Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Dancing Girl

The coal had already been loaded.
The area around the table in the middle-class cabin was deathly quiet, the incandescent lamp's garish light shining to no purpose.
Tonight, with even the nightly card players lodging at the Hotel, I alone remained aboard the ship.

It was five years ago when—my longstanding wish fulfilled—I received an official commission to study abroad and reached this port of Saigon. In those days, everything my eyes saw or ears heard felt utterly novel. My travel writings, dashed off daily with unchecked fervor, must have totaled thousands of words. Though published in contemporary newspapers and praised by society, how must discerning readers have viewed them now—those immature notions, those presumptuous declarations unbefitting my station, not to mention how exotically I described even commonplace plants, animals, minerals, and customs?
That the notebook I purchased upon embarking this time—intending to keep a diary—still lies blank might suggest I acquired some measure of *nil admirari* composure during my German studies; no, there exists another reason entirely.

Truly, the I who now return to the East am not the I who once sailed west; though my learning may still leave much unfulfilled in my heart, I have come to know worldly sorrows. That human hearts prove unreliable goes without saying—nay, I have even realized how fickle my own heart can be. To whom could I show these brushstrokes transcribing my ephemeral impressions—yesterday’s truths become today’s falsehoods? This might seem reason enough my diary remains unwritten—no, there lies another cause altogether.

Ah, more than twenty days had already passed since departing the port of Brindisi.
By worldly custom, travelers on a voyage would form bonds even with strangers to console one another’s loneliness—yet I, feigning minor illness, had secluded myself in my cabin and spoken little even to fellow passengers, for my mind was tormented by an unknown grief.
This grief had first swept over my heart like a wisp of cloud, letting me neither see Switzerland’s mountain hues nor fix my thoughts on Italy’s ancient ruins. In time, it made me detest the world and despair of life itself, burdening me with a torment so cruel one might say my bowels churned nine times daily. Now congealed deep within my heart as but a single shadowy stain, yet with every page I read or sight I beheld—like a reflection in a mirror or an echo answering a voice—it stirred boundless nostalgia, tormenting my heart again and again.
Ah, how could I dissolve this grief?
If this had been another kind of grief, after composing it into poetry and song, my heart might have become refreshingly clear.
Though I thought this alone might not be too deeply carved into my heart, tonight there was no one around, and there was still time before the cabin steward would come to turn off the electric lights—so come, I resolved to attempt setting down its outline in writing.

From earliest youth, owing to the strict domestic discipline I had received—though I lost my father early—my learning did not fall into neglect or decay. Whether during my days at the old domain’s academy, my time attending the preparatory school after coming to Tokyo, or after entering the university’s law faculty, the name Toyotaro Ota was always recorded at the foremost rank—and thus my mother’s heart, relying on her only child to navigate the world, must have found solace.

At nineteen years of age, I received the title of bachelor—an honor people declared unprecedented since the university’s founding—then entered service at a certain ministry. Bringing my mother from our hometown to the capital, we spent nearly three joyful years together. As I had gained exceptional favor with my superiors, I received orders to study abroad and investigate a department’s affairs overseas. My heart surged with resolve to now establish my name and elevate my family’s standing; thus I did not even feel particular sorrow at parting from my mother who had passed fifty, departing my distant home to arrive in the city of Berlin.

With vague ambitions for glory and a disciplined capacity for study honed through self-restraint, I suddenly stood at the heart of Europe’s new metropolis. What manner of radiance was this that assailed my eyes? What manner of hues were these that sought to bewilder my heart? When rendered as *Bodaijushita* [Under the Linden Trees], one might imagine a realm of serene tranquility—but come to this grand boulevard, thread-like Unter den Linden, and behold the processions of gentlemen and ladies traversing the stone-paved sidewalks on either side. For it was an era when officers with puffed chests and raised shoulders still leaned against windows overlooking Wilhelm I’s streets; when girls in ceremonial dress dyed myriad hues—beautiful youths adorned in Parisian imitations—left none unastonished; when carriages of every color raced soundlessly over asphalt roads; when fountain waters gushed from gaps between cloud-scraping edifices, mimicking summer downpours against clear skies; and when, beyond the Brandenburg Gate framed by interlaced green boughs, the goddess of the Victory Column loomed mid-heaven. With such countless sights converging before one’s very eyes, it was only natural that newcomers found themselves overwhelmed. Yet within my breast I had sworn that even if wandering through any realm, I would not let vain beauties sway my heart—thus I always blocked and held back the external influences assailing me.

The Prussian officials—before whom I had pulled the bell cord to request an audience, presented my official letter of introduction, and explained my purpose for coming East—all welcomed me cordially, pledging that were the embassy’s formal procedures but smoothly concluded, they would instruct and inform me on all matters whatsoever. What proved most advantageous was that I had studied the German and French languages in my hometown. When they first met me, there was none who did not inquire where and when I had managed to acquire such proficiency.

