Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface In days of old, Benjamin Franklin wrote an autobiography and made it an admonition for his descendants. A man of such noble integrity in conduct and diligence in work may truly be said to have left an exemplary model for posterity. Even if someone like me were ever so prideful in heart, how could I presume to undertake such a thing? Were one to inquire after the most sinful soul in this world, I would surely stand foremost among them; were one to seek out the most witless fool, none could rival my measure. Having reached six-tenths of my lifespan and now looking back upon my past course, there is no deed done that does not amount to sin, no plan laid that does not end in error. Shameful repentance followed by anguished torment—that which fills my recollections is solely this, ah, truly nothing but this.

The path to healing this anguish of repentance lay in nothing other than reforming myself. But by what means should I reform myself? This itself became yet another anguish. Anguish upon anguish—the anguish of healing anguish. Upon anguish lay yet more anguish; when I sought to heal one torment, another came unbidden, and now I found myself truly encompassed by anguish. Therefore, to write this book was not an endeavor to forget this anguish; nay, even the very act of taking up the pen became a seedbed of torment. With each character more than the last, each line beyond its predecessor, the anguish only swelled.

The anguish only intensifies; yet I do not wish to forcibly forget it—nay, these nostalgic thoughts of mine grow ever stronger with each character and line, intertwined with suffering. Ah, nostalgia—the recollection of my anguish.

Looking back, I—a woman who never measured her own limitations—was driven mad by the clamor for Freedom and People's Rights in my youth; though after repeated stumbles along my path I finally succeeded in entrusting my latter half-life to family, before that household's plans could take shape, I had already become a widow. The bitter emptiness of human existence seeped into my very bones with unbearable clarity.

If there exists one who would shed a tear of sympathy for me, that person too must surely be among the world’s unfortunate.

My past course was a series of failures upon failures. Yet I have always fought; never once did I falter before setbacks. Not only in the past nor the present alone—so long as blood courses through my veins, even in the future shall I continue to fight. My divine vocation lies in battle; it lies in combating crimes against humanity. Precisely because I have come to recognize this divine vocation, even the anguish of recollection—nay, even that anguished past—has come to feel dear.

The path to healing my repentance—the anguish of repentance—lay solely in anguish. Through my divine vocation, I battled the sins of the world and myself.

I, who was once driven mad by the clamor for Freedom and People’s Rights that raged against political power’s monopoly, now devote myself to resisting capital’s dominion and bringing succor to the wretched poor. That I dare lay bare my half-life’s journey with unflinching candor—disregarding charges of presumption—is not to atone through repentance, but to proclaim anew my battle against both this world and my own self.

Part One: Family

1. The Counterfeit Thing

When I was eight or nine years old, I was praised within our estate as a clever girl; cherished by schoolteachers as a lively and innocent child; then at eleven or twelve, specially selected at an examination hall overseen by the prefectural governor's education committee to lecture on texts like *Eighteen Abridged Histories* and *Foreign History of Japan*. Rejoiced in this supreme honor, I secretly prided myself before our local community that none in the world could rival my intellect. At fifteen, I was entrusted as an assistant teacher at the school; received three yen in salary to undertake the duty of instructing students, gathered dozens of pupils at my home under the pretext of review lessons while carrying out my daily duties, taught them extra subjects beyond the school’s curriculum. By enabling these students to sit for examinations two grade levels within a single year, I gained immense trust from their parents, achieved such prosperity that for a time it nearly rivaled public schools.

On my way to school, I was constantly jeered by barbarian brats shouting “Magai passes by! Magai passes by!” How apt that epithet was—only now do I realize—for at the time, I truly was “Magai.” “Magai” refers to making horse hooves resemble tortoiseshell—much like how rubber is fashioned to imitate ivory in modern times—both being semblances that mimic yet fundamentally differ from the real thing. One can only imagine how fitting an epithet this was when applied to me. Though it shames me now to admit, I was then—as my teachers called me an active child—tomboyish in all my comings and goings without question; during my studies, I begrudged even the time spent tying my hair, so single-mindedly did I prefer reading books that until sixteen, I cut my hair short with a front part left and right, dressed entirely in boys’ clothing, and moreover attended school accompanied by female students. The neighborhood children, seeing this, must have found it bizarre and thus jeered at what they called “Magai” passing by—a creature neither fully boy nor girl. Whenever I recall this, even now I feel sweat seeping down my back. It was in the spring of my seventeenth year that I gradually became aware of societal norms, felt ashamed of having cross-dressed, and began applying myself to growing out my hair. It was from this time that I first came to join the ranks of those wearing Western-style chignons.

Part Two: Freedom and People's Rights The year I turned seventeen was one I could never forget in my lifetime. In my hometown, many advocates of Freedom and People’s Rights had gathered, interacting as close as brothers in their daily lives; among them was Mr. Haishi Kumeo (a pseudonym), a proponent of that very doctrine. Mr. Haishi Kumeo forged unity among the people, became their representative, submitted a petition to the then-government for the establishment of a national assembly, and sought to shatter the people’s delusions ahead of other prefectures. At that time, there existed an Ōtsue-bushi that my mother had playfully composed. For His August Majesty’s sake, beginning with Bizen Okayama, patriots from many lands wrote crimson hearts in ink, shouldering the nation’s heavy burdens while abandoning parents, wives, and children—their lives as light as traveling robes. “Patriots depart their lands for the capital, hearts anguished at the time for establishing a national assembly.” “The clouds and mist will soon vanish, and the season of spring for Freedom and People’s Rights will surely arrive.”

Unlike ordinary Ōtsue-bushi ballads, as people were fervently caught up in the People’s Rights cause at the time, they delighted in singing to accompany my gekkin, and my performances were frequently requested. From an earlier time, beginning when I was fifteen years old, I had been taught all manner of womanly accomplishments—tea ceremony, flower arrangement, sewing, and various etiquettes—as it was deemed I must learn a woman’s proper conduct. Moreover, to make me—who comported myself like a boy—more ladylike, they claimed nothing could soothe the heart like music, and thus even instruments such as the Yakumo-koto and gekkin were incorporated into my daily studies. Therefore, my daily lessons continued one after another until nightfall, leaving me with scarcely a moment of leisure.

3. Marriage Proposals

In the winter of my sixteenth year, a marriage proposal came from a certain household, but deeming it unworthy of my ideals, I rejected it. My parents, driven to desperation, one day confronted me: "With our family’s livelihood not proceeding as hoped—indeed, with the wretched prospect of bankruptcy soon to befall us—how long can you remain in your parents’ home? This fortunate match strikes us as truly auspicious. Resolve yourself quickly." Their words were filled with urgent entreaty. At that time, I expressed gratitude to my mother for her nurturing care up to that point; having now gained the means to support myself through her benevolence, I declared that even were I to be driven from this house henceforth, I would not want for daily sustenance. Yet what I wished was simply to be allowed to remain forever thus at your knees; with all sincerity I proposed that every bit of income from the school be devoted to our living expenses, so as to alleviate even a ten-thousandth part of our hardships. Whether my parents saw this resolve as immovable, the marriage arrangement came to naught.

Ah! That in this world there should be so many women coerced by fathers and brothers into ritualistic and mechanical unions with men they do not love—how I might enable these unfortunate women to gain the path to self-reliance became from this moment a wish deeply engraved upon my heart.

From the moment marriage negotiations ceased, I devoted myself wholeheartedly to scholarly and artistic pursuits—resigning my assistant teaching position to establish a private academy where I instructed with meticulous care. Thus did my family’s name, already renowned through generations of ancestral pedagogy, swiftly spread throughout neighboring villages. As enrollees increased daily, our household soon became the focal point of reverence. Accordingly, we borrowed a temple to open a classroom; at night I taught women who could not attend during daylight hours and children from impoverished families, with Mother taking charge of calligraphy and Brother managing arithmetic to assist me. On Saturdays, we organized discussion forums and speech gatherings to facilitate intellectual exchange, opposing antiquated teaching methods to wholeheartedly embrace progressive principles.

4. Ms. Kishida Arrives

That year, the renowned Ms. Kishida Toshiko (wife of the late Mr. Nakajima Nobuyuki) came touring and held a three-day lecture meeting in our town; the audience gathered like clouds, leaving not an inch of space in the venue. Indeed, when Ms. Kishida championed the grand cause of women’s rights expansion through her impassioned eloquence, even I could not suppress my fervor; during her stay, I conferred with wives and daughters from progressive households, formed a Women’s Fellowship Association, spearheaded efforts across provinces to unite women, and frequently invited activist thinkers to expound on doctrines of natural rights, freedom, and equality—all while laboring to dismantle women’s age-old oppressive customs. As public sentiment swelled toward our movement, applicants streamed in ceaselessly, and the association flourished ever more vigorously.

Five: Summer Evening Gathering

In the summer of that same year, when it was decided that Liberal Party members would hold a summer evening gathering on the Asahi River and they came to negotiate joint participation with the Women’s Fellowship Association, I consulted with senior members Ms. Takeuchi and Ms. Tsushita and agreed to their proposal; from evening onward that day, we set out on boats along the Asahi River. The members, harmonizing their instruments, played in unison the song of freedom; as the solemn melodies carried over the water, striking us with boundless emotion—this memory remains vivid even now. Just then, though voices came from the opposite boat, one of the Liberal Party members stood upon the deck and commenced a speech. A murderous intensity gripped the crowd, leaving them trembling. Had this been on city streets, they would have faced police orders to cease and disperse; but here on the water—this ungoverned ease—they attempted speech after emboldened speech without hindrance, the air thick with tragic fervor now claiming the Asahi River. At this very moment, a man erupted from the depths like a water demon and commanded the gathering’s immediate dissolution. I had never imagined they would suspect this boat gathering—that fearsome officers lurked beneath the water, observing our every move. The people aboard the boats—caught in the frenzy of the moment—clamored to *“Kill the water demon! Beat it to death!”* and grew riotous; yet obeying their elder’s command, all dispersed calmly—a stroke of fortune that prevented disaster. However, the very next day, my school received an order from a certain Governor Takasaki: “Due to the circumstances of the investigation, we hereby order its suspension.” What were these “circumstances of the investigation”? Though I interrogated the authorities about them, they offered no answer. Relying on my brother-in-law—a standing committee member of the prefectural assembly—to inquire into the matter, I learned the reason lay in my having accompanied Liberal Party members on a boat excursion. For this, even my brother-in-law was reprimanded and forced into temporary seclusion to demonstrate contrition.

Part Two: Journey to the Capital

1. Forsaking My Hometown

The government trampled on human rights and wantonly carried out oppression without hesitation; this alone made its nature clear. So then—the arguments my mentors had always expounded truly had their reasons after all. Where could there be any duty to submit to such arbitrary governance? Though I am but a woman, how could I cease without abolishing these corrupt systems and evil laws? Burning with rage upon rage, my resolve quickening ever faster—my mind no longer fixed on instructing students—I yearned instead to hasten to the eastern capital and consult with like-minded individuals. Just as I awaited the ripening of this opportunity, a fervent invitation arrived from my dear friend Yamada Kotakejo, whose home lay some three *ri* from mine: “A festival will be held in the village tomorrow—won’t you come visit?” Deeming it opportune to immediately rush to the eastern capital, I suppressed my heart’s anguish—so intense it might have drawn blood—persuaded Mother to visit our ancestors’ graves with Elder Sister in tow, and led our family of three to a temple approximately one *ri* away. There we offered silent prayers during which I declared my resolve to our forebears. It was an early autumn day of exceeding clarity. The agony of turning my back on the home where I had lived all seventeen years of my life and preparing to leave the loving embrace of my parents overwhelmed my heart no matter how I tried to contain it—perhaps this turmoil showed upon my face. Even on our return journey, Mother grew suspicious of my demeanor; discerning that I harbored discontent over the recent school suspension, she spoke with profound tenderness: “Surely you do not mean to seize this opportunity to attempt study abroad without Father’s permission? I who cannot bear to see you buried as deadwood in this rural backwater—how could I thwart your hard-won resolve? Speak plainly of your intentions.” Yet I did not answer, for I knew that were Mother to speak to Father, there would be no possibility of permission. Thus resolved first to seek financial support from philanthropic patriots and then embark on study abroad, I secretly prepared to depart for Yamato—intending to petition Mr. Dogura Shōzaburō, the wealthy farmer renowned for his charity within the Liberal Party. Yet just then, a motion arose to dissolve the Liberal Party; Count Itagaki and other prominent figures all descended to Osaka, and word came that Mr. Dogura Shōzaburō had also gone there. Deeming this a chance not to be missed, I ultimately deceived even Mother—fabricating acceptance of a dear friend’s invitation—requested a week’s leave, and the following day stepped out from beneath my home’s eaves.

It was indeed the early autumn of Meiji Year 17.

2. An Audience with Count Itagaki Upon arriving at my friend’s house, I inquired about the departure time of the Osaka-bound ship the following day—and upon learning it was scheduled for around seven in the evening, a sense of unease welled up within me anew. Yet this had been my long-held resolve; when dawn broke, I did not heed my friend’s earnest attempts to detain me, bidding farewell to set out for Osaka. Yet there was a man around forty years old sharing my cabin who kept inquiring about my birthplace while fixating on my face, leaving me ill at ease. Could he have been entrusted by my parents to intercept me here? For a moment I greatly feared this possibility. However, having left my hometown to fulfill my long-cherished ambitions—not as one who flees illicitly over walls—I saw no need for secrecy. Thus I disclosed my intent to visit relatives in Osaka during my eastward journey. But when he pressed relentlessly—"Who are these relatives? What is their ward name and address?"—as persistently as swarming flies, I answered with whatever came to mind. The man appeared profoundly startled: "Then you must be related to Mr. Fujii! What absurd coincidence—he was just in this cabin earlier but left moments ago on clerk’s business. Wait, I’ll summon him at once!" With this he hurriedly rose and likely went to call Fujii from the office. Fujii had no time to ascertain who I was before being brought over; upon seeing me, he—my own cousin, though acting utterly uncomprehending—barraged me with questions: Why was I traveling east? Had I obtained my parents’ permission? Though my claim of having obtained prior consent was but a lie I told myself in that moment, the relentless barrage of questions became unbearable; clutching my anguished chest and rubbing my brow, I feigned dizziness, insisting I would explain everything once ashore before lying down. By nine the next morning, when we finally reached Osaka, even Fujii’s wife, children, and clerks welcomed their master’s return—though surely they found my sudden presence perplexing. That evening, I finally confessed to the Fujii couple and explained my reasons for the eastward journey. The wife showed deep sympathy, and Fujii too vowed to exert every effort together.

The very next day, I immediately visited Mr. Dogura at Ginsuirō, but he had not yet arrived in Osaka—how profound was my disappointment! Yet with no alternative, I could only wait earnestly for his coming when a letter arrived from Mr. Hasekishikumidai stating he would introduce me to Count Itagaki—overjoyed, I hastened to his lodgings at once, only for Mr. Hasekishikumidai, unaware of my reasons for traveling to Osaka, to tenderly admonish me: “As a woman, do not let transient passions lead you astray.” Yet perceiving my resolve remained unshakable, he ceased further protest and instead urged me to meet Count Itagaki and explain my intent to journey eastward—I assented and at last obtained audience with the Count; when I conveyed my purpose for traveling to the capital and aspirations for the future, he expressed deep sympathy while declaring: “Once Mr. Dogura arrives in Osaka, I shall entreat him myself to secure your eastern journey—strive henceforth for our nation’s sake and humanity’s cause.” On that day when gratitude choked me with tears, never could I have imagined a summons would come from Mr. Dogura himself! This was a letter from my friend Count Itagaki who had heard of your aspirations and been moved—it contained his humble offer to provide academic funds; elated as if ascending to heaven, I shared this joy with my cousin, urgently dispatched word to my parents in our hometown seeking permission for study abroad, then rushed to Mr. Dogura’s lodgings to express gratitude for his benevolence—whereupon I was granted fifty yen in travel expenses! Thus all preparations were complete as I awaited only the day of departure when word came from my cousin in our hometown—news that initially shocked them greatly—yet deeming it wasteful to spurn such happiness born of these individuals’ kindness, they ultimately openly accepted my hopes for departure—a mercy owed wholly to Count Itagaki and Mr. Dogura’s grace.

Three: A Warning at the Scholar’s Desk Several days later, a letter arrived from Count Itagaki: “Taking advantage of a certain activist’s return to Tokyo, I have arranged for you to accompany him. Come at once—I shall introduce you.” When I hastened to meet this activist, it turned out to be Mr. Satō Sadamoto, then a director of the Liberal Party. Reassured, I boarded a ship departing Kobe the following day. My first sea voyage passed without incident, and my inaugural train ride from Yokohama likewise proceeded smoothly until we reached Tokyo. There I called at the residence of Mr. Sakazaki Bin—a *Jiyūtō Shinbun* journalist whom Count Itagaki had previously contacted—exchanged initial greetings, and humbly requested his future guidance. Soon after, I enrolled at Shin’ei Girls’ School in Tsukiji, studying shoulder-to-shoulder with girls of twelve or thirteen while devoting myself entirely to English studies. Concurrently, I attended Mr. Sakazaki’s lectures on psychology and Mr. Spencer’s social philosophy, thus becoming wholly absorbed in the world of scholarship. In the midst of this, news that the Korean disturbance had been followed by the initiation of Sino-Japanese negotiations abruptly startled me at my study window. To witness our authorities’ spineless incompetence—oppressing the populace at home while kowtowing abroad, staking national honor to flaunt fleeting splendor, leaving behind a century of calamity as they scrambled to secure their own wretched comfort—only inflamed one such as I, ever prone to emotional torrents. My indignation burned so fiercely that I forgot even my status as a woman, resolved now to rise up and rouse from slumber these feckless officials and apathetic masses, no matter the cost. Such was the extremity of my resolve.

Four: Thoughts at the Time

Ah, thus did I resolutely cast aside my writing brush—a misfortune I brought upon myself. At that time there existed a fragment of writing through which I vented my emotions—though it borders on the ravings of a madwoman—yet as it serves to reveal how I had become intoxicated with statism and wholly devoted to loyalty and patriotic fervor, I beg leave to excerpt it below in narrative sequence. This was drafted during my incarceration in Osaka Pre-trial Detention Prison. I confess here: I now lament the arrogance of aristocrats and plutocrats while detesting the decadence and frivolity of those former Liberal Party comrades who once shared life and death with me. Though we are but women, our fervent resolve for the nation would not cease even at death's threshold; this single-minded determination guided me to find solace in socialist theories and gradually detest imperialists scrambling for private gain.

Ah, how misguided were those ideas of that time—devoid of true learning, ruled solely by unchecked passion! Yet in those days, as a patriotic woman activist consumed by national salvation, people tolerated me, and I tolerated their tolerance. For now, let them permit me to speak as a woman activist.

