Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

On the morning of March 18, Taisho 15 (1926), Fujisawa Fumi, who had come from Tokyo, was expected to have visited Akahiko at Kakiage Sanbō.
Next, Nakamura Kenkichi, who had departed from Nishinomiya in Settsu, was expected to arrive around noon on the following 19th [Taisho 15 (1926)].
On the night of the 20th [Taisho 15 (1926)], Tsuchiya Bunmei departed from Tokyo.

On the afternoon of the following 21st [Taisho 15 (1926)], Hyakusui Gabaku, Mr. Iwanami Shigeo, and I departed from Shinjuku Station.
Mr. Yūki Aisōka, who had happened to come to Tokyo, also accompanied us.
A little later, Mr. Takada Rōkichi and Mr. Tsujimura Tadashi departed from Tokyo, while Mr. Kanō Akira departed from Kobe.

At Nuno Han Ryokan in Kamisuwa, they met with Mr. Nakamura Kenkichi, Mr. Tsuchiya Bunmei, and the gentlemen from Kamisuwa, and spent one night there.
According to the accounts of Mr. Nakamura and Mr. Fujisawa, on the 17th [of March, Taisho 15 (1926)], Dr. Ban Kamikichi, Akahiko’s primary physician, had hinted that his jaundice was not a temporary condition.
That night, during dinner, Akahiko reportedly said, “I’ve grown to detest even looking at food.”
Mr. Nakamura, who had departed from Settsu Province on the 18th [of March, Taisho 15 (1926)], arrived at Kakiage Sanbō on the 19th.
At that time, Akahiko reportedly said, “I no longer want to smoke,” and “Being quiet is best of all.”
On the following 20th [of March, Taisho 15 (1926)], Mr. Nakamura and Mr. Fujisawa visited Suwa Taisha to pray and returned bearing amulets.
Akahiko said, “Thank you.”
“Let me have it.”
His voice was already faint, and each word seemed to require immense effort.
Mrs. Fujiko stroked Akahiko’s head with the amulet as he lay prone.
Akahiko said, “Thank you.”
And reportedly said, “Don’t put it in a dirty spot.”
That night, to Mr. Fujisawa Fumi, his words came in broken fragments: “I’m just... completely exhausted."
“Because of the complications… because of the jaundice… I might pass away.”
Fujisawa recounted that when Akahiko uttered that final “I might pass away,” his voice suddenly boomed with the resonant clarity of his healthy days, causing his heart to leap.

On the morning of March 21st, Akahiko raised his head and told everyone to come have tea.
Nakamura Kenkichi, Fujisawa Fumi, Maruyama Tōichi, Kubota Kenji, Fujiko, and Hatsuse gathered.
At that moment, when they showed him a photograph of Fujisawa’s graduation sculpture from art school, he said, “Thank you. It’s sincere.”
“Being quiet is even more difficult,” he reportedly said.
Then he said, “Well… The complications seem more severe than the primary illness.”
“Saitō also came and said the same thing.”
“Dr. Ban also shares the same view.”
“The complications.”
“‘If only the complications would stay as mere complications and not take hold of the primary illness,’ he reportedly said.”
I had written in a letter, conveying Dr. Jinbo’s opinion, that the jaundice was not a simple catarrhal condition but originated from the liver.
Even so, I could not write that it was a metastatic symptom of cancer.
Therefore, Akahiko persistently regarded his jaundice as a mere complication, resolved first to subdue this complication, and then to live as long as he possibly could.
Therefore, he tried as much as possible to avoid meeting friends and endeavored to keep himself quiet.
Akahiko had thought that when April and May came, he would subdue the complications and this time joyfully meet with friends again.
That night, Akahiko also said these words.
“Dr. Ban is truly dedicated.”
“I didn’t know at first.”
“Once I had him examine me, it became clear only Dr. Ban would do,” “When you think you can’t handle it alone, be sure to consult others,” and “You’ve got the skill, after all”—he reportedly said such things.