Now, whenever I had free time from official duties—having already obtained official permission—I entered the local university to study political science and had my name recorded in the register.

As months passed and official consultations were concluded, with investigations gradually progressing, urgent matters were compiled into reports and sent off, while others were copied and kept, until finally several volumes accumulated.
At the university, as my youthful mind had imagined, there was no special course to become a statesman; torn between this and that, I resolved to attend lectures by a few jurists, paid the fees, and went to listen.

Thus passed three years as if in a dream; yet when time ripens, what one strives to conceal becomes unconcealable—such is human nature. From the days when I obeyed my father’s dying wish and followed my mother’s teachings, studying diligently for the joy of being praised as a prodigy, to the years when I toiled unceasingly for the pleasure of superiors commending me as a capable worker, I had become a passive, mechanical being without realizing it. Now at twenty-five, having long been exposed to this university’s free-spirited climate, a restless disquiet stirred within me; the true self that had lain hidden deep within gradually surfaced, as though assailing the unworthy self I had been until yesterday.
I came to realize that I was unsuited to become a statesman who would soar in this present world, and equally unfit to be a jurist well-versed in legal codes to adjudicate cases.

I came to realize that my mother had sought to make me into a "living dictionary," while my superiors had perhaps intended to fashion me into a "living law."
To be a dictionary might still be endurable, but to be a law was unbearable.
I, who until then had responded with utmost care even to trivial matters, began asserting in recent letters to my superiors that one need not persistently cling to legal minutiae—boldly declaring that once grasping even the spirit of the law, all tangled matters would unravel like splitting bamboo.
Moreover, at the university I began neglecting lectures in the law faculty and directing my heart toward history and literature, gradually entering the realm where sugarcane is savored.

The officials must have originally intended to fashion an instrument to be wielded at their whim.
How could they welcome a man who nurtured independent thought and bore an uncommon countenance?
Precarious indeed was my position at that time.
Yet this alone would not have sufficed to overturn my standing; among the Japanese students in Berlin then, an uneasy relationship had arisen between myself and a certain influential faction—they grew suspicious of me, ultimately resorting to slander.
But could even this have been without cause?

They attributed my refusal to join them in raising beer steins or taking up billiard cues to an obstinate heart and strength of self-restraint, both mocking and envying me in equal measure. Yet they did not know me. Ah, this reason—even I myself had not known it; how could others possibly discern it? My heart resembles the leaves of the silk tree that shrink from touch. My heart is like a maiden's. From earliest youth, though I followed my elders' teachings—whether pursuing scholarship or official service—none of this was achieved through courage or capability. What appeared as endurance and diligence was in truth self-deception that even misled others, so that I merely walked the single path others had laid before me. That my heart remained undisturbed elsewhere stemmed not from courage to disregard external matters, but from fear that bound my own limbs. Even before leaving my homeland, I never doubted I was a man of promise, nor questioned my heart's capacity to endure. Ah, he too had his hour. Until the ship departed Yokohama, I who fancied myself a splendid hero found it strange how I drenched my handkerchief with irrepressible tears—yet this revealed my true nature all along. Was this heart born within me? Or did it take form through early paternal loss and maternal nurture?

Their mockery was only natural.
But was their envy not foolish?
This weak and pitiful heart.

When I saw women with rouged faces powdered white, clad in vividly colored garments sitting in coffee houses to solicit customers, I lacked the courage to approach them; when I saw those “Lebemanns” wearing tall hats and glasses pinching their noses—speaking in nasal tones mimicking Prussian nobility—I lacked the courage to mingle with them.
Without such courage, there was no way for me to associate with those vivacious compatriots.
Because my interactions with them were so sparse, they not only mocked and envied me but grew suspicious as well.
This became the very means by which I came to bear false charges and endure countless hardships within a brief span.

One evening, as I was strolling through the Tiergarten, passed through Unter den Linden, and was about to return to my lodgings on Monbijou Street, I came upon the old church in Klosterstraße.
Having crossed over that sea of lights and entered this narrow, dimly lit alley—each time I gazed upon this three-century-old relic recessed in a U-shape and facing houses where bedding and undergarments still hung drying on wooden railings, a tavern where a long-bearded Jewish elder stood at the entrance, and a tenement where one staircase led straight upstairs while another descended to a cellar-dwelling blacksmith’s home—my heart grew transfixed, and I lingered there countless times unaware of how long I paused.

Just as I was about to pass this place, I saw a girl leaning against the locked temple gate, stifling sobs as she wept.
She appeared sixteen or seventeen years old.
Strands of hair escaping her headscarf shone pale gold, while her garment showed no trace of grime.
The face that turned at my footsteps—lacking a poet’s brush, I could never capture its likeness.
Why did those eyes—blue and limpid with sorrowful inquiry, their gaze half-veiled by dewy lashes—pierce through to the depths of my guarded heart with but a single glance?

