Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

On the dusk of January 5, Taisho 8, I came from my suburban home to the heart of Ushigome. Over those one or two days, a dark shroud had settled over my heart. With a trudging spirit like the shadow of dusk’s loneliness, I had carried my body here, filled with what one might call the thorns of life and the poignancy of sorrow. In Ushigome, where the lamps had not yet been lit, a group of three or five young literary comrades were gathered around the host of the humble abode in conversation, and before I had even taken my seat, someone—

“Sumako has died.”

And they presented the evening paper.
I nearly collapsed where I stood.
Because I was by the wall, I managed to steady myself.
What saved me most was how dusk had seeped through the room—no one could see the color drain from my face.
There I was, believing death to be a mercy—as though someone had shoved past me through death’s gaping gate—and yet I felt no hesitation at all.

“She really did it, didn’t she?”

I answered reflexively.
Everyone sat in dismay, staring at the red charcoal in the brazier through the dim light.

“But aren’t those who can truly die happy after all? Even Ms. Sumako… because it was Professor Shimamura…”

Because I thought my way of speaking had been somewhat presumptuous, I cut myself off halfway.
I had thought, even without hearing what the cause of Sumako’s suicide was, that it was something that didn’t need to be asked.

“If she had truly loved art, she wouldn’t have been driven to die… One would think she could have resolved things without dying.”
“Since they say she had assets, it would’ve been better if she’d gone abroad or something.”

When the lights came on, as I looked at the unremarkable dark face of the person who had said that, I thought: This person doesn’t understand love.
Ms. Sumako, who was single-minded and seemed quite self-absorbed, was someone who put in effort; that driving force was intensely fierce, and she must have found it unbearable unless she settled on either life or death.

“Anyway, she died well.”
“One can argue right and wrong, but those who die need not consider the praise or blame that comes after.”

There were also those who said such things.
There was also a poet who, upon hearing the news of her death over the telephone, became agitated and went outside, but no matter where he went, he couldn’t settle down, and he fidgeted restlessly.
However, since they all had some understanding, it was not discussed as much as during the Yoshikawa Kanako incident.

“The fact that Mr. Shimamura was an admirable person will surely become known to the world as well.”
“It must have become clear even to Sumako.”

Such things were repeated over and over.
Truly, she must have clung to Professor Shimamura’s vast bosom of love and followed after him, longing to be embraced—and for my part, I found her state of heart so touchingly pitiable that it brought tears to my eyes.
Even after the group had left, I remained heavily by the brazier.
The anguish of living—she too must have known it deeply.
As I considered how her honest, vulnerable heart must have fretted under the multitude of petty vexations that surrounded her—how she must have grown unbearably nostalgic for the days they had shared—I contemplated the loneliness and lament known only to those left behind, until sympathy itself came circling back to rest upon my own heart.

When I had gone to pay my respects at Mr. Hogetsu’s wake as well—though the moon had waned, I noted it was the same hour as tonight—I became self-conscious about having coincidentally worn the same crested haori and thus passed through the gate of the Art Club.
Guided by Mr. Akita, I went to the second floor of the inner residence.
At the time of Mr. Hogetsu’s wake, all the prominent members of the Art Theatre had gone to the Meiji-za, so one of the troupe members,

“When Matsui returns, I will convey your message.”

I paid my respects at his wake; yet with her absence making it desolate.
While thinking it was like a dream that she would now become the one mourned for a sudden death, I was guided.
I could also see all the faces of the people from the script department that had been dissolved last December.
Everyone was unsettled, and the air was somehow charged with tension.

When I approached the living room’s front, the cedar door stood tightly shut.
Inside they were taking a death mask.
The adjacent room too held many people.
In what appeared to be an antechamber up front, Mr.Guren-dō held forth with fervent energy.
When the cedar door cracked open from within and a call came for hot water, a troupe member descended carrying a purple Seto-glazed kettle.
At the request for a washbasin, the maid who’d been assisting nearby faltered—“We used one during the Professor’s time, there’s only left”—then someone emerged from the room bearing a basin brimming with water to hand over.

(That person’s corpse lay just beyond this single cedar door.)

As I stood there with a tensed spirit, I felt the base of my skull turn cold, as though blood were draining downward through my body.
Mr. Kusuyama—he of the rumored troublesome complications—drew near, but—

“I think she needn’t have died…” he said, then diverted the topic: “It must be quite trying returning to the suburbs now.”

The middle-aged maid who had been muttering about the washbasin was squatting outside the cedar door when Mr. Akita seemed to notice something.

“Shouldn’t we put something in the coffin? Things she liked or cherished… We mustn’t forget.”

And yet, without giving it proper thought,

“Since she’s already been dressed in a yukata, we should put the Buddhist death robe over it.”
“Things like watches and rings ought to be removed instead.”
“Given the sort of person she was.”
“When Professor Shimamura passed, they placed apples and bananas inside his coffin because he liked them.”
“So it would be fitting to add a few mandarins for her as well.”

She was saying such careless things.

While her simplicity might have been ordinary for her, I was infuriated by such discourtesy in burying someone who had been a legendary actress of her generation—a woman still young and beautiful, the celebrated protagonist of high-profile romances who had lived for love and departed yearning for those days. That they had consulted such a woman made me resent even Mr. Akita. The dead woman had been an unpoetic person, yet had she not left this world beautifully made up in her final moments? I wanted to dress her in her finest ceremonial robes. If there were mementos, I wanted to stuff every gap in her coffin with something like a wedding night gown and all available flowers. I also thought it would be better to dismantle the wreaths arriving from various places and scatter their blossoms over her corpse rather than arranging them before it.

