Pathway to Japanese Literature

By: Natsume Sōseki

I

Because of the weather, even God had gone mad.
When a voice crying from within the clouds—"Slaughter men and save the starving dogs!"—shook the Sea of Japan upside-down until it reverberated to Manchuria's farthest reaches, the Japanese and Russians started in response and opened a slaughterhouse spanning over a hundred ri across the northern wilderness.
Then from beneath the boundless plain's edge came swarming mastiffs, tearing through the putrid wind crosswise and lengthwise, charging like four-legged bullets fired all at once.
At the mad God's signal—hopping as he shrieked "Suck blood!"—the flames' flickering tongues lit the darkened earth while gurgles of blood rising past throats echoed.
Now stamping black clouds' edges, God bellowed “Eat flesh!”, and “Eat flesh!
“Eat flesh! Eat flesh!” howled the pack as one.
Crunching through arms; yawning jaws sank into torsos up to ear roots.
They clamped a shin between them and pulled from both ends.
Just when they seemed to have devoured most meat, again that dreadful voice pierced billowing clouds.
“After flesh comes bone-gnawing!” it commanded.
Now for bones.
Dogs’ teeth suit bone over meat.
Mad tools belong to mad God’s hounds.
These teeth were crafted for this feast’s coming.
Gnashing fangs clattering, they fell upon bones.
Some cracked them to suck marrow; others shattered them across earth.
Those whose teeth failed cast bones aside and honed fangs.

While lost in my usual fearful reverie, I found myself arriving at Shinbashi. When I looked, the square before the station was packed with people; through the Triumphal Arch, a path about three and a half meters wide had been left open, while on both sides stood lines so dense one could not push through. What could it be?

In the crowd were those wearing dubious silk hats pulled down like Amida Buddha’s halo, using their ears to keep from being completely blindfolded. There were those who, wearing Sendai-hira silk trousers so tightly they seemed constricting, scrutinized seven-crested formal kimonos as if they were someone else’s garments. The frock coats were acceptable enough, but the sight of them wearing white canvas sneakers and waving white gloves about as if to say “Just look at this!” was truly a spectacle. They held up suitable flags at a rate of about one for every twenty people—most purple with white characters dyed into them, though some bore bold black calligraphy on white backgrounds. Thinking these flags might reveal the crowd’s purpose, I read the nearest banner: “Volunteers from Renjaku-cho Celebrate the Triumphant Return of Mr. Kimura Rokunosuke.” Ah! When I realized it was a welcoming party and looked again, even that strangely dressed gentleman now seemed somehow impressive. Not only that—my earlier thoughts of war being a mad god’s doing and soldiers being sent to battlefields as dog food now struck me as pitifully cruel.

The truth was I had someone to meet at the station—but reaching it meant walking alone down that central path flanked by crowds where none else trod. Though these people surely couldn’t discern my poetic musings, it was mortifying enough parading through their stares. Had they known I imagined them as families of men half-devoured by dogs, they’d have surely raged—a thought that made maintaining composure all the harder as I hurried up the station’s stone steps with feigned nonchalance.

When I entered the station grounds and looked around, here too was filled with welcoming gentlemen, making it impossible to reach my intended destination easily.
When I finally reached the first-class waiting area and looked around, the person I had made an appointment with did not seem to have arrived yet.
Beside the fireplace, an officer wearing a red cap was talking incessantly about something while occasionally clattering his saber.
Beside him sat two silk-hatted men in a row, cigar smoke from one of them swirling in rings.
In the far corner, a wife in a white collar and a refined woman in her fifties were whispering something in voices so low that those nearby could not hear.
Just then, a man wearing a striped cotton coat and a slanted hunting cap arrived and announced, “Tickets cannot be obtained—the ticket gate area is already full.”
He must be one of the station attendants.
Around the table installed at the center of the room, a crowd weary from waiting had gathered and were idly flipping through newspapers and magazines.
Since those reading earnestly were exceedingly few, it would be apt to say they were merely going through the motions.

The person I had made an appointment with was nowhere to be seen. Just as I was crossing the threshold of the room, having grown somewhat bored and thinking I might step outside for a moment, a man in a suit with a beard passed by me and said, “It’s almost time—it’s 2:45.” Looking at my watch, it was 2:30—in fifteen more minutes, I would be able to see the triumphant officers and soldiers. Such opportunities are rare; though it might be rude to say I’m here merely by chance, in truth someone like myself—who rarely breathes air outside the library—would hardly make a special trip to Shinbashi just to welcome soldiers. But since fortune had brought me here, I resolved to stay and observe.

When I stepped out of the room and looked around, the station grounds too had formed lines like a public thoroughfare, with even Westerners who had specially come to spectate intermingled among them.
If even Westerners were coming to watch, then I—being an imperial subject—must naturally offer welcome; resolving to at least discharge my duty with one "Banzai," I finally pushed my way into the crowd.

“You’ve also come to welcome a relative, then…”

“Yes.
“Well, I was so eager that I ended up coming without eating lunch… I’ve been waiting about two and a half hours now,” he said spiritedly despite his hunger.
At that moment, a woman around thirty approached.

“Will all the triumphant soldiers pass through here?” she asked anxiously.
She showed the resolve of one who seemed ready to declare that missing her important person would spell disaster.
The hungry man promptly responded.

“Yes, everyone passes through here—every last one of them. So whether it’s two hours or three, as long as you stand right here, you can’t go wrong,” answered the man, who seemed quite confident.
However, he didn’t go so far as to tell her to wait without eating lunch.

There exists a French novelist who likened a train whistle to the sound of a wheezing whale—a phrase I might have admired had there been time to dwell on it—but before such appreciation could form, the serpentine train wound its way forward and disgorged over five hundred soldiers onto the platform at once.

“Looks like they’ve arrived!” a man said, stretching his neck.

“Nah, you’ll be fine as long as you stand right here,” replied the hungry man, utterly unperturbed.
From his perspective, arrival or non-arrival likely mattered little.
Yet for one who hadn’t eaten, he kept remarkable composure.

Soon came shouts of “Banzai!” from a platform two blocks away.
A voice shouted.
The cry approached like a wave passing through the crowd.
The man had just begun “Nah, it’s still alri—” when those flanking me all roared “Banzai!” in unison.
They shouted.
Before their voices faded, a general passed before me with a salute—
A compact man with sun-seared skin and salt-and-pepper beard.
The crowd watched him pass and shouted “Banzai!” anew.
I too—strange though it sounds—had never once shouted “Banzai” since birth.
None ever forbade me from cheering.
Nor did I oppose the practice itself.
Yet when I tried to raise my voice—
A pebble seemed lodged in my throat, trapping the cry.
However I strained, it wouldn’t come.
—But today I’d resolved to force it out.
In truth, I’d stationed myself early for this moment.

I wasn't like the neighbor's schoolmaster, but I had convinced myself all would be well. From when that asthmatic whale first bellowed, I'd braced myself thinking "Here it comes"—so when the crowd erupted around me, I truly had "Banzai" poised at the root of my tongue, ready to follow their lead and shout it out that instant. The moment I began to voice it, the General passed by. I saw his sun-cured complexion. I saw his salt-and-pepper beard. At that instant, the Banzai I'd started to shout stopped dead. Why did I?

How should I know why?
Statements like "for this reason" or "for that reason" are merely knowledge that can only be dissected when one has regained a calm mind after the event and reflects back on that time.
If I could have understood why, I would have taken precautions from the start to prevent the Banzai from dying on my lips.
If discernment could emerge in unforeseen moments of impulse, human history would be free of turmoil.
My Banzai came to a halt transcendentally beyond my control—I must declare.
As the Banzai stopped, an indescribable surge welled up in my chest, and two teardrops fell from both eyes.

The General may have been dark-skinned from birth.
But expose any man to Liaodong’s winds lashing his face,Fengtian’s rains beating his shoulders,Shahe’s sun scorching his neck—most would blacken like cured leather.
Those naturally swarthy would darken further still.
His beard told the same story.
Since departing for war,silver streaks must have multiplied through its peppered bristles.
To our eyes seeing him now for the first time,there existed no measure between this General and his former self.
Yet had those wives and daughters—counting days on trembling fingers—seen him today,fresh gasps would have fluttered from their throats.
War either kills men outright or ages them decades between dawn and dusk.
This General stood alarmingly gaunt.
Hardship’s chisel perhaps.
Thus only his height remained unchanged from prewar days—all else war’s alchemy had transmuted.
As for myself,I dwell among yellowed scrolls and indigo-bound texts,a hermit sustained by library dust,caring little what storms rage beyond study walls.
True,I read war reports with morning tea,and sometimes fashion poetic visions of battlefields.
But imagination stays imagination,and newsprint remains mere paper whether held sideways or upright.
Thus though war drags on year after year,I never feel its reality—until today.
That complacent scholar found himself swept into the station crowd,and there,before anything else,burned into vision:a face cured leather-brown,a beard frosted salt-and-pepper.
Though war itself stayed invisible,a fragment of its aftermath—no,a shard still vibrating with recent violence—flashed across my sight.When it vanished,drawn by that shard’s gravity,the Manchurian plains spread vast behind my eyelids—every inch churned black by marching boots,glistening red where artillery had rained.

Moreover, encircling this fragment—which might be called a shadow of the war—were the jubilant cries of “Banzai.” These cries were none other than echoes of battle shouts that had arisen across Manchuria’s plains. The significance of “Banzai,” when read literally, was nothing more than “ten thousand years,” but when it became a battle cry, its essence differed considerably. A battle cry was nothing but a *Waa*—unlike Banzai, it held no inherent meaning. Yet within that very meaninglessness lay an immense depth of emotion. The human voice comes in all varieties—shrill, hoarse, pure, deep—and its linguistic tones are so diverse as to defy classification; yet for twenty-three hours and fifty-five minutes out of every twenty-four-hour day, everyone used words imbued with meaning. Matters of dressing, matters of dining, matters of negotiation, matters of dispute, matters of greeting, matters of idle talk—all things bearing the name “matter” emerged from the mouth. In the end, I even came to think that without a matter, nothing emerged from the mouth. To bring it to this point—producing meaningless sounds without any matter was abnormal. Using voices that, even when produced, were insufficient for their purpose was certainly not worth it, whether viewed from economicism or utilitarianism. To force such inefficient voices upon the ears of others without reason, imposing on innocent eardrums, was nothing short of a refined cough. A battle cry was the voice born when this refined cough was decocted, condensed, and canned. It was the voice of utmost sincerity that naturally welled up from the depths of one’s diaphragm when trembling on the precarious thread between life and death, this world and hell. There may be sincerity when one pleads “Help me,” just as there may well be sincerity when another bellows “I’ll kill you.” However, the more comprehensible the words, the lesser the degree of sincerity. While one retained the composure and discernment to use coherent words, it could not be declared that they had reached the pinnacle of single-minded concentration. Battle cries contained no such human elements. It was a “*Waa*!” In this *Waa* there was neither unpleasantness nor deliberation. It had neither reason nor fault.

It contained neither deception nor dispute.
It was *Waa* through and through.
The crystallized spirit ruptured all at once, shaking the air above, below, and all around as it resounded: *Waa*.
This held none of those petty meanings like "Banzai," "Help me," or "I'll kill you."
*Waa* itself was nothing less than spirit.
It was soul.
It was humanity.
It was sincerity.
And I believe that humankind's sublime sensation could first be experienced when one listened intently and perceived this sincerity.
When one listened intently and could hear tens, hundreds, thousands upon tens of thousands of sincere voices simultaneously, this sublime sensation first entered an unsurpassed and supreme profound realm.
The cool tears I shed upon seeing the General were likely this profound realm's reverberation.