II

On March 21st [of Taisho 15 (1926)], Mr. Nakamura Kenkichi broached the subject of the school song.
The school song referred to one that painter Hirafuku Hyakusui had commissioned Akahiko to compose for Kakunodate Middle School in Akita Prefecture.
This was the matter at hand.
Then Akahiko recited in a faint voice: “The spine of northern Japan. / For millennia unchanged, these mountains hold / Waters steeped with noble spirits— / From Lake Tazawa they fall, / Becoming the Kajikase River’s flow…” and so on. He asked Kenkichi for his critique and mentioned that the work was roughly seventy percent complete.
At that moment, Mr. Fujisawa Fumi, standing nearby, said, “Shall I write that down for you?” When Mrs. Fujiko also urged him, he replied, “No—don’t write it down.”
“That’s precisely why it’s troublesome,” and “It feels like the essence will be taken away,” he reportedly said.

Before long, lower back pain emerged.
“Mizuo-bō, Mizuo-bō. Though having guests here may be disagreeable, you must restrain them,” he said.
Then he said, “Take away all drinks and food.
Having them before my eyes is unbearable,” he reportedly added.
When the masseur arrived at that moment, everyone withdrew from the room.
“Did you send the corrections?” he asked Fujisawa.
“Yes, I sent them,” Fujisawa replied, whereupon he pressed him: “You’re certain?”
These “corrections” referred to revising the lower verse of the tanka published in Kaizō magazine—originally “How my backbone aches against the bath bucket; how I have withered”—to “Could you have imagined it would manifest thus?”, incorporating feedback from Kenkichi and Fumikichi before finalizing it for the Araragi manuscript.
That is what was meant.
Moreover, examining the magazines now reveals that poems originally published in Kaizō were gradually revised in Araragi.

Returning to Shinano—how gladdening! The yellow-translucent hue of pickled stems (*Kaizō*).

Returning to Shinano—how gladdening! The yellow-translucent hue of pickled greens (*Aralagi*).

Though I do not weep, overcome by nerve pain—each sleepless night leaves my spirit frail (*Kaizō*).

Though I do not weep, overcome by nerve pain—night after sleepless night leaves my spirit frail (*Aralagi*).

Around seven o'clock on the evening of March 21st [Taisho 15 (1926)], there was an exchange with Mr. Fujisawa.

Fujisawa said, “Mr. Nakamura said he would return tomorrow or the day after.”
“He said, ‘I ended up causing Akahiko to become agitated, and I feel terrible about it.’”

“Nakamura must have resented that I didn’t keep him company, don’t you think?”

“That’s not the case,” Fujisawa said.
“Even uttering a single word drains me.”
Fujisawa remained silent.
“I’ll see him one last time.”

“Then shall we arrange to meet tomorrow?”

There were exchanges like these.
Then around eight o'clock, he reportedly said:
“Hyakusui, Saitō, Oka, Tsuchiya, Iwanami—five people... Now—you must write about my illness in detail and send it to them.”
“Because I’ve been meaning to document my condition thoroughly but still haven’t managed it.”
……There was no comfortable position to settle into…… Even while sitting upright, sweat like pearls streamed from his forehead.
“Write that nothing can be done… And write that speaking only wearies me further—that I must keep silent. The doctors say so too—that’s my medicine now,” he said.
Mr. Fujisawa replied “Understood,” then added: “That concludes our business,” and “Go sleep over there.”

Around ten o’clock that night, he called his sister Tazu, Fujiko, Mizuo, Hatsuse, Kenji, Maruyama, Fujisawa, and others into the room and said, “I’ll try not to speak much, so you all go ahead and have some tea over there.” Before long, he managed to raise himself and said, “In Meiji 41, I climbed Mount Asama. Above a sea of clouds appear Shinano’s mountains—Ueno’s mountains—Shimotsuke’s mountains. Remember it as November of Meiji 41. It was published in the *Nihon Shinbun*,” he said.

At that moment, a cat was crouched behind Akahiko, purring.
This was because Akahiko always showed kindness to the cat, which had come to stay by his side.
As everyone chatted about cats, including stories of teasing Natsuki-san’s cat, Akahiko said, “Hatsuse, write down the poem draft.”
Then he recited: “Where has my cat gone? Tonight too, remembering it, I sleep.”
After a moment, he said, “That’s wrong.”
“No—that’s wrong.”
“It’s not a cat.”
“It’s a dog,” he said with a laugh.
This was a poem he had composed, troubled by thoughts of the dog that had gone missing days before.

Where has my household’s dog gone? Tonight again I remember and lie awake.