(Things that shouldn’t be mentioned by someone not even a close relative.)

At that thought, a deathly face—vividly real yet bearing no trace of anguish—seemed to materialize before my eyes.
In the dark, cold stillness of dawn, at a moment unnoticed by anyone, I imagined the instant of her death—like winter peony petals scattering from an alcove arrangement—and finding myself unable to endure looking upon that face any longer, I took my leave.

Mr. Akita walked with me to the entrance while explaining,
“She brought a desk and chair from over there, you see, and hanged herself with a red cord.”
“They say she properly kicked the chair away—holding her breath with lips sealed tight—a clean and unusual way to die.”

Although it was customary to avoid being seen off on such occasions, I found myself escorted out while still conversing.

As I walked down the road, I began recalling my encounters with her.
We had rarely met offstage, yet whenever we did, she would stare at me with those wide, pigeon-like eyes of guileless wonder.
This remained true whether during her student days at the Literary Arts Association or after she had risen to become the Art Theatre’s queen and the foremost actress of her generation.
When Sadayakko similarly summoned me during her retirement performance—though clad in an unfashionable costume—she presented herself as a dignified wife devoid of pretense.
Ms. Tamura Toshiko,

“Why don’t you greet me?”
“You just keep staring at my face without saying a word.”
“Do you even know or not?”

Even after saying this, she still fixed those round eyes on me—eyes utterly unlike her stage presence, lifelessly innocent—and remained silent; then, at some wholly unexpected moment, tilted her head slightly and gave a nod that served as both greeting and apology.
This left me with an intensely favorable impression.
I thought she was a woman with endearing qualities.

My own affairs and Sumako’s incident had merged into one, and even when I looked at the newspaper, the backs of my eyes burned as if on fire.
The photograph from *Carmen* said to have been taken seven hours before her death showed her in one of her most beautiful costumes, yet to the discerning eye, a shadow of loneliness lay heavily within her gaze.
For some reason, at that very moment, she had resisted having her photograph taken and cried—a reaction everyone simply attributed to her usual selfishness—and since none knew she was resolved to die, they insisted with remarks like “Don’t say such things,” forcing her to pose. Thus it became a rare keepsake photograph taken just before her death.
Surely, her eyes must have burned with pain.

The day after Professor Shimamura’s passing, Sumako had taken on the role of the madwoman in *Green Morning* at the Meiji-za Theatre; while a photograph of her wailing onstage during that time possessed a haunting beauty, to display such composed serenity mere hours before her death was something only a warrior could achieve.
I think Sumako was a warrior of life.

The group for Sumako—requested by the former Art Theatre script department with the intent to celebrate and invigorate the journey of this woman slipping from everyone’s grasp—was supposed to be held on Nanakusa no Hi.
But it can no longer be witnessed.
The fact that the queen of the troupe would die by hanging with a tranquil heart amidst a continuous run of sold-out plays was an unforeseen event that no one could have predicted, and years later, centuries later, it shall surely be recounted as a beautiful, beautiful legend.

On that final night, it was said that Sumako—uncharacteristically for her—had mixed up her lines and forgotten them, leaving her fellow actors flustered; such things had never occurred before.
There were those who marveled at how her tongue seemed tied, making speech difficult.
That she remained in her Carmen costume and lingered hunched in the hallway suggested she could no longer bear to stay in the room.
And though the moment when José was to stab her drew near, she somehow appeared to welcome being killed—a departure from her role, they said.

According to someone within the troupe, ever since parting with Professor Shimamura, the vitality of her performances had weakened, and she no longer seemed suited to her previous roles. In particular, they said that this Carmen role—a wandering woman with an exceptionally strong-willed character that should have been perfectly suited to her—lacked vitality.

Several days before her death,

“You must think more seriously about life.”

When she was told this,

“I’ll show you true seriousness before long.”

she answered.
She might already have been contemplating death by that time.
They say Carmen’s singing pitch was too low for the music, but how pitiful that she had no friend to whom she could let slip even a drop of those feelings.

If one were to hear about it afterward, there were indeed many deviations from the norm.
Even if not Professor Shimamura, had there been a blood relative or female friend who loved her, they would not have overlooked those signs.
They must have been attentive to any abnormalities.
Not only had she cried before having her photograph taken, not only had she stood alone in the corridor gazing at the floor, but that day she had also spoken very little.
Although tempura rice bowls had been sent for dinner to everyone in the dressing room, Sumako—despite it being her favorite—did not touch them, saying she had no desire for them.
Even after returning home, she did not eat.
Because it would get cold when returning late at night, it had been her custom to boil about half a kin of beef and eat it.
She did not even eat that.
After midnight, she would whisper-sob before the Buddhist altar enshrining Professor Shimamura—a daily occurrence since his passing—and the suicide note was finalized around four o’clock.

On the morning of her final day, it is said she stared at the washstand, lost in thought—for during his lifetime, Mr. Hogetsu had been fond of handiwork; whenever he had a plank or two, he would start some carpentry and take pride in it.
The washstand too was one of his proud handcrafted pieces.
Every morning when washing her face, she would stare intently at it; but on this occasion too, as she remained standing there endlessly, the maid—fearing she might catch a chill—approached to caution her. Startled, she began brushing her teeth.
And the next morning, she moved chairs and tables to the newly built storage room next door.
In the adjacent kitchen, the maid had begun lighting the fire, it is said.
She had likely finished writing the four suicide notes addressed to Dr. Tsubouchi, Mr. Iharu Seiseien, and two relatives near dawn.
After rousing the person sleeping in the downstairs office and instructing them to deliver the letters to their recipients at six o'clock, she set about preparing for her final journey to follow her deceased mentor and lover.

