Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Human existence is sorrowful.

To speak frankly, that alone suffices.
I remain stuck with just the title “Kujō Takeko,” unable to write a single word for days.
A single white dahlia floats into view; no matter how much time passes, I cannot write a single character.

She had been a distant figure—in what I wrote long ago, I had merely lined up conventional praises anyone might offer: "noble soul," "radiant beauty," and left it at that. But now I detest such hollow formalities.

In what I wrote during that period, a certain Countess—she possessed considerable discernment—
"We should have Her Ladyship wear the twelve-layered ceremonial kimono, have that long black hair arranged in courtly fashion, and send her abroad as Japan’s feminine representative.
I wish we had two more figures like Her Ladyship.
One as a diplomat’s wife, one as an actress—among those who appreciate waka poetry, particularly Ms. Yosano Akiko’s—"

It was an era when the unrestrained poetic style of Ms. Akiko, as showcased in her collection *Black Hair*, flourished.

That Ms. Akiko,

The people of Kyoto truly lament.
It seems they lament losing that princess from Hongan-ji—she was truly a beautiful person, a woman born of Kyoto, Japan’s peerless beauty.
We should have Her Ladyship walk through Paris dressed in full regalia.

the Countess declared.
An American poetess had even composed a poem likening her to a white lily, and from such conceptions, I had believed her to be nothing but a person as radiant as a cluster of scarlet cherry blossoms, free from sorrow.
However, that may have been true at the time.

"It is cherry blossoms, I tell you—and not merely single-layered ones. Let us call them double-layered scarlet cherry blossoms or birch cherries. Would it be apt to describe her holding aloft a hinoki fan in five-layered robes? Though deemed courtly style, hers was no round face—truly a well-defined countenance, a melon-seed oval."

I also wrote about how the same Countess had declared.

And yet, why didn’t I publish it exactly as it was then, unchanged like others would have done? Because I—a woman—had suddenly sensed a feminine sensibility inaccessible to men, and I cannot tell falsehoods.
That said, I had no desire to cast aspersions—to now critique this purified deceased enshrined in purity within the White Jade Pavilion, she who was being turned into a legend while still alive.
But I merely spoke from my intuition—as a form of mourning—this loneliness of realizing that human existence is sorrowful.
Though one knew many lashes would come, the hand extended in greeting might belong to an unseen Ms. Takeko.

It was around Shōwa 2 (1927).
Ryakusha—a peculiar new breed not found in regular commerce—came posing as class warriors and declared:

“When I went to Ms. Kujō Takeko’s place, they properly showed me to the parlor and gave me five yen.”

Yet they pressed critically, as if demanding, “What’s this about giving just a single fifty-sen silver coin?”
When confronted with such remarks about women, they seemed to think that women would stubbornly produce five yen without backing down.

“They’re wealthy because they have the divine light of Lord Amida Buddha backing them.”
“We’re just writing each character along the grid lines of manuscript paper—it’s like picking up grains of rice. Useless.”

There had been an instance where they retorted, but in an essay penned by Ms. Yanagihara Byakuren following Ms. Takeko’s posthumous poetry collection *White Peacock*, edited by Mr. Yoshii Isamu,

One day.
A young man with radically modern ideas had conversed with that person; even I, who was accustomed to hearing such discussions daily, was astonished by what he blurted out before Lady Take.
Yet Lady Take listened without so much as a furrowed brow—if anything, she seemed drawn into the man’s words.
Then, with full comprehension and the most lucid insight into how society ought to be reformed—extending even to matters of the current cabinet’s political affairs—she responded aptly with thoroughly grounded opinions, leaving me who had been listening utterly astonished.
“Since she’s a woman of the nobility after all, bound to be airheaded—that Takeko’s a real dimwit, I tell you.”

This man, who had indeed spoken such words behind her back, found himself completely overwhelmed, and when taking his leave said: “Hey, could you help raise funds for our movement? What’s this I hear about you being commissioned by a newspaper to write a serial for their evening edition? That’s clever—no, thank you ever so much.”

After the man had left, I asked Lady Take: “With no one around to tell you such stories, when did you study these matters?”

At that moment, Lady Take laughed and replied, “I’m not someone to be underestimated so easily either.” (omitted)

I found myself recalling this passage.
There was something both reckless about that visitor and absurd about Ryakusha, but Ms. Takeko’s late-life relief work had begun to impart a certain lucidity to her state of mind—so much so that I sensed she now listened without pausing to discriminate whom she heard, compelled by something beyond immediate judgment.
She had died—wasn’t she someone who had broken free from the old religion and sought her own salvation—or, if that phrasing was too harsh, a new path to tread? This passage aligned perfectly with what I had been thinking.

When writing about Ms. Takeko, one must first clarify that there are elements which cannot be gauged by ordinary common sense—otherwise, it becomes problematic.
It differs from matters such as social status or wealth.
She was both revered by those people and worshipped by the general public.
At times she was human; at others, she was seen as equal to Amida Buddha—though those who viewed her thus were mistaken—treated as a special being. This had been so for generations since Shinran Shōnin; though that founder endured hardships, his origins were of noble birth, and he was never equivalent to commoners under any circumstances—it was a bloodline that had been revered without cease.
Hongan-ji-sama—which should have remained Hongan-ji-sama—became the Ōtani family, was designated a viscount, and was elevated to a count. This alone dealt a devastating blow to the lay followers.
The bloodline of the Living Buddha-sama had been fixed in status; thus, for the lay followers, it was considered a grave crisis—even an audacious sign of the end times.

