Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

On the morning of March 9, 1917, newspapers across the capital uniformly reported what came to be called the Yoshikawa Kamiko Incident with unprecedented speed, their social sections filled with meticulously detailed accounts.
That day overflowed with sensational social articles that would have shocked readers on any ordinary occasion.
Among these was news of Lieutenant Sawada—a genius aviator beloved as Japan’s foremost figure in flight who, after returning from France and abandoning his dissolute past, had sought to advance aviation by piloting an aircraft of his own design—only to perish in a crash on its maiden voyage as an honorable martyr; alongside this ran reports of the American Ambassador’s death at St. Luke’s Hospital.
Yet though such stories warranted profound attention, nearly every eye found itself irresistibly drawn instead to the bold-font headlines proclaiming Countess Kamiko’s scandal.

Though one might think it unnecessary to lay out in detail here the contents of that incident still fresh in the public’s memory, it would likely prove necessary for those who read this much later. This incident too had been reported as one where two people died—though one was revived—and given that the manner of death was suicide, that there was a sexual element involved, that social positions created complex circumstances, and that the woman was the wife of a peerage family’s head—an affair of the upper class—it captured public attention and was interpreted and debated from various class-based perspectives. Particularly between those in new intellectual circles and those adhering to old moral viewpoints, vastly differing theories were put forth by each side. Yet while it was discussed with sympathy and understanding precisely among those in such positions, outside of them, it became a target of scorn and ridicule. Above all, fallen women were heard vilifying her almost as if they’d captured the devil himself—triumphant and smug, devoid of both criticism and sympathy. Moreover, vulgar performers in low-class vaudevilles struck their foreheads with white fans and bandied about lewd words. Degenerate students toyed shamelessly with phrases like “So you want to become a chauffeur?” Even worse were those who—facing the wives who ought to have been their very souls—expended such preposterous words as “all women are thus,” degrading their own character without a backward glance. Needless to say, the incident was a “double suicide incident” involving a married woman so scorned that society could not help but flick her away. Yet how was it that these very people who so despised immoral acts could show sympathy toward those who expressed and lamented the anguish of mutually destructive love? When sung in ballads, dramatized, and recounted as novels tracing their path, people comprehended, critiqued properly, and shed tears without restraint—so why did they become so utterly cold when confronted with the reality? While it went without saying that art’s high value lay precisely in this, what I found utterly perplexing was how journalists—trusted for their acumen in compiling conjectures like “it must have been thus” from all around yesterday’s events and promptly fitting them into bold headlines—were all well and good, but being drawn in too deeply… The accounts were so detailed that one marveled at how thoroughly everything had been uncovered, leaving no related detail unprinted, yet these facts remained merely superficial, did they not? At the very least, the truth of the matter—the secret known to none but the two who sought death—remained utterly silent. One had breathed his last, and the other lay groaning from wounds so severe—merely snatched back from death’s grasp into this fleeting world—that her very hold on life seemed tenuous; how could the truth ever be known? Even if there had been those who acknowledged it as such—who strained to prove “This was indeed how it was”—even such assertions would have remained outsiders to the hearts of the two. Even if it had appeared so, whether it had actually been so remained questionable; how much more impossible was it to fathom what separate thoughts had lain within the hearts of those two regarding their deaths? Whether the souls of the dying woman and the already deceased man had been in harmony even in that moment—since one of them had already perished—even that could no longer be confirmed. To say that it had been so—even if someone had been one of the two at that moment—the one who remained could not possibly have spoken on their behalf. Moreover, to take such conjecture—changing “it might be so” into “it was so”—gulp it down uncritically, and then coldly denounce her—was this not excessive condemnation?

On one side were those who treated newspaper articles like preliminary investigative reports and argued like prosecutors; on another were those who defended her with even greater fervor than lawyers could muster.
Some wove narratives more intricate than novels; others spun theatrical explanations with mere words.
All exhausted every possible conjecture and speculation until this matter held society’s fascination for months.
Among all events of Taishō Year Six—1917—none so thoroughly seized public attention across gender, age, and class.
Of those two who had sought death together, it was Kurumochi Rikusuke—the young chauffeur—who drew society’s sympathy.
That he died instantly may have been one reason; that his station stood far below hers another—yet multitudes pitied him.
Any who spoke ill were base souls muttering things like “He played his hand well,” their malice thinly veiled by pretense.