Could it be that she, having encountered unforeseen depths of sorrow and without moment to look back, now stood here weeping? My cowardly heart vanquished by compassion, I found myself drawing near. "Why do you weep, I pray?" I began—"A foreigner unencumbered here might more readily lend aid"—astonished at my own boldness as the words escaped me.

She started and stared at my sallow face, my sincerity perhaps laid bare in countenance. "You seem a good soul," she said. "Not cruel like him." "Nor like my mother." The parched wellspring of tears overflowed anew, streaming down cheeks lovelier than any verse could capture.

“Save me, I pray you.”
“Make me someone without shame!”
“My mother struck me for not complying with his words.”
“Father is dead.”
“If we do not hold the funeral tomorrow, it will not be acceptable, yet there’s not a penny saved up in the house.”

All that remained was the sound of stifled sobs.
My eyes were fixed solely upon the trembling nape of this bowed girl.

“When I take you home, first calm your heart, I pray.
I pray do not let others hear your voice.
This is a public thoroughfare.”
As she told her story, she unconsciously leaned against my shoulder; but at that moment, she suddenly lifted her head and, as though seeing me for the first time, flushed with shame and started back from my side.

Not wanting to be seen by others, I followed the quick-footed girl’s path. When we entered the large gate across from the temple, there stood a chipped stone staircase.
After climbing this, on the fourth floor was a door so low one had to bend at the waist to pass through.
The girl placed her hand on a rusted wire whose tip had been twisted into a hook and gave it a strong pull; from within came the voice of an old woman, hoarse from coughing, asking, “Who’s there?”
Before Elise could even answer that she had returned, someone violently pulled open the door—revealing an old woman with hair half-grayed, her face not unkind but marked on the brow with traces of poverty, clad in a worn-out woolen garment and soiled house shoes.
As Elise acknowledged me and entered, she—as though unable to wait—slammed the door violently.

I stood dazed for a moment when suddenly, peering through the lamplight at the door, I saw "Ernst Weigert" written in lacquer, with "Tailor" noted below. This must have been the name of the girl’s father—Ernst Weigert. Inside, voices that seemed to be arguing could be heard, but then it grew quiet again and the door opened once more. The elderly woman politely apologized for her earlier rude behavior and welcomed me inside. The interior beyond the door was a kitchen, where on the low window to the right hung a linen cloth washed to pure whiteness. On the left stood a crudely stacked brick stove. The door to the front room stood half-open, revealing a sickbed draped with a white cloth within. The figure lying prone was likely deceased. She opened the door beside the stove and guided me in. This was a single room facing what they called Mansard Street, devoid of any ceiling. In the space beneath the beam—which slanted down from the attic corner toward the window, papered over—there lay a bed positioned where one’s head would touch if standing upright. At the center stood a desk draped with an elegant carpet, upon which lay one or two books and a photo album; in the ceramic vase stood an expensive bouquet that seemed incongruous here. Beside it stood the girl, her face tinged with shame.

She was exceptionally beautiful.
Her face, milky in hue, flushed faintly rose beneath the lamplight.
Her slender limbs and delicate frame seemed ill-suited to a pauper’s daughter.
Having left the old woman’s chamber, the girl spoke with a slight accent.
“I beg your forgiveness.”
“For my thoughtlessness in bringing you here.”
“You must be kind.”
“Surely you’ll not come to despise me?”
“Tomorrow we must bury Father—the Schauenburg I’d counted on—you don’t know him?”
“He belongs to the ‘Victoria’—”
“He leads their troupe.”
“Though he took me under contract two years past and should aid us freely, he seizes on our grief to make this selfish demand.”
“Save me, I implore you.”
“I’ll repay every mark by scraping crumbs from my meager wages.”
“Though I myself go hungry.”
“Or else submit to Mother’s words.”
She trembled, eyes brimming.
Those upturned eyes held an irrefusable allure.
Was this coquetry deliberate? Or artless?

Though I had two or three marks hidden away, as these would not suffice, I removed my watch and placed it upon the desk.
“With this, I pray you may tide over your immediate crisis.”
“When the pawnshop’s messenger comes seeking Ota at Mombishu Street number three, you are to take the sum.”

The girl, appearing both startled and moved, pressed to her lips the hand I had extended in farewell, only to splash my knuckles with hot tears that fell in quick succession.

Ah, what sinister karma was this?
In gratitude for this kindness, the girl who had come unbidden to my lodgings sat all day beneath my study window—Schopenhauer to her right and Schiller to her left—blossoming like a rare flower where I read in solitary contemplation.
From this time onward, my interactions with the girl gradually increased in frequency—and once even our countrymen became aware of this, they swiftly concluded that I was fishing for carnal pleasures among the troupe of dancing girls.
Between the two of us, there had existed only foolish pleasures as yet.