Kujō Takeko was born into such a lineage as the second daughter of Myōnyo Shōnin (Ōtani Kōson), the 21st High Priest of Nishi Hongan-ji, with her elder brother being Kōzui—renowned as an eminent figure.

Herein lay another marked difference from other religious figures: Shinran Shōnin’s clerical marriage had been a Pure Land forged through desperate struggle, yet at some point, this temple alone had normalized the presence of concubines—there existed what were called “birth mothers.”

The marital alliances were openly conducted, with the deepest ties being to the Kujō family—beginning with the marriage between Princess Tamahime, daughter of Kanezane, the Kampaku of Tsukinowa, and the sect’s founder, who was himself a disciple of Jien, the Tendai Zasu and younger brother of that Kampaku; thus their connection was ancient.

In more recent times, Kōzui’s wife had entered the Kujō family through marriage at age eleven, while her younger sister was wedded to Kōmyō, Kōzui’s younger brother.

Whether these overlapping marital ties or what have you—if emotions were to become entangled, it would prove quite troublesome.

According to Mr. Yamanaka Minetarō’s *Kujō Takeko*, High Priest Kōson had cherished Takeko from her childhood; during their time at Sanyasō Villa beneath Fushimi Momoyama, when His Eminence the Monzeki and the princess began playing the koto, neighbors would reportedly come outside to listen.
It was said that Ms. Takeko’s literary talents were nurtured in this manner, and that she and her elder brother High Priest Kōzui had inherited their father’s formidable character. When discussions arose for Ms. Takeko’s ceremonial marriage to the Crown Prince of Siam—recalling how, in the early Meiji era, a sister of Venerable Kōei of Higashi Hongan-ji had privately pursued nuptial ties with the Qing Emperor for Sino-Japanese goodwill, only for the matter to be abandoned—the third day of the first month of her seventeenth year saw the Siamese Crown Prince visit Nishi Hongan-ji, where Ms. Takeko was granted audience. Despite illness, she had welcomed him and performed memorial rites, with her father the High Priest readily consenting to the match—until his sudden critical decline and passing left the proposal unresolved. Such was the reminiscence shared by Venerable Ishikawa Shuntai, an elder of Higashi Hongan-ji.
——Elder Brother High Priest Kōzui——Lord Shinmon——the High Priest’s successor had been a revolutionary who, even at twenty-two or twenty-three, ventured to the South Seas and Tibet; to speak of a temperament akin to his, Ms. Takeko was no ordinary vessel of modest capacity.

However, with her beloved father—the High Priest—now deceased, and Lord Shinmon still away in India yet to return, there arose an invisible turning point in the life of this cherished daughter—she who could climb trees without reproach and was fondly nicknamed “little monkey”—that could not be overlooked.
It was that Kujō Michitaka, father of the Shinmonzeki’s wife, had hurriedly arrived from Tokyo with his retainers to address the assembly of chief temple officials,

"—What we had previously established between both parties was that should any emergency befall this temple, I would swiftly come forth to provide every possible assistance—"

All of this is recorded in Mr. Yamanaka’s aforementioned work, so I believe it can be trusted.
At this point, neither the influence of the former High Priest’s lawful wife nor that of O-Fuji—the birth mother—remained; in truth, it was O-Fuji the beloved concubine who had managed everything rather than the lawful wife. Yet now, authority had to reside in the inner chambers of the Shinmonzeki’s wife.
At the same time, it must be said that Ms. Takeko’s position—though still that of a princess—had changed.

In his work, Mr. Yamanaka writes here and there of the beautiful princess’s marriage prospects at eighteen, nineteen, and twenty; but regarding Princess Takeko’s marriage prospects, it states that her sister-in-law Lady Chūshi became the one to earnestly deliberate on the matter and assume that responsibility.
The senior officials of Hongan-ji each held back, and with their opinions also in play, it is noted that matters had developed into a troublesome relationship where things could not proceed solely according to Lady Chūshi’s intentions.

When citing that passage,

As for the marriage prospects of Princess Takeko—her Highness who had reached her twentieth spring and now gathered the admiring sentiments of the world—the people of Hongan-ji had at last begun to give them serious consideration.

“Her Highness has reached twenty years of age.”

“However, since the High Priest has not given any instructions regarding this matter, we find ourselves truly at a loss.”

“Why don’t we go and inquire ourselves?”

When those holding key positions in Hongan-ji’s cabinet—the Interior Ministry Director and Executive Ministry Director among them—went to seek Lord Kōzui’s (High Priest Kōzui) opinion,

“You may conduct the selection.
I currently have no particular candidates in mind,” he replied, entrusting the matter entirely to them.
(Note: Kujō Takeko: A Biography, p.149)

Prior to that, when the young Lord Shinmon—High Priest Kōzui—was abroad, he had selected a sole individual to entrust with his beloved sister Ms. Takeko’s future. I heard it said that he discerned a worthy companion and declared, “Take my sister as your bride.” The other party had initially declined on grounds of being merely a branch family member, but since the one who proposed it—having judged their character—had not selected them based on status, a private pact was forged between the two. Upon his return to Japan, Lady Chūshi was informed of the matter, Ms. Takeko learned of it, and when that person too returned, formal visits were permitted—they even strolled together through the inner garden in apparent delight—so why did it all collapse?

