Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The first time I saw Y was either after the rice riots or while they were still ongoing—I don’t recall exactly—but in any case, it was at a meeting held at a comrade’s house around that time.
The impression from that time remained in my mind as nothing more than a certain kind of rudeness different from how people who had gathered until then spoke—he was talking about the disturbance he had witnessed—and the rustic white crepe sash that drooped limply and awkwardly from his hips when he stood up to leave, looking utterly out of place.
Until that time, he had still been working as a blacksmith in the Shinjuku area.

It was after we had been burned out by a fire in Tabata and moved to our house on the heights of Takinogawa that he began visiting my home more and more frequently.

As our interactions remained shallow and while he still kept some reserve, I found myself observing this peculiar, uneducated laborer—who nonetheless seemed surprisingly quick-witted—with keen interest.
Among the comrades too, his reputation stood exceptionally high.
Yet from around the time he began letting his brusqueness run unchecked, I could no longer overlook how every one of Y’s actions now carried a faint whiff of affectation.

We actually welcomed a certain brusqueness in those who visited our home, but there was an unpleasant exaggeration to Y’s brusqueness that somehow made me frown.

At first, reflecting on my own feelings of being unable to help but frown at Y’s behavior, I wondered, “Is it me who’s being unreasonable?”
But try as I might, I could not bring myself to wholeheartedly forgive Y’s behavior.

“Y’s brusqueness is one thing, but when it gets like this lately, I’m truly at my wit’s end.”

I often complained to O about this.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? He keeps stubbornly doing things like spitting into the hibachi or deliberately walking on the veranda with muddy feet."
"I try not to let it bother me since it’s trivial, but there’s something so unnatural about his behavior that I can’t stand it."
"If he were doing it innocently, I don’t think it would irritate me so much.”

“Hmm, well, there’s that aspect.”
“But unlike other comrades—even living this kind of life with us—Y still sometimes gets on our nerves.”
“It’s class-based antipathy after all.”
“Well, you should try not to let such things bother you as much as possible.”

“Yes, there’s no use worrying about it, but still.”
“But sometimes it truly makes me angry.”
“Even if he gets on my nerves, doesn’t he too come here looking quite content?”

I said while recalling scenes like Y entering the bright bathhouse singing popular songs at the top of his voice, then after bathing, sprawling on the rattan chair on the second-floor veranda to sunbathe with a face that looked ready to melt away.

“He’s an innocent, good man.”
“But that man doesn’t possess the sort of delicacy you’re concerned about.”
“People like you ought to observe a man like that as if he were a character from a novel—maintain more distance when watching him.”
“If you do that, even that man’s unpleasant traits will gradually become forgivable.”
“That man is a genuine barbarian, you see.”
“Just watch that guy when he’s fooling around with the goat and Chako.”
“He looks most entertaining then.”
“Because he’s fully become one of their lot by now.”

Truly, that appeared to be the most enjoyable time.
He rolled around playfully on the spacious south-facing grassy slope adjoining my garden, playing with our large pet dog and goat.
His sturdy body—which struck me as so animalistic it was almost frightening—rolled about like a child alongside the pure white goat as they were chased by the dog.
Then he would bask in the sun amidst the green grass, flopping down on his back to tease the dog.

II

O told me to view Y as if he were a character from a novel.
Though I too viewed him with somewhat similar sentiments, and though I could fully appreciate the childlike frankness born of his ignorance, nevertheless—even as he behaved with audacity—I could not turn a blind eye to that deeply rooted cunning which invariably sought to peer into the depths of others' hearts, nor to the shamelessness that exploited their goodwill nor the persistence that accompanied it.

However, during that period, he was engaging in the movement with tremendous zeal.
He created a small magazine in place of flyers with the help of comrades.
And he brought large numbers of day laborers from areas like Minami-Senju to his own home, holding gatherings and speeches while resisting pressure from the authorities to continue his bold propaganda efforts.

