Pathway to Japanese Literature

Sapporo

Among the many lands I recall with vivid clarity during my half-life of wandering, none has left in my heart such hurried yet dear memories as those two weeks in Sapporo.
The scenery of that central city on Ishikari Plain—resembling a large provincial town with its wide streets, quiet atmosphere, abundant groves, and Western-style imitation houses scattered here and there; pressed beneath a boundless sky where no large building whatsoever meets the eye—would float up before me all too readily, tugging at my heart like some gentle aunt.
Whether it be a year or two, I found myself thinking that someday I must go and live there.

The first time I went to Sapporo was around the time the autumn winds began rising in Meiji 40 (1907).
Until then, I had been staying in Hakodate, but when caught in that year's great fire of August twenty-fifth—known to all—I barely escaped the spreading flames only to see the newspaper office where I worked burn completely to ashes, leaving me with no means of immediate recovery.
After all, having crossed over to Hokkaido just four months earlier and only recently managed to establish a household by summoning my family from the mainland (as they say there), I felt no deep ties to the land and found myself truly at wit's end.
It was then that Mr. Tatsumi—a friend employed at the prefectural office—came visiting under guise of official business. Through his mediation I hastily prepared my credentials, and after several exchanges of letters and telegrams, secured a position at Sapporo's XX Newspaper.
Though the terms were far from favorable, my friend counseled that under present circumstances I should accept it as a temporary foothold.

I resolved to part with what few tatami fixtures I had and scraped together funds for travel.
At that time, when every train and steamship departing Hakodate was packed with "fire-displaced" people, rumors spread that not a single house remained for rent in either Sapporo or Otaru due to these refugees pouring in; moreover, as I lacked means to secure housing immediately upon arrival, I decided my family would follow me later and temporarily withdraw to my sister’s place in Otaru.

It was around the tenth day of September.
When the rains persisting since the fire finally cleared, a bone-chilling autumn wind rose bearing rumors of disease outbreaks, and the tens of thousands who had lost homes and livelihoods all found themselves experiencing an inexpressible pathos.
In the burned ruins occupying most of the city, the urgent clangor of chisels building temporary shelters echoed busily through air still tinged with smoldering debris’ acrid stench—now mingling with fresh-cut wood’s fragrance.

Seen off by my few friends, I boarded the night train alone.

Until arriving in Otaru at dawn, there wasn’t a single seat to sit in amidst the crowding, and I spent the night standing in a corner of the train car.
I got off at Otaru, ate breakfast at my sister’s house, took a short nap of about three hours, and then became a train passenger once more.
Passing Kamui Kotan’s coast where waves roared close enough to wash the wheels, we arrived at Zenibako Station.
The train then advanced straight into the Ishikari Plain.

The sensation of traveling through unseen realms thronged and pressed against my chest.
The sky hung low and cloudy.
In the open wilderness where nothing obstructed the view, roofs of houses could be seen here and there.
There were places where nameless shrubs grew in dense clusters.
There were marshes—there, one could see reeds and rushes rustling in the wind.
Suddenly, along a path by the edge of a small ditch no more than two chō away, a man walked accompanied by a red-haired dog.
The dog suddenly darted out.
The man kneeled.
Before him, white smoke rose with a crack—a hunter.
From within the reeds and rushes emerged two snipe-like birds, flying sideways through the air.
Beyond that, before a grove of shrubs, there stood a farmer gazing vacantly at the train.

Thus we were venturing deep into Hokkaido's interior.
Thus came the feeling in my heart—that we were descending into layer upon layer of Hokkaido's life, where people fought fierce struggles against nature or among themselves, unknown to mainlanders. At that time, my heart still remained simple.
Compared to my present heart—having thrust into those violent struggles, burrowed through strata of depths, and returned in defeat—I was indeed simpler in those days.

A light rain had begun to fall soundlessly.
When I noticed, my fellow passengers were tidying their belongings.
There was also a mother tightening the obi of a young daughter.
Thinking we must already be arriving in Sapporo, I checked my watch to find it was five past one.
When I leaned my face out the window, ahead and to the side I saw a lush grove of trees and a large white-painted building.
Before long, passing in front of that building, the train arrived at Sapporo Station.