As for the circumstances during that period—though one had to rely solely on Mr. Yamanaka’s *Kujō Takeko: A Biography*—

Needless to say, marriage proposals had already been gathering from various quarters for Princess Takeko—a woman of both talent and beauty, noble and graceful.
Among them, the foremost candidate was a relative of the high priest from Higashi Hongan-ji (a branch family member of the temple’s leadership).
Were Princess Takeko to enter into marriage with a branch family member of Higashi Hongan-ji, the bond between the two families would grow increasingly close.

However, from the perspective of Nishi Hongan-ji’s senior officials, the notion that Princess Takeko—being the High Priest’s sister and moreover possessing talents rare in this world and beauty without equal—should form marital ties with an ordinary branch family member lacking social standing or exceptional ability was intolerable. Such a union would concern Lord Kōzui’s authority and, beyond that, proved unbearable even to their own collective sentiments.――

Oh!

Oh, with such reasoning they rejected [the proposals], and the meetings were repeated time and again.

“If Lord Myōnyo (High Priest Kōson) were still with us, this would be decided by his sole judgment...”

“If Lady Take were to form a marital bond with a family of lower status, we would be left without excuse.”

“That goes without saying—were His Lordship still with us, he would undoubtedly have directed that we prioritize the individual’s character.”

“But if it’s below viscount, it truly concerns our house’s authority.” ——(Furubayashi no Shinme, p. 152)

Oh!
Oh my—to think that even with the Kazoku Meikan in hand, they struggled so with the selection—
There, the aforementioned,

“You all may handle the selection. I currently have no candidates in mind.”

What High Priest Kōzui had said now struck home with profound force.

The person who had tentatively declined on the grounds that they were merely a branch family member also possessed foresight.
I have heard that name as well—

“To decline on the grounds of ‘lacking social standing’—anyone would consider it unreasonable to expect such a thing from a young person.” If one interprets this as meaning he was not even the successor to Higashi Hongan-ji’s High Priest, it becomes understandable. But referring to him as “an ordinary branch family member lacking talent” was truly disrespectful. This person was highly regarded as a capable branch family member in the recent Higashi Hongan-ji issue.

Upon hearing it was but a fleeting farewell,
the child who nodded quietly was so young.

Sanyasō—

The crimson-tasseled sliding door remains firmly shut; must I spend today too in lonely contemplation?

—From *Golden Bells*—

II

The origins of Higashi Hongan-ji and Nishi Hongan-ji trace back seven hundred years, when Miyo—daughter of Shinran Shōnin—remarried and, on land ceded by her husband, built a mausoleum for her father Shinran Shōnin.
This Miyo was called Kakushinni, and her grandson became the Third Generation Kakunyo.
From Shinran’s son Zenran to Nyoshin, and until the time of Kakushinni’s grandson Kakunyo, Kakushinni herself had endured the trials of founding the temple and worldly attachments.
During the time of the Eighth Generation, Rennyo Shōnin, they devoted themselves to missionary work and propagation; by the era of the Ninth Generation, Jitsunyo, they had risen to quasi-monzeki status.
During the time of the Tenth Generation Shōnyo, it was the Sengoku period; the Ikkō-ikki uprisings erupted in various provinces, and by the Eleventh Generation Kennyo’s era, there occurred the Tenshō Ishiyama War with Oda Nobunaga.

Ishiyama Hongan-ji, located at what is now the site of Osaka Castle’s main enclosure, was attacked by Nobunaga. However, due to the Ikkō sect’s hierarchical strength, they were far from being defeated; yet when an imperial decree was issued, a truce came to pass.
In the nineteenth year of Tenshō (1591), they received a donation of temple land from Toyotomi Hideyoshi at present-day Kyoto’s Shimogyō Horikawa, in the Hongan-ji monzenmachi precinct.
However, it was at this time that today’s Higashi and Nishi Hongan-ji split apart—Nishi Hongan-ji (the head temple of the Hongan-ji School) and Higashi Hongan-ji (the head temple of the Ōtani School of Shin Buddhism).
Higashi Hongan-ji was founded by Kyōnyo, the eldest son of Nishi Hongan-ji’s Eleventh Generation Kennyo. However, there were differing opinions regarding the eldest son’s departure from the temple, and it is said that he was ultimately ousted due to influence from the women’s quarters.

Higashi Hongan-ji’s Abbot Kyōnyo, through a donation from Tokugawa Ieyasu, acquired six chō square of temple land in Shichijō in Keichō 7 (1602) and had its temple buildings erected. However, the bitter experience of being expelled from the head temple despite being the eldest son led to generations enforcing strict primogeniture in dharma transmission.
Therein lay the reason Ms. Takeko’s marital prospect was rejected: once it became doctrine that no High Priest could arise except from the eldest son—however mediocre—promising branch family members (brothers or close relatives) were deemed incapable of advancement, and thus only those holding at least a baron’s rank might suffice.
For three hundred years, they had not only ceased interactions as relatives but existed in outright hostility; even after lifting this severance in the first year of Meiji and resuming relations, one could argue that—despite both High Priests, Kōson and Kōei, adopting each other’s wives as daughters to establish paper kinship ties—when it came to offering their treasured daughter Ms. Takeko, it is not unreasonable to comprehend why there was reluctance.

That the people of Kyoto lamented—“The princess of Hongan-ji ought to remain at Hongan-ji”—and fretted over that beauty staying unmarried forever may sound crude when phrased thusly together, yet there was sufficient apprehension that popular sentiment might shift from West to East.
From West to East—there must have been those who envisioned it as a jewel being snatched from one’s palm.

