Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The leaves that scatter at autumn's invitation are beyond counting.
Particularly in November, autumn's end, it follows that fallen leaves would lie thick.
The subject of this brief biography I attempt to write—Ms. Ichiyō—was a woman mourned by the world, who fell like a blighted leaf unable to withstand frost's ravages.
On the morning of November 23, Meiji 29, this genius of her age passed away at twenty-five years—a life so brief it had scarcely reached humanity's halfway mark.
Yet even cloth spanning hundreds of yards remains mere cloth.
An inch of Shu brocade stays precious beyond measure.
Within the fleeting pages of Ms. Ichiyō's life existed something we—though we might live and grow for decades hence—could never hope to touch.
The bitterness of existence she tasted, her resignation, the philosophy tempered through trials with an unyielding spirit—

To be perfectly honest, I revered and admired Ms. Ichiyō, but by my very nature found her somehow difficult to approach. This was my utterly honest thought—that had she been near me, she would surely have told me something sharp enough to pierce the soul with its stinging precision; such conviction took hold of me. Needless to say, it was not the self from Ms. Ichiyō's lifetime who harbored such thoughts—at that time my heart remained too childish, merely regarding her with awe. It was in Meiji 45 (1912) when the deceased's diary became public. Even now I feel ashamed of my dream-filled life—of that self who seemed always dozing—yet many times I would begin leafing through those diaries only to stop. To say I never cherished reading them would be false; rather, I found even attempting to read them cover to cover detestable. My exhausted nerves rebelled against them—those diaries held too little beauty or dreams, laying bare instead a life pushed to such desperate extremes it became suffocating. I felt my heart seized by an unbearable anguish that crushed me like a vise, leaving me unable to bring myself to read them.

However, by then I too had aged.
And through various experiences—with my mind’s eye gradually opening as I retreated into aesthetic pursuits—I came to recognize the errors in judgments made from that vantage point.
Resolving that this was the moment, I decided to read Ms. Ichiyō’s diary, which I had left untouched for so long.
While wanting to feel even the slightest sense of closeness—

"So, what did you think?"

I found myself wishing someone would ask me.
Because during my period of narrow perspectives, I had deliberately avoided reading this diary.
Had I maintained those twisted preconceptions, I could never have conjured such a vivid image of the deceased.
Though I believed I had waited patiently for the right moment, when I reached a particular line in the diary, I found myself rubbing my eyelids.
And if someone were then to ask my impression of her, I felt compelled to answer like this.

The scent of butterbur sprouts and their bitterness

This answer contained not a shred of flattery.
When one places a young butterbur sprout—not too thick, freshly plucked from the earth in early April—against their teeth, it imparts an indescribably refreshing fragrance and a slightly bitter taste.
Those two scents and flavors—I felt as though they were Ms. Ichiyō’s very form, her indomitable spirit, her soul, and the essence of her existence.

Though it verged on literary criticism, even in Ms. Ichiyō as seen through her works, there lingered a bittersweet taste of tears.
No matter which heroine from which work one examined—whether embodiments of ethereal grace, refined elegance, unwavering sincerity, captivating beauty, or chaste virtue; whether possessors of these qualities—in each there lay concealed something the author herself carried within.
Even the women portrayed as delicate girls—fragile as flower petals unable to endure a soft breeze, tender as dew upon bush clover blossoms—harbored somewhere within them an unyielding core.
Particularly in O-rika from *Troubled Waters*, O-ran from *Dark Night*, Chiyoko from *Shadow Cherry Blossoms*, Itoko from *Jeweled Sash*, O-taka from *Farewell Frost*, Yukiko from *Ephemera*, O-seki from *The Thirteenth Night*, and O-sono from *Sutra Desk*—though one might continue enumerating—throughout the twenty-five works composed over five years from Meiji 24 to 28 (1891-1895), not a single character shared the same personality. Yet flowing in their deepest depths, an obstinate temperament that could not be fully concealed—the lonely resignation and self-attachment of the author gleaned from her diaries, with their somehow unapproachable quality—could not be overlooked.

I thought of borrowing characters from Ms. Ichiyō's works to enumerate points where they resembled her.
Another thing I wanted to know was which work the author had favored most.
What I wanted to know even more deeply than that was which heroine from which work had most deeply captured the author’s sympathy and resonated with her.
While the most highly praised were O-rika from *Troubled Waters*, O-seki from *The Thirteenth Night*, and Midori from *Child's Play*, it is precisely when gathering all her heroines together that the bold line emerging from them could be said to embody Ms. Ichiyō's true soul.

*Sutra Desk* as a novel could not hope to compete with *Troubled Waters* or *Child’s Play*, nor was it by any means superior to her other works.
Its concept adapted “Wakamurasaki” from *The Tale of Genji* into a modern style—dispensed with that tale’s splendor by having the man die, then concluded with bitter irony: after their separation and his death, a sixteen-year-old girl pined for his affection—all rendered in concise form.
However, the emotional state of that girl O-sono was something shy girls could readily empathize with, and it had been exhaustively depicted.
The resentments toward oneself and those irreparable missteps—which, once the moment was lost, remained beyond retrieval even through agonized thrashing—were calmly, without the slightest gap or outward show, compressed into formless regret. As I witnessed this being thrust into the passionate heart of the deceased, who condensed and extinguished her long life within such constraints, I could not help but feel indescribable tears and suffocating pressure.—Thinking none could comprehend this immovable anguish unless they knew it themselves, I found my tears transferring from O-sono to the author herself.

—In my writing, am I perhaps rushing too much in trying to understand Ms. Ichiyō?

A certain person declared that Ms. Ichiyō was by no means a beauty.
Furthermore, according to Mr. Baba Kochō’s account, she was not a beauty but was by no means an ugly woman.
In conclusion, it states she had an average appearance.
Though close friends have conclusively defined her as such, and though I—who never met nor saw her—may be criticized for why I render her a beauty, I am confident in asserting that Ms. Ichiyō, whom I know through her works, was indeed what one would unhesitatingly call a beauty.
Even from photographs one can tell—that brilliance in her eyes alone makes me want to declare she fully qualifies as a beauty.
She may not have possessed the nation-toppling beauty adorned with cosmetics, but the aesthetic judgment of men—who determine beauty’s value through their own preferences—cannot be said to remain unerring across time.
Moreover, it seems she did not wear much makeup and did not come from a well-off family—especially,

She was not a woman who exuded sensuality; there was no alluring charm about her. She carried an air of something slightly faded—one would sooner call her a matron than a young maiden.
She seemed to have diverged from the ordinary women of her time, taking a step toward masculine qualities.
Her demeanor was thoroughly refined.
Her speech was unmistakably elegant.
Though no aspect could be pinpointed as specifically unfeminine, there lingered an ineffable sense of detachment from conventional womanhood.
This was likely due to the overwhelming intensity of Ms. Ichiyō's spirit.
In essence, she must have been one of those women with whom conversation proved invigorating.
I had always considered her among those rare women with whom men could maintain close companionship without romantic entanglement.