Though I hesitate to name names, there existed among our countrymen one who delighted in meddling—this person reported to my superior that I had been frequenting theaters and consorting with actresses. This official, who already harbored resentment knowing full well I had strayed into academic byways, at last conveyed his decision to the legation and stripped me of both rank and position. When His Excellency delivered this edict, he declared: “Should you return home immediately, travel funds shall be granted; but should you choose to remain here, you must not expect public support.” I begged a week’s reprieve; while tormenting myself with plans and counterplans, there came into my hands two letters that would inflict upon me life’s most exquisite anguish. These missives had been dispatched near simultaneously—one penned in my mother’s own hand, the other from an unnamed kinsman bearing tidings of her death—of that mother whom I cherished beyond measure. The words contained in her final letter I cannot bring myself to transcribe here, for rising tears stay the motion of my brush.

My relationship with Elise had been more pure than met outsiders' eyes until this time. Due to her father's poverty, she had received no proper education; at fifteen, yielding to a dance instructor's entreaties, she was schooled in this shameful vocation. After completing her Kursus, she joined the Victoria Theater troupe and now held second rank among its performers. Yet as the poet Hackländer called them slaves of our age, so transient was a dancing girl's lot. Bound by meager wages, relentlessly shuttled between daytime rehearsals and nighttime performances, they only applied rouge and donned fine garments within theater dressing rooms—outside those walls, their solitary earnings scarcely sufficed for food and clothing. How then could they bear supporting parents back home? Thus among their circle, rare was one who did not sink into the basest trades—or so it went. That Elise escaped this fate stemmed from her docile nature and her resolute father's protection. She had indeed loved reading since childhood, yet only accessed lowly Colportage lending-novels; but from our acquaintance onward, through books I borrowed, she gradually acquired refined tastes, corrected her dialectal speech, and soon even letters she sent me grew nearly free of errors. Thus between us first arose a teacher-student bond. When she heard of my sudden dismissal from office, her face paled. I concealed matters pertaining to her circumstances, but she told me: "Pray keep this hidden from Mother." This stemmed from her fear that her mother—learning I'd lost my stipend—might grow distant.

Ah, though there is no need to elaborate here in detail—it was during this period that my affection for her abruptly deepened into an unbreakable bond.
Though matters of life and death lay before me—a truly critical juncture—and though some might doubt or condemn this course, my love for Elise had never been shallow from our first meeting; now her beautiful, poignant form—face bowed in sorrow over my misfortunes and our impending separation, loosened tresses cascading down—pierced my mind already unhinged by bitter anguish, until I found myself at this pass through some trance-like compulsion. What recourse remained?

The day I had promised His Excellency drew near, and my fate pressed in upon me.
If I were to return to my hometown as I was now, this disgraced form—having abandoned my studies unfinished—would find no channel through which to rise again.
Yet if I remained, there existed no means by which to secure funds for continued learning.

At this juncture came aid from Kenkichi Aizawa—now numbered among my traveling companions.
He had been serving in Tokyo as secretary to Count Amakata; upon seeing the official gazette announcing my dismissal from office, he prevailed upon a certain newspaper’s editor-in-chief to appoint me their correspondent stationed in Berlin, charged with reporting on political and cultural affairs.

The company’s remuneration was scarcely worth mentioning, yet if we were to move residences and change the restaurants where we took our lunch, a meager livelihood might be sustained.
As I pondered this and that, it was Elise—revealing the sincerity of her heart—who threw me the lifeline.
How she persuaded her mother I know not, but I came to lodge at the house of mother and daughter; and Elise and I, pooling our meager incomes—scarcely enough to exist—spent days of joy amidst hardship.

Once morning coffee was finished, Aizawa would go to his rehearsals; on days when he did not go out, he would remain at home. As for me, I would make my way to the narrow-fronted but deep lounge on Kyo-o-ni-hi Street, read through every newspaper, take out my pencil, and gather materials of all sorts.
In this room illuminated by light from a sawn-out sliding window, I would sit shoulder to shoulder with a young man without fixed employment, an old man who lent out his meager funds to others while idling away his days, and a merchant stealing moments of respite from exchange business; at a cold stone table, I would busily dash my pen across paper, heedless of the cooling cup of coffee brought by a young girl; on the opposite wall where narrow strips of opened newspapers were hung in countless varieties, a Japanese man would come and go time and again—how must strangers have perceived this scene?
As the hour grew late on days when Elise returned from rehearsal, there must have been those who gazed after this girl in wonder—her movements so uncommonly light she might have performed a dance upon one’s palm—as she departed the shop alongside me.

My studies have fallen into neglect.

