Pathway to Japanese Literature

When the white plums bloomed, Yōko could not help but recall Mr. Asakawa Sōnosuke. To say she "could not help" recall him did not mean she disliked doing so. Rather, it meant being overcome by an aching nostalgia for cherished things that could no longer be seen before one’s eyes. Already eight years had passed since Mr. Asakawa Sōnosuke—the literary figure who had shone brightly in our nation’s Taishō-period literary world—took his own life.

Why white plums and Mr. Asakawa Sōnosuke became intertwined in Yōko's heart—whether because their final encounter had occurred as she journeyed to view plums in Atami, or because his elegantly gaunt stature summoned visions of white plum blossoms, or perhaps because some lucid quality of his temperament resembled those flowers—yet though the thread of remembrance first emerged during plum-blossom season, ultimately when Yōko profoundly dwelled on Mr. Asakawa, the setting transformed into Kamakura at summer's zenith. The summer five years before Mr. Asakawa Sōnosuke's suicide had found Yōko's family sharing lodgings with him at Hotel H in Yukinoshita, Kamakura, escaping the season's swelter together.

On a certain day in mid-July of Taisho 12, beneath a blazing clear sky in Yukinoshita, Kamakura—through Hase and Ogigayatsu—Yōko walked since morning with her husband and his friend. Their purpose was to find a summer rental house where the family would stay from late July through August. They crossed gleaming railway tracks, gazed at clusters of sunflowers in front gardens of scattered villas, and came upon pine groves and stretches of coastline as they searched about, but could not find a house that met their expectations. Ultimately Yōko’s husband’s friend guided them to one of H Lodge’s buildings. H Lodge had established Kyoto as its main branch and Tokyo as a subsidiary branch; this subsidiary branch built a villa-like restaurant in Kamakura. But due to poor sales, this year they allocated three or four buildings including the main house as summer rentals—with young proprietors planning Kyoto-style light cuisine for guests.

The two-room connected space with a wisteria trellis near the main house and the building styled like a Kagura hall at the farthest end already had tenants. The middle building—moderately ordinary yet refined—was still available, and Yōko and her group decided to rent it. Every room in each building faced the same expansive lawn garden on one side while all were connected by corridors on the other. Having settled on their decision, Yōko and her group inquired about what sort of people had rented the Kagura Hall building as they prepared to leave. They were a mix of five or six bourgeois young men—young salarymen and university students—we were told; when they then asked about the wisteria trellis side,

“Mr. Asakawa Sōnosuke—that writer.” The young proprietor of H Lodge glanced toward Yōko and her colleagues—as if silently remarking *What distinguished company*—with a look that recognized their shared profession.

“Hmm.” Yōko’s husband had remarked as if unconcerned, but Yōko felt a pang strike her heart and caught her breath.

Speaking of Asakawa Sōnosuke—though at that time he was only two or three years Yōko’s senior—to her he remained a dazzling master of the novelist’s path. Yōko’s startled reaction likely arose from her youthful reverence for fiction receiving in that moment an immediate impression akin to confronting Mr. Asakawa himself, though there were also several inherent reasons at play. Yōko’s husband Sakamoto, the caricaturist, had originally drawn only caricatures of politicians and general societal figures, but the previous year—commissioned by the pure literary magazine *Bungaku Sekai*—he began creating satires of the literary world. Unversed in literary circles, Sakamoto received material from Mr. Kawada—a magazine journalist and rising writer—serializing caricatures through his signature blend of whimsy and incisiveness for nearly a year. This abrupt phenomenon within the literary sphere left established authors wide-eyed in near-awe, while readers sustained their curiosity through murmurous excitement. Among these satires, the material used to caricature Mr. Asakawa verged on confidential matters from his recent past—naturally provided by Mr. Kawada himself. The very material Sakamoto—oblivious to literary politics—handled without recognizing its sensitivity later proved a source of pain for Mr. Asakawa, as numerous observers eventually remarked to Sakamoto.

“That was truly unfortunate,” he said with a wry smile tinged by psychological criticism toward Mr. Kawada who had supplied the material. “Mr. Kawada’s rather a contrarian himself—perhaps he was venting some personal frustrations toward his senior.” After shifting from tanka poetry to novel-writing, Yōko had asked Mr. Kikuii—a friend of Asakawa’s—to review her debut manuscript for the first time. But as Mr. Kikuii was then occupied with planning a certain literary venture, he suggested she instead have his friend Asakawa Sōnosuke evaluate it.

Yōko promptly wrote a letter to Mr. Asakawa, but no reply came no matter how long she waited. Yōko had never before sent anyone a letter requiring a response without receiving one, so just as she grew somewhat disheartened and faintly resentful, a certain person remarked regarding this: "He may think the material for Mr. Sakamoto’s caricatures came from you." "And being cautious by nature, he might have started keeping his distance to protect his private affairs."

remarked to Yōko. If that were the case, then Yōko was indeed closer to the literary world than Sakamoto. But Yōko, being no literary socialite, could not possibly possess the sort of incisive material that Mr. Kawada—a literary magazine journalist and rising novelist—might provide. Yōko’s feelings grew increasingly dreary, but if Mr. Asakawa was exercising such caution, that too seemed natural, and what with one thing and another, her desire to have anyone look at her novel had long since vanished.

Yōko was a woman who could at times be implacably tenacious and driven by personal emotions yet at other times possessed an impartiality so detached she might have been another person altogether. Once she grasped the full circumstances regarding Mr. Asakawa，the matter was cleanly severed within her heart. Yet shortly thereafter，Yōko glimpsed Mr.Asakawa from an utterly unexpected angle. It occurred one evening at an overcrowded literary gathering held upstairs in a certain Western restaurant where Mr.Asakawa numbered among attendees. His form wore a subdued golden-brocade haori with impeccable fit；crisp bearing suggesting prodigious talent—sleeves gathered taut at wrists，black hair cascading across an intellectual forehead—rendered the surrounding air both aristocratic and charged. Amidst coarse，unkempt literati，Yōko felt crystalline clarity upon observing him thus—until noticing Madame X preening coquettishly at his elbow. As she idly watched Mr.Asakawa’s manner toward Madame X，displeasure swelled within her. He began adopting attitudes befitting a patron addressing geisha. Her vexation stemmed not from ethical censure of married man’s insincerity toward society woman— (Madame X had long flitted through literary gatherings scattering frivolity like petals— Yōko rather esteemed this fundamentally decent woman，never considering her worthy such earnest courtship.) What galled was witnessing this artist she revered—possessor of exquisite prose，distinguished mien，dripping precocious brilliance—misapprehend beauty through misguided admiration. Yet undeniably，Madame X now appeared radiant even to Yōko’s critical eye. Delicate features framed by artful waves；supple shoulders harmonizing fine crepe kimono and haori；eyebrows elongated，slightly arched in coquetry— But Yōko remembered Madame X from mere days prior： Sallow complexion，thin downward-sloping brows（now shaved and redrawn beneath faintly swollen lids）that once framed commonplace drooping eyes. Though waves now hid what until recently lay exposed—matronly forehead receding beneath— Having observed Madame X’s former self for years，Yōko saw phantom layers superimpose：true visage haunting cosmetic masterpiece，marring aesthetic appreciation. Nevertheless，Mr.Asakawa had encountered post-transformation Madame X first at prior gathering（Yōko absent）— Whether through novelty of acquaintance or not，his extravagant praise now buzzed through literary circles；whispers near Yōko’s ear claimed he attended solely to behold her anew. Yōko’s girlish hero-worship curdled through vexation：her revered artist erred aesthetically where she couldn’t reconcile contrasts. Yet however often reexamined，Madame X remained incontestably beautiful. How peculiarly galling. While joining Mr.Asakawa in admiring Madame X’s beauty，Yōko felt strangely adrift—as though complicit in counterfeit delight，yearning yet unable to mock them both—

At that time, Yōko wrote of these feelings in "Recent Reflections," an essay solicited by a certain magazine. Of course she never wrote the names of those involved, instead clearly detailing the circumstances as material to describe a peculiar psychological state of her own. (Whether Mr. Asakawa had read it or not, Yōko had not particularly concerned herself with the matter at the time, but she came to realize through their interactions during the month they shared lodgings at H Lodge that he had indeed read it.)