Oh, the constraints of convention and tradition! What a world ill-suited for progressive, broad-minded youth! As days waned in endless deliberations, Ms. Takeko’s heart surged ever onward—enlightened by her Elder Brother Kōzui to perceive global tides; while domestically, the Russo-Japanese War saw patriotic women’s groups form—coordinating with Buddhist women’s associations and accompanying Lady Chūshi on lecture tours across regions—increasingly exposed to winds from the outside world—how long could this maturing spirit remain their darling princess?
As she developed an eye to discern people’s worth and sincerity through their facades of flattery and political machinations—only truth revealed its preciousness when viewed from afar.

Though Higuchi Ichiyo’s *The Writing Desk* was not highly regarded among her works, I believe that even now—though women who harbor Oson’s feelings from *The Writing Desk* may have grown fewer—there exists one who embodies the tears representative of Meiji-era girls raised with modesty and reserve. Within that work, though it contains much of Ms. Ichiyo’s own tragic love, I found myself wishing to ask Ms. Takeko about her impressions after reading it. Of course, she likely became an avid reader of Mushanokōji’s works in *Shirakaba* magazine only after resolving her inner turmoil—yet how profoundly sorrowful it remains to realize, after parting, that person’s irreplaceable worth, and to measure that loss against the world’s ceaseless tides.

Of course, I do not assert this with certainty.
Because I did not hear it directly from that person’s lips.
Nevertheless, I found it pitiful, and deeply felt that such was the nature of human existence.
Had there been a youthful, blazing love in that place, Ms. Takeko might well have leapt forth from Hiunkaku Pavilion—where she resided within Nishi Hongan-ji, a structure once part of Momoyama Palace that had served as Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s customary sitting room—and resolution might have come swiftly. Yet the young branch family member, indignant, never paid that visit; moreover, after taking a spouse, that person came to lament having found no other woman to replace her—a sorrowful turn indeed.

Once more,

"Upon hearing it was but a fleeting farewell,
The child who nodded meekly was so young."

Though this poem is interpreted as having been composed while awaiting her husband after marriage, by that time Ms. Takeko was already twenty-three—a woman of such refinement she seemed almost too perfectly formed for a noblewoman.
If one substitutes eighteen, seventeen, nineteen when considering this verse, the image of that meekly nodding child grows vividly clear.

As they flipped repeatedly through the Peerage Register issued by the Peerage Bureau, days slipped by.
First in lineage, aged twenty-six or twenty-seven to thirty, heir to an eminent house's peerage, of Jōdo Shinshū faith—they sought someone fulfilling all these criteria, yet however many times they turned the pages, their numbers remained unchanged; no such figure would materialize from the paper.
When Lady Chūshi proposed this heaven-sent solution at this critical juncture, matters proceeded in a manner most convenient for those who had been orchestrating affairs.

In Mr. Yamanaka’s *Madame Kujō Takeko*, page 162,

——An extremely confidential consultation had been held with the council of senior officials. It was a direct entreaty from Her Ladyship urging them to select Baron Yoshimune of the Kujō Duke’s branch family—her natal house.

Lady Chūshi had been wedded into the Ōtani family at age eleven as Lord Kōzui’s betrothed, spending her earliest days alongside Princess Takeko from dawn till dusk—Baron Yoshimune being Lady Chūshi’s own younger brother. Moreover, the lady’s younger sister was Princess Chikako of the Kujō family. Above all, that Princess Takeko should be betrothed to Baron Yoshimune while Princess Chikako became engaged to Lord Atsumaro (Kōmyōshi)—Lord Kōzui’s younger brother—stood as Lady Chūshi’s most cherished aspiration. By that dawning hour, when all three honorable siblings of the Kujō and Ōtani families would be wedded to one another, no greater harmony could exist between both houses.

After receiving a direct consultation from Lady Chūshi, the senior officials began including Baron Yoshimune Kujō in their selection meetings for the first time.
Until then, they had only considered viscounts or higher.

Why this fixation on viscounts and barons? Because previously, when they rejected an East branch family member for lacking peerage, and even when pressed with “Then let us make him a baron,” they reportedly refused unless it was at least a viscount—a rationale I myself sought to validate by retracing these events. Yet Baron Yoshimune had not been a baron prior to marrying Ms. Takeko.

Baron Yoshimune was a pitiable man, pushed around and taken advantage of by others.
Long ago, he had been sent to another household, then taken in as the Ichijō family’s adopted son-in-law and raised there—only to be sent back—but perhaps it would be best to cite this example as well, so borrowing from Mr. Yamanaka’s preceding account:

—He had once lived for a time as the adopted son of the Ichijō Duke family.
That was originally due to a sincere wish from the Ichijō family, and thus the marital bond was formed.
However, due to family customs, the Baron was subsequently reinstated to the Kujō family.
(See page 174 above.)

The reason I cited examples almost exclusively from Mr. Yamanaka’s work was that—as stated—the material had been gathered with guidance and cooperation from many readers of *Fujin Club* and those close to Ms. Takeko; that the publisher was Mr. Noma Seiji’s Yuubenkai Publishing Department, which ensured near-certain reliability; and that the author’s preface—written devoutly with hands pressed together as he felt Ms. Takeko drawing near beside the desk where he had completed the first proofreading—compelled me to trust and rely on this text.
What did I see between those lines—

Lady Chūshi’s matchmaking efforts for her beloved younger brother become comprehensible when heard; her natal family’s sister-in-law being from Higashi Hongan-ji—a person connected to those branch family members—meant one could scarcely deny the underlying tensions. Yet given that Baron Yoshimune had been taken into Lady Chūshi’s custody, he ought inevitably to have met Ms. Takeko beforehand; nevertheless, this text records their wedding day as their first encounter.
Following this account of their initial meeting—how casually they treated the princess they had so cherished!—one might assume that since someone who comprehended every detail was guiding matters forward, all felt assured; yet for life’s paramount undertaking to have its principal participants meet for the first time—unlike some wretched girl sold off by ignorant parents—here stood a beauty of peerless talent and charm, bearing a 10,000-yen dowry, she whom Kyoto had protested losing from Hongan-ji’s embrace—

Lady Chūshi made several trips to the capital—every last preparation was under her direction.