The lamp in the attic burned dimly; Elise had returned from the theater and sat by a chair engaged in sewing, while at the desk beside her I wrote my newspaper manuscript.
Unlike those days when I had gathered withered leaves of legal statutes on paper, now I combined analyses of vigorous political movements and critiques of new phenomena in literature and art—drawing connections between them as best I could—structuring my thoughts by learning from Heine rather than Börne; among these varied writings I deliberately furnished detailed reports on such matters as the successive deaths of Wilhelm I and Frederick III, the new emperor’s accession, and Bismarck’s uncertain political standing.
Thus from this time onward I found myself busier than anticipated; though my meager library lay open before me, resuming my former studies proved difficult. Though still enrolled at the university, collecting lecture fees grew so troublesome that I rarely attended even a single class.

My studies fell into neglect.
However, I had cultivated a different form of discernment.
To explain how this was so: in terms of civilian scholarship's dissemination among European nations, Germany stood second to none.
In hundreds of newspapers and magazines where one might chance upon discussions existed many remarkably elevated works; from my days as a correspondent onward—using that singular perceptiveness nurtured during my university years—I read and reread them, copied and recopied them until knowledge that once ran down a single path coalesced into comprehensiveness, reaching realms most compatriot students abroad couldn't have dreamed of.
Among their circle were those who couldn't properly read German editorials.

The winter of Meiji 21 (1888) had arrived.
On main thoroughfares they might scatter sand and apply [insertion marks; 161-lower-29], but around Kloster Street, though rugged patches of uneven ground remained visible, every surface lay frozen solid; opening the door at dawn revealed pitiful sparrows fallen dead from hunger and cold.
Even when heating rooms and lighting stoves, that Northern European chill piercing through stone walls and penetrating our cotton garments proved utterly unbearable.

Elise had collapsed onstage a few nights prior and been helped home; since then, she had been resting due to feeling unwell, vomiting whenever she ate—it was her mother who first realized this must be morning sickness.
Ah, uncertain enough was my own future even without this—what should I do if it were indeed true?

Since it was Sunday morning, I remained at home, yet my heart held no joy.
Elise was not bedridden enough to lie down, yet she had drawn a chair near the small iron stove and spoke sparingly.
At that moment came a voice at the entrance; soon Elise’s mother—who had been in the kitchen—approached bearing a postal letter and handed it to me.
Upon inspection, it bore Aizawa’s familiar handwriting; the postage stamp was Prussian, and the postmark read Berlin.
Bewildered yet opening it to read—though it concerned an urgent matter I had received no prior notice of—he had arrived here last night accompanying Count Amakata.
“His Excellency commands you come at once, for he desires an audience.
Your honor’s restoration too must occur now.”
My heart alone raced with haste while he spoke only of practical affairs thus.
When I finished reading and lifted my dazed countenance, Elise spoke:
“Is it a letter from your homeland?
Surely not ill tidings?”
She likely assumed it concerned the usual newspaper remuneration.
“No—let it not trouble your heart.
Aizawa—whose name you know—has come with His Excellency and summons me.
If haste is required, I must depart this very moment.”

Even a mother sending forth her precious only child would not go to such lengths. To prepare for my audience with His Excellency, Elise rose despite her illness—selecting the whitest underrobe, retrieving the carefully stored Gehrock frock coat with its twin rows of buttons—dressing me herself and even fastening my cravat with her own hands.

“No one could call you disheveled now,” she said.
“Look in the mirror.”
“Why wear such a stern face?”
“I wish I might go with you.”

I straightened my collar.
“No—” Her voice caught as she studied me.
“Seeing you transformed like this... you scarcely seem my Toyotaro anymore.”

A pause filled only with stove crackles.
“Even if fortune favors you someday—”
“—you won’t cast me aside?”
“Even should my condition prove false.”

“What, wealth and honor?” I smiled.
“How many years have passed since I abandoned any hope of entering political society?
“I have no desire to see His Excellency.”
“I go only to meet a friend from whom I’ve long been parted.”
The first-class hired carriage that Elise’s mother had summoned arrived beneath the window along the snow-covered road creaking under its wheels.
I put on my gloves, draped a somewhat soiled overcoat over my shoulders without slipping my arms through the sleeves, took up my hat, kissed Elise, and descended the stairs.

She opened the frozen window and let her disheveled hair be blown by the north wind as she watched the carriage I rode depart.

I alighted from the carriage at the entrance of Kaiserhof.
Having inquired of the gatekeeper for Secretary Aizawa's room number, I ascended the marble staircase I had not treaded in so long, and entered an antechamber where a plush-upholstered sofa encircled a central pillar, a mirror standing opposite.
Here I removed the overcoat and proceeded along the corridor to the room's entrance, yet hesitated slightly.
Aizawa—who in our university days had once fervently praised my irreproachable conduct—with what countenance would he greet me now?
Upon entering and facing him, though his frame had grown sturdier than before, that same vivacious spirit remained; he seemed not to dwell unduly on my transgressions.
There being no time for recounting our years apart, I was ushered before His Excellency and charged with translating an urgent German document.
When I received the papers and emerged from the minister's chamber, Aizawa approached from behind and proposed we take luncheon together.