Following the General, two or three officers in olive-colored new-style military uniforms passed by. These appeared to be part of the welcoming party, yet their expressions differed considerably from the General’s. I had heard Mencius’s saying that “environment affects the spirit” since childhood, but seeing how profoundly the countenances of those returned from war differed from those who had remained on the home front deepened my emotions even further. I strained upward, hoping to catch another glimpse of the General’s face, but it was no use. Only the tens of thousands of citizens gathered outside the grounds continued to raise their war cries with all their might, resounding so fiercely that the station’s glass windows threatened to shatter. The people to my left, right, front, and back finally disrupted their ranks and surged toward the entrance. They too seemed to share my desire to see him. I too was swept by the black wave toward the stone steps a couple of ken away, but could advance no further. In times like these, my disposition always leaves me at a disadvantage. When leaving through the gate after a vaudeville show ends, when boarding a train after waiting, when buying tickets in a crowd—in any situation involving competition among many people, I was usually left behind in the end; in this case too, true to precedent, I successfully ended up at the rear. And it was no ordinary manner of being left behind. Being left far behind in the crowd filled me with unease. I wouldn’t mind having missed my chance at the red rice served at a funeral, but I do regret failing to witness a fragment of the dynamic force determining the empire’s fate. I must find a way to see it. The Banzai cries enveloping the square resounded in my eardrums with a force like great waves crashing against the shore from all directions. I couldn’t take it anymore. I simply must see it.

A thought suddenly struck me.
Last spring while passing through a certain Azabu neighborhood, I heard what seemed like cheerful laughter from many people enjoying themselves within a vast estate encircled by high plaster walls.
At that moment, some inexplicable impulse made me want to peek inside.
This was undoubtedly the work of pure impulse.
No such absurd notion could arise without that visceral urge.
Whatever its origin, my desire to see couldn't fluctuate based on rational causes.
Yet as I said - their laughter came from beyond an earthen wall taller than a man's reach. Without some miraculous hole, no human ingenuity could satisfy this craving.
When circumstance declared my wish impossible, the longing only intensified.
Foolish though it was, I vowed not to leave until I'd glimpsed that estate's interior.
But trespassing uninvited would make me no better than a burglar.
Yet requesting entry felt equally distasteful.
I needed to observe properly - without obligations to the residents or compromising my dignity - else I'd feel wretched.
The only solutions were viewing from a mountain peak or balloon basket.
Neither proved practical for immediate needs.
Very well then - I'd meet this challenge head-on.
I'd employ the high jump technique from my school days, stealing a glance at the peak of my leap.
Brilliant plan! No pedestrians about to question why a man was vaulting walls anyway.
Declaring my intent, I summoned all strength into both legs and sprang upward.
My training bore fearsome fruit - not just my head but shoulders cleared that earthen barrier exactly as planned.
Knowing this chance wouldn't return, I steadied my darting eyes and glimpsed four women playing tennis where it mattered most.

As I leaped up, the four women laughed in unison with shrill, high-pitched voices—"Ho ho ho!"—as if by prior agreement.
Before I could even register my surprise, I landed back on the ground with a thud, exactly as before.

This would strike anyone as absurd.
Even I, the protagonist of this adventure, found it so utterly foolish that I considered it absurd myself—so much so that I haven’t spoken of it to anyone until today.
However, whether something is considered absurd or serious changes depending on the person and situation; to claim that the high jump itself is absurd is without reason.
The reason my leap seemed absurd is that I jumped up where women were playing tennis—had Romeo jumped to see Juliet, none would call it absurd.
If even Romeo has not transcended absurdity, then I shall advance one step further.
To leap up and glimpse this triumphant General—this great man of fearsome renown—could not be absurd.
And yet—is it still absurd?
So what if it’s absurd?
What I want to see, I will see—no matter what anyone says.
I’ll leap up—yes—since there was no reason not to leap, I resolved at last to attempt it again.
First I removed my hat and tucked it under my arm.
Last time, lacking experience, my feet had been pulled earthward by gravity with such force that my new fedora flipped through the air without ceremony and rolled six feet away.
I remember a rickshaw puller passing by with his empty vehicle—how he retrieved it and offered it back with a sheepish “heh heh” laugh.
This time I wouldn’t fall for that trick.
Securing my hat firmly with This should do, I adjusted my posture imperceptibly as though bouncing off paving stones with my toes.
Fortune had left me at the crowd’s rear—no one stood near enough to hinder me.
The cheers, having momentarily ebbed, surged anew like tide-swollen waves shattering against rocks.
Certain this was the moment, I summoned all strength into my legs—so much I feared they might recoil into my torso—and leaped.

In the midst of a landau with its hood open attempting to pass sideways through the Triumphal Arch—there he was—there he was.
That blackened face—encircled by seething voices—stood dotted within the resplendent crowd like a monument to times past.
The horse of the honor guard that had greeted the General reared its forelegs high, startled by the Banzai cheers, trying to veer into the throng.
A purple flag streamed fluttering briskly atop the General’s carriage.
From the third-floor inn window at the corner turning toward Shinbashi, a woman in a wisteria-gray kimono waved a white handkerchief.

No sooner had I registered what I saw than my feet landed back on the station floor.
Everything was the work of an instant.
Just as the world appears darker than usual after a sudden flash of lightning illuminates everything with blinding clarity, I landed dazedly back on the ground.

After the General departed, the crowd naturally became disordered and was no longer solemn as before.
When one corner of the formed ranks collapsed, the solid black mass began to move all at once, and the dense areas gradually thinned out.
It seemed the hasty ones were already beginning to leave.
Then soldiers who had disembarked from the train with the General began emerging from the station grounds in scattered groups, forming ranks.
The fabric of their uniforms had faded, and in place of gaiters they had tightly wrapped folded yellow flannel around their shins.
They had all grown beards as thick as possible and dyed them as black as they could manage.
These too were fragments of war.
They were products forged with the Yamato spirit.
Businessmen were not among them, nor were journalists, nor geishas—and of course, someone like me who did nothing but glare at books would never be counted among their ranks.
Only these wildly overgrown beards—a memorial not far removed from the squalor of beggary—could not be absent.
They represented not only the spirit of Japan but also, more broadly, the spirit of humanity at large.
The human spirit cannot be calculated on an abacus, played on a shamisen, written across three pages, or found within an encyclopedia.
It is only in these soldiers’ sun-leathered, wretched forms that it flickers dimly.
The Buddha who left the mountains does not wear cosmetics.
Nor does he wear a gold ring.
He wears nothing but a single garment resembling a rag patched together from scraps scavenged from a garbage dump.
Even that was insufficient to cover his entire body.

Around his chest, the north wind whistled through, and you could count each rib as easily as reading lines of text. If this Buddha was worthy of reverence, then I must declare this soldier equally worthy of reverence. During the Mongol Invasions of old, when Tokimune had an audience with Bukkō Kokushi, what did the National Teacher say? He had done nothing but roar to assert his authority and command them to charge headlong. These squalid soldiers may not have received Bukkō Kokushi’s fiery admonitions, but in the Zen truth of charging headlong, they shared the same principle as Tokimune across past and present. They were the valiant souls who had charged headlong into battle and returned composedly to their homeland. If the indomitable spirit that traverses heaven and earth, ceaselessly roaming without rest, was unworthy of our reverence, then there existed not a speck within all creation deserving of respect. Their sun-blackened faces! Among them were those so sun-blackened one might doubt they held Japanese nationality.—Unkempt beards! A beard like a palm broom beaten on a fulling block—this vital force now swelled here, grandly coiled and turbulently surging.

Each time a troop of soldiers emerged, the public cheered “Banzai!” for them.
Some of them passed by cheerfully, their characteristic blackened faces brimming with smiles.
Others paid no heed to the onlookers as they trudged sluggishly past.
Occasionally, one could spot faces that seemed to question what exactly constituted a welcome.
Others stood beneath their own welcome banners, watching with evident pride as their comrades emerged belatedly.
Or perhaps, no sooner had they descended the stone steps than they were surrounded by greeters; so taken aback that they even forgot to exchange greetings, proceeding to vigorously shake hands with everyone indiscriminately.
They must have picked this up in Manchuria during their deployment.

Among them—and this, quite unexpectedly, became the impetus for writing this account—was a sergeant aged twenty-eight or twenty-nine.
His face was as sun-blackened as those of the other officers; his beard grown out to its fullest extent—likely carried over from the previous year—yet his features were incomparably more distinguished than those of his comrades.
Not only that, but he bore such a striking resemblance to my late friend Kou that one might mistake them for brothers.
In truth, when this man descended the stone steps alone, I was so startled that I nearly rushed over to him.
However, Kou was not a non-commissioned officer.
He was an infantry lieutenant who had risen from the ranks as a volunteer soldier.
Moreover, he was a late infantry lieutenant who had now been laid to rest at Hakusan Temple for over a year.
Therefore, no matter how much I want to believe it’s Kou, I shouldn’t be able to.
Human nature is a strange thing—if this sergeant had died in battle at Port Arthur in Kou’s place, and Kou had returned safely in this sergeant’s stead, how splendid that would have been.
Mother would surely be pleased as well—and since there was no risk of being found out, I kept watching while indulging in these selfish imaginings.
The Sergeant too appeared dissatisfied with something and kept surveying his surroundings.
There was no sight of him briskly departing toward Shinbashi like the others.
*What could he be searching for?* I wondered, keeping my gaze fixed on him, thinking that if he were unfamiliar with Tokyo and needed guidance, I ought to help—when suddenly, as if slipping through some unseen crevice, an old woman of about sixty rushed out and clung to the Sergeant’s sleeve.
The Sergeant was of average build, but his height was indeed two inches taller than ordinary.
By contrast, the old woman was exceptionally short in stature and, with age having slightly bent her back, one could not describe her action as either clinging or nestling against him.
If I were to pour forth all the Sino-Japanese literary phrases in my mind and search among them for the most fitting term to describe this scene, 'hanging' would undoubtedly be selected.
At this moment, the Sergeant looked down at the old woman from above with the air of one who had located a missing object.
The old woman looked up at the Sergeant from below with the air of one who had finally found a lost child.
Before long, the Sergeant started walking.
The old woman started walking.

She remained clinging to him.
The onlookers standing nearby cheered them on with shouts of "Banzai! Banzai!"
The old woman showed not the slightest sign of heeding the cries of "Banzai".
Still clinging fast, she kept gazing up at the Sergeant’s face from below as she was pulled along by her child.
Straw sandals and studded military boots mingled and tangled, writhed and twisted, receding into the distance toward Shinbashi.
I recalled Kou and watched with a heavy heart as the shadows of straw sandals and boots faded away.

II

Kou! Kou was killed in action at Port Arthur last November.
The 26th was said to have been a day of strong winds.
Amidst the tempest that swept across Liaodong's vast plains, striving to hurl the black sun into the sea, the assault on Matsukeyama unfolded as planned.
The time was 1:00 PM.
The number of soldiers who rushed out of the trenches at the signal—when an artillery piece fired by our allies struck the left salient of the enemy fortification, sending up a sand cloud some fifty feet high—was unknown, perhaps hundreds.
They scrambled up the forward slope in chaotic disarray, like ants whose nest had been kicked over.
The entire mountainside was covered with enemy-laid barbed wire, leaving no space to set foot.
Carrying ladders and shouldering sandbags, they made their way through in scattered groups.
The path less than twelve feet wide that the engineers had cut through was seized by those scrambling ahead, undulating under the press of people surging forward from behind.
From this vantage point, it appeared as though a single black river was splitting the mountain and flowing forth.
Into that blackness, enemy bullets rained down mercilessly, and thick smoke rose so dense it seemed everything had vanished.
The raging tempest tore through the smoke sideways, snatching it into the distant sky.
Behind them, the dark figures still swarmed and writhed in a dense mass.
Among these swarming masses was Kou.