His mind progressed by leaps and bounds.
Everyone without exception was impressed that Y—who couldn’t even properly write his own name—had somehow come to freely speak difficult theories in complex language.
We too were troubled by his persistent questioning, yet he possessed a mind that could thoroughly master any concept once it took root within him.
He never let even the slightest remark from others go in one ear and out the other.
Even when comrades were conversing among themselves without involving him, Y would butt in, seize on some turn of phrase, and interrogate them until it made sense to him, often ruining important discussions.
Yet through those persistent questions, he advanced his self-taught knowledge.
And he never failed to apply those half-understood theories to his past life.
His self-taught knowledge gradually took shape in that manner.
At times, he was often laughed at by young comrades for his half-understood words and theories, but even so, he never became discouraged by such things.

At that time, quite a large number of workers had gathered among us, but most were printers who did not engage in severe manual labor and had reached a fairly advanced stage of intellectual development, so for us, workers like Y—or those Y gathered—were extremely rare.
Though their doubts were simple and ignorant, just like the many workers we had since encountered, they understood what we said with surprising clarity.
It goes without saying that Y’s efforts had contributed significantly to propaganda work targeting those people our own capabilities could never reach.
Because of that, he was fully recognized by O and many comrades.
Everyone treated Y with considerable care.

From the time I noticed that, I began to perceive that Y’s demeanor was gradually changing.
The unpleasant exaggerations in his rudeness grew increasingly pronounced.
By that time, he had already begun deliberately wearing a kimono blackened with grime and oil, then rolling around on the tatami mats.
Declaring arrogantly, "How can there be any labor movement if you're fussing over lice?" he began exaggeratingly scratching his body—which wasn’t even itchy—with vigorous motions.
And even in his earnest discussions about the labor movement, considerable exaggeration began creeping in.

To those engrossed in propagandizing the newly interested laborers, such matters naturally mattered little and seemed to go unnoticed.
However, for me—who had been trying to view him "as if he were a character from a novel" while constantly enduring psychological pressure from him—it gradually became clear that he was growing complacent in his position as a comrade laborer cherished by everyone.

III

Another major cause that made Y complacent and subsequently plunged him into even worse corruption was the simple fact that "the police weren't scary."

It was shortly after we had moved to the house in Takinogawa.

O ended up going to Y’s house for some errand.
O had previously gone to see that house once and now insisted on taking me there.
At the time, Y lived in a small back-alley tenement in Asakusa’s Tanaka-cho together with Mr. M, who had been his mentor all along.
I went out one evening, half out of curiosity, carrying my child on my back.

It was a one-room house of four and a half tatami mats.
Moreover, only half of those four-and-a-half tatami mats had wooden flooring serving as the kitchen area, while the closet at the far end was split—half remained a closet and half became the toilet.
When I entered the alleyway and was overwhelmed by an indescribable stench, upon entering Y’s house I found myself still tormented by that same odor.

When our conversation grew lively and it became somewhat late as we prepared to leave, Y would persistently urge us to stay the night.
I was astonished at that unreasonable request.
True to form, Mr.M was,
“Wouldn’t letting people stay in a place like this be a nuisance?”
Mr.M had been trying to stop Y, but Y paid absolutely no heed to such things.
“If we all squeeze together, eight people can sleep here!” he vehemently insisted.
“For educational purposes, let’s try putting up with it and stay the night,” O said, turning to face me.

O turned to me and said.

“What an education!”

Mr. M also gave a pained smile while looking at my face.

“You couldn’t see what this area’s like at night at all, could you?”
“Why don’t we stay the night so you can get a better look around in the morning?”
“It seems quite late already.”

“Yes.”

I reluctantly decided to stay as well.

That night I endured all night long - the discomfort of rough sleeping in a thin futon, unable to turn over to keep my child from getting cold or cramped, half my body numb and aching - regretting why hadn't I just gone home alone?