She applied her makeup beautifully.
She changed into her Oshima formal kimono, layered a crested haori over it, fastened a light blue satin maru obi around her waist, put on a watch, slipped on a ring, and—now fully dressed for going out—took her place at the final scene.
The crimson silk crepe waist sash would be tied smoothly, swiftly, easily—she seemed to know this well.

That person was strange—if she got into an argument with someone from the association, she’d hurl the rice tub and end up covered in grains. Her house was below the embankment by the moat, where there was a prohibition sign forbidding climbing up, yet she’d deliberately dash up just when the police were making their rounds. I heard these things back when she was a student at the Literary Arts Association.
Soon after, during a rehearsal for a dance drama, when I was visiting the dressing room where Dr. Tsubouchi was present, there came a loud thudding noise nearby, followed by a booming voice.
Wondering what it was,

“It’s Ms. Masako rehearsing her lines.”

As if explaining, the person nearby said, but the booming voice that paid no heed to its surroundings was so startling that, to speak unkindly, it was as if we’d walked into a lunatic asylum.

Amidst this recent commotion, we were able to hear various impressions from those involved; according to accounts by Mr. Ueyama Sōjin—now heading the Modern Theatre Association after becoming an actor alongside her—and his wife Ms. Yamakawa Uroji, a fellow student from the same association, even during their student days Sumako had been like an incarnation of effort: grabbing any script she could get her hands on to recite lines in a booming voice or read aloud, dancing without a moment’s rest regardless of whether partners were available, and yanking the cords of male students’ haori coats as they warmed themselves by the brazier to drag them onto the stage as acting partners.

When that person grew exhausted, she would drag out someone else and make them perform.

When everyone refused, she would end up performing even Ophelia, Hamlet, or the Gravedigger all by herself.

It was said to be a frenzied enthusiasm where she would memorize the entire play’s lines even if they weren’t her own role.

During her student days—heedless of appearances yet mingling among graduates of higher girls’ schools and Waseda University, those aspiring to become new-era high-class actresses—she would pull burdock and carrots bought from the greengrocer from under her apron, place them on the table while declaring “This is our side dish,” then fiddle with the vegetables as she devoured magazines; or on the way home with other students, she’d stop at stewed bean shops to have meager purchases wrapped in bamboo sheaths, tucking them under her apron with a carefree “This’ll do for tomorrow’s side dish too”; or hearing that eating natto without soy sauce improved one’s voice, she consumed nothing but that daily until the drying area serving as her kitchen in her rented second-floor room amassed natto husks piled like rice sheaves—later used as kindling; or as graduation approached and all-day rehearsals ran from morning till night, while others unpacked their lunchboxes, she’d pull still-smoking taiyaki from her sleeve to wolf down before launching solo into practice—such were the various anecdotes one hears with an amused smile.

“When Sumako went on tour to the provinces, she even took charge of preparing boxed lunches for the entire troupe, they say.”
“Thirteen sen and five rin per portion, apparently.”
“But it’s not a lie—a trustworthy person told me.”
“So she went all out making them herself—those forced to help were completely exhausted.”
“Do you think everyone ate well?”
“Well, since most found them awful and refused, she profited handsomely.”
“After all, handling provisions herself meant she managed freely—the Art Theatre covered the catering funds.”
“Really, it just meant diverting part of the Art Theatre’s profits straight to actress Sumako.”
“And guess what the side dish was? Simmered fried tofu day after day.”

A friend who had since gone abroad spoke.
We laughed, saying “No way!” But one night, someone who had dropped by after visiting the Art Club’s living room remarked,

“The Professor was in an exceptionally good mood.
They urged me to join them for a drink since they were about to pour, but when I assumed it was because Ms. Sumako had the teapot, they were actually using it to warm sake and exchange cups.”

They shared stories of Sumako’s indifference to trivialities.
The conversation then turned to how the Art Theatre’s prospects had brightened—their recent provincial tour had succeeded, and with Shochiku handling productions henceforth, all such worries would disappear.

“Because this regional tour succeeded and Mr. Shimamura found some relief, when the troupe’s accounting was in trouble and he proposed to repay the money borrowed from Ms. Sumako using the telephone as collateral, she refused, saying that since telephones had increased in value since that time, what was owed then wouldn’t suffice now—so they abandoned the matter and left it unresolved,” they said.
When I dismissed it as utterly baseless,

“It really is true, I tell you.”
“Professor Shimamura was poor—that is to say, while the Art Theatre struggled financially, Ms. Sumako had been amassing her own fortune.”
“A substantial one at that.”

they insisted vehemently.
She was the very embodiment of "relentless striving and self-mastery."

II

Her passion—so single-minded it bordered on arrogance—that person’s vital force broke through whatever lay before them with unstoppable vigor, pouring fresh hot blood into the soul of a cool-headed scholar, reviving youthful blood in frozen viscera, ceaselessly igniting fierce flames from beside them.
She was a person who could not feel at ease unless she had seized complete control.
To achieve this, she disregarded both pretense and ridicule.
For that purpose, she did not care what difficult position Mr. Hogetsu might be in.
Her nature was a blazing fire, a fiery temper.
When meeting her, the impression of her face showed not a trace of complexity or depth.
During her time as a student at the Literary Arts Association’s School of Dramatic Arts, she showed Ms. Yamakawa Uroji a crumpled English book and,

“I threw a tantrum during my English lesson and hurled the book.”
“I had him teach me because I couldn’t do it myself, but then my husband would say that no matter how much he tried to teach me, I just didn’t get it.”