As for how they interpreted the woman, the public bore contempt and antipathy, their demeanor so hostile they seemed ready to spit at her.
Even housewives shackled by convention and weeping in misfortune—through a perspective born of ignorance that believed berating others’ flaws might elevate themselves—vilified her as adulterous and ceaselessly declared that the very existence of such a woman was a disgrace to all womankind.
But this was also because among such women, there were those who mistakenly believed servile obedience to be a virtue and were convinced that love was an absolute sin.
Even distinguished gentlemen often merely furrowed their brows at the phrase “the height of scandal” and thus disposed of everything concerning her.
In reality, society adopted the phrase “the height of scandal” as its verdict on the incident.
This was partly because her status—unlike the man’s—was one of noble lineage and wealth, prompting them to respond with a peculiar blend of resentment, as though venting their daily frustrations, and an almost mystifying antipathy laced with contempt, all delivered in mockingly scornful tones.
And this lingering resentment led them to hate her as though she had murdered Kurumochi himself.
If it had not involved a noble wife attached to a Count’s household, but rather a woman from some ill-reputed wealthy family—compelled to marry as if blatantly purchased with money—then even the same incident would have been met with slightly calmer and more just criticism.

That being said, the matter was also complex.
Even those who championed love above all else—those who asserted distinctive views about this incident—found their arguments growing contradictory when faced with their own children at home.
Public opinion churned turbulently, its momentum insistent on forcing a definitive verdict.
Women’s magazines competed fiercely to publish their editorials.
Even highbrow periodicals featured commentaries by respected figures on social morals and ethical currents.
Newspapers with women’s supplements primarily compiled opinions from school educators involved in female instruction.
Moreover, outlets compelled to capitalize on such attention-grabbing articles spared no medium—comic haiku, satirical verse, crude jokes, or anecdotal snippets—to disseminate them.
They resembled an evolved form of Edo-era tabloid broadsheets; cheaply printed booklets marketed as novels bore brazen titles like *Chiba Double Suicide* to lure vulgar readers.
The newspapers’ rivalry escalated to ludicrous intensity, transforming even trivial details into daily banner headlines—as if she were some monumental figure demanding extraordinary scrutiny—with exhaustive reports on her hospital bed condition and wound recovery.
In their zeal, they dredged up matters better left unwritten—tangential figures and private affairs—further vexing those entangled in the case.
The reporters’ frenzied competition rippled outward, unsettling both common citizens and the titled aristocracy.
Later, like episodes from an American film serial, Kamiko’s orbit—hospital staff, journalists clashing with colleagues—became a spectacle where the Yoshikawa family and hospital officials strained to conceal everything, while reporters strove to unearth secrets, even scheming to outmaneuver their own peers.
On what day would Kamiko be discharged?
And afterward?
As events unfolded thus, newspaper firms meticulously deployed surveillance teams, ensuring no discharge maneuver could escape their notice.
Several automobiles idled pointlessly for days on standby.
Now!
At that critical moment, around Yotsu Kaido, farm roads erupted into bedlam as car engines roared incessantly, their heavy growls clashing chaotically.
And rumors spread that even Tokyo’s sprawling expanse held no refuge for her.

That fact!
As for that fact, I knew nothing of it myself.
After all, I too had only learned of it through newspapers like everyone else.
But was it not too cruel to presume to dispose of her entire life based solely on that?
For no matter whom one asked, none had heard a confession from her own lips regarding the incident—let alone fathomed the heart of Kurumochi Rikusuke, who by then lay dead.
Moreover, even if they had tried to suppress their emotions and avoid detailing what had driven them to that point—even if they had written thus—I cannot imagine their final notes left no trace of inner torment. Yet it was said even those letters were cast into flames after being glimpsed by someone (though this may not be truth).
(One might assume they were at least disclosed among kin,) but the true circumstances remained shrouded in fog thick enough to lose one’s way five leagues deep.
One might ask, “Did they truly comprehend love?” or twist it into “What folly—a momentary lapse,” or even protest, “No such thing ever occurred! There must have been other tangled reasons that led to this end.” None could entirely dismiss such claims.
Yet those around her—stunned into panic—trembled with outrage at the disgrace laid bare before them and condemned her as unforgivable before learning a word from her lips.
Even those who should have shielded her appeared instead to rebuke her harshly—so desperate were they to proclaim their own blamelessness.

I do not possess the courage to declare as fact that which I do not know. Nor can I bear to arbitrarily brand her a wicked woman in its stead. It is something I have always thought: unless one is the person themselves, one cannot understand anything at all. There may be understanding up to a certain point and mental engagement to some extent, but not everything proceeds as one intends; even oneself knows there are times when the heart strays contrary to one’s will. Therefore, since speculation remains nothing more than speculation, I believe one must refrain from arbitrary judgment. The analysis of the innermost heart of a modern woman—especially one with a complex psychology and moreover, capricious moods and mercurial emotions—is utterly impossible, I believe.

As for Countess Kamiko, I neither intended to debate the rights and wrongs of her actions nor to become an analyst of her psychology.
It should have sufficed to merely record the beautiful woman who was tossed by a tragic fate—but if my pen wandered into strange territories, it might have been because those unsympathetic discourses toward her had left me with lingering dissatisfaction.

In any case, I must now return to the beginning and record what became "the origin of this accursed affair."
If one were to write even a single character resembling such matters in the realm of pure literature these days, it's said they would face immense pressure; but since this fact has been published daily in newspapers and become widely known, I believe one would be spared such calamity.