When speaking with Kou around the brazier, Kou was a large man. He was a dark-complexioned man with a thick beard—an impressive figure. When Kou began to speak animatedly, the listener’s mind held nothing else but Kou. They would forget today’s affairs, forget tomorrow’s affairs, forget even themselves as they listened enthralled—until they became nothing but Kou. Kou was a man of such greatness. No matter where I took Kou, he’d be fine—I was certain he’d catch people’s eyes. Therefore, I did not wish to use such a base verb as "swarming" in reference to Kou. I did not wish to, but there was no choice. They were indeed swarming. They swarmed like a single ant from a colony scattered by a spade’s thrust. They swarmed like spiderlings scattered by a ladle’s splash. Any human being becomes useless when reduced to this state. Great mountains, great skies, tempests racing a thousand leagues, smoke enveloping all directions, shells roaring forth from cast-iron throats—before these, no great man was recognized as great. They appeared as meaningless as a single soybean packed in a straw bag. Ah, Kou! Where in the world were you doing what? Hurry up and become your usual self again—startle those Russians like only Kou could!

The darkly swarming figures vanished in a flash each time shells struck them. No sooner had they vanished than they stirred again amidst the scattering smoke. While vanishing and reappearing, their entire mass undulated from head to tail like a snake scaling a wall, gradually climbing higher until they reached the enemy rampart. Kou had to charge in first. Through gaps in the smoke fluttered what resembled a flag above the blackened heads. Whether due to the fierce wind or being repelled, it would stand upright only to collapse flat again. Just as I startled at its fall, it would rise high once more—then begin tilting diagonally anew. That was Kou. It had to be Kou. In that great jostling clamor of bodies, if any single figure stood out enough to catch the eye, it could be none but Kou.

My wife was a peerless beauty. That this peerless beauty attended formal events yet blended indistinguishably with neighboring ladies—never standing out—rankled me. While my child reigned supreme at home as a young master without equal under heaven or earth, seeing him don his school uniform and sit side by side with the haberdasher’s son across the way—looking no different whatsoever—left one sensing a certain lack.

The same held true for my Kou. Kou would never rest unless he remained unmistakably himself wherever he went. To see him tumbling about in chaotic disarray like taro roots churned in a mortar would render him utterly unrecognizable as Kou. Thus I wanted him—whether waving a flag or brandishing a sword—to perform some deed amid that chaos worthy of attracting even scant attention.

Not that I willed it so.

It must be Kou.
No matter how mistaken I might be, such an unperceptive notion—that Kou would fail to distinguish himself at all—could never be anticipated.
That’s why that flag bearer was Kou.

The black mass had reached the base of the enemy rampart, and just as I thought they would begin scaling the wall, the long snake’s head abruptly vanished, cleanly severed by two or three inches.
This was strange.
It didn’t appear they’d been struck down by shells.
Nor did it seem they had lain flat to avoid sniper fire.
What had happened?
Then the severed snake’s head vanished again by another two or three inches.
As I watched this odd phenomenon, each successive wave pushing up from below would disappear the moment they reached that spot.
Yet not a single soul had clung to the fortress wall.
A trench.
Between the enemy rampart and our soldiers lay this obstruction—until crossed, none could draw near the foe.
They strained up the steep slope cut through barbed wire, and upon reaching the trench’s edge, leaped without hesitation into its depths.
The ladders they carried were meant for scaling walls; their sandbags appeared destined to fill trenches.
How much had been filled remained unclear, but those at the front gradually ceased leaping in until finally it came to Kou’s turn.
It was finally Kou’s turn.
I had to keep steady.

The flag raised high fluttered sideways, battered by such a fierce wind that it seemed about to be torn to shreds; no sooner had I suspected the flagpole was suddenly tilting and snapping than Kou’s figure vanished in an instant.
He finally leaped in!
Just then, five or six cannons fired from Mount Niryū’s direction split the fierce wind roaring across the heavens, all striking the mountainside at once in a roar that seemed to blast apart the mountain’s very roots.
The spurting sand smoke filled the desolate early winter shade completely, sealing away everything in sight.
I couldn’t tell what had become of Kou.
I was beside myself with anxiety.
I estimated he must be in the depths where the smoke was billowing and fixed my gaze intently.
The densely overlapping thick mass, like an evening shower viewed from afar, remained solidified and unmoving amidst the fierce wind’s desperate attempts to sweep it away in its swirling wake.
For about two minutes, no matter how much I rubbed my eyes, I could do nothing, as if blind.
But if this smoke clears—if this smoke were to scatter completely—I would surely see it.
Kou’s flag would surely be seen shining on the other side of the trench, reflecting the sunlight.
No—it must be fluttering lightly atop that high parapet visible on the far side after scaling all the way up.
If it were anyone else, that would be one thing—but since it’s Kou, he’s certain to have done at least that much.
If only the smoke would clear soon.
Why won’t it clear?

It cleared.
The rightmost protruding corner of the enemy rampart began to appear dimly.
The thick stone wall constructed at the center also began to emerge.
Yet there were no human figures.
"Hmm, the flag should be moving there by now—what happened?" I wondered.
"They must be mid-slope on the embankment below the wall," I reasoned.
The smoke cleared completely from top to bottom as though wiped away.
Kou was nowhere to be seen.
"This is bad," I thought.
The others who had been squirming like snails showed no sign of appearing anywhere either.
"This is truly dire now," I realized.
"Have they emerged yet? Five seconds had passed."
"Still nothing? Ten seconds had passed."
Five seconds became ten, ten accumulated into twenty, thirty—yet not a single soul crawled up from the trench to the other side.
There should have been none.
Those who leaped into the trench hadn't done so to cross over.
They had leaped in to die.
The moment their feet touched the trench bottom, machine guns firing from domed emplacements—with a sound like dragging sticks along bamboo fencing—instantly shot them dead.
Those who were killed couldn't possibly climb back up.
Piled like stones weighing down pickled radish barrels, stacked in pits unseen by human eyes—to expect those lying there to climb upward was an impossibility for those who hoped.

Even those lying there must have wanted to climb up—it was precisely because they wanted to climb that they had leaped in.
No matter how much they wanted to climb up, if their limbs wouldn’t move, they couldn’t rise.
With eyes darkened, they cannot rise.
If their torsos are pierced, they cannot rise.
Even if their blood stops flowing, even if their brains are crushed, even if their shoulders are blown off, even if their bodies stiffen like rods—they cannot rise.
When the gun smoke fired from Mount Niryū had completely dispersed, it wasn’t merely that they couldn’t rise.
Even if cold days fall upon Port Arthur’s sea, even if cold frost descends upon Port Arthur’s mountains, they cannot rise.
Even if Stessel surrenders the fortress and all twenty of its batteries return to Japanese hands, they cannot rise.
Even if the Russo-Japanese peace is concluded and General Nogi triumphantly returns, they cannot rise.
Even if one were to come bearing heaven and earth to welcome them after a hundred years and thirty-six thousand days, they would still never rise.
This was the fate of those who leaped into this trench.
And thus, this too was Kou’s fate.
Those who had been squirming like tadpoles suddenly fell into this bottomless pit, vanishing from the surface of the living world into the depths of darkness.
Whether one waves a flag or not, whether it catches anyone’s eye or not—once things have come to this, there’s no difference.
Kou had frantically waved his flag to good effect, but in the trench’s depths, he had reportedly turned cold and died like all the other soldiers.

Stessel surrendered.
The peace treaty was concluded.
The General returned in triumph.
The soldiers were welcomed.
Yet Kou still had not come up from the trench.
Unintentionally going to Shinbashi, I saw the sun-leathered General, saw the sun-leathered Sergeant, saw the short-statured Sergeant’s mother, and even shed tears while feeling strangely uplifted.
At the same time, I wondered why Kou had not come up from the trench.
Kou had a mother too.
Though she was not short like that sergeant’s mother and likely never wore straw sandals—if Kou had returned safely from the battlefield and his mother had come to meet him at Shinbashi Station—she too might have clung to him just as that old woman did.
Kou too would have been waiting on the platform with an unsatisfied look, waiting for Mother to emerge from the crowd.
When I thought of that, the pitiable one was not Kou—who hadn’t emerged from the trench—but Mother, exposed to the winds of this transient world.
Until they jumped into the trench was one matter—but once jumped in, that was the end of it.
Whether this world’s weather be clear or cloudy, they would pay it no mind.
However, Mother—left behind—could not be so.
Look—rain falls; she shuts herself indoors and thinks of Kou.
Look—it clears up; she goes outside and meets Kou’s friends.
She puts out the national flag for welcome; she grows peevish muttering “If he were alive...”
At the bathhouse, a young woman draws water for her; she reminisces about how nice it would have been to have a daughter-in-law like that.
Living like this was agony.
If one were a parent blessed with many children—even if one child were lost—there would still be those left behind to console them.

However, if a family of one parent and one child loses half its members, it becomes like a gourd snapped at its stem—there can be no closure. It was not like the Sergeant’s old woman; there was no elderly person left to cling to. Mother, counting the days with her wrinkled fingers day and night, had longed for the time when Kou would return so she could cling to him. The very person she longed to cling to had plunged into the trench with a flag held high and had yet to climb back up. Though his white hair may have multiplied, the General had returned amidst cheers. Even though his complexion had darkened, the sergeant had jumped down from the platform with pride. Whether their hair turned white or their skin darkened from the sun—so long as they returned, there was no impediment to clinging on. Even if their right arm were slung in a bandage or their left leg had turned into a prosthetic—so long as they returned, it wouldn’t matter. Even though they said it didn’t matter, Kou still had not come up from the trench. If even this didn’t make him come up, then Mother would have no choice but to chase after him and jump into the trench herself.

Fortunately today was free—perhaps I should go to Kou’s house and comfort Mother for the first time in a while?
Visiting to comfort her would be well enough, but whenever I go there, she ends up weeping every time, which poses a difficulty.
Just recently I was subjected to her continuous crying for nearly an hour and a half, until she had exhausted all ordinary pleasantries, leaving me thoroughly at a loss how to respond.
At that time Mother repeatedly lamented how if only she had a gentle-natured daughter-in-law, such a person would be a support in times like these—her constant “daughter-in-law this” and “daughter-in-law that” greatly discomfited me.
Just when I thought that matter had reached its conclusion and I might take my leave, she said there was something she absolutely wished me to see; asking what it was, she replied it was Kouichi’s diary.
Indeed, my deceased friend’s diary would prove interesting.
Fundamentally a diary serves not merely to record daily events but also to pour out one’s shifting thoughts without restraint. Therefore even a close friend’s notebook could not be read without permission—but since Mother consented (nay, requested it herself), this was undoubtedly worthwhile work.
Thus when Mother asked me to read it, I grew quite eager and nearly said “Please do show me,” but were she to weep over the diary now too, that would prove calamitous.
There was simply no way my skills could navigate such waters.
Moreover, with the appointed hour for my meeting fast approaching, I practically fled by proposing to visit again later for leisurely perusal.
For these reasons I find visiting somewhat daunting.
Not that I lack desire to read the diary.
Nor would I refuse being wept upon—if only moderately.
Being neither wood nor stone after all, I remain capable of expressing at least a drop of sympathy for others’ misfortunes; yet by nature having invested little care in crafting my speech, I flounder in such exchanges.
When Mother sobs “Oh you must listen,” I know not how to receive this.
Forcing propriety while meeting halfway not only reduces well-meant solace to fleeting bubbles but may sometimes yield unforeseen results boiling over into scalding water.
In such cases even she must struggle to discern whether my visit aimed to comfort or provoke.
So long as I abstain from going—administering neither medicine nor poison—there lies no danger.
As for visiting, that may wait for another occasion—today I shall forbear.