—From Mr. Baba’s Account—

Judging from this account as well, even if she appeared to be a woman of average looks, one might assert she possessed more authenticity than those heavily made-up beauties who dazzled the eye.

Moreover, when inspired—her thoughts surging forth—as she took up her brush in selfless concentration, her eyes would shine and a flush would rise to her pale cheeks; that very sight defied imitation.
With her taut face bearing the clouded brow of one probing deep matters, pursed crimson lips, and an expression blending anguish with resolve—one could indeed call her a classic beauty.

No matter who you ask, they all say her hair was thin. It is said her stature was average. I also heard she was an excellent conversationalist, adept at dialogue. As she became engrossed in conversation, color would rise to her cheeks; accordingly, the discussion grew animated. They say her sarcastic tone proved particularly amusing. Due to proper manners, she sat with her body slightly hunched, but when boredom set in, she would idly fiddle with one or two stray strands of hair at her temples using her fingertips, all the while keeping her gaze fixed on them as she spoke. When her conversation grew animated, what had once been a proper distance between interlocutors would vanish before they knew it—she would push the brazier placed between them so forcefully toward their knees in her earnestness, it was said.

At times she took on piecework sewing yukata robes—completing just one in half a day—sometimes prepared to open a hardware store by personally shouldering goods for purchase, one evening was asked to help at a Yoshiwara teahouse kitchen where she tended sake warmers, another day wielded her Chikage-style brush to paint a "Catering Service" sign upon request, all while handling letter-writing commissions from women of those households—

Though I began dedicating myself to novels nearly a year ago, I had yet to produce anything worthy of publication—nothing that satisfied my own standards. My family grew increasingly dismayed by my indecisiveness, and looking back, I saw only months piling up barrenly. They pressed me: "Even masters were not celebrated from their first work—true worth is proven through criticism." Yet I knew these writings of mine would be dismissed as idle tales. My pen moved with sincerity; though I wrote to clothe and shelter us, crude work appeared crude to all eyes. Since I bore the name of one who wielded a brush, how could I allow my words to be cast into wastebaskets after a single reading? Fickle human hearts might discard today's delight tomorrow, but if I appealed to true emotion and captured true feeling, then even these trifles of mine must have held some value. I sought neither silken robes nor lofty halls. Should I stain a name meant to endure millennia for transient gain? Though I revised a brief piece thrice seeking worldly judgment, should it have ended as mere paper and ink wasted, I would still have deemed it heaven's will.

(From Ichiyō's essay collection, *Mori no Shita Kusa* [*Grass Beneath the Forest*])

Fools—to call me a sulker! They label me "Meiji's Sei Shōnagon" or "Female Saikaku," while Gion's lilies cry out for bygone shadows and Komanya teahouses sing of antiquity. What absurdity—I who was born a petty official's daughter, unskilled in handicrafts and distant from literary circles! Though I barely drew from Haginosha's fading streams, how could I envision the pristine elegance of ancient times or the wondrous forms of new aesthetics while daily life's hearth smoke clouded my thoughts? Murasaki Shikibu's profound artistry lies beyond my reach in this dim sea. These trivial scribblings merely give shape to impressions that settled in my heart since six or seven years old—unconsciously, unceasingly. Let them brand me "sulker" if they must—let them think me lovelorn! Yet it is I who weep for tender-hearted souls. None seek to devote this frail body to truth. Would any ask why I sacrifice a lifetime? Flowers have their time to scatter, moons to wane—for one such as I, living as I must, even this fleeting name of "sulker" holds bitter charm.

In this transient world, to be called a sulker—
Might even Tsumako speak of me thus?

How bittersweet these human affairs... (From Ichiyō’s essay "Sae no Shizuku")

And so, regarding this person who had maintained such noble resolve, I felt compelled to write faithfully—ashamed though I was of my own inadequacies in writing.
In any case, I resolved first to record her birth date and ancestral connections before they slipped from documentation.

II

I would occasionally hear minor disputes over whether Ms. Ichiyō was an Edo native—or rather, born in Kōshū.
Neither side of this dispute was entirely without basis.
Ms. Ichiyō first drew breath in Yamashita-chō, Kōjimachi, where the Tokyo Prefectural Office stood.
I do not know what other notable figures were born in Meiji 5 (1872), but for us women—particularly those engaged in literary pursuits—it was a year worth committing to memory.
She entered Hongō Elementary School at the age of six by the traditional East Asian age reckoning.
That year—even within the Meiji era—would remain etched in memory until its final days as the year of the Satsuma Rebellion, when Saigō Takamori spilled upon Shiroyama’s soil the fervent blood he had stirred up for the nation since youth.
The following year, at age seven, she formally began studying under a calligraphy teacher.
The reason Ms. Ichiyō’s calligraphy was truly splendid lay not only in such foundational training but also in her later apprenticeship under Teacher Nakajima, a poet skilled in the Chikage school of brushwork.
In the summer of Meiji 15 (1882), she transferred to Aomi Elementary School in Shitaya Ike no Hata and withdrew the following year.
After that, no further academic pursuits were publicly recorded.
It was considered that until she began attending Madam Nakajima Utako’s residence in Meiji 19 (1886), this had been a period of self-study.

That period had been Ms. Ichiyō's time of study and girlhood with both parents present; Kōshū was their birthplace.
Her father was Higuchi Noriyoshi, and her mother was Taki—during the Ansei era (1854–1860), they resolved to move together to Edo, where her mother entered service with the Inaba family while her father served the Kikuchi family of hatamoto before later joining the Hatchōbori-shū (a collective term for yoriki [assistant magistrates] and dōshin [constables]).
Ms. Ichiyō, born after the Meiji Restoration, was her parents' fourth child and second daughter.
Ōfuji Village in Higashiyamanashi District of Kōshū Province remained the cherished hometown that had given birth to her parents.

In her novel *Yuku Kumo*, she borrows the words of a student named Keiji,

My foster home stood in Nakahagi Plain of Ōfuji Village—a place where mountains from Tenmokuzan to Daisō Pass formed walls as far as the eye could see; where the snow-white peak of Fuji towered southwestward though shyly hiding its face; where winter winds sliced through flesh without mercy; where fish meant a five-ri journey to Kōfu just for tuna sashimi to barely grace one's lips—

it read.

In the subsequent chapters,

Once one crossed Kobudō Pass before long, passed through Uenohara, Tsurugawa, Nodajiri, Inume, and Torizawa, and lodged that night near Saruhashi—though the cries of Tomoe Gorge remained unheard, the murmurs of the Fuefuki River wove troubled dreams, and even here voices stirred the heartstrings—a postcard from Kōshū arrived once, then on the fourth day came two letters bearing a seven-ri postmark... Thus they became people of Ōfuji Village.