Prison Reflections (December 19, Meiji Year 18, at Osaka Pre-trial Detention Prison, Age 19)

Fundamentally, I observe that civil rights in our nation remain unexpanded; thus women grow accustomed to archaic customs, resigning themselves to groveling as men’s slaves—unaware of their innate freedom, unconcerned by whatever corrupt systems or evil laws oppress them—content instead with petty comforts, regarding silken robes and sumptuous feasts as life’s greatest happiness and honor. How could they comprehend the nature of governance? Much less grasp the nation’s fortunes or calamities? What has never crossed their minds is that all multitudes of Japanese women grovel as if these matters were beyond their concern, deeming political affairs beyond feminine understanding and showing not a shred of consideration. This apathetic powerlessness stems solely from incomplete female education and the failure to expand civil rights—a failure that naturally extends its consequences to women themselves. Thus I resolved to ally with like-minded civil rights advocates and devote myself fully to expanding Freedom and People’s Rights—my eternal objective being that once we achieve gender equality, all thirty-seven million compatriot sisters will vie to participate in national governance, never again turning blind eyes to crises but abolishing corrupt systems crafted for others’ benefit instead. Together with men they will foster culture and master statecraft—and when this comes to pass, patriotic fervor too shall blaze with utmost intensity! Yet consider our nation’s present state: though people universally despise unequal despotism and yearn for impartial constitutional rule—publishing in newspapers, delivering speeches, petitioning daily to declare专制政治 untenable for Japan—their warnings fall on deaf ears! Worse still, when patriots inadvertently breach statutes, this government heartlessly confines them to languish in cells—oppressive acts too numerous to count! What most stirred me was their suppression of newspapers, assemblies, and speech—depriving us of three natural freedoms while imposing unheard-of taxes! And appending “by imperial decree” to proclamations while attributing crimes to His Majesty himself—what outrage! Dwelling on this overwhelms me—bloody tears stream down my face unceasingly; goosebumps rise despite no chill! In an instant I realized: should this persist—ignorant masses resenting harsh taxes—what might follow? Dreadfully, their festering resentment could erupt into French Revolution-like carnage or Russian Nihilist plots! Thus we patriots had no choice but to preemptively eradicate this threat—hence our prior counsel to government! Our counsel stemmed from knowing these leaders’ past conduct! Yet now they spurn us—even bringing national humiliations like Sino-Japanese negotiations! No longer can we heed those in power; hence our fervor to reform government grows! I contemplate deeply: though diplomacy flourishes with surface amity, [nations] hoard needles in bellies—daily indulging survivalist savagery while encroaching on Asia! Regarding our diplomacy: since Korea’s disturbance led to Sino-Japanese talks—did those negotiations satisfy citizens? Moreover, foreign scrutiny now blazes brighter than flame! Yet even foreigners privately lament our government’s feebleness! Reflecting here—tears of blood streaming, iron guts torn—my patriotism blazes fiercer! Ah—does Japan lack righteous men? No martyrs among thirty-seven million to cleanse this disgrace? With no treaty revisions—how fitting!—I churn with unbearable anguish! Ah—what could be done? Though a woman, I am Japanese—this disgrace must be avenged! Alone I sank into torment! For no other women conspired with them; though Kobayashi’s cohort plotted something then—I had left Tokyo absorbed in English studies then! Despite mutual ideological respect, scholarly pursuits kept me from frequenting Kobayashi’s lodgings; thus I never sought their schemes then! Yet when Sino-Japanese talks began—stirred by resolve—I cast aside my brush!

Moreover, Kobayashi had long maintained his conviction: even among the most intimate associates, he would never bend another’s will to force compliance with his own views—a practice he abhorred. How much more so for matters such as our plans, which concerned life and death! In all things, he insisted one must first achieve mutual ideological resonance before fully articulating one’s convictions—and indeed, this principle governed everything. However, when the Korean incident suddenly led to Sino-Japanese relations, I—as I had previously stated—perceived that our nation’s crisis loomed imminently. *How could this be a time for reading?* Resolutely casting aside my writing brush, I first went to Kobayashi’s residence and inquired what plans they had at this juncture. However, he did not answer. Therefore, I—whether through writing or exhausting every possible means of speech—repeatedly stated my heartfelt thoughts. Perhaps having made some impression, I finally managed to hear the initial steps of their plans for the current incident. The initial steps were none other than this: should a Sino-Japanese dispute arise now, we would seize this opportunity to realize our long-cherished aspirations. And though their plans were already laid, I was greatly inspired by their words lamenting only the lack of funds; resolving by any means to procure some amount of money to realize their will, I established what we called the Fusui’i Company, traveled through Sagami region giving speeches, and finally managed to gather a modest sum. However, even so, this amount could not cover the expenses required for our current plans—serving only to fund the activists’ basic operational costs. Though I exhausted every means and spared no effort, alas—who would invest substantial sums in a mere maiden? Not to mention this crucial matter—they dared not breathe a word for fear of exposure—all their efforts proved futile. Thus I concluded: for one such as myself to aspire—through financial means—to be even one ten-thousandth the aid of men was impossible. Having utterly abandoned fundraising efforts, I resolved to stake my very person instead, devising myriad means to this end.

However, news arrived that even the Sino-Japanese negotiations had been peacefully settled. This news proved most ill-omened for our cause, and though we felt some disappointment, how could we abandon our efforts midway? Even should greater difficulties arise, with focused resolve, what could remain unaccomplished? At that time, when public discourse—untethered from daily debates between court and commoners—universally clamored for war with fervent intensity, the abrupt peace transformed this pervasive sentiment into an unparalleled opportunity for us. Seizing this moment without delay, we formulated a new strategy: selecting warriors resolved to die who would first advance to Korea to initiate action. Here we drafted a manifesto, circulating it widely to rally compatriots as allies. Together we would expel those queue-wearing slaves beyond our borders and establish Korea as a purely independent nation. Foreign observers would then see that though our government had groveled impotently before those pigtailed barbarians, our citizenry boasted righteous martyrs cleansing national disgrace—a feat impacting not only diplomatic strategy but serving as an ideal means to reform our domestic governance, a single stroke achieving twin aims. We desperately yearned to expedite this endeavor, devising myriad plans despite shattered resolve. Yet though our strategy took shape, lacking funds rendered execution impossible. Ōi and Kobayashi had been engaged solely in fundraising, but deeming no further purpose remained in Osaka, the two departed to conduct speaking tours in the provinces. After some time, Ōi returned midway to the capital while Kobayashi alone remained; through his persistent efforts, the required funds were secured. Thus did Isoyama and his cohort finally resolve to make the crossing. On the eve of their departure, Isoyama informed me of their decision to have me accompany them to Korea. I therefore inquired about the necessary arrangements. Isoyama replied that correspondents between Japan and Korea were most essential. After careful deliberation, I consented. To begin with, when I had departed Tokyo earlier at Isoyama’s request to transport explosives—arranging matters as far as Nagasaki—I had planned to return afterward and pursue secondary strategies through domestic activism. However, when proposed to assist with Korean communications from Osaka instead—with Kobayashi’s approval—I resolved to undertake the journey. Yet Isoyama absconded on the very eve of departure, vanishing without trace. Compelled by circumstance, Arai assumed his responsibilities and resolved to go; he too then decided I should accompany him. Having already steeled my resolve, I immediately agreed. After parting from Ōi and Kobayashi, I embarked for Korea with Arai. We reached Nagasaki and awaited the Incheon-bound ship’s departure. During our stay there, Isoyama’s desertion and Arai’s substitution bred discord among the activists—some now refused to embark. Unable to bear this disarray, I attempted to explain the distinction between public and private matters through indirect means; yet alas, they showed no regard for such principles in their refusal. Incensed beyond measure—though having not yet consulted my comrades—I resolutely prepared myself for certain death. At that juncture I told Arai: “From the moment I arrived here, I discerned these activists’ true sentiments—men posturing as stalwarts yet nursing personal grievances while preparing to abandon public duty. Moreover, they resent your substitution—a situation truly lamentable for our nation.” When these men argued remaining in Japan served better purpose, Arai countered: “Indeed it may. Let such men return then—why require multitudes? “My duty lies in becoming a sacrifice—casting aside this body—to secure advantage for those remaining ashore. A few death-resolved warriors suffice; why tolerate those blind to public-private distinctions?” His words stirred me—ah, here stood a man forsaking personal honor for the nation! As domestic affairs fell wholly to Ōi and Kobayashi’s charge, I resolved to become sacrifice myself—fulfilling duty alone. Briefly I marveled at one truly fulfilling a patriot’s divine calling—yet knew unless this journey demanded my death, I could never achieve my long-cherished aims. Though my role here remains merely as communications officer—with Ōi and Kobayashi handling domestic operations—they will conduct sufficient activities. Even should I become a foreign-land ghost now—were our endeavor to succeed—my lifelong aspirations too would be realized through comrades advancing our cause. First I must devote myself wholly to securing favorable conditions for them.

Namely, I would assist Arai to secure favorable outcomes through these methods—and for this, one must possess a resolve unto death. However, as a woman lacking physical strength, what I could rely upon was a weapon capable of opposing thousands: namely, explosives. There existed explosives. Even if my body were frail, when confronting this with patriotic fervor, why should I yield to any stalwart man? Moreover, I reflected: Though I was inherently ignorant and unlearned, this current undertaking was truly a great responsibility—one that served as a means to reform our government domestically and related to diplomatic strategy abroad. To receive the honor of casting aside life and limb—ah, why would I begrudge ten thousand deaths?—such was the resolve I made. This was precisely why, even in the letter I had sent to Kobayashi in Kiyō, I implicitly conveyed a final farewell—for though our lands might differ, we would together devote ourselves to the nation and its cause, striving to establish a new realm of freedom in the Orient. Ah, I had beloved parents—what else could there be but abandoning the profound human bond between parent and child? Yet this was a private matter—though I was but a woman, how could I conflate public and private affairs? To thus cast aside this life that should be cherished and prized—to dare desire becoming a sacrifice—there had been no other reason; there was nothing but single-minded devotion to patriotism. However, alas—our plans were exposed midway, and I could not achieve my true intentions. I encountered the misfortune of fruitlessly groaning within prison walls; though I had always held my patriotic resolve—ten thousand deaths be damned—in contempt, and harbored no resentment even at prolonged imprisonment, how could I bear merely passing days without repaying my debt to the nation’s grace while witnessing my country’s peril treated as another’s concern? Ah, thinking of this and him, I could only let my tears stream down. Ah, on what day might I achieve my lifelong aspiration? I could only resent this; I could only grieve this—ah.

Meiji Year 18, December 19th at Osaka Police Headquarters Osaka Prefectural Police Assistant Inspector Hirozawa Tetsurō [Seal]

Having presented such a lengthy confession to the jailer while feigning an unsteady brushstroke—how unseemly my conduct seemed at that time! To you youthful souls who charge recklessly into transient passions without reason—though I desperately wish you might heed my example—how utterly futile this entreaty remains! Yet when I compare that guileless younger self—buffeted relentlessly by worldly currents until she plunged into misfortune's abyss, weeping at fate's unfathomable cruelty before resolving to seek solace in death—to the woman I later became, what an immeasurable gulf lies between these selves! Each time I reach this point in reflection, how can I restrain these unbidden tears of remembrance? That I, in youth's full bloom, resolved to cast away my life—for liberty's cause and patriotic zeal—sprang partly from honor's allure, yet more profoundly from my heart's deepest chamber: a desire to awaken our people to freedom's sacred principle. At that time I had composed this humble work:

Patriotic devotion makes ten thousand deaths light; Who dares claim women cannot achieve great deeds? Remember Divine Deeds’ resplendent name!

V. Fusui’i Company

Prior to this, while residing at the Sakazaki residence—devoting myself to study—I resolved to cultivate women comrades by any means necessary. Thus I established what we called the Fusui’i Company: to teach women the path of independent self-sufficiency, liberate them from enslavement to men, and enable them to freely fulfill their divine vocations. Through this influence, I sought to redeem men from their tyranny and baseness. Collaborating with Ms. Tomii Oto, we secured support from provincial sympathizers and initiated fundraising efforts, nurturing hopes of eventually forming a grand coalition. However, events clashed with our aspirations, and Ms. Tomii Oto met with the misfortune of returning to her hometown. I shall now take this opportunity to recount Ms. Tomii Oto’s personal history.

VI. Ms. Oto

Ms. Tomii Oto was a native of Tatsuno in Harima Province, born into a soy sauce brewing family with one older brother and one younger sister. From childhood she had an affinity for learning; though deeming it unnecessary for a merchant family, her mother devotedly enrolled her in the local middle school. After graduating, she studied Chinese classics under a renowned scholar in that region. Hearing of Ms. Kishida Toshiko’s reputation, she once became a study maid in that household but upon realizing she could gain no scholarly benefit from Ms. Kishida—and coinciding with Ms. Kishida’s marriage agreement to Mr. Nakajima Nobuyuki—she soon left that house and entered Mr. Sakazaki’s circle, taking charge of proofreading at the Illustrated Freedom Torch Newspaper and beginning to take steps toward independence. As for women in our nation who became newspaper employees, Ms. Oto should indeed be regarded as their pioneer. Thus Ms. Oto used the remainder of her salary to assist fellow women comrades, had them reside together at Mr. Sakazaki’s house to apply themselves to their studies, and herself took on the role of instructor. When I visited Mr. Sakazaki and met Ms. Oto, we felt as if we were old acquaintances. We made a sisterly pact, swearing to support each other for life, and made it our custom to discuss all matters—good and bad—disdaining all secrecy. Thus, having reported how the Korean unrest had intensified the East Asian situation, I declared: “At this critical hour, how can we women let our lives pass idly by?” Thereupon Ms. Oto too lamented our leaders’ indecisiveness and privately resolved: “Let us embark on a speaking tour to rouse the people’s spirit!” Leaving behind a note of gratitude for Mr. Sakazaki, we fled together to Kanagawa Prefecture.

It was indeed the spring of Meiji 18. The two arrived in Ogino Town, Kanagawa Prefecture, where through the efforts of local supporters Mr. Ogino and Mr. Amano, they gathered comrades and pooled funds to aid activists using aliases like Shigei and Haseki. Yet when the sum proved woefully insufficient, Ms. Oto—her spirit crushed—resolved to return alone to her hometown and coax funds from her elder brother. Their travel expenses had been scraped together by pawning both women’s garments.

VII. Hairdressing and Laundry

After parting ways with Ms. Oto, I came to realize my ineligibility for Mr. Dogura’s educational stipend. Professions know no hierarchy—all are equally sacred. Though my body was clad in rags, I adorned my heart with splendor while temporarily establishing a path to self-sufficiency, determined to one day accomplish a thunderclap of an enterprise that would resound through society. Thus did I become at times a hairdresser, at times a laundress, and at other times a seamstress. The ease of having no acquaintances in the vast metropolis truly made the toil of self-sustenance both arduous and yet delightful! Thus, though some thirty days had passed, there came no word from Ms. Oto.

Now, as I fretted over how unreliable people’s hearts could be, I thought it better to go and see rather than remain waiting. When I consulted Mr. Haseki about this, he said that if her resolve had wavered, going would be pointless—but if not, staying here would bring no word either. Indeed finding this to be true, I had no choice but to follow his advice. Then, after several more days had passed, a letter arrived—scribbled in faint pencil. When I looked, it was a letter from Ms. Oto—both resentful and longed-for. The opening read: “Ah, how I’ve blundered and erred, trapped in this mire of my own making! The Tomii of yore exists no more—I can only atone to you through death. This present wretchedness defies pen and paper. Confined to a corner of the second floor, each day I do nothing but gaze at the beloved eastern skies, my heart scorched by sorrow. I cannot write more—pray understand.” Though her words were brief, the gist of her circumstances could be inferred. Well then—though I racked my brains in countless ways to find some means of rescue, there was none. Therefore, resolving to fulfill our original intent by doubling my efforts in Ms. Oto’s stead, I devoted myself daily to hairdressing and laundry work with disciples who had come seeking me from my hometown, barely scraping by while gaining great trust through activism among sympathizers.

VIII. Shattering the Dawn Dream

However, in early September of that year, the owner of the house where I had rented a room called up to me from below the second floor at dawn, urgently shouting, “Mr. Kageyama! Mr. Kageyama!” As I lingered between dawn dreams and waking, I demanded—half within that liminal state—what the matter was; he announced there was a female visitor. When I pressed again asking who it was, he replied that it was Ms. Tomii. “Ms. Tomii?!” I kicked off the bedding and leapt up. Even as I raced down the stairs in a dreamlike state, there she stood in the garden—none other than herself. Forgetting myself, I threw my arms around her, and for a time there were only wordless tears. The beloved Ms. Tomii—how many days had she worn those same clothes?—stood dazed under the sweltering early autumn sky, her yukata sweat-stained and utterly soiled, her demeanor that of a maiden in her prime yet painfully conscious of prying eyes. As this was no place to linger, I helped her up to the second floor and first celebrated her safety; when I inquired about all that had transpired since our parting, Ms. Tomii began through tears: “After leaving you, I arrived safely in my hometown and rejoiced to find my mother and siblings well. But when I explained my untimely return—stating my reasons thus—my brother listened intently throughout, appearing deeply moved.” Relieved by his demeanor when I finally broached fundraising, the astonishment he displayed—unforeseen by me—must have been horror at my audacity. Though I entreated him repeatedly, he gave no answer; then in an ominously sinking tone declared that participating in such audacity necessitated informing the local police station to prevent calamity. I stood both astonished and consumed by helpless rage—for it was precisely because he was my own flesh that I’d confided this! To cowardly inform police and harm noble comrades—what monstrous inhumanity! No need remained for humanitarian arguments; resolved to atone through death alone, I pleaded tearfully: “My involvement stemmed entirely from misjudgment! Now enlightened by your admonitions, I’ll obey your every command! I beg you—preserve our comrades’ honor!” Through such desperate entreaties I barely secured his consent, becoming thereafter a prisoner confined upstairs, my younger sister appointed jailer. Given neither brush nor paper, I couldn’t even read—this sorrow surpassed death itself! Though imagining your anguished wait, surely the waiter’s pain multiplies it manifold! At last coaxing my sister into lending pencil and paper, I managed a hurried message—no time for details! Surely they scorn me as turncoat—such bitter frustration made my heart near burst, denying nightly peace! Somehow returning east to voice this anguish and determine my course—this time I’d found flight’s chance! This was my Tokyo journey: days prior forcing a loan from sister’s Chūgen funds for travel money, fleeing midnight in nightclothes after leaving a letter vowing Christian devotion to uphold my resolve! Thus I’m no longer your comrade—yet beg you permit lasting friendship without condemning my betrayal! Knowing such sincere loyalty’s depth—how could these moved tears be stayed?

Ah! At this hour when stalwart men sell their very bodies and souls for gold without shame—how pure of heart was she who, through Ms. Tomii Oto’s noble integrity, sacrificed herself to make her brother guard their secrets, and though altering her path, still strove for others and nation! My feelings of admiration had grown ever deeper. That day, we spoke and were spoken to at length in my lodgings—which I deemed our women’s stronghold—so engrossed we scarcely noticed dusk fall. Yet as we parted, though the paths we would dedicate ourselves to now diverged, we vowed to uphold our initial resolve and one day clasp hands in freedom’s new world. With promises of future meetings, we bid farewell and went our separate ways. Ah, that this would become our eternal farewell—this mortal self had no way of knowing.

III. Plan for the Journey to Korea

I. My Mission One day, our comrade Mr. Ishizuka Shigehira came and explained that since preparations for the journey to Korea had been completed, I was to be included as well, detailing the reasons and methods involved. Having long dedicated myself to my convictions, how could I hesitate? I immediately set about preparing, but Nakata Mitsuko—whose heart overflowed with fraternal love—seemed to discern my unusual behavior and yearn to know its particulars. However, as I had no intention of bringing calamity upon her, I entrusted Mr. Ishizuka Shigehira to encourage her to pursue her studies, sent a letter to Ms. Tomii Oto informing her of this journey and entrusting future matters, and—with this, having no lingering regrets—calmly embarked on the path to Korea in October of Meiji 18.