I decided to postpone the visit, but recalling yesterday’s Shinbashi incident, I couldn’t stop worrying about Kou.
I had to find some way to hold a memorial for my close friend.
I was not one who could compose mourning verses.
If I had literary talent, I would simply transcribe our ordinary interactions and submit them to a magazine—but with this pen of mine, even that proved impossible.
What else could I do?
Ah—visiting the temple. That was it.
Kou had yet to climb up from the Matsukiyama trench, but his memorial lock of hair had crossed the distant sea to be buried at Komagome’s Jakko-in.
I left my house in Nishikata-cho, intending to go there and pay my respects.

It was the onset of winter.
Speaking of Indian summer—even hearing its name evoked sensations akin to ripe persimmons.
This year being uncommonly warm, even my attire—a lined haori with but one cotton layer—imparted a light pleasantness.
Swinging my diagonally worn cane while surveying Jakko-in’s signboard carved in indigo Daishi script, I passed through the gate to find the temple extraordinary—its grounds swept into desolate immaculacy where no dust dared linger.
This delighted me.
Nothing gratified more than this fine-grained red earth—neither muddied nor parched, viscous and steeped in solar hues.
Whether Nishikata-cho merits being called a scholars’ quarter I cannot say, but elegant dwellings were scarce of late; so many houses now crowded that even the earth’s muted tones grew obscured.
Had scholars multiplied thus? Or had they grown so uncultured? Without study I couldn’t tell—yet standing in these spacious precincts, eyes once content with academe now found themselves envying monastic lives.

On either side of the gate stood red pines, each about two shaku in girth, waiting composedly. They must have stood thus for about a hundred years. Their magnanimous presence was reassuring. They say people of old praised things like pine needles falling in Kannazuki—the tenth month—but no trace of such fluttering foliage remained visible. Only their coiled roots protruded an inch or two from the pristine soil, gnarled bones bared beneath. Perhaps an elder monk, a novice, or even the meticulous gatekeeper swept here thrice daily. After walking half a chō with pines flanking both sides, I reached a dead end where the main hall stood, its right occupied by the temple kitchen. A gold-leaf plaque hung on the hall’s front, defiled with specks that might have been bird droppings or chewed paper spat out to tarnish its sanctity. On eight-inch square zelkova pillars, scrawled cursive couplets posed their silent challenge: “Read them if you can.” Indeed, I could not read them. Their very illegibility proved they must be a master’s work—perhaps Wang Xizhi himself. Whenever I encounter pompous, unreadable script, I inevitably attribute it to Wang Xizhi. Without that attribution, that peculiar antique sensation fails to arise. Turning left past the main hall led to the cemetery. At its entrance stood the Bake Ginkgo—though I did not coin that “bake” epithet myself. I’ve heard everyone in this district knows Jakko-in’s Bake Ginkgo by name. Yet whatever spirit might have transformed into it could never account for such improbable height. It was a colossus requiring three arm spans to encircle.

Normally by this time of year, it would have shed all its leaves, become bare, and be howling in the autumn gales, but this year, due to the utterly unprecedented season, every high branch was adorned with beautiful leaves.
When looking up from below, the golden cloud—too dazzling to behold—bathed in gentle sunlight, shone here and there like tortoiseshell, so splendid it was nearly blinding.
The mass of cloud fluttered down without a breath of wind.
Of course, being thin leaves, they made no sound as they fell; their descent was also exceedingly long.
From the moment they left the branches until they reached the ground, they cast shifting glints—now facing the sun, now turning away.
Though they changed in myriad ways, there was no sense of haste—they fell with utmost abundance and utmost grace.
Therefore, when you watch them, it’s not that they are falling.
They seem to sway and play in the air.
It was tranquil.
To believe that supreme tranquility lies in all things remaining motionless is a mistake.
In a vast motionless expanse, it is through the movement of a single point that one can comprehend the stillness of all else.
Moreover, when that single point moves just enough not to overwhelm the sense of motion—no, when the very movement of that single point comes to embody absolute stillness, and bends sufficiently to compel reflection upon the quietude of all else—it is then that one feels the deepest tranquility.
The sight of ginkgo leaves scattering without a gust of wind is precisely this.
Since the endless leaves fell ceaselessly morning and evening, beneath the tree, the black earth lay buried under a carpet of small, fan-shaped leaves so thickly strewn that not a patch of ground remained visible.
Even the temple monks must have found this beyond their reach; perhaps they avoided the hassle of sweeping for the time being, or perhaps they viewed the piled-up fallen leaves as something of interest and left them as they were.
It was beautiful.

After standing for a while beneath the Bake Ginkgo, looking up and down as I lingered, I at last left the base of its trunk and finally entered the cemetery.
It was said that this temple was a historic one, and here and there stone pagodas erected atop large lotus pedestals could be seen.
On the right side, accompanied by a fence, was inscribed *Plum Blossom Hall Lord Jakkaku Daikoji*—likely the grave of a feudal lord or shogunate retainer.
Among them were some that were extremely simple and less than a shaku in length.
It was carved in regular script as *Jiuin Dōji*.
It was small because it belonged to a child.
In addition to these there were many stone pagodas, their posthumous names carved in such numbers that one grew weary of them, yet all were old as if by prior agreement.
It was not as though people had stopped dying in recent times; as before, an appropriate number of deceased must have passed beneath that peeling signboard year after year as honored guests.
However, the moment they passed beneath the Bake Ginkgo, they abruptly transformed into old Buddhas.
It was not necessarily due to the ginkgo, but rather because most parishioners, at the temple monks’ urging, interred the newly deceased within their ancestral graves without narrowing the already limited vacant spaces in the cemetery.
Kou was also one of those interred.

In terms of age, Kou’s grave held considerable prominence within this old cemetery of stone stupas.
I cannot say for certain when the grave was first established, but given that Kou’s father lay here, and his grandfather before him, and even his great-grandfather before that, it could hardly be called new.
Though old, it occupied a prime location.
Bordering the neighboring temple, on an embankment raised one level higher, lay a flat area of about three tsubo; at the center of where one arrived after ascending two stone steps stood the Kawakami Family Ancestral Grave where the grandfather, the father, and Kou all lay interred together.
It was extremely straightforward.
Passing by the Bake Ginkgo, one need only walk twenty ken north along a straight path.
Since I was familiar with the place, I followed the usual path as always and had come about halfway when, suddenly without any particular thought, I raised my eyes and looked toward the grave I was to visit.

I looked—!
She was already there.
Though I couldn't discern who she was, she stood with her back turned, fervently pressing her hands together in prayer.
Hmm.
Who could it be?
Though indistinct at this distance, I could at least tell it wasn't a man.
Her silhouette left no doubt—this was a woman.
If a woman—perhaps his mother? I couldn't say.
Being naturally indifferent to such matters, I know nothing of women's fashions, but Mother typically wears a black satin obi.
Yet this woman's obi—spread across her entire back in that attention-grabbing manner—showed no trace of darkness.
It shimmered with chaotic brilliance, absurdly beautiful.
A young woman!
The words escaped my lips unbidden.
This left me in an awkward position.
I halted mid-step, weighing whether to advance or retreat.
Unaware of my presence, she remained crouched in devout worship before the Kawakami family grave.
Approaching felt impossible.
Yet I'd committed no transgression warranting flight.
As I vacillated, the woman rose smoothly upright.
Behind her lay the neighboring temple's Mōsō bamboo grove, its green so lush it chilled the air.

She stood upright before the bamboo grove so dense it seemed to drip moisture. The northern shadows cast her face into relief, its whiteness floating palely against the dark backdrop. She was a woman with large eyes, taut cheeks, and a long neck. Her right hand hung limp, fingertips clutching the edge of a handkerchief. That handkerchief’s snow-like whiteness burned vivid against the shadowed bamboo. In that instant when I thought—Ah!—nothing registered in my eyes save her immaculate face and that spotless white cloth.

The number of women I had seen in all my years up to that point was countless.
In the streets, on trams, within parks—at concerts, theaters, festivals—it would be safe to say I had seen quite a few.
But never had I been as shocked as at that moment.
Never had I thought anything as beautiful as at that moment.
I had forgotten about Kou, forgotten that I had come to visit the grave, even forgotten my own awkwardness—I could do nothing but gaze at that white face and white handkerchief.
The woman—who until then had never imagined someone stood behind her—seemed to catch sight of my dazed figure lingering there just as she began walking away, pausing briefly atop the stone steps.
When my eyes gazing up from below met hers looking down from above across five ken of distance, she immediately averted her gaze.
Then upon cheeks that had been white to their very core, a deep hue—as though crimson had been melted and poured from beneath—seethed outward.
As I watched, it spread across her entire face until even the base of her ears flushed scarlet.
This was terribly inconsiderate of me.
Let me turn back toward the Bake Ginkgo.
No—doing so would only make it seem as though I had been following her stealthily all along.
Yet to stand there staring blankly would be even ruder.
I recalled hearing of a military stratagem about seeking life in death—so the only course was to charge ahead vigorously.
Since I had come to the cemetery to visit graves, there was nothing particularly odd about it.
It was precisely because I hesitated that I risked arousing suspicion.
Having resolved myself, I took up that cane once more and resolutely began walking toward the woman.
Then she too, still looking down, shifted her steps and brushed past my sleeve at the base of the stone steps as if fleeing.
A heliotrope-like scent wafted pungently.
So intense was the fragrance that I felt it seep into my back through the lined haori being baked by the late autumn sun.

After the woman had passed by, finally feeling relieved and somehow regaining my composure, I turned around once more to see who she was. Then, unfortunately, our eyes met again. This time, I stood atop the stone steps, planting my cane. The woman beneath the Bake Ginkgo twisted her half-turned body diagonally to look up this way. The ginkgo leaves continued fluttering down onto her hair, sleeves, and obi despite the absence of wind. The time was around one or one-thirty—precisely when last winter Kou had charged out of the trench holding a flag amid a fierce wind. The sky hung clear as a row of honed swords suspended edge-to-edge. Nothing appears as high as the autumn sky does in that moment before turning to winter. Not even the faint shadows of gauze-like clouds drifting across fell within my vision. Had one possessed wings to ascend, they might have flown endlessly upward. Yet this sky seemed one where no matter how high one climbed, its limit could never be reached. The sensation we call infinity arises most acutely when beholding such a sky. Tearing through this infinitely distant, remote, and silent expanse without ceremony, the Bake Ginkgo coalesced into a cloud of gold. Beside it, Jakkō-in Temple’s roof tiles carved a horizontal swath from the azure vault—tens upon tens of thousands overlapping black as scales, reflecting back the warm sunlight. Amidst the ancient sky, ancient ginkgo, ancient temple complex, and ancient graves existing in desolate stillness stood a beautiful young woman—a striking contrast. When she had stood backed by bamboo groves, only her white face and handkerchief had caught my eye; now the colors of her elegantly worn kimono and obi cinched midway stood out vividly. As for striped patterns and such details—regrettably beyond my uncultured powers of description—the hues alone were undeniably resplendent. She was not meant to linger even a minute in these desolate precincts. If present at all, she must have wandered here lost from elsewhere.