Mr. M had left early for work.
O too appeared not to have slept, immediately turning around whenever the child stirred slightly.
Y alone appeared to be sleeping comfortably.

When Y got up, we too tightened our sashes again and went outside to wash our faces.
Lined up along the row of tenement gates, people stood watching us curiously.
When I hurriedly washed my face, I entered the house as if fleeing.

According to a story Y heard from the neighbors, since last night, three detectives had entered the alleyway, leaving the entire tenement in an uproar.
Soon, the three of us went outside.

When we emerged onto the main street and walked a short distance, our tailing detail of three detectives immediately latched on right behind us.

“I don’t mind you tailing us, but I’d like you to hang back a bit more when you do.”

As they were being too noisy, I said that to one of the men.
He puffed out his cheeks and glared at me.
I paid no heed and, having fallen slightly behind, hurried to catch up with Y and O.

But when I noticed, they were still coming right behind us.

“Don’t you understand what I just told you?”

I said while glaring at the man from earlier.

“I don’t take unnecessary orders.”

He spitefully retorted.

“Unnecessary orders? You’re tailing us right now—do you even know the basic principles of surveillance? Don’t you know how to conduct proper tailing?”

“You don’t need to spout unnecessary nonsense.”

He had barely finished speaking with that terrifying expression when O came storming back.

“What?! Say that again! What’s unnecessary about it? Were you bastards ordered to tail people in a way that causes public nuisance?”

“Whether it’s a nuisance or not, we’re carrying out our duties.”

He turned pale and shrugged his shoulders.

“Fine, I won’t waste time on scum like you.
Come on!
I’ll take this up with the Chief!”

O suddenly seized the man by the throat.

“What’s this brutishness?!”

he cried out, but could no longer offer resistance.
The remaining two detectives cowardly split to either side of the road to avoid notice, trailing behind with timid expressions.

The people on the street were vacantly watching this strange spectacle.
Most people recognized the face of the detective now being choked and dragged away.

Y’s face was deathly pale.
When told by O to guide them to the Nihon-zutsumi police station, he flashed a strangely timid expression and walked without uttering a proper word.
Even so, when asked once or twice by acquaintances along the way,

“Oh, it’s nothing. That idiot’s a fool, you see. We’re taking him to the police to give him what for.”

and explained with a touch of pride.
At Nihon-zutsumi Station, since it was still early, the police chief had not yet arrived.
The inspector who happened to be present flew into a rage upon seeing the dragged-along surveillance detective’s face and, refusing to listen to anything O or Y said, began shouting from the outset about arresting them.
In the meantime, I slipped out and visited the police chief’s house nearby.
Having found it quickly, when I arrived, the police chief was already about to leave.
I briefly explained the situation and urged him to head straight to the station—just then, O and Y arrived.
The police chief unexpectedly understood the matter.
We had our surveillance detail replaced and returned home.

IV

Whether this small incident had made a particularly profound impression on Y or not, for some time afterward, he never ceased boasting about it, insisting that the police were not in the least to be feared.
To everyone, this was a source of bitter amusement, but Y suddenly grew bolder toward the police from then on.
And each time he bested the police, he further indulged his innate arrogance.
The people in the area where he lived were those who feared the police even more than ordinary people in society.
In the midst of this, Y would demonstrate to his heart's content—by making full use of his comrades' power—how to outmaneuver the swarming groups of officers at every meeting and rally, taking pride in his exploits.
Everyone, with a rather tolerant attitude, made his childishness into a source of jokes.

But he was dead serious.
He earnestly explained how declaring “the police are nothing” would draw attention our way.
His arguments contained several valid points.
According to him, the very notion that police bullied the working class was pure fantasy.
Thus they were both deathly afraid and seething with resentment.
Therefore, he insisted our clashes with police served as the ultimate method to seize their interest.
He embraced this belief while running wild with abandon.
Yet one could easily picture how he basked in those awestruck stares from his surroundings.