II. The Explosives in the Suitcase My companions were Mr. Arai Shōgo and Mr. Inagaki Shimeshi; among the band of stalwarts, I saw some scattered here and there, wrapped in red blankets and lying about the ship. My companions all feigned ignorance of one another; the tedium and anxiety of it all defied description. The reason I was included in this mission was that, when transporting explosives, they had decided that using a woman’s personal effects would avoid attracting attention; thus I was made to take charge of carrying them. Thus did I receive all the chemicals serving as raw materials for the explosives from Isoyama’s hands, pack them into a Chinese-style suitcase disguised as ordinary luggage, and keep it constantly by my side—at times even using it as a pillow while greedily snatching moments of sleep. When we finally arrived in Osaka, I discovered that some of the yellow sulfur had become slightly damp while attempting to secretly repackage the contents at Mr. Andō Kyūjirō’s residence after summoning our comrades. Upon removing it from the canister to let it dry briefly, the moment it made contact with air, it burst into blue flames. Just as disaster was about to strike, Mr. Andō arrived and swiftly extinguished it. Everyone praised him, saying his years spent studying pharmaceuticals and obtaining his pharmacist license—not to mention running a pharmacy at the time—had proven their worth. Yet now, looking back, though I boasted of fearing no danger like a blind man unafraid of snakes, the thought that I could sleep so soundly with such perilous chemicals as my pillow makes my very hair stand on end. Particularly at Kobe Station, when they weighed this suitcase—the rattling sound from within made the station staff suspicious. “What sort of item is this?” they demanded. Startled by my injured leg, I feigned composure: “I’ve packed children’s toys as gifts for my hometown, but the train’s violent shaking must have broken them—how vexing!” To demonstrate, I deliberately shook the case. The station worker nodded and refrained from forcing it open. Now, looking back on those days, I still feel cold sweat dampening my back—Mr. Andō, whose family had run a pharmacy for generations and who was then an ardent Freedom Party member, has since gained considerable renown for his diligence as a Ministry of Home Affairs quarantine officer. Years ago, when Count Itagaki served as Home Minister, he was likely valued for his long dedication to national affairs and thus became a high-ranking official in the Home Ministry. Since then, though enduring numerous cabinet changes, his specialized expertise set him apart from other incompetent stalwarts, rendering him exceedingly useful to the authorities.

III. Hachikenya

After lodging at Mr. Andō’s residence in Osaka for several days, I relocated to an inn called Hachikenya by the docks, single-mindedly awaiting the day of our departure for Korea. Then one day, Isoyama sent word that Haseki had come to Osaka and urged me to hasten to his lodgings. Though suspicious of what this might entail, I went to investigate—only to find our comrades midway through a banquet, with geishas attending their cups and standing about in alluring commotion. How could one such as I—who had never partaken in such gatherings—possibly comport myself? There remained nothing but utter mortification. Yet how could these comrades have such leisure to indulge in such extravagance? Here lay the moment for confrontation—but facing Mr. Haseki, I could scarcely fathom the purpose of today’s banquet. Though we had received an urgent messenger from Mr. Isoyama, this bore no resemblance to what I had presumed would involve critical discussions. Their foolish antics were revolting to behold—ah, even those I had relied upon daily were thus! While it made sense that other hot-blooded stalwarts cared for nothing beyond brothel visits, this only deepened my despair to its utmost limit. To think I had stooped to attend such a gathering—ashamed even to utter a word, I declared, "Well then, I shall take my leave!" and with that, cursed them freely before deliberately kicking aside the tatami mat and storming out. It was Isoyama who, out of curiosity, had specifically summoned me to witness this spectacle and gauge my reaction—but my anger proved fiercer than anticipated. Not only the comrades, but even the geishas themselves were struck with profound shame, and as the entire gathering fell into an awkward silence, they hastily ended the banquet.

IV. Isoyama's Disappearance

A few days after that, the explosives were completed, and on the very eve of our departure, Isoyama’s whereabouts became unknown. However, when a certain Mr. Tazaki—his nephew—informed me that he was hiding in a brothel, I first went to inquire whether Isoyama was present, but the madam of the establishment came out and insisted he was not there. “Very well—give that answer to others if you must! But I am Isoyama’s right-hand confidant! I know he is in this house and have come on urgent business! Were Isoyama to recognize me, he would never hide himself!” I insisted repeatedly. The madam nodded and said, “Beggin’ yer pardon, but no matter who comes askin’, he ain’t here on account o’—well, y’see—we’re hidin’ him proper-like, so if ya please—you bein’ a lady an’ all, surely ya won’t throw a fit over this?” With that, the madam led me deep into the innermost recesses to a bewitching chamber where the courtesan Yae awaited. He had no way of knowing the strict orders he had given the madam would be broken so easily; having mistaken my presence for hers alone, when my face unexpectedly appeared before him, how could he not panic? However, I had no desire to repeat the dreariness of days past; rather, feeling sympathy for him, I deemed it best to coax him into meeting Arai and Haseki at all costs. Employing various persuasions, I finally lured him out from the bewitching chamber, placed him in a rickshaw, and set off together toward Haseki’s lodgings—though along the way we stopped at a comrade’s house intending to bring that person along as well. Never having imagined this to be deceit, I trusted his intentions—but ah, how base are the cowardly men of this world! He fled in panic, vanishing without a trace. The money he had absconded with included funds from a Kanagawa Prefecture stalwart who—boasting of grand achievements while disregarding minor scruples—had attempted to embezzle taxes from the county office but failed, then forced his way into a wealthy household and, deceiving his conscience in the name of a great cause, had strenuously procured. Yet he squandered this stalwart’s blood-and-tears funds on private debauchery, flouting public justice to purchase a courtesan’s favor—what an utter fool! How fitting! That he endured the disgrace of shackles and imprisonment—cast out by his comrades as a moral degenerate, mocked by prison officials—only to be wounded by a stalwart when his public trial commenced. The terrifying nature of karmic retribution—he must have come to understand it then.

V. Hideout

Thus, Isoyama fled; the comrades’ military funds had been stolen. The immediate problem arose: how to manage the care of the stalwarts they had lodged here and there.They promptly sent a telegram to the eastern capital, dispatched Mr.Ishizuka to deliver a detailed report of the situation,and fervently urged Shigei to come to Osaka.He soon arrived to formulate countermeasures,then returned to the capital to devote himself to fundraising. During that time,through desperate calculations,they covered the stalwarts’ lodging costs,barely avoiding the crisis of unpaid accommodation—yet now,how many days would pass before prospects of securing funds might arise—or not?And how were they to navigate through that interval? Some argued that rather than scattering them,renting a single house to lodge twenty or thirty stalwarts as a unified group would be the superior strategy—but fearing this would never escape police notice,I proposed consulting Mr.Yamamoto Ken.We rented a house under the pretext of his disciples occupying the residence and designated it as a branch campus of Baiseisho Juku. From then on,I abruptly assumed the role of caretaker:accompanied by one comrade,I gathered kitchenware and furnishings,had stalwarts take turns cooking,and maintained a facade of reading while secretly convening comrades to formulate our second plan.Isoyama’s flight notwithstanding,the stalwarts’ resolve could not falter—there was no alternative but to secure funds for Korea and prepare swiftly for departure.For over ten days I labored day and night.Noticing weariness among the men,I sometimes visited them bearing rare delicacies;other times,I cooked personally to experience woman’s divine vocation,frequented tofu shops with miso strainers in hand,or—persuaded that women best handled rice merchant debts—went to apologize only to stammer and blush unexpectedly. That I managed,penniless in Osaka,to spare twenty or thirty stalwarts from accusations of unpaid lodging and let them pass three weeks uneventfully as Baiseisho Juku students—this achievement,I believe,owed more to my efforts than any man’s. To this day,I remain aware this plan was well-conceived,and on occasion speak of it proudly among friends! Had I been born wealthy and ignorant of privation,how could a girl of nineteen or twenty have attended to such trifles?It was precisely because I grew up poor—and had steeled myself for independence during my studies—that such desperate measures emerged instantly. Had one lacked resolve to cook personally,how could those stalwart men have consented to menial tasks?Only by abandoning self-interest could one command even demons into submission. Had I maintained this resolve constantly,there might have been no grave error—yet with my faint will and feeble actions ending in anticlimax,I find myself utterly worthless,and my vexation knows no bounds.

VI. No Way Out

Right as described above—even while mired in dire straits, so-called “once past the throat, forgetting the heat” being their custom—the hot-blooded stalwarts need hardly be mentioned; even Messrs. Shigei, Haseki, Arai, and Inagaki set aside these hardships and, claiming funds had been procured, ascended to pleasure quarters to revel with geishas. In such times, I would always sit alone in a room of the inn, reflecting on the past and contemplating the present, sinking into deep melancholy. Feeling the utter helplessness of being a woman, even trivial complaints would stir resentment toward my comrades. Yet upon reconsidering—since I did not devote myself for their sake but for the nation and my compatriots—how could I falter midway? “Ah, if only Ms. Tomii Oto were here...” Once again tormented by this unbearable despair, I once composed a broken verse:

How could the Asuka River be so muddied? Alas,

Truly, let those who draw water investigate the source.

VII. The Female Beggar

On a day when sorrow’s threads grew ever harder to brush aside, I found myself at Hachikenya Inn. Alone in the second-floor parlor, I slid open the shoji screen and gazed down at the garbage scows moored below. A beggar woman—her two- or three-year-old child strapped to her back—picked through refuse with relentless focus, depositing paper scraps into a basket. The child hunched against its mother’s back, chest compressed until its strangled cries seemed moments from suffocation. Yet the mother feigned deafness, scavenging without pause until she gathered even fish guts and bird entrails, washing them as though preparing a meal. Moved by this pitiful sight, I sighed aloud: *Ah—is human existence truly this cruel? Poor as I am, still I fare better than this wretch.* Compassion overwhelmed me; without thinking, I called down from above—weighting what was then a fortune to me, a fifty-sen note—and cast it toward her. She started as if heaven itself had sent this boon, retrieving it only to hesitate. I repeated my instruction—“Give that to your child”—and she finally relaxed into deep, repeated bows that pained me to witness. Closing the shoji, I withdrew inside—yet when later preparing to depart, the innkeeper eyed me askance: “That was you just now, ma’am—tossin’ coin to that beggar?” When I nodded confirmation, she continued: “Came round back weepin’ with her babe, sayin’ ‘The lady guest threw down fifty sen from the second floor—please tell her my name.’ But who asks a beggar’s name? Sent her off sayin’ I’d pass it along—what a waste o’ good money!” “Charity serves none but oneself”—for I had felt heart’s clarity unknown in recent days, like smoke wisps across vision never to linger in memory. Yet unbeknownst to me then, this beggar woman and I would later meet again where least expected—our encounter unfolding like some novelistic scene. Since occasion permits, let this be recorded.

VIII. A Single Tragedy

In December of that year, when the major incident came to light and I was arrested at a Nagasaki inn before being transferred and confined in Osaka (Nakanoshima) Prison, I—as a political prisoner—was granted better treatment than ordinary criminals; during my pretrial detention, I became the announcer and warden of the women’s ward, overseeing cells housing first-time offenders and minors. Thus I undertook the effort to guide first-time offenders toward reformation and moral improvement, while teaching reading and writing to minors. Even within prison walls, I was addressed as “Teacher” by these individuals as I spent three uneventful years in pretrial detention. During that time, I encountered many types of criminals—yet among them were also such decent people that, had they not been branded with this label in such a place, none would have thought them so. In this world, there are many who commit far greater evils and crimes than this, yet swagger down broad avenues in broad daylight—how often did I lament the authorities’ one-sided measures, casting aside the weighty to gather the trivial! Anaken—this feeling cannot be adequately expressed except by those who have tasted the bitterness of imprisonment; even if spoken of, one would only cover their ears. Thus did I share a room with these disreputable women—called great criminals and villains by society—sharing every waking and sleeping moment, every meal. At times becoming their parent, at times their friend, we bonded so affectionately that their reverence for me surpassed even what might be called the teacher-student dynamic of the outside world. Through shared sympathy within this confined microcosm, our aligned sincerity became a bond one could scarcely find even in fleshly ties. In this way, within the prison there was always an inherent spring—and I recall it being around April or May of the following year when a mist-like harmony filled the air. One day, as usual, a guard came clanging the cell keys and announced, “There’s a new inmate!” Leading a grime-stained woman of about twenty-five or twenty-six, he was about to open the cell door when she, catching sight of my face from outside, burst into tears without uttering a word. Though I knew not why—perhaps simply daunted by the prison’s stern appearance or imagining coming hardships—I privately welled with sympathetic tears as I surmised her plight. Then the woman turned to me: “Though you may not remember me, not a single day has passed when I have forgotten you.” “I remember your face quite well.” “Your Ladyship—years ago at Hachikenya Inn, you bestowed alms upon a beggar woman. That beggar was myself. By what twist of fate do we meet again here? Surely my husband and child orchestrated this—to make me repent my sins and thank you properly.” “The child Your Ladyship pitied and gave fifty sen to contracted malignant smallpox and died a week ago. Today being his seventeenth-day memorial, I meant to offer incense—but with my face still ravaged by contagion, I went out gathering scraps. Weak from illness, I couldn’t go far, and my basket stayed empty. ‘With this,’ I agonized, ‘I can’t afford incense—let alone a meal!’ Then I spotted laundry drying at a deserted house.” “With survival overriding decency, I strayed into theft—only to suffer Heaven’s instant punishment. The shame of facing you now made me weep until my soul felt hollow. When you helped us before, I told my bedridden husband everything—‘Heaven’s mercy,’ I called it—bought medicine and sweets for my child. We three smiled together after so long… but his illness worsened. At his hopeless end, I steeled myself and returned to gathering scraps with my child—yet Heaven ignored us! Though poor, we’d never done wrong—still it struck us with disease, took my beloved, and brought us here. What cruelty!” Her words dissolved into endless tears. “Already stunned by this strange reunion and weeping for her plight—but knowing things couldn’t stay thus—I joined other prisoners in comforting her, urging her to leave quickly and pray for her family’s souls.” After about a week, she was not transferred to post-conviction detention. Yet consumed solely by grief at parting from Your Ladyship—preferring to commit worse crimes than face starvation outside—she wailed madly of wishing forever for Your care.

Truly, does not the suffering of this world compel even the faint-hearted to accept the torment of prison cells? Who could declare this anything but tragic? The authorities knew well how to punish crimes—but I ask: Does any law exist to save those who have atoned? Can you ensure they won't be cast again before starvation's maw, rather than being driven to yearn for prison's bitter comforts?

IX. Inspection of Explosives

Prior to this, Shigei and his associates—having successfully secured funds in Tokyo for their Korean venture—promptly headed down to Osaka with Inagaki to make preparations, while the stalwarts at Baiseisho Juku had already begun departing for Korea in small groups. I had been urgently preparing for our planned journey to Nagasaki with Messrs. Furui and Inagaki when, a day before departure, Messrs. Shigei, Haseki, and Furui—joined by Inagaki and a rice speculator from Etchū Toyama who had financed this endeavor—caroused extravagantly at Shinmachi pleasure quarters, unexpectedly drawing me into their revelry. That these self-styled noble patriots would disgrace themselves thus—whether claiming camaraderie-building or proving incapable of resisting base desires before a crucial mission—wastefully draining their already meager funds on the eve of such grave enterprise plunged me into profound disillusionment far sooner than I’d imagined. On our departure day, following Shigei’s lead, they ordered giant catfish stew and secretly drank to their scheme of assassinating a high official to “advance domestic and foreign welfare.” Thus it was Furui, Inagaki, and I who boarded the Kobe-bound ship around seven that evening. The Seto Inland Sea lay tranquil as we reached Shimonoseki, where quarantine measures—triggered by Osaka’s burgeoning epidemic—confiscated not just our clothes but every possession for sulfur fumigation. Though we three should have exchanged knowing glances upon hearing of the disinfection method, we maintained our guise as mere fellow travelers from boarding onward. Amid the jostling crowd, we managed fleeting consultation—I proposed claiming the explosives as mine, but Mr. Furui cut in: “No, register them under me. If discovered, let that end it—we’ll surrender cleanly. Just ensure our association stays hidden.” His resolve brooked no refusal. After designating the contraband as his luggage, we disembarked and ascended to the lone open restaurant during fumigation. Though we ordered dinner, no morsel could pass our constricted throats—*Would police storm in now? Would explosions erupt?*—until after an hour’s torment, three inn youths returned shouldering our sanitized baggage.

It must have been at this moment that I felt a sense of rebirth. After the disinfection had ended and we had changed back into our own clothes, we boarded a ship bound for Nagasaki, braved the renowned waves of the Genkainada Strait, and safely arrived in Nagasaki in late November.

X. Letter of Severance

While awaiting here the departure of the ship bound for Korea, one day an unnamed individual sent a telegram stating: “The luggage is soaked—return east.” If, during our journey to Korea, we judged that government scrutiny had intensified and there was risk of the major operation being exposed, we had previously agreed with Isoyama and others that whoever among us first recognized this danger would send the coded telegram—“The luggage is soaked”—to mutually alert one another. Was it that Isoyama’s cover had been blown during his hiding, prompting this heightened vigilance? Or had he himself, to mask the shame of his cowardly flight, devised underhanded schemes to obstruct our mission—perhaps even plotting to have us arrested? We debated these possibilities exhaustively yet failed to grasp the crux. Should we wire Tokyo to confront Shigei? But with our departure imminent today, discerning the truth seemed impossible. “Discard hesitation,” we resolved. “Press onward.” When Furui relayed this decision to the other stalwarts, some disapproved of his replacing Isoyama, creating discord. “Let such dissenters return east,” I declared. “What need have we for numbers? I possess weapons to oppose ten thousand—why yield to men?” Aligning with Furui, we sent Inagaki back to Tokyo and resolved to cross to Korea with over a dozen stalwarts sworn to die. With this settled, I too felt relieved. I spent the day strolling through Nagasaki’s parks, sightseeing at famed spots like Maruyama, and on my return entered a promotional market to purchase brushes, paper, and ink. At dusk, when I returned to the inn, Inagaki was absent—only Furui remained, appearing deeply troubled. Upon seeing me return, we dined together while discussing how Inagaki, who had left for Maruyama around noon, still had not returned. As he carried away our group’s travel funds, we could not move an inch elsewhere until his return—especially since we now urgently needed to proceed to Saga to meet Mr. Etō Shinsaku. “If only he would come back to the lodging soon,” we said. By ten o’clock that night, Inagaki still had not returned. With no other recourse, we each retired to bed. As the time for our departure to Korea was now imminent—within a day or two—I resolved to write to Haseki detailing the circumstances of our resolve regarding this undertaking and expressing that we harbored no regrets. Alone under the lamplight, I painstakingly composed the letter, finally completing it around midnight. Just as I was about to retire, Inagaki returned.