II

Countess Kamiko was born as the fourth daughter of Count Yoshikawa Akimasa.
Her immediate elder sister became the wife of Baron Fujita Heitaro, an Osaka tycoon.
Above her were two elder sisters who remained alive but had returned to their parental home for unknown reasons and showed no intention of remarrying.
This spoke to how lenient their household was - anyone could feel at ease simply by gauging their father's mood.
Moreover, there was something inherently amiss about a house without male succession where eldest daughters married out while youngest daughters inherited estates.
Considering their ages too, it felt unsettling that sovereignty lay with its youngest member - compounded by having an adopted son-in-law as nominal protector - giving an impression of structural weakness.
Even domestic affairs seemed prone to arbitrary management.
Kamiko's husband - she being mistress of this unstable household - was son of late Viscount Sone Arasuke: an extravagant bon vivant famed among young aristocrats and frequent companion in pleasure quarters.

Kamiko had been thoroughly educated in all the foundations befitting a lady.
Moreover, she possessed both refined beauty and grace—a young Countess of striking presence.
Her husband Mr. Kanji was someone she had willingly accepted into her life, and they had even been blessed with a five-year-old daughter.
Had there been love for her husband—had there been true devotion to her child—how could such transgression have occurred? This was what all wondered; and had Mr. Kanji cherished his wife more profoundly, such flaws might never have been laid bare—or so one might presume. Yet while humans draw breath—and women above all—they remain slaves to passion.
Even between such a couple, one must ask from what source this reality sprang.

When selecting reliable contemporary articles, the first was a telephoned report from The Tokyo Asahi Shimbun’s Chiba bureau:

On March 7th at 6:55 PM, a single locomotive departing from Chiba for Hon-Chiba Station—manned by engineer Nakamura Tanejirō and stoker Shōji Hikotayū—struck a young woman who leaped onto the tracks near the prefectural women’s normal school, inflicting critical injuries. Though the engineer immediately halted the train, her male companion—having failed to throw himself under it in time—upon witnessing her fate, pressed against the school’s earthen embankment and stabbed his own throat with a dagger, dying instantly.

Following notification, Assistant Inspector Inomata from Chiba Police Station arrived with detectives and a physician to examine the bodies on-site: the woman bore a deep wound reaching the periosteum on her left temple and writhed in agony, while the man had completely severed his trachea and showed no signs of life.

The woman was rushed to Chiba Prefectural Hospital, though her survival remained uncertain.

He wore red boots with parted hair—a handsome man of twenty-six or twenty-seven who had the look of a chauffeur; in the breast pocket of his dark overcoat and the sleeve of her formal coat lay a suicide note each, while within the sleeve of her coat was concealed a dagger in a plain wooden sheath.

Through exhaustive investigations across various channels, our publication ascertained that the woman was Kamiko (27), wife of Mr. Kanji—biological younger brother of Viscount Sone Yasusuke, adopted son of Count Yoshikawa Akimasa, Senior Second Rank, Order of Merit First Class and Vice President of the Privy Council, residing at 6-7 Miyamura-chō, Azabu Ward—who had an eldest daughter named Akiko; and that the man was Kurumochi Rikusuke (24), chauffeur at the same residence.

This was recorded as such.
Photographs of both were prominently featured in every newspaper.
Article after article spewed forth in relentless succession.

It was said that all members of the household had been ordered by the Count to remain completely silent, and all interviews on the matter were handled by former Police Bureau Director Oka Kishichiro.
According to that account,

“Around eight o’clock on the evening of the sixth, when Kurumochi Rikusuke was drinking alcohol while crying in his room, a fellow driver asked why he was crying—but he left without giving any answer.”
The fellow driver thought he had likely gone to a nearby restaurant where his mistress was, but since remaining silent was untenable, he decided to seek permission from Countess Kamiko—who would later attempt the double suicide—and went to check her room, only to find her absent.
Thinking she was probably in the retired master’s—Count Akimasa’s—room, he reported this matter to the house steward.
The house steward went to check the retired master’s quarters, but there too, the Countess was nowhere to be seen.
Just then, Mr. Kanji returned home, so they informed him of Countess Kamiko and the chauffeur’s absence and conducted a thorough search of the mansion, but found no trace of them.
As it was already late at night, thinking they would return eventually, they simply went to sleep.
However, when they still had not returned by the morning of the seventh, Mr. Kanji was greatly alarmed. He telephoned me, his friend, and informed me of what had transpired since the previous night. Thinking, “How could such a thing happen?” I immediately took a car to the Count’s residence.
Upon hearing the aforementioned circumstances, I was astonished at the undeniable fact.
I therefore went to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, disclosed all these facts, and requested they conduct a search.
Simultaneously, in Chiba, there came news of a double suicide.

he stated.
The director of Chiba Prefectural Hospital was Dr. Miwa, but from Tokyo came Dr. Kondo of Imperial University Surgery, who had specially attended.
Her husband, Mr. Kanji, was also at the bedside of his critically injured wife, unable to conceal his tears of shame and anguish, and could only manage to utter to the occasional visitor,

"My clan and I are currently in seclusion and utterly disgraced," he let slip through trembling lips.
With one party deceased and the other hovering at death's threshold, every detail could readily be consigned to obscurity.
Mr. Oka—charged with managing all aspects of the incident—enforced absolute secrecy; having cursorily inspected the suicide notes, he reduced them to ashes.

