Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

When the tide rose beneath the wooden Aioibashi Bridge, the tatami room seemed to float upward—as if this house alone, perched near Okawaguchi’s waters, embodied all of Shin-Tsukudajima in early summer, its garden grasses turning a vivid green with burgeoning life.

“This spot’s perfect! No—no mats needed, none at all.”

In the spacious room’s corner, leaving a triangular sliver of sky behind him, Suzuki Komura—founder of the Kyougoku-ryū koto school—settled into formal seiza before the alcove with a resonant thud.

“The acoustics here are good—marvelously good!”

He stood up once more and opened all the veranda’s shoji screens, the sliding doors to the next room, and even the round-windowed shoji screens.

“Ah, grand! Simply grand! I’m feeling downright cheerful—might play well today after all.”
“Oh! The tide’s risen so high already.”
“I’m remembering when I went to Itsukushima.”
“Ho!”

He moved his large frame once more to the veranda’s edge.

“My, my! In the blink of an eye, Nakasu’s reeds have vanished.”
“Oh! Is that a small bird singing in the garden pond, I say?”

“It must be a kingfisher.”

I had long wanted to hear “Tachibana Hime.”

“Now, now—soon enough, soon enough!”

Mr. Komura—as he often did when flustered—drew in his neck, thicker than the tapered crown of his head, as though deliberately compressing himself, then took his seat while pressing a hand to his broad forehead.
When performing outdoors, he wore flowing court-style robes with a headdress, but on days like this in casual dress, he sported plain cotton hakama trousers with narrow hems beneath his drum-like paunch.

On top of loosely arranged formal seating, we placed our practice koto and unfastened its thirteen strings with resonant clarity.

“When you’re in Yamate, it feels parched—that’s what Ms. Yachiyo says, doesn’t she? When you come to this house, it’s like water seeps through everything with a moist rush—or so she said. I’d have to agree.”

“Ms. Okada Yachiyo loves water so much she even pours it over her rice—chilled with ice in summer, you see.”

“Oh, that so?”

Master Komura’s small eyes—ill-suited to his large frame and broad-cheeked face—thrust forward over the koto as his entire face leaned in.

“Water’s a fine thing indeed. The yamabuki bloom splendidly on the cliff by the house in Koji-machi—but how much finer when there’s water beneath them—”

A Kuriyama bucket sat on the veranda, and their conversation shifted to a house with bamboo blinds.

Even as they spoke, those large palms suddenly grasped all thirteen strings at once and tightened them with a twanging resonance. Then, one string at a time, he moistened his right thumb and index finger with saliva, threaded the string through, and secured it firmly. As she watched, carelessly entranced by his masterful handling,

“Well now, what was I saying... Our conversation got sidetracked earlier, but she’s such a strange, mysterious woman—”

Between moistening his fingers and before praising the water, he resumed their earlier conversation as if suddenly remembering it.

“I’ve trained many disciples, but never encountered a virtuoso like that woman. She’ll act oblivious unless you ask her directly—yet she can play anything! When I forget my own compositions, I end up having her teach them back to me—or rather—no, that’s overstating it.”

Master Komura would sometimes stop his plectrum’s resonance and sing with his hand pressed against the strings when he forgot passages in his own compositions. He was a man who dwelled in an unfettered artistic realm—one where, when inspiration overflowed, it spilled beyond the thirteen strings.

“Then, between Ms. Ishinokami Tsuyuko of Tondabayashi in Kawachi Province and [her]—”

Once, I tried uttering the name of a woman who had been counted among Myōjō magazine’s five celebrated poetesses—Yosano Akiko, Yamakawa Tomiko, Tamano Hanako, and Chino Masako—as a peer of striking beauty renowned as a koto virtuoso.

A passing glimpse of our small Koitabashi bridge, pale and clear—
A single-layered briar rose—from where did you drift to me? On that evening I waited for you, treading unknowing words, your fragrance seeped deep—
And under my breath, I tried reciting Ishinokami Tsuyuko’s poem.

Those large palms moved as if pressing down from afar.

“She’s a true beauty, that one—Ishikawa no Yūchidori bears an elegance born of her refined sensibilities—but the woman I’m currently admiring, when it comes to koto, brings her instrument all the way from Yokohama.”
“Such a petite frame—”

Despite its small size requiring considerable force, he swung the tightly strung koto around effortlessly while remaining seated as if wielding a calligrapher’s brush, then held it aloft demonstratively.

“Like this, see!”

My face must have been smiling.
Master Komura—who did possess a relatively meticulous side—seemed to interpret my smile as laughter at his rough handling of the koto; with a grin blending boldness and bashfulness, he once again pulled in his neck to hide his expression.

Near the clear waters of Ishikawa River’s gravel banks, a wealthy woman had commissioned a hermitage where—like a princess from ancient tales—she would meditate and read behind a byōbu screen with her hair swept back, going by the names Ishinokami Tsuyuko or Ishikawa no Yūchidori as she quietly honed her renowned skill in playing the koto alone.
Moreover, I couldn’t help but smile, for I had recognized something about this woman who came from Yokohama bearing her koto to learn.

"They have something in common, don't you think?"

I said.
That quality was indeed shared between the two women, but Master Komura couldn't grasp it.
As he erected bridges on the koto placed atop formal seating,

"That tiny woman—meticulous to her core—not a single error when transcribing scores."
"What could explain that contradiction?"
"The koto's sound differs entirely—resonating boundlessly—for a true jade koto must be defined by such timbre and lingering resonance—"

But that jade koto virtuoso—how peculiar—would sigh and begin eating her lunch precisely at noon wherever she happened to be.

“But you see—even on trains—though calling it a train ride stretches the truth for just forty minutes between Yokohama and Tokyo—she wouldn’t buy food but solemnly unpack her bento box! I’d be mortified by the stares, yet she’d sit there utterly unperturbed.”

“Watching her made me ravenous too, but with nothing sold en route to Yokohama—”

Master Komura laughed with his big mouth and small eyes.

As he spoke these words upon his lap, the koto’s tuning had been perfected.
When the large, thick, angular plectrums were fitted onto his fingers, he adjusted his posture and lowered his head.

I too moved to a seat at an optimal distance for listening, bowed respectfully, and placed my hands on my lap.

People gathered near the corridor to listen, and Father seemed to be listening from the sitting room across the way.
Beside the sliding door, the younger sisters had come.

A solemn timbre—so profoundly resonant one might mistake it for the koto itself—it was a grand, deep, and expansive performance unlike any other school’s.
The thirteen strings summoned a storm; before one’s eyes and ears raged Sagami Bay—the ocean’s roar and the tempest’s fierce cries.
The plaintive tones conveyed the resolve of Ototachibana-hime, who protected her lord by offering herself as a sacrifice to the sea god.

Even after the singing had ended, the final note lingered.
With the satisfaction of having played to his heart’s content, his hands descended from the strings bearing lingering resonance.

None of the entranced listeners drew breath.
Some gently wiped at faintly brimming tears while others pressed hands to their noses.
When no one spoke for a time, Master Komura gazed contentedly toward the water’s surface.

The swollen waters of May’s tide—their surface unimpeded by the wave-breaking embankment where young pines stretched their intriguing branches—allowed one to see a white-sailed barge passing vigorously before one’s very eyes, its oar strokes keeping rhythmic time.

“Ah, that was wonderful.”

As voices murmured without any particular speaker,

“That ship must’ve come from over there too, ain’t it?”

Master Komura, who knew the indigo-hued mountain ranges of Awa and Kazusa would become visible if one stepped into the garden, had suddenly made this remark.

What saved the host and guest—still trembling from the music’s profound impact—was Master Komura’s beloved somen noodles.
The elderly maid, long in service, knew cold dishes were preferred after performances; she lined a large bowl with butterbur leaves, arranged translucent-washed somen noodles within it, and thrust it directly before Master Komura’s knees.

“You’d be embarrassed if you finished all this, you know.”

Even as she spoke, the entire bowl vanished in an instant.
Simultaneously,
“There is another bowl prepared for you, sir.”

And so a replacement bowl, larger than the previous one, was brought forth.