XI. Discovery and Arrest

Furui immediately rose and hurriedly prepared to depart for Saga, leaving the inn in the dead of night. Only Inagaki and I remained. Whether from exhaustion after his revelries, he fell asleep more readily than he lay down. As for me—knowing that once we crossed to Korea, I would never again tread my homeland’s soil alive—I became lost in myriad thoughts: If our comrades truly had funds enough to carouse in pleasure quarters, could I not have borrowed some to visit my hometown en route? At least bid my parents and siblings farewell, however distantly. In this wakeful state, neither sleeping nor dreaming, I sensed some clamorous disturbance. When I opened my eyes—closed so casually moments before—there they were: a dozen police inspectors and officers, swinging their lanterns in hand, intruding into the room we had relied upon as our fortress walls. With a gasp, I started to rise in alarm—but then the innkeeper came and declared it a routine traveler inspection.

Realizing that all was lost, I steeled myself—but as this matter did not concern me alone, I resolved to feign complete ignorance to the utmost. Answering the constable’s questions with feigned incomprehension, I stated only that I had been traveling with Inagaki. The inspector nodded, binding Inagaki with rope while appearing inclined to spare me censure—until the letter to Haseki I had drafted that evening emerged from my bedding. How bitterly I regretted that! The inspector’s kindly countenance suddenly turned stern as he clamored to have me arrested as well. The constable acknowledged the order—*“In any case, you must come to the station”*—yet continued with a semblance of compassion: *“Prepare yourself so you won’t catch cold.”* With no means to resist, I did as told and pulled out the clothes I had on hand. When I wrapped myself in all I could, my body became as lumpy as a silkworm cocoon, and soon the walk under the constable’s escort grew suffocating. No sooner had we arrived at the police station than we were subjected to various interrogations by political detectives. From their tone alone, we realized that even our midday stroll in the park and subsequent stop at the promotional market to purchase brushes, paper, and ink on our return had already been thoroughly investigated. Thus did we come to understand that our plans—which we had still foolishly dreamed safe until two days prior—had already been shattered.

IV. Pre-trial Detention

I. Almost Suffocation

After the interrogation concluded, I was detained in a holding cell—a cell that truly resembled those seen in stage plays—and my incarceration occurred around three o'clock in the morning. In the dead of night when all worldly sounds had fallen utterly silent, the sound of the latch being removed at the cell's entrance grew eerily dreadful—striking even my prepared self with terror enough to make my hair stand on end. Born with a weak heart, I could not withstand the sudden surge of palpitations; my pulse raced wildly until I felt on the verge of suffocation. Yet the police officers showed no mercy, treating me like a common thief as they shoved me into a pitch-dark room with a barked "Get in!", then bolted the latch firmly shut. What heartlessness! If I am to die here and now, so be it—how could I submit to such unlawful punishment? Yet no tears would come. I—a woman who had staked her life to resist a tyrannical government—burned with shame at my own complaints about abuse and cruelty, as though I were only now grasping the age-old truth that victors become rulers; the vanquished, outlaws. Resolved then to still my mind and turn my thoughts anew, I strove to become one already dead while yet living, purging all worldly cares. Thus did I sleep more soundly in prison than ever at inns—and when I awoke the next morning in another cell, the others had long finished their meals.

II. The Faces of Comrades When I first entered this place, I thought it was like a hole; yet when dawn broke, I saw the ceiling was high, with no suitable place to hang oneself. The window served merely to admit light, its iron bars rendering the structure so robust that no man—however mighty—could conceive of breaking through. When I requested water to wash myself, the morning meal was soon delivered through a small window. Though I had thought it would never pass my throat, I found the flavor unexpectedly agreeable and devoured it in an instant—astonishing even myself at my own audacity. After finishing my meal, as I paced the cell, I suddenly noticed a gap between thick floorboards through which the space below became visible. Peering intently through it—ah!—there I saw my comrade wrapped in a red blanket, similarly taking a stroll. The voice of the one imprisoned next to mine was that of Mr. Naitō Rokurō. In which prisons might Inagaki and Furui have been detained? Though I had fallen into the depths of hell, as I grew accustomed—as my bodily hardships lessened—what rose ceaselessly to mind were my parents in my homeland and then the comrades in Tokyo and Osaka. Each time my thoughts reached them, I felt hot tears surge forth unbidden.

The following morning after finishing my meal, I was taken to the interrogation room and questioned about my residence, occupation, social status, age, and place of birth. When finally pressed for the reason behind my visit to the area, I answered that I had merely been traveling for leisure. To this they retorted: "We have detained you based on conclusive evidence. It would better suit your customary conduct to abandon lingering reluctance and state everything frankly." Deeming this a valid point, I ultimately admitted my involvement in the significant affair as outlined in my statement of grievances.

III. Transfer to Osaka

After the interrogation at the police station concluded, it was decided that I would be transferred to Osaka; around eight or nine in the evening, we exited the police gate in single file. Though they moved swiftly, my legs lagged behind; dragged along by the waist ropes on either side, I barely reached the pier, whereupon I was transferred onto a ship.

When they saw the police officers escorting me, the passengers stared wide-eyed as if petrified—especially at me, a woman. Though I declared I had nothing to be ashamed of in my conscience, somehow, with my face hidden, I even lost the courage to exchange words with my comrades; after spending a day and night wishing I could crawl into a hole, we finally arrived in Kobe. As was customary, clerks and apprentices from various inns boarded [the ship], waving lanterns emblazoned with their establishments’ names—*“Hail Horaiya!” “Hail Nishimura!”*—while zealously soliciting lodgings from us. But when they suddenly noticed the police escort and the waist rope binding me, their stunned faces fell silent—a sight both absurd and pitiable, laying bare the fickle hearts of ordinary folk.

That night, when I was placed in a detention cell at the Osaka Prefectural Police Station, I felt utterly wretched from the fatigue of the voyage and my emotional distress, consumed by profound anguish. The two officers who had escorted me—one under fifty, the other around twenty-five or twenty-six—took pity on me. Being a woman, they specially prepared a detention room and kindly cared for me there. Upon arriving here, in stark contrast to the severity of Nagasaki’s detention center—where I had been treated no better than in my family’s household confinement—these two officers took turns guarding me while engaging in casual conversation. They even prepared warm meals to serve me at every dining hour, showing utmost kindness throughout. After approximately two weeks, when I was transferred to Nakajima Prison, I continued to be treated as a political prisoner, though the conditions bore no resemblance to Nagasaki’s brutality. The Nagasaki Police Station’s inhumanity—treating people as no different from dogs or cats—had once filled me with intense indignation. Yet recalling how the Tokugawa Shogunate had abused loyalists who contributed to the grand undertaking of the Restoration, I resigned myself deeply to this cruelty. Here in Osaka, however, they did not treat me as an ordinary convict even while in custody. The chief guard himself made rounds with polite words, taking particular pleasure in conversation. Among them were guards who engaged me in idle talk for no reason, striving solely to accommodate my wishes.

IV. A Woman of Comely Features

What struck me as peculiar was a woman of comely features who shared my cell—one not base by nature, who persistently sought instruction in reading and writing. Moved by her earnestness, I taught and guided her as best I could, whereupon she grew ever more respectful toward me, and I in turn came to cherish her, until we were mutually devoted. Each time I bathed, she would come to scrub my back; at night, we shared a bed, warming futons frozen stiff as agar with our body heat. Lying alternately, she would clasp my feet between her armpits so that no chill could penetrate—such was the precious sincerity of her heart. This woman was born in Osaka to ancestors who had lived comfortably, but by her parents’ generation, the family’s fortunes had abruptly declined. Following local custom, she became the mistress of a certain gentleman—a robber who aimed to live thick and short in this world—and thus she too fell under suspicion of surely knowing his crimes. For over a year now, she had been pointlessly confined in pre-trial detention. Upon hearing these circumstances, I could not suppress my sympathy. Each time the warden made his rounds, I exhaustively detailed the situation to plead the woman’s innocence. Whether my efforts bore fruit, I knew not—but after I was transferred to Mie Prefecture, I heard the glad tidings that she had indeed received a verdict of not guilty. Yet this very intimacy with the woman became, quite unexpectedly, the cause of an utterly preposterous false accusation, resulting in a farcical episode where she and I were temporarily separated. As this incident also serves as a telling example of prison realities at the time, I shall now recount its general outline for broader reference.

V. The Bizarre False Accusation That I loved her and she respected me were circumstances as described above. Though the world teemed with lewd and lawless women, my sympathy naturally concentrated on her alone—so pitiable was her wretched state—to the point where our bond resembled that of parent and child. Yet we were of similar age, making such a familial analogy untenable; nor did we share the dynamic of siblings. How must this have appeared to outsiders? At the time, I was consumed by vanity and ambition, idolizing Zhandark as my ideal and regarding the Russian Nihilist Party as my sole ally. Thus, whatever perception others might have had of our intimacy lay beyond my awareness—nay, beyond even my concern. I, simply moved by her kindness, strived to repay her by teaching her everything I could—when one day a guard came and abruptly ordered her to gather her belongings and exit the cell. Assuming an acquittal had been declared and she would at last be freed today—whatever the case, a joyous occasion—our rejoicing only deepened the sorrow of parting. We choked back silent tears together, but no: instead, she was transferred to a cell two rooms away from mine. Her shock, like mine, left her too overwhelmed for tears; though the authorities’ lawlessness knew no bounds, bewilderment outweighed anger as we struggled to comprehend this turn of events—when another guard approached me and sneered, “Mr. Kageyama must be feeling quite lonesome from tonight onward.” Unaware of his meaning, I replied that loneliness, sorrow, and utter helplessness had gripped me not merely from tonight but from this very moment—why must they enact such heartless measures, blocking the path to reformation and virtue? Though the prison’s actions bordered on absurdity, I resolved to calmly question the warden during his next inspection and had already prepared my appeal. Yet the guard merely grinned broadly and mocked me again: “How pitiful you must be now that you’re separated from his wife—how terribly sad.” The condescension in his tone was galling. I found myself bristling with involuntary rage, yet still could not fathom the false charges they had concocted. “This prison,” I denounced, “does not reform criminals—it drives them deeper into depravity!” He merely offered a bitter smile and replied, “You should examine your own conscience.” My agitation only grew fiercer. I pressed inward with questions—Had I committed some blunder? If guilty of a crime, let it be named! Why had they torn me from the woman I held dear?—but the guards, accustomed only to dealing with villains and steeped in some delusion of their own, refused to hear a word. They left me with mocking laughter still clinging to their lips. Resolved to await the warden’s inspection and lay bare this injustice—to demand confirmation of my supposed crimes—I steeled myself. Yet she, too, in her grief at being cast into another cell, forgot all her usual restraint. Each time the guards’ shadows retreated, she pleaded desperately through the walls: Teacher! Teacher! Why have they separated us? Please—ask them why! Let us share a cell again as before! To this I could only reply that when the warden next came, I would lodge my appeal at once. Our wishes will be granted. Endure this unbearable trial a little longer. How many times did I offer such hollow comfort?

VI. Direct Appeal Though a prisoner directly appealing to the warden was considered nearly unprecedented and an unforgivably insolent act, I remained entirely unaware of this custom. One day when I called out to halt the warden during his rounds, he seemed startled—yet for reasons distinguishing me from ordinary convicts, he heard my appeal. With renewed astonishment, he interrogated her before departing silently to his office. Not long after, she returned to my cell as requested. I later learned the truth of this matter was too vile to commit to paper. Whether conditions differ today I cannot say, but in those days—perhaps due to endless years of tedium—homosexuality thrived among male prisoners, while female inmates too sought kindred spirits and formed marital bonds. Between two women, the bolder assumed a husband’s manner while the gentler played wife’s role. Thus absorbed in forbidden love, they forgot their confinement—until one’s sudden change of heart bred jealousies mirroring those between men and women, often sparking incidents where they wounded others or took their own lives. I myself witnessed and knew intimately a female prisoner who tried killing herself in the latrine with work scissors. Thus, though it wasn’t wholly unreasonable for those ignorant guards—who couldn’t recognize my character—to hastily condemn my pure-hearted compassion as immoral depravity, their judgment proved so absurd and infuriating that it remains etched among my most unforgettable memories.

V. Post-conviction Imprisonment

I. Clean Cells After spending over a year in Nakajima Pre-trial Detention Center, I was transferred to the post-conviction imprisonment section of Horikawa Prison. Though still in pre-trial detention, as my public trial date approached, I was accorded guest treatment for transport convenience. The inevitable separation from her arrived; I found scant solace in the nearing resolution of my guilt or innocence. At Horikawa, they had readied an entire room for me. Compared to Nakajima’s pre-trial cells, these chambers stood far cleaner—truly fit to be called rooms. Now relocated here, I began sensing proximity to the outside world once more. Even here, companions soon materialized before me—young lifers they were. Each night they stroked my feet, massaged my shoulders, lavishing every kindness to court my favor. Having endured strict parental discipline, such tender affections stirred nostalgia surpassing what I’d ever felt for my family.

II. Osei

Here was Osei, Osaka Prison's most notorious lifer. Osei possessed striking beauty and keen intellect, her nature sharp in all matters. She was so esteemed for her skills in persuasion that prisoners claimed nothing could be discerned without her—revered for years as a mediator and messenger among inmates. Yet after my transfer here, she too drew near with unwavering familiarity. Whenever she noticed my weariness from reading, she would bring sweets and other provisions she had procured, pleading, “Teach me arithmetic—how does one write these numerical digits?” She devoted herself entirely to these pursuits whenever time allowed. On occasion, under the guise of exercise, she would haul water herself, insisting that sprinkling it about might lift our spirits, and fervently urged me to join her movements. She was born in Saikyō and raised in a respectable household, yet by some twist of fate—despite being a woman—she repeatedly indulged in geisha escapades. To fulfill her desires, she stole tens of thousands of yen, swiftly becoming one who now passed her days in this wretched place. At that time—unlike today’s criminal code—sentences were determined by the amount stolen; thus, though hers was mere theft, she received a life sentence. Her brilliance was immediately apparent—truly, one might call her the very image of a sharp-witted soul. How tragic that she had fallen into depravity beyond humanity’s bounds! When I learned she too stood among those destroyers of ethics, I could not suppress a shudder. Yet given her inherently keen nature, she diligently adhered to prison regulations; for this merit, her sentence was reduced by several degrees. Upon release, she demonstrated profound repentance: shaving her head and donning black robes to signify devotion, she visited my Tokyo lodgings once or twice. A play titled *Shimazu Masahisa’s Confessional Record* was even staged, in which she herself appeared. But thereafter—what became of her? I have heard no news.

III. Lost in Reverie Though I immersed myself in reading daily during my imprisonment, had I been free to receive newly published works, I might have greatly advanced my scholarly studies. Yet only Chinese classics such as the *Analects* and *Great Learning*, along with religious texts like *On Primitive Man* and the *Bible*, were permitted. Thus, I once resolved to teach myself Western learning, building upon what little I had studied from Westerners, and strove diligently each day. Still, my efforts never reached fruition—a most mortifying outcome. In prison, I indulged in countless fantasies of how I would achieve my ambitions upon release—only for those very reveries to turn against me soon after gaining freedom. Overwhelmed by despair, I sank into moral degradation without even realizing it. Oh, the bitter regret of having spent half my life as if in a dream! The desire to at least live hereafter as a proper human being burned so intensely that it left no room for repentance.

IV. The Truth About Prison Officials During my imprisonment, there was nothing in particular that struck me as sorrowful; it was only natural that I passed my days in a carefree manner. In those days when ambition burned fiercely within me, the warden and chief guard—nay, even the guards—would come daily to engage me in idle chatter and offer comfort. When drafting correspondence, young guards would visit my cell under the pretense of supervision, their curiosity driving them to scribble playful notes that delighted in my blushes—some escalating to outright mockery through antics straddling jest and sincerity as they sought to toy with me, while others sent earnest love letters urging reciprocation or hinted obliquely with phrases like “If you were Xu Shibin, I would be Napoleon.” Thus did all officials scrutinize my every frown and smile—a spectacle both absurd and inevitable. Even female prison supervisors, seeking my favor, would secretly bring me food and sweets, so that life in confinement proved far more comfortable than the constrained existence outside—thus did I pass another year without a thought for my trial until November of the nineteenth year, when I suddenly fell ill with a cold. My fever gradually intensified until I was diagnosed with typhoid fever and moved to the infirmary; though treatment was not neglected, the fever only grew fiercer, plunging me into critical condition. The warden and prison director were deeply concerned while my lawyer petitioned for bail and sent a telegram to my parents in Okayama informing them of my grave state—there, they had already resigned themselves to my death; upon receiving the telegram that night, relatives and old acquaintances gathered to mourn my misfortune, even discussing arrangements to retrieve my remains by night’s end. Yet by fortune’s grace I soon began to recover, and after several dozen days finally returned to the main prison—a joy I have never forgotten. The other prisoners too—having prayed day and night for my full recovery—rejoiced upon seeing me return to the cellblock as though welcoming their own parents back from the dead. This too remains something for which I still cannot adequately express gratitude. Having contracted a grave illness in that confining prison—where I temporarily regained full health only for weakness to grow so severe I feared collapsing more from exhaustion than disease—this state gradually improved yet culminated in an emaciation surpassing my pre-illness condition; to behold a photograph from that time now is to be struck with astonishment.

V. News of the Lady’s Death

Several days later, at the opening of my public trial on May 25 of the following year—Meiji 20—I stood in a period of convalescence, my hair having fallen out entirely. Though ashamed to be seen in such a kettle-headed state, I later learned that my beloved Ms. Tomii Oto, then free in the outside world, had contracted the same illness as I. Yet no remedy proved effective, and she had passed into the realm of the dead. Ah, how fragile is human life! While Ms. Tomii Oto had devoted herself to piety since our imprisonment—joining Christianity and ardently studying the Bible to become a missionary—I, with my deluded attachments, survived, and the resolute Ms. Oto perished. Should the departed Ms. Oto be deemed unfortunate? Should I, who live on, be called fortunate? When I heard this news, I was truly struck by infinite emotion.

VI. A Physiological Transformation

Herein lies another matter that must be recorded. Though such matters—even if true—ought to remain tabooed and avoided, with most people choosing silence, I dare to bare my shame here: first, for those who study physiology and the relationship between body and mind; second, as proof that I, at that time, was more manlike than womanly. I can only hope that those who read this will not dismiss it as merely an indecent account.

Now, what is it that I must record? It is this: my body being unusual in that until the age of twenty-two, when I was in prison, I had not known the monthly cycle that women ought to have. While I had heard that ordinary girls typically begin their monthly cycle around fifteen years of age, I—as Her Ladyship, my mother, had always anxiously observed—was born with the disposition of a boy: unadorned in manner, devoid of even a trace of womanly delicacy, and seated among men in lecture halls on Chinese classics without a shred of shame. Thus did Her Ladyship, my mother, fret excessively over my future, often reciting the ancient poem—“*If one does not love, the human heart would cease to be; it is through this that we know the pathos of things*”—to admonish my conduct. Yet even as my childhood friends all married and reached the age of bearing children, I alone remained without even a glimpse of what ought to be. Knowing this, Her Ladyship grew ever more unsettled, agonizing over whether I might belong to what the world calls a barren woman. However, now that I was in prison, one day that very thing occurred suddenly, and the shock of that time surely needs no explanation now. My demeanor, unusually withdrawn, and even my pallid complexion aroused suspicion in a female prisoner I had grown close to, who questioned me repeatedly until I could no longer keep it hidden. When I finally divulged the matter, her astonishment far surpassed even my own.