After that he never composed another poem.
This became Akahiko’s final verse.

III

On the morning of March 22nd, Tsuchiya took me to Dr. Ban’s place.
I exchanged first-meeting greetings and expressed gratitude for the dedicated treatment since the initial consultation.
Dr. Ban had even prior to this corresponded in detail regarding Akahiko’s condition, and when jaundice appeared on March 1st, he had taken the trouble to inform us by telephone.
In the afternoon, Hirafuku, Iwanami, Nakamura, Tsuchiya, Dr. Ban, and I went to Shiinsanbō.

The path leading into the house had thawed frost; our shoes were caked with mud.
The pine trees remained as they were, but the garden had been expanded.
In the summer of Taisho 10 (1921), in the room where my wife and I had stayed one night, a kotatsu had been set up, and there the gentlemen from Suwa were warming themselves.
After a while, first Dr. Ban, Mr. Nakamura Kenkichi, and I—the three of us—entered the room.
The room was a newly built study.
Until now, the study and guest room had been combined, but since scattered writings and such became troublesome, they had built the study in what was originally the dirt-floored area.
There on the kotatsu, Akahiko lay prone, his hands tightly clasped at his head.
Dr. Ban stated his reason for coming.
Then Akahiko barely raised his face, spread both hands to straighten his posture, and said, “Thank you.”
His voice was low and faint.
And then he lay prone again, just as he had been.
Akahiko’s face had now turned a pure yellow, countless wrinkles crisscrossed his face, his cheeks hollowed, his features elongated—presenting an appearance of utmost anguish at a glance.

“You’ve gotten quite thin,” I said.
Then Akahiko said, “You’re composed—extremely composed,” while remaining prone.
I felt a lump in my throat and could only manage a “Yeah.”
At that moment, I recalled how on March 12th, when Mr.Hashimoto Fukumatsu of Kokinshoin visited Shiinsanbō, Akahiko had wept aloud.
After a while, Akahiko said in an exceedingly quiet voice, “Dr.Ban examines me daily, but since it has been long since your last visit, Saitō—please examine me.”
I borrowed Dr.Ban’s stethoscope and conducted the examination as usual.
Throughout this, Akahiko endured sitting upright.
Then he lay prone once more.
After some time, I said, “Hyakusui the painter and Mr.Iwanami have come—would you grant them an audience?” Akahiko raised his face and called out loudly: “Where?”
His large yellow eyes opened wide.
When I replied, “They’ve come here together,” he simply nodded.
Hirafuku, Iwanami and Tsuchiya then entered; Nakamura and Fujisawa joined them too—conversing and laughing as was their custom.
Akahiko greeted each new visitor courteously; when something amused him, he laughed while still prone.
Then when someone said—“The younger ones are here too—won’t you see them?”—Akahiko merely nodded.
Messrs.Kanō Akira,Yūki Aisōka,Takada Rōkichi,and Tsujimura Nao entered.
Akahiko gave a slight nod.“I’ll refrain from speaking much—but all of you,talk freely of various things.”
Still he offered brief critiques on poetic matters.
He seemed preoccupied too—mentioning publishing house affairs.
Then came his faint voice:“I too would want to live...if I could.”
Meanwhile he ordered tea served to us,botamochi brought,and attended meticulously to every detail.

And then we were treated to boiled winter crucian carp from Lake Suwa and drank sake too.
This had all been arranged through Akahiko’s meticulous instructions.
While apologizing for intruding upon his sickbed, we nevertheless met with him twice.
At that moment Akahiko said, “Somehow this feels rather anticlimactic.”
We informed him we would likely trouble him twice more tomorrow before taking our leave from Shiinsanbō.

That evening, feeling suddenly unburdened, everyone ate horsemeat at Nunohan Ryokan, engaged in seated sumo bouts, and played shogi.
Hyakusui the painter sketched Akahiko’s sickly countenance.
Late into the night, we bathed in the hot spring and tried to sleep quietly, but as our minds settled, Akahiko’s face floated dimly before our eyes.
The gentlemen from Suwa—and Mr. Nakamura Kenkichi too—found some respite from days of tension and grew drunk on sake.
Mr. Moriike Teisen stayed over there that night.
Mr. Fujisawa went to lodge over there late at night.