In any case, when it came down to it, such premises were swept clean from Yōko’s mind, and all that stood vividly before her was the sudden fact of sharing lodgings with Mr. Asakawa Sōnosuke—the literary figure she revered.

To recount subsequent events in proper sequence，excerpts were taken from those portions of Yōko’s Kamakura diary that extensively documented Mr. Asakawa.

One day.—Mr. Asakawa had arrived from Tokyo the previous night, three or four days after we had. Since early this morning, Mr. Asakawa—dressed in a blue-patterned wide-sleeved yukata reminiscent of Chinese sarasa (if such a thing exists; this association stems from his trip to China two years prior)—had been moving in and out of his room. Both kimono and obi fit perfectly on Mr. Asakawa’s slender, tall frame. With his arrival from Tokyo came what seemed like a small dull-bluish pot placed in the alcove of the neighboring room—or was this merely my imagination? Had the innkeeper put it there, or had Mr. Asakawa brought it? No flowers stood arranged within it, and I sensed none would ever be.

One day.—Mr. Asakawa’s thick bass voice laughed frequently. From the neighboring building, I sensed the quiver of Mr. Asakawa’s Adam’s apple. Thick and bass-like, yet it was a voice like a river bundling sharp nerve fibers into a raft and swiftly carrying them away.

One day.

Since my husband had come from Tokyo, Mr. Asakawa came to our room to pay his respects. He was leading a man—who resembled both a pampered young master and an inn clerk—step by step across the connected lawn in his geta sandals, each footfall placed with ceremonious care. On the shallow damp veranda, Mr. Asakawa placed both hands down with a slap and bowed with exacting courtesy. It was a well-trained, childlike bow. With each bow’s rhythm, his long hair would sweep across his forehead, and he would repeatedly brush it back. I silently observed this first meeting between two men who had each mastered their craft—with what seemed some unspoken tension between them—as though watching virtuoso actors confront each other on stage.

One day.—In the morning, I met Mr. Asakawa at the washroom. “I had a dream about sunflowers last night. I kept watching them until dawn,” Mr. Asakawa said to me, scrubbing his face vigorously with hands dipped in cold water. “And your head doesn’t hurt this morning?”

For some reason, I ended up asking Mr. Asakawa such a thing.

“Hmm. “Just like a Van Gogh-esque exchange, isn’t it?” Mr. Asakawa said this, finished wiping his face with a towel, and looked straight at me. His eyes were slightly bloodshot. He gave a curt “Ha,” then said, “Well then, I’ll see you this afternoon…... I’ll be writing my manuscript until noon.” With a courteous bow, he retreated into his room. In the afternoon, a young woman clamoring loudly seemed to have come to Mr. Asakawa’s room. In the evening, I noticed a stylish young woman of medium height in Western attire emerging from Mr. Asakawa’s room and walking across the lawn as she departed. Her profile was slightly unrefined, yet it showed lines reminiscent of a Western movie actress. “She’s the younger sister of Mr. Ōkawa Sōzaburō’s wife (author’s note: Mr. Ōkawa was Mr. Asakawa’s senior and at that time was called both a famous aestheticism school writer and a decadent writer).” “Kakuko’s quite the tomboy,” Mr. Asakawa said beneath the wisteria trellis. A young man resembling an inn clerk was peering at my face from the veranda. Old O-Koma of H Lodge, who had brought the cleaned tobacco tray into the parlor, remarked in her booming voice, “Heheh, so that’s the younger sister Mr. Ōkawa so proudly boasts of?” Mr. Asakawa smiled bitterly and said, “It’s not something to boast about, but she’s a woman I can take anywhere more readily than my wife.” “Your wife is a quiet beauty with Japanese-style features, while her younger sister is quite different, isn’t she?” I said. Mr. Asakawa’s clerk said, “I do like beauties such as your wife, but I also fancy those like Ms. Kakuko.” Mr. Asakawa: “In other words—bowing to Buddha and kneeling before Christ...” “And who becomes Muhammad… I wonder?” said Mr. Asakawa’s clerk. “Fool. He himself is solemn to the core.”

One day.—Two or three days prior, Mr. K the painter had come from Tokyo and become part of Mr. Asakawa’s circle. It was rumored that just as Mr. Natsume Sōseki had maintained a teacher-friend relationship with Mr. Seihō Tsuda, so too did Mr. K and Mr. Asakawa share an intimate bond. Mr. K was a stocky man newly entered into middle age, his head closely cropped, speaking sparingly and with a stammer when he did, often keeping his eyes lowered like those of an Oriental romanticist. One-legged—yet this disability now seemed to have settled into a somewhat self-satisfied resignation, harmonized with a lifestyle that tenderly nurtured his own poetic melancholy. Still, one could sense around him a vague atmosphere of escapism. From this, it became apparent that Mr. Asakawa’s temperament and preferences were growing increasingly inclined toward Mr. K. As their acquaintance deepened, one perceived how within Mr. K’s thick-set, sturdy physique there maintained its roots a settled yet exceedingly delicate nervous system. Might it not be that Mr. Asakawa—reassured by the tactile solidity of Mr. K’s external form, which spared the sharpened edges of his own unyielding nerves—was growing ever fonder of him through this very compatibility that allowed contact with the inner delicacy of Mr. K’s sensibilities?

One day.— Ōkawa Kakuko had parted ways with her brother Mr. Ōkawa for a time and, having secured lodgings nearby, would be settling in Kamakura for a while—so today she began posing as a model for Mr. K. From midmorning onward, Mr. Asakawa’s room was in an uproar. The presence of that sort of girl enlivened the monotonous air of the summer resort. “Sō-chan!” At being called by the girl, Mr. Asakawa too made a great commotion. Old O-Koma came to my room and, pointing to a small pavilion beyond the lawn through the trees, said to us with hesitant courtesy: “Before Ms. Kakuko arrived, Mr. Asakawa would declare he needed to write and shut himself away there—we even turned other guests away to reserve it for him. But now that she’s come, he abandons everything as you see…” Then she continued nitpicking about Mr. Asakawa—“a smooth talker,” “too ingratiating for a man”—her manner thoroughly unpleasant, though the criticisms held some truth where Mr. Asakawa was concerned.

The thudding clamor of what seemed to be Kakuko and Mr. Asakawa starting some mock sumo match mingled with the raucous uproar of two or three visitors from Tokyo who had joined in the commotion. To me, sitting still in this room listening to it, Mr. Asakawa's merriment soon began resounding distinctly in my ears as something separate. It was a merriment tinged with shadowy negativity. There existed a shadowy negativity that inevitably dragged down Mr. Asakawa’s urban vitality—that effervescent buoyancy striving ever upward. Before my eyes appeared the hallucination of a thick wire… Thud—though cast down to the ground, only its metallic surface glittered in the sunlight…

One day.—I had my first somewhat literary discussion with Mr. Asakawa. “If Japanese naturalism truly derives from Maupassant and Flaubert,” I said, “then I must object.” “I feel Japanese naturalism has only imitated a portion of foreign naturalist writers.” “Whether it be Maupassant or Flaubert, neither of them advocated solely for physical naturalism.” “I would argue that I rather perceive a spiritual poetic essence from foreign naturalist writers.” “Precisely. After all, Japanese writers are far too impatient in imitating the West.” “Moreover, they lack comprehensive magnitude in both physical stamina and mental fortitude.” “Therefore, they end up merely imitating a conceptual fragment.” Mr. Asakawa, having finished speaking thus, gazed at the lawn where the afternoon sun glittered with a somewhat weary air. From beyond the fence across the way came the clatter of geta sandals, and the voices of Mr. Asakawa’s acquaintances approaching Hase could be heard. I left Mr. Asakawa’s room and rested awhile in my own—faint shadows, mosquitoes around the napping pillow—composing such “verse” fragments, I thought of Mr. Asakawa’s eyes that looked lonely.