It was as though a fragment from the Mitsukoshi Exhibition Hall had been cut out and hung upon Rakushisha’s clothesline. This must indeed be the pinnacle of contrast. The woman appeared to glance back diagonally from beneath the Bake Ginkgo as though trying to ascertain the location of the grave I had come to visit; however, since I too harbored suspicions about her and was gazing back from atop the stone steps, she resolutely turned toward the main hall. The ginkgo leaves fluttered down, hiding the black earth.

I watched the woman’s retreating figure and considered it a strange contrast. Long ago, I had seen a geisha at Sumiyoshi Shrine. At that time, the woman with her hair in an elaborate updo stood drenched in the autumn rain, illuminating my eyes more vividly than usual. I had once encountered a Westerner of about twenty-eight at Ōjigoku in Hakone. At that time, the fearsome sight of steam boiling up some thirty feet high softened momentarily, imparting a sense of solace to my mind. All contrasts generally produced nothing other than these two results: either dulling an existing sharp sensation by paring it down, or imprinting newly appearing phenomena in one’s vision more clearly than usual upon the mind—this was the contrast people ordinarily anticipated. Yet what I had just witnessed evoked no such feelings whatsoever. It was neither subtractive nor multiplicative contrast. There existed no scene that diminished this old, lonely, passive mental state—and still, this woman adorned in beautiful finery appeared no more striking than had I encountered her at a concert or garden party.

The emotion I obtained upon passing through Jakkō-in Temple’s gate was an old, lonesome, pity-filled emotion—so faint and passive as to leave no tangible traces one might grasp—that made me feel as though my age moving through this floating world had reversed course, regressing to a time before even my parents’ birth. This emotion not only felt utterly consistent when my gaze fell upon the woman standing straight-backed before the bamboo grove but gained even greater depth in the very moment I beheld her figure turning amidst the fallen leaves.

The ancient temple complex and peeling plaque, the Bake Ginkgo and motionless pine, the haphazardly lined stone pagodas—these dead stone pagodas carved with names of the dead and the flower-like beauty harmonized into a single stream of energy, conveying to my nerves a kind of mature, unobstructed emotion.

Readers subjected to such strained reasoning would certainly never acknowledge it.
There may even be those who scoff, dismissing this as an author's fabrication.
Yet a fact remains a fact even when resembling falsehood.
Whether one be a writer or no writer at all, what is written remains inscribed precisely where it holds no merit.
If fault lies with the writer, I shall declare it plainly.
I am no writer—I am a scholar dwelling in Nishikata-chō.
Should you doubt me, I shall take up this matter and furnish a scholarly exposition.
Readers likely know Shakespeare's tragedy Macbeth.
Macbeth and his wife conspired to murder their lord Duncan in his bedchamber.
No sooner had they slain him than came insistent knocking at the gate.
Then the gatekeeper emerged muttering "knock knock knock," launching into drunken ramblings through slurred speech.
This constitutes contrast.
Contrast upon contrast—no ordinary contrasts these.
A contrast akin to singing dodoitsu ballads beside fresh-spilled blood.
Yet strangely, though this comedic interlude softened the preceding tragic scene's edge, here emerged neither heightened ease nor doubled amusement from the joke's placement.
You might presume this yields no effect—yet its impact proves immense.
The play's pervasive terror burns white-hot through this very passage of comic relief.
Expanding further—herein lies the crux—the jest itself becomes awe.
It transforms into dread; an element raising gooseflesh through primal horror.
The fundamental reason stands thus:

That our viewpoint toward things was governed by past experience was a fact that went without saying.
That the power of experience fluctuated in potency based on frequency and the intensity of emotion felt in individual instances was an indisputable fact.
When the experience of being born upon silk bedding and being lauded with cries of “Your Excellency!” repeated itself time and again, a person came to deign to opine that they were born solely to have others bow before them.
Those who bought alcohol with money, bought mistresses with money, bought mansions, friends, even the Fifth Court Rank with money—these people, complacent that with money they could do anything as they glared sidelong at their safes, turned their noses high into the empty void.
Even a single experience would not make them exceptions to the majority.
A master who lost his fortune in the Great Fire of Hakuya-cho might turn pale even at one and a half Itabashi.
The living Buddha dug out from the tiles in the Nōbi Earthquake would likely chant Buddhist prayers even if a cannon roared.
Even if an honest person were to commit shoplifting once in their lifetime, no acquaintance would suspect them; and even if a man whose trade was jokes were to bring up a serious matter for half a day in ten years, no one would take him seriously.
In the end, our viewpoint was resolved by the inertia of convention.
Since our lives are immensely varied, our inertia must also differ according to occupation, profession, age, disposition, and both sexes.
But that was precisely the case.
When watching a play or reading a novel, there existed a consistent tone throughout the entire work; when this tone resonated in the hearts of readers and audiences, it too became a form of inertia.
If the elements constituting this inertia grew all the more intense, then the inertia itself must inevitably have produced a tendency as unyielding as a prison—impossible to shift or uproot.
Macbeth is a tragedy that deliberately depicts the actions of witches, a poisoner, and a murderer.
From the moment one began reading until reaching the gatekeeper’s comedic interlude, the sole inertia arising in the reader’s heart amidst the profound darkness culminated in the single word: fear.
That the past was already fear, and the expectation that the future too must be fearful naturally radiated itself, attempting to interpret any event yet to emerge in relation to this fear—this we had to call only natural.
Just as those who had grown seasick continued to feel the earth sway long after disembarking, and as a timid sparrow born fearful mistook a scarecrow for that same old man, it was no wonder that readers of Macbeth strained to extend the single word “fear” to realms where fear should hold no dominion.
The gatekeeper’s farce that appeared precisely when one was most anxious to render all things fearful could not be taken as ordinary comic relief.

In this world, there exists what are called double-edged words.
Double-edged words all possess two-sided significances.
Who does not know that people use "sir" as an alias for fool and "general" as a nickname for common man?
Proceeding with this rhetorical method, humility toward others becomes an increasingly demeaning treatment, while praising others amounts to vehemently denouncing them.
The stronger the surface meaning grows, the deeper the underlying implication gradually becomes.
Is not ridiculing someone by aligning their footwear more cutting than mocking them with a single bow?
I shall take one step further in exploring and considering this psychology.
Most propositions we use could be interpreted to mean the opposite.
At the moment one wonders which meaning to settle upon, that familiar inertia emerges and effortlessly renders judgment.
I believe the same holds true when interpreting comedy.
Behind comedy clings seriousness.
Behind loud laughter lurk hot tears.
Beneath casual conversation, the shrill wails of demons can be heard.
If so, then would one who reads the gatekeeper’s jest through eyes conditioned by the inertia of fear interpret that jest straightforwardly, or observe it from its reverse side?
If one were to observe from the reverse side, within the drunkard's ravings there should lie a sense of fear so profound it makes one's hair stand on end.
By nature, double-edged words are not merely more ironic than straightforward words—they are more profound and intense than straightforward words.
In the instant one penetrates the nature of a beauty who would recoil even from insects and discerns that the serpent’s incarnation is none other than this celestial maiden, her sin evokes a terror far surpassing other evils of equal measure.
Because this is entirely a human double-edged word.
A daytime monster is at times more frightening than a conventional ghost.
Because it is a double-edged word.

If something were to spend a night at a ruined temple and perform the kappore dance beneath the solitary cedar in the courtyard, this kappore would be utterly terrifying. This too was a form of double-edged word. The gatekeeper in Macbeth stood entirely equivalent to the kappore at the mountain temple. Were the gatekeeper in Macbeth deciphered, then too must the beauty of Jakkō-in unravel.

Even peonies, honored as the king of a hundred flowers when they crumbled revealed how fragile were the hues of wealth and nobility - so brittle they scarcely warranted even a connoisseur's pity.
Given that there exists a proverb declaring beauties are doomed to die young, this woman's life was hardly one an insurer would underwrite.
Yet maidens in their bloom generally brimmed with vitality.
Bathed in their future's promise, they radiated such visible cheer.
Moreover swathed in vivid fabrics - Tomozome Tie-Dye here, Shu-chin Silk there - they stood splendid from any angle; a veritable spring scene.

One of them—the most beautiful among them—stood in Jakkō-in's cemetery.
She stood amid gloomy, antiquated, tranquil scenery.
Then her lovely eyes and resplendent sleeves abruptly revealed their true nature, dissolving into the bleak surroundings to deepen the temple grounds' air of desolation.
Nothing in this world equals a grave in loneliness.
Yet when this woman stood before the grave, she appeared more composed than the grave itself.
The ginkgo's yellow leaves were lonely.
All the more so for their rumored power to transform—making them lonelier still.
But when this woman stood beneath the shape-shifting ginkgo with her profile turned sideways, the loneliness grew so profound one might have thought the tree spirit itself had emerged from its trunk.
Why did this woman—dressed for Ueno concerts alone, looking fit for Imperial Hotel soirées—harmonize so perfectly with these surroundings while intensifying their bleakness?
This too was a double-edged word.
If Macbeth's gatekeeper inspired fear, then this woman of Jakkō-in must embody loneliness.

When I looked at the grave, chrysanthemums stood in the flower vase.
The dwarf chrysanthemums blooming along the hedge were all white.
This too must have been that woman's doing.
I couldn't tell whether she had picked them from home or bought them on her way.
Wondering if she might have tied a calling card to them, I peered beneath the leaves but found nothing.
What in the world could she be?

I had been one of Kou’s close associates since our high school days.
I often stayed over at his house and knew most of Kou’s relatives.
However, even when I counted them off one by one on my fingers, I couldn’t recall such a woman.
Then perhaps she was a stranger.
Kou was a likable person with a wide social circle, but I had never heard of him having any female friends.
Of course, even if he did socialize with others, that did not necessarily mean he would have informed me.
But Kou was not the type to conceal such matters—even if he had hidden them from others, there should have been no reason for him to hide them from me.
This may sound odd, but I knew the inner workings of the Kawakami family nearly as well as Kou himself, their heir.
And all of that was what Kou had told me.
Therefore, if there had actually been any interactions with women, he would certainly have told me.
Given that he had not told me about her, she must have been a woman unknown to me.
Yet there was no reason an unknown woman would come bearing flowers to visit Kou’s grave.
This was suspicious.
It felt odd—perhaps I should try asking at least her name—though that too seemed strange.
Might I simply follow her silently and see where she went? But that would make me no better than a detective.
I didn’t want to stoop to such vulgarity.
I stood before the grave pondering how best to act.
Kou had jumped into a trench last November and hadn’t emerged since.
Even if I tapped at the Kawakami family’s ancestral grave with my cane or shook it with my hands, he would still be lying at the bottom of that trench.
Such a beauty would remain there unaware—unaware that someone so lovely had come visiting with such beautiful flowers.

Therefore, Kou had no need to ask about that woman's origins or name.
There was even less reason for me to investigate what Kou himself needed not inquire about.
No—this wouldn't do.
By such logic, it meant I mustn't look into her identity.
But that was mistaken.
Why? I would consider the 'why' later and explain it then—but now I absolutely had to question her. Even if it meant pestering like a mosquito, I wouldn't rest until I'd asked.
Suddenly leaping down the stone steps in one bound, scattering fallen leaves from the spectral ginkgo, I exited Jakkō-in's gate and first looked left.
She wasn't there.
I turned right.
Nor was she visible to the right.
Hurrying to the crossroads, I scanned all directions within sight—east, west, south, north.
Still she remained unseen.
I'd finally lost her.
It couldn't be helped—I'd go meet Mother and speak with her. Perhaps through that, some clarity might emerge.

