Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Shanghai

April 1

In the morning, the sea that had been green gradually took on a yellowish tint until finally it turned completely yellow.
The ship's progress had slowed.
At the stern, they were ceaselessly casting the sounding machine to gauge the ship's draft.
The ship finally stopped.
The muddy water churned by the propeller formed an enormous vortex that was carried away by the tide.
On the starboard side, low-lying gray land could be seen in the distance.

The number of seagulls that had tenaciously followed the ship from Japan had gradually dwindled, and by this morning there were only about two or three left; yet before we knew it, their numbers had increased again.
These were likely Shina seagulls.

April 2

The ship was anchored at Wusong.
Both banks were flat as far as the eye could see, with nothing resembling a mountain anywhere in sight.

Chinese beggars came in small boats and extended long poles with nets attached toward the deck.
The small boats' reed roofs, woven from bamboo into domed shapes, were blackened with soot.
Some had set up large rice-cooking cauldrons at the stern and were packing freshly steamed rice into wooden containers.
The pure white color of that rice strangely caught my eye.
And for some reason, it evoked in me a feeling both sorrowful and lonesome.

We boarded a tender and went up the river.
Countless junks painted in vermilion and green passed by.
Along both banks of the river, willows were budding here and there, and in the fields, the green of wheat stood beautiful.
Mr. Penk said, “It somewhat resembles the Elbe riverside…”

Led by the inn’s errand boy, I took the tram to visit the Xujiahui Observatory.
When I went out to the suburbs, the green of wheat fields mingled with rapeseed flowers in full bloom, and broad beans were flowering.
In the yard of a peasant house, a child in a blue outfit with a shaved head and dangling pigtail was playing, leading a sheep by a rope.
Along the roadside here and there were earthen mounds, and beside them stood low, house-shaped structures made of bricks stacked about three feet high into rectangular forms.
The errand boy said it was a graveyard.

Since the observatory told me to come at two o'clock, I decided to walk around the neighborhood until then. On the other side stood a Jesuit temple. When I entered the monastery corridor, I saw a man with most of his head shaved save for a fistful of hair standing upright on the crown—his face reminiscent of Guan Yu—pacing back and forth with arms crossed in steady rhythm. Silently wearing an angry expression, he walked straight ahead without glancing sideways, then turned and came back again. ……The fact that I had come to a foreign country sank deeply into my gut.

The temple bell resounded with a cheerful melody. Peering through the chapel window, I saw many Chinese women—young and old—all kneeling, swaying their bodies to keep time as they chanted something. By the roadside, many unkempt Chinese people were finely crushing granite and sifting it through screens. A light rain began to fall. A whitewashed arched bridge spanned the willow-lined embankment, beneath which a small boat straight out of a literati painting lay moored. Somehow, I found myself in a calm, pleasant state of mind.…

In the evening, I went to see a play on Fuzhou Road.
A great many actors wearing dazzlingly gorgeous costumes performed intense stage combat and sang in high-pitched, sorrowful voices.
The clamor of the accompanying instruments was so loud it made one's ears ache.
They brought tea in a lidded bowl.
They brought a steamed towel moistened with hot water......I grew slightly sentimental.

On the way back, I walked along a road called Simalu.
Houses here and there displayed oil painting frames in their shops, with rows of beautifully made-up young girls inside.
They say they're all brothels.
A geisha passed by, riding in a palanquin and holding a beautiful open fan to her chest.
The long pole supporting the palanquin was slowly bending.
The moving picture signboard read "Electric Light Spectacle."

April 3

I took the tram to Goyen. The garden, damp from the rain, lay quiet with few visitors. Crow nests clung here and there to the branches of standing trees. From somewhere behind came a rumbling sound like something rolling across wooden planks. When I went to investigate, four Indians—likely playing ninepins—were rolling wooden balls to knock down what resembled standing sticks. They maintained silence with darkly somber faces. When the sticks fell, a clattering sound echoed from the hut through the tranquil garden. I stepped outside while recalling Rip Van Winkle's tale. A crow perched on a treetop tilted its head and watched silently this way......The rumbling and clattering sounds resonated as if summoned from memory.

(June 1920 [Taisho 9], Shibugaki)

2. Hong Kong and Kowloon

We departed Woosung shortly after eight in the evening.
The military band of the Qingdao Garrison who had boarded there was performing music on the stern deck.
On the upper boat deck, a boy and a female crew member were dancing.
Under the moonlight of what might have been the thirteenth night, they moved silently, soundlessly, as if floating weightlessly through the air.

April 4

It being Sunday, the band played hymns in the early morning.
It felt somehow pleasant.
At ten o'clock, there is a Gottesdienst in the dining hall.
Even when it comes to the same matters, Western things done by Westerners still feel natural and not at all odd.

April 5

When I went out to the morning deck and looked, two islands were visible to starboard. I asked an adorable child crew member cleaning the window panes, but he didn't know the islands' names either—they were probably off Fuzhou, he said. Lying on my back on the deck bed listening to the music, even the thick black smoke endlessly billowing from the smokestack and the waves along the ship's side seemed to move in rhythm with the melody. When I listen to Western music, something always seems to be steadily progressing in one direction.

A middle-aged nurse in black clothes with a ruddy complexion walked along, leading a child who had just begun to walk.
Behind them followed a stern-faced man with a red beard, dangling a toy bear from one hand as he trudged along slowly.
A German officer walked arm-in-arm with a young coquette back and forth in front of us.
As she passed by, the woman glared at us out of the corner of her eye and muttered something under her breath, which seemed to be saying "Grob!"

April 6

It must have rained last night, for the deck was wet.
Jagged rocky peaks stood imposingly visible.
We were entering the strait between Hong Kong and Kowloon.
The mountains' fresh greenery held a vibrant beauty.
Along the slopes, buildings clustered irregularly in layered stacks.
Their strangely grimy patina coalesced into an indescribably beautiful composition.
This was not the beauty of picture postcards or ukiyo-e prints—it could only be that of oil paintings.…

In the botanical garden, hibiscus, begonias, dahlias, carnations, and azaleas were in full bloom.
The heat made sweat stream down my back beneath the white shirt—an unpleasant sensation.
When I looked at my hands, they had turned crimson red, my fingers feeling abruptly swollen.

The cable car conductor maintained silence regardless of what anyone said.
There seemed to be a rule against speaking.
As we ascended the steep incline, an odd sensation came over both my ears.
They said it was due to sudden drops in air pressure.
Swallowing saliva would remedy it.
When I disembarked at the Peak, a resonant boom echoed.
A cool breeze swept through, drying my perspiration.
At the summit observatory where I sought guidance, a sailor emerged with a telescope tucked under his arm—he showed me various instruments down to the noon cannon's charge; when I gave him one shilling, he shook my hand......