VII. Ideal Husband In this manner, while my masculine traits had developed early, as a woman, I was extremely late in my development. Yet as a woman destined to take a husband sooner or later, I had long cherished the ideal that if the time came for me to choose a spouse, he must be a man of resounding fame and heroic stature. However, dwelling in my small, insular world untouched by broader society—like a bat in a village without birds, unaware of its own misplaced prominence—I became convinced that Hakuseki himself was this paragon of greatness. Initially listening to his theories on Freedom and People’s Rights as his disciple, my admiration gradually deepened until I abruptly entered into a marital pact with him. However, since we were not yet in circumstances to form a “home,” I had informed my parents and siblings of our intentions for future reference while pledging to devote ourselves entirely to the nation—only for my school, that path to self-sufficiency, to be unexpectedly closed. Plunged into the misfortune of relocating eastward, I further involved myself in those aforementioned plans until I had nearly sacrificed my entire being. Reduced to a state where I could scarcely find my place in the world, I struggled daily to eke out a living—unlike other activists who relied on support from men like Shigei and Hakuseki—working instead as a hairdresser and laundress to barely sustain my ephemeral existence. When the Korean incident began, Hakuseki—with whom I had formed a marital pact—proved no exception: even those who had left wives and families behind in their hometowns felt no shame in devising pretexts to exploit lowly prostitutes on our way to Nagasaki. Recalling how they went so far as to commit disgraceful acts akin to Ishiyama’s, I came to reflect deeply: how could such self-serving individuals ever achieve great deeds? Thus did I send Hakuseki that farewell letter in Nagasaki. Yet now, upon receiving news of the public trial’s commencement, I am mortified to think how that farewell letter I impulsively wrote to Hakuseki—driven by momentary emotion—has inadvertently been made public. Pity for him also stirs within me: were Hakuseki to see this letter, he would surely burn with shame at his conscience and resent my recklessness. I was too unyielding then—unable to remain silent about how he defiled our pure love and trampled our sacred bond. Knowing I would die within a week, I resolved to leave no regret unspoken, thus composing that missive. Righteous souls or tender-hearted readers would surely choke on tears of sympathy were they to read it—yet how might Hakuseki himself perceive it? Ah, the wretchedness of facing him in court! Because of this letter, he would likely tarnish the reputation of our supporters and wound his own dignity—ah, the depth of this wretchedness! It was precisely because I anticipated never meeting those comrades again that I had announced our marital pact; had I foreseen my present circumstances, I would not have committed such folly as forcibly dredging up the past before one whose love had cooled, thereby brewing mutual disadvantage. Yet in truth, I lamented my comrades’ heartlessness—particularly resented Hakuseki’s cruelty. Rather than live on to become love’s slave again, submitting to a fate forcibly crafted by others’ hands, I resolved to perish cleanly as a sacrifice for Freedom and People’s Rights. Though I had sought his reflection thus, for this [letter] to fall not into comrades’ hands but instead police officers’ grasp—ah, how shameful a deed this was! Alas, on the day the trial commenced, I tormented myself with thoughts of whether to feign illness and avoid appearing in court—but to no avail.

VI. Public Trial

I. En Route Under Escort

When the day finally arrived, I—after three years—felt such joy at breathing the air of the outside world again, and with it came the anticipation that relatives and acquaintances from my hometown might gather to bring news of my beloved parents. Escorted by guards in this hopeful state, I rode in a prison carriage and exited the penitentiary gates. From the station’s entrance to Edo-bori Court, the throng was so dense it seemed as though they had built walls of people; the chaos defied all description. The Osaka citizens, who had never understood what politics truly was, were said to have finally begun to develop political thought since this incident occurred—a fact that sufficiently reveals how our public trial had captured the attention of the citizenry.

II. The Courtroom Sensation By around December of Meiji 18 (1885), suspects had multiplied until their total reached two hundred individuals. However, most were filtered out through preliminary hearings' coarse sieve, leaving sixty-three defendants remaining when the public trial commenced. Yet as this remained an unprecedented mass trial with no courtroom accommodating all defendants simultaneously, they provisionally divided the sixty-three into nine groups—each assigned three lawyers—and thus finally opened proceedings. First came the indictment's recitation: "Prior to this, Isoyama Kiyobei [omission]—Shigei, Hakuseki, and others being coldly indifferent, unfit for collaborative action—" When reaching "[omission]," defendant Ujiie Naokuni in the third row flushed crimson with rage, shoulders heaving as his demeanor grew visibly agitated. Upon arriving at page fifteen's upper section, seventh line—"the aforementioned resolution's intent by Tashiro Kichiji, advance party member stationed in Nagasaki [omission]"—he suddenly lunged at Isoyama Kiyobei in the front row, bellowing while seizing his neck. Chaos erupted inside and outside the courtroom as gate-guarding patrol officers all drew swords to forestall further disorder. Amidst this turmoil, guards and bailiffs rushed forth to finally wrench Ujiie from Isoyama. At this moment, though Ujiie attempted some protest, the presiding judge ordered guards and bailiffs to expel him from court. The judge then adjourned proceedings to deliberate on the matter before reconvening that afternoon. Henceforth trials continued regularly, though unlike the initial day when all sixty-three defendants appeared together, typically only one group attended with accompanying guards.

Moreover, spectators gathered at the main gate daily from around three in the morning, and even after coming for three or four days, they finally managed to enter the gallery—such was the state of affairs that our path was constantly forming into mountains of people.

III. Shigei's Love Letter Even amidst this turmoil, Hakuseki would occasionally steal glances past the guards to scribble his thoughts on a paper slate and send them to me—persistently chastising my aloof demeanor as his habit. (These paper slates—authorized by the court and distributed to all defendants for recording statements to be used as trial material—became our medium.) Yet since my resolve in Nagasaki, I had stopped trusting my comrades' words. "You are a hypocrite apportioning your love between two or three—nay four or five! How could I let you trifle with pure affection?" Such icy retorts became my standard reply. What shocked me was receiving an impassioned letter from Shigei himself. During my Tokyo days, I had frequented his residence to beg even travel funds for rescuing Ms. Tomii Oto—yet back then he'd openly scorned women's forwardness and disdained our political activism. Who could have imagined him now declaring such ardent devotion? Baffled, I dismissed it as curiosity toward an oddity of womanhood and ignored his overtures—until his longing began seeping into gestures so transparent that suspicion gnawed at me. Compelled by his apparent sincerity, I penned a tepid note of consolation in reply. Thus our correspondence swelled until even my hard-earned wariness toward men like Hakuseki dissolved into oblivion—a wretched surrender. This truly became the fuse that plunged half my life into misfortune's abyss—now filling me with dread and bitter regret. Yet then, blind to consequences and dazzled by securing a husband of legendary repute, I grew to anticipate each courtroom appearance with feverish longing—an absurd delusion in hindsight. Thus intoxicated as by sweet rice wine, my constrained spirit soared with mutual respect kindled between us. His hazy breath against me dissolved rustic passions; my heart felt nobler, character refined—until the trial dissolved like some pleasant dream, sentencing me to over a year's light imprisonment. Shigei, Hakuseki and other leaders received heavy sentences—fixed-term exile or life—all appealing their verdicts while I alone remained classified as adjudicated. Clutching hope of hearing his news while jailed alongside comrades in Osaka, my despair upon learning of transfer to Tsu Prison mirrored a monkey tumbling from its tree.

VII. Commencement of Labor

I. The Prison Director’s Admonition Those of us who had received one-and-a-half-year sentences were sent to Ise with over ten companions. Under ordinary circumstances, this stretch of the Tōkaidō—whose Fifty-Three Stations had inspired countless poems—might have stirred poetic sensibilities. Yet clad in persimmon-colored narrow-sleeved robes with a prisoner’s rope at my waist under police escort, I found myself utterly devoid of inspiration, unable to compose even a trite verse. To compound matters, when all guards accompanying us from Osaka were replaced at Kusatsu, every familiar face disappeared. Thus did we arrive at Tsu City Prison in Mie Prefecture steeped in wretchedness. We reached our destination at dusk. The prison director, Hiramatsu Yoshitō—evidently forewarned—made special arrangements to attend. Summoning us to a holding room in a voice I still vividly recall, he boomed: “I am Prison Director Hiramatsu Yoshitō. You defendants have been transferred here from Osaka Penitentiary. Now under my jurisdiction, you will strictly observe prison regulations without exception. Strive daily toward clemency and freedom. Declare your names, occupations, and social statuses.” When my turn came, he declared without waiting: “You need not speak—you are Keiyama Ei, are you not? To think a woman in her prime would plot such grave matters! Your parents know nothing of this... Ah! Where might they be now? How they must worry through summer’s heat and winter’s cold! You too must yearn for them—this misfortune born of misguided patriotism! Those loyal to their nation must first be filial!” His admonition dripping with counterfeit sympathy breached my defenses. Before my comrades, tears of homesickness I had long suppressed burst forth like floodwaters through a broken dam. For some time, I could not raise my face. The Prison Director nodded sagely—*Yes,yes*—as if divining my thoughts. “Henceforth,” he continued, “strictly obey regulations. Guide wayward prisoners toward reform; enlighten your ignorant peers. Prove your devotion to loyalty and patriotism! Though sentenced to eighteen months, pursue early release through clemency not yet denied you! Return to your parents’ knees and serve filial duty!” Thereafter during inspections, he ceaselessly pressed these directives until I forgot my own status as a lightly imprisoned convict—wholly consumed with reforming fellow inmates.

II. Women's Prison Labor Each morning, I would rise at five to prepare, and whenever the Women’s Prison Supervisor came to open the cells, I would sit in silent reverence with the others, proceed to the well to wash my face in turn, take meals at the office, then set to the day’s labor—sewing red garments, weaving cloth, or spinning thread. To record the standard labor quotas for garments: red narrow-sleeved kimonos were set at three garments for unlined, two for lined, and one and a half for padded versions. Underpants required sewing four pairs per task. Repairs of old garments also had predetermined quotas based on the scale of mending, all of which the Women’s Prison Supervisor individually assigned and distributed. Though I, lacking fixed duties, could have spent my days solely with books without anyone objecting, I resolved to fulfill my duty as a woman by joining those with assigned tasks—striving to dispel society’s misconceptions—and made it my practice to complete each day’s quota early, returning to my cell two hours before labor’s end to read. Thus, when I was released from prison, I was paid appropriate wages for my labor, and even the surplus beyond my pocket money alone amounted to over ten yen. Whereas those sentenced to heavy imprisonment customarily allocated seven parts [of their prison labor wages] to the government and retained three as their own, I reversed this practice—allocating three parts to the government and retaining seven as my own. Thus, had my imprisonment been prolonged, I could have accumulated substantial savings, which upon release would have proven useful for significant purposes.

III. The Tōdō Family Matron

My happiness lay in always gaining two or three sympathizers who protected me openly and covertly, no matter which prison I found myself in. Among them was Aoki, the Women’s Prison Supervisor, who would bring me sweets wrapped in paper each time out of concern for my fatigue, gazing enviously as I lost myself in solitary reading. Thus I too came to regard her as a mother, interacting without reserve. Even after my release I could not forget her, and when she later came to Tokyo as a matron in Count Tōdō’s household, I immediately visited to reminisce about old times. After agonizing over how to repay her kindness, I took in her second daughter and taught her what little arts and learning I could.

IV. The Girls

During my imprisonment, there were two girls aged sixteen and eighteen; the younger was called O-Hana, the elder O-Kiku. Having been specially entrusted by the prison director with these two girls, I taught them not only reading, writing, and arithmetic but also moral principles, caring for them to the fullest extent—through which I soon came to understand the circumstances that had brought them there. O-Hana’s nature was not inherently wicked—she had been born into a destitute household where, during a village festival one year, with many siblings and no fine garments to wear, she grew resentful of her tattered rags whenever seeing playmates in beautiful kimonos. Driven by a girl’s rash impulse, she stole clothing hung at a neighboring home. As for O-Kiku, orphaned young and raised by her uncle—whether through innate disposition or mistreatment’s consequences—she frequently strayed into vice, having already entered prison seven times, with post-release periods where she spent but a single day beneath open skies. Observing them closely, I saw both girls—though of ordinary appearance—rendered all the more pitiable by circumstance. How I yearned to take them into my family home upon release and provide life guidance! With the girls seated beside me, I taught reading and calligraphy equally, treating them without bias. They gradually grew attached, vying to serve me—massaging shoulders and legs, or curbing their own desires to offer me favored things—all with touching kindness. Yet seeing such virtues in them deepened my sorrow: why had they turned to theft? I instructed that should they gain freedom first, they must inquire about my release at this institution and come meet me without fail—yet neither ever came. After my release, prison authorities informed me neither girl had returned—O-Hana, from nearby, had been sold to Nagoya brothels shortly after release; O-Kiku never rejoined her uncle’s household, her whereabouts unknown. That such things occurred wherever I went, in every prison—I know not what karmic threads were woven. Or perhaps, as reverberations from confinement in that unfree microcosm—even were one to see such unified focus of hearts—that its locus always rested in me… Was this not due to some magnetic force I possessed? If such power indeed existed within me—well then—once free, gathering all misfortune’s children to bestow a glimmer of light would be no impossible task. Such was my conviction then.

V. The Ignorance and Lack of Education Among the Guards The prisons in this city, unlike those in Osaka, had many uneducated and ignorant women among the inmates, and even those overseeing the women’s prison were mostly widows of guards who had taken up the work as a means of subsistence. Thus, they acted solely based on personal likes and dislikes, knowing nothing of proper prisoner management. Since they had established a custom of using fixed labor quotas alone as the measure for rewards and punishments, prisoners—regardless of incarceration length—could not even conceive of pursuing reform and moral improvement. Instead, the wicked only fell deeper into depravity, striving to meet their supervisors’ expectations, thereby fostering an atmosphere of cunning and sinister calculation. Therefore, to reform prisons, they must pay adequate wages and strive to appoint people of high character as overseers for women’s prisons. If they persist in having such individuals oversee prisoners, inmates will forever greet their supervisors with contempt—outwardly feigning compliance while inwardly mocking them. Can this truly be called a sound method for encouraging reformation? Mr. Aoki alone—though lacking visible scholarly attainments yet perhaps naturally abundant in charitable spirit—could not bear witnessing such wretchedness, often speaking of resigning immediately. After my release, he indeed resigned shortly thereafter and became a matron in the Tōdō household. Is he still alive and well?

VI. Promulgation of the Constitution and the Great Amnesty

Putting that aside, I had been given four commendation marks after a year of hard labor and was now on the verge of receiving a fifth—and with it, the grace of parole—when one day, Mr. Kozuka Yoshitaro arrived from Osaka requesting an audience. Hearing it was from Osaka, my heart swelled with both joy and trepidation as the guard escorted me to the visitation room. There stood Mr. Kozuka, greeting me with a smile and apologizing for his prolonged silence. He began to explain: “I’ve come at the request of concerned parties to inspect all incarcerated individuals. On this year’s Empire Day, an imperial edict will promulgate the Constitution, and—though it shames me to say—clemency may be granted to all prisoners…” But the guard cut him off, cautioning that no official notice had yet arrived from higher authorities and forbidding such reckless talk. Mr. Kozuka continued speaking: “You seem entirely unaware, but official notice will arrive shortly—likely tomorrow at the latest for your meeting. Are your garments and other necessities prepared to suffice immediately?” After offering these and other meticulous instructions, he withdrew that very day. The news struck me like a bolt from the blue—some joyous official notice must arrive today or tomorrow. At any rate, I resolved to prepare myself, combing and arranging my hair—and indeed, by evening, a guard ordered me to come to the Prison Director’s office with books in hand. With a heart soaring as if to heaven itself, I was escorted to the waiting room—where the Prison Director and his officials stood solemnly arrayed, respectfully reciting the Great Amnesty decree for us to hear. The Prison Director declared with solemn dignity: “Your crimes have been entirely expunged by the Great Amnesty decree—as of today, you shall be free persons.” “You must strive ever more diligently for the nation,” he exhorted. The moment I heard this, a strange sensation suddenly welled up in my breast. From yesterday through today, we who had been compelled to labor as traitors now became paragons of loyalty and patriotism within a single hour—to bathe in the grace of the Great Amnesty decree! What a bewildering spectacle! “Life is but an illusion”—who first uttered those words? For a moment, I stood utterly dazed. But guided by Mr. Kozuka’s meticulous care, I changed into newly tailored garments and, alongside six comrades, departed through Tsu City Prison’s main gate—glancing back repeatedly—until we reached the inn.

Chapter VIII: Release from Prison

I. In the Young Lady’s Presence The inn had already made full preparations for each of us—treatment so gracious it truly brought tears to my eyes. That evening, as local supporters had organized a welcome banquet, we were invited to a renowned restaurant in the area; having been specially summoned the next day by someone hosting a feast, we arrived there in the afternoon—where the young lady of the household served us weak tea in her presence. When they themselves requested another serving, I awkwardly prepared a basic serving of tea. Though born into poverty, my mother’s compassion had allowed me to learn such skills, however meagerly. Otherwise I would have lost all dignity—how absurd to dwell on my parents’ kindness now as if it were some new discovery. From then on, passing days free of such concerns, I was finally escorted by local supporters including Mr. Nagai Katsushi to Suzuka Pass, then traveled partly on foot and partly by train toward Osaka. Along the way, Mr. Ueki Emori came to greet us, presenting me with a beautiful bouquet of roses while gifts were bestowed upon each companion.

II. Osaka’s Grand Welcome

When we arrived at Osaka Umeda Station, the welcoming crowd was in a veritable frenzy; cheers of *banzai* celebrating our comrades’ safe release from prison shook heaven and earth. No sooner had we arrived at the station than, amid supporters scrambling to be first in presenting bouquets, there came—oh, how nostalgic!—Father, whom I had parted from seven years prior. Despite his body being weakened by illness, he had come here supported by relatives without shunning the effort. "Oh, Father!" I cried out in a voice drenched with tears, unashamed even in public. At this, all present seemed to think 'As one would expect,' and they too were choked with tears of sympathy. Thus it had to be: accompanied by my comrades, I parted from Father and arrived at a prepared location. There, under the protection of great red-and-white banners inscribed with phrases like “Celebrate the Patriots’ Release” and “Welcome the Freed Activists,” I was paraded through Osaka in a rickshaw. Father—who had come all this way to meet me—was struck by boundless emotion at witnessing both my safe release from prison and the citizens’ frenzied welcome, declaring “All my worries until today are now forgotten! Even if I were to die this moment, I’d have no regrets! That you should receive such generous treatment from these gentlemen and hospitality from the people was beyond my imagining!” Yet even as he spoke these words, I myself received gracious welcomes from the late Mr. Nakae Chōmin and Mr. Kurihara Ryōichi. As night fell, I returned to the inn, finally attempting to catch my breath—yet visitors arrived in an unbroken stream, compelling me to meet each one individually and express gratitude for their kindness—such was the dizzying whirl of activity. The following day, as Shigei, Hakuseki, Furui, and others were scheduled to arrive from Nagoya, I went with comrades who had already reached Osaka to meet them at the station. They arrived shortly thereafter and accepted bouquets we presented. When we then attempted to proceed on foot to the Shinonome Newspaper Office, tens of thousands of onlookers and well-wishers filled even the vast Umeda Station until not an inch of space remained. Together with Shigei and Hakuseki, we formed a single mass jostled by the crowd—our feet scarcely touching the ground as we were hoisted aloft—until at last we managed to enter the newspaper office. Before the newspaper office as well, the crowd swelled like a mountain, compelling them to close the doors and allow passage only to those with urgent business. Yet outside the gates, cries of “Long live Shigei!” and “Long live the released prisoners!” rang ceaselessly; fireworks soared, sword dances commenced, and Mr. Nakae declared “Today it is women who reign supreme over men! You might well be called *a single red bloom amidst a sea of green*—your exceptional deeds among men in this affair merit special mention in history!” With this, they made me sit atop a table where various receptions were held. When it concluded and they each returned to their lodgings, it was already dusk.