“Both suicide notes were utterly insignificant—nothing worth discussing,” he had stated, yet according to a certain individual’s account, the intricate complexities of their circumstances had been laid bare.

As for how they had spent their time after leaving home, it had been investigated in considerable detail.

It was past midnight on the night when Kurumochi had been drinking alcohol while weeping in his room and then went outside.
It was Kamiko and Rikusuke, who had met somewhere, that knocked on the gate of a certain house in Chiba Town.
Since that house was currently prohibited from operating, they were guided to an inn called Tagawaya.
The following morning, someone came to pick them up from the previous house, so the two guests returned to their former lodgings and had breakfast.
For lunch, they ordered three bottles of sake and also some rice cakes.
The two of them obtained ten scenic postcards and rolled paper envelopes and were frequently writing documents.
Of the two who were often gloomy, the woman in particular was deeply despondent.
Around one o’clock, the woman complained of stomach pain and lay prostrate, then had someone buy a ten-sen patent medicine which she took.
The man insisted to the maid that she call a geisha and would not listen, but the woman repeatedly interrupted to stop him.
Around three in the afternoon, after settling the payment, the two resolutely left through the house’s gate with sleeves joined.

That night, the engineer aboard the train that had struck down Kamiko recounted the scene of that instant.

“As my train moved forward, I thought it strange how the man and woman were firmly embracing each other as one while crouching there—and sure enough, they leapt onto the tracks still locked together. In that critical moment, both were struck down together. Though the woman fell, the man appeared barely injured; he climbed over her and cried out in a slightly raised voice, ‘I won’t kill you alone.
“‘I’ll die too, so please rest assured,’ he kept whispering into her ear, but when people in the crowd began making commotion around them, he left her side and went to stab his throat at the earthen embankment near the Women’s Normal School.”

She survived despite massive blood loss, though her condition remained critical.
"If only she had died"—these words were uttered not solely by those who despised her.
Rather than how she might endure her shame-filled future, people believed that had she perished, salvation would have come—for herself, Kurumochi, her husband, and her parent alike.
Those bound by absolute love cannot compromise; yet if she sought death out of grief for the sin inherent to her married state, we must call this a tragic error born from an unawakened woman's unconsciousness—even if critics accuse her of choosing the easiest escape.
And what of Kurumochi? Possessing such pure devotion, why did he lack the courage and resolve to persuade the Countess?
If she remained unconscious of her plight, might not Kurumochi too have suffered weakness of will?
Only one path lay before her.
Though more agonizing than death itself, the proper course would have been to confess openly to her husband when love for Kurumochi first stirred.
Had true understanding and affection existed between husband and wife, such honesty might have been possible.
Failing that—had their passion burned fiercely enough to sacrifice all—she should have renounced both the Yoshikawa household and her title as Countess from the outset.
Kurumochi too ought to have demanded this with utmost determination.
To claim love for Kurumochi while preserving everything unchanged—this compels us to question Kamiko's deepest sentiments.
The crux lies here alone.

However, what became the primary targets of criticism were the questions of which party had initiated the seduction and which had first proposed the double suicide.
As for matters of seduction—while such questions might concern children too young to understand matters of the heart—to even pose them regarding a twenty-four-year-old man was itself an insult.
As for Kamiko, to assume she had simply become that way after being seduced by a man would be far too simplistic.
She was no ignorant woman trembling as she considered consequences only after everything had transpired.
Before matters reached that point, there must have been anguish more excruciating than death.
I do not presume to settle this definitively myself, but I cannot help thinking it was Kurumochi who first proposed this joint suicide.
As I stated earlier, there can be no doubt their affair—flawed from its inception and patched over with misguided expediencies—lay at the root of this tragedy, but—

The arguments among moralists over this matter were considerable.
A certain person remarked,
“If only she had died, it would have been nothing.”

“Although until now we have devoted more effort to moral education than other schools, given that such an incident has occurred, I intend to pay even closer attention to that point henceforth,” remarked the principal of Gakushūin Women’s Division, her alma mater. “Even with the best intentions, things do tend to go astray.”

Such remarks were as foolish as discarding the family automobile and becoming wary of one’s own beloved wife, yet among women’s voices, those who received nods of approval for their commendable opinions were Ms. Yosano Akiko and Ms. Hiratsuka Raichō. As for how Ms. Yamakawa Kikue was viewed—unfortunately, I did not witness it.

