Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Takamura Kōtarō It has been two full years and ten days since my wife Chieko died of miliary tuberculosis in Room 15 at James Hill Hospital in Minami-Shinagawa, where she had been a patient with schizophrenia. Through encountering Chieko in this world, I gained a history of being purified by her pure love and saved from my former decadent life; as my spirit had depended entirely on her very existence, the spiritual blow from Chieko's death proved truly devastating, and I spent several months gripped by a void-like emptiness where even my artistic creations seemed to lose their purpose. During her lifetime, I would show her my sculptures before anyone else. At each day's end, examining them together brought me incomparable joy. She accepted them unreservedly, understood them deeply, and loved them passionately. She carried the small wooden carvings I made in her bosom, caressing them even while walking through streets. In this world without her, who would ever embrace my sculptures with such childlike openness? The thought that there remained no one to show them to tormented me for months. Artistic creation concerning beauty never springs from official doctrines or grandiose national ideologies alone. Such things may form a work's theme or motive, but for creation to emerge from the heart's depths and pulse with living blood, there must flow a great exchange of love. This may be divine love. This may be a sovereign's love. Or it may indeed be the absolute pure love of one woman. Nothing empowers an artist more than knowing one person gazes upon their works with ardent eyes. No potential exists that guarantees completing what one wishes to create. The fruits of creation may become something for all humanity. Yet typically, the creator's heart overflows simply desiring that one person's gaze. I possessed such a person in my wife Chieko. The immediate void following Chieko's death therefore nearly equaled a world of nothingness.

Even though there were mountains of things I wanted to create, I couldn't bring myself to make any of them. Because I knew the eyes of ardent love that would look upon them no longer existed in this world.

After several months of such struggles, through a certain chance occurrence on a night of the full moon, I came to acutely realize that by losing her individual existence, Chieko had instead become a universal presence for me; since then I could constantly feel her breath close at hand, and the conviction grew stronger that she had become, so to speak, one who abides with me—something eternal in my existence. In this way I regained my composure and mental health, and the drive for work returned once more. When I finish a day’s work and look at my creation while saying “How is it?” then turn around, Chieko is surely there. She is everywhere.

Chieko's life from marriage until her death over twenty-four years was nothing but an uninterrupted sequence of love, life's hardships, devotion to art, contradictions, and battling illness. Amidst such maelstroms, she fell due to the innate mental constitution fate had bestowed upon her, vanishing between turbulent waves woven of jubilation and despair, trust and acceptance. Though others had suggested several times that I write of her reminiscences, until now I had felt no inclination to do so. After such visceral struggles, I could not bring myself to commit even a small fragment of that life to paper; moreover, a powerful doubt restrained my heart—what meaning could there be in what amounted to merely reporting private affairs? But now I shall write. I shall record this one woman's fate as simply as possible. Let me write of this woman who in the Taishō and Shōwa eras suffered unknown to the world through such trials, lived through such experiences, and fell to such circumstances—allow me to make this record my parting gift to that pitiable soul. Believing that what becomes absolute in one individual must resonate with all people, I dare take up my brush even in times such as these.

Now, quietly reflecting upon her life, to summarize her existence: First, she was born in 1886 (Meiji 19) as the eldest daughter to the Nagano family of sake brewers in Urushihara near Nihonmatsu Town, Fukushima Prefecture of the Tohoku region; after graduating from a local girls' high school, she entered the Home Economics Department at Japan Women's University in Mejiro, Tokyo; while continuing dormitory life she began developing an interest in Western-style painting; following university graduation, having barely obtained her parents' consent from her hometown, she remained in Tokyo; attended the Pacific Painting Institute to study oil painting; associated with and received influence from emerging artists of the time such as Nakamura Tsune, Saitō Yoriji, and Tsuda Seifū; meanwhile participated in the women's ideological movement spearheaded by figures like Ms. Hiratsuka Raichō, contributing cover illustrations to Bluestocking magazine among other activities. This occurred around the late Meiji era, and through an introduction by Ms. Yanagi Yaeko, she came to know me for the first time, then married me in 1914 (Taisho 3). After marriage she remained devoted to oil painting research, but days torn between artistic refinement and household life gradually increased; moreover, since developing pleural issues she was frequently forced into bed rest; later losing her father in her hometown and facing her family’s impending bankruptcy—her mental anguish was no ordinary matter. Eventually, menopausal psychological disturbances caused symptoms of mental abnormality to appear; in Shōwa 7 [1932], she attempted Adalin suicide, and though fortunately escaping drug toxicity to temporarily recover health, thereafter—due to a brain cell disorder that gradually yet inexorably progressed despite all treatments—by Shōwa 10 [1935] she became fully seized by schizophrenia; was hospitalized at James Hill Hospital in February of that year; and in Shōwa 13 [1938] October quietly passed away there.