The mountain and field landscapes of her hometown were described in considerable detail.

Father Noriyoshi passed away around Meiji 22 (1889). From then on, Ms. Ichiyō's life became one of constant upheaval. With her elder brother Toranosuke—a potter—having long since established his own household, Ms. Ichiyō had to maintain their daily sustenance through the labors of three emaciated women: herself, her mother Takī, and her younger sister Kuniko. The six years from Meiji 24 (1891), when she turned twenty, until Meiji 29 (1896) would become her era of creative production.

The vicissitudes of her life are laid bare in her impressions, essays, and diary.
Even during Ms. Ichiyō’s childhood, her family moved frequently.
They moved from Hongō to Shitaya, then to Shitaya Okachimachi, on to Shiba Takanawa, went to Kanda Jimbochō, and ended up in Awajichō.
Having lost their father there, that autumn they left the house still steeped in sorrow and took up residence in Hongō Kikuzaka-chō.
After that, they moved to Shitaya Ryūsenji-chō.
In a place commonly known as Daionjimae, it was situated in the rear precincts of Yoshiwara.
Ichiyō’s house was said to be near Kyōmachi’s emergency gate, on the near side of the Ohaguro Ditch.
It was from the time of this residence there that Ms. Ichiyō’s name rose to prominence, and the hardships of life reached their utmost extremity.
It was at this house that they started the hardware store, and Mother would go to help at Yoshiwara’s intermediary teahouses when they were short-handed.
Ms. Ichiyō and her sister Kuniko not only took on sewing piecework but also crafted woven straw soles called semi-omote for geta sandals.
It is said that Ms. Ichiyō's study in that house was a space of about three tatami mats.
Who could have known that in the three-tatami depths of that hardware store, this distinguished authoress's masterpiece was about to be penned? Or that the literary giant herself would shoulder a cloth-wrapped bundle each morning, personally trudge to Tachō's wholesalers for cheap sweets, procure candles, and be mocked for wearing a haori?
The light that leaked from her house until near dawn was not solely for her literary creations.
Those precious fingertips that would race to carry thoughts in an instant when holding a brush were now grasping a tiny needle to sew another household’s New Year finery.
Sewing a single yukata in half a day did not seem particularly arduous for her, but to imagine that even when her creative fervor swelled, she had to toil away with her needle for rice money and pocket change—this fills the heart with desolation.
The diary relates that even on New Year’s Day of Meiji 25 (1892), she was sewing with Kuniko until night.

Rumors had it that Kuniko had become the foremost artisan of straw soles for geta at that time; tonight, finding the sake sweeter than usual, Mother became quite intoxicated.

In Katamachi—where they caught sight of vibrant red new potatoes at a greengrocer and bought a few as gifts—hurrying along the road until sweat drenched them, streaming into eyes and mouth, which they wiped away again and again with handkerchiefs—

Even in such accounts could a fragment of their life be glimpsed.
Father Noriyoshi possessed knowledge of Chinese studies and an understanding of literature, while Mother appears to have been a woman of ordinary disposition but rather intense temperament.
The matter of debts recorded in the diary begins on September 7 of the twentieth year [Meiji 20, 1887].
And,

――Had it been only myself, how could I not sustain us through even the lowliest of seated labors? Yet Mother, in her nature that prized honor above all else, declared: "Should you engage in such base work, I would sooner die. If you must sustain me, do so through an occupation that draws no scorn." And indeed, there was truth here―for we both had long ago resolved to ascend to this capital seeking renown, and thus it must be.

Even in such accounts, Mother's countenance could be discerned. This Mother who, despite such lofty pride, had to live amidst impoverished circumstances—this samurai-class descendant of respectable lineage residing near society’s darkest underbelly, the red-light district, wedged among lower-class denizens of the outskirts, drifters from across the provinces who had hit rock bottom, and ignorant lowlifes subsisting on the dregs of coins wrung from the lifeblood of women of the shadows—her seething frustration, that unfortunate disposition of being strong-willed (kigassha), proved a common trait shared by all three family members.

The reason Ms. Ichiyō was nearsighted was said to stem from her childhood habit of reading illustrated storybooks by the faint twilight filtering through the second-floor window of a storehouse; yet the dim red glow of oil lamps in such frugal households likely further damaged her eyesight. Moreover, she had a constitution prone to stiff shoulders—at a time when no one could have imagined death would come so swiftly to the young authoress (six years prior to her passing), Dr. Sasaki Tōyō had warned, “If this shoulder stiffness descends lower, it will prove fatal; take great care.” Reflecting on such matters, her premature demise may have been ordained by fate, but it was a life of excessive physical and mental strain that hastened her death.

What I felt upon recently rereading Old Man Bakin’s diary was how that literary man’s lifetime—persisting in his writings even at eighty years of age and in blindness—much like Ms. Ichiyō’s own, gave a sensation akin to a red-hot fire iron pressed against one’s throat.

Reading Ms. Ichiyō's records, one finds an entry from October 10, Meiji 24 (1891)—when she was twenty—detailing how her brother's household received notice of property seizure; even inferring from the letter's statement that bankruptcy's misfortune might have been avoided with merely three yen or so, it became clear how unreliable these male siblings—whom one might lean on as staffs—proved to be, while conversely, it was the sisters who rescued the emergency from within their own hardships.

“Sell my practice clothes if you must,” she said, and had Mother ride in a rickshaw to deliver the four yen—money that was their very flesh and blood—even though it was midnight.

At times—though it was but the grumbling of an old woman wearied by poverty—

"Ah, wretchedness—had Father perished five years sooner, had he died while still among us, I might have been spared such misery rather than remaining alone! Though I speak not of my own plight, the world mocks and points at me. If only Kuniko and Natsuko would meekly obey what I decree—or even what Toranosuke would decree—what quarrel could there be? What can a worthless woman achieve, however she steels her resolve or strains her hands? Ah, no—no! To witness such a world is unbearable."

To be scolded day and night by her mother—how deeply this must have pained her.
In the same year (April 13, Meiji 26 [1893] entry),
Her mother admonished her late into the night on many matters; though her constant wish was that she would not become an unfortunate child, the sorrow lay in those moments when it proved difficult to satisfy her mother’s heart.

From such accounts one can discern.

In the mornings, shouldering her bundle of purchases, she was called “Sis” by the wholesalers’ workers; in the afternoons, sitting knee-to-knee with noblemen’s daughters who respectfully addressed her as “Miss Natsuko”—she herself felt the irony of it all.
However，her mentor Nakajima Utako had even gone so far as to consider making Ichiyō’s Natsuko her successor.
Precisely because of this, even before Ichiyō’s literary reputation soared, the young ladies of the same school likely did not look down upon Natsuko, whose status was akin to that of a live-in disciple.