After dinner when I went out to the deck, lights were lit from base to summit across the pitch-black Hong Kong mountains, glittering like a jewel-studded crown. Each individual light resembling rubies or emeralds twinkled vividly in the depths of the dense southern night air. I felt as though I was seeing such a view for the first time in my life....As I bought a rattan bed from a Chinese vendor who had come selling them and chatted with Mr.T while cooling off, I noticed the bathroom boy leaving the ship and asked him to post my postcards. Watching someone row a suspicious-looking small boat toward the pier, I saw a Chinese woman in formal attire emerge. A ship's boy in white uniform walked back and forth across the pier. The ship's nurse wearing a white apron received port wine or something from Shenke and sipped it. That German officer's coquette too walked about today dressed in cool-looking clothes.

April 7

After breakfast, we went ashore to see Kowloon. ... There was a stone quarry along the coast. It seemed they used gunpowder to split out large masses of granite embedded within the weathered soft rock of the cliff. They were crushing the stone fragments into cubic pieces measuring roughly seven or eight bu (20-24 centimeters) and sorting them. It appeared they were laying these down for the road, as a steam roller could be seen in the distance. Even watching the irritatingly sizzling smoke billowing from its chimney made me feel hot and parched. Looking by the roadside, I saw sky-blue morning glories growing wild.……

I thought a vivid red speck was moving through the beautiful green grassland only to realize it was an Indian’s turban…… In the shade of the town’s roadside trees, a Chinese woman was letting a Western child play.
Next door, at a gateway where hibiscuses blazed in full bloom, an old man wearing nothing but a shirt was watering the plants.

Across from the observatory stood a barracks where Indian soldiers drilled.
In the shaded corner of the sports ground, a band practiced while Chinese and Indian onlookers stood listening with leisurely air.
Behind them, a Chinese rickshaw puller strained with his empty vehicle as he descended the slope.

I returned to the ship and saw off the Chinese passengers boarding second class, while a great crowd of men and women had come to the pier.
And they appeared characteristically Chinese in their display of lingering attachment.
Among them were young beautiful women.
And they artfully demonstrated various expressions through handkerchiefs and fans.
When we departed a little past noon, farewell boats vigorously set off firecrackers.

A canvas sun cover had been installed on the deck.
Though the temperature was high, the wind kept it from feeling too hot.
I changed into nothing but a white vest.
As I was writing my diary on the deck chair, a girl of thirteen or fourteen came peeking stealthily.
A dark-complexioned nanny in a vivid red jacket and navy hakama trousers with white stripes was letting two children play.
Her bare feet remained unshod.

The young fashionable Chinese wife who had boarded at Hong Kong was smoking a rolled cigarette.
Her husband was also smoking one.

(July 1920 [Taisho 9], Shibugaki)

3. Singapore

April 8

The morning was muggy from the start.
When I met Mr. Haas on the deck, he abruptly asked if I knew that Zojo-ji Temple in Shiba had burned down, saying it had been in yesterday’s Hong Kong newspaper.
I felt as though someone had unexpectedly come chasing after me from Japan, now quite far away, to deliver news.

A passenger’s pet bird had escaped its cage and was flying around the dining room, and they were making a commotion trying to catch it.
The bird must have had no idea that this was the very center of an endless ocean.

A multitude of flying fish leapt forth, trailing sprays of seawater across oil-like swells. When they dove back into the waves, fine ripples emerged from there, spreading slowly across the great swells.

When I was writing my diary yesterday, a child who had been peeking—when I asked where we were headed, they said "Spain"; when I asked if they were Spanish, they said yes.

Everyone changed into white clothes.

April 9

While discussing national anthems with Mr. Haas, he mentioned having translated "Kimigayo" and wrote it down in my diary; then, in a low, rusty voice but with the correct melody, he sang it for me to hear.

I heard that the Spanish girl from yesterday was named Concepción.
She called herself Concha.
She wore three medals with images of the Virgin Mary on her necklace.

Around noon, we passed off the coast of Saigon.

April 10

At the ten o'clock morning concert, Mr. Nishimura came over and sketched the band.
When the boy tried to fit the lemonade he had brought into the armrest hole of the berth, the hole proved too large, causing the glass to slip and shatter.
The nearby people all pretended not to notice.
I found myself feeling oddly embarrassed by it all.

By afternoon, the sea turned a pure cobalt blue.

April 11

Today was Easter.
At the breakfast table appeared boiled eggs dyed crimson and green accompanied by wax-crafted rabbits.
The American grandmother bit into one without realizing it was wax and made a strange face.
When I asked Mr. Haas about it, he explained this was an ancient German custom originally meant as offerings to a certain goddess.
These days they hide colored eggs in grass for children to find, teaching that rabbits brought and left them there.

By the time breakfast ended, we had already drawn near Singapore when a fierce squall struck.
The sea showed dark green hues, while near land it exhibited a beautiful light green shade.
A magnificent rainbow stood arching, beneath which the sea surface shone intensely yellow.
Above an island to starboard hung what resembled a massive tornado cloud.
A mirage also became visible.
Everything glowed with the fierce, fierce radiance of tropical lands.

The ship came alongside the pier at Tanjong Pagar.

The cliff visible on the starboard side was a bright red ocher color, standing out vividly beautiful against the intense green trees.

Because Mr. Nishimura offered to guide us, we went out together.
Due to the holiday, most shops were closed and the post office was also closed.
At the base of the suspension bridge, we found a tobacco shop and bought postcards and stamps.
Finding it odd that twenty three-sen stamps were being sold for seventy-five sen, I asked about it and was told it was "commission."

Using the same type of road roller seen in Kowloon, they were leveling granite debris.
In front of it, an Indian man wearing a red loincloth was plodding along, holding a red flag.

We walked along the Esplanade.
I was impressed by how the jet-black people walking with brightly colored cloth wrapped around their heads and waists harmonized so well with the natural environment here.

When we passed in front of a jewelry store, they insistently urged us to go in and look.
They said it was fine just to look and urged us to come in.
They praised your folding bat-wing umbrella and asked you to sell it.
If you didn’t want to sell it, how about exchanging it for jewels?
When they saw Mr. T’s umbrella and said “This no good,” another person corrected, “This good, but that the best.”

We went by rickshaw through what was called the Japanese quarter.
On a veranda overlooking the road appeared a dark-skinned woman wearing something resembling a sarong-patterned nightgown—her smile startlingly vivid—and before I could fully register this vision, we had already passed by.

We had lunch at Hotel Duryurop.
We ate rice curry with an assortment of condiments, drank ice-chilled orangeade, and as we listened to the faint hum of electric fans while surveying the foreign guests—all men and women in white clothes—our minds grew hazy, feeling like a midsummer afternoon nap dream.

We entered the botanical garden.
The squirrel that had been playing on the lawn scampered up a nearby tree as we approached.
Among the trees we spotted beautiful birds.
There were crimson flowers in full bloom resembling silk tree blossoms, towering hibiscus trees, and a variety of palm spreading like open fans.
A tall Indian policeman pointed at roadside tree fruits and said, “Monkeys eat them.”
There were also durian trees said to carry the stench of human excrement.
The policeman put his hand to his nose, pretended to sniff, then waved dismissively saying “No good.” Next he mimed eating and added, “To eat good.”
When I asked if there were any animals, he replied, “Tiger and long-tailed monkey—finished.”
I thought this likely meant they had died.