The police began having trouble handling this reckless man.
And they promptly started taking measures to drive him out.
At the same time, the surveillance detectives began using various underhanded methods to minimize their mistakes caused by this man.
Y—this inherently vain yet gullible man—quickly started succumbing to the flattery of other surveillance officers.
Though being ridiculed, he swaggered about with the air of someone who alone had risen to greatness.
Simultaneously, through another aspect of his inherent cunning, his shamelessness began operating flawlessly.
He began proudly boasting of his status as a full-fledged comrade by repeatedly intimidating the surveillance detectives into paying his train fares or taking him to eateries.
At the same time, he started creating magazines to distribute as promotional flyers and quit his blacksmithing job.
And he tried covering part of the printing costs through advertisements.
This advertisement solicitation became a source of anxiety for O, who knew about the dangerous aspect Y possessed.

“He’s a good man, but if those bad tendencies of his keep surfacing, he’ll end up leaving the movement.”

O often said that.
But at that time, we simply could not provide enough assistance to keep Y from needing to do that.
Sure enough, Y gradually began to exhibit that unscrupulous, shyster-like audacity.
That audacity escalated rapidly, especially after he had begun to completely look down on the police.

Since he began growing arrogant, the only ones who occasionally made bitter remarks were Mr. M and O, who had constantly been by his side educating and supporting him.
Even he looked up to Mr. M—who, though younger, was far superior in both wisdom and knowledge—with both respect and awe.

But eventually, even Mr.M reached a point of half-resigned indifference.
Everyone was daunted by his audacity and began steering clear of him.
But he began attributing this to his own growing importance.
By that time, he had thoroughly become an unmanageable tyrant among his comrades.
No one cherished him anymore as they had a little while before.

V

Around that very time, Y caused trouble over the commotion at his rented house and was arrested.
It was the summer of 1919—a summer during a year when labor movements had been burgeoning—and the Metropolitan Police Department became desperate, devoting themselves to arresting socialists attempting to launch movements by capitalizing on this momentum.
And at the same time as Y, O too was being interrogated one after another under various charges.
Y was promptly indicted and imprisoned.
The comrades who had harbored some concern over his slightly divergent lifestyle all rejoiced that a good opportunity had come.

Before being imprisoned, when I met him at the Metropolitan Police Department, Y had been in remarkably high spirits.
Yet when I thought about him after his imprisonment, he seemed pitiable.
He could not even properly write his own name.
Prior to that, he had told me how people mocked him for being unable to write his full name properly, and since he wanted to learn just his official domicile and full name, he had asked me to write a model example for him.
However, I know full well that the sample I wrote at his meek request likely never stayed in his pocket even a single day.
He had been obsessive—more than enthusiastic—about memorizing arguments, yet made no effort whatsoever to learn reading on his own.
Such painstaking tasks were simply too much trouble for him.

Given that he was such a man, he could not write even a single postcard addressed to his comrades, nor could he read the letters he had taken pains to receive.
And he—who could not stay still for even a moment, his body brimming with such vigorous health that remaining motionless proved unbearable—was crammed into a tiny prison cell.
When I pictured this, it truly seemed pitiful.

G, ever meticulous in tending to comrades, would haul his own frail frame to visit him and attend to his needs.
It emerged that Y could at last read printed kana.
Thus G diligently supplied him with books properly annotated with furigana.
Yet by then Y had already made considerable headway through self-taught knowledge.
Consequently, even books seemingly suitable for him—however elementary or simple—proved exceedingly scarce when requiring furigana annotations.
Should the material prove too rudimentary, he would fly into a rage without hesitation.