Once, Ms. Ichiyō did not have a single umbrella. The high clogs lacked toe straps. She braved the heavy rain with a small Western-style parasol to commute to her teacher’s residence. On another occasion—I believe it was during New Year’s—having no formal attire, they wore a kimono crafted through Kuniko’s resourcefulness: patched with scraps beneath the haori and assembled from whatever matching fabric could be gathered for visible areas. Of course it had only a hem lining; the haori both shielded against cold and concealed their shame. The reason she never neglected to present herself at her teacher’s residence lay in other circumstances as well. Utako commissioned sewing and laundry work to her household and paid favorable rates. The beauty of their teacher-student bond manifested when Utako—striving to spare Natsuko shame—provided a three-layered underrobe of fine komon chirimen silk, though only its outer layer showed.

In the October 9th entry of *Diary of a Wasted Life*, she brought the eggplants she had promised to her teacher. Her teacher rejoiced greatly and expressed a wish to eat them at lunch; after baking a Kasuga manjū and partaking of it herself, she shared half with me. Even through such accounts, one discerns the closeness of their master-disciple relationship. Yet Utako understood Ichiyō profoundly. When a *Yomiuri Shimbun* literary reporter once sought evaluations of contemporary talented women—specifically Natsuko of Haginosha and Ryūko (Ms. Miyake Hanpo)—Utako reportedly remarked that Ryūko embodied Murasaki Shikibu while Natsuko resembled Sei Shōnagon. That Ichiyō herself recognized this affinity with Sei Shōnagon becomes evident in her essay *Sao no Shizuku* (*Drops from an Oar*), where...

Sei Shōnagon, rather than cultivating her person through her own inclinations, had no one to instruct her that things ought to be thus and so. Murasaki Shikibu, having been guided from childhood by her father Michitaka and elder brothers as a younger sister among many, might be likened to a daughter born into wealth who grew up unaffected and became a wife of moderate station—yet upon unrolling *The Pillow Book*, that casual diversion of her brush, one finds beneath its surface splendor of blossoms and crimson leaves viewed two or three times over a hidden current of poignant loneliness. That *The Tale of Genji* is praised through the ages as a peerless masterpiece owes to that particular convergence of time and personage; let none say Sei Shōnagon lacked Murasaki’s talent, nor that Murasaki’s virtue did not naturally surpass hers—yet to disparage Shōnagon is error. For Murasaki was heaven’s cherished child while Shōnagon a foundling on frost-bitten moors—when I lamented “Ah, pitiable is this lady,” people mocked me.

She sympathized with this sentiment.

Yet during that very period, the authoress's once-in-a-generation celestial blossom unfurled.

“Fame and honor only matter if one lives; since your eyes suffer so, I implore you to rest tonight.”

Disregarding her younger sister’s repeated admonitions, she devoted herself wholeheartedly to her writing and conceived the idea for that masterpiece *Takekurabe* at the Daionjimae hardware store.
Yet death’s approach had finally come circling around—though she had no way of knowing this—and her concerns regarding household affairs and bringing joy to her mother seemed only to intensify, until she even began to consider trying her hand at speculation.

As I write this far, I too have more than once conceived such ideas to fulfill my mother’s wishes; I affirm that these impulses are neither abrupt nor entirely unreasonable. Regarding that speculation, from her visit to a dubious spiritualist’s place called the "Divine Revelation Manifest Truth Technique Headquarters," she decided to seek out a bit of romance. The time when she opened the sundries shop must also be recorded. From evening, carrying three bundles of clothing to Hongō Iseya, she obtained four yen and fifty sen, purchased a small amount of paper goods, and bought other items for about two yen.

Tonight she shouldered the load for the first time—truly heavy it was.

She recorded daily sales of twenty-eight or twenty-nine sen at best—thirty-nine sen on good days—while noting that customers paying five or six rin apiece meant over a hundred visitors came daily, making it impossibly busy.

Whether storms blew or not—what did it matter?

Ah—Ichiyō's boat was itself the floating world.

The countenance brimming with boundless emotion rose vividly before one's eyes.

III

On an afternoon in February of Meiji 27, it was she who turned beside the boarding house at the top of Abumi Slope in 32 Masagocho, Hongo Ward.
That road was familiar territory.
Kikuzaka’s old residence was close.
However, she who walked there—after agonizing through countless deliberations, questioning and answering in her solemn heart—had resolved to visit the Divine Revelation Manifest Truth Technique Headquarters.

Entering a narrow path lined with black walls and zelkova plantings, she stood at the entrance and had likely imagined that the master of this house—the one called Mr. Kusaga—was someone akin to a Taoist mystic. She gave her name as Autumn Moon and requested an audience.

When she met with Mr. Kusaga,

(When we meet, there is none whose countenance betrays their thoughts as before.)

While recalling a phrase from *Tsurezuregusa*—"When we meet, there is none whose countenance betrays their thoughts as before"—she faced the small man of around forty with a quiet, low voice.

In a room called the Appraisal Bureau—about ten tatami mats in size—textiles were spread across the floor. Two framed inscriptions hung on the walls, one bearing the characters for Seishinkan ("Hall of Serene Mind"). Bookshelves, black-lacquered cabinets, and staggered shelves stood conspicuously arranged. The alcove displayed a pair of silk paintings. With this alcove at his back, Mr. Kusaga had pulled a large brazier close to his desk, laid out a cushion, and granted her audience.

"Twenty-three years old, born in the Year of the Monkey—I wish to test my fortune through speculation, but as a pauper without a single coin to spare, it lies beyond my own power. Thus I have come seeking your guidance as my last resort."

And at last, she broke the silence.
The teacher of the Manifest Truth Technique who responded to this,

"You were indeed born of the finest stock, but financial fortune eludes you."
"You are abundantly blessed with other forms of prosperity."
"If I were to list your exceptional qualities—you possess both talent and wisdom, skill in practical matters, and even a connection to spiritual enlightenment."
"The only regret is that your desires are too grand—they appear destined to collapse."
"Since you are someone endowed with a natural gift—a singular blessing—even the mere notion of engaging in commerce strikes me as unnecessary; I must emphatically dissuade you from contending in speculative ventures."
"You must discard all desires from your heart and achieve spiritual peace—accept your ordained fate as your lifelong aspiration."
"For that is the very essence bestowed upon you by heaven."

he said.
Though she maintained a composed exterior, deep down she must have snorted in derision upon hearing this.

