Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

This ceaselessly flowing great river—I once wondered where it might spring from.
It was when I traveled with a blue-eyed maiden born in Vienna, the two of us gazing upon this great river's flow.
It was a late spring afternoon.
Then on another occasion, I went to witness this river's vast turbid torrents inundating the land and threatening to breach even the floodplain's boundaries.
Was it an early winter afternoon?
Around that time, newsreels showed actual footage of these floods—scenes like crowds gathering around a horse carcass washed ashore by the turbid currents.
At that time too, I wondered where the source of this great river might be.

Following the map, the river emerges thin from the mountains of southwestern Germany. After arriving in Minken, I bought a book titled Die Donau. This was compiled by Schweiger-Lerchenfeld and published in Vienna in 1896. I cherished this book and would often peruse it. Within it, centered around the Donau, were geography, hydrology, nautical science, anthropology, archaeology, natural history, and history. Even among great rivers, there was something deeply moving in how it distinguished between the Volga and Danube’s differing characters. Then, when looking at old pictorial maps of Vienna along the Danube, a nostalgic feeling would still well up—one that was not solely due to Johann Strauss’s song with lines like “Spiegelt sich in deiner Wellen Tanz.”

I wanted to see with my own eyes that thin stream marked on the map and resolved to use the Easter holiday for this purpose.
Therefore, on April 18, 1924, I departed Minken on the 7:30 a.m. train.
This train was an express heading toward Stuttgart via Augsburg and Ulm.
I settled myself in that third-class carriage.
This morning, the landlady Hillenbrand had woken me at six o'clock and served me breakfast.

Although it was still early morning, farmers were already working in the fields.
I noticed wives taking hold of the oxen’s reins and husbands guiding plows—yet today was Karfreitag.
Despite being the Friday before Easter, I noticed farmers working like this.
Even when I went to the outskirts of Vienna, many farmers were working on Sundays.
This did not serve as proof that they lacked piety.
However, as it was still cold spring, only a few fields had been fully plowed.
Because field mice scampered freely through areas still covered in winter-dried grass, overturned soil had formed what looked like several small mounds.
As the train continued on its way, I caught glimpses of water flowing straight through the fields, and birch forests giving way to pine groves, then fir woods, then deciduous woodlands.
However, it could be said that the general scenery primarily consisted of fields and grasslands with gentle slopes.
This was the same in Austria as well.

When I read the newspaper I had bought at Minken Station, there was an article about Japanese people. When immigration issues involving Japan had become contentious in the United States of America, such articles occasionally appeared in German newspapers as well. The article concerning today’s Japanese people was naturally an association stemming from the issues with America. A considerable time before the Great War had broken out, a reporter had traveled to Russia. In that same train were also five or six Japanese international students. One time, to alleviate the boredom of the train journey, they all shared a meal and drank sake. Some of the Japanese international students drank merrily and chatted animatedly, but a few remained silent, saying nothing. Yet one of the silent ones, through some impulse, declared: “We would think nothing of laying down our lives for His Majesty the Emperor.” This had struck the reporter as an eerie implication resonating with something unspoken. Thereupon the reporter asked, “What is the name of His Majesty the Emperor who currently reigns in your country?” Then the silent international student answered, “We would never presume to utter His Majesty the Emperor’s august name.” And he added, “Because that would be too august.” Such was the story; now recalling those words of the silent international student, the reporter sought to establish some connection with the American issue. And the reporter firmly believed that Japanese citizens would sacrifice their lives for the Emperor at any time. Then, by calling them “schweigsame Japaner” (silent Japanese), he insinuated there that they were an unsettling people.

I read that article and smiled inwardly.
And then I thought that silent international student must not have known to reverently pronounce His Majesty the Emperor's august name as Mutsuhito.
However, after reading this article, I closed my eyes and sank into thought for a while.

In those days, German cartoon magazines also featured this sort of thing. First was drawn a scene where a long-tailed monkey had entered the bedroom of an old man wearing a silk hat adorned with a star. The old man grabbed the monkey’s tail and said, “The damned Jap has no business here with me!” Next, the old man firmly gripped the monkey’s tail with both hands and tried to fling it out. The old man wore a look of rage, his silk hat having flown off. The monkey, trying not to be thrown out, clung with both hands and clamped its teeth onto the seat of the old man’s nightclothes. In the next panel, the old man’s white hair already stood on end. The monkey's body stretched and bent, looking ready to snap. Yet still, in its desperation, the monkey bit down on the nightclothes, causing them to slip off and fully expose the old man’s buttocks. And the old man’s eyes blazed fiercely. I thought this drawing was quite skillful. What I found skillful was its artistry, but now the plot came floating into my mind. I recalled that picture and became lost in thought for a while.

This newspaper also reported that the immigration bill had already been decided through an April 17th dispatch from Washington.
Speaking of April 17th—that was yesterday.
The Paris dispatch also reported that Ambassador Ishii had visited Poincaré for discussions.
It further added that although France and Japan maintained friendly relations, regarding this issue, France would likely adopt a stance of non-intervention.
To me, matters of a nation felt too vast.
Yet if we reduced this to personal relationships, examples were far from scarce.

However, that interval could not have been more than about ten minutes. Outside the window, red roofs appeared and disappeared from hills with gentle curves. In a field path stood a crucifix of Jesus. A small marsh came into view, its quiet water lying still. I contemplated the concept of nation. I contemplated ethnic groups. I contemplated cosmopolites. However, such notions imperceptibly grew hazy.

II

No sooner had I drifted off briefly in the train carriage than we arrived at Augsburg. Large temples came into view, and the houses suddenly appeared taller. A girl in shabby clothes came to the train window, attempting to sell bread, smoked meat, and Easter eggs. Her thin voice calling "Osterei!Osterei!" as she walked held a somehow poignant air. The eggs were uniformly dyed brown or bore various patterns. No one near me was making any purchases. My heart wavered momentarily, but something within restrained me, and ultimately I did not buy the eggs.