One day.—Mr. Asakawa and I were complete opposites in terms of physique, appearance, and certain aspects of our dispositions; yet we shared considerable similarities in the density of our nerves, tastes, and inclinations. Mr. Asakawa must have sensed this as well, for opportunities to become what one might call close companions and speak earnestly together grew increasingly frequent. And yet despite his admirable qualities becoming ever more apparent to me, an indescribable enigma within him gradually revealed itself—something bearing no resemblance to that favorable aspect of Mr. Asakawa, which at times even felt as though these two facets shared no connection whatsoever. I encountered a dimension of him that defied simple categorization—neither mere childishness nor malice, but something pathological, almost blind-like—or at moments, unforgivably rude.

One day.—Today, Mr. Asakawa appeared to be writing all day long in the small pavilion amidst the chinquapin trees. After we too went briefly to the coast and returned, my husband took a nap; my cousin did needlework; I spent my time reading. In the evening, Mr. T’s younger brother, who had been introduced to me at the coast the other day, came to visit my room. A member of the proletarian literary magazine “The Sower”— twenty-five years old, a young man who had dropped out of W University due to poor health—sickly and small in stature, yet speaking with a strangely shrill voice full of energy. He continued bellowing about Marx and Lenin with fervent discourse, finally denouncing the current literary world as petit-bourgeois and half-dead serpents. Around ten o’clock, the young man returned to his brother’s house with a face vividly animated in its sickliness. As he was leaving, the young man made a slightly theatrical face and said with a wry smile: “Oh damn—Asa, Sō was next door, wasn’t he.” Just as I was preparing to sleep, my cousin who had gone to visit the main house returned. Old O-Koma was with her. “You see,” she tattled, “after dinner tonight, Mr. Asakawa carried a chair outside your room wall and sat perfectly still on the edge of his seat the whole time your guest was here.” “Don’t you think he might’ve been eavesdropping?” My husband merely said: “I see.” I felt an unpleasantness toward both the tattling old woman and Mr. Asakawa, but after remarking “That guest was talking rather loudly,” I also felt somewhat sorry for him.

One day.—Early in the morning, my husband departed for Osaka on company business.

When passing in front of Mr. Asakawa’s room, he performed his usual exceedingly polite bow. And then, together with me, he escorted my husband out to H Lodge’s main gate and delivered another polite farewell address. His ever-polite demeanor, reminiscent of an urbane youth that always inspired goodwill, and his tall frame—the hem of his black habutai summer kimono swaying in the morning breeze—I observed from behind like a whip brandished with cold intellect. Painter K had returned to Tokyo two or three days prior, and in the early morning, there were still no visitors in Mr. Asakawa’s room.

Mr. Asakawa told me to come closer. I sat on the veranda of his room. As I gazed entranced at the wisteria vines in their trellis—their blossoms now turned to seedpods trembling in the morning breeze—through sleep-deprived eyes, Mr. Asakawa settled into a crouched posture in the dimly lit alcove far behind me. And for some time, he remained silent. I too remained silent. A pure white dog passed before my eyes. The dog looked back again and again at me and exited through a hole in the fence. Mr. Asakawa said to me from behind in a growling, deep voice: “I am... “I haven’t ascended to the point of being called a rationalist. “Nor do I consider myself decayed enough to be dismissed as part of the technique-oriented school...” “Ah, are you referring to what ‘The Sower’ said last night?” I had blurted out my intuition. “The Sower—I don’t care what they do. “I too have no intention whatsoever of lagging behind others in my engagement with Marx and Lenin, I assure you. “As for tastes, I may be thoroughly traditional Japanese, but in terms of mental fortitude, I rather align with Marx and Lenin.” “Of course you do—there’s something fiercely determined about your teeth.” “And what did you say to ‘The Sower’?” “I mostly just listened. “Well, I haven’t even read *Capital* yet, so I can’t really say anything.”

“But you see, I just said something that might have been truly trivial.” “No matter how much material equality is achieved, human institutions could never equalize the innate intelligence or physical beauty people are born with.” “Suppose there are two people here—one born with intelligence and beauty but lacking material possessions compared to the other.” “At that point, the other person—while lacking those gifts—would find their dissatisfaction somehow compensated by material wealth.” “If you were to seize those possessions to equalize them, all that would remain for the latter is the glaring unfairness of lacking both intelligence and beauty compared to the former.” “What would you do about this?” “I posed these questions to Mr. Sower.” “But his answer left me no clearer.” “Ha... A rather childish inquiry, but undeniably true,” he replied. “Even we aesthetes find mindlessly shouting about material equality just as problematic. Yet when new ideologies emerge—whether absolute truths or not—the very act of society shifting toward them carries its own justification.” “Consider how Naturalism rose against Ken'yūsha’s superficiality, only for Aestheticism to become mere verbal embroidery afterward—yet that progression itself holds an irrefutable truth.” Having said this, Mr. Asakawa leaned forward. His lips quivered faintly, eyes clouding with unease. “But this Marxist literary surge blows fiercer than any previous wind.” As his impatience mounted, I felt compelled to speak. “You know—Dante wrote more of Inferno than Paradiso.” The abruptness shocked even me, yet Mr. Asakawa answered with unexpected candor.

“Indeed.” “From time immemorial, humanity has idealized paradise yet in practice clings ever more intimately to hell.” “Even Dante…” While saying this, Mr. Asakawa retrieved a melon that had been rolled into a recess of the alcove where it had remained out of my sight until now, deftly placed it on a plate, and sliced it open with a knife. And baring his teeth in a laugh, he continued, “We lot ought to be splendidly shattered like this by the new age. “Ha ha ha….” “But,” Mr. Asakawa said again while prodding the seeds that had spilled out from the melon with the tip of his knife, “but you see, there are seeds like these teeming within us as well.” “These will burrow into the earth’s depths and someday sprout forth silently—they’ll prove quite troublesome indeed.”

The white dog returned from somewhere. Once more it lumbered to stand before my eyes, gazing up at me and Mr. Asakawa. I was already silently eating the melon.

One day.

When I went to discard the watermelon rinds outside the back gate, there on the gravel path inside the gate crouched Mr. Asakawa—hatless—staring fixedly at the ground in the opposite direction. “What are you doing?” I asked, softening my footsteps as I approached. Mr. Asakawa replied with perfect composure: “In the scorched earth’s substratum—might we not say tiny beings are seething forth?” “Huh?” I stared in wonder at Mr. Asakawa, sweat streaming down his face. “Hah hah… Anyone might experience such visions from time to time, I suppose.” "…………." At Mr. Asakawa’s feet, where he had risen, lay a great number of large black ants, crushed. With his long hair plastered to his forehead by sweat, Mr. Asakawa stood there cackling—I sensed an unearthly chill in broad daylight. I felt creeped out. “There’s still half a watermelon left, so please come partake later.” I said that, but Mr. Asakawa, without replying, circled around the well and went up to the corridor. In the evening, a reporter from P Publishing who had come to my place took a photograph that included my family members and Mr. Asakawa. After being photographed, Mr. Asakawa began to fret intensely about how frequently his recent photographs turned out looking cadaverous. And I too requested P Publishing to refrain from publishing it in any magazine if Mr. Asakawa had been captured looking spectral. After the P Publishing reporter, convinced, returned to Tokyo, I had my cousin cut the remaining half of the midday watermelon and entertained Mr. Asakawa on the veranda of my room. “Well now, you do spoil me so—thanks to your kindness, I’m practically clinging to life here.” With a raucous guffaw, my cousin burst into unrestrained laughter. “Is it amusing?” I said: "This person is always saying how fascinating your 'It' is." Yet I felt a different sort of peculiar amusement in my gut at how Mr. Asakawa—who had been so neurotic about the photograph until just moments ago—had now switched to clowning around, unlike my cousin.