She apparently said.
It is said that even after she began living with Mr. Hogetsu, fierce conflicts erupted from time to time.
When facing each other, they would inevitably end up arguing about something.
When a slap came to her cheek, she would raise her hand without backing down.
At first glance, such things might sound like they’re on bad terms, but it can’t be said that a household that doesn’t even quarrel is necessarily peaceful and happy.
After fierce conflicts, one could say that understanding and a warm embrace awaited.

“If only the wife had been a bit more—if she could have been kind like Dr. Tsubouchi’s wife and looked out for things…”

Sumako, in voicing this, might have been self-absorbed.
Yet Sumako herself remained utterly incapable of such consideration toward others. Whether rumor or truth, there came an instance when she sent a letter to Professor Hogetsu’s daughters declaring, “From now on you must regard me as your mother.” While her confidence and courage—when excessive—turned to the recklessness of a wild boar, these derailments too sprang from single-minded naivete.
I once revered that person’s artistry for its vitality and power, yet found myself troubled by its coarseness.
With emotions so crude, I had felt certain there must exist another actress alongside her—one endowed with delicate sensibilities, a poetic performer who could move people through musical undulations.
That untempered spoiled child—one might call such willfulness modern—yet none could deny that a woman who reveled in noble bearing and romantic grace equally bore modernity’s stamp.

Charging forward single-mindedly, she discovered for the first time the wall she had collided with.
When she had pushed aside walls by sheer force, those that had naturally opened into deeper realms—walls that had seemed like flimsy curtains offering no resistance—now towered imposingly as cliffs and repelled her.
She awakened for the first time and, with slender hands, tried striking the iron-hard, cold, heavy wall.
And the echo resounded coldly; the wall roared, "Do as you please!"
At that moment, the expansive heart that had housed her was gone.
At the moment she profoundly realized the unfathomable passion of her lover, she had to recall the great character that resided there.

Arrogant performances—their middles were the most intense.
Especially during curtain calls, there were times when they could not avoid accusations of audacity, and even watching them was a nerve-wracking experience.
Her attitude was unmistakably clear—as if declaring that subservience to the queen was only natural.
She had tried to carry through with that until the very end—but something had deterred her spirit.
Because of her single-mindedness, the depths of despair were profound.

The fact that she had become remarkably amiable toward others was something I had heard of quite some time prior, and there was an instance during Mr. Hogetsu’s wake when someone, while standing, poked Sakamoto Guren-dō’s back with their knee.
It being the middle of the night in early winter, Mr. Guren was in high spirits from having drunk something warming,

“Who is it?”

When he turned sharply to look, Sumako stood there with her head slightly bowed, gazing downward.

“Move aside, won’t you?”

She said she wanted to take that seat.
Since it was at the rear of the lowest-ranked seats, she concluded it would be better to remain by the coffin after all—

“But that woman keeps staring daggers at me, you see.”

She pointed toward Shimamura’s widow.
Though selfish by nature, there lingered in her a certain meekness—a heart that instinctively sought to withdraw.

Yet when Mr. Shimamura’s daughters came to the Art Theatre to collect their living stipend, she showed them no kindness.
They say she turned them away like unwelcome petitioners at the gate, and that at her former residence she had kept the lattice doors firmly shut, even attempting once to douse them with water.
This should likely be seen as a period when she had lost some measure of mental equilibrium.
Otherwise, no matter how skillfully mediators might have arranged matters, after Mr. Hogetsu’s death she would never have willingly apportioned seven thousand yen for the widow and bereaved children—nor surrendered even the purchased cemetery plot to the Shimamura family.

“I too will be buried in this cemetery.”

It is said she made this remark during discussions about the cemetery.
Even after handing it over to the Shimamura family, since she herself had purchased it and buried the remains of her cherished Professor there, she likely still felt it was hers.
Yet perhaps due to lingering unease, she muttered about buying the vacant lot behind the adjacent land.
But no one could have guessed that even then, in the depths of Sumako’s heart, she had already contemplated death.

It was even thought that Mr. Hogetsu had been stripped of everything for Sumako’s sake, but a certain producer addressed her:

“If you want to make another fortune, you should prove it by parting with Hogetsu-san. If your popularity surges, money will pour in.”

—or so they say.
Money, money, money… She who was derided as finding no joy beyond moneymaking abandoned without a backward glance the thirty thousand yen she had saved over ten years as an actress, hanged herself—and was it not cathartic to leave those very people speechless?

“When I heard she’d died, every resentment melted away—I could finally feel genuine warmth toward her.”
“It’s like… that marsh surface that stayed murky till last night? Woke this morning to find it crystal clear—so pure I half-believed I was dreaming.”
“When I confessed this feeling, Mr. N agreed wholeheartedly—‘Exactly,’ he said, ‘I felt precisely the same.’”

Mr. A, who had deep associations with both Mr. Hogetsu and Sumako, spoke.
Continuing his words,

“Through death, she purified her life.”

“There exists no death as natural-feeling as that person’s.”

“I should have been a little kinder to her.”

After the praise and being moved, following a prolonged silence, suddenly someone—

“But Matsui was quite detestable, wasn’t she?”

When uttered, those words shattered the silence of the gathering—and without critique being offered to that statement—

“That’s right.
“She really was a detestable person, wasn’t she?”

And just like the earlier praises, they were fired off repeatedly.
Those two words, with utterly different meanings—though they seemed unlikely to align—miraculously coincided in the case of Matsui Sumako,

(She died nobly, yet left behind thoroughly detestable memories.)