IV

In the morning of March 23rd, we all went to Shiinsanbō twice.
Last night, Mr. Moriike Teisen had told us about when Akahiko viewed a photograph of Hyakusui the painter’s *Tanhaku Seiran-zu*.
Akahiko strained himself, spread both hands, and looked at it.
And he said, “This seems remarkable.”
Then he reportedly added, “It truly adheres thoroughly to direct observation.”
There at Akahiko’s bedside that day too, they discussed that painting and occasionally jested and laughed.
For lunch, we were treated to carp and clams from Lake Suwa.
This was Akahiko’s thoughtful gesture—he had said, “I’m afraid there’s nothing much to offer, but please have some carp and clams before you go.”
The mere act of disturbing Akahiko’s sickbed, where he wished to remain quietly secluded, weighed heavily on our hearts.
Yet even amidst his suffering, Akahiko performed such considerate acts.
We received his hospitality with gratitude.

At three in the afternoon, Dr. Ban appeared, and two injections were administered.
I was also seated there at the time.
One of the injections was cardiac-strengthening medication, and the other was for neuralgia.
This injection had been proactively requested by Akahiko himself; thus, its administration had been urged for since that morning.
After about an hour had passed, we visited the sickbed again.
At that time, Akahiko was in an uncharacteristically good mood and talked about various things.
This was likely because the cardiac medication contained caffeine, which stimulated his nerves.
When the topic turned to Kakunodate Middle School’s school song, he said, “In other words, it would be good to have something that can be sung at tea gatherings and such.”
“Satake Yoshimasa and Odano Naotake are, so to speak, the two luminaries of Japanese Western-style painting.”
“Even a decorative style would be fine.”
“It’s like saying, ‘Male art and female art—struggling with art itself,’ you see? ‘The cedars of Akita that tower to heaven, from roots piercing through bedrock—’”
“Then, to Lake Tazawa where you went and saw—the water beneath the floating wood there.”
“I can come up with countless ideas like this.”
“As for the school song, I’ll have my wife try writing it once,” Akahiko said while lying prone, at which everyone’s worried brows relaxed and they rejoiced.
However, Akahiko had recently been experiencing delusions at the boundary between sleep and wakefulness.
Last night as well, he reportedly asked something like, “Didn’t someone just climb onto my knees?”

Thereupon, Akahiko ordered everyone to be served tea.
In the meantime, Akahiko drank the cold water with a clinking sound and said, “Truly delicious. This is the best.”
I thought that given this state, Akahiko’s life would likely last through the entire month of March.
And thinking that he would likely compose several more tanka, I secretly rejoiced.
And I told myself that since I would likely have some free time after April 4th, I would come back then and bother him again.
However, my discernment had been dulled by favoritism, and Akahiko passed away before March ended, while his composition of tanka ceased after *The Dog’s Song*.

We lied to Akahiko and left Shiinsanbō with coils of dark sorrow in our hearts.

We arrived at the inn, ate our evening meal, and each resolved to return home temporarily.
Until then, those who wanted to bathe bathed, and those who wanted to play shogi played shogi.
Hearts were peculiarly agitated, finding themselves frolicking in unanticipated ways.

V

That night, on the train departing from Kamisuwa at a few minutes past eleven, Mr. Nakamura Kenkichi headed for Settsu, and we departed for Tokyo.

We were accompanied by the gentlemen Hirafuku Hyakusui, Iwanami Shigeo, Tsuchiya Bunmei, and Takada Rōkichi.

When we arrived at Shinjuku Station around six in the morning, pure white frost lay upon the rooftiles.
To think there’d be such harsh frost at this time.
Thinking this, I arrived home.
At home, there were neither my parents, my wife, nor anyone else.
This was because they had received word of my sister’s death the previous night and had rushed to her side.
My sister had passed away around the time we had departed Kamisuwa the previous evening.
I forcibly suppressed my nearly chaotic mind and slept for a while.
Then I conducted outpatient examinations and wrote some of the accumulated letters and postcards.
Just then, there was a call from Ms. Imai Kuniko, who insisted she absolutely had to meet with Professor Shimaki at least once.
I immediately denied that request.
Ms. Imai appeared to be in tears.
In any case, I stated that I wanted them to come to the Aralagi Publishing Office tonight and hung up the phone.