The large man, acting as bashfully as a maiko might, covered his mouth while stifling snickers—*suh-heh, suh-heh*—and pulled the bowl closer. But once the somen slid smoothly down his throat, the earlier conversation about noon lunches resumed:

“The young woman protested, saying ‘I’m terribly sorry to you, Sensei, but no matter the circumstances, I must eat precisely when the noon bell rings—if I don’t, my stomach acts up... there must be something wrong with it—’”

“She has a stomach condition.”

I answered quite casually.

“After all, when the doctor tells her something, she follows it precisely—for ten years now! When at home, her lunch is a plate of beefsteak and six grapes.”
“The mother prepares it properly, and the daughter eating it keeps her eyes on the desk clock—”

“What? You know about that?”
“That girl.”

While stuffing somen noodles into his mouth like a waterfall, his eyes bulged in his dark face with an utterly startled expression.

“Yes,” I said.

I directed my exasperated gaze at that face above the somen noodles, where laughter seemed ready to erupt from his belly.

“Speaking of Yokohama—well, even setting that aside—there’s probably no one like that besides Hamako—”

“You’re absolutely right.”

Master Komura took a swig and then nodded deeply,

“Are you friends?”

Now it was my turn to explain, and I said “Yes.”

“When I arrived at the Yokohama house, the woman called Mother went all out with a feast—even I couldn’t handle it.”
“She was endearing, wasn’t she—like an only daughter.”

“Auntie would perform any service for a friend of Ms. Hamako’s. Their kitchen had an imposing row of cooking stoves; the well at its center was positioned for drawing water while seated; for Japanese cuisine there was a top disciple of Akabori-sensei, and for Western dishes the Grand Hotel’s head cook would come—so Auntie’s skills were first-rate. Moreover, Yamaya Yaozen is my younger sister’s house—”

Edo’s culinary tradition found its apotheosis in Asakusa Sanya—the kaiseki restaurant Yaozen commanded such prestige that its very name carried weight.

“With Ms. Hamako sitting there all tight-lipped and cross, Auntie kept grinning away in her place—smiling just like Okame-san does with that perpetual beam of hers—wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s right, that’s right.”

Mr. Komura then recounted commissioning a koto for Hamako—shorter in length yet broader than standard, patterned after Shōsōin imperial treasures—to accommodate her frail health that demanded constant therapeutic travels.

“The attempt to attach a large panel to the koto’s backboard and use its opening and closing to observe resonance and tonal quality—if that succeeds, it would be splendid.”

I already knew about Master Komura’s plans for that koto’s backboard spring mechanism.

“I’ve got high hopes for that myself,” he said. “When I went off to the Sino-Japanese War with a biwa on my back—worked like hell out there, even got called ‘Lieutenant Biwa’—that whole experience somehow became the foundation for creating the Kyougoku-ryū style. But why’d she go and bury herself so deep in that koto of hers?”

In my eyes, the sword of Ichimonji Kunitoshi suddenly appeared. Simultaneously, I recalled the accumulation of books filling the second floor of the storehouse at the Yokohama house. When there was something I wished to know, my willful self would refrain from visiting the library personally. Instead, I would send a letter stating “I would like such-and-such,” and she would promptly respond with an impeccably transcribed copy—detailed down to the last character and dot—declaring “Within such-and-such volume, this was found.” Because she maintained such rigorous orderliness, I worried her artistry might grow dull—voicing this unnecessary spite, I likened her mind to a Chinese physician’s medicine cabinet brimming with drawers, each seemingly labeled and cataloged. I added that it might be amusing if, on occasion, someone opened the wrong drawer and out came poisons or laughing potions. Such matters too—after being drafted in meticulous detail, recorded in that day’s diary, and further bearing her critique—were Hamako’s way.

However, there were times when a humor uniquely hers would be contrived and quietly set into motion. To put it another way: On one occasion, at a banquet gathering women—elders and juniors alike, friends and disciples all enraptured by Hamako’s koto—she turned to me and said,

“Oyatchan, try saying ‘meow’.”

"Try saying 'meow'," said Hamako beside me, fork in hand.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I promptly let out a meow as she instructed.
My eyes had not left the plate, nor had I given any thought to the eyes around me.
However, it lacked the tenderness of an adorable kitten,

“Exactly like a stray cat.”

While muttering this, she tried once more to do her best impression of a kitten.

With that, Hamako looked down, suppressing a chuckle.
She looked utterly delighted.
As I sensed the waiter’s smiling face coming to clear the plates, I looked around at the people at the table—everyone was staring at me with eyes rounded in utter astonishment.

Ah-ha ha ha ha!
And I ended up letting out a voice like a man’s.
It was because I had seen through that this feast had been part of a scheme.
Hamako knew full well that my meowing was nothing out of the ordinary and would hardly merit a second thought—she simply wanted to showcase before their astonished company that among her friends existed someone capable of such nonchalant absurdity, to witness the full measure of their dismay.
Since it had gone exactly as planned, she must have found it delightful.
As part of the scenery—what was I supposed to be?
The fact that even seeing the astonished faces of my friends—their expressions practically declaring as much—had turned out exactly as planned.

“What an odd person—”

I was reminiscing about such things—laughing all the more for it—and because I fancied peculiar footwear, I had them fashion thick, viper-like straps for my geta sandals to wear; removing the core of my marumage chignon to arrange it into a coiffure that appeared hollowed out on the other side. So when I came to sit in this room, I would peer from this side and make nonsensical remarks like “I can see Awa and Kazusa from here,” rambling on...

“Father was the heir to a village head family in Chiisagata District, Shinshu—a lineage unbroken for two hundred years. At twenty-five, this young village head rushed off to Yokohama and joined Nosō, a raw silk wholesaler. As Yokohama grew and Nozawaya expanded, he became its general manager—a man of unyielding temperament and fortitude. To this, Mother was an Edo native.”
“I have heard she first became the bride of the Maekawas—a prominent asset-owning family running a fabric wholesaler—but after separating from that union, remarried into a place free of worldly cares, and when giving birth to Hamako, they hung a koto above so that if the child were a girl, she might master its art—delivering her beneath it.”
“There’s something interesting about the lessons.”

I spoke exactly as I had heard.
Though I was unquestionably their treasured child, there were slight differences between what my mother wished to teach and what my father wished to teach. Concerned that I—frail from birth and too small for my age—needed physical activity, Mother started me on dance lessons. But the next day, when only the wet nurse accompanied me to the lesson and returned home—
“I don’t like dance lessons,” I said. “Please let me stop.”

she said to her mother.
If she disliked it that much, her mother decided to let her rest until she felt like going again and tried sending the wet nurse to inform the teacher—

“No, it’s fine—she already properly told them I won’t be coming.”

That’s what the six-year-old her had said.

As for koto lessons—since her father disliked the koto—she had secretly enrolled as a disciple through private arrangements.

Master Oide Kōtō was the son of Kishizawa Bunzaemon, renowned in Edo for Tokiwazu narrative music.
Since Yokohama—the open port—was thriving with sunrise-like vigor, they had relocated early on; yet Ms. Ochō, a kept woman of Nozawaya’s proprietor who had reveled in opulence and exhausted all luxuries, became entangled in such circumstances. Despite these marital connections, being blind, when she felt the body of the new disciple, it was far too small,

“There’s no helping it in this state. Please have her come again once she’s older,” she refused.

Witnessing this from the side, the mother of Master Oide Kōtō snapped:

"What foolish nonsense are you spouting? Lessons mean teaching first—you judge refusal by whether they can play or not, not by size! Adults too have those who never learn. What fool would turn away a child who comes wanting to study without even checking their aptitude?!"

She rebuked her son in a harsh, trilling voice. At this fierce outburst, the child who seemed ready to burst into tears instead hurried over and settled before the koto.

Though Mr. Oide was an instructor for beginners, he held deep respect for Ms. Hamako.
Once during Master Kōtō’s gathering in Yokohama—when accompanying Ms.Hamako as she carried her koto—they immediately called upon her upon arrival,and everyone listened with solemn attention.
The blind koto teachers stiffened rigidly,hunching their backs as they listened.
Once when her father heard those refined tones emerging，he asked her to pause，adjusted his posture，and from then on—even after intervals—would listen seated in proper seiza.
And though her father rewarded her for every achievement，what the girl Hamako desired were swords—

“Swords?”
“This is peculiar.”

