply by running without discrimination—it was entirely Korean in style. As I was jolted in the carriage, I considered that rickshaw men who did not pay due attention to passengers' comfort would never succeed, no matter how well they could run.

Before long, we came out under a large gate.
During our four-night stay in Fengtian, I remember passing through this gate countless times.
I had heard its name countless times as well.
However, I had forgotten it.
Its appearance too lingers only vaguely in my mind.
Yet when I first entered Fengtian’s city streets and looked up at this gate towering above the dust-laden roofs, I thought “Ah.”
The impression from that time has not faded.
I also clearly remember going with Hashimoto to buy brushes and ink at a small shop beside this gate as one of those lonely experiences.
At that moment Hashimoto stepped over the threshold and entered inside.
I too attempted to follow Hashimoto—thrusting half my body from the eaves into the interior—but immediately detected a peculiar odor characteristic of Chinese houses and retreated two steps back onto the thoroughfare.
The gate stood about eighteen meters ahead at the crossroads; I deliberately tilted my hunting cap’s brim upward to look at it.
As dusk approached,the sun cast no light on tiles or roof ridges—the entire structure solemnly transcended the clamorous crossroads below.
In color,the gate evoked nothing but antiquity.
Amidst wood,tiles,and earth all sharing similar hues,the wind chime alone displayed a touch of green.
Long grass peeked through gaps in crumbled roof tiles.
Two white pigeons skimmed past beneath dark eaves.
For the first time in ages,I felt compelled to compose Chinese poetry.
While waiting,I tried shaping verses,but before completing even one line Hashimoto emerged carrying brushes and ink—my inspiration shattered.

Other than this, what I gained from passing through this gate was nothing but anxiety about potentially colliding with vehicles in its dark cellar-like space and the agony of being suddenly showered head-to-toe with dust trapped within its bricks.
My rickshaw driver pulled me ruthlessly under this dark gate all the way to the South Manchuria Railway Office within the city walls.
I bobbed up and down on the carriage like a living cloth-wrapped bundle.

Forty-Seven

When I drank the tea, it had a peculiar taste—something sour yet briny. Finding it somewhat strange, I set down the teacup and slowly listened to Hashimoto’s explanation. According to his account, Fengtian had never possessed a sewer system from ancient times to the present day. The disposal of human waste was naturally incomplete. Thus, he claimed that over centuries, the excrement discharged by Fengtian’s residents had seeped into the ground through natural processes and continued to contaminate the drinking water to this very day. While this seemed plausible enough on the surface, I found his explanation rather unscientific. My first thought was that if conditions were truly so dire, both grains and vegetables should grow far more abundantly here—but deeming it foolish to argue, I remained silent. Hashimoto himself dismissed this theory as mere legend. Legends being what they are, this one undoubtedly belonged to the same category as Yamato Takeru’s subjugation of the eastern barbarians—a narrative demanding serious consideration beyond mere factual accuracy due to its historical lineage. Truly, they were a filthy people.

When I had them draw a bath and stepped in, the water was murky. It wasn’t particularly yellow or turbid, but extrapolating from the tea’s taste, I could only conclude I was soaking in sour water. They had given me soap beans in Dalian that supposedly dissolved even in saltwater—I thought I should have dug them out from the bottom of my luggage. Both the bathhouse and tub were diminutive. The maid emerged and scrubbed my back. Crouching awkwardly in the cramped space, she said, “You’re Japanese, aren’t you?” and asked where in Japan I’d been born. When I first arrived at the inn, this maid had mistaken me for Hashimoto’s attendant, exclaiming, “Ah, Mr. So-and-so has come along too.” Apparently when Hashimoto went to Mongolia, that same Mr. So-and-so had stayed here with him. Whether she confused me due to facial resemblance or my attendant-like demeanor, I never bothered to clarify. Outside the window lay a buried jar. Since our sweat and grime mingling with that acidic water flowed into it morning and night, it would overflow unless periodically emptied. Chinese laborers transferred it into oil cans, shouldered the loads on poles, and carried them off somewhere. Soaking in the bath, I wondered where they took it all. It seemed a needless concern, but imagining how this wastewater might ultimately be disposed of left me faintly apprehensive.

And yet lavish meals were served in abundance.
For someone like me with a bad stomach, merely looking at the spread before me filled me up.
At night they laid me down in damask bedding.
From the shop came the telephone's incessant shrill ringing.
The refined lady repeated her distinctive "Ah, hello?"
Once when I craved chocolate sweets, I asked the maid if they had any—she promptly ordered them by telephone.
Not only that, but when attending feasts at the South Manchuria Railway Office, champagne appeared.
Visiting the consulate revealed photographs of England's king reverently displayed, making me feel transported to London.
Yet beyond the guest room corridor stood a white wall where light slanted sideways through high windows—unavoidable—though their shoji screens bore Chinese-style designs like those from Hokusai's illustrated Romance of Three Kingdoms.
Nor were they particularly clean.
Moreover, the room emitted a peculiar odor.
A stench the Chinese had stubbornly left behind—no matter how thoroughly the fastidious Japanese scrubbed, it lingered.
The innkeepers said they planned new construction near the station soon.
Then at least this stench might vanish.
Yet we must accept that Fengtian's acidic tea will plague man and beast as long as it exists.