Was this not the sentiment harbored by nearly all who knew Sumako? These chance remarks were said to encapsulate her entire life.

That woman had always been one to settle into either anger or laughter, but as weeping grew more frequent in her final days, she would cycle through rage, mirth, and tears.

“The bond between Professor Shimamura and me was so strong because our work and love became one.”

and said,

“It’s only in these past two or three years that I’ve come to understand true family life, and the Professor seems truly content.”

That she, who had made such declarations, became prone to tears was only natural.
Rather, it was suspicious that any laughter remained at all.

To become earth with my lover beneath Green Morning’s soil,

Mr. Kawaraban Kuraki mourned with these words.

“Green Morning” was a work by Italian playwright D’Annunzio forming a sister piece with “Autumn Evening Dream,” translated by Mr. Osanai Kaoru. For reasons unknown, this *Green Morning* became entangled in various incidents. When first staged by the Ichimura-za troupe at the Imperial Theatre last summer, an unpleasant affair arose between a theater critic and Onoe Kikugorō—who played the deranged protagonist—due to some verbal misunderstanding, sparking controversy over whether to view Kikugorō’s performance at all. Mr. Osanai, not merely as translator but also in his capacity as drama advisor to Ichimura-za, could hardly remain composed amid such harsh criticism of the production.

Soon after, Western-style painter Mr. Koito Gentaro—responsible for stage design—infiltrated the Bunten exhibition venue at dawn and personally destroyed his submitted artwork, leading to reports he would abandon painting entirely. The malicious backstage gossips refrained from kind words; whenever trouble surfaced, they sneered, “Another *Green Morning*, eh?” It fell to Shochiku Company’s machinations to overturn this reputation.

Having finalized their acquisition of the Art Theatre, Shochiku made their opening gambit by summoning Sumako to Meiji-za, forming a troupe with vigorous old-school actors like Sarunosuke, Sumizō, and Nobuyasu, then launching with scripts notorious for past controversies.

Secondly, they decided to have Sumizō Nobuyasu perform Jun’ichirō Tanizaki’s novel *Oyan Goroshi* (The Killing of Oyan). This was the play that the Art Theatre had failed in at Shintomi-za. Sumako played Oyan, while Sawada Shōjirō’s portrayal of Shinsuke was poorly received, leading to Sawada’s prompt withdrawal from the troupe. They replaced it with *Green Morning*—a production now synonymous with phrases like “we’ll be cursed”—in the middle act, pairing Sumako with Sarunosuke. Naturally deviating from Kikugorō’s male protagonist interpretation, they reverted the role to its original female form for Sumako.

During rehearsals, Sumako had contracted the prevailing world flu.
When I lay bedridden with a severe case, Mr. A came to visit me and fretted over my inability to eat, remarking that though both Mr. Shimamura and Sumako were likewise confined to bed, they could still manage porridge—and with opening night imminent, the pair seemed consumed by anxiety.
Both had always been remarkably sturdy—so much that people marveled how Sumako retained vigor even when ill—yet Mr. Hogetsu, who ought to have been tending them, appeared to be faring poorly.
Having barely recovered in time for rehearsals, she went straight to the practice hall without sparing a moment to tend her mentor.

It was November 4th, a cold, rainy day. After giving detailed instructions—particularly to her—to the actors heading to stage rehearsals, Mr. Shimamura called for his student.

“I am apparently critically ill, so I will not meet anyone who comes.”

He declared a refusal of visitors.
He had not burdened those he sent out with any such concerns, but there had been a premonition of grave illness.
Being a man of deep reserve, he did not let his suffering show.
On the contrary, claiming he felt slightly better, he was assisted even to the toilet.
He managed to descend the ladder steps, but ascending proved excruciatingly painful, sending him into a fit of coughing; after lying down, he soon departed this world.

Unfortunately, the stage rehearsal for *Green Morning* that day had been scheduled last. Having spent their anxious hours waiting in vain for other rehearsals to end, the Art Theatre members were finally removing their costumes in the dressing room at 2 AM the following night when—

“Professor Shimamura is critically ill.”

—the message came.

They rushed back without a moment to gather themselves, but since Sumako was in her own rickshaw while the others took automobiles, those who arrived first were forced to wait for her return; she went upstairs sobbing, but when a piercing wail suddenly rang out, everyone rushed up after her.

She continued wailing—embracing the corpse, stroking it, pacing restlessly around it—

“Why did you die? Why did you die?”
“Even though you promised we’d die together!”

she said accusingly, and waved Mr. A’s hand about,

“What should I do? What should I do?”
she shouted and was on the verge of madness.
Since she absolutely refused to relent, demanding another injection, the doctor exhausted all means of explanation to make her understand.

“It’s too much, it’s too much.”
“Can’t you do something?”
“Please do something.”
“This is too cruel.”

She continued to sob hysterically.

III

In the letter that Sumako sent to the noblewoman in Kobe who had a patron,

I don’t know how many times I started writing letters, but my mind has gone strange, and I can only write incoherent things.
I wish to meet you once and let me shed all my pent-up tears.

Madam, there are none as wretched as actors.
There are none as wretched as those who must earn together.
I cannot afford to cry and must continue with the remaining work.
As soon as the current play ends, I wish I could fly to you and weep, but with work as it is, I wonder how it will turn out…

Madam, my radiance has faded.
The lamplight has been extinguished.
I now wander through darkness.
Madam, you must comprehend this.

"I delayed death through cowardice."
"But should I die now, let me be buried with Professor Shimamura."