III

The six-tatami room faced south, with a Jindai cedar hand towel rack placed at the edge of the polished veranda. Hanging a round hand-water basin from the eaves with an iron chain was stylish, but arranging a cluster of horsetail plants beneath it added an extra layer of charm. Beyond the lattice fence lay a twenty- to thirty-*tsubo* tea plantation, among which three or four plum trees could be seen. On the tips of bamboo tied to the fence, laundered white tabi socks were drying inside out, and next to them, a watering can was placed upside down. Seeing the dwarf chrysanthemums clustered at their roots, blooming and piled up like white jewels, I said to Mother, “How beautiful.”

“Because it’s been so warm this year, they’re holding up well.”
“Those too, you know—they’re Kou’s favorite chrysanthemums…”
“Hmm, was he fond of white ones?”
“He said the small white ones—the bean-sized ones—were the most delightful, so he went and got the roots himself and planted them specially.”

"Ah, yes, there was such a thing," I said, though inwardly I felt a slight unease.
The chrysanthemums placed in Jakkō-in’s flower vase were precisely of this variety and this color.

“Madam, have you been visiting the temple lately?”

“No—I’ve been laid up with a cold for five or six days since the other day, so I ended up neglecting my visits to the grave. Even when I stay home, there’s never a moment I forget—but as I’ve aged, even going to the bathhouse has become such a chore.”

“Taking a short walk outside now and then would do you good. The weather has been so fine lately…”

“Thank you for your kindness.”
“My relatives fret and say all manner of things, but you see—you’re not well yourself, and there’s none who’d trouble to take an old woman like me walking.”

At such moments, I always found myself at a loss.
I couldn’t grasp how to navigate away gracefully.
With no alternative, I drew out a prolonged “Haaah…”, though Mother seemed faintly aggrieved.
“This won’t do,” I thought, yet seeing no remedy, turned to watch Japanese tits flitting between plum branches.
Mother too fell silent, her words left half-spoken.

“If you had a young lady relative, Madam, she’d be good company at times like these,” I said while—clumsy as I was—showing admiration for how splendidly that had come out even by my own standards.

“I’m afraid I have no such daughter.”
“Moreover, others’ children tend to be reserved… Had I gotten my son a bride, I’m sure I’d feel more at ease in times like these.”
“I truly did a regrettable thing.”

There it was—the bride again.
Every time I came, the matter of a bride inevitably arose.
It was natural parental affection to want a bride for a son of marrying age, but lamenting not having welcomed one for their deceased child struck me as inconsistent.
Was this what human emotion amounted to? I couldn't say.
Since I had yet to grow old myself, I couldn't be certain, but by ordinary common sense, it seemed somewhat mistaken.
For anyone, being cared for by a suitable bride would surely offer more support than living alone in solitude.
Yet one needed only imagine being in the bride's position.
Before half a year had passed since marriage, the husband would go off to war.
No sooner did one think the war had ended than he was already killed in action.
Though barely twenty years old, she'd spend her entire life living alone with her mother-in-law.
How could such cruelty exist?
What Mother said wasn't unreasonable from an elderly perspective, but remained a selfish wish.
Old people being like this was precisely why they were impossible—this I thought resentfully—yet voicing protest risked worsening her mood.
It made for poor form that I, having come to offer comfort, always blundered.
Resolving that moderate silence surpassed speech, I turned the rudder opposite.
I was a man born honest.
Yet existing in society without incurring resentment compelled me toward falsehood.
Were honesty and social life ever reconciled, I would cease lying immediately.

“It truly was a regrettable thing.”
“But tell me—why didn’t Kou take a bride?”

“No, while you were searching far and wide, he ended up going to Port Arthur.”

“Then he himself had intended to take one?”

“That is…” she began, but then fell silent.
Something felt slightly amiss.
Perhaps a clue to the Jakkō-in incident lay hidden there.
To confess the truth, at that moment I was not thinking of Kou—nor of Mother.
My mind overflowed with wanting to know that mysterious woman’s origins and her connection to Kou.
On this day, I was not my usual self—that sympathetic creature.
I had transformed into what could truly be called a cold-blooded beast of curiosity.
Humans change their nature with each passing day.
A villain becomes a saint overnight; after a petty man’s daylight comes a nobleman’s night.
There exist teachers who proclaim they can grasp a man’s character like holding it in their palms—but such people are clever fools who lack even the ability to examine their ever-shifting selves from day to day, hence why they spew this brazen drivel and delight in it alone.
That I—who had declared detective work the lowest occupation and proclaimed this loudly to all—should now find myself adopting purely detective-like methods struck me as an utterly preposterous phenomenon.
After hesitating briefly, Mother spoke in resolute tones:

“Did Kou ever mention anything to you about that matter?”

“Is it about a bride?”

“Yes, something about him having someone he liked.”

“No,” I answered, but in truth, this was precisely the question I should have been posing to Mother.

“Did he say anything to Aunt?”

“No.”

The rope of hope had now been severed.
Having no choice, I turned my eyes back to the garden—the Japanese tits had already flown off somewhere, and the familiar white chrysanthemums stood out magnificently against the moisture-laden black soil.
At that moment, what suddenly came to mind was the matter of the diary from the other day.
Mother did not know, I did not know—perhaps the matter of that woman was written there.
Even if it wasn’t explicitly written, glancing through it might yield some clue.
Mother, being a woman, might not understand such matters, but I could at least form some idea.
There was no time like the present to press for the diary and read it.

“That diary we discussed the other day.”
“Is there anything written in it?”

“Well, before seeing that, I hadn’t thought anything of it… but once I did…” Mother’s voice suddenly thickened with tears.
I’d made her cry again.
This was why it was a problem.
Though troubled, I knew something must be written there.
At this point, whether she wept or not hardly mattered.

“Is there anything written in the diary?”
“I must see it immediately!” I declared—a moment that now made me blush to recall.
Mother stood up and went into the inner room.

Soon she opened the sliding door and came out holding a pocket-sized notebook.
The cover was brown leather that at first glance resembled a paper case.
The brown sections had darkened from being kept in a comb case each morning and evening, while hand grime left them gleaming.
As I received the diary in silence and was about to look inside, the front door rattled open with a voice calling out, “I beg of you.”
Unfortunately, there was a visitor.
Mother gestured urgently for me to hide it, so I slipped the notebook into my inner pocket and asked, “May I return home?”
Mother answered while looking toward the entranceway, “Please do.”
Before long, the maid came announcing that a certain sir had arrived.
I have no business with this certain sir.
As long as I have the diary, I’ll manage—I must hurry home and read it.

With that, I bid my farewells and stepped out into the streets of Hisakatamachi.

Passing through the back of Dentsū-in and descending the slope of Omotechō, I thought as I walked.
It was undeniably a novel.
Yet being so close to a novel made it feel somehow unnatural.
However, once I uncovered the truth of this incident and clarified its entire progression, this unnaturalness would naturally vanish.
In any case, it was fascinating.

I must investigate—though "investigation" feels distasteful—let us call it an inquiry.
I must pursue this inquiry.
Even so, it was regrettable that I hadn't followed that woman yesterday.
If I couldn't meet that woman again hereafter, this incident would likely never become clear.
I had shown unnecessary reserve—it was regrettable to have let her slip away, though not like a fleeting meteor.
By nature, placing too much emphasis on dignity or becoming overly high-minded tended to lead to such outcomes.
Humans couldn't succeed without some robber-like element.
A gentleman was certainly commendable, but if he tried to exhibit a thieving disposition without damaging his dignity as a gentleman, even a proper gentleman would cease to function as one.
They said pure gentlemen without a hint of thievery mostly ended up collapsing in the streets.
Very well—I would become a bit more vulgar from now on.
As I arrived at Yanagimachi Bridge while pondering trivialities, a rickshaw from Suidōbashi dashed spiritedly toward Hakusan.
The time it took for the rickshaw to pass before me lasted mere seconds; thus when I abruptly raised my meditative gaze to look at the vehicle, its passenger was already fading from view.
But what of their face?
By the time I realized it was Jōkō-in, they were already ten meters ahead.
This was it—the moment to become vulgar.
I told myself to give chase regardless of appearances and turned my geta in that direction—but pursuing a rickshaw on foot would be far too vulgar.
Only a madman would do such a foolish thing.
Rickshaw, rickshaw—was there no rickshaw? I looked all around, but unfortunately not a single one remained.
Before long, Jōkō-in had raced so far into the distance that their form became invisible.
It was no use.

Bewildered, I returned to Nishikata-cho, thinking that perhaps one cannot succeed in this world unless they become vulgar enough to be thought mad.

For now, I shut myself in my study and took out that notebook from my pocket, but in the dim evening light, I couldn’t make it out clearly.
In truth, I had been skimming through it here and there along the way, but since it was scribbled in pencil, even in bright places it proved difficult to decipher.
I lit the lamp.
When the maid came to say dinner was ready, I sent her away, telling her I’d eat later.
As I began reviewing from page one in order, all were matters from the battlefield.
Moreover, appearing to have been written by snatching spare moments amidst the tumult, most matters were conveyed in a phrase or two.
"Wind. Ate inside the tunnel.
Two rice balls.
Covered in mud."
"Since last night, signs of a cold. Fever.
Did not undergo medical examination; performed duties as usual."
"The sentry outside the tent was hit by grapeshot."
Collapses against the tent.
Leaves a bloodstain.
"Five o'clock. The great assault.
The company annihilated. Ends in failure.
Regrettable※ (three exclamation marks)"
Under "Regrettable," three exclamation marks were drawn.
As it was merely a memorandum to aid memory, there was nothing resembling proper prose.
There was not the slightest trace of embellishment or refinement in the wording.

However, this was utterly fascinating. What I greatly admired was how it simply depicted reality as it was. What particularly pleased me was the absence of the rhetorical bombast commonly used by laypeople. Phrases like “fury piercing the heavens,” “arrogant Russians,” or “chilling the enemy’s resolve”—all those pompous, cheap expressions—were nowhere to be found. I deeply appreciated the style—truly worthy of Kou—but the crucial Jōkō-in incident still hadn't appeared. As I read further, I came across a section where about four lines had been crossed out with a stroke from above. This part looked suspicious. I felt compelled to decipher it thoroughly. Pressing the notebook against the lamp chimney, I held it up to the light. From beneath the line on the second row, characters protruded by about two-thirds. It appeared to be the character for “post.” With great effort, I finally managed to make out only the three characters for “post office.” The character above “Post Office” revealed only “Dai※” (with emphasis dots on 「大※」). Wondering what this meant, I spent three minutes consulting the lamp before finally realizing: It was Hongō Post Office. Though I’d reached this point, examining the rest from every angle proved futile—I simply couldn’t decipher another word. At last I gave up. Then, after turning two or three pages, I suddenly made a major discovery: “Having not slept a wink for two or three days, I dozed off in the tunnel during duty.” “I dreamt of the woman I met at the post office.”

I started involuntarily.
“It was strange that I should dream of a woman whose face I had seen for mere two or three minutes some time later.”
From this line onward, the writing abruptly shifted to genbun itchi style.
“This must be proof of considerable exhaustion—but even without exhaustion, I might dream of that woman.”
“Since coming to Port Arthur, I’ve seen her three times now.”

I slammed the diary with a smack—this was it!
I shouted.
It was no wonder Mother kept saying “daughter-in-law, daughter-in-law” like a mantra.
It was because she had been reading this.
It was my fault for having judged her in my heart as selfish or cruel without knowing that.
Indeed, if there were such a woman, as a parent, one would want to let them spend even a single day together.
That I had until now misunderstood Mother’s repeated talk of “if only there were a daughter-in-law” as being solely to distract from her own loneliness was due to my lack of insight.
Those were not words spoken out of her own selfishness.
It was a mystery—her wanting to let her beloved son have his way for even half a month before he died in battle.
Men are certainly carefree creatures.
However, if I didn’t know, there was nothing to be done.
Setting that aside for now, the fundamental question remained: Was Jōkō-in this woman, or was she an entirely separate entity, and was the woman Kou met at the post office someone else entirely?
I could not yet reach a definitive conclusion on this question.
With only this much material, it was difficult to leap so quickly to a conclusion.
I found it difficult, but without allowing some room for imagination, one could not make any judgment.