Most of the passengers got off here.
I stepped onto the platform with a small suitcase in hand, and the tall figure of Mr. Tatsumi holding a two-year-old girl immediately caught my eye.
Another friend had also come to greet me.

“Is your place nearby?”

“It’s close.”
“How did you know that?”
“You’ve brought a child along, haven’t you?”

When I exited the ticket gate into the square, I felt compelled to pause and take in the view. Station Street stretched absurdly wide before me, its rows of acacia trees on either side rendered hazy in the distance by the desolate autumn rain. The footsteps of those passing beneath carried a hushed quality. Both men and women appeared to walk cradling subdued affections in their hearts. A young woman's purple divided skirt, sheltered beneath a snake-eye-patterned umbrella, blended seamlessly with the surrounding scenery—though the drizzle hardly warranted such protection.

"This thoroughfare we call Acacia Street," Tatsumi said, gesturing ahead. "You see that large brick building there? That's what we name Building No.5." His voice held a note of cautious pride as he asked, "Well? Doesn't it meet with your approval?"

“Good! I could live here forever—”

In truth, I thought exactly that.

Mr. Tatsumi’s lodging stood at Kita 7-jō Nishi ○-chōme.
He rented a room in an old Western-style imitation building run by a widow named Hayashi who operated an amateur boarding house.
Mr. Tatsumi referred to his room as the “cat box.”
Behind the kitchen lay what had likely once been a storage space—a four-and-a-half-mat area where the ceiling slanted black along the roof’s pitch, its corners too low to stand upright.
Within that cramped room stood a desk, bedding lay folded, and a trunk occupied space.
Mr. Tatsumi—a low-ranking forestry clerk—lived there with his wife and daughter while occasionally composing new-style poetry in Toson’s manner.
Upon the desk rested two or three volumes of old English poetry, a complete Old and New Testament, and a German religious history text he claimed to have forgotten how to read—all likely mementos of indelible moments in Tatsumi’s life.

I too became a boarder at that house.
However, as there were no vacant rooms, I decided to share a room with another friend who had come to meet me at the station—Mr. Mekata.

The landlady—a woman around forty years old, refined and resolute in character with a western Japan lilt to her speech, as befitted one whose late husband had held a considerable position at the Hokkaido Government Office.
She had two daughters; the younger was still thirteen—a lanky child with a charmless, forlorn face who nonetheless possessed a blunt nature of speaking her mind without reserve. She would often say something mistaken, draw everyone’s laughter, and remain utterly unperturbed.

The older sister was named Masako. Having graduated that spring from a girls' school said to have been founded by some foreigner, her body still did not appear fully developed. Unlike her sister, she had a round face and fair complexion—no features one could particularly call beautiful—but there was something appealing in her faintly narrowed eyes and the single dimple that formed when she smiled. She was a refined girl who seemed unlike a girls' school graduate, and would sometimes sing hymns in a faltering voice. She appeared to have received considerable religious education at school. Their mother would often call the younger daughter a tomboy this and that, but never uttered a word of reproach to her elder sister.

In addition, there was a one-eyed man who was said to be a distant relative.
A man who was said to have worked as a police janitor would often spend nights poring over an old book titled Current Police Law.
That man had become the landlady’s right-hand man, working diligently through all household chores, while her daughter Masako merely helped out occasionally.
In any case, from the mother’s perspective, she likely did not wish to raise her youngest daughter, on whom she relied, as one would a boarding house girl.
As was common in amateur boarding houses, we too would all gather in the dining room at mealtimes to eat around the table, but the landlady still refrained from putting her daughters to work even then.

One morning, as I was searching through my suitcase looking for something, a single unused picture postcard appeared. Amid green grass bloomed a profusion of poppy-like flowers—it was a picture resembling an oil painting. Suddenly, Tamiko came in there,

“Oh, how pretty…”

she said, peering in,

“Shall I give it to you?”

“Can I really?”

She took it in her hand and was looking at it with delight, but

“What flower is this?”

“Poppy.”

“This kind of flower—Big Sis drew some once before.”

Then came lunchtime that day.
As usual, I went to the dining room and ate with my fellow boarders when Tamiko—who had stayed home from school complaining of a cold, her throat wrapped in cotton—began playing with a wide olive-colored ribbon by the window.
Noticing this, her mother said:

“Tamiko dear, what are you doing with your sister’s ribbon again?”