She uttered these words with laughter, masking them in jest—and others took them lightly. Yet this "cowardice" spoke not of timidity, but of refusing to let death escape her grasp.
It was the dread of leaving behind life's shame or death's disgrace without securing fitting means.
Until achieving that clean, taskless death by hanging—the simplest exit—she had selected her method with what even she deemed cowardly precision.

What the troupe members recalled was that when *Hedda Gabler* had been proposed for that spring’s production, she had stubbornly refused, saying she absolutely wouldn’t do it. She refused, saying she hated only playing roles with such an intense character like Hedda’s. The way she opposed it at the time was so abnormal that even the script department members were taken aback, but looking back now, they say there must have been an unceasing struggle within her regarding carrying out her suicide. Hedda was a role who ultimately committed suicide with a pistol. Whether that was the reason or not, a little before that, she had searched for a pistol and found only the bullets,

“Where on earth did the Professor’s pistol go? No matter how much I search, it can’t be found. Someone hid it because they thought I’d kill myself!”

It’s said she muttered this.

Among those close to her, there existed the term “the weeping role.”
The room with a large mirror placed upon a table draped in blue cloth was her crying room.
When she was alone, she would look at the photograph of the deceased hanging on the wall—which reflected conveniently in the mirror—and weep.
If someone entered, she would seize upon them as an audience, speaking endlessly and sinking into grief; those who entered found it impossible to console her and began to avoid her, fearing they might become captive listeners.

The two adopted daughters, Katsuko and Wakako, were still just twelve and three years old, both having come from relatives in their hometown. There was also another girl who had played the role of the young youngest child when she had performed Nora in *A Doll's House* some time ago. They wondered if that might have been Matsui’s child—she looked so much like her—and when that girl also came to the funeral, the insiders said such things. However, there was no mention of that girl in the suicide note. There was only a request written to take good care of the two adopted daughters. Katsuko became the heir, but Sumako’s mother Oishi—a seventy-year-old woman—became their guardian, and a certain naval vice admiral related by marriage became their custodian. And once her seventh-day memorial service had concluded, they returned to her snow-covered homeland of Shinano Province. The remaining building—the Former Art Club—a commemorative structure where the two deceased had lived: what would become of it? They simply left it as it was and returned.

Her death mask was said to have been skillfully crafted with a few strands of hair still attached along the hairline, and it was remarked that her face looked lovelier than when she had been alive.

Speaking of her lovely face, there is a charming anecdote about her.
She once visited a certain person and was deeply concerned that her nose was too flat to become an actress.
Thereupon, a certain person spoke of knowing an actor who had received paraffin injections, saying that since such examples existed, she need not worry. When she then insisted on seeing that actor’s nose and was taken to do so, she finally felt relieved and later had the injections.

Regarding the nose problem, there is another amusing anecdote.
Ms. Sato (Tamura) Toshiko had once tried to become an actress at the Literary Arts Association.
Ms. Sato was thoroughly familiar with the stage, and having not long before performed in *Nami* (The Wave) at the Hongo-za to tremendous acclaim—a memory still fresh—her withdrawal could not have been mere caprice, yet for some reason she abandoned it.
One day, when someone brought up the matter and asked whether the rumor was false or true,

“There’s no lie about it.”
“I went because I intended to do it, but I ended up canceling it.”
“Because if I looked at Sumako’s nose—there’s just no point in a bunch of flat-nosed people getting together, you know?”

That Ms. Toshiko blurted it out plainly, but whether what was on the tip of her tongue matched what lay at the bottom of her heart—whether her words aligned with her true feelings—remained unclear.
Though it may have been mere conjecture to think that the perceptive Ms. Toshiko had discerned how difficult it would be to either surpass or yield to the tempestuous Sumako, there was a certain wit in how she dismissed it all as a matter of Sumako’s charmingly low nose.
What emotions would now stir in Ms. Toshiko, who had journeyed to America’s Bankōha to forge a new life, were news of her death to reach her?

When others offered condolences to Sumako’s elderly mother,

“Since she was already marked by Death, even if she hadn’t died this time, she would have died somewhere else eventually.”

It was said she declared with resignation.

Her hometown?
Such a mother's embrace!
Her first homecoming performance was likely in the role of Magda from Sudermann's *Magda*.
At that time, her fame burned so fiercely that a certain Diet member from the prefecture went so far as to declare—digressing wildly—that Shinano Province's great figures were Sakuma Shōzan and Matsui Sumako.
Yet Sumako's childhood had merely left her with the indelible impression that her hometown's mountains and rivers flowed with icy human sentiment.

Matsushiro, Hanishina District, Nagano Prefecture—Kiyono Village was the land where she was born. Her ancestors had been retainers of the Sanada clan, lords of Ueda Castle in Shinano Province; her deceased father, Kobayashi Tōta, was a samurai-class family member who had served until the Meiji Restoration. In one room of the Art Club, a battle helmet bearing the Nine Luminaries family crest was kept. Along with the collapse of the shogunate, her late father—having parted from both lord and stipend—went to Edo and became a townsman, but unaccustomed to samurai-class commerce, he squandered his wealth and returned to his ancestral home.

In Kiyono Village, Shinano Province, she—Kobayashi Masako—was born in December of Meiji 19 (1886), the youngest child among eight older brothers and sisters.
At six years old, she was taken in as an adopted daughter by the Hasegawa family, relatives in Ueda City.
From her elementary school days, she was spirited; a boy once swung a sickle at her, leaving a scar on her head.
When she turned sixteen, misfortune began to take root.
With her adoptive father’s death from illness, the family dispersed, and she was separated from her foster mother—a woman who had shown her more maternal affection than her birth mother ever had.
She was taken back to her birth family, and that autumn, she parted from her birth father as well.
Having lost two fathers within a short span, she refused to let herself be buried in that deep-grassed countryside.
It was April of Meiji 35 (1902) when she moved to Tokyo relying on her older sister—a time when haze drifted over her hometown’s snowy mountains while the capital basked in full spring, she herself then seventeen years old and of prime marriageable youth.