Chapter IX: Relationship with Shigei

I. Consent to Marriage

Thereafter, Shigei, Hakuseki, Furui, and the other gentlemen lodged at Matsu-U, while I stayed at Harahei. The rest secured their own inns. For several days, we moved between invitations here and banquets there, day and night without respite. But as our hometowns required preparations for welcoming us back, we decided to part ways as each saw fit. On the very night before my scheduled departure for Okayama the following day, Shigei sent word: "If you have any matters to discuss, come to Matsu-U." Wondering what the matter was, I went to see them only to find neither Shigei nor Hakuseki present. Just as I resignedly prepared to return to my lodgings, Shigei returned alone. He rejoiced at my visit, declaring he could never forget the profound kindness I had shown him since our imprisonment, and that our mutual safe release was truly fortunate—here and now, he resolved to propose a marriage pact. This had long been my resolve; yet on the night of our arrival in Osaka, during Father’s bedtime talk, he recounted how Mr.Nakae and Mr.Kurihara Ryōichi had fervently persuaded him over the past few days: “You must arrange for her to marry Hakuseki.” Thus, he had responded that upon returning home, he would consult my brothers-in-law and proceed with the matter decisively. The shock I felt upon hearing this could be likened to a bolt from the blue; ultimately, Mr.Nakae and Mr.Kurihara, unaware of the deeper circumstances, had mistakenly assumed that my friendship with Hakuseki remained as it once was, and their well-meaning intention must have been to seize this opportunity to have us marry. But spilled water cannot be scooped back into the basin—to Father, I responded that I would explain matters in due course after returning home. Then I met with Messrs.Nakae and Kurihara, conveyed the circumstances, and apologized for lacking any such intention. Only then did the two men realize their misunderstanding, and thereafter they ceased to speak of it again. Thus, though my resolve had hardened, I could not help recalling Hakuseki—my childhood companion—with whom I had once shared such constant companionship, visiting and being visited day and night, even receiving his instruction on many matters. Moreover, perceiving that even now Hakuseki bore me no malice, to pledge marriage to Shigei at this juncture felt emotionally unbearable; my heart tangled like thread.When I answered that I would consult my parents after returning home, Shigei—who knew of my history with Hakuseki—would not consent easily.“If you return home with Hakuseki,” he pressed,“others will inevitably mediate, forcing an alliance between you two.”Fearing this moment lost, he urged me relentlessly until at last, though recklessly,I gave my consent—a mistake that would haunt me all my days.

II. Family Welcome

Thereafter, I embarked on the journey home by ship with Hakuseki and five or six relatives. Upon arriving at Samban Port, we were greeted by several hundred supporters from a certain locality—students from my school and their parents—creating indescribable chaos. When we disembarked and reached the inn, my beloved Mother came rushing out, clinging to me with tears as she cried, “You’ve returned safely! They said you’d been gravely ill—how joyous to see your healthy face!” Though I had resolved, “Today is too blessed for tears,” unbidden tears of joy spilled forth. She called my siblings, nephews, and nieces to share in the rejoicing. After concluding the greetings, I suddenly noticed a young man beside me—the same person who had kindly assisted me aboard the ship. When I asked who he was, they replied, “Have you forgotten your brother Junzo?” I was struck with astonishment. How people change! Seven years had passed since I left home—he had been thirteen or fourteen then, in his wild adolescent phase. Now he had taken a wife and would soon be called a father. Truly, people undergo their greatest transformations between thirteen and seventeen; laughing that it was no wonder I hadn’t recognized him, we boarded a rickshaw together and set out for Kankō Pavilion in Okayama Park to attend the welcome banquet hosted by local supporters.

This park was the rear garden of Marquis Ikeda, who formerly ruled a 350,000-koku domain, and is one of Japan’s Three Great Parks whose views cannot be fully appreciated in any single season. The banquet's planners—Mr. Nozaki, Okayama's foremost magnate, and other distinguished figures—had invited us along with our parents and relatives. During the proceedings, these gentlemen delivered speeches, while renowned musicians summoned by the organizers performed a stirringly impassioned new-style poem titled "Song of Freedom," harmonized with two Western pianos. As I listened to this, I involuntarily clasped my hands and was struck by boundless emotion—Ah! For the sake of this freedom, how could I begrudge even death? After the singing ended and Hakuseki gave his response, the banquet commenced; having all enjoyed themselves to the fullest, they departed for home around the time the lamps were lit.

III. Long-Awaited Homecoming

Thus escorted by my mother and brothers, I returned to my long-absent hometown home. When I thought back, how different this was from the lonely sorrow of when I had left this place—now I returned surrounded by many people, in such lively fashion. A sense of past and present welled up within me—my childhood days, my friends—all passing through my heart like a dream, like an illusion, like images in a revolving lantern.

From the outskirts near my home, every eave was beautifully adorned with red lanterns as though for a grand shrine festival. When I wondered for whose sake this celebration was held—when I thought of crawling into any available crevice—I found myself unable to suppress the notion that death might offer greater solace. Ah! Even as I received such lavish hospitality—how could I have secretly pledged myself to Shigei? How might one ever repay such overwhelming kindness? These thoughts clawed at me with private torment.

IV. Major Sensation At my household, we invited relatives and old acquaintances and held a grand banquet. Geisha came, dancers came, and the whole household was in an uproar. When the banquet concluded, hushed conversations emerged, and by dawn, the revelry still showed no signs of abating. They seemed determined to compress seven years of absence into a single night of storytelling and listening. The next day brought a welcome banquet organized by hometown supporters and journalists. At a restaurant called Uokyū, they served Korean crane dishes—apparently alluding to that incident we had been involved in. Thus my days became consumed by endless banquets and invitations. Even estranged relatives now flocked to see me, my notoriety spreading so widely that not a single three-year-old child failed to speak the name Keiyama Ei—how galling it was.

V. Common-Law Marriage One or two months thereafter came word from Tokyo that Shigei and others of the Great Unity Alliance would campaign through Osaka en route to Chūgoku on a speaking tour. When I received an urgent summons from Shigei’s relatives in Osaka urging me to come, I resolved this was no time for hesitation. For the first time, I confessed my relationship with Shigei to my parents—though even if we were to form a common-law marriage now, public disclosure must await an opportune moment. For Shigei still had a wife who had been driven mad since Meiji 17 (1884) and could no longer comprehend human affairs; he had privately intended to send her back to her family home out of necessity. Yet to suddenly demand divorce for a woman not lightly dismissed—one for whom he had made no lifelong provisions—was unthinkable. Thus it was declared: once Shigei, through his professional legal practice, had accumulated sufficient success—winning a major case to obtain tens of thousands in gold—they would grant him financial security for life before severing ties. Deeming this course reasonable, I proposed a temporary common-law marriage. When I sought their opinion, my parents—then intoxicated by my hollow reputation—consented: “We shall defer to your judgment.” They further declared that should Shigei visit our locale, they would host him for introductions to relatives and arrange for my brothers to share ceremonial sake with him, however distantly. Heartened by their enthusiasm, I felt reassured. Under pretext of visiting a friend in Osaka, I met Shigei and conveyed my parents’ intentions. His joy knew no bounds; insisting he must see them immediately, we traveled together to Okayama. There, accepting our family’s hospitality, he formally discussed my future with my parents before personally placing a precious ring upon my finger—a gesture they deemed irreproachable. To my eyes, even my parents appeared thoroughly satisfied. From then on, in Tokyo, Osaka, and Kobe alike, I accompanied Shigei publicly as comrades, appearing side by side at rallies and receptions as our bond deepened daily.

Chapter Ten: Three Miscellaneous Tales

I. A Female Student

At that time, I had a female student whom I had brought along. Born in Echigo, she bore no resemblance to a seventeen-year-old maiden in her prime. For reasons unknown, she had cropped her hair to emulate a man’s appearance, thickly wrapping a white-silk heko obi around her waist until she resembled a rustic farmer’s son at first glance. Relying on Shigei to reach Tokyo, she pleaded to become Keiyama’s disciple. Unable to refuse Shigei’s request that I take her on as a student-attendant, I first agreed to the arrangement. Yet when I pressed her—Why adopt this guise of a transformed man?—she replied, “I heard you possess a man’s temperament. Thus I became convinced that unless I presented myself thus, you would never accept me.” With this resolve, she had deliberately severed her long black tresses and exchanged women’s garments for men’s attire—or so she claimed. So this is how the world sees me—have they misunderstood me to such an extent? Or is it that I am unwittingly being denounced as an arrogant, uncouth woman who dares to surpass men? The shame of it all! To speak plainly, ever since I grew ashamed of my childhood cross-dressing, I had resolved to contribute even modestly to society through the distinctive qualities Heaven bestows upon women. Yet precisely because I became entangled in this dreary affair, I must have invited such misconceptions. My prior involvement in what are considered men’s affairs stemmed solely from matters bearing on the nation’s fate—even as a woman, I could not remain idle. If fortune had granted me the gentle compassion and love said to be women’s common traits, I intended to use these qualities to encourage capable men, striving always to support them however inadequately. To vie with men for power or contend for achievements—such notions never crossed my mind. Women must remain women through and through, men must remain men through and through—only when both sexes mutually assist and complement each other can the essential union of man and woman be achieved—this I firmly believed. Yet having unwittingly invited such misunderstanding was both deeply sorrowful and utterly unacceptable to me. Thus I earnestly admonished the female student regarding her error, eventually compelling her to grow out her hair and exchange her garments for women’s attire—whereupon she transformed into a pitifully beautiful woman, soon returning to her hometown to marry another and become an elegant wife. The photograph of the newlywed couple sent at that time still remains, and whenever I face it, I find myself smiling involuntarily as I sit here.

II. A Most Bizarre Tale

Around that time, there occurred an even more bizarre tale. On the day when I had established a house in Tokyo, a certain Kikuchi from Fukuoka Prefecture—then working as a Christian missionary and devoting himself to proselytization—arrived carrying a letter of introduction from Mr. Kaetsu Ujifusa, a member of the House of Representatives, and requested an audience with me. As I had never refused an audience with anyone regardless of who they were, I immediately had my student-attendant show him to the parlor and went out to meet him without delay. Yet for reasons unknown, the man stared fixedly at my face while muttering *“This is unexpected—this is unexpected”* under his breath. In a state of utter discomposure, he failed to even return my greeting, continuing to gaze at me blankly with ever-intensifying scrutiny. At first I suspected, then grew fearful—*This must be a madman! And how insolent of Mr. Kaetsu to introduce such a lunatic!*—all the while harboring seven parts indignation in my heart as I stealthily observed the deranged man’s antics. But then, abruptly, the guest’s countenance transformed into one of shame. “Young lady,” he entreated, “pray glance upon this letter.” When I opened it without forethought, there lay before me a wholly unexpected marriage proposal. The letter read: (omission) *“Perceiving your resolve to stake your life in the Korean incident—given that your bond with Hakuseki no longer remains as before, and finding that seeking marriage elsewhere would only confirm your grotesque appearance as an ugly, dwarfish figure with a bulging forehead, snub nose, and cyclopean visage akin to a demonic monster—you resolved that abandoning yourself [to death] would prove superior, thus embarking on this desperate undertaking.”* What a pitiable outcome for this young lady! "Unfortunate as I am, my former wife eloped with an adulterer, leaving me solitary. Were I to marry such an ugly woman, I would not sink into such sorrow; our household would be harmonious and devoted to God," or so he prattled on. Though I sought to mask my expression upon finishing this letter, my displeasure must have shown through—for the guest grew all the more shamefaced, exclaiming, "Ah! A grave error! How utterly careless of me!" The shame lay in how, upon merely hearing of your conduct, he immediately concluded you were an ugly woman. When I consider how my own imagination has turned against me, I realize this: any man who knows you well enough must surely desire to marry you. However, if even you, young lady, do not deign to comprehend my resolve, I shall ultimately sink into an abyss of sorrow. “Ah! How infuriating!” he cried, nearly beside himself—then suddenly fumbled a knife from his pocket, hurled it at me, stabbed it into the table, and attempted to coerce me into consenting to marriage by force. Realizing he had finally gone mad, I hurriedly summoned my student-attendant and, while having him entertain [Kikuchi] as he pleased, withdrew from my seat to observe the unfolding events. The student then coaxed and pacified the guest, leading him outside before personally escorting him to a certain church in Tsukiji.

III. Kawakami Otojirō

Prior to this, while staying in Osaka, I received an invitation from supporters in Wakayama City and resolved to accompany Shigei. Together with Unoke Kumano (now Diet member Yamaguchi Kumano), Koike Heiichirō, Maekawa Torazō, and others, we arrived at the location and attended a welcome banquet organized by local supporters, where Shigei and others delivered speeches. Unable to refuse their urging for me to deliver a speech as well, I somehow fulfilled this obligation; then, attending the newly established Women’s Moral Reform Society, I attempted another clumsy address. After posing for a photograph with the group, I visited Wakanoura at Mr. Maekawa Torazō’s invitation. The following day in a place called Tanabe, yet another rally was held—where I received the supporters’ welcome and lavish hospitality, greatly enhancing my reputation. While thus campaigning with Shigei in various regions, we received several invitations from areas near my hometown. At this time, society still believed the marriage arrangement between Hakuseki and me remained intact, so traveling with him weighed heavily on my conscience. Yet having already campaigned publicly with Shigei, I could not refuse Hakuseki’s companionship—especially as severing ties now seemed callous given our past camaraderie. Thus, seizing Shigei’s return to Tokyo as an opportunity, I too temporarily returned to my hometown and attended local welcome banquets and receptions for a time. During my stay, Kawakami Otojirō’s troupe had taken over the Yanagiwaza Theater in Okayama City, staging a play based on the Osaka Incident. Unable to decline their earnest invitation to attend, I accompanied my parents one day to see it. As their acting skills were not yet developed as they are today—both the stage business and dialogue delivery bordered on farcical—the performance proved utterly devoid of any merit worth seeing. And yet, one need only observe how the Osaka Incident had captured the public imagination at that time—how it drove the city’s sons and daughters to deem those who did not see this play as less than human, how the theater manifested daily crowds so dense not a pin could drop—to understand that to call this anything but strange was no folly. During his theatrical tour, Kawakami Otojirō came to my school numerous times with his troupe members, where he would have students listen to lectures or give them sweets—acts of exceeding kindness and attentiveness. But one day, he particularly sent a messenger bearing a large, newly made stage curtain, declaring: “As this curtain is to be used solely when I lecture on the grand principles of Freedom and People’s Rights, I earnestly wish for my revered elder sister to inscribe her name upon it—so that it may appear as though gifted by her, thereby somewhat enhancing my own reputation.” Since I was well aware of Kawakami’s character at the time, I agreed to his request, deeming it unthinkable that this act of gifting a stage curtain would be equated with those of Niikoma or Iekitsu. Yet when the local supporters learned of this—despite their advocacy for personal freedom and equality—they appeared not yet free from classist thinking, swiftly opposing me with an air of palpable tension. Compelled to convey my refusal to Kawakami, he left Okayama that very day in a rage, penning a vehement letter in his wake. However, around the following year of Meiji 23 or perhaps 24, as I recall, while traveling eastward and passing through Hongō Kiridoshi, I suddenly encountered members of Kawakami’s troupe wearing short coats with dyed emblems on their collars. Unintentionally scrutinizing one of them, I realized this was none other than Kawakami himself. He too seemed greatly startled, yet his manner of greeting me after our long separation showed no signs of harboring the ill will from the previous year. He explained they had decided to stage a production in Asakusa Torigoe this time and, as I could see, had been rushing about with his troupe members to advertise it. Compared to the previous year, they had endured considerable hardships—I thought their skills had improved somewhat. Since he was to perform as Etō Shinpei, he earnestly added: “I do hope you will bring your family to see it.” A few days later, when he indeed sent an invitation, I invited my parents and student friends to attend the performance. Truly, the troupe’s progress was nothing short of astonishing—he who had been half activist and half actor the previous year had now fully transformed into a pure new actor. He recounted how, on the occasion of their august attendance at his play—a privilege so momentous that even securing an audience with these imperial princes and nobles would have been unthinkable in former times—he had been graciously summoned to their very presence under special decree, bestowed with words of honor too profound to merit, and even permitted the intimacy of a handshake. As he spoke, he choked back tears of profound gratitude, wearing a proud expression as if to say this too was the fruit of having become an actor. Ah—had he maintained goodwill toward us, he would never have achieved such success. That success of his was entirely a blessing obtained through abandoning his own principles and losing his fighting spirit. Truly, the unreliability of human hearts resembles that of a trickster. Yesterday’s activist is today’s actor—what more can I say? They say that in recent years, thanks to his wife, he has become a hanger-on to a Grand Cordon Marquis and now devotes himself solely to currying favor with those who style themselves as upper-class gentlemen.

He too appeared to be a man quite skilled in navigating the world. Are such spineless creatures of this ilk found only in Kawakami?

Chapter Eleven: Becoming a Mother

I. Pregnancy

Prior to this, during my continued stay in my hometown, when others made a formal proposal regarding my relationship with Hakuseki and he himself expressed a desire to rekindle our former affections directly, my disquiet grew such that I sought Shigei’s consent in Tokyo, informed my parents, and once again departed for the capital in late July of the twenty-second year. Around this time, my physical condition grew abnormal—day by day, nausea and frequent vomiting overtook me. Realizing what this meant, I confessed to Shigei after leaving the capital and sought to consult my parents in my hometown. Yet he forbade it, insisting I keep it secret for now. Though this left me deeply resentful, in my constrained position, I saw no alternative but to obey his demands. I established a quiet residence where I lived with a maid and student-attendant, resolved at last to tread the ordinary path of a respectable woman. Yet contrary to this resolve, Shigei now treated me as though he had forgotten every vow made both to me and my parents—his manner toward me became loathsome, indistinguishable from how one addresses a kept woman. What manner of conduct was this? Though I knew not what circumstances compelled him, I pleaded fervently at every meeting: Could this truly be called parental affection—to plunge me into such tragic circumstances without regard for even the fetus enduring public censure? To this, he at last adopted a concerned demeanor and replied: Defer the announcement a while longer. Were we to inform your parents in your hometown of your pregnancy now, they would surely demand an immediate marriage declaration. Though announcing it would be simple, neither my position nor yours permits it without proper preparations. Above all, even disposing of this ailing woman’s affairs remains unmanageable in our present state—you must understand there is nothing to be done. "I am currently handling a highly promising case in my legal practice. Should this matter succeed, obtaining tens of thousands in remuneration will be effortless. Once that is achieved, I will resolve everything splendidly. I implore you—endure this anguish a while longer and take utmost care of the fetus." Such was his singular plea. It was precisely because I had trusted him that I had entrusted even this hundred-year life of mine to his care; yet even as matters were thus divided, I could not—nay, would not—doubt that this was some falsehood or temporary evasion. Should I incur my parents’ wrath in days to come, would there truly be no means to explain myself? Under this pretext, I entreated my aunt to come to Tokyo, confided my circumstances to her, entrusted her with my personal affairs, prayed fervently for the fetus’s well-being, and strictly forbade myself from venturing out—all while the newspapers clamored: “Where is Keizan now? We must know the whereabouts of the woman who once stirred such commotion!”