At the station, next to a police notice offering a reward of several hundred marks for a murderer, I also noticed a small poster offering twenty gold marks for the recovery of a stolen briefcase.

Around the time we passed Offingen Station, the entire area was a deciduous forest with logging actively underway. Violets bloomed profusely along the embankment. By the banks of a small stream there, iris-like plants had already sprouted. Tall willowherbs grew throughout the area, their flowers past full bloom and beginning to fade. I thought, "We must be nearing some current." When we had gone a little further, sure enough, there flowed the Danube right beside us. My heart leaped. Through the willowherb thickets, I could see the Danube flowing with increased water plants, its waters swelling as if to submerge the banks—the very 'spirit of plenitude.' The train continued along the Danube for some time. Two young men strolled along that bank without coats now. As our train passed, they squinted our way before vigorously waving their hands in cheerful salute.

The train arrived at Ulm, and I got off.

The large cathedral could be seen rising up immediately from the row of houses.
Since it was still quite some time until noon, I left my suitcase at the station and went into town.
Ulm was a prosperous city from the fourteenth to fifteenth century and remains the capital of Württemberg even today.
Old buildings still remain here and there.
When I approached the Münster cathedral, I could hear the sound of a mournful song behind its closed doors.
And travelers like myself could not enter inside.
Since there was nothing to be done, I left that place and headed down towards the lower area.
There stood an ancient stone gate.
Weathered by time and exuding desolation, I passed through its arch.
Then I immediately emerged at the bank of the Danube.
Along the bank stretched a promenade paved with stones that resembled a stone corridor.
The stone walls on both sides had considerable thickness—children were walking atop them.
Young children clung to these walls from below on tiptoe, stretching their backs to barely glimpse the Danube’s waters.
A great many people moved back and forth along that promenade.
Among them sat some conversing on the stone walls.
While walking there, they called out loudly to people in houses beyond.
The houses beyond all stood old-fashioned with painted patterns lingering on their walls.
I walked through that crowded street unnoticed.
Unlike in Minken’s case, no voices shouted “Japs!” here.
Quietly passing through while keeping an old fortress remnant visible to my right, I made my way down toward the water’s edge.

Here, the Danube’s waters flowed in rather swift currents.
As I stood at the water’s edge watching them soak the bank’s grass, the river appeared ordinary - almost easily crossable to the opposite shore.
Yet when I took in at a glance the entire scene - from upstream waters flowing downward to form rapids that roared before rushing away downstream - even this stretch of the Danube retained an indomitable quality.

There along that shore stood a crude structure built for swimming. There, children's playful graffiti could also be seen. Scrawling things like "8 tung!"—two or three of them—which was a pun on "Achtung." Among them were also some where characters had been written in decorative patterns with childish whimsy. Even I, traveling with the carefreeness of one released from a prison cell, found myself profoundly aware that I was indeed in a foreign land.

The sky was perfectly clear, and the sun had already risen to the zenith. Crouching at the water's edge where the Danube flowed clear and limpid, I looked thinking there might be fish swimming, but not a single one was visible. Then I thought there might at least be young fish, but those too were nowhere to be seen. Downstream, a tributary joined in. This was the Blau River. There five or six people were fishing. Ducks kept dipping into and emerging from the water. Fourteen or fifteen elementary school students passed by. What caught my eye was how they all wore white hats.

“Well then, shall I serve you a carp? It’s from the Danube!”

“That’s unusual, isn’t it? Do cook it well for me.”

“Very well. How do you have it in your country?”

“Hmm. It’s rather particular—first we’d simmer it with something like Maggi broth. There are various ways. You see, Japan being a place where we eat much fish, our cooking methods have become quite developed.”

“Is that so? Japan lies in the direction of Kina*, does it not? About how many days does the journey take?”

“Well, about fifty days by ship, I suppose.”

“Oh!” With that, the landlady raised her right hand in a peculiar manner and headed off to the kitchen.

This was a small eatery bearing a sign that read "Wirtschaft zum Ulmerspatz."
I left the riverbank, viewed the various murals on the city hall walls, peeked into the municipal bathhouse, browsed shops displaying works by radical painters that seemed out of place in such a town, and thus came to enter this eatery.
The portly landlady, having made up her mind, amiably leaned over me as she explained they weren't serving meat that day, and since there were eggs and fish available, such exchanges as these began.
Here I was eating carp and quietly feeling a sense of happiness.
Then I stopped drinking wine and had a beer called Goldochsen-Bier.
This might not be a connoisseur's drink, but I found myself taken with its faint floral aroma reminiscent of plant blossoms.
My palate was on par with that of the residents here in Ulm.

The physicist Einstein was also born in this town.
Around that time, having learned that the sister of Siebold (1796-1866)—who had close connections with Japan—resided in the outskirts, I tried asking the landlady about it. No sooner had she given me another quizzical look than she called over her husband. That her husband too wore a baffled expression was only natural.
I felt somewhat amused, settled the bill, and left the place.

Having freed myself from mental restraint, I looked at the sundial still remaining on the cathedral wall.
In the center of the sundial, a golden light was drawn like flames, and there the shadow of the gnomon was cast.
This cathedral is a grand Gothic-style structure whose construction began in the thirteenth century and was completed around the sixteenth century.
Indeed, sparrows were perched there pecking at straw.
This must be the Ulmer-Spatz.
The various carvings and spires were jumbled together in disarray, and I found it somehow oppressive.
As a traveler, a compulsion to not overlook such things stirred in the depths of my consciousness, yet weariness and irritation negated it.
Would even those who go on art pilgrimages feel the same way, I wonder?