Mr. Komura listened with growing interest.

“Yes, he has several blades.”
“Among them, it’s said that even an unexpected one—a Kunitoshi now designated as a national treasure—was something her father bought from Tokyo and gave her as a reward.”

“How interesting.”
“It seems Yokohama was awash with money back then.”

“It’s said that traders were raking in profits hand over fist because of the dollar exchange rate.”
“Regardless, he gave a hundred yen in pocket money to a sixteen-year-old child and sent her off to Tokyo for leisure—”

“A hundred yen?”
“Why—”

Mr. Komura wore an expression of utter disbelief.

“It seems she came to stay in Tokyo for about forty days. Given that it was the Yamaya Hachiyozen household—an ostentatious family business—and that Ms. Ichikawa Danjūrō IX’s wife had relatives for whom Hachiyozen was her family home, the era would have been around Meiji 24-25, immediately after the Rokumeikan period.”
But Ms. Hamako said so.
“Father was apparently wondering how I would use the pocket money.”

“What did she buy, I wonder? A sword?”
“But they wouldn’t let a child buy anything else—huh? What? Books?”

With several books in a tea chest—having had her carry them—the little girl returned home in high spirits.

“The doting parent must’ve been impressed, eh?”

Mr. Komura said this as if deeply moved himself.

“When she wore her hair in the Shimada style, people would tease that a mustache would soon sprout—but wait, there’s another tale! When an acquaintance went to Professor Sasaki Nobutsuna’s residence declaring ‘I’ll bring this person along,’ it caused quite the comical misunderstanding. This would have been when Ms. Hamako was fifteen or sixteen—she hosted a poetry gathering that drew celebrated poets, including Professor Sasaki himself. Everyone assumed the hostess would be some venerable matron, but when they arrived at that magnificent house and sat stiffly wondering what sort of person ‘Ms. Hamako’ might be, out walked this slip of a girl in a purple furisode, her hair done up in a vertical arrow knot! They stood dumbstruck, yet she carried herself with unshakable composure—”

“Ahaha,” Mr. Komura laughed abruptly,

“Oh, look!”

he pointed at me and indicated.
The household members had gone to the edge of the embankment and were clamoring noisily.
The old father also crossed the garden in front of the tatami room.

“What’s happening?”

Mr. Komura stood up and went over, listening while exchanging greetings.

“Well, it seems the ducks went out to the river and are heading offshore—”

“Oh! The old man’s launched the boat.”

While saying this, Mr. Komura slipped on his garden clogs and followed after the old father.

Standing on the veranda to observe, it seemed a passing skiff had cast its net toward ducks at the river mouth, startling them into darting beneath the bridge and fleeing seaward.

A large white bird floating on the blue tide was distinctly visible. From the Merchant Marine School on the opposite bank came a short boat with aligned oars, gliding upstream along the Sumida River in the opposite direction of the ducks. Visible too was someone on the bridge shouting loudly to relay calls from the embankment—urging him to return as it was dangerous—to the old man in the beka boat making coaxing cries of "Here ducky-ducky!" to the flock.

When I went down into the garden and looked, young shoots of dwarf bamboo were emerging in vibrant green amidst the lawn grass.
In their shadows, small red crabs scuttled sideways, using their pincers to pluck and eat blades of grass.

I had perhaps spoken too much about Hamako-san; through it all, I hoped Mr. Komura might come to grasp her uncommon temperament—yet this very desire to avoid being perceived as some unserious disciple left me with a faint melancholy.

Her house stood on a hill in Ota Hatsunecho, Yokohama, and as I imagined how the sea could be seen stretching far beyond Kannai’s rooftops from both the second floor of her study and the veranda of the lower hall, I startled crabs with the tip of my geta.

II

To the theater teahouse of the Shintomi-za in Shinbashi-machi—though in this post-earthquake present day, one cannot fathom where it refers to.

From Ginza, going past the bridge after the Kabuki-za Theater and a bit further ahead lay Tsukudabashi—a tram stop.

The banks of the river flowing beneath Tsukudabashi—no matter which side one took—emerged at Akashimachi Kashi, the path leading toward Tsukudajima.
Facing both the fishing quarter atmosphere and the newly established foreign settlement—these unique enclaves—the banks of Tsukudabashi Bridge were lined with stylish houses where the resonance of shamisen lingered.
On evenings when the tide ran high and mist clung damply to the air, whichever bank one walked along, the second-floor lights of every house would glow alluringly, their reflections rippling across the river’s surface.

Through the choking darkness, accompanied by creaking oar sounds, a boat carrying a blonde girl raised its sculls and cut through waters that seemed to rise higher than the road.

The people of Tokyo called that corner beyond the bridge Shimabara. They also referred to the Shintomi-za Theater located there by the metonym Shimabara.

Since I faintly remember it, this must have been during the mid-Meiji period—the area before this theater and its theater teahouses became a realm of crimson felt carpets, floral entrance curtains, and lanterns emblazoned with actors’ crests, with cherry trees planted along the road and standing lanterns erected to such an extent.
However, it is said that during its construction under the Theater Reform movement’s principles, they were made to abandon both floral entrance curtains and paper lanterns, using only wooden signboards—

In the theater’s backstreets and vicinity lived famous actors, and those involved in musical arts also resided within or near that quarter.
There were even geisha beneath the theater turret, and the entire atmosphere felt like kabuki’s sovereign domain.

The name Shin-Shimabara likely derived from Kyoto’s famed Shimabara pleasure quarter.
Though its existence was too brief to become widely known, in Meiji 2 [1870], permission was granted to establish a pleasure quarter in that area—Shin-Shimabara had begun taking shape—but in autumn of the following year, a great storm blew down a brothel called Nakamanji, injuring eight courtesans, and so the still-unfinished quarter was ordered vacated.

The predecessor of Shintomi-za, Morita-za, was built in that Shimabara.
From their very origins, pleasure quarters and theaters shared an inseparable bond—to speak of how courtesans erected temporary playhouses during Kabuki’s formative years would itself require lengthy exposition—but in the early Edo period, when marshy lands near Nihonbashi Ningyōchō were reclaimed to establish the Yoshiwara quarter, which alongside districts named after their regional origins like Sumiyoshichō and Naniwachō became thriving entertainment hubs, nearby theater constructions marked the genesis of Edo’s grand playhouses collectively known as the Three Great Theaters (Nakamura-za, Ichimura-za, Yamamura-za).
Among them—the Yamamura-za having been abolished due to the incident involving Lady-in-Waiting Eshima and actor Ikushima Shingorō—they were located in Sakai-chō and Fukiya-chō.
After the great fire, the pleasure quarters were relocated to Asakusa’s rice fields to become Shin-Yoshiwara, while theaters alone remained in their original locations—until much later in Tenpō 13 [1842], when Mizuno Echizen-no-kami, the shogunate’s senior councilor who had enacted frugality edicts, deemed theaters remaining in the city center improper as they contravened official policy, thereby compelling their relocation to Asakusa Saruwaka-chō.

Around that time, the Morita-za Theater in Kyōbashi Kobikichō became one of three theaters now standing side by side in Saruwaka-chō; to be precise, there had originally been four theaters, with only the Morita-za located separately—and though bearing an old name, its eleventh-generation successor—a farmer from Shimōsa who took the name Nakamura Kan’emon after becoming the adopted son of the theater manager though not a skilled actor—raised his own son, the twelfth-generation Morita Kanya, from childhood to thoroughly master every aspect of the theatrical path.

This man was Morita Kanya, a renowned strategist in the theatrical world who, assessing the post-Meiji Restoration landscape, strategized to advance his theater into Kyōbashi, now emerging as the heart of the imperial capital.
Originally, Kobikichō was indeed their former land; however, prior to this movement to construct a theater in Kobikichō, the Kawarazaki-za—also located in this same area—had already petitioned for permission to build anew in Unemehara.
This was likely in what is now the vicinity of the Kabuki-za Theater—Kawarazaki-za leader Kawarazaki Gonnosuke being the name used by the ninth Danjūrō when he did not return to the Ichikawa main family but was instead adopted out—even today, that area sees the Kabuki-za Theater, Tokyo Theatre, and Shimbashi Enbujō standing in tripartite formation.