Ms. Hiratsuka Raichō,

...At the same time, the fact that such an incident occurred within an upper-aristocratic household—where, among all social classes, conventions and traditions are most revered; where antiquated ideologies and morals still stubbornly take root; and where humanity’s innate sentiments are crushed beneath lifeless formalities—is profoundly significant. I even feel a certain gratification that it has compelled those obstinate members of high society to reflect upon their lifestyles—particularly their domestic lives—and thus provided an opportunity to awaken them.
Truly, in this sense, one could say the Yoshikawa family became a sacrifice for the sake of many other noble households.

As for Ms. Akiko’s perspective—
…Yet it remains most regrettable and disheartening that the Countess, having ventured so far as to affirm her love, could conceive of no course of action beyond equating that affirmation with a double suicide.
For this serves only to prove—to my mind—that she lacked clear self-awareness regarding her own actions and furthermore possessed insufficient resolve to carry them through decisively.
Had her conduct been undertaken with even marginally greater consciousness, she might have forged a new life founded on love through vigorous initiative—eschewing that facile death which women of old Japan so readily embraced whenever confronted by impasses—rather than resorting to such measures.
This path would naturally have demanded anticipation of tremendous hardship—requiring extraordinary courage and fortitude beyond question—yet I maintain it was not wholly beyond reach.
But to expect such thoroughness from one reared amidst layer upon layer of aristocratic convention by foolish attendants—from one denied even the hollow formalities of modern girls’ schooling—this constitutes an unreasonable demand upon her character.

She logically dismantles [the argument]. In essence, she argues that this stems from erroneous marriage ideologies imposed upon daughters by the upper class’s obstinate, antiquated thinking—and that their apparent preference for extravagance does not signify innate vanity, but rather represents an endeavor to mask the hollowness of their existence; a common plight among contemporary Japanese women who lacked substantial spiritual cultivation, particularly those of status who wanted for nothing materially. She argues that the Countess—who until the very night of her elopement continued performing wifely duties like preparing her husband’s bed and warming his nightclothes—could be considered an unmarried woman in essence, for this demonstrated their relationship remained a formalized pretense barely sustained; that even with a husband and children, she had never known love’s fulfillment. Thus, her unmet desires—love demands forcibly suppressed under external pressures—naturally turned toward one possessing pure affection and youthful ardor. Before the naked truth of human love, was it not inevitable she became enraptured, forgetting all else? Logically speaking, since this marriage had been wholly imposed by a third party’s will, strictly speaking, the Countess bears no responsibility for it. It was argued that had she not erred in her approach—and had she possessed the strength to carry it out—destroying the marriage, flawed from its very inception, would have been far more logical than merely continuing it and thus living as one dead while still alive.

And Ms. Akiko also says this:

…the love that the Countess sought to affirm by sacrificing her status, honor, even her love for her child—nay, her very life—was not, as the people of society claim, mere base passion, but rather, I believe, a yearning for a world of sentiment more true, more pure, more elevated, and more beautiful than her actual life.
Moreover, I believe this love was both the first experience in the Countess’s life and the sole truth within her current existence.
That said, even for the Countess, there must have been various inner struggles until she came to affirm her love.
…And yet, in the end, she must have denied all falsehoods and affirmed the sole truth of her world.
Even if the Countess’s education did not instill each distinct form of clear awareness I describe here, I believe it was her instinct that guided her toward truth.

That said—though this may be a digression—she expressed displeasure at the custom whereby whenever love between men and women is even mentioned, people immediately label it as base passion or infatuation and attempt to bury it with covert criticism; she stated that this represents an attitude woefully lacking in understanding toward women’s emotional lives, and that such customs hinder the improvement of human moral life in various ways while exerting a harmful influence on society.

Three

Now then, Kamiko’s attire at the time of her elopement gave others unexpected suspicions.
From the scarlet silk-crepe underkimono and fine coat she wore, some said this was not the attire of a young Countess venturing out formally; others claimed she had deliberately chosen such inconspicuous dress; while still others suggested she had rushed out in whatever she happened to be wearing.
And so, some argued that she had not initially intended to die when first eloping; others insisted she had rushed out precisely because she was resolved to end her life; while critics condemned that if death were truly her aim, she need not have gone as far as Chiba Station—nor waited until the following day.
However, the length of that time was an unavoidable progression for those people, and there must have been a life-and-death struggle that could never be satisfied by resolve or resignation.
There were those who deemed their resolve faltering, but they never found joy in death—no serene acceptance, no enlightened detachment.
If they could, they would have prayed for the joy of life.
Two souls that fully savored life’s pleasures became bound together, yet found themselves torn by the anguish of severing their attachment to the physical forms preserving those joys in this world.
The woman’s claiming to have a stomachache and lying prostrate stemmed from his inability to endure witnessing her state—there was nothing unreasonable in the man, his mind grown frenzied, trying to obscure his anguish by carousing with geishas.