II. Childbirth, A Bizarre Dream

How immense was the anguish I endured during that time! Through joyless days piled one upon another, in early March of the twenty-third year that followed, I gave birth to a son. His name shall remain unspoken—for to have a child openly draw society's gaze with a mother who embodied remorseful degradation would, I resolved, by no means bode well for his future. Yet regarding his naming, there occurred such a bizarre episode that I must record it here, though it may invite accusations of superstition. From the moment this child took form within me, I was plagued by violent dreams. Once I wandered lost into deep mountains surrounded by thousands of wolves. Summoning desperate courage, I pulled down their grizzled leader, seized its jaws, and split the beast from maw to torso—whereupon the pack scattered in panic. Another time rose vivid scenes from the *Eighteen Histories* I'd studied as a girl: Yu the Great crossing a river while a serpentine dragon pursued his boat. As terrified passengers cowered, Yu gazed heavenward and declared, *"My life is Heaven's gift; I labor for the people's sake. Life is but lodging, death a return home."* Unflinching before the coiling dragon, I stood in Yu's place reciting his words until the beast lowered its head, drooped its tail, and fled. Yet when delivery came, it proved an excruciating labor—two days and nights of torment. Just as attendants panicked that birth was impossible without surgical intervention, my contractions began. At that very instant, a torrential downpour erupted while thunder roared across the sky—yet when the infant's first cry pierced the air, even that deluge fit to overturn basins ceased abruptly, leaving clear skies. Student-attendants later recounted how during that rainstorm they'd witnessed what folk call a dragon coil—a long serpentine form ascending heavenward. Finding my son's repeated dragon connections uncanny, I named him accordingly and prayed his future might be blessed with fortune.

III. Enrollment in the Family Register

At the very moment I gave birth to my child, yet another anguish emerged. The issue was this: unless Shigei and I were publicly recognized as husband and wife, how could we register the child? Fortunately, the physician I had frequently consulted during my pregnancy—a man from Shigei’s hometown who had long admired his reputation and desired to forge ties with him—was approached by my relatives to safeguard our secret. Being a man of great chivalry, he consented at once and, taking advantage of his own childless state, registered the boy as his legitimate first son with the authorities. Thus, the two of us barely managed to escape public scrutiny, overcoming a trial more bitter than death—yet no sooner had we thought, *At last, joy!*—than a telegram arrived from my hometown: my mother was critically ill.

IV. Attachment Since less than thirty days had passed after childbirth, the physician urgently advised against long-distance travel as dangerous. Yet having not informed my parents of this childbirth, I could now scarcely justify doing so—especially with my mother’s illness at hand. How could I remain indifferent? *If I die en route, then let me die.* Resisting all dissuasion, I entrusted the infant to my aunt and the wet nurse, severed my lingering attachments, and departed under escort by the student-attendant and maid to Shinbashi Station. Even as I awaited the train’s departure, my heart shattered into fragments—*Where is my child now? What state is he in?*—this was the very essence of heartrending agony. Truly, no sorrow in life compares to parting with one’s helpless child—yet even this I was forced to endure, a punishment surely for the sin of secrecy I had sworn to keep. Steeling my resolve, I embarked on this lonely journey alone. Aboard the train, I encountered a certain sister-in-law of Mr. Kataoka Naoharu traveling with him. Witnessing her cradling an infant in her arms and lavishing it with ceaseless affection, I felt anew the wretchedness of a mother who abandons her child to others’ care—the pitiable state of that child, torn from the familiar warmth of its mother’s breast to be abruptly fed cow’s milk through an unwieldy feeding bottle. *How you must weep now, my son—yearning for the breast that lies here with me, growing more distant with every passing second.* Even my usual resolute heart faltered; since giving birth, I had become more womanly—more fragile—than any ordinary wife. Despite my body having been so carefully tended to, it suffered no harm; yet the train that was supposed to go directly to Kobe abruptly stopped in Shizuoka, so that night, I lodged at an inn near the station with Mr. Kataoka’s family. Since I had intentionally written a pseudonym in the lodging register, Mr. Kataoka likely did not recognize me as Keizan Ei.

V. Crisis The next day upon arriving in Okayama, when I went to visit my beloved Mother, I heard her critical illness had eased—what joy! When word spread of my long-awaited return home, relatives gathered—yet it was Mother who grew alarmed at my pallid complexion. “This is no ordinary condition,” they all urged. “Summon a physician immediately!” This was a crisis—were a physician’s examination to reveal the childbirth, Mother’s barely stabilized illness might worsen again through the shock. For myself it mattered not, but this could lead to irreparable regret. Having resolved I would sooner die than undergo examination, I assured everyone my condition posed no concern while enduring chest pains and praying solely for Mother’s recovery. Gradually—like peeling thin paper—she healed until at last she rose from her sickbed and, harmonizing my moon lute with elder brother’s yakumo zither, began singing ballads in robust health.

In mid-spring, she fell ill—this aged body nearing dissolution like white clouds at the height of blossoms—yet through the devoted care of kin gathered daily, her sickness gradually abated. Truly, the blessing of children surpasses even medicine’s power.

After staying about a week—by which time Mother’s illness had fully abated—my longing to see my child surged like a bamboo arrow’s flight, leaving me no choice but to act. Driven beyond self-control, I devised a plausible pretext to announce my return to the capital, explaining that I too had matters requiring attention and would soon bring Father and Mother to Tokyo to serve at their side. Upon returning, the sight of my beloved child’s healthy face at last dispelled the gloom that had weighed upon me for over ten days.

Chapter Twelve: Shigei’s Change of Heart

I. Again Pressing for the Fulfillment of the Promise During my absence, Shigei had visited the child several times. Given his circumstances of having no legitimate children, seeing this healthy boy now must surely have brought him joy—yet precisely because he feared societal judgment, he suppressed that affection and endured his longing to see the child morning and evening. "Come—let us finally urge the fulfillment of our promise," I insisted when we met one day. "To deceive society day after day, even imposing disgrace upon this child, is excessively cruel for a parent. Announce it swiftly and restore my honor." "If this secret were to come to light as things stand, I could never face my parents alive again," I pleaded through tears, later reiterating my appeal in writing. Though he too seemed inwardly unsettled and deeply troubled, there came a moment when—lost in thought—he lifted the child, gazing intently at its features as streaming hot tears spilled forth. Yet he spoke not a word of his true intentions, and from that day onward, his visits to see the child grew increasingly sparse—a circumstance that suggested some unresolved dissatisfaction. Fearing the collapse of our arrangement, I seized upon a single day to persuade him with my plan to establish a girls' school. After compelling him to expend five hundred yen, I then prevailed upon my parents and siblings in my hometown to resolve upon relocating our entire household to the capital.

II. Relocation of the Entire Household to the Capital Ah—through my own selfishness alone, I compelled our ancestral home—revered for generations as teachers—to abandon its native soil in a single day and wander beneath unfamiliar eastern skies. The terrifying nature of this sin defies all means of atonement; even now, not a day passes when I do not offer silent apologies in my heart to my late Father and Brother. Yet at that time, my parents’ joy knew no bounds—what blessed fortune it was to be able to live out our days in Tokyo! All of this, they declared, stemmed from the lingering influence of Eiko’s involvement in the Korean Incident. And so it was that in October of Meiji 24 (1891), chiding my reluctant elder brother for his indecisiveness, we brought the entire family to take up permanent residence in Tokyo. On our journey to the capital, we visited acquaintances in Osaka, spent days sightseeing in the western capital, then boarded a ship from Kobe—our party of eight, including my parents, siblings and their spouses, myself who had gone ahead to Tokyo to receive them, and my younger brother’s child’s wet nurse—all in high spirits as we traversed the long sea route without incident to Yokohama. From there, we immediately took the steam train to Tokyo and entered our lodgings in Kanda Nishikichō, where my aunt, who had arrived over a year prior, rejoiced greatly. She comforted us all, sparing no effort in exchanging stories long left untold.

III. Reason for the Change of Heart

After our family gathered in Tokyo, Shigei’s behavior transformed entirely—his visits grew infrequent, marked by a dissatisfied air. Yet I failed to perceive this shift, assuming solely that he felt ashamed before my parents and siblings for not fulfilling our prior agreement. Though I repeatedly assured him of their lack of ill will, he persisted in prevaricating and avoiding us, until gradually our interactions dwindled to estrangement—and ultimately, all contact ceased entirely. There was indeed grave reason for this—he had utterly betrayed his vows; during my return to my hometown, he had formed a liaison with Izumi Tomiko, who had once been my closest friend, and conspired to estrange me.

IV. Izumi Tomiko (Pseudonym)

Here I shall recount the background of Izumi Tomiko (currently the wife of a certain professor of agricultural science)—she was born in Suō Bizen.

When her father, while employed at a prefectural office, committed the crime of prison guard theft and was imprisoned, she became the wife of a lawyer named Okazaki and, through that connection, sought her father’s legal defense. Thus, Mr. Okazaki was to her an unforgettable benefactor—indeed, when I was released from prison, he accompanied me, even welcoming me to travel together to my hometown, such that our relationship grew almost sisterly. Yet when Mr. Okazaki’s household fell into financial distress, she disdained this decline and, yearning for the empty reputation of Shigei—then at the very zenith of his fame—abandoned both her husband and benefactor Okazaki. With bold resolve, she fled to Tokyo to associate with Shigei, ultimately succeeding in stealing his affections. Unaware that such ambitions existed, I continued to interact with her as affectionately as in days past—until one day, a letter arrived from Shigei. As I read it through, I could make no sense of its contents whatsoever; this confusion was only natural, for Tomiko had already been hospitalized for several days and given birth to a child. Thus, that letter—which should have been sent to her in the hospital—had been carelessly misdirected to me by Shigei. This could only be called divine punishment. Knowing all this, my inner turmoil needs no elaboration here. I immediately confronted Shigei and Izumi about their misconduct. Shigei only further revealed his depraved nature, but Izumi—perhaps because she was a woman—may have felt some remorse. For a long time afterward, I heard nothing of her, until I learned she had once again employed her deceptive arts to successfully pose as the esteemed wife of a professor of agricultural science, now maintaining a tranquil, joyful, and virtuous household. It is said that the boy born between Shigei and her was raised by her real brother, Mr. Izumi; however, when that brother went mad and became unreliable, [the boy] sought out Shigei intending to entrust himself [to him], but due to Shigei’s mistress Oryu’s single cutting remark, [he] was rebuffed. Having no other choice, [he] went to the residence of a certain professor to seek out his birth mother, Mrs. Tomiko, but even there he was denied an audience. Since then, his whereabouts have remained unknown. He would be thirteen or fourteen years old now. And hearing that he had grown into a precociously mature appearance, perhaps shaped by hardship—Ah, what heartlessness! What sin!—though both parents had received education superior to most, driven by their own vanity, they mercilessly exposed this promising boy to the cruel winds of the world, not a shred of compassion surfacing as they turned away the child who had finally sought them out. What fiendish, inhuman monsters they were! I could not suppress my sympathy; I resolved to discover his whereabouts and care for him however I could, yet even now, having no means to learn whether he lives or dies fills me with bitter regret.

V. The Astonishing Consultation Partner

Here I realized I had been thoroughly manipulated by Shigei—that I had been completely deceived. Setting aside my fury and resentment, I steeled myself against near-maddening thoughts of how to explain this to my parents and siblings. I sought out a certain comrade—one renowned for moral integrity among those who had once sworn to share life and death with me—and laid bare the entire affair, begging his mediation. But how faithless the human heart proves! He declared: “What use persuasion or reproach against one who’s already changed allegiance? There’s no remedy.” “Far better to abandon him quickly and seek a better match,” came his infuriating, unforeseen counsel. “Why wallow in trivialities for Shigei alone when society teems with capable men? And you—now bearing the Diet member’s prestigious office—have likewise discarded your original ideals to grovel before the government magnates we once opposed! No doubt you’ve realized how absurd it is to fuss over principles when glory’s paths lie plentiful.” Ah! Even these so-called principled men, once attaining their aims, grow so addicted to hardship’s bitter taste that they swallow any humiliation! “Is this the heart of one feigning righteousness?” I rebuked him openly, exposing his vileness—yet Shigei, having resolved to deceive me through his betrayal, remained unshaken. With calm smiles he deflected my fury, then kept visiting to ply sweet words here and there while ingratiating himself with my family—his transparent scheming as pitiable as it was absurd. To think I’m still suspected by his wife because of him—persisting even now—fills me with mortification. Thus those patriots involved in our Korean Incident were honored by hometown comrades for enduring post-prison hardships, most becoming Diet members to bask in fleeting glory. None now recall past struggles; even their wives cling to hollow titles, abandoning both former ideals and true callings. Obsessed with personal fame, they’ve made debts and bribes their trade—thus none are deemed more fallen than that era’s patriots. Precisely because he was weak-willed did Shigei seize my disgrace as prime opportunity. “If weary, just find a better man”—how brazenly twisted their modern maxims! What a lesson wrought.

VI. Cutting Ties with Shigei

Behold the disarray of their households! Wives who had endured years of hardship—no sooner rejoicing at their husbands’ release from prison than plunged into anguish deeper than their prior worries—now watched those men indulge in debauchery and drink, defiling public morals as their selfishness grew unchecked. In turn, the wives, despairing unto recklessness, succumbed to lust like their husbands, until even their children were forced to taste boundless suffering. Such cases abound—ah, how grievous the error to have placed faith in these men! Henceforth, I must sever my ties with Shigei, repent with renewed resolve, and devote my entire being to my beloved child. Though I am unworthy, I resolved to raise my child with my own hands—vowing never to seek even a single coin of his support. I communicated this intent, severing all ties with him entirely. Declining financial protection for our household, I took steps toward complete independence. Yet when I explained these circumstances to my parents and sought their approval, they became violently enraged, threatening to send someone to confront him harshly. That I had failed to recognize his moral corruption was wholly my error; no amount of reproach now could undo it—it would only parade our shame further. Through both admonishment and appeasement, they at last reluctantly acquiesced.

VII. Calamities Multiply

Thereafter, I established a girls' vocational school and, having fortunately obtained support from various quarters, our entire family devoted themselves to it: Mother took charge of calligraphy, Elder Brother of reading and arithmetic, Father of accounting, my sister-in-law of embroidery and sewing, my younger brother of drawing, and my younger brother's wife of English studies—each kindly teaching their assigned subjects. Students flocked not only from Tokyo proper but also nearby regions, until the school soon reached full capacity. We restored our household's former customs and resumed a life of purity—yet such is the sorrow of this mortal world! In the winter of Meiji 25 [1892], Father took to bed with what seemed a common cold, but it developed into a heart condition that defied all medicine, and he finally passed away. Barely forty days had passed since we tearfully conducted his funeral procession when Aunt too followed him in death. This honorable aunt, who had shown me such profound concern during my pregnancy, departed this world all too soon—without even the chance to repay her kindness—leaving me with regrets that linger unresolved to this day. In April of the following year, even my cherished Elder Brother departed this world. Within so brief a span, we had conducted three funerals, plunging our already impoverished household into an abyss of misery beyond remedy. Through the kindness of certain benefactors, we barely managed to sustain ourselves and even prepared to reopen the school—yet parted from Father and Elder Brother, pillars I had relied upon, and with my sister-in-law returning to her family home while leaving her child behind, resuming classes proved impossible. When our household again faced ruin's wretched brink, I could only weep at my own misfortunes. Resolving now to go abroad and fulfill my ambitions at last, I had begun devising means to provide for my family during my absence—when Heaven, not yet abandoning me, unexpectedly granted a chance encounter with Fukuda Tomosaku, whom I would later revere.

Chapter Thirteen: Husband

I. Mutual Compassion Prior to this, in the spring of Meiji 23 (1890), I had met Fukuda at the residence of Mr. Arai Shōgo. At that time, as I was still involved with Shigei, Fukuda had made no particular impression on my memory. Yet he, being aware of my circumstances, likely harbored the intention to establish a friendship. One day when I visited a friend at the Kanto Club, a gentleman approached me with a smile. Having first mentioned that he had previously encountered me in favorable circumstances and wished to discuss something at my residence, he bowed courteously—this was Fukuda. When I inquired about his business, he replied as if believing my school still operated: “Regarding a relative’s child coming to Tokyo from my hometown this time, I wish to entrust them to your care without fail.” I informed him that due to present circumstances I had closed the school—though in truth, while no formal classes remained, two or three students still resided in my home where I provided basic instruction in reading and calligraphy. Should this suffice, he was welcome to send the child. Yet in reality, we had plunged into extraordinary financial distress and could no longer maintain even the semblance of a proper institution. At this, he appeared deeply moved—and with good reason: since returning from America, he had devoted himself as a lecturer at Dōjinsha in Koishikawa Takehaya-chō, only for the school to close after Principal Keiu’s unfortunate passing. Since his circumstances mirrored mine, he seemed unable to suppress his sympathy, frequently comforting me over my misfortunes. Yet as my family sank deeper into misery through irreconcilable disagreements with our parents, his compassion grew ever more profound—until at last he confessed his desire to emigrate overseas again and end his days there. Struck by his sincerity even as I rebuked him, I said: “You, unlike me, were born the heir of a wealthy family. You studied abroad, graduated from the University of Michigan, and now hold a Bachelor of Laws degree—have you not returned to acclaim? Why then do you utter such sorrowful words? One such as I, born into poverty and now doubly stricken by misfortune—nearly bereft of hope—cannot be spoken of in the same breath.” “One such as I...” I repeated bitterly. Yet in truth, he wandered through circumstances far harsher than mere poverty. He suddenly had tears welling in his eyes. “To claim being born into wealth brings happiness—your words are mistaken! Even with life’s daily inconveniences, so long as there is joy in family togetherness, how immeasurably fortunate would that be considered?” “My studying abroad stemmed from my parents forcing me to marry a cousin—a union devoid of affection from the start. Resentful at this imposition, I fled overseas in despair.” “Though my parents continued funding my studies abroad—perhaps recognizing their role—I returned eager to implement ideals within our household. Yet reality diverged cruelly. My parents’ coldness surpassed their past severity; remaining there grew unbearable. My frequent absences led me unwittingly into wicked ways until debts piled like mountains. When Father threatened disownment—‘Such a prodigal’s future is hopeless!’—I resolved against my will to cross again to that country.” “Ah—I too am cast into misfortune!” I declared. “Rather than linger among these unprincipled Japanese gentlemen, I yearn for unknown shores.” At this he brightened: “Then will you not journey with me? Having studied there nearly ten years, I know its ways intimately.” His earnest proposal struck me like discovering a pure spring in distant sands. Overcome with joy and longing, we thereafter met repeatedly, our bond deepening through shared lamentations of life’s futility. One day he proposed anew: “If you yourself have no objections, let us marry now and begin preparing for our voyage.” Having already resolved in my heart that this man was the one, I promptly consented. We formalized our marriage agreement, informed Mother of the circumstances, and announced it openly to his friends. From that day we began cohabiting, establishing for a time a harmonious household.