At the dining table, he asked many questions and I gave many answers.
His path in life had been generally smooth, while mine was fraught with misfortunes and strange turns of fate.

When he heard the unfortunate history I laid bare by opening my heart, he was repeatedly astonished; yet far from reproaching me, he instead reviled those other mediocre students.
However, when my tale concluded, he solemnly admonished me thus: “This entire episode springs from your innate weakness of character, so belaboring it now serves no purpose. That said—how long can a man of learning and talent remain entangled in a mere girl’s affections, leading an aimless existence?”
At present, Count Amakata’s sole intent lies in utilizing German.
I too, knowing the reason for my dismissal by the Count back then, did not attempt to sway his preconceptions; for should His Excellency come to regard me as one inclined toward undue partiality, it would profit my friend nothing and harm myself alone.
To recommend a man, nothing surpasses first demonstrating his abilities.
Demonstrate these and secure His Excellency’s trust.
Moreover, this relationship with that girl—even were your sincerity genuine, even had your bond deepened—is no attachment born of recognizing talent, but a connection arising from habit’s inertia.
Resolve yourself and sever it.”
Such was the essence of his words.

Like a sailor who had lost his rudder in the great ocean gazing upon a distant mountain—such was the compass Aizawa had shown me for my future course. Yet this mountain remained veiled in thick fog; when I might reach it—nay, even should I reach it—whether it would bring satisfaction to my heart remained unclear. Amidst poverty lay joy in my present life; what I could not forsake was Elise's love. With my frail heart finding no means of resolution, I nevertheless vowed to heed my friend's counsel and sever this bond of affection. Though I resist those who oppose what I must protect, against a friend I can never refuse—such is my nature.

When I parted ways and stepped outside, the wind struck my face.
Having exited the hotel dining room with its double-layered glass windows tightly shut and great ceramic stove blazing, the four o'clock cold piercing through my thin overcoat proved especially unbearable; as gooseflesh rose on my skin, I felt a chill take root within my heart.

The translation had been completed in a single night.
Thereafter I began visiting Kaiserhof with increasing frequency—at first His Excellency spoke only of official matters, but later he would bring up recent happenings from my hometown to solicit my views, or occasionally recount blunders people had made during their travels and laugh heartily.

About a month had passed when one day, His Excellency suddenly addressed me: “I shall depart for Russia at dawn tomorrow.”
“Will you accompany me?” he asked.
For several days, having not seen Aizawa—who was occupied with official duties—this question took me by surprise.
“How could I not obey your command?” I revealed my shame.
This response was not a product of swift resolve.
When someone in whom I had placed my trust and reliance posed a sudden question to me, there were times when, in that instant, I would assent immediately without properly gauging the scope of the answer.
Having thus given my assent, even when I later realized how difficult it would be to fulfill, I would forcibly conceal the timidity of that moment and endure to carry it out—a thing I did often.

On this day, having brought home the payment for the translation—to which travel expenses had even been added—I entrusted the translation fee to Elise.
With this, the expenses until my return from Russia would be covered.
She was said to have presented herself to the doctor in unusual attire.
Because it was due to her anemic constitution, there had been concern for several months.
From the troupe leader came word that because her absence had been excessively prolonged, her name had been struck from the register.
Though it had only been about a month, such severity must have had its reasons.
She did not appear to be greatly troubled in mind regarding the impending journey.
For she had placed deep trust in my heart that held no falsehood.

As the journey by rail was not far, there was little need for preparation. Only a black tailcoat borrowed to fit my frame, a newly purchased Gotha Almanac of the Russian court, and two or three dictionaries were packed into a small bag. As this time was indeed fraught with many anxieties—thinking that leaving her behind as I departed would be burdensome, and that her shedding tears at the station would create an awkward scene—I had Elise sent off early the next morning under her mother’s care.

I prepared my travel attire, locked the door, and entrusted the key to the shoemaker living at the entrance before departing.

What is there to recount of my journey to Russia? My duties as an interpreter had abruptly snatched me away and cast me adrift among lofty clouds. During my time accompanying His Excellency’s entourage in Petersburg, what surrounded me was Parisian extravagance frozen within icy palace walls—legions of yellow wax candles illuminating constellations of medals and epaulettes, court ladies’ fans glinting before ornate stoves as they ignored winter’s bite. Being the most fluent French speaker in these circles meant I became chief mediator between host and guest alike.

During this time, I had not forgotten Elise—no, rather, it was because she sent letters daily that I could not forget her.
On the day of my departure, dreading more than ever facing the lamplight alone, I spent time conversing at an acquaintance’s residence until nightfall, waited until exhaustion overcame me before returning home, and immediately went to sleep.
When I awoke the next morning, I wondered if being left behind had not been a dream.
The desolation upon waking—such thoughts I had never entertained even in those days of hardship when we struggled for sustenance and went without food.
This was the essence of her first letter.