“I cannot possibly attain spiritual peace.”
“What precisely do you mean by claiming my aspirations are too grand and will collapse?”
“Because I must expose my aged mother to the fragility of our daily existence, I would offer myself as sacrifice for transient fortune—let my life be shattered! To become a roadside beggar—that alone constitutes my lifelong aspiration.”
“I agonize while paving this path toward beggary.”
“In essence, I seek a fitting place to die.”

When she finished speaking, Kusaga clapped his hands.

“Your words align perfectly with my cherished aspiration.”

It seems their meeting had gone smoothly.
After a month had passed, Kusaga invited her with a letter to Kameido’s Garyūbai Plum Tree.

The letter stated:

"I have been impressed by your extraordinary spirit; should you deign to associate intimately with me henceforth, it would fulfill my greatest wish."

after writing such things,

Eagerly awaiting your coming once more,

Is there one who prays? In my heart, I delight,

An autumn dusk brimming with restless joy.

Though his poems and handwriting were clumsy, he had merely exhausted his skill in navigating the world with talent.
Even so, it was Ichiyō who received this.
Did he truly believe such contrivances could ensnare her?—she had already laid bare the inner workings of Master Kenshinjutsu’s heart.
Even this teacher—with thirty thousand members across Japan and the respect of Minister Gotō and his wife (Count Shōjirō)—could not comprehend Ms. Ichiyō, and to think she would fall for such a sweet ploy—this must have been the blunder of his lifetime.

She understood Kusaga’s true worth.
He likely thought she too could be won over through the mask he wore before the world.
In her diary, she wrote of this selfish fraud—should she ever hear his preachings again, she would find him utterly detestable, worthy only of spitting in his face—declaring that discussing serious matters with such individuals was akin to explaining celestial mechanics to an infant. Reflecting on this, she even mocked herself for having shown such profound ignorance in failing to recognize her own adversary.
Yet Kusaga likely arrogated to himself the belief that he had amassed fame, wealth, and power.
Moreover, he likely grew conceited, thinking that combining Ichiyō’s beauty, talent, and literary renown made her a woman of extraordinary caliber.
He likely believed he alone truly understood the poverty others would surely be ashamed to even reveal.
More crucially, he arrogated to himself the conviction that he alone comprehended her vulnerability—her desperate wish to secure material comfort for her parents and sister.
Not only that—he may have even believed he had succeeded in persuading Ichiyō.

Kusaga sought to insinuate himself with feigned sympathy through financial power. Being such a man, he may have cast anchor thinking, "With me at the helm, all would surely go well." In any case, he delicately proposed marriage through a letter crafted not to provoke the strong-willed literary woman. This occurred on June 9 of Meiji 27 (1894), when Ms. Ichiyō was twenty-three years old.

("Your hardships pain me as though they were my own; let me support you until your endeavors bear fruit at dawn's light. Yet relying on me through mere acquaintance must prove trying—would you not instead entrust yourself wholly to me?")

Could she help but respond with a bitter smile to such a proposal? Needless to say, she branded him a laughable fraud and denounced him as a speculator. She mocked this would-be beacon of reform—this man who lamented society's decay yet sought to barter his noble principles to escape immediate suffering. Even so, she wished for salvation. The poverty that forced her to endure such sorrowful contradictions compelled her to craft a reply preserving her feminine dignity.

“Please do not speak of such matters; if you deem this worthy of serious consideration, then grant me your assistance. Otherwise, please refuse me outright.”

With clear resolve—yet forced to pray that matters might not collapse—she sent this reply. Subsequently, she even requested a loan of fifty yen. Kusaga too began frequenting her home.

After she became acquainted with Kusaga, her family immediately moved to Hongo.
After transferring the sundries shop, they moved to a small house by the pond at the Abe family’s mountain foothills in Maruyama Fukuyama-chō.
The small house had been built as a detached guest house of an eel restaurant called Moriyoshi, and though cramped, it seemed to be a dwelling they found agreeable.
Even if they said the rent of three yen was high, their modest way of life was evident.
Indeed, recently at the Kabuki-za Theater, that very *Troubled Waters*—the first of Ms. Ichiyō’s works to be staged as a play, performed by actors Kawai and Kitamura—had been written after moving to this house, depicting women from drinking establishments commonly found in the newly developed district nearby.
Ms. Ichiyō, even after moving there, was asked by such people to write letters on their behalf.
A certain woman insisted that only Ms. Ichiyō could write for her, and even after becoming a geisha in Sukiyachō, she would go out of her way to come by rickshaw to have her write.
It is said that O-rika from *Troubled Waters* was modeled after the woman who became that geisha.
And thus it became her final resting place.

The fact that the motive for the move was not her initiative,

Kuniko lacked the temperament to endure hardship; having grown utterly weary of these trifling circumstances, she pressed forward single-mindedly, wishing to abandon everything without considering the consequences.
Mother too wished to enter a house with proper gates—however modest—rather than continue writhing in the dust, desiring to layer even softer garments; whether she understood my true heart or not, both pressed forward with desperate resolve.
Yet having sold off everything over the years and exhausted all resources—after closing this shop—if one considered that not a single sen would flow in from anywhere, they had no choice but to deliberate there.
Therefore they determined their course of action.
They first applied to Tōgin Bank in Kajimachi to secure fifty yen in gold.
This was a bank that had consistently lent two to three hundred yen even during her father's lifetime; moreover, being one whose business methods were widely reputable, they could hardly be so heartless as to refuse a first request.

(From *Diary in the Dust*)

I think I shall now briefly write of those days' comings and goings—if only in passing—for it must not be forgotten: to list the names of those eminent seniors from the Meiji literary world who, in their youthful prime, visited her dwelling, envisioning even a thatched hut as a golden palace and jeweled tower for her sake.

First came Kochō—Mr. Baba, who features prominently in the diary—and it was likely Teacher Utako's fervor and affectionate camaraderie that had stirred Ms. Ichiyō's heart.
Next would be Mr. Hirata Tokuboku; a considerable number of words in the diary are devoted to these two.
And amidst these intimate companions, Ms. Ichiyō must have harbored a gentle sadness and yearning.

*Diary Upon the Water*
In the May tenth night passage—where frogs croaked incessantly by the pond and lamplight flickered fitfully in the wind—sat the fair-faced youth Baba Kochō: already celebrated in Kōchi for inheriting the literary spirit of his elder brother Tatsuino, having cultivated a distinct realm of poetry and prose. Though endowed with grace and nobility, his regrettable shortsightedness suggested one ill-suited for grand endeavors by birth—yet at twenty-seven years old, it was said that should he but leap once, he could clear even mountains.