In the afternoon, I went to mourn my sister.
My sister had died with a peaceful expression on her face.
The older daughter my sister had borne was excitedly running about due to the unusual visitors, which deeply moved me.
In the evening, I left my sister’s house, ate soba along the way, and then proceeded directly to the Aralagi Publishing Office.

At the publishing office that night, we had asked prominent members to gather and attempted to report on the progression of Shimaki Akahiko’s illness, which had been kept secret until then.
At the gathering, Mr. Tsuchiya Bunmei and Mr. Hashimoto Fukumatsu were already present.
I explained the general progression of Akahiko’s illness to the prominent members of our group and mentioned that on January 21st, he had received a diagnosis of stomach cancer from Dr. Ban.
On February 2nd, he had undergone an examination by Dr. Jinbo Kōtarō at the gastrointestinal hospital.
Subsequently, he had been examined by Dr. Satō Sankichi.
I also stated that he was now in critical condition.
I added that three female disciples of Akahiko would depart for Shinano the following day together with Ms. Oka Fumoto.
The other members had promised not to visit, as doing so might disturb his condition.
Among those present were some who wished desperately to see Akahiko, but believing his life would likely last through March, I had firmly made them agree to this arrangement.
I further explained at that gathering why I had kept silent about Akahiko’s illness until then.
“In truth, I hadn’t even informed Mr. Takada Rōkichi, who lies bedridden at the publishing office”—words to that effect were added at the time.

Late at night, I returned home.

On the afternoon of the following 25th, Ms. Oka Fumoto departed for Shinano via the Shinjuku-bound train, accompanied by Ms. Imai Kuniko, Ms. Tsukiji Fujiko, and Ms. Sakata Sachiyo.
In the afternoon, I visited the Aralagi Publishing Office and informed two or three individuals acquainted with Akahiko that his condition had grown dire.
I was on the verge of writing letters to several others when a telegram arrived at the publishing office announcing Akahiko’s critical state.
I abandoned the letters and returned home.
At home too, a telegram had arrived.
That very evening, Mr. Iwanami Shigeo set out for Shinano.

After dinner, when I went to the Aralagi Publishing Office, Mr. Tsuchiya Bunmei and seven or eight colleagues had gathered.
I entrusted all household affairs to Mr. Tsuchiya Bunmei and Mr. Takada Rōkichi and departed from Shinjuku Station on a train a few minutes past ten.
We were accompanied by the three gentlemen: Hashimoto Fukumatsu, Takagi Konoe, and Baba Ken’ichirō.
Even as night deepened，we remained wide awake，unable to sleep.
We bought and ate boxed meals at Kofu Station.

“Oh.”
“Snow! Snow!” After some time, when the train was likely entering Shinano, one of them said this.

“Indeed, this is an incredible amount of snow.”
“When did it snow this much, I wonder.”
“Maybe around last night,” another person said.
This was because when we had passed through here two days prior, the snow had completely melted.

“Oh.”
“It’s still falling, you know.”
“It’s a blizzard, you know.” “Indeed, this is terrible.”
“Seeing it like this, Shinshū’s climate really is sharp after all,” they remarked to each other.
While thinking that Mr. Shimaki Akahiko’s breath had likely already stopped, they carried on this conversation.

The land of Shinano, nearing dawn, was blanketed in snow, and a fierce wind would occasionally sweep through, stirring up vortices of blizzard.

Six

At 5:40 AM on March 26th, the four hurriedly disembarked at Kamisuwa Station.

The houses of the town were still hushed.
Through the driving snow, the four reached Nunohan Ryokan and pounded on the door hard enough to break it.

At Nunohan, none of the people who had come from Tokyo were staying anymore.
The strong premonition that Akahiko must already be beyond help struck me, but when the maid informed us that Mr. Moriya Kichishichi was staying there, the four of us poured into Mr. Moriya’s room.
Mr. Moriya related that Akahiko’s breath had not yet ceased.
Mr. Moriya, a close friend of Akahiko’s, had come from Nagano despite his own illness.

The four pressed the maid and had her arrange for rickshaws.
Through the falling snow, the rickshaws ran, but they were frustratingly slow.
At the entrance to Takagi Village, they got off the rickshaws and climbed up the slope.
By the time they arrived at the house, gasping for breath, the snow had already lightened.
In the room just inside the entrance, some of the people who had kept vigil at Akahiko’s bedside since last night were sleeping exhaustedly.
Moriyama Teisen immediately guided us to Akahiko’s sickroom.