Once more.

The scarlet-tasseled sliding doors remained firmly shut—must I again dwell in lonely reverie today?

In spring days when Father of Sanyasō had been present—both flowers and my own self were abundant in happiness.

Beyond the scarlet-tasseled sliding doors—what could it be if not the hidden sanctuary of her heart?

Departing for Tokyo to hold the wedding ceremony—inside the carriage sat Ms. Takeko, her head perpetually bowed.
From Hongan-ji’s main gate to Shichijō Station—yet their wedding day marked their first meeting. Until yesterday, Princess Takeko had known nothing... about Baron Yoshimune.
As for the Baron too, he equally possessed no prior knowledge of his new wife’s character or anything else.

(Excerpt from *Madame Kujō Takeko*)

Near Shichijō Station on the main road stood the gate of Higashi Hongan-ji.

It was recorded that their characters, inclinations, and educations stood at two diametrically opposed points.
On September 25th, they entered the Kujō family and moved into the new baron residence that same day; in December, they departed for Europe on their honeymoon, following after the High Priest couple who had gone ahead.
Moreover, the groom had been arranged to study in Britain.
When she went to consult Baron Yoshimune—who sat silently reading—about the preparations,

“As you wish.”

He answered softly, they say.

In India, High Priest Kōzui’s entourage had grown numerous and bustling.
When Ms. Takeko behaved as though reclaiming her girlhood, Baron Yoshimune remained conspicuously absent from the bright laughter, it was noted.
Should Lady Chūshi take notice of his absence, he would reportedly retreat to read in the ship’s cabin.
Where one grew more animated, the other withdrew into silence.

After tea was finished in the cabin, when the boy came to clear the small table, Ms. Takeko stood up,

“I’ll take my leave now.”

“Please do.”

They were a couple like water.

Mr. Yamanaka states that theirs was not a worldly relationship where Ms. Takeko did not mind and her husband felt no dissatisfaction with it—however, I must say clearly.
It was that one of them despised the other.
One of them was cowering—otherwise, there was something far more grave. The two of them knew all too well that theirs was but a charade of marriage, each having become the other’s puppet.
It could not be dismissed as mere personality differences.
And yet, despite the brief overseas trip, Yoshimune had moved out.
But Ms. Takeko did not neglect to inspect and observe social work.

When it was decided that Lady Chūshi and Ms. Takeko would return to Japan via the Siberian Railway, Baron Yoshimune—who attended the farewell banquet—silently picked up his fork without a word and engaged in no after-dinner conversation; the following day, he stood on the platform like a stone as they departed.

“Farewell.”

And thus, it is recorded that his farewell consisted of but this single phrase.

People who had taken Baron Yoshimune for a taciturn philosopher of this very mold were told otherwise when, just the other day, a man with whom he had been quite at ease came to speak of him—describing someone far from unremarkable, a man who even dusted white powder on his sleeves and chest—while another person called him an affable, upstanding salaryman.
In the early days of their marriage, it seems there must have been times when he had no choice but to be such a sullen person.
To the world, he was seen as Japan’s most fortunate man for having taken a blossoming bride—yet there must have been things unknown to others that were not unknown to him.

Otherwise, after sending back his new wife of three months, he could not have remained in Europe for a decade—fathering a child and growing accustomed to that foreign milieu.

Three years had passed.
From this point onward, Ms. Takeko became a woman who commanded attention—not merely as the radiant Takeko, but through the coalescence of sympathy, popularity, and her innate talent.
Takeko shone ever brighter, while Yoshimune was not spoken of kindly.

To make her guard an empty household was outrageous.
“To make her guard an empty household was outrageous,” middle-aged men often said.
As a woman of noble virtue and beauty, they sought to mold her into a figure more legendary than Lady Gracia of Hosokawa Tama—crafting her to their own satisfaction.

Some time ago, in an essay by Dr. Saitō Mokichi—though he refrained from writing it while Madame Takeko was alive—he recorded that upon visiting a rural area, servants had laughed at her excrement left in the sand, jeering “thick, thick.” Such absurd occurrences arose precisely because they all conspired to force her into a rigid mold.

III

Ms. Takeko’s first poetry collection *Golden Bells* had been kept close at hand but was somehow misplaced; now only those poems one could recall remained in memory—

At dusk when evening mist veiled the western mountain ridge—alone, I was filled with sorrow.

When I gazed out, both west and east lay veiled in haze—you did not return, yet spring had come again.

There was no way to ascertain when these poems were composed, but they were said to have been written long ago.
After living abroad for over a year and a half and returning in late autumn, Lady Chūshi passed away suddenly the following spring.
Though Ms. Takeko’s life had been shaped by that woman’s wishes, now that she who had desired it was gone, Takeko—left shackled by wifehood—must have felt boundless emotion.
Truly fate works in strange ways.