III

I paid the fee and ascended the cathedral tower. As I climbed each narrow stone step, the beer I had drunk was coursing through me, making my heart pound uncontrollably. When I closed my eyes to rest, lively footsteps began sounding from below, and a boy would energetically overtake me. While I was struggling to climb up, several people overtook me like this. Because wind welled up from below, there were times I rested thinking the airflow here was quite well designed. However, I finally climbed to the summit.

The sky was beautifully clear, and the wind at the tower's summit proved quite strong. When I grabbed hold and peered down below, the people and horses walking through the town already appeared ant-sized. I felt dizzy. I tried to accustom my eyes by gazing downward for a while, but it wasn't something one could get used to so abruptly.

The Danube where I had just stood on the bank now appeared small far below. The boys walking along its banks looked like sesame seeds. Yet this time I could see the Danube meandering as it demarcated national borders in its entirety. To the north lay Württemberg, and to the south lay Bavaria. I watched the Danube—thus marking countries—gradually narrowing as it flowed westward. The country I had left behind stretched as an expanse of plains where villages nestled among undulating hills and scattered forests. There the Danube curved gently, flowing with a silvery gleam. As its current seemed about to vanish into distant spring heat haze, it appeared like a silken thread.

The eastern Danube too had finally disappeared into the country's interior.
I wiped the tears from my eyes and looked again at the eastern Danube.
The Danube merges with the Iller here.
This river originates from the Algäu Mountains in southern Bavaria.
Next comes its confluence with the Lech.
The Lech too springs from the Alpine ranges of southern Bavaria, its course passing through Augsburg.
Following eastward, one finds its junction with the Isar.
The Isar likewise emerges from distant southern highlands, flows north through Mindelheim, turns northeast, and ultimately joins the Danube where Deggendorf stands at its mouth.
Reaching Austria's border, it meets the Inn.
The Inn rises in Austrian mountains bordering southern Bavaria, flows east then north into Germany, merges with the Salzach, and finally pours into the Danube.
Where these waters commingle lies Passau.

The Danube entered Austria, flowed eastward, and reached Hungary.
Along its banks lay Linz, Wien, and Budapest.
After Budapest, it abruptly turned southward, traversed the Balkan nations, and finally flowed into the Black Sea.
In the Balkans through which the Danube flowed lay Serbo-Croat-Slovene.
There lay Romania.
There lay Bulgaria.

Along the banks before entering Austria there were additionally other towns and cities such as Donauwörth, Lechsmund, Ingolstadt, Abbach, and Regensburg.
These cities, all connected to the Danube, had prospered temporarily.
A town like Ingolstadt had already made its name with a university by the fifteenth century.
I was atop the cathedral tower, thinking too about how such cities had prospered and declined.

Then I dimly contemplated matters like nations' rise and fall.
The author of *Die Donau* begins his account with ancient Aryan migrations and describes Stone and Bronze Age artifacts.
He then discusses Celtic tribes.
The work includes maps used by Homer, maps used by Herodotus, maps used by Eratosthenes.
When viewing these maps, one sees the Danube also called Ister.
They also named it Danuvius.
The text covers Alexander the Great's campaigns, Roman occupations, Emperor Trajan's wars, and Roman roads.
It chronicles how after Rome's decline during Gothic invasions, various tribes rose and fell—even Eastern tribes rampaging through—before nations gradually formed.
At sixth century AD's end, Croatia's borders with Avars and Eastern Rome were wholly defined by the Danube; even during seventh-to-eighth century Slovenian ascendancy, boundaries still followed its course.
This remained true when Hungary arose alongside Serbia and Wallachia.
Thus fortresses lined its banks where armies camped and sorrowful tales unfolded.
The Nibelungenlied counts merely as one such story.
As later nations emerged, the Danube ceased being their fixed boundary.
This book records these vestiges of historical flux.
I stood at the cathedral's pinnacle envisioning these contours.

When descending the cathedral tower, I managed to come down rather briskly.
Inside the cathedral, no one remained at prayer.
I strode through the empty space without purpose and emerged.
At every street corner hung notices reading “Hunde und Katzen sperre” and such.
As I walked on, I supposed confining dogs and cats must be for preventing epidemics.

The Brau River flowed vigorously where houses stood directly along its current.
These places preserved ancient dwellings in their original state, evoking Venice in Italy.
Though both might be called water towns, Japan’s allow more land between structures, while here buildings rose straight from the water.
The current swirled through rapids.
This architectural sensibility didn’t immediately resonate with me, but tracing its history brought an unexpectedly quiet pleasure.
Perhaps my heart held sympathy for such rustic desolation.
I labored intensely to photograph the scene.
Restraining two or three approaching children, I managed at least one exposure.
The stream’s near bank had likely been captured well.

IV

I boarded the 4:25 p.m. train and departed Ulm heading west.
The train stopped at every little station, making it feel excruciatingly slow.
After departing, I gazed out the window for a while; the train was running along the Brau River, and I could see several small streams flowing into it.
The area where those small streams emerged bore a slight resemblance to Japanese scenery.

I suddenly grew sleepy and fell asleep.
I woke thinking I had slept considerably, yet the train had not advanced much.
Even small villages had factories, and as I sat dazedly in the train contemplating smoke rising despite the holiday,
before long I drifted into sleep again.

I arrived at Ehingen Station at 5:30.
There I saw shepherds dressed in black wraps beginning their return journey.
After traveling awhile, the train passed right alongside the Danube.
The river flowed with perfect placidity between green fields, farmlands, and hills.
Ah.
It's grown quite narrow, I thought.
Holding this thought, I watched the current for some time.
Though utterly ordinary at first glance, closer inspection revealed substantial water volume flowing with considerable speed.
The water level evidently rose at times—straw debris clung to willow branches along the bank.