The area around the waterworks reservoir offered a fine view.
The land visible through the hazy heat in the distance was said to be Johor.
On a bench in the shade of a tree with large spreading branches, three sinister-looking mixed-race Malays were whispering furtively about something.

We went to the market.
Amidst onions and potatoes were coconuts and pomelos, along with game meat and dried fish.
A greengrocer was playing the violin.
The apprentice of a water seller peddling sweet juice drinks was also beating an empty tin can and dancing to call out to customers.

When I returned to the ship, I still felt as if I had come home.
For dinner, Easter confectionery topped with a lamb was served.

At night, it was noisy with cargo loading.

April 12th

Sweat streamed from morning.
There were various vendors at the pier.
Rattan canes, saris, seashells, shell crafts, chrysanthemum-shaped coral formations, nautilus shells, and such.

As departure drew near, the deck became crowded with passengers and well-wishers.
Mr. Haas said there were forty-two children among the second-class passengers who had boarded that morning.
"When we boarded in Kobe, there were only nine in total."

Malays came swarming around our ship in canoe-like vessels, all shouting at once.
When passengers threw coins, they scrambled to dive down and pick them up.
They seemed to be shouting things like “I say! Herr Meister! Far away, far away! One dollar, all dive!”
I simply couldn’t bring myself to throw any coins.

As the ship departed, a group of well-wishers standing on the pier sang "Auld Lang Syne." Both on the ship and below, crowds of people dressed in snow-white clothes waved pure white handkerchiefs at each other.

(August 1920 [Taisho 9], Shibugaki)

4. Penang and Colombo

April 13th

… Having hired a carriage to go to the botanical garden, we stopped to look inside a temple-like place along the way. Before the altar stood an iron peacock. Worshippers apparently split coconut shells on the knob-like protrusion on its back and applied the white powder to their foreheads. Even when we asked about the meaning behind this practice, we couldn’t fully grasp it. The back of the jet-black iron bird shone as if drenched in oil. On the second floor of the corridor facing the altar, there was a large papier-mâché doll of bizarre form, and native children put it on and danced to show us. When I asked the old native man squatting in the hall’s corner, “What is the name of the god enshrined here?” he glared up at my face and answered with a single word—“Supromaniin”—or so it seemed. However, whether this was an answer to my question or he had said something entirely different remained unclear. Yet this peculiar term pronounced with rising intonation became etched deep within my ears. Even such trivial matters sufficed to heighten my sense of exoticism.

The splendid mansion of a Chinese merchant stood in stark contrast to the native thatched huts, hinting at unspoken disparities.

There were also areas where wild goats played among palm groves.
Bamboo fences were everywhere, reminding me of my homeland.
The road, unlike Singapore’s reddish-brown ones, consisted of pure white granite sand.

In the botanical garden stood large oak-like trees, giving it an overall resemblance to a Japanese landscape garden.

Returning to the ship at night, I sat on deck drinking lemonade while gazing at the pier, where an arc lamp emitted a peculiar flickering blue light accompanied by smoke.
The moment it abruptly went out, all external arc lamps simultaneously darkened, plunging everything into total blackness.
Moored in the ship’s shadow were three small boats loaded with fresh water, pumping it into the main vessel.
In one of these boats sat a minuscule cat—no larger than a mouse.
Upon the sea’s surface floated two or three jellyfish glowing crimson.

While we were talking with Mr. and Mrs. Haas, the nearby clock tower bell chimed an intriguing melody. “That’s modeled after the clock in London’s Houses of Parliament,” Mr. Haas remarked. All manner of associations connected to the pealing of Western temple bells came swarming chaotically through my mind.

When I mentioned to Mr. Haas that the Mikado Ice Cream served at yesterday’s dinner might possess qualities unsettling to Japanese sensibilities, he laughed and replied, “Nonsense—the Dokumetsu medicine advertisements strike German nerves far more disagreeably.”

April 14th

There was a woman leaning against a deck chair at night, playing a mandolin in hushed tones.
In the lower dining hall, there was a solo concert.

April 15th

A couple with children came to the chairs next to us.
When the mother went off somewhere, the child let out a wailing "Waa waa waa" cry.
The father tried singing lullaby-like songs and whistling, but it had no effect.

April 16th

A meeting of passengers was held in the smoking room.
It was a discussion about organizing athletic competitions and musical concerts for general entertainment.

**April 17th**

The laundry bag that had been lost yesterday was returned.
According to the cabin boy’s account, it had been in the possession of a Chinese laundry worker.

**April 18th**

When I washed my face and went out to the deck, we had arrived in Colombo.
Mr. T, Mr. Nishimura, and I hired a guide and set out by carriage to see the sights.
While buying mangosteens at the market, a crowd of children gathered around begging for coins and chased after the carriage, but in the end we gave them nothing.
We headed from the pier toward a Buddhist temple seven miles away.
Along the way, there were marshes with lush grasses where water buffalo lounged, and huts by the riverside where boats were being built—all of which made for interesting pictorial subjects.
We encountered native women dressed in fashionable Western clothing filing out of a Catholic church.

When we arrived at the temple, children came bringing lotus flowers and thrust them under our noses, urging us to buy them. An old man also offered sutras carved on palm leaves. The elderly native man who had guided us there staggered unsteadily while complaining of illness and fever, yet plucked leaves from a bodhi tree and handed one out to each of us. There were replicas of Buddha’s footprints said to be in Kanji and a Buddha’s tooth. In what appeared to be the main hall stood alabaster Buddha statues and a large nirvana statue carved from granite and coated in gold. Mr. T offered flowers and prayed before it.

On the return trip, our guide Harry proudly showed off letters of recommendation from various people and boasted. He commented that Mr. N’s English was excellent but Mr. T’s was no good. When asked his age, he said he was forty-five. "We maintain our ancestral religion through generations, yet among the natives there are those who, upon gaining a little money, immediately imitate the British and become Christian converts—that’s no good. All religions ultimately share the same essence—simply saying 'Do no evil, do good'—and such," he expounded by himself. When I was drinking ramune at the restaurant in front of Victoria Park, a native waiter fanned me from nearby with a large palm-leaf fan. When I treated the groom to a drink as well, he plucked one yellow flower each from the garden in front of the pavilion and gave them to us. Mr. N inserted his into his lapel’s buttonhole, so Mr. T and I followed suit. The groom smiled cheerfully.

(September 1920, Bitter Persimmons)

5. From the Arabian Sea to the Red Sea

April 20th

Around nine o'clock last night, I saw the lighthouse of Laccadive Island off the starboard side.
When I thought we likely wouldn't see land for four or five days until Aden now ahead of us, I felt not so much uneasy as rather calmly settled.
After breakfast on deck where I had been reading until drowsiness overtook me, I went down to my cabin intending to sleep only to hear someone singing soprano songs incessantly from the dining hall.
It appeared to be a troupe of Dutch entertainers.
The voice clung obstinately to my ears until sleep became impossible.
Thus when I sought rest again after lunch this time my slumber was broken by a tenor's singing.