Akahiko now lay supine.
From his face—turned pure yellow—the countless crisscrossing wrinkles seen two days prior had entirely vanished, transforming his anguished countenance into one of perfect tranquility.
He continued breathing peacefully, yet his consciousness was no longer clear.
At times he would half-open his eyes, their pupils already dilated.

Dr. Ban, his attending physician, had not returned home since the previous day and kept steadfast vigil at Akahiko’s bedside.
Dr. Ban recounted these details.
Akahiko had apparently continued requesting neuralgia injections as usual until yesterday.
When asked “Shall we administer the injection again today?” he had replied “Of course”—his voice reportedly faint as a whisper.
“Until now he’d been unable to lie supine due to neuralgia,” explained Dr. Ban, “mostly prone upon the kotatsu, but since last night remained fully supine.”
The pulse had suddenly worsened since yesterday, prompting fears of imminent collapse.
Dr. Ban shared these observations.
Past midnight his condition had deteriorated sharply, everyone crowding to the bedside—only to stabilize slightly and persist into today.

Mr. Fujisawa Fumi shared these recollections with us. When Ms. Oka Fumoto, Ms. Imai Kuniko, Ms. Tsukiji Fujiko, and Ms. Sakata Sachiyo had visited the previous day, someone announced, “Sir, Ms. Oka has come.” Akahiko had laboriously raised his head and nodded to each visitor in turn. He had murmured “Thank you” – words we understood to likely be his final coherent utterance.

Fujisawa then continued his account. The twenty-third had been the day when we friends all made our farewells and departed. That evening after supper, his eldest daughter Hatsuse had remarked, “Father seems remarkably at ease tonight.” At this, Akahiko had chuckled weakly and declared, “The great enemy has withdrawn.” By “great enemy,” he meant Hyakusui, Iwanami, Nakamura, Tsuchiya, myself, and the other friends and disciples whose boisterous visits had disrupted the quiet sickroom where he’d wished to remain sequestered.

“One must appreciate,” he’d continued haltingly, “how arduous it is for visitors coming from afar. We owe them gratitude.” His voice had grown faint as he added, “Saitō came expressly out of concern for me.” Each word emerged slowly, fractured by labored breaths – every syllable a monumental effort.

Akahiko, who had been lying prone on the kotatsu with his hands clasped at his head, dozing fitfully, called the family and relatives present at his bedside past ten o’clock that night and said, “I may pass away tonight.” However, after a while, he reportedly had everyone at the bedside drink tea and said, “This is where we’re done here.” Since that was the night of the 23rd, with a full day passing on the 24th in between, by the 25th his consciousness had already begun to cloud over.

The 26th passed from noon into afternoon, and Akahiko’s condition continued to transform with each passing moment.
The attending physician injected cardiac stimulant every three hours.

Shūsuke, the second son, was away taking his entrance examination; his physical checkup was supposed to be completed by noon today. And if he boarded the train immediately, he should arrive at Kamisuwa Station by three o'clock tonight. It was the attending physician's heartfelt wish not to let Akahiko's breath cease until then. In the evening, they injected five hundred grams of Ringer's solution into the inner right thigh. Then they also wanted to take photographs while he still had breath. Then, since Mr. Fujisawa Fumi had prepared clay and wished to create a death mask of his mentor's face while he still had breath, they obtained permission from Mrs. Fujiko and took photographs as well as completed the facial casting. And the twenty-sixth drew to a close.