Around Rottenacker Station，the Danube appeared amidst grassy fields，shining blue.
It also looked like a lake.
After a while，a small abandoned boat floated there.
In some places，the river course split into two channels，forming sandbars.
Generally，there was little difference between land level and that of Danube.
At times，sections appeared swollen.
Our train ran，now moving away from，now drawing near.
When glimpses came，“It’s grown quite narrow，”
I always thought.
Yet my perception proved mistaken.
As our route traced cliffside runs and bridged gorges through white crags，the Danube remained broader than imagined.

I arrived at Riedlingen Station at six thirty.
The sun was setting over the distant hill, its light scattering across the beautifully clear sky like silver powder.
Chinese-style small bridges spanned the Danube.
A temple stood on the mountain ahead.
There too, the shepherds were about to return, a single elderly woman directing the flock of sheep.
Before long, the sun turned crimson and large before sinking down.
As daylight faded, I noticed how amidst the interplay of white and black hues in the mountain-shadowed village houses, the temple's spire still retained a faint glow.
In the west lingered a golden afterglow, above which clouds rested quietly in layered banks.

The Danube flowed along the gorge for some time.
A large moon rose; it was indeed a full moon.
When its light fell upon the Danube, the river turned entirely silver.

The train arrived at Sigmaringen Station.
There I bought bread for dinner.
Two or three Germans boarded.
While eating bread alone, a man who had placed his rucksack on the luggage rack and sat before me began speaking to me.
I stopped eating and conversed with him for some time.

The exchange remained ordinary.
Moreover, I found myself unable to articulate complex matters adequately.
Eventually the young man shared his story:
Though born in Minken, he had been living in Frankfurt where he graduated from university that year.
Three stations ahead lay an orphanage upon that mountain.
His sister worked there as a nurse.
He explained he was going to visit her that evening.
Hearing this stirred something within me.
The train continued coursing through the mountain gorge thus.
Moonlight streamed through the valley illuminating it.
When we reached the station, the young man pointed out the mountain to me.
Then with courteous deference he bowed, clasped my hand firmly, and alighted.
Thereafter I found myself alone.
For a time I opened the window and gazed at the moonlight.

I thought of the orphanage on the mountain and of the young woman working there. Since coming all the way here to study abroad, there had never been a time when moonlight had soaked into me so profoundly. Perhaps it was because I had shut myself away in my study and concentrated so intensely that I had never once turned my attention to the moonlight. Yet tonight, strangely enough, I could not help feeling as though I were gazing upon the moon of my birthplace. As I watched this moonlit Danube undulate until it disappeared into the far distance, I felt tears begin to well in my eyes. I recalled that line from Faust—"Tiefsten Ruhens Glück besiegelnd herrscht des Mondes volle Pracht"—"Guarding the bliss of deepest slumber, the moon's resplendent glory reigns above."

From the train window, I could see a light in a tower on a distant mountain. The train arrived at Immendingen at nine forty-five. There, I transferred trains. And so it ran along the Danube, heading northwest. Whenever the Danube, undulating silver, came into view just outside the window, I would think again, "It’s grown quite narrow."

The train finally arrived at Donaueschingen Station at 10:30.

Bathed in moonlight, I disembarked from the train.

V

Carrying my handbag, I went to seek out the inn called Schütze.
Even though it was such a remote inn, an air reminiscent of early evening still lingered.
I secured a room, then ordered a couple of dishes and beer to be prepared there before heading out.
After going a short way from the exit and coming back, when I asked where the Danube was flowing, the young man at the front desk answered as follows.
The stream is right nearby.
This is the Brigach River.
If you follow this stream downstream for a while, the Breg River joins it.
It was said that the Danube begins from there.
He spoke rapidly, but since I had checked the map beforehand, I roughly grasped what the young man was saying.
The young man came to the exit and pointed out the stream for me.

Indeed, the river flowed right nearby. Without crossing the stone bridge there, I turned right and followed along its bank. The bright moon cast a faintly bluish light that bathed every corner of the landscape, yet the stream shone with particular brilliance in its solitary radiance—not from reflections off rapids' waves but from the abundant swift current's own luminous surface. The riverside path led into woods where the river ran through desolate stretches for some time. A thin chill hung in the air; I turned up my coat collar and walked with fists thrust deep in both pockets. When dense forest suddenly enclosed us, two waterbirds burst from the surface. Startled, I caught myself—this wouldn't do—then wondered what birds these were that flew at such an hour. If I were Zigeuner, what would I do now? By then all trace of passersby had vanished from this road.

I sang something like a song in a small voice.
It was all improvised nonsense, yet there was something about it that naturally took on the air of a naniwabushi ballad.

Ah, at Osaka Pass where strangers meet,
Banba, Samegai, Kashiwabara, Fuwa no Sekiya—all lie in ruins, with only the autumn moon leaking through.
Through the plank floor of Fuwa Barrier, the moonlight leaks—how tender it is.
How precious the Buddha’s grace!
Oh, how precious the Buddha’s grace!
By the Buddha’s grace from pilgrimage, I met my wife, oh!
Sweep away evil and save us, O Great Tenri!
Hey now—listen to what God says! Speak not of wicked things! He shaped this world's earth and sky into form, created spouses—this marks the world's beginning!
Sweep away evil and fervently save—settle all in one stroke at the Kanrodai.

I entered deep into the mountains, taking note of every stone and standing tree.
This millstone turns though it grinds not.
A windmill would be even better.
O Yoshino, Yoshino's sweetfish.
Ah, the sweetfish!
In pillow prints they often show nishiki sweetfish—pressed sweetfish sucking at mouths, people's shadows clustering thick as weeds.
An era most auspicious where swordsmanship practiced with sweat-drenched effort serves no purpose!