A notice was posted announcing that a ball would be held on the deck starting at nine in the evening.
The captain’s name signed upon it caught the eye with an imposing, ceremonious air.
After dinner, preparations gradually began.
They wrapped ventilation pipes and winching equipment in the national flags of various countries, and strung flags along the handrails as well.
They hung red, blue, green, and other colored bulbs beneath the canvas ceiling to create an illumination.
From the first-class cabins emerged figures in tailcoats arriving one after another.
Women dressed in beautiful sheer silk also took their seats on the benches.
A powder resembling wax was scattered across the deck.
The band came out and took up position on the hatch.
When the time came, they began dancing in scattered groups.
As there was a slight wind, some women had their scarves wrapped around their cheeks.
I found myself watching in wonder as four legs formed pairs that tangled together in various configurations.
The Englishman C who had boarded in Yokohama was dancing with the youngest and most beautiful of the Dutch actresses.
There was something comical about how awkwardly yet earnestly they danced, but this sight gave me a more pleasant feeling than the many stylish dandies who danced with practiced skill.
This was my first time seeing such dancing, and indeed it proved rich with sensual implications.
I wondered what would remain if all this were stripped away.

On the opposite deck, there was also a group engaged in conversation and laughter, paying no heed to the dancing.

April 22nd

At nine in the evening, they held a concert on the deck.
It was said they were collecting fifty pence per person to give to widows and orphans of Lloyd’s company sailors.

When Mr. Bramfield, a tall, portly, and rather unrefined Englishman of about fifty, attempted a solo, it became apparent that everyone knew the song, and the audience all began singing along, thoroughly overwhelming what should have been his solo performance.
It was both amusing and pitiable.
I somehow felt that a certain British characteristic itself had become an object of ridicule amidst the German crowd.
And despite the fact that I myself did not particularly care for that characteristic, I somehow found myself feeling displeased by the audience’s crude jests at this moment.
Even so, it was still undeniably amusing.
I thought the name Bramfield somehow harmonized with both this person and this minor incident.

Max, the brother of my cabin steward, was urged by everyone and reluctantly took the stage.
When he began to sing in his beautiful tenor voice, this once-modest man transformed into someone entirely different—eyes blazing with intensity, shoulders squared—as he delivered a spirited piece.
The audience showered him with enthusiastic applause and called him back to the stage several times.

(When I entered a large café in Hamburg a little over a year later, I found Max playing the violin in the orchestra there. I wanted to call out to him, but feeling self-conscious in front of the many customers, I ended up parting ways without doing so. His face somehow seemed a little haggard.)

April 23rd

When I went out after breakfast, I saw land glowing white off the port side.
At first glance it appeared snow-covered, though of course it was not snow—likely white sand or soil.
It was an extraordinary sight.
Somehow I felt we were glimpsing a corner of a world separate from our own.
I wanted to call it something like "the ghost of land."
I could think of no better adjective than "weird."
...Someone suggested it must be Socotra Island.

At 9 a.m., we arrived at Aden.
Both this peninsula and the small island across from it were rocky mountains that towered like Gothic architecture.
Not a single blade of green grass could be seen.
The somewhat flatter inland area was blanketed in what appeared to be a heat-hazed mist, beyond which lay a desert that seemed to undulate like waves.
It was likely from this ominous mist that various strange legends had arisen.

Natives came to sell various goods.
Ostrich eggs and feathers, feather fans, straw-woven baskets, shell and coral necklaces, serow horns, shark jawbones—all commanded rather high prices.

A rather large shark was swimming around the ship.
Two small fish swam beneath its belly like attendants.
Someone explained that those were pilot fish.
A Dutchman with a rough-and-ready demeanor borrowed a large fishing hook from Schenke, skewered a piece of meat onto it, tied it to a hemp rope as thick as a thumb, fastened a lifebuoy as a float, and cast it overboard from the ship's side.
The shark swam leisurely past, appearing completely unaware even when drawing quite near.

The man who had been watching beside me mentioned that he had encountered a whale spouting early this morning.
The shark showed no signs of being caught anytime soon.

Two natives danced on the deck, clapping their hands and stomping their feet.
Among the natives, there was one who wore two large soap-shaped pieces of amber threaded through a scrap of cloth around his neck.
A native policeman, wearing a red cap and sandals and holding a whip, was restraining the merchants trying to push their way up to the deck.

We departed at one o'clock.
Last night, the electric fan stopped and it was too hot to sleep, so I slept until around five-thirty.
At 9 PM, we passed through the Strait of Babelmandeb.
A cool wind, unexpected for the tropics, blew through, leaving the cabin pleasantly cool.

April 25th

We sighted an island called Twelve Apostles off starboard.
As we passed beyond it, another island emerged resembling an incense burner lid though its name eluded us.

They were saying that the British first-class passenger who had boarded from Colombo had jumped overboard that morning.
It was said he had lost his wife and three children and was returning alone to his homeland.

April 26th

In the afternoon, Mr. T took out the sencha set he had specially prepared and packed in his hand luggage, washing and wiping it.
He then invited Mr. and Mrs. Haas, the two American elderly ladies who had been with us since Kobe, and first-class passenger Mr. N to the dining hall and served tea.
The sweets were wafers and biscuits.

(October 1920 [Taisho 9], Bitter Persimmon)

VI. From the Red Sea to the Canal

April 27th

In the morning, we saw twin islands off the starboard side. One had a lighthouse. Shaped like an overturned ceremonial tray, its entire mass stood yellow. According to the map they appeared to be called the Brother Islands, though I couldn't discern which was the elder.

Since departing Aden, not a single cloud had marred the sky, yet the air retained an odd murkiness. They said that in Mr. Haas's cabin on the aft deck, a black hat left for a day would gather white dust. It seemed to be extremely fine sand drifting from Africa's interior.

In the afternoon, the demobilized soldiers on board held athletic competitions.
Tug-of-war and mock cockfighting—the latter involved two men straddling a yardarm facing each other, battering one another with pillows until one was knocked off.
Then there was something called Geld Suchen im Mehl, where they would plunge their faces into a washbasin filled with flour and search for a hidden silver coin inside using only their mouths to retrieve it.
When they finally found it and raised their faces—now completely white—and spat out the flour that had filled their mouths, it was indeed a remarkable spectacle.
Aepfel Suchen im Wasser referred to the feat of seizing apples floating in a water bucket with one’s mouth, while Wurst Schnappen was a game where participants leaped up repeatedly to bite at a sausage suspended overhead.
The officers barking out commands one after another did much to heighten the sense of absurdity.

When I went to the bow’s tip and looked down at the sea, clusters of peach-pink jellyfish floated in the deep indigo water. In the deeper depths, shadows of what might have been large fish or shrimp—or perhaps some strangely shaped creatures—would occasionally appear, only to vanish before I could discern what they were.