However, with Ms. Takeko’s mission to convey the will of the late President who had passed away and her beautiful voice traveling on promotional tours across regions, new members of the Buddhist Women’s Association continued to increase; thus, even as Kujō Takeko, she resided at Hongan-ji Temple and became a more vital figure to the temple than ever before. And then, as if suddenly recalling, it was sometimes written or said as a riddle that a beautiful woman would weep in an empty household—but in Ms. Takeko’s case alone, this did not feel unnatural; rather, it somehow seemed right. It seemed there existed an unspoken understanding. Maintaining that state seemed to allow both of them to feel more at ease.

Taking up the posthumous waka collection *White Peacock* and looking through it,

Though a hundred slander me / One person’s tears suffice

Who could know the finality of this veiled step and dare to take it?

Is this wind blowing from the north—or from the heart of one who dwells here in coldness?

Into this chest—must I receive another’s tears?—I myself am a vessel brimming with sorrow.

Wings of memory, rest your flight awhile—speak to me once more of that spring’s tale.

If you are but a shadow, vanish then—
My strength to resist the dragging force spent utterly—cast aside like worthless dust.

There come moments when—in some fleeting hour—I leave home behind and think to journey forth alone.

Is this fate’s challenge thrust upon me? Or the karmic cause that demands resignation—this?

To a world devoid of attachment and earthly desires—
I inquire of the stars in the clear expanse.

How vain—though hundreds or thousands praise me,
There exists no day I claim as my own.

"I never forget—not even in dreams," I profess—
Yet my heart laments: "Does this not mirror forgetting?"

Would that none thought of me—
For when illness weighs heavy, how sorrowful it grows.

――From Fourteen Poems in the *Staying Abroad Notebook*――

My hometown—even a single leaf scattering brightly seems to know all I hold in my heart.

My hometown—knowing my lonely heart—an autumn leaf journeys forth to announce our parting.

Though I shout and call, I who have fallen behind in the distant gap—this futile exhaustion.

Having left the crossroads far behind—a fool who knows not if right or wrong, if blamed or absolved.

As evening falls, today again—the sorrowful hue of regret grows yet deeper than yesterday’s.

Like water flows coldly, following reason’s course—merely living on.

Someone who had known Ms. Takeko since she moved to Shimoochiai after the earthquake criticized her daily conduct as brusque and devoid of nostalgic warmth—like a gang leader’s wife—affecting artificial gracefulness, noting how her telephone voice differed from her natural speaking tone: when returning home, she would relax in a loose robe yet walk briskly down corridors; when questioned, the maid revealed that on trains to Kyoto, she remained perfectly still in her seat throughout the journey—and yet this person disparaged her marital life with Mr. Yoshimune as utterly lacking what men typically desire. My heart constricted with distress.
By that time, Ms. Takeko had surely established a clear demarcation between her superficial professional role and the moments she dwelled solely within her own heart, having resolved that trivial misunderstandings were beneath concern.
For how could there exist such an inner voice in a woman who was merely mocked as that person described?

If I stand amidst scattering cherry blossoms, how unsightly my attachments appear.

Scattered, my memories too pour down ceaselessly—on this day of falling flowers.

Cherry blossoms scatter and fall—oh, how memories too indeed pile ever higher upon Ōtani’s mountain.

Is this a phantom? Dipping hands into Kiyotaki’s clear cascade—the people of my hometown delight in summer.

At last having finished the letter, now placing it inside—how sorrowful my heart on this night path returning.

These were not all songs recalling those no longer in this world.
Who exactly were "the people of my hometown" referring to? To voice such thoughts might be improper—I might incur reproach.
But is that not precisely what makes her human? That is why Ms. Takeko strikes me as so profoundly sorrowful—and unforgettable.
Yet I must ask—why did that valiant, large-souled woman not confront her suffering directly? Was it not this very human anguish that Shinran Shōnin himself battled through exhaustively, discovering salvation within affliction to achieve spiritual completion? Perhaps Mr. Yoshimune keeping a household abroad instead reduced Ms. Takeko to Hinayana-like isolation—forgive this awkward Buddhist terminology, but such is how it appears to me.
Extreme suffering grants courage, but when endured too long, it transforms into lamentation.

Since Ms. Yanagihara Byakuren had written in the afterword of *White Peacock*, let us examine a portion by quoting it:

Though a hundred slander me with fires raining down, one person’s tears suffice.

"First, this very poem alone brought tears to my eyes," she wrote. "That Lady Take was truly one who cradled a jar of tears in the deepest depths of her heart."

“How Lady Take must have encouraged and comforted me throughout my adjustment to this new life—‘You are fortunate.’”
This single remark made me reflect.
People, at times, can forget their own happiness.
I was taught that if one forgets they are happy, happiness will slip away.
I don’t know how to express my gratitude to her.
People may not know it, but it is because I harbor profound feelings.

Upon my beautiful naked form and heart—how many nights have I layered garments of deception?

“Hey, even I have my this-and-that struggles—you know? Hey, right?”
She took my hand and shook it coaxingly.
I retorted sharply, “Then do as you please. Even if you ramble on, there’s nothing I can do for you.” At that moment, she let out a resigned sigh and said, “I won’t say anymore, so please forgive me.” That girlish demeanor from that time still floats before my eyes, unavoidable.

――Lady Take’s poems were born from genuine emotion.