The subsequent letter appeared to have been composed under great emotional strain.
She commenced her missive with the word 'no'.
No—I now comprehend the profound depths of this heart that longs for you.
Since you profess having no dependable kin in your homeland, were there decent means of livelihood here, should I not stay?
Nor would I be detained even by my own affection.
Yet if you must return eastward still discontented, though going with my mother would be simple, whence could we procure such substantial travel funds?
Whatever trials I must endure, I had ever resolved to remain here awaiting your ascension—yet since your departure on what was deemed a brief journey, these twenty days have seen only the anguish of separation burgeon with each passing day.
To imagine our parting as mere transient hardship—this was my delusion.
My own irregular condition has grown increasingly evident, yet despite this, whatever may transpire, do not endeavor to cast me aside.
I contended vehemently with Mother.
But witnessing her resolve—so unlike my former self—my spirit faltered.
When we journey eastward, Mother declares we shall seek refuge with distant kin at a farmstead near Stettin.
As I previously wrote, should His Excellency appoint you to a position of consequence, my travel expenses might somehow be secured.
Now I merely await the day of your return to Berlin.

Ah, it was upon seeing this letter that I first gained clear sight of my position. Shameful was my dull heart. I had prided myself on possessing decisiveness—whether regarding my own advancement or retreat, or even matters concerning others that did not involve me—yet this decisiveness existed only in favorable circumstances, not in adversity. When I sought to illuminate the relationship between myself and others, the mirror within my breast that I had relied upon had clouded over.

His Excellency had already shown me great favor. Yet my nearsightedness had perceived only the duties I had fulfilled. That I might pin future hopes upon this—God alone must know—had never occurred to me. Yet now having realized this here, had my heart still remained cold? When my friend had earlier advised me, His Excellency’s trust had been like a bird perched upon a rooftop—yet now that I seemed to have somewhat gained it, Aizawa’s recent hints about “remaining thus together even after returning to our homeland” must have been his veiled way of conveying His Excellency’s declaration. As both friend and public servant, he likely refrained from stating it explicitly. Now that I reflect upon it, he must have informed His Excellency long ago of my rash declaration to him that I would sever ties with Elise.

Ah, when I first came to Germany, believing I had grasped my true calling and vowing not to become a mechanical being—was this not akin to a bird with bound legs briefly flapping its wings and boasting of newfound freedom? The strings binding my legs could not be undone. In times past, it was the official from my ministry who held these reins; now, alas, they lay in the hands of Count Amakata. When I returned to Berlin with His Excellency’s entourage, it was precisely New Year’s morning. After bidding farewell at the station, I drove a carriage toward my home. Here, even now, it remained the custom not to sleep on New Year’s Eve but to sleep on New Year’s Day; thus, all households lay in perfect stillness. The cold was intense, and the snow on the road had turned into angular ice fragments that glittered brilliantly under the clear sky. The carriage turned onto Klosterstraße and came to a halt at the entrance of the house. At that moment, there was the sound of a window opening, but from the carriage, its source remained unseen. I had the coachman carry my bag and was about to ascend the stairs when I encountered Elise running down them. When she let out a cry and embraced my neck, the coachman wore a dumbfounded expression and muttered something into his beard that I could not hear.

“How wonderful that you have returned.”
“Had you not returned, my life would have ended.”

Until this moment, my heart had remained unsettled; thoughts of my homeland and ambitions for advancement had at times sought to suppress affection. Yet in this single instant, all hesitation vanished—I embraced her, her head resting upon my shoulder as tears of joy fell freely upon it.

“To which floor shall I carry these?” shouted the coachman like a gong, already having climbed up and standing on the staircase.

Elise’s mother, who had come out to greet us at the door, handed a silver coin to the coachman with instructions to reward him, and I, led by Elise who took my hand, hurriedly entered the room.
With a single glance I was astonished; upon the desk were heaped white cotton cloths and white lace.

Elise, with a bashful laugh, pointed at this and said, “What do you think of these preparations?” As she picked up one of the cotton cloths, I saw it was swaddling clothes.
“Consider the joy in my heart.”
“The child to be born might have black eyes like yours.”
“These eyes.”
“Ah, what I have seen only in dreams is your black eyes.”
“On the day it is born—with your righteous heart—you would surely not let me give it a false name.”
He lowered his head.
“Though you may laugh at me as childish, how happy I would be on the day I enter the temple.”
Her upturned eyes were filled with tears.