To starboard, the barren mountain range visible must be Sinai; to port, we passed countless islands of varied forms. By evening, I could see Africa’s mountain ranges to the left. Their contours rose as sharply as saw teeth—terrifying yet beautiful. The twilight sky shifted from orange to green while the peaks blended from purple to vermilion, creating a sublime beauty that seemed otherworldly. Even when I strained to think of this Red Sea as a continental rift, nature’s grandeur before me neither intensified nor diminished. Yet gazing at those ranges with this thought, I felt I could dimly grasp what one might call “the Earth’s vastness.”

April 28th

We arrived at Suez at six o'clock in the morning.
On one side of the port, a cliff where reddish-hued rock layers were clearly visible rose steeply.
A launch flying the Turkish flag approached, and the quarantine began.

The items the natives came to sell were picture postcards, necklaces, Egyptian-patterned textiles, albums with pressed Jerusalem flowers, and olive wood paper knives.
One of the merchants boarded all the way to Port Said and set up shop on the deck.

At ten o'clock we departed and proceeded slowly.
Along the canal bank, a crowd of dark-skinned children ran parallel to the ship, clamoring all at once.
On board, since no one acknowledged them, their numbers dwindled one by one until finally the last few resorted to comical antics.
They trudged wearily back along the scorching embankment.
Both banks—particularly the Arabian side—stretched desert-bound to the horizon, occasional hollows revealing bone-white patches like dried salt.
To the African side rose distant jagged cliffs whose edges seemed to float upward through mirages.
On open water an unexpectedly cool wind blew, but reentering the canal brought back the heat.
Only at scattered stations did trees grow green; in their shade grazed cows and donkeys whose features seemed ill-suited to the tropics.
Tents dotted the shore with two or three camels; in African-style villages wild goats bounded.
Reed-like plants fringed the water's edge.
Wind-carved sand waves rippled across desert and shore alike, while grass-cloaked mounds stood firm against erosion.

When I went up alone to the boat deck at night, the first-quarter moon hung crimson at the zenith, and the desert vista appeared dreamlike.
The bridge's searchlight cast a silver shaft into the tenuous, soundless haze as the ship glided forward with profound stillness.
The North Star that had hovered low just days prior had now climbed imperceptibly high, demanding an upward gaze.

A Jerusalem-bound group of about ten people, wearing matching Turkish hats bought in Suez, gathered around a table on the deck near Schenke, singing and dancing as they drank beer—perhaps a pre-celebration before landing tomorrow.

(November 1920 [Taisho 9], Bitter Persimmon)

VII. From Port Said to Italy

April 29th

I went to bed late last night, but the sweltering heat made sound sleep impossible.
When I thought I saw endless shallow marshes teeming with flamingos... it had been a dream.
When I checked the clock, it was four o'clock, yet everything around me clamored with noise.
When I stepped out to the deck, Port Said already lay before us.
The predawn city was bathed in a parched mist that promised heat.
The sparse trees among the crude houses stood mostly blighted.

The two elderly American ladies who had been traveling together since Kobe, along with Concha’s family, finally disembarked here and were parting ways—some to Jerusalem, others to Egypt—each going their separate paths.
One of the elderly ladies clasped my hand warmly and said, “Let’s meet again in Japan someday.”

A voice called out in Japanese: “Good morning! Good day!”
When I looked over, it was a young stylish Turkish tobacco vendor.
He mentioned having been in Yokohama and offered what seemed like his usual compliments.
In the end, I ended up buying two boxes of cigarettes.

Music drifted across the water’s surface. When I peered over the ship’s railing, I saw a sizable boat below carrying several men and women engaged in what resembled a serenade. At its center sat a handsome man—perhaps Turkish or Armenian—rhythmically plying an oar. Before him leaned a middle-aged man in a straw hat and a woman clad in white calico dotted with red specks, their bodies inclined toward each other as they plucked at a guitar’s strings. At the stern, a youth sat hunched over his violin, playing with fierce concentration. In front of him, a boy of fourteen or fifteen in sailor garb glanced about distractedly while drawing his own bow across the strings. Separated from this group near the bow crouched a native child in blue garments, curled up like an unrelated bystander.

Amidst this crowd stood a lone girl who rose to her feet. Holding a white-lined umbrella upside down high above her, she tried catching silver and copper coins tossed from the parent ship's railing. She wore a greenish Scotch jacket with curly blond hair carelessly tied by a pink ribbon. Her round, plump fair face could not be called beautiful. Around her slightly freckled cheeks lingered patchy traces of face powder. Summoning her utmost charm, she made coquettish gestures while vigorously thrusting the umbrella about. Some coins thrown from above bounced off the fabric and fell into the sea. Stumbling occasionally, she clutched at the ship's rail or people's shoulders. From shoulders to chest, her body heaved in great waves as though breathless. The musicians wore dark strained expressions, each seemingly absorbed in private thoughts or intoxicated by their music's sorrow. Melodies evoking ruined homelands, nomadic lives, and tropical summer loves—melancholy yet sensuous—flowed across yellow-tinged turbid waves. Orange peels and empty beer bottles floated and sank in time with the music... Feeling vague nostalgia, I rose and crossed to the opposite rail where a ship laden with jet-black people and jet-black coal passed along the far shore.

At seven o'clock we departed.
We sailed out into the Mediterranean with the statue of Lesseps to our left.
Lesseps appeared to extend his right hand toward the canal as if saying "Come in."
The canal company's domed tower glowed in the morning sun.

The Mediterranean held not a single cloud.

I thought that at last, my ties with Asia had been severed...... In the afternoon, I went to the ship’s barber.
“Your German is quite good,” came the remark, and in the end, I found myself purchasing another bottle of drops.

April 30th

From early morning, Crete Island was visible off the starboard side. On the peaks of this landmass's mountain range—too vast to be called an island—something like snow could be seen. Mr. Haas had been saying, "Surely that can't be snow," but finally conceded with "Es ist doch Schnee" (It really is snow). The deck felt chilly. Though the thermometer didn't show it was that cold, my skin had grown accustomed to prolonged heat.

A notice announced a children's celebration—Kinderfest—would commence at 3:15 PM.

Mr. Haas read the notice and pointed out its awkward phrasing to me.
When the appointed time arrived, numerous children gathered on the deck.
The tables bore decorations of Japanese artificial flowers, with plates arrayed holding crackers and paper flags.
There were also beautiful tortes and confections that pleased the eye merely to behold.
The children donned paper hats adorned with black ribbons bearing N.L.D.'s golden letters, each clutching their nation's flag; after processing around the deck led by the band, they settled at the tables.
The adults observed them with something closer to envy than mere interest.
...I went into the cabin with Mr. T, had him produce the suitcase, and began selecting items suitable for presenting to Mr. Haas.