II. Poor Student

At that time, newspaper articles could be seen reporting matters such as my marriage to Keizan Ei, son of a wealthy farmer—but in reality, Fukuda Tomosaku was but an impoverished scholar with nothing but the clothes on his back. After returning from abroad, he had become what was then called a “high-collar” man; thus, the pseudo-heroes posing as patriots lured him with wine and women, compelling him to act as a guarantor or co-signer for their high-interest loans. In the end, he incurred tens of thousands in debt, was rebuked by his parents, and now detested even returning home. He had no leisure to reflect on the honor of having brought back his Bachelor of Laws degree from America; the precious diploma had become like scrap paper, relegated to a cupboard corner where it formed a nest for mice. Whether out of pity or resentment, they pressured him—threatening that if he refused to return home, they would disinherit him unless he became a government official in Tokyo—for his education had never been meant for such ends. As parents, they inflicted upon their son unbearable shame and anguish, raising various ultimatums. Yet he showed no intention of compromising his aspirations and ideals for mere wealth. Even his formidable parents, wearied at last, ultimately relinquished control over his affairs. Thus he first consulted with friends who shared his aim of independence and became an English teacher, wielding his lecturing rod at home. Thanks to his credentials, his students multiplied abundantly until he lacked nothing in sustaining his livelihood—whereupon his parents back home, perhaps thinking he now intended to settle permanently in Tokyo, began urgently pressuring him to return under the pretext of his father’s illness, so that by abandoning him to his fate, they might finally diminish his resolve to stay away. When he reluctantly returned home, his parents lamented their own advancing age and, having lost the strength to manage household affairs, pleaded with him to stay and take care of all matters. Being by nature tender-hearted, he might resist tyrannical oppression, but before his parents’ reasoned words, even the horns of his patience broke clean away. Though he considered remaining at home, upon reflecting that his debt-ridden self might now burden both his father and household should he return—and declaring he bore no regret in ceding the family estate to his younger brother, for he had his own reasons to avoid rendering years of arduous study futile by seeking a viable path in Tokyo—his parents’ countenances swiftly darkened, and they rebuked him as “ungrateful” and “unfilial.” Compelled to retract his earlier refusal, he reluctantly agreed to remain permanently under his parents’ roof. Yet the thought of rendering seven years of arduous study futile—wasting precious years working fields alongside rustic farmers—gnawed at him unbearably. Moreover, being wholly unsuited to sericulture or weaving should he return to farm life, he resolved that raising funds as soon as possible to establish himself through his specialized path would be best. Thus he again informed his parents of his decision: to cede the family estate to his younger brother and seek independent livelihood. When he requested a modest capital allocation, they erupted in unforeseen fury—denouncing him as “one who disdains his household”—and summarily ordered him out. With grim resolve, he became a wanderer once more, returning to Tokyo where a friend’s mediation secured him a position at the Yorozu Chōhō newspaper. The monthly salary he received was the first and last of its kind.

III. Mutual Love Between Husband and Wife From this point we finally obtained our daily necessities, though when he had first come to the capital he possessed nothing but the clothes on his back—having sold all his belongings to the scrap dealer, even parting with the brazier’s trivet—and had barely escaped starvation. The wretchedness of his circumstances defied description. Yet this man born to wealth voiced no complaints, appearing rather content in his austere poverty—a sight that made me ache with pity. In contrast, I—long accustomed to privation—now felt my heart enriched by the mutual affection I had once only dreamed of attaining. Ah, you esteemed wives of the powerful basking in worldly glory! Deceived by hypocritical rituals of love, you endure lifelong indignities without hope of respite while Confucian precepts force you to weep secretly over love’s absence. Comparing your plight to mine—which of us knows true fortune?—I took no small satisfaction. I know love recognizes neither noble nor base; I know it distinguishes not wise from foolish. Therefore should my husband share his affections elsewhere and shame me, I would wish to apply to adulterous men the same measures men use against adulteresses. To Oriental women—particularly those lacking independent means—this principle may seem extreme. Yet if we accept that women must direct love solely one way while men may let theirs wander freely according to convenience—who would not marvel at such imbalance? Even humanitarians show no dismay at this inequity; though one might blame ancient customs for universally condemning women cruelly, in this twentieth century there remains no excuse for tolerating such pernicious traditions. Yet this stems not from men’s fault alone—women’s servile dependency has greatly nurtured these customs. They ever dread that husbandly abandonment will leave them destitute, straining to cling tooth and nail to anything. Thus their love lies not in husbands but themselves—in fear of starvation. How wretched their love! That they can only submit silently to men’s outrages—how mortifying! In my view marriage should exist only where mutual affection unites two equals. Thus I reject unions bound by human-devised formalities. When pledging myself to Fukuda I foresaw our destitution—indeed from the next day we faced lacking food and clothes—yet understood matrimony’s essence lies in shared love, not material trappings; that garments mattered not. Let none accuse me of mindless infatuation! My husband’s devotion never wavered—for me he cast aside tens of thousands in wealth like worn-out sandals. The overseas voyage that formed one marital condition remained ever in our thoughts, yet with funds still unsecured I found myself with child. All plans diverged from intent; in poverty I bore a son named Tetsurō.

IV. Divine Reliance

Yet before the infant had even reached two months of age, he contracted a grave illness—capillary bronchitis—and soon fell into critical condition. In their desperation, as if reverting to the folly of “turning to gods in times of suffering,” the couple began visiting Tsukudo Hachiman Shrine, located about ten blocks from their home, regardless of wind or rain. There they prayed for their beloved child’s recovery, even abstaining from their usual indulgences in food and leisure. Though this could not be credited as the cause, his condition gradually improved thereafter—a gift from the gods alone, they declared. In gratitude, they continued their shrine visits devoutly for years to come.

V. The Material and Immaterial

From childhood, I delighted in theaters and storytelling halls, and above all was fond of jōruri narrative chanting. However, since giving birth to this sickly child, I had completely abandoned those pleasures. Fukuda, pitying me, would urge and entreat me whenever the opportunity arose, but having already found intangible amusement, I declined, no longer needing physical diversions. My mind raced solely with how to bring peaceful stability to our household. Though I passed my days in anguish, I sympathized with Fukuda’s struggles and joined forces with him. No sooner had we rejoiced at securing meager employment than circumstances arose compelling him to return to his hometown—leaving him physically and mentally exhausted beyond measure. Caught between this and that, his once robust health deteriorated into despondency, and I found myself passing days in idle unease.

VI. Plan to Travel to Korea

Fearing this course would bode ill for our future, we deliberated and one day discussed our prospects while undertaking various endeavors—until fortune favored us with an opportunity to travel to that land under the qualification of legal advisors to the Korean government. Considering this a fortunate turn, we did not inform our hometown. Half the travel funds came from friends, the remainder secured through unconventional methods—thus completing all preparations for our journey to Korea.

At that time, as the Korean government underwent major reforms—with figures like Park Yeong-hyo, who had once been exiled in Japan, now participating in governance and wielding formidable authority—Japanese individuals such as Hoshi Tōru and Okamoto Ryūnosuke responded to official summons to serve as royal court advisors. Furthermore, Marquis Saionji later traveled to Korea under imperial command. Thus through these individuals, Fukuda found little difficulty in seeking connections with Korea’s prominent patriots. Moreover, Seo Hong-beom—that nation’s Minister of Justice and a former classmate from their American studies—had repeatedly offered his assistance. On the very day of our departure he addressed me: “Back home our aims were perpetually hindered by our hometown’s interference—leading to failures in all matters—even causing you profound anguish. Yet through this journey we may at last redeem some measure of that.” Entrusting me with our sick child—“I pray you cherish him well”—he parted resolutely. Yet scarcely two weeks later that a great calamity should again befall him... Ah how cruel fate could be!

VII. Interference Campaign Prior to this, Fukuda’s parents in his hometown, having learned of his plans to travel to Korea and grown increasingly anxious about the difficulty of recalling him home, resorted to extreme measures: they instigated high-interest moneylenders to file a lawsuit over the division of Fukuda’s family assets. Through this, they sought to legally bind him, strip him even of his public rights to disqualify him from official careers, and ultimately force him into destitution—leaving him no path but to return home in disgrace. No sooner had he arrived at Incheon Port than the aforementioned judgment was immediately cast upon him from the consulate. He had never dreamed his parents’ affection could reach such extremes. Precisely because he had single-mindedly envisioned future happiness, he had dared to part from his beloved wife and sick child—leaving them behind after securing money so hard-earned it drew blood—only for that very affection to instead become a source of harm, a shame too profound to speak of to others. How immeasurable must have been the sorrow when, after returning to Tokyo, he wept like a man undone. Truly, while bearing a disgrace more bitter than death, he sold off his newly acquired winter gear and other personal belongings to secure travel funds, finally managing to embark on the journey back to the capital.

VIII. Heartrending Anguish No sooner had he arrived in Yokohama than I received a message urging me to come there immediately. Entrusting our sick child to another’s care, I hastened to the inn where I found him pallid and gaunt, his belongings reduced to a single Western suit. With deepening despair, he confessed he no longer wished to return home. Though as his wife I must have felt anguish that could rend one’s very bowels, he—a man of stoic endurance—saw no alternative left. “I shall return to my hometown resolved as one already dead,” he declared, “determined to live out my days among rustic farmers.” “Having failed to uphold my ambitions and being forced home once more brings shame before you and our comrades,” he continued, “yet what can be done? My parents’ excessive affection leaves me no choice but to finally submit at their knees.” “Caring for a sick child while remaining idle proves impossible,” he pressed on. “I will become a sacrifice for our son’s sake. I implore you—understand this resolve of mine and wait but a little longer.” Now I too could no longer refuse. We settled on separation, yet his doting nature made parting from our beloved child unbearable for him. Seizing upon my renewed pregnancy, I resolved: “I shall take our ailing eldest son Tetsurō back with me to nurse him in place of his mother.” Though immediate grief was inevitable, his plea—“Let us each keep one child, that even you may forget this household’s coldness”—proved impossible to deny. Clenching my teeth against heartrending torment, I entrusted Tetsurō to his care if only to ease his suffering during his rural exile. When I recall the anguish of those days, even now as I sit here, hot tears well up within me—indeed they do.

IX. New Life

Thus he returned home once more, donning an iron mask and even bringing their beloved child with him. His parents, oblivious to his inner turmoil, simply rejoiced at his homecoming in dire poverty and resolved to confine him to the household by any means. Yet in caring for his child, he showed no difference from a devoted mother—tethered to the boy’s side all day with no ulterior motive—so his parents grew reassured and began personally tending to their cherished grandson. Moreover, as the child’s mother, they even started sending me a modest monthly allowance. But as the couple’s mutual affection only deepened daily—and perhaps because he frequently traveled to the capital—relatives soon urged me to come to the countryside, not long before the birth of our second son, Kyōta. To this he sent word in opposition: “It would be best if you do not come privately.” For I had already foreseen that even if I were to enter a cold-hearted household like his, I would ultimately be unable to remain there long. I, too, having no clothes or money to bring with me, knew that throwing myself into such a distant place would—in any other household perhaps be different—in this case serve only as a means to trouble him. Thus I initially firmly declined to go. Yet when the relatives grew insistent, urging me to come for the child’s sake and pleading desperately for me to bend my will, I found myself drawn by my husband’s and child’s affection. Despite my misgivings, I ended up trying to appease my parents-in-law while busying myself with sewing and childcare—ah, how fickle is human fate.

X. Ah, Bereavement

But how could someone like me—an outsider—possibly remain long in such a household? Observing how coldly and cruelly my parents-in-law treated Fukuda, I felt myself subjected to treatment as wretched as livestock—more agonizing than a bed of needles—and resolved that even if it meant provoking temporary resentment, it would ultimately benefit us both. One day, I plotted to secretly return to Tokyo with my infant strapped to my back, but relatives intercepted me midway, thwarting my aim. He too seemed to grasp my intentions, recognizing the futility of familial reconciliation, and this time resolutely petitioned the relatives for disinheritance, declaring he would separate from the household to chart his future path. I agreed, and after discussing matters—including the one hundred thousand yen in assets—I returned first to Tokyo to anxiously monitor whether his decisive actions would succeed. A month later, the family council ruled to retain our eldest son Tetsurō under our grandparents’ custody. He then came to Tokyo, and we rejoiced at finally establishing a warm household, our sorrowful brows lifted—all while I privately intended to fulfill our marital vows from years past. Yet tragically, battered by countless failures, he succumbed to a brain ailment. By the time he arrived in Tokyo, the illness had penetrated beyond cure; his occasional deranged behaviors grew pronounced. Friends urged recuperation in Kamakura or Hiratsuka, preparations for which we diligently made. But his chronic condition proved incurable. As our youngest child Chiaki was born, he collapsed into unconsciousness, never to rise again—ending his life at thirty-six, our eternal parting sealed.

Chapter 14: The Great Resolve

Ah, there is no sorrow in life greater than being preceded in death by one’s most beloved husband. I too once considered donning Buddhist robes in my overwhelming grief—yet the Fukuda household’s cruelty had long been evident even during my husband’s lifetime. Under the pretext of covering his medical expenses, they had transferred title to the fields allotted to us when establishing our branch household into relatives’ names—a feigned sale that effectively returned them to the main family. With vigilance imperative, after his death they abandoned us survivors to starvation without compunction. Now bearing sole responsibility for my children, I resolved I could not withdraw from society into tranquil resignation. As I struggled to preserve my deceased husband’s household and secure daily sustenance, friends and acquaintances—unable to bear witness—personally entreated my parents-in-law for support at their estate. Yet they showed not a shred of compassion, reluctantly pledging only to send trifling pocket money. Given these circumstances, I had no choice but to nurse my infant while being unable to neglect my two other children’s education; passing days in anguished torment, I succumbed to neurasthenia, spending many days bedridden—even reaching the point of receiving physicians’ admonishments to “alter my mindset,” else I might never regain sound health. Death would be a blessing—but with my children still so young, what would become of them were I gone? Thus did I rally my spirits once more: only by raising my three children soundly could I fully discharge my responsibilities and forge a path to repay my husband’s love. Repenting deeply of womanly frailty—ashamed of such weakness—I prayed fervently for health and devoted myself to recuperation without negligence. As vitality gradually returned, resolve crystallized within me: even should I navigate this floating world’s tempestuous waves, I would never drown. Upon the first anniversary of my husband’s passing, having devised a strategy of mutual support, I recommenced my endeavors here. Convinced of women’s urgent need for practical training, I consulted like-minded individuals who heartily agreed—thus on my late husband’s death anniversary, I established the Tsunohazu Girls’ Technical School. To sustain it, I founded the Japan Women’s Permanent Assets Society, seeking patronage from dedicated supporters and arranging purchases of scholarship students’ handiwork.

The purpose of the Japan Women’s Permanent Assets Society is as follows.

Japan Women’s Permanent Assets Society Prospectus for Establishment Without permanent livelihood there can be no steadfast spirit; that poverty breeds disorder is human nature—an inevitability one cannot resist. Therefore, to make people fulfill their appointed duties, one must first establish means to provide them permanent livelihood. To attempt merely to preserve their dignity and fulfill their true nature without permanent livelihood would be like traversing land without a cart or crossing water without a boat—incapable of achieving such aims in perpetuity.

Now in our nation, there exists no place—urban or rural—where schools have not been established; even in impoverished villages and remote regions, one may hear the hum of study. Particularly in women’s education, great strides have recently been made—elevating women’s dignity and enabling them to manifest their true nature—a development we heartily celebrate. Yet when examining the current state of ordinary girls’ schools, their curricula chase empty loftiness—even their so-called craft departments prioritize elegance and serve only to supply luxuries. They offer no practical aid to livelihoods; while they may train ladies for aristocratic households, they fail to produce wise women capable of managing middle-class homes. This stands as a true deficiency of our enlightened era, and thus it is precisely why we cannot but harbor these secret anxieties.

For women of this world—those who become wives and establish households, diligently supporting their husbands to prevent future anxieties, or who, should misfortune one day part them from their spouses, still manage independent livelihoods while resolutely maintaining their integrity—we naturally attribute such fortitude to the knowledge and spirit cultivated through their daily lives. Yet when we consider this matter, we believe it stems not from these qualities themselves, but rather from the necessity to remain unassailed by hunger and cold, untroubled by hardship’s sting, and thus able to dwell serenely within their circumstances.

However, when it comes to suitable professions for women, their number remains exceedingly small; embroidery on silk handkerchiefs stands as the sole pursuit offering even modest promise. Silk handkerchiefs once reached their zenith in export prosperity, with annual production surpassing one million dozen at a cost exceeding three million yen—securing a position of genuine significance among our nation’s products. Yet subsequent trends shifted abruptly: credibility within trade markets utterly collapsed, export volumes dwindled steadily, and we arrived at this lamentable state. While various causes undoubtedly underlie this decline, inconsistency in manufactured goods and their inferior quality must surely rank foremost among them. That this inconsistency and inferiority stem from a deficiency of moral integrity among both producers and merchants may indeed be declared—how can we fail to reflect upon this?

As civilization advanced and the division of labor progressed, mechanized manufacturing flourished, enabling products to meet people’s needs at low prices. However, machine-made goods—uniform in form yet devoid of elegance and artistic spirit—served merely practical purposes, never to be cherished as true artworks. Yet as economic society progressed and wealth grew abundant, yesterday’s luxuries transformed into today’s necessities—so that what remained treasured as luxury could only be those ingenuous works showcasing masterful handicraft techniques. Therefore, in our nation where standards for clothing, food, and shelter remained low, we employed domestically produced silk cloth combined with our countrywomen’s innate brilliance in delicate handicrafts—as though adding wings to a dragon—to exquisitely produce these goods and dominate global markets. What rival in this world could possibly challenge this? Yet reality’s contradiction with this vision was what we found unbearable; thus, were major capitalists now to ensure product uniformity while eschewing petty profits to achieve superior quality, their success might at last be anticipated with certainty.

We hereby declare: In days past, we established the Girls’ Technical School to rescue young women from poverty, imparting to them methods of livelihood so they might secure permanent livelihood and cultivate steadfast spirit—enabling them, in small measure, to provide for themselves, and in greater measure, to fulfill their duties as Japanese women. This endeavor has now begun to take form. Therefore, we organize this association and seek to establish special provisions for exporting its manufactured products. Reflecting upon ourselves—shallow in learning and untalented, with strength insufficient for great deeds—yet still we dare undertake this grand endeavor because a heartfelt passion burns within us that cannot be suppressed. We beseech you, brothers and sisters of this world—if blood flows in your veins and tears moisten your eyes—come forth and lend your support to this cause.

November 3, Meiji 34 (1901)

Respectfully Submitted by the Founder

This undertaking remains halfway—how should it proceed? The affairs of this transient world are impossible to foresee. Only by persisting in this purpose shall I fulfill my future duty.

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Over thirty years of half a lifetime—when I look back, it seems but a fleeting dream. Ah—have I now awakened, or having awakened, entered a new dream? Shall I abandon this world, or shall this world abandon me? Shall I advance? I have neither resources nor talent. Shall I retreat? Then cold and hunger will assail me. Standing at the brink of life and death, the path one must take is singular: to devote oneself with sincerity and await heaven’s will.