Forty-Eight

Two black pillars stood there.
The door was also painted black.
The rivets appeared as large as inverted rice bowls.
I never expected there to be a gate resembling a daimyo mansion right in the middle of Chinatown.
Upon entering the gate, there was another gate.
This one was built in Chinese style.
When we passed through that, a doma about one ken in width ran straight to the front.
However, since houses lined both sides, the square structure was hollowed out like a box, leaving its roofless center to be traversed by following the doma pathway straight to the end.
I learned from Rokkotsu’s explanation that this end wall was the main hall, with the left and right being the side wings.
Rokkotsu had even established a purely Japanese-style room in this main hall building.
He said, “Take a look at this,” and guided us onward. When I followed behind, there was an entrance in an unexpected place, followed by a reception room, and beyond that, a grand hanging scroll adorned the inner parlor.
Then he opened the door to the left side wing and said this was the Chinese-style reception room.
Indeed, there were only rosewood chairs lined up.
However, unlike a Western parlor, the center of the room was not blocked off.
They were neatly arranged around the perimeter.
In this setup, since guests couldn’t sit facing each other, it followed that they would all have to be men conversing side by side.
The two chairs at the front—so elaborately crafted they could be called thrones—each had a red square cushion placed on them. “You see, Chinese people are quite carefree,” Rokkotsu explained. “They lean back like this during negotiations.”
Rokkotsu, being quite the China expert, knew everything there was to know about the country.
On one occasion, he even defended the queue to me.
According to Rokkotsu’s theory, when they wear those loose, billowy garments and let their long, thin hair hang down their gaudy-colored backs, it’s so appealing it makes you want to shudder—so there’s no helping it.

I was genuinely surprised that Rokkotsu had used the phrase “makes one want to shudder.” Even now, whenever I recall this phrase, I am astonished. It must have been because seeing a grimy old man disgustingly dangling something like a loach down his neck had greatly piqued his interest.

For all his expertise, even Rokkotsu endured the main hall’s reception room being Western-style. In the adjacent dining room, they served Western cuisine. Then they played billiards wearing nothing but undershirts. The scene bore no resemblance to China. Judging by how everything was over twice as lively as Hashimoto had described, perhaps saying it “makes one want to shudder” had been something of an exaggeration.

Rokkotsu had lost one of his legs in the war—whether right or left remained unclear. Yet he would rise and sit with such ease that one couldn’t tell which limb was missing. Moreover, he spoke in a Tokyo dialect unbefitting a military man. When I asked where he was born, he said Kanda. That explained it—he was from Kanda after all.

In short, Rokkotsu was both a Sinophile and a man whose nature remained utterly alien to China.

Rokkotsu kept urging us, “The room is vacant—you must come stay.” When I suggested we might impose on our return trip, he readily agreed—a promising start. But the moment Hashimoto mentioned our return train was scheduled to reach Fengtian at midnight, Rokkotsu abruptly withdrew his offer of lodging.
“No—I refuse to take that train,” he said.
I proposed taking another train instead, but since I unfortunately had no authority over the schedule, I reluctantly stipulated that if it wasn’t a midnight train, we would take him up on his offer.
Then Rokkotsu replied once more, “Very well.”
However, on the return trip we ultimately boarded the scheduled midnight train after all, so we never stayed at the South Manchuria Railway Office.
In the South Manchuria Railway Office, only the bedroom remained unknown to me.

Forty-Nine

When we turned right and emerged into a space so expansive it could hardly be called a thoroughfare, we finally felt relieved.
Thinking there would now be no danger of running people over, I conversed with the inn clerk guiding us about our onward journey.
The Manchurian sun blazed as usual with such intensity that it illuminated even the finest hairs with vivid clarity.
Even when pulling my hunting cap low over my brows, the crescent-shaped brim did nothing for below my cheeks, leaving the directly exposed areas burning painfully.
To this was added light dust churned up by horse hooves, billowing from beneath the carriage.
"It's splendid weather—if only a breeze would blow, it wouldn't be like this," the clerk remarked cheerfully.
Soon our carriage left the houses behind and entered a vast plain.
Though naturally devoid of trees or grass being a plain, gazing into the distance revealed seasonal greenery spreading endlessly across the earth's surface like variegated shadows unfurling in all directions.
While Tokyoites—themselves overwhelmed by urban sprawl—might naturally wonder why such vast land lay empty, what illuminated my mind then was not this question but rather an overwhelming sense of relief at having escaped cramped humanity.