May 1st

By afternoon, Italy’s mountains came into view.
I thought we had finally arrived in Europe.
By dinnertime, we reached the entrance to the Strait of Messina.
To the left, Etna stood visible.
Some claimed it closely resembled Mount Fuji, but my own impression differed entirely.
On the starboard mountainsides, sparse trees gave way to gray-white bedrock blanketed in pale green—whether grass or shrubs remained unclear.
Along the shore, small white houses scattered sparsely.
This vista felt familiar—a scene plucked from some forgotten fishing village poem.
No trace lingered now of “the Orient” or “the tropics.”
Soon we passed Reggio’s starboard lights and Messina’s portside glow fading at dusk.
“The earthquake ruined Messina,” Mr. Haas remarked. “Its lights today pale against former glories.”

Around nine o'clock, in the smoking room with Mr. N, Mr. Haas, and others, I raised a glass of champagne with a sense of farewell.

……Shortly after ten o'clock, Stromboli's volcanic island came into view.
The full moon was so bright that the crater's glow could barely be discerned.
Signor Salvi, the short, stout baritone singer, stuck out his large belly and bustled back and forth across the deck, bellowing “Stromboli! Stromboli!”
He continued shouting “Stromboli! Stromboli!” several more times, emphasizing the second-to-last syllable “bo” with a strong rising tone—as though unable to contain his excitement at nearing his homeland, or perhaps wishing to show as many passengers as possible this volcano known as the “Mediterranean Lighthouse.”
As the moonlit sea grew increasingly rough and the ship rolled nearly thirty degrees, most people had already wrapped themselves in cabin blankets, likely thinking about Naples where we would arrive tomorrow.
……

(December 1920; Shibugaki [Astringent Persimmon])

VIII. Naples and Pompeii

May 2nd

When I stepped onto the morning deck, Capri Island was already visible. The morning sun blazed gloriously upon the rocky cliffs. Soon Vesuvius too came into view. Italians returning from distant lands bustled about the deck, pointing ahead and calling out—"That's Sorrento!" "There's Castellammare!"—their voices overlapping. Each of these beautiful place names, remembered from books and bound to countless lovely associations, resonated deeply within me. As our ship progressed, a panorama of nature's beauty and ancient urban history unfurled before our eyes. There before me materialized that Vesuvius—the volcano I'd known since childhood through color lithographs and geography textbooks; that visionary image which I, raised in Japan's rural east, had always conjured when imagining the West as an object of curious longing. Yet it emitted less smoke than I'd envisioned. Equally nostalgic were the Italian pines crowning hilltops with their hat-like silhouettes—forms familiar from paintings.

When the quarantine was completed and we arrived at the pier, a guide came and persistently recommended a tour of Pompeii.
The elderly, portly guide’s face somewhat resembled that of a French president, but the suit he wore was shabby.
Mr. T, Mr. Haas, the German captain and his wife, and I formed a group of five and decided to rely on this elderly man.
Packed tightly into a creaking open carriage, we toured around Naples.

We entered a certain temple to look around.
The aged mosaics and murals could by no means belong to the present age.
The candlelight upon the altar—resplendent with golden brilliance—was light from centuries past.
Along the walls stood several structures resembling police boxes; within them hidden priests listened through lattices to believers confessing their sins.
These believers were mostly young women.
Here again, those who had committed wrongs seemed the virtuous ones, while the morally upright priests appeared as villains.
I could do nothing to suppress this resentment toward such priests that welled up within me.
There existed a visitation window for nuns.
The iron grating—sturdy enough to recall prison bars—was studded with rigid nails cold and sharp.
Beyond this barrier, I felt undeniably transported to a medieval world.

After departing there, the carriage dashed along a narrow stone-paved road through steeply sloped hillside streets, rattling and swaying all the while.
Mr. Haas kept talking to himself with a Baedeker in one hand, while the captain and his wife remained mostly silent as if preserving German military decorum.
Mr. T and I each sank into our own thoughts and stayed quiet.
Before us—a group that must have looked utterly peculiar in the locals' eyes—the beautifully grimy scenery of a Southern European town simply rushed past in haste.

Arriving at the station, we boarded the train bound for Pompeii. On the side of the train car was written in large letters "Fumatori," which I initially took to be our destination's station name, but it turned out to signify a smoking car. The train car's interior proved unexpectedly grimy. The train ran along the river at Vesuvius's base; viewed from this vantage point, the volcano appeared less imposing than when seen from the sea. We passed through traces of lava that had flowed into the ocean. Trees resembling prickly pears and mandarin oranges came into view. The crude mud-plastered farmhouses held interest precisely because they belonged to Italy. The sight of antiquated wooden-geared flour mills lying in such houses' gardens struck me as singular. Beyond the azure sea, Sorrento's silhouette shimmered faintly, while picturesque boats with furled sails clustered along the shore—all quintessentially Italian. ……We alighted at Torre dell'Annunziata. Scenes etched in my mind from reading Andersen's *The Improvisatore* now surged back vividly, awakened by this station name's resonant syllables.

The carriage passed through an ancient town and ran along a broad road through potato fields.
Here and there, the isolated Italian pines and the white-gleaming walls of houses formed a combination marked by strong distinctive features.

An inn bearing a sign that read "Hôtel de Vesuve" came into view.
That marked Pompeii's entrance.
When we paid the admission fee and passed through the gate, there lay before us fossilized remnants of a civilization from over two millennia prior—as far as the eye could see, nothing but ashen-white carcasses of low structures.
Against this desolate necropolis' backdrop rose a beautiful conical volcano, etching elegant curves against the sky.
Tattered cotton-like clouds cast shifting azure shadows across foothills fanned out in the distance.
The vestiges of lava flows from various epochs could be discerned by their differing hues.
Yet the volcano maintained a countenance of perfect peacefulness—as though wholly unacquainted with ancient massacres—its summit merely trailing a wisp of pallid smoke.

The narrow town was paved with cobblestones, with cart ruts carved into deep grooves across them.
Where the roadway met the sidewalk, water pipes protruded from lead conduits.
They were blanched bluish-white and rusted, their eerie texture resembling boiled eel skin as they lay exposed and undulating.

In the remains of a wealthy person's mansion, beautiful murals had been splendidly preserved. Among them were some depicting hunting scenes and aquatic creatures as their subjects. There were also remains of a large bathhouse. The walls were double-layered, likely to maintain temperature. It was interesting how the changing shelves resembled those found in Japanese sentō bathhouses. I couldn't help envisioning the hedonistic lives of those ancient people—soaking in baths to lounge on chaise longues, indulging in delicacies while engrossing themselves in idle talk, then greedily dozing through midday naps.

In the circular plaza of the theater, amidst a green carpet of grass, crimson poppies bloomed profusely, their delicate petals quivering in the faint breeze. Upon closer inspection, purple aconite flowers were also scattered here and there among them. That such fragile things had survived in these ruins of a hall that once hosted past glory and revelry—even as the stones and bricks crumbled away—seemed remarkable.

The remnants of a wine shop stood preserved. Bakery hearths and objects resembling mortars for kneading flour lay scattered about. At the eaves of the brothel entrance, a large stone penis protruded from the wall. Only the captain’s wife had arranged to separate from our group there alone, waiting for us at the intersection ahead. Stepping into the entrance from the street’s sidewalk, one found merely several stone bench-like objects lined up immediately to the right—nothing more than a narrow, low-ceilinged dim room. Upon closer inspection, various murals had been drawn encircling the walls near the ceiling. Mr. Haas explained they depicted dozens of verschiedene Stellungen. The beautiful vividness of the blue, vermilion, and yellow pigments and the classical simplicity of their brushwork defied expectation. Not the slightest dark terror lingered there.