The man—though once thrown aside—embraced the dying woman and, after whispering repeatedly into her ear that he would never let her die alone, stabbed himself to death. This compelled people to acknowledge his noble character, the purity of his sentiments, and his possession of unadulterated passion, thereby garnering immense sympathy.

At that time, one night I found myself by chance in a heated debate with three young literary men—Mitsutomi Kutsuba, Imai Haku'yō, and Mikami Otohachi—about the matter.
The three men also earnestly tried to assert their arguments.
Even I, weak-willed as I was, refused to yield in my convictions, determined not to be crushed.
We debated with one another, trembling in the cold of the spring night until the crowing of the dawn rooster could be heard.
From around midnight onward, Kurumochi and Countess Kamiko’s names had been set aside as their story transformed into lofty art and idealism; in other words, men always charge headlong toward a purity that seeks to transcend all complexity and reduce it to simplicity, while women—each time they encounter something—are naturally more susceptible to being swayed by their circumstances and prone to martyr themselves to emotion.
Therefore their sympathy leans only toward the young man who seemed filled with passion—but I, for Kamiko’s sake, cannot help but consider every aspect of her life’s background.

As a woman, I argued for women’s sake.

On another day，when I met a certain religious figure and happened to recount the debate from that night，he responded thus．Naturally，that bald-headed man in black robes was a witty and amiable person，but he nonchalantly settled the matter．

“You all are over-scrutinizing human nature,”
“It was simply Kurumochi’s infatuation.”
“No doubt about that.”
“And ’twas the man who burned with jealousy.”
“The drinking that night, the weeping—all grew vexatious precisely because matters refused to bend to their will.”
“I’ve known countless such cases.”
“Though aware he was the beloved, jealousy still gnawed at him.”
“However natural it seemed, she couldn’t bear even preparing her husband’s bed—her resentment defied containment.”
“What mutual consent existed when they fled that night? As for her—fond though she was—she found herself so agonized by indecision that she went out solely to appease him.”
“Thus she meant to return.”
“Nor had the man resolved his course then; driven by irrepressible instinct, he pressed onward despite knowing its folly.”
“Their double suicide emerged tangled from these threads—never some premeditated design had fortune smiled.”
“The woman must’ve thought herself in dire straits at times.”
“While the man’s obsession had steadily deepened indeed.”

He easily arrived at an utterly commonplace interpretation.
Precisely because it was a commonplace interpretation by those generally versed in human affairs who make hasty judgments, the statements of the wealthy and those worldly-wise individuals known for their good understanding aligned with this view.
And nothing is further from the secrets inherent to the human heart than these people’s superficial interpretations; consequently, nothing is more impoverished than these people’s own inner lives.

She had survived—what first rose to her consciousness as she gazed at the spring sunlight through the hospital window must have been... It had to be—needless to say—Kurumochi’s final, desperate scream. Even amidst her chaos, she had unconsciously cried out his name; but upon realizing she had survived this world, what weighed on her mind was his fate. Yet her consciousness, which was beginning to recover, remained—as ever—ensnared by conventional morality even after the baptism of blood. She lacked the courage to clearly inquire about it and merely writhed in agony. At times, as if she could no longer endure—

“Call the automobile! I’m leaving!”

she commanded the attendant.

Speaking of automobiles—given their close connection to Kurumochi—she likely thought that through this, she could learn whether he was alive or dead.
However, those attending her were merely a student attendant sent from the main residence as a guard; joining their voices with the nurses’, they told her that once she recovered, the director would permit her discharge—but they never informed her of Kurumochi’s fate, having been sworn to silence.
What she desired in that situation was neither lavish treatment nor medicine.
Had she heard just a single word about his well-being, her mind would have been at ease.
Had it been said that Kurumochi had kept their pact and taken his own life to follow her, she would have grieved, her mind driven to madness—even with all medical efforts, she might not have been saved.
But in that case—was mere recovery truly benevolence? Was prolonging her life only to inflict lasting disgrace truly compassion?

“Bring the automobile! I’m leaving this hospital!”

And she shouted,

“Your Ladyship has not yet fully recovered.”

The newspapers reported that those who placated her always used the same set phrase.
They dismissed that sorrowful cry as mere petulance.
Unable to learn the fate of the one she maddeningly worried over, her desperate scream became a hymn pleading for God’s salvation and was sung aloud.

To recall brings such shame—ah,

Having left my Father’s side—

I chased the fading dream’s trail—

In vain blessings have I indulged

Through pastures of deeds that must not be,

In the grass hut where I rise and lie,
the thin robe of human kindness—
the bitter winds of this fleeting world pierce my flesh.
Ah, the dew settles beneath the boughs,
Father’s mercy settling upon me.

The darkness of ignorance has dawned away.

Let us now return to our spiritual home.

The newspapers reported that this hymn spanned Luke 15:11–32, which recounted how the prodigal son—having taken his inheritance, abandoned his father and brother to travel and indulge in debauchery, squandered all his wealth, suffered miserably, and repented—bore fascinating parallels to Madame Kamiko’s own circumstances.
The expression “fascinating” was sorrowful.