Her life was truly simple, remained purely within a single private life throughout, and never touched upon a life possessing any social significance. The brief period during which she was involved with Bluestocking could barely be considered her time of social engagement. Not only did she lack social interest, but she was innately unsociable. During her involvement with Bluestocking, when she was recognized among certain circles as one of those so-called new women and the name Nagano Chieko occasionally came up among that group, this was actually due to gossipmongers of the time embellishing and spreading various sensational stories; in truth, she herself seems to have maintained a rather taciturn, unsociable, non-logical, and single-minded character. It seems the genuine opinion of her female friends at the time was that Ms. Nagano was difficult to talk to. I did not know her well during that time, but I recall Mr. Tsuda Seifū having written somewhere about how he would often see her walking in high lacquered geta with the hem of her kimono trailing long behind her. From such appearances and her reticence, it seems people may have somehow sensed a curious mystery about her. She seems to have been thought of as something like a band of revolutionary women or spoken of as a connoisseur of refined tastes, but I imagine that in truth she was far more simple and unconcerned.

I could almost say I knew nothing of her early life. What I knew about her consisted solely of events from after our introduction and acquaintance. I remained so consumed by the present that no inclination to learn about her past ever arose; indeed, I hadn't even known her exact age with certainty until much later. The Chieko I came to know possessed a truly simple and sincere character, her heart perpetually brimming with something celestial—a woman who seemed to cast her entire being into love and trust. Her innate strong-willed nature appeared to keep her emotions tightly restrained within; her demeanor remained composed, with no trace of frivolousness evident. Though I often marveled at the sheer fortitude of her self-transcending drive, from today's vantage point I can discern how she must have secretly accumulated considerable unreasonable efforts there.

At the time I didn’t realize it, but looking back now, it seems her life had been progressing inexorably toward mental illness. In this life with me, there appeared to be no path outward for her. Before considering why that was so, if one imagines a different life—for instance, if she had lived not in Tokyo but in her hometown or some rural area, and if her spouse had been not an artist like me but someone in another occupation with an understanding of art, particularly someone engaged in farming or animal husbandry—one might wonder how things would have turned out. She might have been able to fulfill her natural lifespan. To such an extent that one might think so—for her, Tokyo had already become physically unsuitable as a place. The air of Tokyo was always tastelessly dry and gritty to her. It seems she spent her youthful days at Women's College full of vitality—encouraged by Principal Naruse to ride bicycles and immerse herself in tennis—but after graduation, she was generally not particularly robust in constitution, her appearance being rather slender, and she appears to have spent nearly half of each year in the countryside or mountains. Even after moving in with me, she would return to her family home for three or four months each year. She needed to breathe the country air to sustain her body. She often lamented, saying there was no sky in Tokyo. I have a short poem titled *A Childlike Story*.

Chieko says there is no sky in Tokyo, “I want to see the true sky,” she saith. I look up at the sky in surprise. Amidst the cherry saplings’ leaves there lies, Though cut, cannot be severed, It is the beautiful sky familiar from long ago. The blurred horizon, dull and hazy, It is the pale peach dampness of morning. Chieko gazes into the distance and saith. On Mount Adatara’s summit, The blue sky that appears every day

"Chieko's true sky," she saith. It is a childlike sky story.

I myself, having been born and raised in Tokyo, could not feel the depth of her heartfelt plea through personal experience, and though I thought she too would eventually acclimate to this urban nature, her demand for such fresh, transparent nature remained unchanged until the end of her life. She fulfilled this demand through various methods while living in Tokyo. The ceaseless sketching of weeds growing around the house, their botanical study, the cultivation of lilies and tomatoes in bay windows, the raw consumption of vegetables, the obsessive devotion to Beethoven's Sixth Symphony records—all these were undoubtedly transformed manifestations of fulfilling this demand; even this single aspect alone suggests that her unrelenting, inexpressible anguish spanning half her life must have exceeded all imagination. On her final day, a few hours before her death, the joy she took in holding the single Sunkist lemon I had brought must have also been connected to this singular thread. She bit into the lemon, her body and soul appearing cleansed by its refreshing fragrance and juice.