The relocation of Morita-za is said to have occurred in Meiji 4 (1871), but Shintomi-za in Shintomi-chō emerged as the grand theater it was known as only after burning down in late November of Meiji 9 (1876), being rebuilt, and then staging the Satsuma Rebellion in spring of Meiji 11 (1878) to packed houses.

The Satsuma Rebellion of 1877 was a conflict among the Meiji government's own meritorious retainers, and as its military organization had already been modernized, even though it unfolded in southern Satsuma, it commanded the attention of the entire nation. Saigō Takamori was a great man whom the people of Edo revered and cherished as their benefactor. Since those seeking to learn of his final moments came in droves, the theater was packed to capacity. Moreover, this war drama provided Morita Kanya with the means to gain access to high society.

The interactions between theater people, gentlemen, and scholars became equal. This was due to the imperial decree of the Meiji Restoration’s sweeping reforms and the bestowal of equality among the four classes; however, to accurately portray southern Satsuma’s circumstances for staging the Satsuma Rebellion drama, they had no choice but to approach the era’s high-ranking officials. Kanya, who had been anticipating that opportunity from the start, would not let it slip. The lavish geisha houses in Kobikichō where the Shintomi-za theater owner entertained—establishments frequented by Meiji-era high officials—saw their mistresses and geisha regarding these patrons as friends, thus connecting Kanya with those influential figures.

It was a time when theater reform fervor was just beginning to surge among scholars and those newly returned from abroad, and Kanya swiftly seized upon this momentum. At the time of Shintomi-za Theater’s main construction, they retained only sixteen large teahouses out of the forty-two affiliated establishments, eliminating even the medium-sized ones thereafter. Since they had kept only wide-fronted, architecturally splendid teahouses, it must have been splendid indeed.

In the old shogunate era, barely a decade prior, theater people were disparaged as riverbank beggars and forbidden to walk through the city without wearing woven hats, it is said. Due to the severity of discriminatory treatment, the seventh Danjūrō (who retired under the names Ebizō and Hakuen),

"Clad in brocade, yet beggars upon the tatami—such absurdity!"

Such was the preposterousness—akin to proclaiming purity through white robes—that at Shintomi-za Theater’s opening ceremony, actors led by troupe leader Ichikawa Danjūrō, including Onoe Kikugorō and Ichikawa Sadanji, stood arrayed in frock coats alongside all theater staff, while guests spanned from Chancellor Sanjō Sanetomi down through high officials, civic luminaries, and foreign envoys.

Thereafter, Shintomi-za became an essential venue for state receptions. Beginning with Prince Henry of Germany’s visit, even lower-ranking palace officials attended en masse. The Nabeshima and Date clans—great noble houses—served as hosts for that occasion, followed successively by the Governor of Hong Kong and former U.S. President General Grant in welcoming these national guests.

The European fever reached its peak when in September of the twelfth year, they staged performances by foreign troupes—mixed companies of British, American, and French actors—though these proved unsuitable for general audiences due to language barriers and drew poor attendance; yet despite such varied developments, the Shintomi-za Theater played a significant role in elevating theater practitioners.
Afterward, at the Inoue residence in Azabu Torii-zaka, they came to know the unprecedented delight of what was termed an imperial performance.

You may wonder why I am writing at such length about matters that seem unrelated to the main text.
This might be where I should write "to return from our digression," but in truth, this is hardly the place for such a return.

From the 12th and 13th years of Meiji (1879–1880) onward—after Hamako’s birth in the 14th year—the theater world developed in this manner, while all of society followed similar paths of advancement.
What cannot be overlooked is how the ninth Ichikawa Danjūrō—that great star of the theatrical realm—with his character, insight, and dignity as a traditional grand master, came to be respected and welcomed by scholars, intellectuals, and dignitaries of the time, who found joy in discovering an equal from a field beyond their own domain.
They addressed him as Danjūrō, called him Mimasu, referred to him as Horikoshi, and sought and were granted a relationship of friendly association.
Moreover, beyond Danjūrō alone, they also learned of the presence of master Kikugorō by his side.

The fact that Kanjinchō and other works came to be viewed first by Emperor Meiji himself, followed by Her Majesty the Empress and Her Majesty the Empress Dowager, served as a stimulus not merely to the theater world but to all artistic disciplines.
Notably, Hagiwara Hamako’s maternal side was related by marriage to the Horikoshi family.
In Meiji 21 [1888], when Hamako was eight years old, Suehiro Seihei’s theater reform group—Suehiro being Itō Hirobumi’s son-in-law—transformed into the “Performing Arts Rectification Society” and held its founding ceremony at the Rokumeikan on July 8th. The event drew over a thousand guests, including members of the imperial family. Danjūrō’s daughters, Tatsuko and Fukiko—close in age to Hamako—performed a dance with lyrics commissioned from Teshima Atsuko (Lady Kaede, a palace attendant), musical arrangement by Kineya Shōjirō and his wife, and choreography by their father Danjūrō.

Here, an undeniable fact was that the momentum of women's advancement had surged remarkably; even in these spheres, it was argued that actresses had become indispensable—not merely because they were daughters of respectable families, even if this meant outright imitation of the West.

Were one to elaborate on such matters in detail, this would indeed become a digression turning into a full social history of women's development—but what proves intriguing is that within Tsukiji's customs around Meiji 8 [1875], shortly after Shintomi-za Theater's relocation, there existed this everyday anecdote.

Examining period newspapers reveals:

Water droplets upon snow's surface resembled dew gracing white lotus blossoms.

The glossy Shimada chignon, slightly loosened, swayed freely like the Dragon King's daughter emerging from the river in longing for Lord Hikaru. When Kiyohime plunged into the Hidaka River pursuing Anchin, it must have been thus—what daring they showed at seventeen or eighteen.

At Aihiki Bridge's swimming area appeared an account of a girl from Uchikawa-tei—a vaudeville hall in Shintomi-chō—swimming while accompanied by a first-class maid.

This was hardly surprising, for not only was that area a promenade for Westerners, but until very recently women had been taught that exposing their skin in public was tantamount to death—thus reporters must have been astonished to witness the Shimada girl swimming openly in broad daylight before crowds.

Yet the Bon dance that crossed over by ferry from Tsukuda Island also became a signature attraction of this district, delighting foreigners from distant lands.
On the other hand, plays in Shimabara suffered poor attendance due to sweltering heat, resulting in a massive loss of 1,500 yen from an initial investment of 7,000 yen gold. In stark contrast, the firebreak area of the same district saw over 150 barley tea stalls emerge nightly alongside seventy ice water vendors—with other confectioners, amazake sellers, and various merchants setting up shop—where on clear nights combined earnings reached around five hundred yen by midnight, a testament to remarkably brisk business.

What a dazzling amalgamation of colors, like Ezō Nishiki brocade—illuminating above the heads of those people—
How beautiful! How bright! Gas lamps stood in the streets.
With headlines declaring, “This won’t lose to Western cities!”—
O splendid lamps! O radiant gas lamps! Once lit and arrayed along our streets, they rendered the entire avenue as bright as noon.
Next to these came oil lamps, freeing parties from the nuisance of carrying handheld lanterns.

proclaimed the article.

Shintomi-za Theater naturally took pride in its new facilities.
The Sentanka flower gas lamps popular at the time, mounted on iron ring-shaped fixtures resembling flowers, spewed bluish-purple flames much like modern kitchen gas stoves do today, enhancing the beauty of the scene and leaving spectators utterly astonished.

Thus, during this period leading up to Meiji 40 (1907), there unfolded the rise and fall of Shintomi-za Theater, the completion of Kabuki-za Theater, and times when Shintomi-za—after Morita Kanya, who had been plagued by debt in his later years, passed away—barely managed to sustain itself through children’s plays and similar endeavors.

The second floor of the Marugo Teahouse at Shintomi-za.
Since I was acquainted with a teahouse that had a grand entrance reminiscent of its heyday and a spacious second floor, I rented out this upper level to serve as the rehearsal space for my self-composed dance piece *Kuuge*.