It was all rather rambling. But there was also something about it—a touch of that naniwabushi ballad’s journeying rhythm as I sang in a small voice—that strangely calmed my mind. In this manner, I walked for a while along the riverbank where moonlight filtered through. No sooner had the forest ended and the moon come into view than suddenly the stream’s surface began to glimmer. The area ahead opened up into what resembled a plain. The edge of the moonlight seemed veiled in haze. I stopped for a moment and thought, “If the Danube has narrowed to this extent, that’s quite enough.” When I sat down on the grassy bank there, a faint aquatic scent lingered. I recognized it as identical to the water’s aroma I had smelled in Saga Prefecture’s mountains. At intervals came sounds from the water—the murmur of eddies forming along the bank.

Thinking it might already be quite late, I slowly began to rise, and as I gazed across the plain, thoughts of Monk Reisen once again brushed against my consciousness. When I had struggled with workshop tasks that refused to be completed, I would sometimes console myself by recalling "the death of Great Monk Reisen." Reisen was a monk of Kōfuku-ji Temple who had traveled to Tang China around Enryaku 22 or 23 (803-804 CE) alongside Saichō and Kūkai. Some studies posit an even earlier date during the Hōki era. He remained there for many years. Revered as Sōnai-kugu Hannyō Daidoku (Monk-Imperial Attendant Sutra Translation Great Virtue) at Chang'an's Liquan Temple, he was later said to have been murdered while practicing asceticism on Wutai Mountain. Jikaku Daishi's *Record of Pilgrimage to Tang China in Search of the Dharma* states: "Arrived at Dali Lingjing Temple. Asked an elder monk about Sanzō Reisen's place of death. It says: Sanzō Reisen had previously frequented Qianxun Lanruo and Qifo Jiaojie Yuan before coming to this temple. Resided at Yushitsu-in. Poisoned to death through administered drugs. Poisoned and thus perished. Disciples buried him. His burial place remains unknown." So it is recorded. Saichō had returned to Japan in June of Enryaku 24 (805), having stayed less than nine months abroad. Kūkai had returned in October of Daidō 1 (806), having remained barely two years.

However, Saichō's relationships with figures like Daosui, Shun'gyō, and Gyōman, and his bringing back of sutra commentaries totaling 230 works in 460 volumes along with other items; his becoming the founder of the Tendai sect on Mount Hiei; Kūkai's relationships with Keiwa, Munishiritsu, and Dontei; that he had brought back even more texts than Saichō; that he became the founder of the Shingon sect at Mount Kōya—compared to these two, Reisen's life appeared truly desolate.

Both Dengyō and Kōbō were figures worthy of reverence. Yet for me—having come all this way as an international student—their brightly lit paths and methods of dharma pursuit could scarcely serve as any guide. Just as I had preferred the term "international student" over "returning student" in those days, I disliked the title "overseas researcher" and called myself an "international student." That I would recall Reisen's solitary life whenever feeling lonely myself stemmed from these circumstances. Even after I began walking, I briefly thought of Reisen, but lately I had grown accustomed to thoughts of him, and the keenness of my emotions had started to wane.

I stepped away from the sentimentalism of Oriental poets steeped in moonlight and walked with large strides. However, when I returned to the inn, midnight was already well past. I went to my room and, while eating my meal and drinking beer, found the seclusion agreeable. There was indeed a sense of comfort in moving gradually away from that state of crystalline clarity.

VI

When morning came, I went out with a camera.
Indeed, the Brigach River was right nearby.
I turned right at the stone bridge as I had the previous night and continued on.
The river’s water volume was abundant, flowing with a swelling force.
When I gazed at the area near the riverbed, fish were swimming in schools.
In some places, water plants grew densely and swayed with the current, and there too, rows of fish swam while maintaining consistent protective coloration.
The fish were a type of Forelle trout that could occasionally be bought at markets like Minhyun’s.

The area where the water plants were swaying seemed immediately fordable, but it didn’t turn out that way.
Amsel birds were already singing.
A fish suddenly leaped from the water's surface.
At a certain spot along the shore, spring water welled up, and there, the sight of various water plants growing caught my eye.

What I had mistaken for a path through the woods last night turned out to be part of a park.
The deciduous trees showed no signs of budding—one might say obstinately so.
Emerging from the park, I found the stream flowing into the Brigach equally abundant with water, rushing as if about to overflow.
This park preserved remnants of gardens from the daimyo era, complete with monuments like one dedicated to a court physician.
Engraved upon it were the words: “Dr. W. Rehmann. F.F. Hofrath und Leibarzt. geb. zu Donaueschingen 26. Juni 1792. gest. daselbst 7. Juli 1840.”
I briefly removed my hat before the monument, then continued walking along the stream as I had done the previous night.

After some time, the forest ended and my field of view expanded.
This was where moonlight had illuminated the land the previous night.
Recalling last night's events, I felt compelled to find a way to write about this "Moonlit Danube."
Though I'd believed I'd come quite far last night, seeing it this morning proved otherwise.
The Brigach flowing through the woods appeared darkly tinged with blue.
A waterfowl that had been floating on the nearby water's surface suddenly took wing.
This was a wild goose.
Had the lingering spring chill kept these geese from returning north?
I wondered if they would fly further north when late spring arrived.
The goose that had taken flight seemed unafraid of me, alighting again on the water's surface some distance away.
I thought these wild geese adrift on the spring Danube might make for a lyric poem.

After walking for a while, the Breg came from ahead and joined the Brigach.
The Breg flowed in from the distant plain, twisting through countless bends until it disappeared at the edge of the flatlands.
That Breg too, and the Brigach where I stood on the bank, bathed in unobstructed sunlight, glistened brilliantly.
The water's surface reflected a blinding white light as it flowed with a swollen appearance.
The water’s surface felt as though it continued directly from the land; squatting down, I could scoop up the water just as it was.
From here, the Danube finally begins.