“I got it,” she replied nonchalantly.

“That’s a lie! That color doesn’t suit you yet—why would your sister give you such a thing?”

“Honestly! See! This morning Mr. Shimada gave me a pretty picture postcard, but Big Sis took it and won’t give it back no matter what, so I got this instead.”

“If that’s how it is, then fine—but didn’t you do the same with Masako’s paints the other day?”

I began talking with the agricultural college students who were there.

Then, after finishing my meal and returning from the toilet, I found Masako sitting in her usual spot—(that place being an eight-mat room connected to the entranceway in front of my room, a space constantly traversed by everyone in the house—but as Masako had no other room of her own, she kept her desk and bookcase in its corner)—appearing tired of her knitting, with one elbow propped on the desk as she prodded at flowers arranged in a small glass vase with her knitting needle.
They were flowers somewhat larger than pea blossoms.

“What’s that flower?” I asked casually.

“It’s a sweet pea.”

Not having heard her clearly, I asked again,

“Um, they say it’s also called ‘butterfly flower’.”

“I see.
Is this what you call a sweet pea?”

“Do you like them?”

“Yes!
What a lovely flower.”

When I looked, the roots of her ears were faintly reddening.
I was about to enter my room as I was when, before I knew it, Tamiko had come and was standing there,

“Mr. Shimada, don’t you have any more of those picture postcards?”

“I don’t have any.”
“I’ll give you a nice one later on.”

“Oh, if you say such things to our guest, Mother will scold you.”

With that, the older sister scolded the younger sister.

“Hahaha,” I laughed lightly and entered my room.

“But Big Sis took the one I properly received from you…,” Tamiko said with a pouting face.

Masako, covering her mouth as if holding something back, was murmuring words of consolation.

I went to the newspaper office every day around one o'clock in the afternoon and returned home when darkness fell.
That day I encountered rain on my way back, and when I went to the dining room for dinner, everyone else had already finished—only I remained.
The landlady made me remove my slightly damp haori, had Masako dry it by the hearth fire while she herself served me my meal.
Steam rose from the haori held over the flames.
It seemed more soaked than I'd thought—stubbornly refusing to dry.
Seizing the opportunity, I chatted with the landlady for over thirty minutes.

The next day, my wife arrived.
She had already left Hakodate and come to Otaru, but since she couldn't keep imposing on her sister's house indefinitely like that, she had come to discuss various arrangements.
My child, who had only just turned nine months old, immediately recognized me upon arrival and reached out their hands.

However, though I had been making efforts, even when considering a vacant house—or at least a space with two rooms—there seemed to be none available.
At my wit's end, when I spoke to the boarding house landlady about it,

“Let me see...
“In that case, how about this—since your room is eight mats, perhaps you could make do here for the time being until you find a house? If so, we’ll have Mr. Mekata move to another room. What would there be—your group being three people as well…?”

“I still have an elderly mother. There are others too, but they don’t need to come right away.”

“Oh, I see! So Grandmother will be coming along too! Still, it won’t be as cramped as Mr. Tatsumi’s quarters, you see—since it’s only temporary.”

The matter was settled with that—it was decided my wife would gather our household belongings and come within two or three days.
Women comrades proved useful indeed—my wife was already deep in discussion with the landlady about various livelihood matters.

Ever since my wife’s arrival, Masako had been holding my child, constantly rubbing her cheek against theirs as she walked around the house or went outside.
Unless the child seemed about to cry, she wouldn’t bring them to my wife.

“They mustn’t wet themselves,” even as my wife said,

“No, please don’t worry—let me hold them a little longer,” she said, yet would not let go.
The mother was smiling.

When we were finally alone together, my wife mentioned such a thing in passing.

“Miss Masako has something of a squint.”
“She does seem rather gentle.”

Soon, it came time to leave for work.
When I stepped out of the entrance, there, on the other side of the hedge that couldn't be seen from where I was, stood Masako holding my child.
When she saw me,

“Oh look, it’s Father! It’s Father!” she told the child.

“Isn’t it heavy, holding her that way?”

“No, little miss—come now—you must ask him to bring back a souvenir!”
“Oh my, you won’t say a thing!”