Sympathizing with the hardship of his reading—picking out furigana with great effort—G once tried providing something entertaining that wouldn’t feel too heavy, sending in a kōdan-style book like one about Saigō Takamori or something similar.
Contrary to expectations that he would read it with pleasure, he instead became extremely angry.
“If you bring me kōdan-style books, the guards will mock me,” he said.
Everyone could do nothing but laugh at his childish, simple vanity.
Given all this, finding reading materials for him was a significant burden for G.
Supplying books to imprisoned comrades may seem like a simple, trivial matter on the surface, but in reality, there was nothing more troublesome and laborious than this.
If it had been simply a matter of providing something to read without caring what it was, that would have been one thing.
To make them even slightly presentable and avoid waste, while considering the mental environment as a prisoner and incorporating that into one’s thoughts—it truly was a real task.
Even with that laborious task of sending supplies, G would often complain, “Nothing is as troublesome as this.”

However, Y remained utterly indifferent, voicing his selfish demands without restraint—or rather, imposing them through his inherent, excessive audacity.
As he had always publicly declared, once imprisoned, he held no other thought than that his comrades were obligated to look after him by any means necessary.
He continued being as willful as possible during his time in the detention center.

During that period, O was repeatedly arrested and released until finally being held in detention pending trial, but was released on bail immediately after the first trial had concluded.
However, Y was immediately designated as convicted following the first trial's verdict and sent to Nakano Prison.

He served his six-month prison term there.
After being downgraded to convicted status, during his prison term, all communication with his comrades ceased.
He was not permitted to read books with furigana and could not write letters.

VI

He was released upon completing his prison term in January of the following year.
We had published the first issue of Labor Movement during the previous year when O was out on bail.
O had been imprisoned by late December and was absent, but three or four comrades remained at the house continuing the magazine.
Having been released from prison with nowhere else to go, they decided to let him stay for a while.

Even Y had returned with the pallid complexion of someone newly released from prison, having grown quite thin.
Yet still he energetically regaled everyone with stories of his unusual jailhouse experiences.

Prior to that, I had welcomed about three former prisoners already, but though prison life followed uniform regulations under a single standard, I found it fascinating how everyone's accounts strongly exhibited their own distinctive characteristics in their own ways.
Particularly intriguing were the observations about his isolated life from simple Y—Y, who knew nothing of loneliness.

It was said he had raged almost constantly throughout his imprisonment.
Until the final day of his prison term, they claimed he had endured reduced rations as punishment.
Moreover, he insisted this punishment wouldn't end unless he remained incarcerated three more days.

The only time he could engage in conversation during his imprisonment was when receiving visits from the prison chaplain.
The prison chaplain persistently tried to persuade him.
Yet despite his erudition, the prison chaplain was always outmatched by Y’s uneducated logic.

"But there was just one thing that stumped me."

He said this to me.

"Since he lost to an uneducated guy like me, he must’ve been really pissed off."
“One time when he came, he said, ‘You claimed that everyone’s equal and people shouldn’t move at others’ commands—that having people who give orders is wrong.’"
"But look—take the human body, right? You’ve got the head, the torso, hands, legs—and inside there’s all sorts of organs working away."
"If you ask how all these different parts keep working, it’s because there’s this central command in the brain that makes them move on its orders."
“This world works exactly the same way, you know.”
“‘Without a command center, nothing can move’—he spouts like that.”
"Ah, right. Since I didn’t know a damn thing about how the body works, I was stuck for a reply."
Then the damn chaplain sneered, "See? That proves it, doesn’t it?"
"I was frustrated, but I kept my mouth shut."
"Then he had the nerve to say, ‘Think carefully—what you’re saying is definitely wrong.’"

“Damn it was so frustrating! To hell with work and everything else! I spent half a day—right into the night—thinking it through before I finally figured it out. Then when that chaplain came around again, I told him off: ‘What I'm saying ain't wrong. I’m uneducated and don’t know how the human body works, but when you’ve walked so much you’re dead tired, no matter how much you want to keep walking, your legs won’t move forward. When your hand hurts, no matter how much you try to move it, it won’t budge. And no matter how much you try to eat, even if you stuff your mouth full, your stomach’ll just throw it back up. So even then, does every last thing just do whatever the head says? And even if every part works by obeying the head’s commands—what’re you gonna do if there’s no one to listen to those commands? Isn’t it that what you call a central command exists because there are feet, because there are hands—because there are workers? That damn central command ain’t working through its own power alone, is it? Then everywhere’s fifty-fifty, ain’t it? I ain’t wrong.’ Then, this time, the damn chaplain shut his trap and didn’t say another word after that.”