When I looked at this taut water surface glittering with white light, there were aspects of "The Danube has finally grown narrow" that I couldn't quite bring myself to voice.
Yet I had to content myself privately.
Then, regarding the Breg as a Danube tributary and tracing it on the map, I observed how the river gradually entered the valley from the plain.
It then turned westward, emerging from those mountains.
I attempted to photograph the Danube, but backlighting thwarted my efforts.
Still, I took two shots regardless.
This stemmed from my conviction that I'd never return here while breath remained in me.
On the path across the plain of the far shore walked a figure whose height seemed extraordinary.

I stopped following the Danube's current downstream and decided to content myself there for the time being. Entering the woods, I found several streams within them, their shallow edges sprouting water dropwort with discarded shoes lying about. Water pooled in wheel ruts stayed frozen where sunlight didn't reach. Then I came into the park—desolate yet with its wooded springs carefully tended. A red-capped janitor swept the path while wild rabbits darted through the trees.

VII

Donaueschingen was a place once governed by the Prince of Fürstenberg, where there stood a castle, a Catholic church, a brewery, an art museum, and gardens that had existed since olden times. Since the fire of 1908, the burned section of town had been newly built, I heard.

I went to see the “Danube Source” (Donauquelle).
It was a clear, cold spring; in former times, people would reportedly finish their temple devotions and then draw water from this spring.
It was also said that the duke had held banquets here with his retainers.
This spring stands at an elevation of 678 meters above sea level.
An annotation stated it lay 2,840 kilometers from the ocean; the marble statue group depicted the god Baal guiding a boy and girl while pointing out their path forward.
The spring water flowed immediately beneath and spilled into the Brigach.
At this spillway stood a small shrine erected by Wilhelm II (1910 CE), bearing the inscription: Danuvii caput exornavit Guilelmus II., Fridericifilius, Guilelmi Magni nepos, Imperator Germanorum.
Germans call this stretch of the Danube “junge Donau,” whose pronunciation carries an agreeable resonance.
A janitor stood there too; I exchanged brief words with this elderly custodian before drinking from the spring and departing.
The prince’s castle stood immediately adjacent, though viewing access was reportedly prohibited.

I looked at the temple, then went to see the Karlsbau.
There were quite a number of paintings there.
However, most belonged to the Ulm school, Swabian school, and painters from around Lake Constance.
Holbein.
Cranach.
Works by Grünewald and others were largely copies.
The works of those schools were characterized by their rigid somberness and lack of simplicity.
At that moment, I felt inclined to accept theories like Taine’s to some degree.

I went to see what was called the Bezirksmuseum.
Chests of drawers, old clocks, kimonos, shoes, spinning wheels, framed paintings—such things were displayed in great numbers.
Here too were torture devices from olden times.
Then came various examples of folk art painted on glass; among these were pieces I desperately wanted to possess.
The simple colors, their combinations, and the women’s guileless faces stirred in me such covetousness.
There were various old beds too.
I had seen beds from the Tyrolean mountain region in Vienna, but these were splendid in their own way.
Their unadorned patterns captivated me.
Then Japanese objects startled me—lacquered chests, pedestals with bamboo motifs,
seven-tiered trays,
embroidered Takasago elder couples,
bookshelves,
incense burners,
folding screens,
large vases,
drums.
Though nothing stood out particularly, seeing Japanese items displayed so carefully here wasn’t unpleasant.
It might have resembled what Western visitors feel when viewing Siebold’s insect magnifier given to Ito Keisuke in Nagasaki, or that Madrid-made clock at Kunozan Toshogu Shrine, or Myōshinji Temple’s Nanbanji bell.
There may be some exaggeration here, but—

There was a painting by someone named Johann Grund. Since this does not grace the pages of art historians, it must have lingered in such remote regions over the years, but I felt a quiet pleasure in viewing the women’s portraits painted by him. This painter depicted voluptuous yet delicate women. By doing so, he would have achieved his life’s ambition—in such resolve there must have been both pathos and haughtiness. Feeling this way, I looked at several of these lovely women’s portraits.

After leaving that place, I entered a café. A group of female students on an excursion came in and crowded around the sweets counter. A soldier came to my side, drank coffee, and left. I then entered a restaurant called Gasthaus zur Sonne. The landlady was a red-faced, plump woman, and the proprietor was lame. There, I ate an ample portion of soup and a salty dish. When the landlady from town came and spoke with the proprietor here, their thick dialect proved nearly incomprehensible to me. Both landlady and proprietor seemed utterly unperturbed by my being Japanese—their placid demeanor stood in stark contrast to the people of Min-ken. Noticing bound magazines on the table, I found they were an 1896 issue of Münchner humoristische Blätter. Even this revealed the establishment's caliber. That humor magazine contained not a single reference to Japan yet. Within its pages: two students dragging away a colleague drunk as sludge; snow falling thick; the drunkard's clothes pulled off bit by bit until only garments remained in his companions' hands; the crucial student vanished from sight. Titled Verlorener Student ("Lost Student"), this illustration laid bare how prodigiously Min-ken's scholars quaffed beer in those days. Then came a comic titled Vereitelte Liebeserklärung ("Thwarted Love Declaration"). First panel: man and woman approach cheerfully on bicycles side by side. Next: a man lying in wait by a stone bridge's abutment. Final scene: when the couple reaches the bridge, the ambusher sends them tumbling headfirst into the river.

This hinted at the various incidents that arose as bicycles grew popular.
When I departed Vienna for Min-ken, what first struck me was the sheer number of cyclists in Min-ken.
In that aged restaurant of a small town, unwittingly gaining this glimpse into the social climate of twenty-six or twenty-seven years past, I felt a secret satisfaction.

While at the restaurant, I briefly jotted down the events of this morning in my notebook as I looked through the guidebook. And feeling somewhat tired, I wondered what to do next.