While saying this, she rubbed her cheek against theirs in a manner that said she couldn’t bear to hold back.
In a virgin who dotes on an infant, there exists something that stirs a man’s heart.
I took two or three steps toward Masako, but when I noticed my wife still standing at the entrance, I left through the gate as I was.

When I returned home, even Masako—who had gone to see off my wife departing for Otaru at the station—had only just returned moments before.
That evening, since Mr. Tatsumi had gone out to the pastor’s house, I stayed in my room writing letters.
From the dining room came the voices of women.
Masako was enthusiastically enumerating how adorable my child had been; Tatsumi’s wife joined in as well, though her voice seemed somewhat unenthusiastic.

The next day was my first Sunday since joining the newspaper office; though not a day off, as the following morning's paper would be four pages, the deadline fell a little before four o'clock.
Mr. Gotō was absent from work that day.
When I returned home and was lying down, Mr. Gotō came in with his usual inscrutable expression and—

“I have something to discuss, so please come to my boarding house tonight at seven-thirty.”
“I’ll make my rounds elsewhere and be back by then.”

With that, he left.
He returned almost immediately and called me to the entrance, making me wonder what this was about.

“You—since this is confidential—I must ask you to come alone.”

“Alright.”
“What in the world is this about?”
“Did some incident occur?”

“You’re speaking too loudly.”
“There’s been a major development.”
“This concerns our group’s critical matter.” He began to bare his yellow teeth but immediately pursed his lips and mumbled, “At any rate, come. You’d best ensure no one knows you’re visiting me.”

Then, he raised his right shoulder and left, dragging his thin geta along.
"What a man so fond of keeping secrets!" I thought.

I cannot forget the events of that evening.

When dinner was finished, Mr. Tatsumi and Mr. Mekata said they were going to church and suggested I accompany them.
I said I had business at the president’s house and declined.
Then at the appointed time, I went to Mr. Gotō’s boarding house.

In the room was a man said to be a second-page reporter for the S—— Newspaper.
Mr. Gotō introduced me to the man.
I found myself momentarily at a loss to determine whether that man was involved in what was called the "secret consultation" or not.
He was a detestable man—with one small eye, a habit of perpetually licking his lips, and mannerisms and speech as if a newspaper reporter dangled from the tip of his nose.

After a short while, Mr. Gotō said to me,

“I thought you’d already gone ahead.”
“You actually invited me.”

With that settled, I too played along.
And then,

“It’s still around seven, right?”

“What do you mean? Isn’t it already eight?”

“Wait,” said the S—— Newspaper reporter as he pulled a watch from his obi and checked it.
“Seven forty.
Going somewhere, are you?”

“Ah, it was supposed to be until seven-thirty, but—”

“Is that right? Then my lingering here must be in the way.”
“Lately everyone’s been getting in my damned way.”
“So where’s this destination?”

“Ha ha ha.”
“Must you meddle in every place others go?”

“Don’t conceal it! Nonsense—I know full well.”
“If even someone like me can’t parse your movements, then you—no matter how small Sapporo may be—won’t be able to hang out your shingle as newspaper reporters here.”

“That’s harsh.”
“Well then, since we’ll leave it at that for tonight, would you kindly grant me your mercy and excuse me now?”

“Alright, alright.
“I’ll head back now for you.”
“I’m not such an unreasonable man myself, as you’re well aware from earlier. Now then—” he crossed his arms and adopted a deeply contemplative pose.

“What are you pondering, ‘Oh Great One’?”

“W-wait, hold on a moment.”

“If it’s money you’re after, I don’t have any.”

“Damn you!
“Ha ha ha! You went and beat me to it.”
“Nonsense! Alright, alright—I still have two or three other leads.”

“That’s fine.”

“No need for such cold remarks."
“Even so, there are people waiting who say they can’t see daybreak without Mr. △△, you know.”
“Right—how ’bout I go to Kanasaki’s place and squeeze out three ryō or so? What d’you say? If you’re heading out, why not come along together?”

“Nonsense! I won’t be going anywhere unsavory, so rest assured and go on ahead.”

"You’re making a fool of me and blocking my way!
“Well, I’ll let it pass for now.”
“But if you do turn a profit, I won’t have it unless you send my share.”
“Farewell.”