The road had never been established from the start.
Since the roads in all directions were made by heaven, the wheel tracks stretched out freely in whatever direction each traveler fancied.

A Chinese carriage came.
Inside a coffin-like structure with a semi-cylindrical roof sat a woman, her hair stiffened with oil.
The shaft was short, but the wheels were thick and sturdy.
Needless to say, it was being pulled by mules.
If one were to think of it as a compact oxcart that was popular in Japan’s past, there would be no issue; but in appearance, it was rather more elegant than an oxcart.
On the other hand, the people riding in it seemed to be suffering.
As I watched this carriage rumble along, I realized that things creaking and rattling—like the very characters 輗 and 輗 (or 輗 with 車 and 兀)—were not limited to Chinese carriages.
I myself had been in considerable danger.
If one complacently declares it a plain at first glance, that’s all well and good—it may appear as flat as you say. But when pressed to charge through under time constraints, terrifying bumps and hollows emerge.
I pressed the clerk: “Hey, the carriage isn’t going to overturn here, is it?” But the clerk merely said, “Well, it should generally be fine,” refusing to guarantee against any eventuality.
Somehow, the clerk’s seat would abruptly rise higher, making it seem as though the clerk himself might come sliding down toward me, or conversely, I might tumble right onto the clerk’s hat—neither prospect was particularly pleasing.
Being of a nervous and timid disposition, I wanted to leap out every time the carriage tilted.
Yet, completely oblivious to others' distress, that driver kept whipping the horse into a reckless gallop.
While I was growing increasingly anxious over nothing, we came upon a particularly rough section of the road.
The cause was unclear, but thirty or forty wheel tracks lay conspicuously side by side.
Moreover, each of their widths measured five or six sun.
And appearing quite deep, they blocked the sunlight, rendering the depths black and dark.
Our driver calmly drove into it.
It would have been manageable had we entered properly, but as one wheel sank squelchingly into the mud, the other remained stubbornly supported by firm ground.
I was seated on the mud side.

Then, until my feet were scraping against the soil, the carriage sank deeper into the muddy sea.
The clerk felt as though he were positioned above my head.
I could bear it no longer and leapt down into the mud.

Fifty

It was strange how the plain abruptly transformed into a thicket.
By the time I noticed that if this many trees could grow here, the plain should have been somewhat more overgrown, both sides of the carriage were already enclosed.
Though lacking bamboo, the greenery rose high enough to merit being called a thicket, evoking the tranquil feel of walking a country road in Japan.
Slender branches straying from their rows to overhang the path made ducking beneath or bending them aside more delightful than anything.
The road had grown flatter than before, cutting brilliant white through grass and trees.
In one place stood a large pine tree.
Its needles were twice as long as those in Japan and darker than seaside pines.
Another spot resembled a desolate garden.
When reaching such areas, low thickets stretched two *chō* at a glance from the carriage.
Ahead rose a slender stone monument.
Faint patterns were discernible, but I could not read any inscriptions.

After a while, the road ended, and they came out beneath a tall gate.
The gate was constructed from three layered stone arches, but to reach beneath them required climbing steep stone steps.
On both sides of the gate loomed dragons carved into walls.
“This is the main gate,” said the clerk, “but it’s closed—we’ll have to follow along the wall.” He led the horses up an embankment-like slope.
To their right stretched a brick wall,
crumbling in places.
To their left lay a gentle valley choked with wild grapes and thickets.
The path narrowed until barely accommodating their carriage.
Rounding this obstacle and abandoning their vehicle at a side gate brought sudden visual relief.
Beneath towering pines that lined distant horizons,
short grass sprouted mournfully between rectangular paving stones.
Soles struck stone with echoing steps.
After walking one chō and turning forward,
stone elephants flanked their path—
majestic yet silent in mineral stillness.
Passing through what seemed a tower gate revealed another monument:
a commemorative stele atop an immense stone turtle,
its height matching its bearer’s bulk.
Three languages—Mongolian,
Manchu,
and Chinese—etched its surface.
Emerging behind brought Ryuonmon Gate soaring skyward,
its triple-layered arches stacked overhead.
Flanking walls defied ordinary scale.
“I’d like to walk atop those,” I told the clerk.
“Certainly—let’s ascend now,” he replied before entering.

The interior was partitioned into a perfect square.
Ascending the stone steps beside the main shrine and emerging atop the wall, we found only the rear of the shrine forming a semicircle around what is called the North Mausoleum.