VIII

What on earth lies beyond this point?
Having come this far and witnessed the Breg converging with the Brigach to form the Danube's source, I had fulfilled my life's ambition.
Were one to follow the Brigach—deemed the true mainstream—endlessly onward, the river would gradually narrow, threading deep into primordial forests to become a mountain stream, then transform into springs until finally seeping through moss as groundwater.
My gaze could not penetrate that far.
I must take my leave from this place by evening.
With these thoughts swirling through my mind, I stepped out from the age-worn restaurant.

I had a watch, but its mainspring broke en route, rendering it useless.
This watch was an alarm clock designed to make its numbers glow in the dark.
When such watches first arrived in Japan, a friend studying mining gave me this one, insisting it was essential for expeditions into remote mountains.
The watch had grown quite old by the time I departed Kobe, where I had its mainspring repaired at a Kobe watch shop.
Then during my stays in Vienna and Min-ken, I frequently had that mainspring repaired.
This time too, after it broke on the train, I found myself carrying around a useless watch.
Resolving to estimate the time roughly, I unwittingly began walking upstream.

Both banks of the river rose slightly higher, and I walked for a while in a position overlooking the current.
Both banks there were reinforced with stone walls.
The area generally had the feel of newly developed outskirts, but old houses still remained here and there, and on a weathered wall lingered an inscription reading "Official Printing Office of the Feudal Lord Era."
At what appeared to be government office ruins stood a statue of Wilhelm I.
Before long, the paving stones disappeared from the road, and sand rose in clouds as I walked.
Gradually the houses grew sparse until finally the town ended.
There the road sloped downward naturally, bringing me closer to the current.
There the river widened into rapids.
When I stood at the water's edge, I could clearly see the current gathering force as it prepared to bend.
I suppose I'll consider this area roughly as the source.
Feeling somewhat lonely and thinking of turning back already, I crouched there awhile toying with scattered willow flowers.

Then I rose to my feet and thought about walking a bit further ahead.
I saw what appeared to be a waterwheel and crossed at a place where the flow was dammed.
Dwellings had completely vanished now, with the forest pressing close on all sides.
Between these encroaching woods on both banks, the river—bathed in dazzling spring sunlight—meandered gently as it flowed.

I made efforts to draw nearer to the river while proceeding upstream.
At times I walked right along the water's edge.
In wetland areas, my boots sank into the mire as I trod through places where bubbles rose gurgling from submerged spots.
The riverside grass remained winter-withered, not yet putting forth buds.

Because I walked so close to the flow, I could immediately put my mouth to it and drink the water.
Yet the water did not appear to be flowing; it seemed only to pool motionless.
I could press my face directly against that silver water, yet it remained a profound depth - bringing my face close and peering intently into it, I saw the bank's soil barely submerged beneath the surface while aquatic plants grew with roots clenched in mud within deeper sediment.
The depths had grown dark and were no longer visible.
However, since bubbles flowed gently across the water's surface, the water was not dead.

The river held silvery gleaming water as it curved away into distant forest shadows.
The reason I imagined being able to easily step across the nearby stretch was this intimate closeness between myself and the water's surface.
Yet the river still carried abundant water, and this stern presence of untouchable depths within naturally suggested it was the source of a great river - a realization that brought me quiet satisfaction.
Were a small frog to enter from the bank and swim here, I supposed it would paddle briefly before turning back.
That frog would never be carried off by the current.
I imagined it returning in some carefree, haphazard way.

A sound echoed forth as a train passed through the forest beyond the opposite bank of the river. This train was traveling along a branch railway that followed the current upstream. When the silver river flowed past the base of the distant forest, it took on a navy blue hue. I crossed the railroad bridge and began walking along the opposite side. Looking out from where clusters of unbudded shrubs grew, I saw the river that had earlier curved into the forest shadows come into view before disappearing again into the far distance. There I glimpsed a village. Among scattered reddish roofs stood a single church spire that anchored the village's center.

I must have walked a full two and a half hours.
Having made that estimate, I left the water’s edge and climbed up the hill.
There was a road there connecting village to village.
I had reached that point.
Because my field of vision had opened up, the forest appeared layered in multiple folds, tinged with hues of darkness.
Those gentle curves resembled the skin of some creature.
Deep within lay the river’s source, but this place made no demand for such poetic touches as water hidden under fallen leaves or moss-covered streams.

But as I wondered whether this river growing narrow and disappearing northwestward could be captured in a photograph, two villagers cycling up from below passed by, their voices asking "Chinese perhaps?" reaching my ears.
After leaving the restaurant where I had lunch, I had not once used German.
I merely walked along the water's edge, occasionally muttering to myself in Japanese.
From there I now followed that road back toward Donaueschingen in earnest.
Having mostly gauged the time by eye and feeling uncertain, I sometimes broke into a run.

When I came to a certain place, there were two houses where chickens were raising yellow ducklings.
I noticed how the ducklings behaved with bold indifference while the chickens fussed over them constantly.
Before long, I found myself once more at the high riverbanks on both sides.
There stood an old house with a large yellow flower painted on it, like a sunflower.
When I reached the inn, some time still remained.
I washed my face, settled my bill, and then drank a glass of beer.

Nine

The train departed this place at 4:20 p.m.
The sun had not yet sunk so low.
In the train carriage, I faintly sensed the stirrings of carnal desire.
I took out a magnifying glass and traced the river’s source on the map.
The river threads through flatlands between forests to reach Vilingen town—up to that point, it must surely remain that same silver-hued, tranquil river.
From there onward, the space between the forests narrowed to form a valley.
This place bears the name Gropper Valley.
The river flowed through there.
Following upstream from there further still, the river curves gently westward until finally disappearing.
There lay Briggach Forest.
It was from there that the water emerged.