The trial performance was to be held at Kabuki-za Theater, but as it involved a large traditional Japanese orchestra requiring ample space for rehearsals,
on this Marugo second floor they ate their boxed lunches day after day.

As this was our first attempt to evoke *Kuuge*'s operatic atmosphere primarily through koto instrumentation, composer Mr. Suzuki Komura retreated to Hakone where my mother resided—cooling his mind and unifying his creative spirit—before finally completing the work.

It was Hamako who received it as Mr. Komura played with creative freedom.
She listened once while lightly tapping her right ring finger on her knee, yet immediately transcribed it into an accurate score.
Once Mr. Komura finished playing, his technique would differ in subsequent performances depending on his mood as was his custom.

The task of incorporating shamisen accompaniment in later sections was undertaken by Kazusaburō Kineya of the Nagauta Research Society.
The young and vigorous shamisen musician found this experimental endeavor thoroughly delightful, yet with each subsequent collaboration with Mr. Komura, their once-perfect synchronization gradually unraveled.

There were also many koto performers.
There were also many nagauta shamisen players.
The vocal parts were primarily handled by Okane-chan—a younger sister of Otozō, a standing singer, who had a truly splendid voice (though she had sadly passed away)—and her older sister.
Ms. Okada Yachiyo also assisted with the koto parts.

In any case, all my friends helped out with this work.
For the dance portion, Ichikawa Ennosuke took the lead role; for the female lead, Horikoshi Michiko—appearing under the stage name Ichikawa Suisen—performed, while the seven dancers were those then known as the Shinbashi Seven: Sayoko, Oimatsu, Hidechiyo, Taro, Otomaru, Eiryū.
As for this troupe, they rehearsed at two locations: the stage in Mr. Ichikawa Danshiro’s residence in Asakusa Senzoku-chō and the front second floor of the Kabuki-za Theater’s information office.

As the music section’s rehearsals piled up, notable incidents began to occur.
Finally, one day, a head-on clash erupted between the koto and shamisen players, and Kazusaburō exploded in fury.
Mr. Komura had drunk several glasses of water yet remained agitated; even after the large bowl that had held boiled fava beans was emptied, he demanded water for it and continued playing, oblivious that it had already been brought.

“You say that, but I—”

No sooner had he spoken than—instead of bringing the bowl to his mouth—he hunched over and splashed its contents onto his closely-cropped, flushed scalp.

The water landed on the koto.
It cascaded like a sudden evening downpour.
Unaware, he remained absorbed in playing.
Kazusaburō rolled up his sleeves and trembled as he tried to compose himself by lighting his pipe, but in his flustered state brought the pipe’s fire bowl to his lips instead.

Everyone in the room was astonished; though they found it amusing, they were rendered speechless out of pity.

And then, at that moment, separating herself from the commotion, Hamako—placing the koto’s end upon her lap and glancing at the score written on kaishi paper with one hand—began to play.
She did not get swept into the quarrel; having listened to both sides’ arguments, she had transcribed their respective scores from within the conflict and seamlessly joined them into harmony.

When Hamako began to play，Kazusaburō set down his pipe，and Komura too stilled his hands to listen.

“Ah! Then that’s perfect!”

The one who cried out was Kazusaburō.

“Oh，right，right! Well，that’s what it was!”

And Mr. Komura also exclaimed.

Relieved ease flooded their faces, and simultaneously, laughter erupted from every last one of them.

“What’s all this?”

While muttering, Kazusaburō picked up his shamisen and hastily turned toward Hamako.
Mr. Komura, as was his habit, pulled his head in and looked awkward as he had his disciples handle the water that had gotten on the koto.

Amidst everyone suddenly bursting into spirited chatter, laughter, and jeering, Hamako alone—as if inhabiting another realm—remained utterly unshaken, immediately bringing everything to flawless completion.

“To tell the truth, it still hadn’t quite come together yet.”

Mr. Komura—who could play however he wished when alone, a habit now ingrained—would spill water himself when troubled, as if to lighten his spirits.

“Hamako-san! Thankee kindly! Y’saved me proper!”

he said cheerfully.

At that moment, I believed that Hamako, though reserved by nature, possessed the capacity to compose grand works.

When I gathered with Hamako, Mr. Komura, and Ms. Suisen at Mr. Kinoshi’s stage in Senzoku-chō, we rehearsed the scene where Ennosuke’s character—a humble man from a minister’s dream—encountered Suisen’s character—a maidservant who becomes a queen in a dream—by the water’s edge.
Ennosuke’s father was Danjūrō IV, a renowned dancer; his mother was Hanayagi Shodai, a rigorously trained master of Hanayagi school dance.
These two labored tirelessly at the forefront of their son’s career.
Mr. Komura grew so fretful whenever his son faced criticism during dance practice that—distracted by such worries—he would dislodge koto bridges mid-performance.

“Oh dear, oh dear. How troublesome.”
“This section has become quite disordered—”

With a gentle smile, Danjūrō rose to collect the scattered koto bridges.
The endearing Komura—his large, monkish frame shrinking in embarrassment—would wipe the koto strings with his palm whenever he erred, like a child scrubbing characters from a slate.

Hamako’s playing remained flawless.

As they left Senzoku-chō that day on their way back, in the night-dark sky, a crimson haze hung thick, and a tower stood towering abruptly into view.

“What is that?”

I stood there slightly dazed, gazing intently and coming to a halt.

“Since it’s in the direction behind the park—it must be the Twelve-Story Tower.”

“Ah, Ryōunkaku?”

My, how beautiful!—the two of them stood captivated by the unexpected beauty seen from behind Asakusa Park at night.

——The music drama “Urashima”!

At that moment, a grand aspiration I had long wished to someday pursue brushed through my mind.

It was two or three years later that Professor Tsubouchi granted permission for a partial performance of the music drama *Urashima*.

Urashima was Sixth Danjūrō Kikugorō—it marked Kyōgen-za's inaugural performance at the Imperial Theater.

The score contained no notation for koto.
Though conceived for shamisen ensembles and gagaku traditions, I—with permission secured—sought to position Hamako's koto at the forefront, assigning the shamisen to Icchū-bushi newcomer Nishiyama Ginpei and entrusting gagaku to Yama no I's faction.

Yet persuading Hamako herself to embrace this koto role remained the paramount challenge.

I casually went over and, with an unaffected expression, lured her out for a walk.
We sat down at the vantage point of Iseyama Daijingu.

“What are you staring at so intently?”

“The sea.”

She had discerned that I was scheming something—my sudden visit and suggestion to stroll being far too uncharacteristic.

“You could’ve seen the sea from Tsukuda or my sitting room.”

“True, but I wanted to walk—to view Yokohama Shinden from Murakumo. Those old paintings were truly splendid.”

With that pretext still lingering—as I passed along the riverbank heading toward Onoe-chō as usual moments earlier, catching sight of the iron bridge before Yokohama Station (present-day Sakuragichō Station)—the briskly sharp scent of mint being processed assailed my nostrils, and I blurted out:

“About Professor Tsubouchi’s *Urashima*—I want you to compose just the Dragon Palace section.”

“No, no.”

Hamako made thick glasses glint as she looked exasperated,

“You think far too highly of me.”

“No, I even think you’re timid. Others display twelve parts’ worth from the seven or eight they possess. Hamako-san shows only one or two parts of the twelve she holds. And even that only when unavoidable, you stingy thing.”

After that exchange, they sat in silence for what felt like an eternity. As dusk began to fall, they rose and started walking without a word—neither knowing who had moved first.

III

The day was fading into deep dusk.
Silently rising and walking ahead, they entered the hall Hamako guided them to—a space where twilight’s colors had grown denser still.

Hamako had her hands on the koto named *Fukiage* that stood leaning against the wall. The white strings of *Fukiage*'s thirteen cords faintly appeared like a waterfall suspended mid-cascade.

*Fukiage Beach's white chrysanthemums*

In the evening moon's latticed light—

There had been a time when I'd given her some impromptu verse along those lines, but since she claimed dissatisfaction with composing those morning and evening pieces and steadfastly refused to let me hear them, I too had ultimately forgotten that song of the koto.