He always spoke in rough language when he got carried away in conversation, as he did with everyone.

“Impressive.”
“Yet… you couldn’t possibly have devised such reasoning.”

“Ah, I was so frustrated I gave it my all.”
“See? I ain’t wrong, am I?”

VII

He kept talking about how deeply he had been moved by "Commoner's Science," which Mr. G had provided while he was in detention.
That was when he first came to know the wonder and fascination of such learning.
At the same time, he enthusiastically extolled the remarkable qualities of scholars.

Around that same time, there was another young comrade named N at my house who had grown quite knowledgeable from reading extensively in prison.
N had also read a great many science books at the Sugamo Juvenile Detention Center.
With his astonishing memory, he retained most of what he had read.
Y listened with admiration to N's extensive knowledge.

I had worried considerably about what would happen if Y started staying at the house—but when I saw how completely settled he had become, I was no less surprised.
He took it upon himself every morning to handle the cooking duties that everyone was supposed to take turns doing each morning and evening.
Following the habits he’d acquired in prison, he kept places like the kitchen unexpectedly tidy with a rag in hand.
When free, he would be reading something.
And sometimes he would ask me to read him a good book if there was one available.

However, reading books to Y was something no one could endure.
For while it was fine when he would listen and raise questions as they arose, if he felt something along the way, he would completely forget about the book and launch into thirty minutes or even an hour of outlandish ramblings all by himself.
If it were someone as young as N, before you knew it, things would escalate into a heated debate.
Even without that, there was simply no way anyone could have the patience to wait for his rambling to end before continuing to read.

However, my admiration vanished in a short time. As Y regained his health, he began to sprawl throughout the narrow house. In particular, he began to show the resentment he had held toward us from the very beginning. At that time, when I—in my poor health that kept me alternating between bedrest and getting up—could not come out to the kitchen, he would brazenly force upon us meals that blatantly harassed me while pleasing no one. Then he would bring lodgers from nearby flophouses and give them alms of reheated leftover rice and other scraps. He would sit cross-legged in the cramped kitchen, making those filthy beggar-like people eat food we’d be ashamed to even give to dogs, all while "preaching" his principle of siding with the poor. Even when other comrades and I criticized him for serving such wretched meals followed by those unwelcome "sermons," he never showed any sign of being deterred. And he would visit two or three of the nearby flophouses and be completely satisfied by everyone’s flattery. The people at those flophouses were not a single vigorous young man among them—only frail, helpless old people who had nowhere else to turn.

At that time, there were four or five comrades working at our house, though our finances were severely strained.
We did manage to publish a magazine, but it was utterly impossible for that alone to sustain so many people.
Through advertising fees, royalties from O's few books, and subsidies received here and there, we somehow managed to scrape by during O's absence.
This financial situation was well understood by everyone.
In the drawer of the tea cupboard in the living room, money was always kept.
Everyone was permitted to freely take whatever small expenses they needed from there.
Yet among our comrades, not a single person ever took even a penny wastefully from that drawer.

Since I had children to support and spent money on extras besides, I kept my personal allowance entirely separate. That too barely sufficed through occasional manuscript fees from writing during spare moments, a portion of royalties, and supplements from acquaintances.

Y, against this financial backdrop, showed his resentment toward me most blatantly by taking not a single penny from the communal fund for all his expenses—from tobacco to pocket money—instead persistently targeting only my meager purse. By then I already fully understood his resentment, so I always silently handed it over. According to him, the manuscript fees and royalties that came into our possession were money earned without expending any effort. And he declared it perfectly acceptable to brazenly seize what he wanted. That we went to such pains in our writing was something that never entered his considerations.