From within the distant twilight came the sound of a whistle approaching. It was the younger brother of Mr. T entering through H Lodge’s gate. “Ah—The Sower comes,” Mr. Asakawa said, his face abruptly stiffening as he rose.

One day—when I went to check the clock at the main house late at night, Mr. Asakawa sat alone in the parlor, leaning back in a rattan chair reading a newspaper. As I was with my aunt who had just arrived from Tokyo, I bowed to Mr. Asakawa and was about to return immediately to my room when he insistently stopped me and seated me in a chair. Since my aunt was petite, she sat far away on a small chair by the window, gazing outside. “The Sower hasn’t been coming around lately, has he?” “Yes, I hear he’s gone off to Tōhoku.” “Ah, but both today and yesterday, you’ve had quite a number of visitors at your place.” “Though it’s close to Tokyo, the area’s novelty draws visitors even without specific business—we host more guests here than we ever did living in Tokyo.” “Broadly speaking, what sorts of people are your visitors?” “………………” “Well now, I’ve no right to investigate your guests, but…” “The regular visitors would be that X designer from before, Poet Mr. X, and Philosophy Scholar Mr. X.” “Designer Mr. X seems rather stuck in his ways.” “Yes—it appears our previous mechanisms are increasingly being pressured by this emerging neoclassicism.” “Such European trends have come to influence Japan too, haven’t they?” “Poet Mr. X remains as youthful and vibrant a colorist as ever.” “Though at times absurdly verbose… And as for the philosophy scholar…” “That one’s my debate opponent!” Aunt swung around from the window toward us. “How about a cigarette?” Mr. Asakawa offered his case to Aunt, but she merely bowed without accepting. “Your place also has quite a lot of visitors, doesn’t it?”

“Both □ and △ are such a pesky bunch,” said Mr. Asakawa. “But they’re quite your devoted worshippers.” “Hmph.” Mr. Asakawa glanced at the lampshade with faint pride. Under the direct overhead light, thick shadow-rivers emerged on each of his gaunt cheeks. “Encountering such fanatical worshippers makes me anxious about their precariousness from my vantage.” “□ seems determined to drain even N City’s great family fortune.” “A decent chap, but rather an infantile careerist—” “All this literature and art nonsense will leave him thoroughly ruined.” “The monaka from Mr. △’s shop are quite delicious.” “That △ fellow should focus on pastry-making—once he starts idolizing our sort, his business will founder.” “Mr. X and Mr. XXX were here until recently.” “X fancies himself a novelist but dances divinely.” “Why not learn from him at Kamakura Hotel’s dance hall?” “His youth preserves some innocence yet.”

Aunt interjected. “I won’t have it! “She can barely manage wave-riding as it is—there’s no way she could handle something so nimble!” Aunt—intending to make her practice vocal exercises—had brought a shamisen and explained her plan to have me review Crane and Turtle starting tomorrow; just as we tried to leave the parlor, Mr. Asakawa stopped me again. Then with utmost seriousness: “A considerable number of people are still coming to your place from Tokyo, aren’t they? “Approximately how many more are planning to come?” “I don’t know about that.” “If all those people keep me in mind one by one when they leave... I simply can’t endure it.”

As we walked through the dark corridor, Aunt said. "What a strange person that Mr. Asakawa is." I: "......"

“Why on earth does he go around counting and fretting over how many guests come to your place?”

Even after returning to her room and laying out the futon, Aunt continued muttering as if to herself. “There’s something truly strange about him—it’s as if he’s harboring some dark secret,” she went on. Aunt was nearly fifty, old-fashioned and sensible in appearance and demeanor, yet more perceptive than most young people. Before long, she closed the sliding door and went to sleep in the room across with my cousin. I had taken a fairly long nap earlier, yet now found myself preoccupied with Aunt’s remarks and Mr. Asakawa’s recent words and demeanor, unable to sleep. Having no choice but to get up, I folded my hands on the desk, rested my head upon them, and sank into deep thought about the dark secret Aunt had mentioned regarding Mr. Asakawa. Everyone carries some darkness within—but watching Mr. Asakawa’s desperate efforts to prevent others from glimpsing or sensing his own was painful to witness. Guests merely exchanged visits between each other’s rooms. The visitors to that other room—the bourgeois sons’ quarters—were truly something else. From morning till night, outsiders would crowd in—harmonicas wheezed, choruses swelled, sumo bouts thudded, raucous laughter erupted. These activities didn’t seem to grate on Mr. Asakawa’s nerves, yet toward my guests—who, save for “Mr. Sower,” almost all chatted quietly or amused themselves before leaving—he appeared to harbor something akin to phobic dread. As for Mr. Asakawa’s own visitors too—apart from the guileless young Mr. X, the gentle and refined writer Mr. XXX, and Painter K—they were hardly pleasant company. A certain man once stopped me in the hallway with a pretentious preamble—“I’m keeping my true station concealed”—before effusively praising Mr. Asakawa and implying his own cosmic significance merely by association, making me cringe at his affectations. Nor was it any better when women of dubious repute would plant themselves around Mr. Asakawa in his parlor, glowering at passersby through corridor and garden. At times it became unbearable—wondering what such women and Mr. Asakawa with his gift for spiteful gossip might be saying about me. Whenever guests filled Mr. Asakawa’s room, I hid my presence and kept discreet. Yet when conversing with him alone, I nearly forgot his visitors entirely—while he grew so agitated over my own unrelated guests that I wondered if he sensed in me some “dark secret” as Aunt claimed, fearing I might divulge it even partially. Still—what could Mr. Asakawa possibly imagine me concealing at present? If pressed to recall, it would be his persistence during that “Beauty Dialogue” a week prior. One could well imagine how his forceful advances then had rebounded upon him, leaving festering wounds.

About a week prior, in the late afternoon, Mr. Asakawa and I found our conversation drifting toward topics like “female beauty.” “True beauties among women are quite rare, just as with men,” he said. “However, when a man becomes fixated on a certain woman and begins piling various fantasies and hopes upon her, she gradually comes to appear as a peerless beauty to him.” “And he wouldn’t want to wake from that intoxication.” “That way lies greater fortune for a man.” “Wiping away the rouge and powder from a woman’s face to see her bare complexion—that’s something I could never bring myself to do.” “But even that should be perfectly acceptable.” “Even that.” The weight of Mr. Asakawa’s words pressed upon me in accumulating measure. “Absolutely,” I concurred. “Do you truly believe that?” he pressed with increased intensity. “Yes...” “Then why... why do you...” “What is it?” I asked.

Mr. Asakawa fell silent after that. His eyes gleamed like the bed of a faintly clouded river, and a sardonic smile surfaced at the corners of his mouth. After a while, Mr. Asakawa sat squinting his eyes as he stared at one part of the wisteria trellis, but suddenly stood up, reached out his hand to pluck two or three wisteria leaves, then sat back down in his original spot. He fidgeted irritably, drew a shallow breath, then said: “Even if I—in that sense—acknowledge a certain woman as beautiful, you should have no objections, should you?” “Who do you mean by ‘a certain woman’?” In that instant, I too found myself cornered. Mr. Asakawa laughed with desperate cunning: “Heh heh heh.” Suddenly, I thought of Madame X. And I—who had years prior seen Madame X transformed through skillful makeup at a certain restaurant and knew her appearance before this metamorphosis—found myself unable to simply join Mr. Asakawa in admiring the beauty of Madame X before us; that essay I wrote for a magazine criticizing Mr. Asakawa at that time while absolutely refraining from specifying his or Madame X’s names—it became clear he had read it, noticed, and harbored these feelings within himself. “I maintain rather clear standards regarding beauty, but others’ preferences are of no concern to me.” Having said this, I found myself inexplicably saddened and hung my head. What relentless nerves he had. Since before noon, he had gone to such lengths—sending messages through the maid, having Okamabasan bring sweets, summoning me to his room for conversation—was all this just to say that thing? Or had he calculated that after this much acquaintance, it would now be permissible to broach the subject...? A similar incident had occurred two or three days prior as well. I had encountered a remarkable equestrian beauty on the road from the coast to Ōgigayatsu and told Mr. Asakawa about it upon returning. Then Mr. Asakawa flashed a peculiar sneer. “A remarkable beauty?” “Ah-ha, so you have fixed standards of beauty?” “But I just thought she was beautiful—fixed standards or anything like that don’t matter.” “That woman only looked beautiful because she was on horseback, I suppose.” A surge of irritation welled up within me, but outwardly I replied calmly: “While being on horseback may have accentuated her dashing figure, what I speak of is her face—a marvelously symmetrical countenance that flushed faintly as she rode.” “Ha ha,” Mr. Asakawa responded, though he seemed utterly dismayed.