And then, upon exiting the room, he turned around,

“Aren’t you all heading to Susukino (the pleasure quarters)?” he said with a look of deep suspicion.

When I saw the man out and returned to the room, Mr. Gotō wore a dejected expression, deep wrinkles creasing between his brows.

“Finally managed to drive him out, ha ha ha,” he laughed while sitting down, though his laughter rang hollow and devoid of vigor.
And then,

“Yet you see, that fellow’s considered an ace over at the S—— Newspaper.”

“What a disagreeable fellow he is.”

“You seem surprisingly averse to people, don’t you? He may be a decent fellow at heart, though he has his peculiarities.”

“However, you are someone who cannot find fault in others.”

“Perhaps... that might be true,” he said, letting his chin sink into his collar. Then, massaging the nape of his neck:

“Lately this spot here has been giving me terrible pain. Whenever I write something lengthy or converse with fellows like that one earlier, it inevitably flares up.”

“Could it be neuralgia?”

“I imagine so. I’ve been suffering from neurasthenia for nearly three years now.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“I don’t go—it’s not like other illnesses where medicine does much good, you see.”

“But you—I suppose there’s nothing to be done but leave it be.”

“First of all, seeing a doctor—I simply don’t have time for that.”

Having said that, he raised his head, but—

“It’s not that I lack time—the truth is, I lack the money.”
“Ha ha ha.”
“All I have are debts and complaints.”
“That’s right—maybe this neck pain comes from being so debt-ridden I can’t even turn my head anymore.”

Mr. Gotō let out a forced, hollow laugh.
And then, having brought the chilled teacup to his lips, he suddenly seemed to notice something and placed it back on the desk,

“Ah! My apologies, my apologies.
“I haven’t served you tea yet.”

“The tea doesn’t matter, but more importantly—what’s this talk about?”

“Now, now—a man shouldn’t be in such a rush.
“It’s not even eight yet.”

Having said that, he lifted the kettle lid and peered in—there was hot water.
He emptied the spent tea leaves from the kyūsu teapot into one of the teacups, then retrieved a small tin-plated tea caddy from beneath the desk—but his movements carried such an air of languor that to someone impatient like myself, they seemed agonizingly slow.

With the tea caddy lid creaking, he removed it and placed his hand on the inner lid’s knob—then and there, Mr. Gotō fell into deep contemplation.
The left eyebrow twitched spasmodically, again and again.

After some time,

“You,” he said as he removed the inner lid, then placed the tea caddy on the edge of the desk—
“Shouldn’t we head out as well?
It’s a bit cold, though.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere’s fine.
We’ll talk as we walk.”
He lowered his voice and gestured toward the adjacent room with his eyes. “There’s a fellow here—the cousin of S—— Newspaper’s editor-in-chief.”
“If we hold secret talks for one or two hours in this place, people would grow suspicious—and more importantly, we’d feel stifled ourselves.”
“Walking while we talk would be better.”

“What’s that guy next door up to?”

“If you speak that loud, they’ll hear you. Oh, nothing much—he’s just a minor official working in the Education Affairs Section of the Government Office, you see. Walls have ears, as they say—our plans could be ruined from some unexpected quarter.”

“What on earth is this even about? Aren’t you being awfully dramatic about this? All lid and no filling—whether there’s some delicious bun inside, I can’t get a clue at all.”

“Ha ha ha.”
“Well, shouldn’t we head out?”

And so, the two of them stepped outside.
Mr. Gotō seemed to have completely forgotten about the tea caddy whose lid he had removed.
I felt a strange chill as I looked down at this thirty-year-old man with his unresolved expression—this man who concealed matters so thoroughly—wearing his shabby hunting cap, right shoulder hitched up, thudding heavily down the stairs ahead of me.
Just as Mr. Tatsumi’s principle of never venturing out—his having drained all vitality without ever achieving anything—spoke of his half-lived life, so too did Mr. Gotō’s endless scheming and secrecy lay bare the triumphs and losses of his own half-fought battles.

Sapporo’s autumn night was hushed.
The area had already become the outskirts—the wide streets with sparse traffic lay quiet beneath a sky where dark clouds drifted in patches. Through their gaps peered an eighteen- or nineteen-day-old moon, its light glistening on dew clinging to low-growing roadside grass as insects chirred in the stillness.
Only the firelight in house windows appeared warmly nostalgic.