Let us now return to our spiritual home—

Despite such lyrics, she had not sung that melody with the shameless intent of declaring she would return to her father’s residence.
When she called out “Father,” it was the heavenly Father she meant.
The hometown she sang of was not the house in Azabu but her spiritual home—Heaven.
She knew it.
She felt her soul being called by his spirit.

Kamiko was guilty of inciting suicide, remarked a certain legal authority.
Since incitement encompasses mental relationships—that is, coercing someone into consent or persuading them into agreement—Kamiko was the first to throw herself onto the tracks, and given that Kurumochi followed after her, in terms of their social standing, Kurumochi’s death should rather be considered an act of martyrdom.
Therefore, from a legal standpoint, they considered this a form of coerced suicide and deemed it appropriate to apply Article 202, imposing a sentence of six months to seven years of penal servitude or imprisonment; however, the court stated that since she had already been subjected to sufficient social condemnation, they would refrain from further legal sanctions.

Within the clan, there was also intense condemnation, while the Imperial Household Ministry was embroiled in heated debates over how to impose disciplinary measures.
The Imperial Household Ministry, charged with overseeing the nobility, was closely watching what disciplinary measures the Yoshikawa Count family would take against Kamiko.
On top of that, they hinted at their intention to take decisive disciplinary measures.
The measure to be taken in unavoidable circumstances was as follows: in accordance with the Kazoku Regulations, they would refer the matter to the Sōchitsuryō Deliberative Council for rigorous deliberations, formulate a disciplinary method upon receiving imperial sanction, and have the Minister of the Imperial Household implement it.
It was deemed unlikely to be resolved lightly; however, they conveyed that if the Count family took appropriate measures beforehand, they intended to let it pass without inquiry.
However, it would not be settled merely by Mr. Kanji initiating a divorce.
It was rumored that if the Count family removed her from their registry—thereby reducing her to a commoner—the Imperial Household Ministry would naturally fall outside its jurisdiction.

According to the Chiba Prefecture Police Chief’s remarks, since police officers’ and medical examiners’ reports had clearly established it as a mutual suicide pact, even if one party failed in the attempt and survived, it constituted no crime whatsoever. It was determined to be solely a matter of moral responsibility.

However, what could not be overlooked here was the statement by a certain high-ranking official well-versed in the Imperial Household Ministry’s laws and ordinances. The man declared without reservation:

“Regarding incidents such as what recently occurred in the Yoshikawa family, there exists a separate Kazoku Disciplinary Ordinance. If an incident warrants admonishment, it shall be handled at the discretion of the Minister of the Imperial Household. If it merits formal reprimand, it shall be processed through committee resolution.”

“That is to say, if the Yoshikawa Incident were of a nature warranting disciplinary action, it would likely be handled under said Disciplinary Ordinance. Even so, incidents comparable to this one have by no means been rare among the nobility.”

“However, this time it is merely that [the incident] has become widely known to society in such a manner; judging from past precedents, I do not believe it warrants disciplinary action.”

So he declared.

Ms. Akiko’s argument gained significant meaning at this juncture.
Truly, Kamiko became the sacrifice that awakened such a class from their delusions.
And it goes without saying that this certainly left some impression on those placed in similar positions and prompted their awakening.

What state of mind must the old count, who kept Kamiko alive, have been in during that time?
It was a tragedy of old age.
All honors won through ardent loyalty during the Meiji Restoration were rendered utterly futile.
He also had to relinquish his honorary post in later years—the seat of Vice President of the Privy Council.
He closed his gates tightly, turned away visitors, and lived in deep, deep seclusion.
And he did not resort to any excuses.
No one could help but sympathize with the old count’s pitiful position.
He must have felt anger more intense than anyone and sorrow deeper than all, yet as a parent in such circumstances, he had no choice but to bow his head in acknowledgment of his own failure to comprehend.
And indeed, in the depths of his heart, there must have welled up a vague desire to apologize—not to society, but to Kamiko—or so it seemed.
It had been made blatantly apparent.

Kamiko’s wound was healing.
On the twenty-fifth of that month, a modest funeral had been held for Kurumochi in his hometown of Sano Town, Tochigi Prefecture; unaware even in her dreams that his remains—bereft of kin—were buried without a single compassionate offering, Kamiko’s wound continued to heal as she agonized over his fate.
Her healthy body recovered without succumbing to the pain of the spirit.
For her part, she could not avoid being conflicted about what to do next; but for the Yoshikawa family too, this must have been a considerable dilemma.
One day, close relatives gathered and held deliberations.
The outcome was that they had no choice but to remove her from the Count family’s register and establish her as a separate household.
Furthermore, since Kamiko was detested by society, they concluded through their deliberations that her discharge upon full recovery must be kept utterly secret—for if word leaked out, she might well suffer violent reprisals—and that the residence where she would recuperate must be thoroughly concealed from public knowledge.