“As a rule, well-proportioned faces tend to harbor many fools, I suppose.”

I turned away in irritation. Why was it wrong that I called the woman I saw on horseback along Ōgigayatsu Road a beauty before Mr. Asakawa? And yet—though one might say Mr. Asakawa himself ceaselessly appraised the beauty and ugliness of various women—why was it wrong for me to casually praise that equestrian beauty of Ōgigayatsu in his presence? In truth, I had not seen a countenance as noble and exquisite as hers beneath broad daylight in recent memory.

Mr. Asakawa noticed my sullen expression. Then suddenly acting timid, he nervously poured tea and set it down before me before blurting out, “She must have been quite a beauty… that beauty…” I couldn’t help but laugh meekly. “Yes, thank you.” Why on earth had I said thank you? And yet my heart brimmed with frustration... After that, having been hosted by Mr. Asakawa as graciously as possible—while part of me thought he truly was a timid but well-meaning person—I returned to my room. But the frustration wouldn’t subside. To my cousins, I turned my back and lay down, pretending to take a nap. And I suppressed the tears that threatened to emerge. I too might be a stubborn fool of a woman—unable to bend my thoughts to others, difficult to handle. However, Mr. Asakawa’s nerves were far too sensitive. In this way, it was as if I’d come to Kamakura merely to be Mr. Asakawa’s opponent in his stubbornness...

My cousin spoke from behind. “Elder sister, “You had some quarrel with Mr. Asakawa, didn’t you?” Then my cousin muttered to herself: “Honestly—whether it’s Tada-san (that sickly poet who wrote about me in a perverse novel before dying) or Mr. Asakawa—literary men are just so irritatingly tedious and troublesome.” My practical, strong-willed cousin’s remark was so absurdly humorous that I whirled around and laughed aloud, saying— “And this Elder sister here is also thoroughly troublesome and irritatingly tedious, isn’t she?” “Hmph—what can you do?” My cousin gave a sharp whack with her palm-fiber fly swatter.

After taking a long nap and having my cousin cut some yōkan for our snack, I heard *thud, thud*—footsteps approaching down the corridor beyond the shōji screens. “Who is there?” asked my cousin as she stood and slid open the shōji a crack—revealing Mr. Asakawa. “Ah, tea time? I’ll return later.” Having slept and forgotten the earlier incident, I said: “No, please come in. Fujimura’s yōkan arrived from Tokyo.” I amiably offered Mr. Asakawa a zabuton cushion. He entered holding something like a clipboard in one hand. He ate a piece of the yōkan we offered, remarking “Delicious.” Restless, he intently examined the fusuma doors and tokonoma alcove before placing the clipboard before me: “Would you care to look at this?” “What is this?” “I happened upon it in the book room.”

I casually took it from his hand and looked—it was an offset print of Tintoretto’s nude painting. I was instantly captivated by the sensual yet sublime beauty—like a pearl with its matte luster. My cousin also stretched up and peered intently at the print in my hands. And she let out an admiring sigh: “Goodness!” “Ah-ha, you’re quite enraptured,” Mr. Asakawa addressed my cousin—whom he rarely spoke to—while watching us with satisfaction as we remained unable to tear our eyes from the print. But when I returned the artwork to him, he immediately began speaking as if he’d been waiting. “But consider this—would the nobility of ancient Japan—Susanoo-no-Mikoto, Fujiwara no Kamatari, Taira no Masakado, Sei Shōnagon—truly marvel at this nude’s beauty that we in the Taishō era so admire? Or Napoleon, Henry VIII, Columbus, Cleopatra, the South Seas natives—would they value it equally with us today...?”

Having listened to Mr. Asakawa’s words up to this point, I had nearly grasped why he had come to show me the Tintoretto print in my room. Mr. Asakawa—wanting to settle our earlier debate about beauty evaluations according to his own intentions—had come to my room wielding Tintoretto’s nude painting as his tool, and had nearly achieved the intended effect. A sudden tightness rose in my chest; while listening to his words, I kept my eyes fixed on the returned offset print in his hand without shifting them. His acute sensitivity seemed to immediately detect this, for when I looked upon Mr. Asakawa’s face—now silently rising—I unmistakably perceived what could only be called “the scar of self-satisfaction.” I still remember with perfect clarity how vividly I sensed the tragic essence of Mr. Asakawa’s character through that “scar of self-satisfaction” he bore at that moment.

If one were to seek what Aunt called “shadowy darkness” in Mr. Asakawa for the time being，all manner of incidents from these past few days—of the sort described above—came to mind. But to now be further burdened by him with even having to witness Mr. Asakawa reeling from his “scar of self-satisfaction” was more than I could bear.

One day.

In Mr. Asakawa’s room, a great number of his admirers had been lined up nearly all day. When Mr. Asakawa sat composedly amidst the circle of admirers, he appeared almost to possess the dignified bearing of a noble gentleman. Compared to this, there was truly a marked difference when contrasted with the effeminately persistent Mr. Asakawa who became terribly nervous during private conversations. Even so, when I hear someone say of another person, "I’ve been associating with them for years," speaking as if they know them inside out, I cannot bring myself to agree. Even if one were to meet someone as host and guest during a fixed period within a day and night, ultimately that would merely be meeting them during the interpersonal time they have reserved. No matter how casually one interacts, it remains an acquaintance within their reserved interpersonal time. A person of Mr. Asakawa’s show-off disposition would all the more never meet even the closest of friends with all his defenses disarmed. One could say that even over a brief period, seeing someone in their various aspects as a neighbor during unguarded moments morning and evening allows one to come to know every facet of their being—both front and back—far more than years of meetings as host and guest or friends confined to set hours. I had already spent over twenty days living separated from Mr. Asakawa by nothing more than a single wall. I had observed a great deal of the "unguarded Mr. Asakawa" that regular guests and mutual friends never knew. One morning, the retreating figure of Mr. Asakawa walking sloppily down the corridor to the toilet, the end of his obi trailing. Mr. Asakawa stopped before the mirror in the empty washroom—sticking out his tongue, stroking his forehead, even grinning and making grotesque faces at his reflection—then retreated to his room, believing no one had witnessed it. Another afternoon, Mr. Asakawa was quietly peering at the goldfish in the basin all by himself. In the quiet solitude of his room, Mr. Asakawa was cutting his nails. Silently facing the wall, Mr. Asakawa sat with his knees hugged. In the dark of night, in the garden beneath the window, Mr. Asakawa had removed his upper garments and was doing exercises repeatedly. Suddenly, when he raised his face from the writing desk, Mr. Asakawa’s countenance—usually so beautiful—appeared as a long, haggard visage bearing an eerie, grotesque expression. These moments—compared to when Mr. Asakawa struck poses for others and discoursed on literature and art—may have exuded from him a far more innocent, endearing nuance of human melancholy and solitude. That I, despite having experienced so many irritating and unpleasant feelings on Mr. Asakawa’s account, would eventually regain my goodwill toward him—it may be because on some chance occasion, I happened to glimpse those unseen aspects of his demeanor described above.

One day.—A sultry wind blew continuously from the sea, making it a night when remaining in the room was unbearable. Aunt became close with Granny Oma and went shopping in town together.