Suppose Kou met that woman at the post office. There would be no reason for him to visit a post office recreationally—he must have gone to buy stamps or conduct a money transfer. When Kou was affixing a stamp to his letter, it’s possible the woman standing beside him might have glimpsed the sender’s address and name by chance. If she committed those details to memory, then with just a touch of novelistic license, one couldn’t deny the Jōkō-in incident might have unfolded exactly so. While her actions could be explained this way, Kou’s behavior remained perplexing. Why would he dream repeatedly of someone he’d encountered so briefly? Still craving firmer evidence, I read on to find these words:

"In modern military strategy, besieging fortresses ranks among the most formidable tasks."
"The heavy casualties of our besieging forces should surprise no one."
"These past few months alone have seen more officers known to me fall beneath fortress walls than I could possibly enumerate."
"Death will inevitably claim me."
"I listen day and night to both armies’ artillery fire, awaiting my turn at any moment."

Clearly he had steeled himself for death. The November 25th entry stated:
"My fate converges upon tomorrow." Here the style shifted abruptly to genbun itchi.
"For soldiers to perish in war is only natural."
"To die is honorable."
"In a sense, returning alive to one’s homeland amounts to having botched one’s proper death."

The final battle-day entry read: "This life ends today. Cannons rending Niryūzan roar without cease."
"When dead, I suppose I’ll hear them no more."

Even should these ears cease hearing, someone would surely come to visit my grave. And then they'd probably offer small white chrysanthemums. "Jōkō-in is a tranquil place." Next came: "A strong wind blows. I will finally go to die. I intend to advance waving the flag until I'm struck by a bullet and fall." "Mother must be cold," the diary ended abruptly here. It should have ended here.

I shuddered and closed the diary, yet found myself increasingly preoccupied with thoughts of that woman. Since her carriage had sped off toward Hakusan, she must belong to that area. If we consider Hakusan as her base, it wouldn't be impossible for her to visit Hongo Post Office. Yet Hakusan spans wide terrain. Wandering about searching for someone whose very name I don't know—such efforts couldn't yield quick results. This clearly wasn't a matter resolvable by nightfall anyhow.

With no alternative, I finished dinner and resolved to retire for the night. Truth be told, even when attempting to read, the words swam before me like an unfathomable sea—compelling me reluctantly toward bedclothes that brought no respite, leaving me tossing through sleepless hours till dawn.

The next day I went to school and lectured as usual, but preoccupied with the incident, found myself unable to focus on classes like normal.
Even when entering the staff room, I felt no inclination to speak with colleagues.
Hardly able to wait for dismissal, I went straight to Jōkō-in only to find no trace of the woman.
Yesterday's chrysanthemums alone stood vivid against bamboo thickets' green like snow dumplings.
From Hakusan through Haramachi and Hayashichō I wandered circling streets yet found no clues.
That night exhaustion granted me sound sleep at least.
Come dawn however classes remained as unengaging as yesterday.
On day three seizing a teacher I asked "Any beauties in Hakusan?" He answered "Plenty—move there yourself."
Returning waylaid a student asking "You live near Hakusan?" He replied "No—Morikawacho."
This foolish scrambling would yield nothing.
Resolving finally to steady myself and proceed methodically,
That evening sans anguish I quietly entered my study determined to continue investigations begun days prior.

Lately, the matter I had been investigating was this major problem called heredity. Originally, I was neither a doctor nor a biologist. Therefore, regarding the matter of heredity, I naturally possessed no specialized knowledge. It was precisely this lack that provoked my curiosity; recently, prompted by some chance occurrence, I had conceived a desire to gain a general understanding of this problem’s historical development and recent theories, and thus began this research. Heredity may seem deceptively simple when stated in a single breath, but upon closer examination reveals itself as a complex issue—even dedicating oneself solely to its study could easily occupy an entire lifetime. Mendelism, Weismann’s theory, Haeckel’s arguments, his disciple Hertwig’s research, Spencer’s evolutionary psychology theory—various people discussed all manner of things. And so that evening, as usual, I intended to read the recently published work by an Englishman named Reed in my study and had casually flipped through two or three pages. Then by some trick of timing, matters from that diary forced their way into my head, trying to prevent me from reading the book. Determined not to let that happen, I turned another page only for Jakko-in Temple to come surging in. Just when I thought I had finally dispelled it and managed five or six pages without incident, Mother’s figure in her short-waisted overgarment appeared upon the page. Since this was a task I had resolved to read, there was no reason I couldn’t read it. There was no reason I couldn’t read—yet a farce intruded between the pages. Even so as I pressed on resolutely, the boundary between this farce and main text gradually blurred until my mind grew so hazy I could no longer distinguish where one ended and the other began. In this dreamlike state—I believe it lasted five or six minutes—suddenly an electric current seemed to surge through my head and I snapped back to my senses. “That’s right—this problem can be solved through heredity! If heredity can solve it then heredity will solve it!” The words burst from my lips simultaneously. Until now it had been merely mysterious—novelistic. Feeling somehow unsettled—was there no way to dispel these doubts? Hastily concluding interrogation was the only method, I ended up being mocked by friends and wandering Komagome like a ragpicker. However since this problem lies beyond any individual’s control—even if one located them and clarified facts—the mystery would not be solved.

As long as the very facts obtainable from the individual remained mysterious, my doubts could find no rest.
In former times, such phenomena were called karma.
It was proverbial that those resigned to karma—like those who cannot prevail against a wailing child or a feudal steward—were bound by fate.
To be sure, dismissing everything as karma might have sufficed.
But twentieth-century civilization demands we trace this cause to its root.
Moreover, I concluded there could be no way to determine the origin of such theatrical phantasms except through heredity.
Under normal circumstances, one would first apprehend that woman, verify whether she matched the diary's subject, then commence hereditary research—but with her whereabouts unknown, I had no choice but to invert this process.
Instead of climbing from present individuals upward through lineage, I would bring antiquity down to modernity by scrutinizing their bloodlines.
In any event, both paths would converge upon the same destination.

Then how should I investigate both their lineages?
Since the woman’s identity remained unknown, I resolved to begin by investigating the man’s side first.
Kou had been born in Tokyo, making him a Tokyoite through and through.
From what I had heard, Kou’s father too was born in Edo and died there.
Thus he too qualified as an Edokko.
His grandfather had been an Edokko, and his grandfather’s father before him likewise.
This suggested Kou’s family had resided in Tokyo for generations—yet they were neither townspeople nor shogunate retainers by status.
According to my sources, Kou’s family had served as retainers of the Kishu domain while being permanently stationed in Edo, where successive generations continued living.
Merely confirming their Kishu affiliation would provide ample leads.
Though I knew not how many hundreds of Kishu retainers existed, those currently dwelling in Tokyo could not be excessively numerous—particularly not women of her evident stature.
A woman so splendidly attired would surely frequent the feudal lord’s household by necessity of her station.
Frequenting such circles would make her full name readily ascertainable.
This formed my initial hypothesis.
Should that woman prove unrelated to Kou’s domain, this affair would remain insoluble for now—leaving me no recourse but to abandon inquiry and await chance encounters with Jakko-in Temple along public thoroughfares.
Yet if my hypothesis held true, subsequent developments would almost certainly align with my reasoning henceforth.
By my reckoning, some event must have transpired between Kou’s ancestors and hers—a karmic entanglement that birthed this phenomenon through hereditary channels.
Here lay my second assumption.
Fashioning these [hypotheses] gradually kindled my fascination—it ceased being mere curiosity’s indulgence.

It would become a significant contribution that provided the most intriguing material for my current academic research.
When my attitude changed thus, my spirit suddenly felt invigorated.
Until then, I had felt as though reduced to something base—a dog or detective—which had greatly intensified my mental discomfort; but proceeding from this hypothesis, I now stood as a man of proper dignity.
This was a matter belonging squarely to academic inquiry.
I realized there was nothing at all to feel remorseful about.
When reflecting on any matter, one could always find adequate justification.
Upon recognizing error, nothing surpassed silent seated contemplation.

The next day at school, I asked a colleague from Wakayama Prefecture, "Is there no elderly person in your home province knowledgeable about the domain's history?" My colleague tilted his head and replied, "Oh, there certainly is."
When I pressed him about this individual, he gave a rather peculiar answer: the man had originally served as Chief Retainer but now went by Steward and was still living.
If he was a steward, that made things even more convenient—he would undoubtedly know the names and occupations of all who regularly visited the domain residence.

“That old man must remember all sorts of things from the past.”

"Yeah, he knows everything."
"I hear he was quite active during the Meiji Restoration."
"He’s a master of spearmanship, you know."

His skill with the spear didn’t matter.
What I needed was for him to retain clear memories of strange tales and unusual incidents that had occurred within the domain long ago.
If I stayed silent and listened, I sensed the conversation might veer off course.

“If he’s still serving as steward, his memory must be reliable.”

“Reliable? I tell you, it’s too reliable—positively troublesome.”
“The entire household is wasting away.”
“He’s nearing eighty, yet somehow they forge men sturdily these days.”
“Ask him, and he’ll say it’s all due to his spearmanship.”
“So each morning at first light, he whips that spear into shape…”

“The spear is fine, but could you introduce me to that old man?”

“I can arrange that anytime,” he said, whereupon a colleague listening nearby laughed and remarked, “You’re quite busy—hunting beauties from Hakusan and tracking sharp-minded old men.”
“This is no time for that.”
If I could just meet this old man, I should be able to gauge whether my hypothesis would hold.
I needed to meet him without delay.
I resolved to have my colleague send a letter inquiring about his availability.

Two or three days passed without any word, but when my colleague informed me that a reply had finally arrived—stating he would grant me an audience and requesting I come around three o’clock tomorrow—I was overjoyed.
That night, I freely envisioned various developments of the case and concluded at least seventy percent of the anticipated facts would likely be dragged from shadow into daylight.
As I lingered on this notion while lying abed, I swelled with pride—my conduct toward this affair, or rather my flashes of insight, proved remarkably deft. An unlettered man could never muster such perceptive considerations; even an educated dullard would lack the wit to apply knowledge so effectively.
When Darwin unveiled his theory of evolution, when Hamilton devised quaternions—their experiences must have resembled this, I arbitrarily decided.
The astringent persimmons at my home surpass apples purchased from greengrocers in flavor.

Since school ended at noon the next day, I impatiently waited for the appointed hour, splurged on a 25-sen carriage fare to Azabu, and went to meet the old man.
I will deliberately not state the old man’s name.
At first glance, he was a sturdy old man.
He had a long white beard flowing down and was seated formally in a black crested kimono of Hachioji silk.
“Ah—you are… a friend of [Colleague’s Name],” he said, stating my colleague’s name.
It was as if he were treating me like a child.
He seemed somewhat dismissive toward me—me, who intended to make great scholarly contributions.
Looking back now, perhaps it was not that he had been dismissive—it might have been that my own sense of self-importance had been too inflated, making his ordinary manner of reception appear dismissive.

After exchanging a few conventional responses, we at last turned to the main subject.