My friend, O spirit of my friend—each of these poems was born from your breath, each possesses its own life—

When we reference the impressions written in the afterword of *White Peacock* by Mr. Yoshii Isamu—a poet who should have known every facet and depth of life, every tear there is to shed—
When one looks at these now-transcribed poetic drafts, among those not included in *Kunsen*, there are instead many excellent works rich in truth—poignant and heartrending masterpieces—or so it struck me.
I first turned to the beginning of the transcribed poetic drafts,

Though a hundred slander me with fires raining down, one person’s tears suffice.

In this single poem, perceiving a passion unlike any seen in Mrs. Takeko’s previous works, I was at once able to proceed with editing this new poetry collection, *White Peacock*, in a state of profound emotion.

In early November, when I went to Bessho Hot Springs to organize these posthumous manuscripts, the Shinano region—where winter arrives early—already lay cloaked in desolate hues across its fields and mountains. Even from within my room, the sound of falling leaves echoed like rain.
But as I read through the transcribed poetic drafts poem by poem, gradually those sounds ceased to reach my ears.
Each time I discovered a poem of profound truthfulness, I could not help but ache with sorrow for the young beauty who had departed this world too soon.

Even in death, and beyond—the single path left by this thing called I.

Such poems that sang of death, and—

In this chest—should I accept even others’ tears?—I myself am a jar of suffering.

When I read such sorrowful songs, my eyes moistened of their own accord.

Fleetingly leaving home—there are times I think of setting out on a journey alone.

Is this the fate bestowed upon me to battle—or the karmic cause that says surrender?

In the fate of one so fair—does a black shadow cling? The sorrowful woman—

Not knowing how sorrowful a thread’s beginning that matter was—we took hands in the dream’s labyrinth.

Vividly returning to waking self—cherishing life beneath azure sky.

Though this be so—were I to go, overwhelmed by thought—would there be a path for me to take?

Messages from the day I casually wrote—do they so greatly accuse today’s I?

Though I know not the lonely regret of sobering—how I wish to tell it to a kindred heart.

Reading poems that sang of such lonely states of mind and considering that this person was no longer in this world, I could not help but think of life as a single-path journey and its futility.
From *White Peacock*—
Whether it be Mr. Yoshii or Ms. Byakuren, they were people who had carved a path through the shackles of human existence, coming through drenched in blood—what had their mind’s eye perceived?
Yet could this truly be confined to mere lonely sentiment?
In Ms. Byakuren’s reflections, one sensed multitudes of unspoken intent lurking between unwritten characters and within the lines’ margins.

Reserve, reserve, reserve!
In the old days, someone like me—a person of low standing—would have been cut down as impertinent for saying such things, yet the way everyone adores Ms. Takeko feels lacking to me.
Why must they cram a living human being into such a small frame?

Ah, but Ms. Takeko did enjoy her own pursuits.
She was content.
She was engaged in what she loved most.

Such middle-aged men adored Mr. Yoshimune; since a wife is expected to act dutifully and endearingly regardless of her husband’s conduct, their discourteous comments couldn’t be helped. They claimed she lacked the feminine allure and purity even the lowliest prostitute possesses—no womanly tenderness, miserliness, meticulous penny-pinching. To this I retort:

Ms. Takeko detested displaying her "womanhood"; she wanted no one to see it.
They claimed there was deliberate coquetry, but was it not rather that those who perceived her kindness—meant to bring joy to many—had misread it as such?
The accusation of fastidiousness stemmed from an incident when Hongan-ji Temple became embroiled in a corruption scandal, compelling High Priest Kōzui to take responsibility and retire, while Ms. Takeko grew deeply concerned about preserving the Women’s Association.
It was likely due to these circumstances that she became attentive even to everyday matters.
In the section titled "Until Parting with Father" from *Muyūka*,

Looking back now, there were such things. Whether the tool keepers of that time were unaware or not—perhaps thinking it unbreakable—they brought out a golden water jar for practice sessions, which years later turned out to be the renowned Dutch textile-covered bucket; and around that same period, servants were carrying hospitality crackers arranged on a carved vermilion lacquer tray worth thousands in gold.

With even such ceremonial implements being auctioned off, she must have thoroughly grasped economic realities; yet beyond that—as will later be recounted—I believe she perpetually harbored within her heart a determination not to forfeit essential matters through trivial concerns.

Ms. Takeko—loved too expansively and pressed into society’s rigid mold—suffered as a holy woman.
Having endured that anguish, might there not have arrived a true, steadfast turning point in her heart—one seeking to embrace with breadth those wretched strata of people who bore suffering different from her own?
Was it not precisely when she—having perceived love’s futility across twenty years—resolved to cast her entire being into the Hongan-ji Women’s Association’s relief endeavors, that a pitiable death came to meet her?—

The meddlesome world, just as Ms. Takeko strove to become a flawless person—though even the man abroad might have preserved domestic harmony had he remained there—deemed it outrageous to force the beauty to keep an empty marital home for ten years, and thus compelled the reluctant Mr. Yoshimune to transfer from his overseas post back to Tokyo. Yet the returning man likely bore many burdens after a decade’s absence, while Ms. Takeko—having wept until her eyelids swelled—reapplied the pretense of composure for society’s sake, or so it is said.

About half a month before her death, she encountered by chance that very Eastern Branch Noble—the same who, having been led to believe their parting was temporary, had obediently nodded and bid farewell.
But this time, what was meant to be a transient farewell in this world became an eternal separation.
When her unforeseen illness suddenly worsened, and people discreetly gathered to say their goodbyes, that person too visited the hospital—yet Ms. Takeko refused the meeting.
"Our farewell was already properly concluded before," she had them relay.