Because the guide—who seemed afflicted by asthma—kept hurrying us along with “No time, Sir!”, we had no opportunity to properly examine either the forum’s colonnade or the museum interior.
The museum contained fossilized remains preserving agonized forms from two millennia past exactly as they were, yet these appeared too thoroughly transformed into genuine stone to stir profound feelings of tragedy.
Far more compelling was a half-charred handful of wheat grains that seemed to wrench the human heart toward the terrifying reality of that ancient calamity.

At an inn bearing the volcano’s name, we ate lunch.
The wine brought to our table also shared that same appellation.
Mr. Haas addressed a young gentleman who appeared Japanese sitting alone at a nearby table with “Anata wa Nihon no kata desu ka?” to which he nodded and replied “Ja!”
When we had deliberately used Japanese to address him, Mr. Haas whispered in my ear, “It’s odd that he answered with ‘Ja!’”
Yet I found nothing strange about it.
To me, it seemed only to express perfectly the particular melancholy of a solitary traveler.
Upon receiving his business card, I discovered he was Mr. N—an international student pursuing a Bachelor of Laws at a certain university.
From Mr. N I learned that my old acquaintance Mr. K had just arrived in Naples while touring Italy from Germany.
I wished to meet him, but our imminent departure left no time.
There was both loneliness and peculiar fascination in this chance convergence within an unexpected foreign town, only to part again without meeting—destined to drift ever further apart.

A young man stood at the inn entrance playing guitar.
The melody somehow evoked feelings remarkably similar to those conjured by the musicians on Port Said's small boats.
It felt just as aching and futile as theirs had.
As I listened while gazing at the southern sunlight glowing beyond the window curtain, I found myself assailed by something like a strange, translucent loneliness.

Upon returning to Naples—after merely gazing up at Posillipo’s old castle from outside before heading back to the ship—various vendors came．
Antique oil painting frames，cameos，cloisonné ornaments，and such caught the eye．
When Mr．T haggled down binoculars priced at forty shillings to ten，they conceded and handed them over．
…The ship departed at five o’clock．

The waves grew slightly, and the ship began to rock.

(February 1921, Shibugaki)

IX. From Genoa to Milan

May 3

In the morning, we passed by Monte Cristo Island. A whale was spouting water. There was no reason whales shouldn't exist in the Mediterranean, but I somehow found it unexpected. From early afternoon, land began to appear ahead, and around five o'clock, we finally arrived in Genoa.

We had to hand out Trinkgeld to each crew member who had looked after us for thirty-five days, but with it being mealtime and all the boys out in the dining hall, the situation felt awkward and caused some consternation. Lying in wait in the narrow corridor to distribute them one by one proved painstaking. They twisted and tucked the gratuities away while twitching their Kaiser-style mustaches and saying things like “Glückliche Reise!”

Mr. Haas, insisting Italian porters were cunning and that luggage might get snatched if we weren’t careful, had us—who had disembarked onto the pier first—stand guard while he made them unload numerous bags and trunks from the ship. The customs inspection concluded simply. When asked about the nautical chart scroll I had borrowed from Mr. Penk and brought along, I answered “Cartamarina” in passable Italian, which they seemed to understand.

By carriage from what was called Hotel Royal, I arrived at the lodging together with Mr. Haas and his two children.
Mr. Haas negotiated for a cheaper room, and we entered Room No. 65 on the third floor.
It was not a particularly pleasant room.
Looking down from the window revealed a courtyard below that gave the impression of peering into a well.
Beside the sewer stood a grimy gate around which something resembling grapevines had twined.
A dog wandered about.
In one corner hung patched laundry strung on a rope.
From the direction of town came voices singing to a guitar that seemed to rise from this well's depths.
From distant skies echoed temple bell melodies.
At dinner beyond our group sat few other guests.
Mr. Haas urged us to eat plentifully of Deser’s dried grapes, figs and mandarins as local specialties.
"No need for restraint," he said, producing reserved Japanese phrases like hidden trinkets.

When I tried to sleep in a motionless landbound bedroom at night after a long interval, voices of a man and woman cursing each other rose from the depths of that courtyard beyond the window, which strangely preoccupied me and kept me from falling asleep. The woman's shrill hysterical voice particularly echoed off the courtyard walls on all sides. I couldn't tell whether they were having a domestic quarrel or were simply mad.

May 4

I saw off Mr. Haas, who was departing at 8:40 in the morning, and went to the station.
When I said, “From today we two shall become Waisen (orphans),” he laughed and replied, “Then hurry to Berlin and become Weise Kinder (wise children).”

I went to Campo Santo by tram.
I had expected it to be a more desolate place but found it unexpectedly different.
The corridor's floor and walls—which felt rigid—were entirely covered with coffins, while gaudy marble statues stood arrayed in overwhelming profusion.
Yet the simple crosses lining the courtyard's grassy expanse brought comfort.
There bloomed wildflowers like those one might see in Japan.

I departed for Milan on the eleven o'clock train.
For a time, we passed through several tunnels in the mountainous region.
The fresh greenery everywhere and the red-tiled houses were truly beautiful.
There were also houses atop high cliffs with what appeared to be wisteria trellises blooming profusely.
Soon we emerged into the Lombardy plains.
There were what appeared to be mulberry fields, and there were also wheat fields.
In pasture-like areas, clusters of yellow wildflowers bloomed here and there amidst a whole expanse of green grass.
Along the banks of the stream, willows and poplars stood lined up in rows.
In the grassland, five or six women wearing brightly colored clothes sat in a circle and waved handkerchiefs toward the train.
Before long, the continuous mountain range of the Alps crowned with snow in the distance also came into view.
At a certain railroad crossing, a horse-drawn cart loaded with bricks was waiting for the crossing gate to open.
The ruddy-faced, broad-shouldered young man on the cart, nonchalantly clenching a pipe in his teeth, made for a picturesque scene.
I spotted what appeared to be amateur fishermen with fishing nets slung over their shoulders and cloth bags hanging down.
On the green grass along the riverbank, women wearing red and white bold-striped garments doing laundry created beautiful splashes of color.
Beyond Pavia, there were rice paddy-like fields.
No matter how poor the villages were, only the temple towers towered high.

I arrived in Milan around two o'clock.
I stayed at Hôtel du Parc.
A child waiter pestered me for Japanese stamps.
I went to visit the cathedral.
I hired an old guide for three lire but could scarcely follow his rapid German.
The sole thing I properly grasped was how sunlight streams through a ceiling hole on the summer solstice.
The stained glass explanations kept citing eras and apostolic names, yet stirred no particular interest.
When I climbed onto the tower roof and looked down, I saw clearly how the flower beds before the temple formed an elegant design.
Still, temples ought to be viewed from below, I think.