For two or three days, assuming His Excellency too fatigued from travel to receive visitors, I remained secluded at home—until one evening when a summons arrived via a messenger.
When I went and saw him, the reception proved exceptionally gracious. After inquiring about the hardships of the Russian mission and offering consolation, he declared: “Might you not wish to return eastward with me? Though your scholarship lies beyond my measure, your linguistic skills alone would suffice for worldly utility. Given your prolonged residence here, I asked Aizawa whether various entanglements might exist—he assured me there were none, and thus I decided upon this course.”
There was no refusing his countenance.
“Ah!” I thought—yet could not deny the truth in Aizawa’s words. Were I not to grasp this proffered hand—were I to lose my homeland, sever the path to restoring my honor, and find myself buried in the vast sea of humanity within this European capital—such thoughts pierced my heart and surged forth.
Ah, what a heart devoid of steadfastness—that I answered, “I humbly accept.”

Even if there were an iron plaque, what would I say to Elise upon returning?
The turmoil in my heart when I left the hotel defied all comparison.
I could no longer tell east from west; walking absorbed in thought, I was repeatedly berated by coachmen of oncoming carriages and started aside in alarm.
When at length I looked up with a start, I found myself beside the zoological gardens.
Like one collapsing, I leaned against a roadside bench—resting my head against its back as though scorched by fire and hammered by a mallet—passing untold hours in deathlike stillness.
I awoke to cold piercing my bones: night had fallen with heavy snowflakes piling an inch deep on my hat brim and coat shoulders.

It must have been past eleven o'clock already; the tram tracks along Mohabit and Karl Street lay buried in snow, and the gas lamps by the Brandenburg Gate cast a desolate light.
When I tried to stand, my feet were frozen; rubbing them with both hands, I finally managed to walk.

Since my steps made no progress, by the time I reached Klosterstraße, midnight had likely already passed.
How I had walked the path to reach this point, I knew not.
As it was a night in early January, the taverns and teahouses of Unter den Linden must still have been bustling with patrons, yet I took no notice of it.
My mind was filled with nothing but the conviction that I was an unforgivable criminal.

In the fourth-floor attic, Elise seemed still awake; a single piercingly bright flame, when viewed against the dark sky, was clearly visible—now obscured by heron-like snowflakes falling thick and fast, now revealed again, as though tossed by the wind.
From the moment I entered the doorway, I became aware of my fatigue; as the pain in every joint grew unbearable, I climbed the stairs as though crawling.
Passing through the kitchen and opening the door to enter, I found Elise—who had been leaning over the desk sewing swaddling clothes—turn around and let out an “Ah!”
“What has happened to you?”
“Your appearance...”

Her shock was only natural—my ashen face akin to a corpse’s; my hat lost who knows when; hair wild and tangled; clothes stained with mud-streaked snow and torn in places from having fallen repeatedly on the road.

I tried to answer but no voice emerged; my knees trembled so violently I could not remain standing. I recall attempting to grasp a chair, but in that very moment collapsed to the ground.

It was several weeks later that I regained consciousness.

While I suffered from a violent fever and spoke only in delirium—which Elise tended to with devoted care—one day Aizawa came to visit. Having learned all the details I had kept hidden from him, he reported only my illness to His Excellency and made suitable arrangements.
I was astonished when I first saw Elise attending to me at my sickbed, her appearance so altered.
She had grown terribly emaciated over those weeks, her bloodshot eyes sunken and her gray cheeks hollowed.
Though Aizawa’s help ensured we lacked nothing in our daily needs, this benefactor had dealt her a spiritual deathblow.

Later, I heard that when she met Aizawa and learned of the promise I had given him, as well as the consent I had reported to His Excellency that evening, she suddenly leapt up from her seat, her face ashen as earth, and cried out, “My Toyotaro, have you deceived me so utterly?” before collapsing on the spot.
Aizawa called her mother, and together they laid her on the bed. When she awoke some time later, her eyes stared fixedly ahead—unrecognizing of those around her—as she cried out my name in vehement curses, tore at her hair, bit the futon, then suddenly seemed to regain awareness and began frantically searching for something.
She discarded everything her mother fetched and offered, but when given the swaddling clothes that lay on the desk, she groped for them, pressed them to her face, and wept.

From this point she no longer raged, but her mental faculties had almost entirely ceased—her dementia now akin to an infant’s.
When examined by a physician, it was pronounced “paranoia” brought on by acute mental strain, with no prospect of recovery.
They attempted to commit her to Dalldorf Mental Hospital, but she wailed and refused; thereafter she clung to that single swaddling cloth, drawing it out repeatedly to gaze upon before breaking into sobs.
Though I never left my sickbed, even this appeared devoid of conscious intent.
At intervals she would abruptly murmur, “Medicine—medicine,” as though startled into remembrance.

My illness had not healed at all.
How many times had Elise embraced this living corpse and shed a thousand rivulets of tears?
When I departed eastward in His Excellency's retinue, Aizawa and I had arranged to provide Elise's mother with capital enough to sustain a meager livelihood and had entrusted matters concerning the child soon to be born from that pitiful madwoman's womb.

Ah, a friend like Kenkichi Aizawa is one the world could rarely find again.
However, a single speck of hatred for him has remained in my mind even to this day.

(January 1890)