The train ran along the Danube，returning by the same path it had originally taken as far as Immendingen Station．The Danube，bathed in the afternoon sun，shone brilliantly white．And through the plain，it flowed in such a manner that one couldn’t tell whether it was moving or still．Dried reeds could be seen along the bank．Four or five crows flew along the bank，and at times wild geese floated there．This was the area I had seen under bright moonlight when coming here．In some places，primitive bridges spanning［the river］caught my eye．I could see a white road leading from the village at the foot into the forest behind it．On that hill，cows were plowing．Only the plowed areas appeared brown．After a while，the terrain narrowed into a gorge，and the Danube flowed through it．The train now ran along the hilltop，so it came to overlook the Danube．Perhaps I had seen this area by moonlight when coming here．When I passed through a tunnel，there was a deciduous forest interspersed with evergreens．The deciduous trees were merely sprouting faint buds．

Shortly after the train departed Immendingen Station, we parted ways with the Danube. After passing through one large tunnel, the valley opened up to reveal gently undulating hills with a village nestled among them. Then the train ran through deep mountains again, soon maintaining its course while overlooking a valley. The deciduous forest blanketing that entire area was vast in scale and expansive. Then as the land sloped downward, the train dashed toward the southern plain. Reflecting on this, I thought that the Danube had indeed been flowing through a plateau all along.

At 5:40 p.m., the train arrived at Engen Station.

Cities such as Göttingen and Tübingen are renowned, but Japanese international students would use characters like "Moon-Sinking Plain" to express their lonely hearts.
Towns and villages possessing such a distinctive phonetic quality were numerous around the Danube’s source region.
Beginning with Donaueschingen, there is Tuttlingen.
Liptingen.
Hatchingen.
Ulmringen.
Sigmaringen.
Wilingen.
Dunningen.
Metzingen.
There is one called Dettingen.
And along the northeastern path lies Pringen.
Trolhotelfingen.
Kommerchingen.
Innellingen.
Münsingen.
There is a town called Reichengen, among others.
The names of these towns also captured my interest as a traveler.
Somehow rustic, I felt this nasal suffix suited rather well the atmosphere of the "Black Forest" and the languid flow of the Danube.

Then, thoughts of the customs of women in the "Black Forest" region naturally arose in my mind. Men and women would walk modern streets in such traditional attire whenever some occasion arose. Figures clad in ancient garb, as if ready to step onto a stage, were walking through town. Several such men and women I had seen one day in Freiburg. Yet when observed in mountain villages, these customs possessed a remarkably quiet harmony. From old temples would emerge women wearing plate-like hats adorned with numerous tassels. Their headwear sometimes took the form of small fezzes with black cloth fastened beneath the chin; at other times they wore hats bearing enormous ribbons or several large red pom-poms. Their bodices displayed various embroideries—some crimson, others navy or pale blue—in varied hues. The maidens' flushed cheeks suggested robust vitality. When exchanging greetings, their smiling faces with slight vertical creases at the corners of their lips as they spoke recalled the Mona Lisa.

X

We had come quite a way since parting from the Danube. At Engen station where we had just arrived, I peered outside from the window. The temple visible there had its spire painted dark green, with small windows brown and the remaining structure gray. I briefly noted this in my notebook. Soon the train began moving past rows of ancient small houses - through toy-like windows a girl peered out, while on a bluish field slope five or six children lay huddled asleep. A woman cycled along the road ahead as smoke curled up from bonfires before the houses. It felt hectic like watching a film reel, yet still carried that sensation of traversing alien lands. The train ran across plains toward jagged mountains visible in the distance - not Alpine peaks, but darkened masses I found myself absently watching as they never seemed to draw nearer. We had been following a river for some time now, its bank willows already leafing into pale green.

“What do you call that river?”
“That one? The Aach River.”
“How do you spell it?”
“A-A-C-H.”

“It took its name from the town up ahead.”
It was an extremely small river, but that traveler knew its name.
Moreover, he seemed not to pay much mind to the fact that I was an Oriental.

At 6:05, I arrived at Singen Station.
There were steep mountains there, and remnants of an old castle could be seen.
In a place where three or four temples could be seen, with a river flowing through the town—it was a considerable town.
Signs such as "Reformpädagogium" and "Hauptzollamt" were also visible.
Passengers bound for Switzerland would transfer there and continue on their journey.
Thinking this, there were indeed border-like areas, and after a while people came streaming in.
At that moment, a pitiful girl boarded alone and sat down in front of me.
The girl immediately opened her handbag, took out some chocolate, and ate it.
Then she blew her nose with a handkerchief.
Then she made some noise inside her handbag and finally closed it.
Then she took out an illustrated magazine and looked at it for a while, then opened her handbag again, took out some chocolate, and ate it.

Before long, the sky became completely overcast, and the train arrived at Böhringen-Rickelshausen.

On the right-hand side, a lake had already come into view, and the rows of trees standing orderly in that area appeared to be poplars. The lake gradually expanded, and islands came into view. This was a place resembling an inlet. This was the Untersee. The village on the opposite shore and the temple there were both hazy. As the train ran along the shore, gravel of white pebbles along the water's edge came into view. Then came a fish farm. Pigs and their young burning dead leaves, a dog descending the pier—those scenes were like a film.

Twilight arrived in deep azure.

Then suddenly the vista opened wide - this was Lake Bodensee coming into view. The neighboring passenger began whistling what seemed like a folk melody. Evening haze hung low over the lake waters, leaving only hilltops floating above. Along the way stood a gate with sentries as if guarding a regiment. Thick smokestacks emerged next, followed by a temple coming into sight. When crossing a bridge, both riverbanks transformed into tidy towns bustling with activity. The train arrived at Konstanz where the station clock showed seven-thirty.

I would spend one night at a lakeside inn here, and the following day intended to cross this great lake and venture into the mountains of southern Germany where the Alpine mountain system extends. There, I would finally attempt to see the "innumerable streams that wind their way while hastening to flow into valleys" destined to join the Danube.