After dinner, as nine o'clock came, then ten, and around eleven, his breath and pulse weakened and his body began growing cold.
As midnight passed, everyone at the bedside decided to temporarily withdraw and rest.
Dr. Ban and I took turns monitoring his condition, but we too resolved to rest briefly.
At two in the morning, I asked someone to meet Shūsuke at Kamisuwa Station, entrusted Ms. Hatsuse with monitoring his pulse and breathing, and pulled the futon over myself.
When perhaps half an hour had elapsed, voices began urgently calling for Akahiko.
That was Mrs. Fujiko’s voice.
Then came Ms. Hatsuse’s voice.
Then came Shūsuke’s voice.
Yet Akahiko offered no response.
The calls persisted several times over, now mingled with stifled sobs.
Hearing this between dream and wakefulness, it felt like an event from some distant realm.
I seemed to feel it acutely yet felt nothing at all.
But after listening awhile, I reflexively sat up and thrust my face from beneath the futon.
He must have meant to offer some gesture of acknowledgment.
Yet when I revealed myself, all speech had ceased and silence reclaimed the room.
The sudden glare of electric light struck my eyes; wordlessly, I drew the futon over me again.
With the covers pulled tight, I sensed my consciousness gradually clarifying.
The earlier voices calling for Akahiko now rose within me as mental images.
The steadfast Mrs. Fujiko had never once shown us tears until now.
This restraint likely stemmed from resolve matching that expected of a samurai’s wife.

However, now all others had sunk into sleep.
Those who remained awake at Akahiko’s bedside were all blood relatives.
And no matter how many voices called out to Akahiko as he neared his end, he never once responded to them with a single word.
The blood relatives could now weep without hindrance or obstruction.
While covered with the futon, I felt tears welling up in both eyes.
Before long, the crow of a rooster could be heard, and dawn seemed to be approaching.
From around that time, I slept a little again.

VII

Around 6:30 AM on the 27th, when the attending physician and I examined him, his pulse was already weak, irregular, and marked by skipped beats.
His breath too showed signs that the end was near.
Thereupon, at the attending physician’s urging, everyone gathered at the bedside.
Akahiko occasionally ground his teeth and groaned.
When these groans had continued some ten times, his breath gradually grew fainter.
Just when it seemed it might fade entirely, the groans resumed once more.
This repeated another ten times before his breath weakened again.

When eight o'clock arrived, everyone took a short break to eat breakfast.
During that time, they continued nursing Akahiko as a pained expression surfaced on his tranquil countenance.
As I stared at it, that expression soon faded away, restoring his face to its original calm.
Occasional groans arose again, continuing about ten times.
At nine o'clock, when his pulse became undetectable, all those present gathered at the bedside.

The strict father; Mrs. Fujiko; Kenji; Shūsuke; Natsuki; Hatsuse; Mio; his younger sister Tazu; his younger brother Asaho; and other blood relatives.
Mr. Moriya Kichishichi, who had come from Nagano.
Suwa’s Tanaka Ichizō, Gomi Shigesaku, Moriyama Teisen, Morozumi Yoshishige, Maruyama Tōichi, Fujimori Shōgo, Morozumi Ushisuke, and Horiuchi Kaisaku—the gentlemen.
Kanahara Shōgo, Shiromizu Kichijirō, and Kagoshima Jūzō—gentlemen who had come from Tokyo.
Uno Kiyonoshuke and Takeo Tadayoshi—gentlemen who had come from Kyoto.
And in addition to those mentioned above: Oka Fumoto, Iwanami Shigeo, Hashimoto Fukumatsu, Fujisawa Fumi, Takagi Imae, Baba Ken’ichirō, Imai Kuniko, Tsukiji Fujiko, and Sakata Sachiyo—the gentlemen.
I had ended up not knowing the names of approximately ten people, and with no time to inquire. Altogether, around forty people had gathered at the bedside.
Mr. Tsukahara Mizuho, the esteemed younger brother from Hokkaido, along with Obara Setsuzo, Hirafuku Hyakusui, Morita Tsunetomo, and Nakamura Kenkichi—the gentlemen were still on their way.

Akahiko’s peaceful countenance momentarily revealed an expression resembling a smile at the corners of his mouth before returning to its original state. At that moment, Mrs. Fujiko and the blood relatives below her took turns standing up to moisten Akahiko’s lips. Then Dr. Ban conducted a solemn examination, and Akahiko’s breath ceased entirely. It was March 27th, 1926 (Taisho 15), at 9:45 AM.

Following this, each of his friends and disciples moistened Akahiko’s lips. At that moment, we could not help but think of Mr. Tsuchida Kōhei, who, due to illness, had been unable to attend our teacher’s final moments.

The sky had cleared completely that day，and snow was steadily beginning to melt.
Shimaki Akahiko finally passed away.
Though one might say no trace remained of his former countenance in that emaciated yellowed face，to look upon the sparse beard flecked with white growing about his jaw was to recall visage he bore during his village days in Kaki.