Hamako said.

“How’s the tuning?”

Though she gave no clear answer about whether she would do it, their discussion had unmistakably turned to composing Urashima.

“We must change it—something entirely new would be acceptable.”
“And to make the sound more complex, we need both high and low tones.”
“In a different sense from the traditional accompaniment parts—”

To demand lowering the koto’s tuning—this was not something mediocre hands could speak of. Given the limited positioning of the bridges, there was no other way to lower the pitch than by loosening the strings’ tension. Furthermore, loosened strings were indeed the most difficult to play. Firstly, no plectrum sound emerged; apply it too forcefully and the bridges shifted.

“As for techniques to produce a solemn sound—”

If it wasn’t Master Komura’s distinctive plectrum—but then, Master Komura’s was an exceptional specimen indeed. A thick, large plectrum—crafted from ivory with a rounded form, utilizing the outer side where some indentations were made on the split surface while keeping the exterior mostly rounded, its tip measuring about a quarter-inch in thickness. It was precisely because of this that the resonance—caressing, soft, like hail scattering, like raging waves approaching—that mysterious depth was a tone one could scarcely hope to hear again.

“Ah—that... That cannot be done by anyone but that person.”

Though she had said that, Hamako too had been considering that very matter.

"With this tone, how far can my feeble plectrum sounds reach?"

After thoroughly gauging the fusion between strings and bridges, Hamako adopted a scholarly demeanor.
Whether it could be done or not hinged entirely on this single resonance of sound—a seriousness that overflowed.

I opened the engawa’s shoji.
From the heights overlooking Yokohama’s Kannai district, the lights of the cities flickered like blossoms, while out at sea, the lamplit shadows of anchored ships resembled stars.
When I opened the partition between rooms, I found that the family members had returned sullenly together and were in an unlit room with a koto they'd taken out—not playing it but fumbling about—so that someone, seeming concerned about what was happening, came quietly to observe.

“This time, by organizing a research theater troupe called Kyōgen-za with Kikugorō, we’ve been granted permission to perform Professor Tsubouchi’s musical drama *Urashima* at the Imperial Theatre—so I want Hamako-san to take charge of the koto—”

"...and," I explained,

“Whether you’ll agree to do it or not—it’s not about whether you can play it, but that there’s no point in playing if the sound doesn’t carry far enough.”

Having added that, Hamako nodded while touching the strings, as if in agreement.

There was no one as kind as Hamako's mother. And Kenzo, Hamako's adopted son, was equally kind and held deep respect for her artistry.

Mother stationed herself before the deep storehouse while Kenzo and the maids rushed outside. They went down the slope, circled behind the residence, ventured as far as the distant corner, and repeatedly reported back—now the sound was faint, now clearly audible.

There was nowhere it couldn't be heard. Though the koto's melody remained indistinct, even those who had gone farthest ahead confirmed its resonance carried through. Hamako laughed in her usual way—ho, ho—shoulders hunched forward,

“The sympathy people have for you is truly something.”

That—in place of a verbal reply—was her way of agreeing to proceed.

“Oh my, oh my, oh my! Is that so? Has Ms. Hamako agreed to do it?” Facing Mother—her entire face on the verge of dissolving into smiles—

“You all have been bound by your feelings ever since Mother arrived.”

And then she brought out the first edition of the musical drama *Urashima* and began comparing it with mine.

Once again, I had someone let me hear the lowest sound once more.

“Let’s add three or five more strings to these and try extending the koto’s length by about a foot.”

My imagination blurted out something preposterous.
Hamako instantly—

“Unless you let me remake myself entirely, that would be impossible.”

She chuckled softly—an amused, cheerful laugh.

I continued to reassess her petite form, smaller than the average person.

“There’s no helping it.”

“It really can’t be helped.”
“Let’s have you spare me this for now.”

In February 1914, the Kyōgen-za Theater received gracious support from eminent seniors—Natsume Sōseki, Sasaki Nobutsuna, Mori Ōgai, and Tsubouchi Shōyō. Professor Ōgai kindly composed a new work titled *The Soga Brothers*, Professor Tsubouchi magnanimously permitted haphazard alterations to just the middle act of *Urashima*, and Mr. Matsuoka Eikyū undertook all background designs and costumes while joining our ranks.
This stemmed from when Mr. Matsuoka’s designs, my aesthetic preferences, and Mr. Suzuki Komura’s koto compositions had aligned perfectly during the Dance Study Group’s production of *Ephemeral Blossoms*—as I described previously—prompting Mr. Matsuoka to eagerly join our ranks. Yet now, that same Mr. Matsuoka grew prone to tantrums, sending a flurry of accusatory letters invoking obscure references to *Nibun* and *Yabumi*, insisting “You alone might comprehend this.”
Much later,

“I’ve aged now, so I don’t throw tantrums anymore—but Mr. Shigure’s outbursts are truly something.”

Such things were said enigmatically, but after Mr. Matsuoka had exerted tremendous effort regarding the dramatization of *The Tale of Genji* only to see no favorable outcome—when I later saw his face—I realized he must have frequently endured the bitter taste of understanding that in the world of theater, regardless of official permissions or denials, tantrums achieve nothing. Yet those past outbursts—an artist’s tantrums—strike me now as memories not unpleasant to recall.

However, in that grand middle act of *Urashima*—the Dragon Palace’s revelries and Princess Otohime’s farewell dance-drama—the headgear and footwear for Urashima were recreated so meticulously (with Nara-period accuracy) that even the great Kikugorō could no longer move his neck to dance, yet the koto composition’s reception proved magnificently favorable.

＊

“Hamako-san, don’t you wish to let your own koto sing more fully?”

Being frail of health myself, I lived with the conviction that one must pour every ounce of strength into one’s endeavors to truly feel alive—and so, wanting this woman of delicate constitution to leave behind some testament of her utmost capability while she yet drew breath, I spoke these words one day as we sat face-to-face.

“It is my deepest wish—but whether such a thing can be achieved...”

Thus began our efforts to organize gatherings where people could hear her koto compositions. It started with one held in Taisho 9 (1920) at the basement hall of the Insurance Association in Yūrakuchō, Kōjimachi Ward, continuing three times until the year of the earthquake. I requested attendance mainly from literary circles.

Hamako had acknowledged Suzuki Komura’s koto compositions through her own ears and heart, becoming his disciple, yet she had already recognized Miyagi Michio—newly returned from Korea and newly arrived in Tokyo—as a young genius. Therefore, during what was either the first or second of these gatherings to hear Hamako’s koto, when we asked Mr. Miyagi to provide accompaniment, the rehearsal of *Tang Dynasty Fulling Blocks* proved truly something worth hearing. When the gathering ended, she took the sightless Mr. Miyagi by the hand and led him to the automobile with genuine happiness. Then placing the bouquet beside herself, she saw Mr. Miyagi off.

When she returned to the table where Hamako had been seated as head, her face was vividly alive—a countenance she had never before revealed.
Indeed, during this period, the plucking sounds from her fingertips produced a grand, resonant, deep, and expansive tone that seemed beyond the capacity of her slender arms.

“Hamako is skilled.”

“Ms. Hamako’s koto is wonderful.”

She was well-regarded everywhere.

At Kikugorō’s house in Shiba Park, there came to be a gathering one night, for he wished to hear Hamako and Mr. Miyagi perform their duet in quiet solemnity.
Indeed, opportunities to experience such sublime music do not come often.
Even now I vividly recall how Mr. Miyagi’s shamisen and Hamako’s koto—their tones intertwining like flowing water, now sobbing, now merging into a central current, now resembling wind passing through stagnant depths—left both performers and listeners immersed in a mood of tender melancholy long after the music ceased. They chased the vanishing echoes of those ephemeral sounds, their hearts melting into bittersweet tenderness at the fragility of memories that dissolved as swiftly as the fading notes.

Vermilion Strings School—it was around that time such a name was chosen.
Who could know how many varied names might have been considered before "Vermilion Strings" settled into permanence?
Several pages of my large book may have been filled with phrases I had extracted from ancient verses—those that caught my eye and lingered in my heart—then carefully jotted down.