“This may seem an odd question, but was there not someone by the name of Kawakami in your esteemed domain?”
I was a scholar but unaccustomed to formal exchanges.
Though “domain” would have sufficed ordinarily, I had chosen “esteemed domain” out of deference.
Even now I remained uncertain how one should phrase such matters.
The old man appeared to smile faintly.

“There was a Kawakami—yes, a Kawakami.”
“One called Kawakami Saizo served as caretaker.”
“His son was named Kougoro, likewise stationed in Edo—he was father to Kouichi, who fell at Port Arthur not long ago. You were acquainted with Kouichi?”
“Ah, yes…”
“A dreadful business—though his mother should still be living…” he mused aloud.

If I had intended to inquire about the Kawakami family alone, there had been no need to make the trip all the way down to Azabu. The reason I brought up Kawakami was that I wanted to know about Kawakami’s relationship with a certain person. However, since I didn't know this certain person’s name, there was no way to broach the subject.

“Would you happen to know any interesting stories about that Kawakami?”

The old man stared at me with a strange expression, then heavily began to speak.

“Kawakami?”
“As I mentioned earlier, there are several Kawakamis.”
“Which Kawakami are you inquiring about?”

“Any Kawakami would suffice.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘something interesting’?”

“Anything will do.”
“I just need some material.”

“Material?”
“What will you use it for?”
What a troublesome old man.

“There’s something I’d like to look into.”

“Hmm.”
“Kougoro was quite the impassioned soul—during the Restoration he caused quite an uproar—one time he came to my place carrying a long sword for an argument...”

“No, not that kind of matter.”
“Might there be some incident from within the household—something people still find memorable and intriguing to this day?”
The old man fell silent in thought.

“What sort of person was Kougoro’s parent?”

“Ah, Saizo, I suppose. He was an exceedingly gentle man—the very image of Kouichi whom you know—they resembled each other remarkably.”

“Do they resemble each other?” I inadvertently exclaimed in a loud voice.

“Oh, they truly resembled each other perfectly. At that time, the Restoration was still far off, society remained peaceful, and since his role as caretaker wasn’t too demanding, they say he spent quite liberally on refined pursuits.”

“Regarding that person—are there any romantic rumors—though ‘romantic rumors’ sounds peculiar—would there be any?”

“Ah, as for Saizo, there exists a pitiful tale. At that time within the clan there was a samurai called Onota Tatewaki who held two hundred koku and maintained a residence directly across from Kawakami. This Tatewaki had a daughter who was considered the foremost beauty in the domain, you understand.”

“I see.”

Excellent—the leads were coming together one after another.

“Hmm, so did matters proceed as she wished?”
The results were promising.

“So when Onota sent someone to negotiate with Saizo’s parents, Saizo—who in truth had greatly desired to take her as his wife—replied accordingly.”
“Affairs progressed so smoothly they even settled on a wedding date.”

“That’s splendid,” I said aloud, though inwardly I grew anxious—were they to marry now, it would pose no small complication.

“Up to that point, things were going well—but an unexpected complication arose, you see.”

“Hmm.” I thought it would come to this.

“At that time, the chief retainer also had a son around Saizo’s age; this son too became enamored with Onota’s daughter, but when they made inquiries about taking her hand in marriage, she had already been promised to Saizo’s household.”
“Even with the chief retainer’s influence, there was nothing they could do about this particular matter.”
“But this son had grown up attending upon His Lordship since childhood and was deeply in His Lordship’s favor, you see.—Through some maneuvering—who knows how—His Lordship’s decree ordering Tatewaki to send that daughter to him was issued.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I said aloud, though inwardly I was intensely pleased as my hypotheses kept striking true. From this perspective, even in calamities like a friend’s death, seeing one’s own predictions fulfilled might still bring satisfaction. When I’d warned someone they’d catch cold without layered clothing, it felt disquieting when the advised person ignored my counsel yet remained hale and hearty. I found myself wishing they would fall ill after all. Since humans harbor such selfishness at their core, you mustn’t censure me alone.

“It was truly a pitiful situation—since it was His Lordship’s decree, there was nothing to be done even if they protested about prior engagements.”
“So Tatewaki impressed upon his daughter the karmic reasons and finally broke off the match with the Kawakami household.”
“Since having both families remain directly opposite would breed awkwardness in all matters, my father arranged for Tatewaki to be assigned to the province while Kawakami stayed in Edo.”
“Kawakami’s spending in Edo stemmed entirely from those circumstances—likely to vent his disappointment.”
“You see, this matter—well, only now can I speak of it—but back then, had it come to light, both families’ honor would’ve suffered. So they kept it quiet—that’s why few know of it even now.”

“Do you remember that beauty’s face?” someone posed to me what was an exceedingly significant question from my perspective.

“’Course I remember—I was young back then myself.”
“To young folks,a beauty’s what catches th’eye first,I tell ya,” he said,crumpling his wrinkled face into deeper creases with a dry,cackling laugh.

“What did she look like?”

“What can I say—there’s no particular way to describe it. But when it comes to lineage—there’s no disputing it—the current Onoda’s sister bears a striking resemblance. You know of him—the Doctor of Engineering, Onoda—”

“He must be around Hakusan,” I declared, now confident it was safe to say so, and observed the old man’s reaction.

“So you did know. He’s in Haramachi.”
“That girl still hasn’t been married off, it seems.”
“She sometimes visits Her Ladyship’s companion at the mansion.”

Got it! Got it! This was all I needed to hear. From start to finish, everything unfolded exactly as I had theorized. There could be nothing more gratifying than this. Jakko-in Temple was undoubtedly this Miss Onoda. Until now, I had never imagined myself capable of such intellectual agility. Here at last was a perfect example to substantiate my long-held theory of hereditary transmission of proclivities. Romeo glimpses Juliet and decades later recognizes this woman as the embodiment of ancestral experience; Elaine meets Lancelot and becomes convinced “This is the man”—memories and emotions imprinted before one’s parents’ birth resurface in the mind across vast stretches of time. Twentieth-century humanity is prosaic to its core. They deride as frivolous those lovers who succumb at first sight, dismiss such passions as fictional contrivances, mockingly ask how such fools could exist. But fools or not, facts remain immutable—they cannot be distorted nor overturned. Before witnessing marvels, skepticism may be excused; to persist in denial afterward makes the denier the true fool. When examined with proper scholarly rigor, an explanation emerges sufficient to satisfy even twentieth-century demands—at least to some degree.

Thus carried away had I been by these thoughts when suddenly an inconvenient realization struck me. According to the old man’s account, this man knew both Miss Onoda and remembered Kou’s death in battle. Therefore, these two—bound by shared domain ties—might have frequented this residence and exchanged glances. They might even have conversed for all I knew. This would render the evidential foundation for my vaunted theory of hereditary proclivities alarmingly tenuous. The situation demanded that we establish their sole encounter as occurring at Hongo Post Office—anything else would prove problematic. Since Kou never mentioned visiting the Tokugawa household, matters should hold firm—especially given the diary’s explicit account leaving no room for error.

However, just to be safe—since leaving it unverified would be imprudent—I resolved to confirm this as well.

"You mentioned Kouichi’s name earlier—did he often visit the residence during his lifetime?"

"No, I’ve only heard his name in passing—as I mentioned earlier about my father, he and I had heated debates all night on occasion, but I last saw my son when he was five or six—truth be told, since Kougoro died young, opportunities to visit the residence ceased entirely after that—we haven’t met since."

Of course—it had to unfold this way for the pieces to fit. First and foremost, this pertained to substantiating my theory. With this settled, I could finally relax. Expressing my gratitude, I turned to leave. The old man—perhaps considering me the most peculiar visitor he’d ever received—escorted me out and remained planted in the entryway, watching until I passed through the gate and glanced back.

I will condense and concisely relate what follows.
I am, as I previously declared, no literary man.
Were I a man of letters, this would be the moment to fully demonstrate my craft; however, being one devoted to academic study and reading, I lack leisure to prolong these novel-like matters.
If readers can grasp this progression—from witnessing the military welcome at Shinbashi and being moved to recollect Kou, to encountering Jakko-in’s mysterious phenomenon and finding that phenomenon academically explicable—then this work’s principal aim stands fulfilled.
In truth, when commencing this account, carried by excessive delight, I strove for utmost precision in narration; yet being unaccustomed to such tasks, I inserted superfluous details and unnecessary reflections—upon rereading, I find myself nearly amused by such fastidiousness.
In recompense for that effort, having written thus far, I now feel thoroughly wearied.
To continue describing subsequent events in my current verbose style would require fifty or sixty more pages.
With term examinations gradually approaching and that heredity theory demanding research besides, I naturally possess no days to squander wielding my pen thus.
Moreover, since elucidating the Jakko-in incident constituted this essay’s original core purpose, having at last conveyed my account this far and deemed it sufficient, I suddenly found myself disheartened—all vigor for continuing withered away.

After meeting with the old man, I next had to meet with an engineering scholar named Dr. Onoda as part of the sequence of events.
This was no difficult task.
When I took the usual letter of introduction from my colleague, he willingly engaged in conversation with me.
During two or three visits, on some occasion I was allowed to meet Dr. Onoda’s sister.
The sister was none other than the aforementioned Jakko-in woman, just as I had surmised.
When I met his sister, I thought her face might flush, but unexpectedly she remained composed, showing no difference from her usual demeanor—a somewhat strange sensation.
Up to this point, things had proceeded smoothly, but the sole difficulty lay in how to broach the matter of Kou.
Naturally, this being a delicate matter, it was not something one could casually inquire about.
If I didn’t ask, it would somehow feel unsatisfying.
From my own perspective, now that my academic curiosity had been satisfied, I saw no need to delve any further into such trivial inquiries.
However, being a woman, Kou’s mother wanted to know everything thoroughly.
In Japan, unlike in the West, social interactions between men and women were not developed, so there was naturally no opportunity for me, a single man, to sit face-to-face and converse with this unmarried sister.
Even if such an opportunity existed, carelessly broaching the subject would only needlessly embarrass the young woman or result in her coldly dismissing me with “I know nothing of such matters.”
But it would be even harder to bring up in front of her brother.
Rather than saying it was difficult to broach, this might have been something one should not dare to speak of at all.
If Dr. Onoda was aware of the grave visit incident—but if he was not—then I would have committed the impropriety of willfully exposing another’s secret.
In this situation, no matter how much I brandished genetics, I couldn’t make any headway.
Even I, who had once flown about proclaiming myself a genius, now found myself greatly at a loss.
In the end, I laid out every detail of the situation and consulted Kou’s mother.
However, she was remarkably astute.

“There is a woman who lost her only son at Port Arthur and now lives grieving morning and night,” Mother said. “Since a man can’t do it properly even if he tries to comfort her, I want you to ask the doctor to have his young lady visit her now and then when she has free time.”

I promptly visited Dr. Onoda’s residence and, parroting the request in mechanical tones, conveyed Mother’s appeal; the doctor consented without hesitation. This became the foundation for Mother and the young lady to meet periodically. With each encounter, their intimacy grew. They strolled together, partook of meals—it was as if she had become a daughter-in-law. Ultimately Mother produced Kou’s diary and revealed it. When questioned about what remark the young lady had made then, she was said to have responded: “That explains why I had been visiting the temple.” And when pressed about why white chrysanthemums were offered at the grave, her answer came simply: “Because I favor them most.”

I saw the sun-leathered general.
I saw the sergeant whom the old woman clung to.
I heard the roar of welcome.
And then I shed tears.
Kou had leapt into the trench never to emerge.
None came forth to welcome Kou.
In all this world, those who remembered Kou were surely only this Mother and this young lady.
Each time I witnessed their tender bond, I shed tears purer and cooler than those I shed for the General or the Sergeant.
The doctor appeared to know nothing.