Having finished writing the accumulated letters around nine o'clock, I went out to the garden's cooling platform with my cousin. There sat Mr. Asakawa alone. It was a night dense with stars. As we talked, we kept looking up at the stars. "I just now—it suddenly came to me—did you ever write something like... 'The Sumida River flows gray, channeling Tokyo's urban melancholy...' or such?" "Yes. When I was a child, I lived for a time in the downtown area." "That period left me steeped in that neighborhood's metropolitan melancholy." "You truly are a connoisseur of gloom." "Keeping company with you puts me on edge." "And with Mr. Sakamoto being such an upstanding man, I suppose coming to Kamakura wasn't entirely ill-advised." "There were moments when we irritated you too, weren't there?" "Ahahaha..." "Yet you went so far as to move right next to us." "But I'd rented there first... Besides, I'm capricious by nature." My cousin suddenly boomed in her deep voice, "When I hear 'Tokyo,' I think only of Aoyama Palace!" sending our conversation veering backward. "Ahaha... How refreshingly direct... While someone like me—raised in Honjo—am but a bubble adrift in its great gutter." "Oh, stop that!" "Yes, precisely so," Mr. Asakawa said, turning to me. "Any moment now—blub-blub—I'll pop and vanish." "You were contemplating such things while stargazing?" "In essence—in this slipshod world where humans writhe under ephemeral bonds of life and death—we're naught but wretched, pitiable creatures."

“What with all this clamoring over material distribution and ideals and various -isms both overtly and covertly—humans are ultimately nothing more than pitiful creatures wriggling through life like maggots at the bottom of a bucket.” “That’s right.” “But when you push such thoughts to their absolute limit—doesn’t a rebellious heart also arise? Doesn’t it make you want to stir up commotions and establish ideologies and ideals?” “Aren’t both aspects simply human nature?” “What are your thoughts on life and death?” “I consider death a metamorphosis from some phase of life—and life a metamorphosis preceding some phase of death—yet also think them entirely separate entities.” “So you mean they’re both one yet unrelated?” “Yes.” “How I wish we could settle this one way or another.” “Since we can’t help it—mustn’t we temporarily align ourselves with whichever idea dominates us more strongly?” “I don’t see life and death as one.” “Though I shut my conceptual eyes to death being eternal darkness after life’s ruin—I believe this single work I leave behind could connect my posthumous self to the present.” “I once thought that way too.” “But now my views have changed considerably.” “The energy within our flesh may transform materially through death into cosmic elements—remaining nowhere beyond this universe—but individuality—spirit—all phenomenal existence vanishes utterly. Thus works born from our living selves can bear no relation to that vanished self… To imagine otherwise would merely reflect survivors’ observations…” “Wait—don’t you find such thinking unbearably lonely?” “Especially for someone as sentimental as you.” “I felt lonely—and being sentimental drove me to think it through completely.” “I see now.” “Your quick anger followed by tenderness—it stems from these mental convolutions—these fluctuations in character.”

“Is that so? Someone like me—so mired in earthly desires—can’t possibly think of things simply and remain composed. Yet another part of me remains utterly simple and carefree despite it all.” Then my cousin abruptly concluded with a peculiar “That’s what makes you endearing,” leaving me disconcerted into silence. Mr. Asakawa rose from beside us and lay supine on another vacant rectangular cooling platform. Nearing late August, insects chirped in muted chorus from thickets near and far. Mr. Asakawa’s finely sculpted face lay in the starlight with sepulchral stillness like a death mask. A shudder ran through me at the thought that his body might transform into bleached bones before my eyes—starting from that sharp nose tip downward. Through this faint tremor raced visions of the grotesquery from his *Rashōmon*, the uncanny beauty of *Hell Screen*, and the phantasms of *The Death of a Christian*. Steeped in reverence born from recalling these works, I declared in uncharacteristically formal tones that would normally shame me, “Whatever else—please do take care of yourself.”

Some years prior, my husband had drawn a caricature that displeased him—a matter stemming from when Mr. Kawada of the Literary World had brought materials—and even now, rumors persisted that the illness Mr. Asakawa had carried back from his China trip continued to torment him, which did not seem entirely baseless. Mr. Asakawa would sometimes violently tug at his own long hair. And it seemed he had developed a habit of plucking a few strands with his fingers and bringing them close to his eyes. I too had surely seen that habit once or twice, and on nights like this when reverence for Mr. Asakawa swelled into tender concern, I would grow deeply compelled to speak earnestly about his health.

One day—while everyone was still asleep—I slipped out through H Lodge’s gate and went for a morning walk alone. Even as I myself found it unusual, while walking alongside the cornfield, Mr. Asakawa came walking this way from the direction of the station. He was dressed in a dark gauze haori worn casually and carried a small case. His brand-new summer hat gleamed as if ready for an outing. As he approached me, Mr. Asakawa laughed with a voice that seemed swallowed back into his throat and said, “Ah, I went to Tokyo. Last night, I decided on it so late that I left without giving a proper greeting.” “And did you leave your residence this early?” Mr. Asakawa seemed momentarily flustered but replied, “No, I didn’t return home. I stayed at X Station Hotel.” “And did you return immediately?” “I thought I shouldn’t startle my family by returning too late, so I stayed at the hotel last night. Today I planned to go around bookstores to gather some money, return home once, then come back here again. But when I woke up this morning, everything felt like such a bother—I just abandoned it all and came straight here.” “Your family must be waiting for you at home.” “Home’s such a bother.” “But you have such a dear wife and children.” Even as I spoke them, I recognized my own words as hopelessly trite. Mr. Asakawa said, “What do you think about things like marriage and family? I, at the very least, consider marriage to be nothing more than a mechanism for perpetuating genetic defects.” “Hypothetically speaking, you know.” “Suppose I am one perpetuating the bad heredity of my grandparents or parents… Needless to say, that would pass to my children, grandchildren, or even their grandchildren….” Mr. Asakawa fell silent after speaking this far.

I had secretly known that Mr. Asakawa’s biological mother was a madwoman, and so I listened to his words with solemn gravity. But feeling it too cruel to voice this, I instead said something entirely different. “But if you dwell on such thoughts too deeply, your dear wife and children will suffer for it.” “Well, that’s true. “So while thinking such thoughts, I strive to be as good a husband to my wife and as good a father to my children as possible.” "But the more keenly one feels such responsibilities and bonds, the more a rebellious spirit toward family arises—that’s how it goes." “Ha ha ha ha… Humans are such selfish creatures—men especially, aren’t we?”

Mr. Asakawa’s laughter fluttered through August’s coastal vegetable fields, lush and thriving, its hollow echo lingering beneath the summer sun. Within that unnervingly vacant timbre lurked some emotion veiled in obscurity—a quality one might sense but never grasp. Could it be he had met someone secretly last night instead of returning home...? Someone... Or perhaps her... Madame X...

One day.—Last night, my aunt had returned to Tokyo with her shamisen (she had come intending to have me sing for vocal exercises, but I disliked being overheard by the resort guests), and my husband returned here from Osaka this morning. Showing fatigue from the night train, no sooner had my husband entered through H Lodge’s front gate than Mr. Asakawa bustled out to greet him. To his room—nearer the gate than ours—Mr. Asakawa first invited my husband in, offered a zabuton cushion, drew cold water into a washbasin, and provided a fresh towel—a far more attentive hospitality than I, lacking such thoughtfulness, could ever manage. On such occasions, Mr. Asakawa’s long limbs moved with the practiced ease and refinement of a middle-aged model wife. At such times I would always wonder: Were these movements of his—whether born of natural grace or the cultivated upbringing from childhood in an urbane, respectable household—merely habitual? Yet beyond this, I had often observed him diligently caring for Painter K who used crutches, marveling at what an admirable deed it seemed. My husband smiled with evident pleasure as Mr. Asakawa attended to him. Where once our greetings had felt like performances between two actors, we now formed a truly harmonious gathering akin to a family united in fellowship.