Hirata Tokuboku was the son of a merchant family in Nihonbashi Isechō—a family that had been wealthy traders for generations, though their fortune now teetered on decline. Despite being at an age when personal burdens multiply, he stood as an exceptional literary figure in their circles, his youth remarkable even among peers: twenty-three years old, it was said. Now, were he to pass through high school and university in those days, the title of bachelor would be within his grasp; they said he resembled cherry blossoms fallen into flowing water—briefly lingering in spring—and questioned what these words "intimacy, intimacy" could mean, casually writing of those who rushed headlong into emotion, who drowned themselves in love's intoxication. Yet as the night deepened with a chill wind, clouds lingering in the sky and moonlight waxing and waning at the window, Ms. Ichiyō's heart—standing between the silent Mr. Tokuboku and the ever-conversational Kochō as she served tea and sweets—must have stirred in strange ripples.

To this circle, Mr. Kawakami Bizan must also be added.
How did she perceive Mr. Kawakami Bizan when they first met? She says the following:

He was said to be twenty-seven years old, tall in stature—even among women, such a beautiful person would be rare to find—and when he spoke or laughed, his cheeks would flush red.
Though unsuited to a man, he was altogether gentle in form; one would not take him for a renowned writer, and he carried himself with a childlike ease.

She remarked that while Kochō’s beauty was like an autumn moon and Mr. Bizan’s like a spring flower—the former’s elegant form akin to Kyoto dancers, the latter compared to Yoshiwara courtesans—they were polar opposites.

She remarked wistfully that Mr. Baba’s casual demeanor must have displeased Tokuboku.
And then Mr. Kawakami Bizan too became one of the Ichiyō faction.
Tokuboku sowed doubt between himself and Kochō, and must have worn a jealous countenance.
And no wonder,

From Kochō came three letters this month—the longest comprising six sheets of scroll paper stacked together, requiring two stamps for its substantial envelope. It is written. Among these, "The refined one is Ueda-kun indeed; he too has been visiting frequently these days. However, this person was a singular presence—steeped in the fragrance of learning yet devoid of worldly charm—but being a young student, he was quite..." This refers to Yanagimura and Dr. Satoshi. In addition to these, the men surrounding Ichiyō included Togawa Shūkotsu, Shimazaki Tōson, Hoshino Tenchi, Seki Nyorai, Shōjiki Shōdayū, and Murakami Rōroku—all frequent visitors.

Shōdayū was a cynic who used the pen name Ryokurō.
Rōroku styled himself as Chinu no Ura Rōroku, gaining fame through his dandy novels that channeled societal frustrations.
The three-way rivalry—comprising the austere Edoite cynic Shōdayū, Rōroku who marketed his chivalrous persona in flamboyant kimono, and Bizan whose gentle demeanor resembled a dancer’s—ended in failure when their overelaborate schemes to win her favor backfired.
After forcibly obtaining a photograph of Ichiyō, Bizan spread rumors about their supposed marriage as if they were third-party gossip, resulting in his ostracization.

Shōdayū was twenty-nine years old, his gaunt frame bearing a face tinged with an ominous pallor, save for an ineffable appeal about his lips. He wore a finely striped meisen silk-lined kimono beneath a cotton-patterned haori—its lining likely Kōshū silk—and spoke in a voice both resonant yet crystalline, coolly articulating matters with piercing clarity. As Rōroku once remarked of him, “He wields not merely a venomous pen but harbors a venomous heart”—a description most apt.

She did not treat Saitō Ryokurō—who had uttered those words—as harshly as one might expect. Rather, the two found greater accord than others imagined. Fellow cynics, they exchanged smiles of mutual understanding. They even spoke candidly of their own marital prospects. Yet her eventual cold dismissal—(though not ignorant of his deeper motives)—sprang from how Shōdayū, leveraging the influence of his razor-edged literary critiques that swayed Meiji-era letters, had repeatedly sought to subtly steer Ichiyō’s path by hinting at his prowess, thereby inciting her defiance. As for the financial aid they had implored Rōroku to provide since the prior year—having kept vigil through New Year’s Eve—by May First of that year, still no word had come from him.

"All these people are utterly unreliable—even husbands balk at providing mere trifles of thirty or fifty gold pieces! Far better to declare outright that preparations are impossible than feign such hollow excuses. What pitiful creatures these counterfeit men are, with their comically upturned mustaches and unsightly pretenses," was spat out with vehemence.

In addition to these, Higuchi Kanjirō—an educator who espoused a philosophy of pessimism and advocated for celibacy—was said to have become utterly spineless from their very first meeting,

“How presumptuous of me to have pined for you these many dozens of days—having perused the separate sheet, deign to punish me with eightfold crucifixion.”

And so he sent forth a fervent letter.
Therefore,

There were many not-unlikable people—but whom should I choose to bestow my love upon? Were I to die for one, the name of 'beloved' might endure; were I to perish for all people, what then? Without those who knew me to witness it, would they not declare this some strange fabrication? Let them say what they would.

she spoke with sincerity to those who cherished her.
Yet this was but how they perceived it.

Let us record both her pensive self and the one perceived as the sole fortunate person.

IV

Now then—the love that Ms. Ichiyō, so cherished by many, harbored in the hidden recesses of her heart: was it unrequited, or was theirs a mutual affection that needed no spoken words?
In her diary, Ms. Ichiyō’s heart appears unsettled.
At the very least, she seemed eighty percent vulnerable.
From the beginning, Ms. Ichiyō had not viewed that person as a lover.
At first, she met him as a teacher to have him review her novel manuscript while simultaneously requesting monetary compensation for the work.
Since that person’s friend was also acquainted with Ichiyō, their mutual acquaintance had arranged the introduction initially.
However, that person sympathized with Ichiyō as intimately as a friend while demonstrating sincerity surpassing ordinary friendship.
No matter how cautious one’s nature might be, young women have youthful vitality coursing through them.
At nineteen, Ichiyō genuinely regarded that person as an elder brother and adored him with all her heart.
And that profound admiration transformed into romantic love.

In the April 6, Meiji 26 (1893) entry of the *Yomogifu Diary*,

Last spring beneath blossoms I became one dearly loved; this spring through warblers' songs I console my dearest.

Is this not spring? Yet I—amidst blossoms and birds—

flow ceaselessly into hues and sounds not of this world...

At the end of these verses,

Thinking of the name of that person in peach blossom season,

Peach blossoms bloom and fade—the pond's waters,

how deeply I long for you in this hour—

she wrote.
"Momohana no Utsurou Mizu"—this was none other than the name of her unparalleled beloved.
That person was none other than Nakarai Tōsui—who even now writes novels catering to popular tastes for the *Asahi Shimbun* and, as husband to Utazawa Torachiyo, composes Utazawa-style *kouta* ballads.