A Chinese boy followed along barefoot.
The boy grabbed the clerk and was persistently whispering something to him furtively.
When I asked the clerk, he gave an ambiguous answer like “Oh, well…”
When I asked again, he said: “When one of the golden orbs attached to the roof’s eaves fell off the other day, he picked it up and kept it. He’s asking you to buy it.”
“If this were made public, it would lead to severe consequences, so when visitors like you come, they try to quietly sell it off. The Chinese are truly cunning, you see.”

While Chinese tomb guardians were undoubtedly cunning, the clerk trying to buy the golden orb cheaply wasn’t exactly honest either.
The clerk seemed to have quietly handed over coins and put the golden orb into his pocket.

As we walked atop the wall, thick trees came into view below.
"The mulberry has grown so large," the clerk pointed out.
It was indeed large enough to embrace.
When I asked, "How long is one side of this square wall?" he replied, "Let me calculate that now," and began pacing off the distance—counting "One, two, three, four..." with each step measured as two shaku.
I looked down beyond the wall and gazed at the red berries entwined around the area.
I ended up forgetting the length of the wall that the clerk had so painstakingly calculated.

Fifty-One

Fushun was a coal-producing region.
The pit manager there was a Mr. Matsuda, whom Hashimoto had become acquainted with aboard ship when first coming to Manchuria; acting on that earlier invitation, we had sent a telegram announcing our arrival the next day.
When boarding the train, we found two Westerners already aboard.
Owing to the early hour, they were eating packed lunches in the passenger car, but upon reaching Fushun, they alighted alongside us.
Listening to the welcoming party's greetings revealed one to be the British consul from Fengtian.
We proceeded with this British contingent to the colliery office where we met Mr. Matsuda on the second floor.
Mr. Matsuda wore a light suit jacket over a striped crepe undershirt.
His short stature and casual demeanor made him an unlikely candidate for pit manager.
He positioned our group and the British separately, addressing each party in equal measure.
Neither Hashimoto nor I uttered a word of English.
Consequently, we exchanged no conversation with the British.

Before long, Mr. Matsuda became our guide and led us outside.
When we climbed the reservoir embankment, the city came into view at a glance.
Though not yet fully completed, as they were entirely brick-built and filled with structures that looked like they belonged in a studio, it was impossible to believe they had been managed by Japanese.
Moreover, I was astonished to see how each of these stylish houses differed in character, changing in such a way that one could say ten houses had ten distinct styles.
Within it were churches, theaters, hospitals, schools, and of course mining officials’ residences—all structures one would want to transplant to Tokyo’s Yamate district for contemplation.
When we asked Mr. Matsuda, he told us they were all made by Japanese engineers.

When we looked away from the city and gazed in the opposite direction, we could faintly make out the tops of two chimneys beyond undulating low hills.
Since the distance between both points was certainly over one *ri*, it had to be a vast coal mine.
According to Mr. Matsuda, no matter where or how one dug, it was all coal—he said it would take a hundred or even two hundred years to exhaust it all.
Even right beside where we were standing, they were sinking eight-hundred-shaku and nine-hundred-shaku shafts.

When we returned to the office and were treated to lunch, the British could neither hold chopsticks nor eat rice, which was rather pitiful.
It was rather unexpected that this consul, who was said to have spent eighteen years in China, could not manage two chopsticks at all.
Instead, he was said to be proficient in Mandarin.
Mr. Matsuda was unable to come to the dining table due to being busy with work.
The person who took over as host from Mr. Matsuda found it quite a busy affair, speaking in English to the British and in Japanese to us.
However, neither Mr. Hashimoto nor I had used English at all up to this point.
The British are inherently proud by nature and, unless formally introduced, do not readily engage in conversation with others.
Therefore, we too were proud in our dealings with the British.

After the meal came the decision to tour the mine's interior.
An engineer called Mr. Tajima guided us.
At the entrance he lit five safety lamps and prepared five walking sticks; after distributing them to each person, we descended through a square shaft about six feet across that sloped gradually downward.
Within fourteen or fifteen ken—about twenty-five meters—the mine turned pitch dark.
The lantern light proved insufficient even to illuminate our feet.
Yet the path remained surprisingly level, with a reasonably high ceiling.
When we turned right and felt our way downward, Mr. Tajima—walking directly before me—halted abruptly.
I stopped too.
With our guide stationary, all those following behind came to a complete standstill.
"There's a seat here," he said.
"Those entering the mine rest here five or six minutes to let their eyes adjust."
The five of us paused there, using our safety lamps' glow to study each other's faces.
They stood in silence.
Not one person took a seat.
Time's passage in that stillness carried an eerie quality.
Gradually the darkness began lifting of its own accord.
Mr. Tajima soon declared, "That should suffice," then turned right again and led us deeper into the mine's depths.
I followed him down.
The remaining three trailed after us.

When I had written this far in the newspaper, New Year's Eve arrived.
Since letting it span two years would be odd, I decided to halt for now.