Near Leonardo da Vinci's statue, a shopfront displayed Japanese magic water flowers.
On it stood a sign reading "Fiori magica".
I took a walk in the park near my lodging.
The beauty of the fresh greenery stood out most vividly among all I had seen since arriving in the West, surpassing even my expectations.
Some variety of pale crimson flowers bloomed in full splendor.
There, a child spun a diabolo in play.

The evening meal proved disagreeable, its rice-speckled soup overly salted.
At nightfall I returned to the square before the Dome.
A full moon hung luminous.
Cirrus clouds of purest white drifted across a cerulean-tinted sky as the great marble cathedral held its breath in stillness.
The absence of electric lights about seemed somehow preferable.
From a street stall before the Dome I purchased picture postcards and albums.
The vendor—a comely young woman—trilled forth in nimble French.

(March 1921, Shibugaki)

10 - From Milan to Berlin

May 5

I boarded the 7:20 D-Zug bound for Berlin.
I had carelessly boarded a Basel-bound train car but, alerted by the conductor, hurriedly transferred to the direct Berlin one.

Lakes as picturesque as those of Como and Lugano also came into view.
The boats with canvas stretched over them in a semicircular shape reminded me less of Japanese roofed boats and more of the fishing vessels depicted in literati paintings.
There were also small steam vessels that glided across the blue water surface, trailing long waves in a figure-eight pattern.

Surrounding the pasture was a low stone wall built from flat stone slabs, and at the entrance stood a turnpike structure. On the sunlit hillsides, vineyards scattered here and there. The small roadside shrine that seemed to enshrine Madonna reminded me somehow of Jizō statues or Batō Kannon, yet carried a somewhat more down-to-earth warmth in its character. I had wondered whether such things existed even in the West, and now felt a sense of vindication in that anticipation. When I looked down from the mountainside into the valley, a stark white road cut straight through green fields, flanked by rows of fresh-leafed trees standing at regular intervals—the whole arrangement giving an impression of meticulous order.

I conversed with a boyish-faced Austrian man with white hair who was returning from a leisure trip to Japan.
He produced from his bag a pamphlet resembling a Fujiya Hotel guidebook and showed it to me.
The German passenger in the adjacent seat also initiated conversation and explained the railway loops we would soon traverse.
Within the mountain's flank, the tunnel formed a large loop, bringing the train out directly above the entrance it had just passed through.
When Mr.T displayed particular interest and pressed for detailed explanations, the German passenger obligingly provided a diagram outlining the loop's design.

Gradually, the mountains grew steeper, their peaks becoming nothing but bare rock, the fir and larch trees in the valleys thinning out, while here and there along the cliffs, eternal snow hung like frozen waterfalls forming small glaciers. After passing through the Sankt Gotthard Tunnel and entering the dining car, we soon approached Lake Vierwaldstättersee. On the rounded, smooth mid-slopes of low hills along the lakeshore, wildflowers bloomed in profusion, with white and pale pink blossoms resembling those of plum or apple trees scattered here and there like sprinkled powder. Amidst the vivid fresh greenery, red-tiled, white-walled buildings that appeared to be villas were interspersed in orderly fashion. Alongside such peaceful scenery, sheer cliffs exposed their awe-inspiring wrinkled strata as if glaring down. Across the lake, a jet-black forest stood silently brooding.

Lucerne proved more beautiful than I had imagined.
The terrain beyond somehow recalled the undulating hill patterns between Yokohama and Ofuna.
In the back field of a farmhouse, I noticed a young woman working the land.
Her figure—clad in full-cut trousers flaring below developed hips, sturdy shoes pounding the earth as she swung her hoe—presented a stable, broad-based silhouette not unpleasing to observe.
Nor was she unique; I had seen countless women farming along the way, their garments' vivid yet soft hues harmonizing perfectly with the natural surroundings.
From a distance, their sun-burnished complexions all carried an inexplicable radiant beauty.
Compared to this scenery, Japan's landscapes seemed tinged with nothing but ashen tones.

From Basel, we finally entered Germany.
The feeling upon crossing into our long-sought country held something akin to returning home after an extended journey.
Distant views of Fosgen and Schwarzwald accompanied our passage through the Rhine lowlands.
Rows of poplars and willows lined every green field.
As dusk deepened across the plain's edge, the setting sun silhouetted a village temple tower against the sky.
When I saw a lone farmer slowly guiding his hay-laden bullock cart along a desolate path homeward, faint nostalgia stirred within me.
Beyond Karlsruhe darkness fell completely—moonlight persisted but revealed no scenery.
True to its scientific pride, Germany's railways ran smoothly with minimal sway or vibration.
Our train roared like a gale through the Rhineland night.
Frankfurt station greeted us at ten o'clock.
Beneath the vast domed roof, vendors' cries of “Rrrreisekissen! Die Decken!” echoed and redoubled.
Those guttural r's and natural cadences breathed undiluted German essence into travelers' ears.
I purchased bread and boiled eggs for supper.
New passengers swarmed about us initiating conversations.
One elderly man—misreading our language struggle—spoke with exaggerated slowness between words, rendering his meaning more obscure than ever.
“They say Japan practices mixed bathing—is this truth?” he demanded.
This disagreeable fellow soon disembarked.
His replacement—a garishly uniformed man—offered what seemed polite flattery about Japan; we reciprocated by extolling German scientific achievements.
Though his attire suggested military rank, he proved merely a Fulda municipal clerk.
At his departure he shook hands urging, “Visit if opportunity arises.”

When we were finally left alone together, we lay down as we were and took a brief nap. Around four o'clock, a passenger who had entered held us back with repeated "No, no"s as we tried to sit up, then made himself small and settled into a corner of the seat.

May 6

When I awoke, dawn had already broken. Before the weary, sleep-deprived eyes of us two, the first German morning was awakening. On the gently undulating ground appeared patches and stripes resembling wheat fields, low pine woods stood visible, rows of poplars lined the land, and atop a small hill there stood a windmill, its large blades rotating slowly while glittering in the morning sun. That was the windmill that had become entwined in my mind with various beautiful dreams. My heart danced like a child's. And I felt as though this windmill might be some kind of auspicious omen.

Before I knew it, the train was passing through the backstreets of a smoldering metropolis. Laundry hung out to dry on the high windows of large multi-story houses caught my eye. At 7:35 AM, we arrived at Anhalter Station. Mr.H had come to greet us and abruptly shook hands. Given that it was Mr.H—an unassuming man with the least connection to anything Western-flavored—I felt a peculiar sensation, but this first experience of the new and different life we were about to enter did not strike me as meaningless. The rows of houses in Berlin that we saw on our way to Schöneberg’s boarding house in a hired droshky appeared strangely dull gray compared to what we had imagined from postcards and photographs. The air seemed somehow hazy, and the sunlight appeared to slumber. And the fatigue of this interminable journey, which had settled gloomily and emptily in the depths of my mind, now sought every crevice to spill forth.

(April 1921, Bitter Persimmons)