One day—around ten in the morning five or six days after my husband’s return from Osaka—an old carriage came to a halt before H Lodge’s gate. This appeared to be a hired carriage meant for those traveling from inland areas distant from Kamakura’s coast to reach the shoreline. Though I couldn’t say for certain, it seemed to be kept at some carriage rental depot. Given that I had never encountered such a carriage while walking through Kamakura’s streets, it must have been reserved for those with particularly special or premeditated needs. The carriage had been ordered from Mr. Asakawa’s room—a phrase I specify deliberately, for during this period his room had become nearly entirely occupied by Kakuko, their commingled wills so thoroughly blended that one might even speak of the room itself possessing a will. Ordinarily, I avoided visiting Mr. Asakawa’s room when other guests were present, but Kakuko remained there perpetually except when retiring to her own lodgings at night, making avoidance increasingly impractical—hence my recent proliferation of encounters with her. Once accustomed to this arrangement, Kakuko began occasionally visiting the front veranda of my room that adjoined the garden.

Kakuko and Mr. Asakawa came hurrying to our room, insistently urging us to go to the coast by carriage. I found it somewhat abrupt and felt slightly inconvenienced. Moreover, since they tried to rush out even my husband—exhausted from working through the night and about to retire—this only heightened the nuisance; nevertheless, I resolved we should go as neighborly obligation. In contrast to our vague demeanor along the way, both Kakuko and Mr. Asakawa appeared animated with anticipation—as though harboring some grand purpose in heading shoreward. We arrived at Hase Coast. The sea, its crowds having momentarily thinned, lay serene yet damp, folding even a wisp of cloud-shadow from some sky-corner into each wave’s deepening shade. But I sensed something sinister-lurking beneath that calm expanse—a perception that stirred faint revulsion. I don’t want to enter the water today, I thought. (Not that I can swim properly anyway.) My husband, worn from consecutive sleepless nights, seemed still less inclined.

Kakuko paid no heed to such thoughts of mine and briskly urged me on, leading me into the women’s changing room. Similarly, Mr. Asakawa took my husband to the men’s changing room. I saw Kakuko naked for the first time—pure white. It was the white of a peeled potato. What a plain white. A charmless whiteness. Here too, I found myself disappointed in Kakuko. The reason I said "here too" was that I had already begun feeling disappointed in Kakuko some time before. Why did I pay such meticulous attention to Kakuko, each instance breeding disappointment? It was because I—who had been devoted to the shadow-rich aesthetic works of Kakuko’s brother-in-law Mr. Ōkawa Sōzaburō—sought to place great value upon Kakuko, she who was reputed to be so doted upon by Mr. Ōkawa. At first, I thought Kakuko was a vivacious flapper-like cultured modern girl—what with the polished tips of her shoes, the flutter of Western-style hems, and her blunt manner of speech—and felt curious about her. But once I grew accustomed to those superficial aspects and ceased to find novelty in them—somewhere midway through this process—I realized Kakuko was a woman of ordinary, commonsensical disposition, like a respectable townhouse mistress with a family. In her various seemingly eccentric words and actions performed before others, the discernment with which she calculated every move became glaringly apparent. This woman had—whether knowingly or not—ended up riding along with Mr. Ōkawa’s penchant for the grotesque, her surface having been forged into something bizarre until she became nothing more than a spectacle in the literary world. Kakuko should find herself a good husband soon and become a proper wife. And while my curiosity was disappointed, my essence as a woman was secretly saying this to Kakuko with goodwill. Yet as days passed, I came to observe Kakuko spitefully nitpicking with sarcasm and backbiting—over trifling matters like petty competitiveness in casual remarks or trivial changes in other women’s attire—just like any ordinary woman would. In the end, I had completely lost interest in this person called Kakuko. But regarding Kakuko’s physical charm hidden beneath her kimono, I had not yet harbored any particular distrust...

Kakuko, now clad in nothing but a swimsuit, raised her voice in that characteristic bluster and plunged into the sea. She had boasted of being extremely skilled at swimming, but this too proved an utterly ordinary way of swimming. Even so, she swam quite competently a short distance out from shore alongside Mr. Asakawa. I watched the two recede into the distance and went to my husband’s side. “They say someone died of heart failure in this sea about half a month ago.” My husband understood my true intent in saying this. From heavy drinking in his youth, he had weakened his heart. Swimming was something he himself had long since forbidden. Though there was no particular reason to swim today, both Kakuko and Mr. Asakawa had been showing signs since earlier of wanting to make my husband take the lead in entering the water. Despite this, my husband remained near the shore with me, merely riding the waves a little. “Hey-o!” Kakuko waved from between the considerable swells. A short distance away, Mr. Asakawa called out, “Won’t you join us for a swim, Mr. Sakamoto?” “No good! You must swim, Mr. Sakamoto,” Kakuko insisted. She wore the look of someone displeased that Sakamoto—who should have naturally followed them into the water—remained ashore. My husband waved his hand. “I can’t manage it.” “Let’s swim,” urged Mr. Asakawa. “Come on out to open water.” “Do join us!” “Come on already!” The two pressed him with mounting fervor. Still my husband kept laughing without moving from the shore. Having exhausted their efforts, Kakuko and Mr. Asakawa abandoned their entreaties. After swimming just a brief circuit about the area, they promptly returned to shore.

“Won’t you swim at all, Mr. Sakamoto?” When the two still pressed so insistently, my husband answered with slight irritation: “Ah, I’d rather not today.” Mr. Asakawa spoke with thorough disappointment, “What a waste—after I went through the trouble of inviting you.” Kakuko now showed complete displeasure on her face, turning sideways with a “Hmph” before striding briskly toward the changing rooms. “Why don’t you all swim leisurely without minding me?” my husband said, whereupon Mr. Asakawa replied, “It’s grown tedious—let’s return already,” and he too hurried off toward the changing rooms. The cousin had been nonchalantly alone, idly swirling waves here and there, but startled by the group’s abrupt departure preparations, she clambered out from the water. A carriage had been kept waiting. There was also a train running from Hase to H Lodge. Ordinarily, everyone took the train. Yet they’d kept this carriage waiting through until their return. I had finally intuited that today’s beach excursion had been plotted under some scheme. Just then, my husband met Director K of Company A near the changing rooms and accompanied him to visit Mr. T at Mr. K’s villa, so I boarded the unwilling carriage with my cousin and departed alongside Kakuko and Mr. Asakawa. Sure enough, once the carriage had moved about a block, Kakuko twisted her mouth, angled her face toward me, and declared in a tone most forcefully directed my way: “Hmph! So that’s Shinden-ryū’s certified mastery?” “Don’t harp on it.” “But we were utterly duped in the end!”

I understood. Yesterday afternoon when swimming was discussed in Mr. Asakawa’s room, my view and Kakuko’s had briefly diverged over some point. Kakuko, who always had to arrogantly occupy the most prominent seat in any gathering, wore an expression of displeasure. In the subsequent conversation’s flow, I mentioned that my husband had received his full mastery license in Shinden-ryū from the Sumida River Kappa Gang during his youth. But why did they need to go so far as hiring a carriage just to test this? Even had he not swum today, my husband’s licensed mastery remained an absolute fact—how shallow these people were. Let them think whatever they wished. And I clenched my teeth, held my breath, and endured.

Kakuko had said her piece, but perhaps to dispel the vexation of her carefully laid plans coming to naught, she now brazenly continued humming. Mr. Asakawa remained as silent as I, though evidently turning something over in his mind, when suddenly he grasped the sleeve of my silk gauze summer kimono and declared: “This pattern would suit Madame X.” (Madame X was X夫人; he seemed unaware of the rumors circulating about himself and her.) As the topic had shifted, my earlier unpleasant feelings eased slightly, and I said, “For that person, a solid color in this shade (red bean) alone would be best, don’t you think?” Then, a sneer visibly welled up on Mr. Asakawa’s face. “Is that really your argument—you’re not jealous of that woman’s wardrobe keeper, are you?” That final remark (these are not words that comrades with ordinary features would exchange face-to-face. Is Mr. Asakawa mad? I thought in that fleeting moment—startled both me and my cousin, drawing our eyes to his face. Yet, unexpectedly, on Mr. Asakawa’s face at this very moment, we recognized an expression of astonishment and disarray at the words that had come from his own mouth—even greater than our own surprise.