The house of the older sister she had relied upon was a confectionery shop called Fūgetsudō in Azabu Iikura. Thanks to her brother-in-law’s benevolence, she was able to stay at their house until her marriage; however, her sister and brother-in-law promptly set about refashioning the provincial girl Masako into a city maiden. Aiming to temper her strong-willed nature into that of an elegant young woman who could move acceptably in society, they enrolled her at the Toita Sewing Girls’ School.

When she later became a student at the Literary Arts Association and remained single for a time, the reason she could manage to live in a rented second-floor room despite her meager means was that she taught sewing at another school for a few hours each week, earning a small income. Thus, her attendance at the sewing school proved not without benefit in her life.

Polished by the waters of the capital, she became the face of Fūgetsudō.
She was beautiful—or rather, it is sometimes argued that she wasn’t a beauty—but on stage, she was quite beautiful.
Strictly speaking, she may not have been a beauty, but hers was a type with considerable wild charm.

The neighborhood rumor that sweets sold well when Masako sat in the shop was like adding fuel to the fire for the young her.
Although there were many marriage proposals, she continued to refuse them until one was settled upon, and she married.
At seventeen years old in early December, she became the wife of the young proprietor of a restaurant and inn in Torikai, Kisarazu, Kazusa Province.

She was an endlessly gentle new bride and an ordinary, womanly wife, but one could not help but wonder: had it been her destiny, having come from the mountain villages of Shinano Province, to settle as the wife of such a rural restaurant in the backcountry? Moreover, her hometown customs and her mother-in-law’s practices as the proprietress of a Kisarazu-area restaurant did not harmonize with one another—and on top of that, the young master was dissolute, so when Sumako contracted a bad illness, she was divorced under the pretext that it must be tuberculosis.

……I think.
Her spirited defiance—confronted with this unforgettable human torment—must have impressed upon her that to endure the world required an unyielding soul refusing defeat—

Just one month after marrying in, utterly weakened, she returned once more to her sister’s house in Iikura.
When her health began to recover, five years of hardship stirred within her a desire to do something.

The first steps of Masako becoming Matsui Sumako gradually began to unfold.
Among those who proposed marriage to her was a young man named Maesawa Seisuke.
He had been studying at Higher Normal School but was teaching Japanese history at Tokyo Actor School.
The Tokyo Actor School had been established by the late Fujisawa Asajirō—a shinpa actor—and around that time, Mr. Araki Shigehide, a Doctor of Philosophy from America, also founded a new theater troupe with Maesawa’s involvement.
That young man’s marriage proposal was likely something Sumako herself found agreeable.
To Maesawa’s meager student life came the vibrant infusion of twenty-two-year-old Masako.

To the ears of the young wife—who lodged in a respectable household and had never once seen a play even after coming to the capital—what resounded day after day was solely the voices of young people debating that they must pioneer a new phase in theater.
The demands of the new era also resounded with something like the need to be an accomplished actress.
Maesawa, her husband, attempted to make his wife understand this as well.
She too, moved without realizing it, resolved to train as an actress.
The actor school associated with Maesawa did not train actresses, so she ended up joining Dr. Tsubouchi’s Literary Arts Association.

At that time, the standards for actress students at the Literary Arts Association were high.
There were also subjects such as lectures on English literature and recitation practice.
When she first stood before Mr. Shimamura—one of the examiners—he and the other committee members passed her based on her robust constitution, powerful vocal projection, and impressive physique; however, due to her lack of English proficiency, she faced expulsion.

Her extraordinary studies began from that point.
She acquired two identical English books—in one she meticulously annotated every character with kana, added syntactic markers, and began rote memorization.
Teaching her became so burdensome it verged on unmanageable.
This fervor ultimately swayed Dr. Tsubouchi, allowing her to remain enrolled as a special student.
Though she had initially struggled with even basic ABCs, within three months she progressed to attending Shakespeare lectures using Cassell’s English primers.
Determined not to lag behind others in theatrical knowledge, she spent school breaks absorbing performance techniques under Masumoto Kiyoshi.

The Literary Arts Association’s inaugural performance was held at the Imperial Theater to commemorate its first graduating class. This also marked Sumako’s debut on stage. By then, the numerous female students had dwindled to just Yamakawa Uroji and Matsui Sumako. In their production of *Hamlet*, Uroji played Queen Gertrude while Sumako took the role of Ophelia. It was May of Meiji 44 (1911), when emerging theater troupes were surging in momentum—a time when both actresses were met with great anticipation.

When she turned twenty-five and stood on the cusp of graduation, her second marital crisis erupted. Discovering work that perfectly suited her talents caused her arrogance to surface. Persisting in her headstrong ways, she grew haughty in demeanor. Moreover, as she finally came to discern people’s true worth, her relationship with Maesawa began to deteriorate. Dissatisfactions multiplied. Conflicts with her husband escalated—oil lamps were hurled, blades brandished—until peace became untenable. Amid this turmoil, she graduated.

Her hysterical gestures were not directed solely at her husband.
If her male classmates dared to call her a “country bumpkin” or “hick girl,” it was not uncommon for braziers to go flying even within the school.
Yet it was said that her resolute temperament also stood unrivaled.
Once she stated something, she would try to stick to it even in front of her teacher.
Such a temperament caused considerable trouble even within the Art Theatre, where she reigned as queen.