How deeply did Ichiyō feel for Mr. Nakarai? And Mr. Nakarai—

As for his younger days none could say, but the somewhat aged Mr. Nakarai would make a displeased face whenever visitors' conversation turned to her name.
And it was said he never spoke a single word about her.
According to Mr. Seki Nyorai’s account, one morning Higuchi Ichiyō visited Nakarai Tōsui.
When her voice announced her visit from beyond the lattice door, Nakarai Tōsui—who had been writing upstairs—begged Mr. Seki to claim his absence.
As Mr.Seki descended downstairs, she had already climbed up and sat waiting.
Mr.Seki being one who frequented her home always receiving hospitality now seized this chance to play host himself; he detained Ms.Ichiyō—who kept attempting farewells upon hearing of Nakarai’s absence—even ordering sushi for her entertainment.
They conversed until midday approached.

Upstairs, Mr. Nakarai—as time passed—seemed to have business requiring him downstairs, yet having instructed Mr. Seki to say he was out, he could neither descend nor call for anyone. Moreover, as she was well aware of his habit of sharply tapping his pipe against the ash tray, he had to endure even such constraints. After she took her leave, it is said he muttered that had he known it would come to this, it would have been better to meet and while away the time together.
While this single incident does not warrant all conjectures, it seems he lacked the passion to believe he would lose everything for this woman alone—though she was not detestable to him.
That lingering sense of dissatisfaction—the tyrant within her soul felt as though her pride had been wounded; she loved, she yearned, yet she also came to regret.

The strong-willed woman was melancholy.
A love that could not cast aside a woman’s pride—even before her beloved—proved sorrowful yet inevitable, and she struggled to quench with her own coldness the flames she herself had kindled.

Her love chronicle was neither romance fulfilled nor heartbreak suffered.
It stood as both a testament to warring heat and cold within her soul and a protracted battle between flesh and spirit.
She too—adhering to old morality—seems to have considered secret suffering through love love’s highest form.

The friend who had led her into love—Nonomiya, a certain woman—exploited her inflated pride and skillfully succeeded in driving them apart.
That said, in truth, this was also Ichiyō’s own weakness.

The womanliness of one who loves—whenever I think this, I cannot help but smile at the tenderness in a woman’s heart.

It was when she first arranged her hair in the Shimada-style chignon.
That day, she visited Mr. Nakarai out of indignation at the malicious nicknames circulating about her and the spreading of false rumors—a visit intended to temporarily sever their ties.
Despite being such a day, Ichiyō had, unusually, styled her hair in the Shimada chignon for the first time.
That day was June 25, Meiji 25 (1892).

In the *Shinobugusa Diary*,

The lingering rains of the rainy season brought profound melancholy. At Ushigamoto, Itoko and her aunt resided in separate quarters, while the lord lay prostrate in what resembled a study in the adjoining chamber.
The rain fell so heavily that every shutter had been closed, plunging the room into darkness. Itoko said to her aunt, "Look how splendid Ms. Higuchi's hair is—the Shimada chignon suits her perfectly." Her aunt concurred, adding, "Turn around and show us. Truly, it resembles the elegant chignons of palace ladies from days gone by."
I declare my dislike for this modern style with drooping roots.
Mr. Nakarai suddenly stood and declared, "Behold—her ladyship's beautifully adorned figure proves too dazzling!" as he slid open two or three rain shutters, prompting people to laugh and call him sharp-tongued.
Though I smiled too, bitterness at remembering how his lips had spread such baseless tales made me glare unconsciously.

she wrote.
But why had she come to resent him so bitterly? The previous day, while engrossed in casual conversation with fellow students at her teacher’s home, she had stayed up late into the night listening to their gossip. As they prattled on—declaring that deceit was commonplace, that so-and-so had committed such disgraceful acts, and another had perpetrated such scandals—she resolved to approach Teacher Utako, who was about to retire to bed, and seek counsel about her situation.
That was because, on a day prior to that, a woman named Ito Natsuko had risen from her seat, called Ichiyō aside, and whispered,

“Do you consider the obligations of society to be more weighty, or do you hold your family’s honor more dear?”

Having been asked this,

“I believe that the obligations of society must be upheld.”
“But I cannot say the family’s name holds no importance.”
“I want to say neither takes precedence, but truthfully, my heart leans more toward family.”
“Because it’s not just about myself—there’s Mother and my siblings too.”

she answered.

“Now, this is something I must say—is there truly no way for you to break off your association with Mr. Nakarai?”

“Now, this is something I must say—is there truly no way for you to break off your association with Mr. Nakarai?” she said.

Because her friend’s gaze was too intense—though she knew not why—she felt something congealing in her chest.

“What a strange thing to say.”
“As we discussed some time ago, given that he is still young in years and possesses a handsome appearance, I cannot help but feel it would be improper for me to visit him.”
“There’s no telling how many times I’ve thought of severing our association.”
“But given the obligations I’ve received, I simply cannot do so—even though you know full well there’s no impurity in my conduct…”

And she resented it.

“That’s perfectly reasonable—well, I’ll explain the circumstances later, but if you truly cannot end the association, even I might come to doubt you.”

With those words, the friend took her leave.

Ichiyō, suddenly recalling the puzzling words her friend had spoken that day, attempted to have Utako resolve her confusion.

“Since Teacher is fully aware of Mr. Nakarai’s situation, why would there be rumors about not halting the visits?”

she asked Utako.
Then Utako’s reply resounded in her ears with truly unexpected force.

“Then have you not sworn a vow for your future together?”

She was aghast and wept in resentment—how could her teacher not know the guileless heart of a disciple who had spent seven years by her side?

“But isn’t it said that Mr. Nakarai is proclaiming you as his wife?”
“If you’ve accepted this due to fate, then you should pay no heed to what others may say.”
“If that is not the case, then it would be better not to associate.”

Utako admonished.
Precisely because of this, she visited on a rainy day in the rainy season.
And in the eyes of the person with whom she would sever ties, she sought to leave the image of herself styled in the Shimada chignon.

She who had to sever ties with the lover she might have even called wife precisely because she loved him too deeply had visited him just one month prior—scrimping from her meager means to order appetizers at Iyomon restaurant in Shitaya and stop by Fujimura in Hongō to purchase steamed sweets—all to comfort the ailing man she cherished.
There were times when she would visit early in the morning and sit patiently waiting in the small parlor by the entrance on a snowy day—without even a brazier for warmth—until afternoon for the man who showed no sign of waking.
When she helped clean, the diligent male host would offer her homemade sweet red bean soup.
She recorded the events of that day,

She left Ushigamoto around four o'clock, returning through stark white snowfall while enduring the knife-sharp cold. How bittersweet—there near Horibata Street in Kudan, the driving snow forced her to pull the hooded shawl completely over her head, though she occasionally peeked out from its hem with peculiar charm. As countless emotions pressed against her chest, the embryonic form of a story called *Snow Day* took root in her mind.

she wrote.
Even she, who had maintained such arrogance toward love, found herself in these phantom realms.
To what we call love—