If I were to think in a dramatic manner, Ms. Takeko saw the crystal rosary that her birth mother Enmyōin Oto had around her wrist,

“Mother, please place that rosary upon my hand.”

It was reported in newspapers that she had said this, but given that the crystal rosary had originally been given by Ms. Takeko to her birth mother, one might think that within those beads lay a warmth of emotion known only to mother and child.

The tale of the Śrīmālādevī Sūtra I heard from you—did each word not hold a radiance?

You alone as sorrowful one I shall not deem—the autumn wind has told things to me.

If one holds two mirrors of these days' contemplation, things reflect each other with crystalline clarity.

The Śrīmālādevī Siṃhanāda Sūtra was said to be the teachings of Queen Śrīmālā—born to King Prasenajit of Śrāvastī in India and Queen Mallikā, then wedded to the King of Ayodhyā—who devoted herself to Buddhism while expounding Mahayana's supreme dignity; it was reportedly the sutra Prince Shōtoku himself had lectured upon for Empress Suiko, though this "you" referred neither to the Father High Priest nor the Elder Brother High Priest.

The remains were enshrined at Tsukiji Betsuin, and before the funeral service, those who longed for a final farewell were permitted to gaze upon her serene countenance.

It was the dusk of February 8th.

Plum blossoms were intensely fragrant.
I burned incense that was but a token of my heart, took out the letter from Ms. Takeko signed “Autumn Night,” and placed it on my desk.
At that moment, Mr. Yasunari Jirō came to visit and asked, “Why haven’t you come to bid farewell?”
“Illuminated by orchid lamps,” he said, “as I walked down the long corridor and saw her serene, pure, beautiful face—I truly felt she was no longer of this world.”
And he asked again, “Why won’t you go?”

Because I disliked showing the deceased's face to too many people, and thinking that being seen would be disagreeable—as I answered, something inexpressible shot through my chest.

Before the earthquake disaster, before that branch temple burned down, there was a time I met Ms. Takeko in the far-back room of the hall, stepping into a day's shade and walking while avoiding the pigeons that gathered at my feet. What suddenly struck me then was that despite speaking with such a beautiful countenance and clear voice, she carried what one might call melancholy—or something akin to a desire to speak her mind.

At that moment,

“Lady Byakuren, why ever did you do such a thing?”

“...” Ms. Takeko suddenly said.
This occurred shortly after Lady Byakuren’s disappearance, when she had become the target of public censure.

The two of them simply locked eyes, each probing the other’s intentions.
This person is concealing far greater anguish, I thought.

A friend who fled the earthquake disaster with nothing but a bundle of letters—though they later burned them, it was said—spoke while clutching their chest, fearing they might have dropped them in that chaos. Come to think of it, there were various pseudonyms—Autumn Night, Kiku, and others—though they did exist.

Ms. Takeko had already been perfectly shaped thus, and since that form was good, one must not write superfluous impressions in biographies about the beauty. Those who knew her all said this. Of course, I too cherished Ms. Takeko. Yet one could speak more boldly—of her virtues, of her human aspects—and it would not blemish the hardships she endured. A doll cannot perform those awakening endeavors of late life. Even while being manipulated by the Hongan-ji Temple organization—knowingly engaging in wholehearted efforts solely for herself—for someone in such circumstances, that sufficed; and her attempts to initiate all manner of works, extending even to theater and dance, I believe constituted a rather full measure of striving.

Speaking of which, they say Ms. Takeko’s vivacious and unpretentious nature had been present since childhood—but there exists an amusing anecdote that reveals her virtue. In the alcove of a certain artist’s home stood a bronze stray cat. Though Ms. Takeko had loved cats—all lost in the earthquake disaster—she stroked that dust-covered figurine while murmuring “Sweet thing, sweet thing.” Later, when that person recounted this incident to a certain gentleman known for crafting cats, he declared “No—I’d never succumb to charm” upon hearing “If you meet her, she’ll make you create cats.” Yet eventually he fashioned a silver cat and presented it to her, keeping such exchanges strictly confidential. But through that connection, they say he came to create her death mask.

O sacred—though not gods—in mortal form, who dares judge whom?
Born alone—must I die alone? So declares the sinking sun.
The maidens walk the path known only to maidens—this the menfolk do not know.

—From the poetry collection *Kunsen*—

In the raging wind of an early spring night—the tooth pain assails me once more—

This final poem was said to have been left in the notebook by her pillow at Isobe Hospital where she passed away—yet she departed without composing the last verse.

In the script titled *Saga no Aki*, Nun Rengetsu was made to utter these words:

"Even a comely maiden—truly, a woman’s happiness is never assured, I tell you."

"Oh, indeed! Your honest and beautiful love’s sincerity shall surely be guided by a great divine hand ere long."

From January 16 of Shōwa 3 onward, there was toothache; the fever had persisted since year's end. On the 17th, she was admitted to Isobe Hospital—her bronchitis and tonsillitis had improved, but the bleeding following a tooth extraction refused to cease, developing into sepsis. Though people gave transfusions, their efforts proved futile; she breathed her last on the morning of February 7th. Even in critical condition, she had been reading the *Tannishō*,

The aspect of obstruction—how sorrowful! What do I seek? What have I lost? Do I lament my—

Had this person been granted longevity—had she lived on just a little longer—she might have shed her own skin, cast off conventions, and articulated great realizations, liberation from suffering—

——September 1935 (Shōwa 10)——