Even after returning to our room at H Lodge, I remained as silent as if turned to stone, unable to bring myself to speak even to my cousin. My husband returned shortly afterward and casually remarked, “Mr. Asakawa brought a rattan chair to that spot—the alley bordering our room and his—and was sitting there.” This prompted my cousin to suddenly grow animated as she recounted the situation in the returning carriage to my husband: “That man must have been eavesdropping on us arguing angrily in our room after he said such an awful thing himself.” “He’s someone who often eavesdrops, you know.” “If we’re speaking of jealousy—he’s the one! Remember when Elder Sister praised Mr. Kuno and Mr. Kikui in front of Mr. Asakawa? He made such an unpleasant face and went on at length about their faults. He’s the jealous one, I tell you.” I too had realized this. But perhaps because my cousin had spoken so briskly and my mood had somewhat cleared, a faint understanding of Mr. Asakawa welled up strangely from the depths of my heart. “Yet for all that, he’s quite considerate of his friends.” Then my husband spoke in his usual slow tone. “That’s right. That’s just his nature.” “He usually puts on a calm front, but occasionally his peripheral nerves twist him askew.” “It’s not that he has any ill intent toward you either, but…”

“That’s right,” said my cousin. “That man gets along so well with Elder Sister and is such good friends with her, but when someone like Kakuko gets her claws into him, he suddenly gets carried away.”

I was well aware of it all, yet now of all times, these tears kept flowing uncontrollably. "In any case, you just can't get a handle on his nerves." "It seems he can't quite bring himself to remain indifferent to someone of your sort." "For someone with that disposition... when he gets flustered, he ends up saying and doing all sorts of things, you see."

At this moment, the loud voice of Kakuko—who had earlier gotten off the carriage midway to go to her own lodging—could be heard again having come to Mr. Asakawa’s room. My husband silenced our cousin’s slight change in complexion with a look. And then, after lighting a cigarette, he said: “What do you say? Once we head back to Tokyo—and then once September comes and everyone’s gone back—we can just come again.”

Yōko had not met Mr. Asakawa Sōnosuke for nearly five years—from late August of Taishō 12, when this diary concluded, until spring of Shōwa 2.

In the early spring of Shōwa 2, Yōko—in a somewhat convalescent mood after illness—found herself wanting to see Atami’s plum grove and boarded a train from Shinbashi Station with her husband.

Then from the seat directly opposite, Mr. Asakawa Sōnosuke suddenly stood up and called out nostalgically, “Ah!” What a transformation! The Mr. Asakawa preserved in Yōko’s memory from their Kamakura days—still handsome despite a shadowy decay about him—now bore a grotesque visage: his forehead elongated and rounded by receding hairline, cheeks creased like an old woman’s and frozen rigid. Yet his clothing remained immaculate as ever, the jacket stretched taut across his shoulders like kite paper over bamboo struts—a spectacle drawing stares from carriage passengers. Yōko had heard constant rumors of Mr. Asakawa’s frail health, but now felt profound shock at how illness had ravaged him so completely. The sickness—apparently lingering since his China travels—seemed to have clung stubbornly to him. Yet gazing intently, she discerned within this monstrous form the clear vestige of the Mr. Asakawa she once knew. How many days since their Kamakura parting had Yōko spent yearning for that phantom? The conflicts with Mr. Asakawa recorded in her diary, his very sickness and eccentricities that now made her nostalgic—what bitter irony! Yet when one journeys to some scenic marvel, though the path’s hardships breed only sorrow at the time, with passing days that very grief becomes a shadow deepening memory’s splendor. This might stand as testament to Yōko’s recollections of her true contact with that eminent literary figure, Mr. Asakawa Sōnosuke, during their shared season.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for so very long.” Five years had made Yōko into a woman who could speak frankly and clearly.

“Me too.”

Mr. Asakawa’s voice had transformed into such an earnest tone—what manner of wound in his heart could it have seeped from? “During our Kamakura days, I had often thought how much better it would have been had I spent time with you more sincerely.” “Me too.” “Let’s discuss matters thoroughly and meet again soon, shall we?” “Please do. When you return from your travels, kindly inform me when I might visit your home. By all means.”

Then Yōko’s husband Sakamoto and Mr. Asakawa conversed with such apparent nostalgia. Amidst their conversation, the hearty laughter that Mr. Asakawa occasionally erupted—unchanged from days of old yet emerging from his now grotesquely transformed visage—filled Yōko with a kind of spectral poignancy.

When the train reached ○○ Station—Mr. Asakawa’s convalescent destination—he rose from his seat with someone. Yōko was so wholly absorbed in him that she immediately forgot this companion’s existence. As he prepared to disembark, Mr. Asakawa said, “The second critique you wrote about me in XX Magazine was entirely correct. I’m grateful.” This referred to an essay Yōko had been forced to compose for XX Magazine three or four years after Kamakura, which stated: “While Mr. Asakawa’s essence reveals a man of rare childlike purity, his literary style alone has cultivated the dignified bearing of a refined gentleman—the resulting gap and contradictions between these aspects breed misunderstanding in those who engage with him.” It originated from when Yōko had begun feeling confident in her deepened understanding of the man.

Yōko saw Mr. Asakawa’s figure—now standing in the clear early spring light after disembarking from the train—with even greater sorrow. She averted her eyes involuntarily. From the hairline that had receded halfway up his head, wispy strands of long hair swayed weakly upward, momentarily floating in the air to the rhythm of his geta-shod footsteps before limply brushing against the balding expanse covering nearly half his forehead. “Ah, Ob…!”

The one who had let out that sudden cry was a child who had seen Mr. Asakawa through the opposite train window. Yōko somberly caught her breath. "He’s been completely done in." Yōko’s husband also fell silent after muttering something as if to himself.

That evening, Yōko stood before the wire netting enclosing the crane at Atami’s plum grove. Last year, within the wire netting richly stretched along this mountain stream, a pair had stood side by side in magnificent splendor. Now only a solitary crane remained—its faded red crown stirring in the pale cold evening breeze that swept through plum blossoms—gazing mournfully upward at the azure-darkened mountains looming before it. As I observed the solitary crane’s forlorn state, thoughts of Mr. Asakawa—with whom I had parted ways on the train earlier—kept coming to mind. “Will this crane too tread the shore of an ailing, ephemeral fate?” Yōko was drawn into such sentiment and grew desolate.

In July of that year, Mr. Asakawa committed suicide. Yōko was shocked along with the rest of the world. The public, in response to Mr. Asakawa’s suicide, fitted each possible reason—illness, domestic strife, artistic anguish, romantic despair, or his more nebulous yet penetrating philosophy of life—as separate causes. Yōko too had... But to Yōko, perhaps all of them seemed like possible causes of Mr. Asakawa’s suicide. Even as the public’s shock over Mr. Asakawa’s suicide receded with time, Yōko’s preoccupation with his death only deepened the more years passed. Especially when spring arrived with white plum blossoms—the season of her final meeting with Mr. Asakawa—and with each passing year, her yearning to reminisce about Kamakura in July and August only intensified.

According to an article contributed by painter K to T magazine, Mr. Asakawa had even written in his late diaries of Yōko as being more nostalgically cherished and intelligent than any other woman he knew. The reason this intensifies Yōko’s anguish is this: she had failed to fulfill their agreed meeting aboard the train to Atami—for even now, eight or nine years after his death, she laments with profound regret that had she met him as promised, had she been able to cast upon him some measure of her brighter, more expansive, and healthier mental state compared to their Kamakura days—she whom he had at least chosen, trusted, and nostalgically cherished among the women he knew—then perhaps she might have contributed in some small way to steering his fate during his lifetime, or perhaps some alteration—however slight—in the timing or direction of his life and death might not have been beyond hope.

To those who would read this as merely the idle sentiments of a woman called Yōko—pray do not too readily dismiss it.