One night, two automobiles were quietly pulled up to Chiba Hospital.
Wrapped and concealed in a white blanket, she was carried into one of the automobiles.
Seeing this, several automobiles carrying newspaper journalists immediately gave chase, but upon entering Tokyo, an automobile suddenly darted out to block their path, successfully interfering as intended.
However, it became known that she had entered her biological elder sister’s house in Aoyama.
At that house—as if enacting a traffic blockade—they not only firmly shut the front gate by constructing a protective barrier but also sealed off the side entrance entirely.
Whether this act of seclusion stemmed from the old count’s antiquated sense of propriety or from fear of public violence remained unknown.
When rumors later arose that Kamiko was hiding in a dormitory near Shimo-Shibuya, idle onlookers with prying curiosity went out of their way to loiter around the compound’s fence.
Those loitering likely did not understand their own motives, but such nuisances never ceased to hound her relentlessly.

After that, whether Kamiko remained entirely unaware of Kurumochi’s fate, just as she had been while in the hospital, remained questionable.
Even so, it could be inferred that those were wearisome days.
The old count, her father, attempted to restore her through faith.
In early June, at the start of summer, the pitiable father accompanied his unfortunate daughter to visit the Tenrikyo church in Honjo Outemachi.
The father’s warm love protected her with compassion and mercy, as though cradling a young girl.
Even the old count himself must have found it strange that such tender feelings welled up within him.
The bond between parent and child, known only through profound sorrow, was perhaps something that could not have been fathomed until now among those who lacked for nothing materially yet remained unaware of their spiritual hunger.
To guide his child to faith, the parent also vowed to become a Tenrikyo believer and devote himself.

But did that alone bring solace to her heart?
Even if they absolutely kept the secret and resolved not to let a single detail of her actions reach the outside world, the malicious public would not so easily forget.
The hideaway within Shimo-Shibuya’s Hōsen-ji Temple also,

“Adulteress Kamiko is here! Shibuya Town’s disgrace—get out!”

They put up notices, and sake shop, fish shop, and greengrocers’ errand runners mingled with passersby to loudly hurl abuse, making even that place unbearable; before long, the secluded dwelling too shut its doors.
In the garden of the nailed-shut, ownerless vacant house, only crimson dahlias remained, blooming wildly in hues of blood.

It was rumored that she had retreated to the Kamakura area to escape both the summer heat and prying eyes, but by year’s end, her utterly weakened self was borne back to a house filled with memories from her past. She encountered the fate of having to return to the house she had run away from. To the house from which she had been removed from the family register, to the house where her estranged husband lived—she was taken there. That she had fallen into a state of hypersensitivity—berating blameless servants and occasionally exhibiting fits of suicidal inclination—was only natural; to condemn her for such things as being unable to sleep past midnight and rising late constituted nothing but foolishness when measured against ordinary people’s standards of health. In her calm periods, she would spend entire days reading, but her behavior was seen as requiring vigilance due to its peculiarity in some way.

A year had passed.
I heard that Kamiko was thereafter at a villa in a nearby prefecture and, under Mr. Kanji’s considerate arrangements, was receiving post-illness care and striving to recover from her emotional pain.
And I heard she was raising sheep.
In a warm land, tending a flock of sheep while humming hymns morning and evening without showing her face to others—I thought it was truly fitting for her, now a broken remnant.
But whether false or true, the May edition of the Tokyo Nichi Nichi Shimbun’s photo section showed her—purportedly returning from the Kabukiza Theater—in the act of boarding an automobile.
And it reported that she—her scar having healed as though wiped clean—had unabashedly come to watch a play at the elevated earthen floor on the east side of the Kabukiza Theater together with Mr. Kanji.
She seemed to feel some guilt, often keeping her head bowed during intermission, but even when spectators exclaimed "Kamiko!" and turned their gazes toward her, she showed no particular shame.
Mr. Kanji, unable to endure remaining in his seat any longer, disappeared midway through the performance, but she—composed until the end—after watching it through, had her body wearied by revelry hastened back to the estate by automobile.

Once again, society erupted in uproar.
Scornful remarks denouncing her as a shameless woman could be heard here and there.

However, I cannot help but think that this may have been a misperception on the part of her sisters.

And there was a nurse who said that even during her stay at Chiba Hospital, she would cause an undignified commotion whenever she saw young assistants and such.
If such behavior had truly existed in her, then it was already pathological in nature, and from a medical standpoint, there would be another perspective.
I merely recorded my own analysis as I saw it.

——Taishō Year 7 (1918)——

Addendum: Five or six years later, there stood a small house in the Yokohama suburbs with an air of pedigree—bamboo blinds lowered over its windows.
The mistress of that house was the reclusive Yoshikawa Kamiko, and newspaper informants reported that she was cohabiting with a young chauffeur.
After that, when Yoshikawa Kamiko’s death was reported, the article was so modest that people nearly overlooked it.