From the very beginning, I had never entrusted my heart to that person, nor had I ever harbored any notions of yearning or affection. Precisely because of this, during our many meetings in moments lacking decorum when he would attempt to broach such matters as if they were nothing, I feigned ignorance and maintained nothing but cold indifference in my treatment of him. Though it should be customary to resent how groundless rumors now spread about me for the first time, the heart remains a mysterious thing indeed. Lately during these evenings of incessant rain, memories surfaced unbidden—the disheveled figure I presented during idle hours at home; how during that snowy meeting he personally served me zōni; how he sent jar-pickled dried fish saying "For Mother’s souvenir"; how whenever I visited, he would detain me by watching the clock—thirty or twenty-five minutes more—claiming "Just one evening’s conversation with you makes me forget accumulated hardships." Then there was his founding a magazine for my sake—but let that pass. Though he fell gravely ill and still appeared frail, he asked "What treats does Miss Natsuko enjoy?" and visited morning and night, saying "I who should have died from this illness’s tedium alone." As for gratitude—though mountain and sea delicacies lay beyond my means—he addressed me like a sibling. I am quite skilled at cooking, particularly adept at preparing five-ingredient dishes, so I had promised that in the near future I would treat you as my honored guest to this feast. Yet even so, I longed for how those hand-prepared dishes might someday be received—these memories surfacing unbidden—while gathering my resentment toward the world’s spitefulness and my future bodily decay into a single tear; though why matters came to this pass was ultimately because that person himself had spread formless rumors far and wide...

So it was written, but in truth, she remained unaware that the rumors had been spread by a certain female friend named Nonomiya out of jealousy.
She believed she had separated from her lover, but her heart did not comply.
At times,

Unheeding the wind's whispers, silver grass leaves—

Oh, this time of tangled musings.

Her thoughts became tangled even to this extent—at times attending her uncle’s sickbed while lamenting, *Why, even in such moments as these, does that man remain so difficult to forget?*; at other times choosing paths with nearly no purpose, passing before the house where he lived, encountering the housemaid to inquire after his recent circumstances, writing *A thousand emotions, a thousand sighs—how impossible to sleep this night.* All this unfolded during her twenty-first year of youth.

On January 29 of the following year, watching the snow fall,

My thoughts—how could they have piled up like this falling snow?
Even amidst what should finally be untangled—

Lamenting this, in her diary entry on a rainy day in April,

Though these forms emerged from my own heart—why then should forgetting them prove so difficult?—the more I desperately strove to forget, the more these visions pressed upon me as if corporeal, becoming unbearable to endure. When I abruptly turned away, the lingering scent of that medicine seemed to permeate my senses, and this heart that imagined his constant passage through these thoughts grew terrified at its own uncontrollable depth. Ah, when I considered Lady Rokujō’s wretchedness [from *The Tale of Genji*], I found no falsehood in it whatsoever.

If this imagining heart could traverse—even in vision—
Ah, even for a moment, I cannot find solace—

Love—

Whether seen or heard—the beginning that suddenly arises remains ever shallow,

Unspoken feelings remain ever shallow—

More than this—more than being thought of or thinking of others—it remains ever shallow,

If this is what the world calls love’s fulfillment—how shallow—to meet yet doubt.

Being forgotten yet resentful—ever shallow,

Though I do not wish to meet—to desire mutual affection remains ever shallow,

Love—regretting for others’ sake and my own when submerged logs surface in Natori River’s rapids; counting the fleeting days of years wasted in sorrow, wondering when they might dissolve; does my heart journey yonder while my body remains distant, transforming circumstances? Then there are those who guard their chastity only to waste away a century—which of these is not pitiable? Yet drunk on love, maddened by love, I pray this dream never fades—nay, to die within it! How shallow it seems… For if true love’s depths held anything at all, it would be hideous—loathsome, sorrowful, wretched, mournful, desolate—gathered together, nothing but detestable things. Ah, but this detested love—this is love’s very essence……

Her faith in love was unyielding.
She loved life’s acridness to the very end.

The novel *Snow Day*, completed during that snowy journey home filled with warm melancholy, was published the following year.
The plot follows sixteen-year-old O-Tama, the only daughter of the Usui family, who elopes with a teacher named Katsuragi Ichirō.
“Though some might say ‘the snowy day brokered it all,’” [the narrative continues,] “how deeply I had yearned for the teacher—yet never could I have imagined calling this man my husband and treading foreign soil together. Lost in bewilderment… As snow fell upon the window’s bamboo, our hearts broke—and both my sin and his became true sins indeed.”

she wrote.
Though unspoken—her own self as an innocent maiden unaccustomed to the world—might this be how one becomes? She had written of those depths of her heart that could not become so, and one might perceive it as such.

She was defeated in love yet triumphed in fame.
Poverty could be endured, but illness defeated her.
The final days of her existence were approaching the zenith of her literary career.
In the spring supplement of *Kokumin no Tomo*, alongside works by Emi Suiin, Hoshino Tenchi, Gotō Chūgai, and Izumi Kyōka, her "Parting Paths" appeared.
Critics unanimously praised her.
The public likened it to *Dōjōji*, called her Shirabyōshi Ichiyō, and spread rumors referring to the others as Dōshukubō.
It was January of Meiji 29.
In April of that year, her throat swelled; by early July, she was running a daily fever of thirty-nine degrees.
Dr. Yamaryūdō Kashimura and Dr. Aoyama both asserted that medical treatment was ineffective.
Around November 3, her hearing grew faint due to high blood pressure.
And then, on the morning of the 23rd, she passed away.
Once, when there was no incense money to bring upon an acquaintance’s passing,

"I may have become Bodhidharma himself, yet lack even the legs to visit [his shrine]—" she would remark; also, while sewing garments that had been starched for other occasions, she spent only the morning on mending—patching five spots on the front collars and two on the sleeves—garments not of Miyagi, dry and rustling; how thickly the bush clover must be growing.

The tombstone of the person who smiled serenely still stands in Tsukiji Honganji Temple’s cemetery to this day.
What endures far longer than that stone grave are several of those immortal masterpieces and celebrated works she left behind during those brief five years.

――June 1918 (Taishō 7)――

Postscript dated the last day of Shōwa 10 [1935]: The essay collection *In the Interstices of the Brush* was a co-authored work by Professor Sasaki Chikuhakuen and his wife; on page 125 of "In Spontaneous Reminiscence"...
"In a passage from June of Taishō 7 [1918], it stated: 'When I once visited Mr. Natsume Sōseki for casual conversation about old times, Mr. Natsume mentioned that his father and Ichiyō’s father had been close acquaintances, and that Ichiyō had once been treated like a fiancée for his elder brother during her childhood.'"
"It is interesting to note that such a connection existed between two of the Meiji era's greatest literary figures."