“Ah, there’s the moon!” I exclaimed, looking up at the sky, but Mr. Gotō walked on silently with his head lowered.
He must be in pain.
A wind that wasn’t even blowing made my skin tighten.

Continuing on a little further in that manner, they came out behind the large municipal hospital.
The moon hid among the clouds, and the surroundings darkened.

"Oh no! Oh no, oh no—" came an uncanny woman’s scream from within the hospital grounds.

"What’s that?" I said.

"Lunatics."
"That—the one over there (he pointed to one of the buildings within the compound)—is the isolation ward for mental patients."
"When night deepens, there are times when that voice can be heard as far as my boarding house."

It must be those lunatics causing a ruckus; there came the thudding sound of boards being struck.
A high-pitched laugh rang out, like the snap of a string.

“Tatami mats being pounded—you there! Hey, you there! You people there—hohohoho!”

It was a piercing woman’s voice.
I slowed my pace.

“The more lunatics multiply, the further our civilization advances.”
“Ha ha ha,” said Mr. Gotō.
“You’re still young enough to bother listening to those voices.”
“I don’t have such free time.”
“Even when I hear them, I try not to listen.”
“After all, this matter of ours takes precedence over other things.”

And then he walked on ahead, dragging his clogs with heavy thuds.

“It’s true,” I agreed, but the lunatics’ voices stirred an odd disquiet within me.
I felt as though the distance between ordinary people and lunatics had abruptly narrowed in that moment.
Mr. Gotō is suffering too! As this thought took hold, I walked in silence with my eyes fixed on the ground.

“By the way—shall we begin our discussion?” said Mr. Gotō.

“Let’s begin.”
“I’ve been waiting,” I said, though in truth I already sensed this would prove no substantial matter.

“Well, to be honest—it’s a promising venture—but there are points that won’t move forward without some serious thought—”

With that, the story Mr. Gotō told went as follows:—A new newspaper would be established in Otaru this time.
The investor was a businessman named Mr. Y——, with a startup cost of twenty thousand yen and a maintenance fund of thirty thousand yen to be invested at ten thousand yen annually, planning to achieve financial independence within three years.
And that Mr. S——, a former Diet member who wielded considerable influence in the Hokkaido Assembly, would become president.

“The editor-in-chief has also been settled,” my friend added.
“A man named Yamaoka who was previously at the H—— Newspaper—I’ve met him on two or three occasions.”
“That person has now come to Sapporo bearing responsibility for organizing the editorial department.”
“To tell the truth, I too had received an indirect proposal, so today I went and had a frank discussion with them.”

“I see.”
“It’s getting more interesting!”

“Of course, I mentioned you then too,” he said earnestly.
Walking shoulder-to-shoulder through the dark streets, deferring to rare passersby, their hushed voices would occasionally rise.
In the darkness, Mr. Gotō gestured oddly as he continued, “As for me—well, I gave rather vague responses—but regarding your situation, they’ve progressed matters to where it could be settled immediately with your consent.”
“Naturally, the terms appear better than your current ones.”
“And since your family’s in Otaru, I thought that might prove convenient.”

“That’s how it stands for now.”
“But of course you’re going too?”

“That’s just it—”
“After all, that’s just it—”

“What?”

“The editor-in-chief has taken responsibility for assembling the full roster by October 1st, when he’ll convene the first editorial meeting—seems rather anxious about it, I must say.”

“October 1st!
There are only nine days left.”

“That’s right.—To tell you the truth,” said Mr. Gotō, suddenly raising his voice.
“I too am deeply stirred.”
“I am deeply stirred.”

And then he sliced through the air twice with his right fist.

“Then isn’t that fine?” I raised my voice too.

“What can you do? They’re just wanderers of this world.”
“There’s nothing worth considering.”

“That’s exactly it.”
“You’re still young.”
“I want to think about this more deeply.”

“What are you considering?”

“In short—it’s not just about going because the terms are good, though that’s naturally the main concern—I want to find some aspect where it would suit us to realize even a small part of our ideals—something along those lines.”

[Unpublished during the author's lifetime · August Meiji 41 (1908) draft]