I may have written this before—how she somewhat resembled Akashi no Ue from *The Tale of Genji*. In temperament as well as being a koto virtuoso who would never deign to play of her own accord. Moreover, while her features may not have been superior, in terms of her character appearing to surpass others—I had indeed said such things to her before. She, too, was not entirely displeased by that evaluation. And moreover, both her tastes and her spirit were of the Heian period. I, advocating for reaching further back into antiquity to achieve something far newer than today—though this often led to discrepancies—saw "Vermilion Strings" settled upon nonetheless. All of her disciples decided to employ vermilion strings—thirteen crimson cords for their kotos.

“Are you resolved?”
Though not phrased so bluntly, I would occasionally caution her—whose life held too much comfort—against the wary tendency toward avoidance, insisting one must retreat no further.
But even amidst people lacking artistic conscience who were not so intensely driven, there grew unease as she found her footing and began to move forward.
The joy of those on the traditional side lay in the lady’s art that caused no trouble—there was also an aspect where simply being recognized as a master sufficed.
Moreover, some had come to consider it most noble to cherish her excessively—like a treasured tea caddy kept in its box—and rarely let her be seen in public.

She would often say to me regarding Mr. Komura—who along with his young wife grew vexed over material concerns—in this manner:

“If Mr. Komura were to lose his sight, what heights of mastery might he attain.”

To this I immediately—
"If Hamako's household were to lose its wealth," I thought, "one could only imagine how much more remarkable this person might become."

It was around that time.

Ichikawa Ennosuke was approached with a proposal to stage a new dance-drama titled *Insect* at the Meiji-za Theater using shakuhachi and koto.
“Considering our work on *Ephemeral Blossoms*,” he said, “I wish to entrust the koto to Hamako.”

Oh yes!

When happy and lighthearted, I would often say such things. I also wanted Ennosuke to dance splendidly. Moreover, that they sought to use in the theater a koto as the principal instrument—one exuding artistic fragrance, free of so-called bustling spectacle, truly favoring simplicity over intricacy, allowing each string's tone to resonate clearly at a measured tempo—made one realize how profoundly this must have impressed the theater stakeholders. I believed this presented an exceptional opportunity to make true koto music widely recognized. Yet upon calm reflection, I concluded that while a work titled *Insect* might naturally foreground the shakuhachi, relying solely on it would prove unsustainable; thus even after conceding certain passages, we would ultimately center the koto.

Ennosuke was also well aware of these circumstances.

“Since we are requesting Ms. Hamako’s participation, we shall never treat her artistry—nor her person—as mere entertainer fare.”
“Given Ms. Hamako’s gracious involvement through goodwill alone, *Insect* shall be designated a separate program entry, with a specially prepared statement regarding her performance conditions.”
“From our theater company’s side too, we will arrange distinct musician seating to prevent any discourtesy whatsoever.”
“Should even these measures prove inadequate, we would consider it sufficient if she might simply compose for us.”

I felt gladdened by Ennosuke’s sincerity.
To have advanced matters that far and pushed through his demands required no small measure of sincerity.

“Now then, Ms. Hamako—whether we compose for you or not—your performance remains a secondary matter.”

“Now then, Ms. Hamako—whether we compose for you or not—your performance is a secondary matter,” I said sternly.

Because I believed that initiating matters at this scale would serve as decisive surgery—or rather, a critical operation—against those attempting to confine her to amateurish artistry, treating it as a cherished tumor requiring excision.

In any case, that rehearsal space and meeting venue had to be established. Since I was spending less time at my Tsukudajima residence and had come to stay at the house on Tsurumi Hill where my mother now lived—and since Tsukudajima had grown inconvenient for comings and goings—I decided to borrow the front hall of a mansion in Koishikawa owned by Hamabubushi Ko, an old close friend of Hamako’s and a member of the Vermilion Strings School. This woman lived alone in solitary isolation within the sprawling estate—her father having passed away after serving at the Board of Audit, and her younger brother, the family heir, being stationed in the provinces due to official duties—and had been known in her youth for poetry and renowned calligraphy.

When speaking of the Vermilion Strings School's disciples at that time, they were all koto aesthetes closest to Hamako—those most intimate with her artistry.
Through their tight-knit bonds they formed a protective barrier around her craft—far from seeking to steal their master’s art—revering it instead as something too sublime for transmission.
This Ms. Hamabubushi Ko—who had counted scholars like Mr. Katakami Noburu among her friends since youth—stood as Hamako’s intellectual companion.
When she stayed overnight for koto practice in Yokohama—they would laugh about arranging their futons in an L-shape.
In her maiden years Ms. Setsuko had required at least one and a half tan of fabric for her long sleeves due to her towering stature; Hamako possessed a slender frame that could never quite reach ten kan in weight.
My younger sister Haruko too had been a live-in disciple—learning cooking from Hamako’s mother while receiving koto instruction from Hamako herself.

In her youth, when made to note spring fish like Spanish mackerel and flounder in a notebook—adding “Returning via the six o’clock train today,” stamping it with her seal, and sending it off—Hamako’s mother would beam with satisfaction,

“What a sweet, demure child she is.”

At this, Hamako—

“How long will that sly cat keep up the act?”

—laughed.
It was when Haruko too had come of age and grown sturdy that the gathering to compose *Insect* took place.

Before the golden screen, on a rosewood stand, an antique bronze cylindrical vase held early summer chrysanthemums—their white blooms and verdant leaves glistening with moisture.
Beneath the deep eaves, young leaves sprouted—it was the season when the sky appeared clear through the branches.
Several kotos lay upon a fine felt carpet.
Ennosuke was dressed in a black formal haori adorned with family crests and hakama trousers.

“Thank you for granting me your audience, Ms. Hagiwara.”

He placed his hands on the floor in a deep bow.
Hamako returned the bow with equal formality.

Therefore, I believed no upheaval could break this promise. Yet Haruko, arriving late, paced furiously about the room spitting in disgust. After Ennosuke departed, the shakuhachi player lingered; when he too left, she tearfully denounced this defilement of Hamako's art through eloquent admonishments.

This likely voiced—through Haruko—the collective sentiment surrounding Hamako. The subsequent letter from Hamako confirmed as much. While not unreasonable, I deemed it naive presumption born of sheltered idealism. My thoughts turned to young Ennosuke's righteous indignation. With unconsolable remorse, I offered apology—then declared severance with Hamako, assuming full blame for breaching our accord.

Ennosuke’s reply entreated that I not sever ties with our longstanding friend on account of this humble one.

I had always maintained that within koto repertoire, “Nasuno” could become a dance piece without requiring any modifications—remaining exactly as composed.
Thus when the late Onoe Eizaburō and Ichikawa Danjūrō established the Tōkage-kai society, they staged it in Hamako’s regional domain.
From an ancient burial mound where even sparse pampas grass struggled to grow emerged Tamamo-no-Mae—clad in immaculate white robes and pale yellow hakama so elongated they suggested nine tails—a spectacle that garnered such acclaim that later, when Kikugorō sought to produce it at the Kabuki-za Theater, they fervently petitioned Hamako of Vermilion Strings School to provide the foundational koto accompaniment. Though Hamako shared their aspirations, this vision ultimately went unrealized.

In any case, the advancement of koto music into the theatrical world began with Vermilion Strings School’s Hamako.

＊

In 1916, the aftermath of the World War sent tremors through our nation’s economic sphere.
Nozawaya, a silk merchant since Yokohama’s opening, succumbed to a bank run at the 74th Bank and ultimately went bankrupt.

At Hamako’s household, as the family head Mr. Kenzo had been raised from childhood within Nozawaya’s establishment, he did not employ strategies like other executives from separate silk-trading companies; consequently, the inherited assets became equivalent to having been returned to the business as unpaid labor, leaving the deposits untouched.
Moreover, given how Hamako’s father Heihachi had enriched the store over his long tenure as manager, a substantial retirement allowance was to be allocated. Yet with his death followed by the successive deaths of two generations of the main household’s masters, what had remained unsettled now ended up unclaimed entirely.

“We’re hardly wealthy—that’s a mistake—but somehow or other, the possessions do remain.”