She too was a woman whom the era commanded and sent forth.
Just as she became the heroine of Western thought plays and a star of the stage, precisely when women’s issues were being debated in Japan’s intellectual circles, a group of young women called “new women” launched the magazine *Seitō*, fervently heralding a new movement.
A whirlwind centered entirely on women swirled into being and rose up with raw power.
At that time, she who had achieved extraordinary success as Nora in *A Doll’s House* was gazed upon with eyes of astonishment.
Her name rose.

It was probably around that time that someone saw Mr. Hogetsu standing on a cold railway track late at night, lost in thought.
It was also around that time that Sumako sought to offer her ardent admiration to Mr. Hogetsu—the director and leader of *Nora*.
“The incarnation of love and art—the foremost Japanese woman who resolutely liberated herself—a person worthy of respect transcending so-called morality—the author of *The Life of Sumako* says so.”

She loved fiercely.
She strengthened her resilience through that love affair.
However, Mr.Hogetsu’s position was fraught with hardship.
Everything was renamed as their former lives.
Family upheaval—downfall of the Literary Arts Association—resignation from Waseda University faculty position—

The Literary Arts Association—the lifelong work of her mentor Dr.Tsubouchi—was forced to disband due to this turmoil.
Mr.Shimamura too became one who had betrayed the teacher.

Jealousy, persecution, and critical attacks surrounded the two of them.
The sacrifices Mr.Hogetsu paid for love were immense, but what burned without respite in his heart—prone to sinking into loneliness—was her vitality.
And the path that gave birth to Mr.Hogetsu had to complete her.
Even those who held considerable understanding regarded scholars as being out of touch with society, yet they were even seen as having socially degenerated to such an extent.
She, busy with money-making, was invited to various gatherings so frequently that even baseless rumors spread—so much so that it was whispered people were tacitly permitting such conduct.
Just before *Green Morning*, when *The Sunken Bell* was staged at the Kabukiza, the dressing room staff [said]—

“That person—despite how he looks—is actually some big-shot scholar-teacher! I totally thought he was just another stagehand.”

Though subjected to such intense scrutiny, he continued steadfastly executing his convictions in silence—but just as the collaboration between the Art Theatre and Shochiku Company was finalized, at the very moment when Mr. Shimamura’s scholarly resurgence seemed imminent, he suddenly passed away.
The Art Theatre—composed of actors, scriptwriters, and staff members under Mr. Shimamura’s leadership—saw its script department sever ties by year’s end, leading to the troupe’s dissolution and reorganization as the Sumako Troupe.

Through Ophelia’s mad aria and Katyusha’s ballad of wandering, Sumako’s fame spread ever wider across society.
The plaintive refrain “Shall we go or linger beneath Orora—” came to be sung from city streets to rural hamlets, even in country dialects.
And at last, leaving behind Carmen’s mournful song, she departed.
Popular ballads swiftly took up her tragic tale in this fashion—

Separated from you, I’m a rose.
Drenched and crumbling, wilted and limp—last night’s lonely greenroom entrance, wigs and costumes slipping from her grasp,
As the curtain falls—unable to wait—audible sobs backstage—

Her funeral was conducted entirely following Mr. Hogetsu’s example.
The day, the time—everything was exactly the same.
The only difference was that she could no longer be seen accompanying the coffin; the funeral scene grew all the more magnificent, encircled by countless wreaths, with renowned actors of past and present forming solemn rows as eulogies were delivered.
Yet the matter of joint burial with Mr. Hogetsu—which she had implored for repeatedly in her suicide notes—became contentious.
Dr. Tsubouchi proposed erecting graves side by side, and to this even the widow consented—

“We will not go against what Dr. Tsubouchi says.”

Although permission had been granted, it was from her relatives’ side that—
“Because we didn’t even think being with Mr. Shimamura was a good thing in the first place.”
—such obstinate words were uttered. Consequently, it was decided to bury her alongside a lock of Mr. Shimamura’s hair that she had kept, and her remains were taken back to Shinano Province.
It seemed incongruous that one who had lived such a penetrating life would care about formalities like burial plots—perhaps she had recalled things burnished by ancient legends or similar fancies.

Why did she die? I do not wish to say it was because she failed to live for art.
She had no religion; her faith must have been herself.
When that core self resolved to die, neither art nor faith could possibly remain.
It seems that issues like perceived favoritism toward Mr. Kusuyama had become the root of unrest within the script department; yet even were she to live on hereafter and seek love from anyone at all, Mr. Hogetsu’s towering presence and nobility would only reverberate through her heart—leaving no possibility of satisfaction.
Her death was only natural.

I called her an actress without poetry, but that woman’s death will convey a splendid silent poem—an immortal love poem. She was truly a fortunate person who had found her place in death.

When first deciding her stage name—pressured by publishing deadlines—she proposed “Matsushiro Sumako” due to her roots in Matsushiro. But those nearby teased that it sounded like “Masshiro (Pure White) Sumako,” so they settled on “Matsui” instead. Then, they said it sounded like “Mazui Sumako” (Unappetizing Sumako). But “Even if it’s unappetizing, it’s fine”—the words she wrote on a scrap of paper—became the great name that would endure.

Even so, she remained grasping.
Until her death she staged grand productions, securing through her brilliance the name of foremost actress.
In the meager garden of art within a meager nation, she left an impression like a blazing crimson flame rolling away—

――April 1919 (Taisho 8)――