VIII

Around the time his resentment toward me became blatant, he also resumed his previous rudeness toward our comrades.
Daily heated arguments began erupting between him and young N.
And finally, he left my house.

By that time, Y had already lost all means of livelihood.
He showed not the slightest inclination to work again as a blacksmith.
Compelled by circumstances, he began drifting between comrades' homes that could accommodate a freeloader.
By late March—around when O completed his three-month prison term and was released—every shred of hope I'd held for Y's future had vanished.
Yet even then, he didn't yet appear to have strayed so disastrously from his own path.

However, it was around the time when we vacated Akebono-cho that he began to show clear resentment toward O.
I do not claim those base motives directly caused it, but I hold one question: whether the unpleasant feelings received at that time, combined with his long-held resentment toward our lifestyle, became his subsequent criticism of our way of living thereafter.

That was not many days after O had been released from prison.
When he came out of prison, he became obsessed with satisfying his long-suppressed craving for food.
And he sought every opportunity to eat the best food he could get.
What he immediately thought of was holding a thank-you gathering for those who had worked during his absence.
Since he desired my home cooking, on the day before the scheduled date, I went out with O to buy the ingredients.
In O's eyes—still starved for proper food—the early-season vegetables stood out particularly.
We bought and brought back a considerable amount of bamboo shoots, green peas, eggplants, cucumbers, and such.
O was helping with the preparation of vegetables, as he always did when I cooked.
At that moment, Mr. M appeared with Y in tow.

The guests we had invited that day were only the four or five people already present inside and two or three others who had directly supported the magazine.
Even that alone was already too much for our narrow house and meager furnishings, but the addition of two more guests created a tremendous upset.
I was working while pondering various things and thinking how troublesome it was that the unceremonious Y had intruded upon today's carefully planned thank-you gathering.

Then, before long, the two guests left.

“Did they leave?”

I looked up at O, who had returned to the kitchen, and asked.

“Oh, they left. When Mr.M tried to leave, that bastard Y said, ‘You expect me to go home just after seeing bamboo shoots in March? I’m staying for dinner!’ So I told him, ‘You’re not an invited guest today—we can’t feed you. Get out,’ and sent him packing.”

“What a nuisance.”

“What a difficult person.”

I could only say that.
At the same time, while I felt nothing but relief regarding the brazen Y, I somehow felt apologetic toward Mr. M.

Before long, we discontinued the magazine temporarily and moved to Kamakura.

That winter, he came to visit two or three times before we began the second "Labor Movement," but by then he had somehow come to harbor resentment toward us while also keeping his distance. And upon leaving, he would invariably make O empty his meager wallet, and in the end, even went so far as to take O’s clothes to pawn.

After that, we knew he was already vehemently badmouthing O.
Through comrades, he began demanding money under the pretext of starting a magazine.
But O paid no heed whatsoever to those solicitations made through others.

After O began the second "Labor Movement," Y clearly started to show hostility.
At the same time, he himself began publishing a magazine as well, which ultimately became the direct cause—just as O had predicted—of drawing him away from genuine activism and reducing him to a mere ruffian.
We began hearing stories that he was going around among comrades in various regions, collecting money.
Before long, we began hearing various rumors that he had sold out O and his comrades.

Every single outrageous act he had committed against his comrades before departing for Russia was more than enough to destroy all credibility he possessed as a human being.
Even after that, he simply kept living—deceiving both himself and others through deceptions he could no longer survive without.
He was now driven into circumstances where he could likely maintain no trust whatsoever among his comrades or at least among those people closely associated with them.

However, his inherent audacity and self-conceit still prevented him from awakening to the abyss of his corruption.
Every time I recalled the remarkable zeal he had shown in his early activism and the passion he still possessed—now entirely concealed—I could not help feeling profound regret for him.
Yet I could never dismiss his shamelessly brazen acts that had strayed into immoral paths as mere lapses.

—January 1923—