Hamako had said this, but though famous local products and artworks were not particularly abundant, there were so many imported goods acquired during Yokohama’s opening that one might forget their existence.
There were also many fine cut glass jars.
Old Western liquor bottles rolled beneath the storehouse eaves, while the long chests stood packed tight with silk wadding from Shinano—used instead of interleaving paper—and several rolls of Oshima kasuri fabric bearing identical patterns lay forgotten within, still tightly wound.

“I wonder if I ever showed you... the Kōrin-style maki-e tiered box.”

When she said this, Mr. Kenzo—though already twenty-five—responded as if to say he hadn’t seen such a thing either.

It was a house where hard charcoal had been packed beneath both the storehouse’s foundation and the residence to prevent moisture—a dwelling in which Hamako’s father had left behind meticulous construction, complete with iron rods embedded within the walls, so that throughout her lifetime, no matter what occurred, the home would never require renovations.
All of them were completely lost in the Taisho 12 conflagration (1923).

“Even when things like foreign insurance policies or items held in foreign banks had become untraceable on our end, they would occasionally send notifications from their side,” she said. “Though we had lost everything—having fled with only our lives, even picking up sandals on the road for Mother to wear—once order was restored, that person could still manage to live in relative tranquility compared to us.”

“With the shop ending up like that and it being better not to remain in Yokohama, I was considering selling the house to move to Tokyo when—”

The residence had been lost to the earthquake fires.
She said her excessive caution had been her undoing.
Each and every koto, deeply etched with memories, had been reduced to ashes—but an unexpected joy came when a visitor from Terashima (of the Kikugorō family) in Shiba, who had brought clothing as relief supplies, reported that while their corner storehouse had burned, the main house and rear storehouse remained intact, and the koto they had entrusted there was safe.

“Oh! ‘Wakakusa’ is—”
She could hardly suppress the impulse to immediately touch the strings of the koto ‘Wakakusa’.

A few days later, the Hagiwara family was staying at the home of Shimazu Haruko Toji in Kanagawa-dai. She too had been a long-standing elder friend. They then settled at the residence of Hamabubushi Ko in Koishikawa.

This relocation was facilitated by Mrs. Miyata—daughter of their associate Mr. Shoda of Mitsubishi—who constructed a house on the neighboring plot to the Ushigome-Yonchome estate and arranged for the Vermilion Strings School’s nameplate to be displayed. When I escorted Hamako to the Literary Arts Society within Professor Tsubouchi’s compound—where a Raijin tree stood directly inside the gate—and noted how this tree grew right beside the residence’s entrance, she delighted in what seemed no small marvel of fate.

At that time, Professor Tsubouchi’s residence had been built on the site where the Literary Arts Society once stood, while the Shoda family had purchased the old dwelling, garden, and fields; new lanes had been laid out, but between the professor’s home and the Vermilion Strings School remained a vacant lot where two or three large trees still stood.
Around those trees, Hagiwara Hamako encountered Professor Tsubouchi.

She had aged considerably and, having experienced the earthquake disaster, her spirit had matured, so

“I am Hagiwara Hamako, who had the honor of composing ‘Urashima’ at the Kyōgen-za Theater,” she began introducing herself.

“I’ve encountered such a remarkable person.”

At this, the elderly Professor Tsubouchi was said to have been greatly delighted. Their conversation must have been endless; afterward, when her mother expressed wanting to present him with red bean rice made from chestnuts—gathered from Venerable Doryo’s mountain in Odawara, delivered annually as was customary—she brought it along and conversed with him, doing so with profound emotion.

For Kikugorō's disciples' "Kikuyō-kai," she composed music for "Autumn" from Ms. Kujō Takeko's Four Seasons series—capturing with precision the essence of that famous Tang poem: *A single moon over Chang’an, The sound of ten thousand households pounding cloth…*—and thus crafted a cohesive masterpiece rich in scenic imagery.
Since "Insect," I had kept my distance from her compositions, but when asked to come hear how "Autumn" had turned out, I was pleased to find it executed splendidly.

In recent years, she had performed almost exclusively at Takahashi Motoko (Fujima Kanso-ga)'s Motome-kai Dance Society while composing.
Motoko's mother and sisters were also Hamako's friends.
Motoko too had been a disciple at the Vermilion Strings School, and Hamako's diaries from her later years even referred to her as a lover. Yet as these growing individuals could not remain forever her cherished disciples—her beloved dolls—days of discontent continued for Hamako unabated. Then after seeing off Professor Tsubouchi's coffin, her elderly mother—who for over fifty years had never left her side for a single day—passed away peacefully, truly peacefully, one early morning while washing her face and calling out to her daughter who was leaving the sickbed:

“If you don’t throw on a haori, you’ll be cold.”

While tending to her, she passed away peacefully, thus concluding her life alongside her daughter.

The Hamako from then on—the Hamako who seemed lonely—the Hamako who came saying she wanted to hold a celebration next year, as it would mark fifty years since she began playing the koto.
When I visited during a lull, she would lead me upstairs to a small writing desk surrounded by numerous kotos and say—

“Coming up here to compose is my sole pleasure; it makes me feel alive.”

Her research into ancient music, Western music, and even academic studies appeared to be growing ever deeper.
I must present her with a magnificent composition and rekindle the sunken lamp of her heart—

Seeing the eyes that had thought such thoughts, she happily took out a koto strung with blue strings.

“This is the koto crafted by Kanai Noto no Kami that I spoke of before.”

The koto—only its top had been lightly scorched in the earthquake disaster—was likely sold by an owner unaware of its status as a masterpiece; upon acquiring and carefully examining it, they found an inscription at the center of its body.

“There are records stating only two instruments crafted by Noto no Kami remain, so this here is one of them. Fortunately, the celestial carvings remain intact. Though the scorched areas only show wave patterns, those waves aren’t carved—they’re all made from thin planks fitted together.”

The intricate wave patterns of that craftsmanship completely surrounded the koto’s edge.
She bestowed upon this koto the name "Seigaiha" and strung it with blue strings.

“With this koto, I intend to play at my fiftieth anniversary celebration.
Mr. Komura (Nachi Toshinobu) had broadcast this very koto as well—he held a concert at Akasaka Sankaidō Hall, explained about this instrument, and said he would write it all into a scroll to send me, but it ended up remaining unfinished—”

After moving to Kyoto, Mr. Komura shifted his focus to painting and changed his name to Nachi Toshinobu.
He must have been thorough in his research on this antique koto's history as well, but more than that, I found myself harboring an inexplicable sense of foreboding.
Mr. Komura passed away not long after.

While I sought to select a fine composition to once more elevate her profound true artistry in the Yatsuhashi-ryū tradition she upheld in Kantō—preparing to celebrate her fifty years of koto performance—she too hurriedly departed this world, as though summoned by her deceased mother.

One day when confined to her sickbed upon waking—she said:

“Mother came and told me to drink milk while soothing me.”

She had dreamed of reverting to infancy and sleeping cradled in her mother’s bosom—and soon afterward, she passed away.

When I see Mr. Kenzo remaining solitary at the Vermilion Strings School’s house with its nameplate—keeping watch over the commemorative koto and sword—I recall how she, as a daughter, would send me poetry diaries daily during my time in Mutsu’s mountain hamlets, and how one day she enclosed early bush clover blossoms with a photograph, writing: “This man—my late father had intended him as an adopted son—”

“If it was something your late father had planned for your sake, then surely he will take good care of you all.”

I distinctly remember responding that way, and now I can only watch sorrowfully over the solitary shadow of the white-haired figure.
Despite Hamako’s frail health, he served and cared for her devotedly, without their relationship ever becoming marital.

Before her death, she is said to have uttered these words.

“When we go to Osaka for the performance next time, I’ll make the plans, and we’ll take a Yamato tour.”

As an adopted son, this must have been his expression of gratitude for her long years of service.
Even after she became unable to stand, he wrote "Meal" in large letters on the shoji screens being replaced, added "Sake and Appetizers Available," and drew a comical face with *hehenonomoheji*.
That he had to precede her in death without fulfilling their planned comforting trip—he had likely been apologizing for this in such a clumsy way.