The greater cause that finally led her to mental collapse must have been the anguish arising from the contradictions between her fierce artistic devotion and the daily life she maintained through her pure love for me. She ardently loved painting. It appears she was already painting in oils during her Women’s College days and would always take on tasks like creating backdrops for student plays at school festivals. I have heard that her parents back home, who initially opposed her becoming a painter, ultimately granted their approval due to the impressive quality of the portrait of her grandfather she painted around that time, which astonished people from her hometown. This oil painting, which I later saw, possessed a subdued harmony within its simplicity and was a work of beautiful color value. As for her paintings from several years after graduation, I do not know them well, but they seem to have been works somewhat focused on sentimentality with a sweetly sentimental mood. She destroyed all works from that period and never showed them to me. Through mere rough sketches and the like, I could only imagine them. After joining me, she mainly continued her studies in still life and painted hundreds upon hundreds of works. She painted landscapes when returning to her hometown or traveling to the mountains, and while she drew figures in sketches, she never reached the point of painting them formally in oils. She was devoted to Cézanne and naturally received his influence quite strongly. At that time, I was also painting oils in addition to sculpture, but I had a separate study room. She truly suffered and agonized over color. And because she did not desire half-hearted success, she tormented herself to the point that it seemed equivalent to self-abuse. One year, she spent the summer at Goshiki Onsen near her hometown, painted the scenery there, and returned. Among them were some minor pieces of considerable quality, so she decided to submit them to the Bunten Exhibition along with other larger works, but they were not recognized by the judges and were rejected. Since then, no matter how much someone encouraged her, she refused to submit to any exhibitions. I believe that for artists, the opportunity to appeal to the world and release pent-up emotions through public exhibition of their works can provide mental relief, but by withdrawing into herself in this way, she may have exacerbated her inward-turning psychological tendencies. Because she constantly aimed for perfection, she was always dissatisfied with herself, and her works always remained unfinished. Moreover, it was undeniable that her oil paintings still had insufficiencies in their coloring. Her sketches possessed remarkable power and elegance, but she still could not fully master oil paints.

She grieved over this. At times, she would shed tears alone before her easel. When I happened to go to her room on the second floor and saw such scenes, I too would often feel an indescribable loneliness and find no words of comfort. By the way, my life was more difficult than people could imagine; we had only once employed a maid around the time of the earthquake, and otherwise lived just the two of us. Since both she and I were sculptors of similar kind, managing our time required considerable effort. If we became engrossed in our respective work, the two of us would go the entire day without eating, cleaning, or attending to errands, bringing all aspects of our daily life to a standstill. As such days accumulated considerably, it ultimately fell to her, being the woman, to manage household chores; moreover, when I worked on sculptures during the day, nights became increasingly occupied with writing manuscripts—begrudging even mealtime—and through this progression, her time for painting study was progressively consumed. With work such as poetry, one might perhaps partially advance it mentally and make use of even quite fragmented time, but plastic arts alone cannot be managed without certain fixed blocks of time, and her anxieties regarding this point were truly heartrending. She endeavored not to reduce my work time no matter what happened, protected my sculptures, and strove to shield me from trivial tasks. She imperceptibly reduced her oil painting study time, at times attempting sculpture with clay, later spinning silk thread, dyeing it with plants, and beginning to weave. The hand-woven kimono and haori they made for themselves still remain today. Mr. Yamazaki Akira, that same authority on plant dyeing, included in his condolence telegram upon her death:

She wove a single blue stripe at the sleeve’s edge.

The graceful one is now gone, alas!

Mr. Yamazaki Akira had written a poem that said: In the end, though she never voiced it, she had despaired of oil painting. That she should despair of her own art—which she had so ardently loved and considered her life’s work—could not have come easily. On that night in later years when she poisoned herself, a fruit basket freshly bought from Senbikiya had been arranged in still-life fashion in the adjacent room, with a new canvas propped on the easel. I saw this and felt my heart gripped. I wanted to wail.

She was gentle yet strong-willed, so she would internalize every matter and press forward in silence. And she constantly devoted her utmost abilities to her endeavors. When it came to matters of art—naturally—but also those of general education and various spiritual issues, she would think through them as thoroughly as possible, permitting no ambiguity and despising compromise. It was like a string stretched taut day and night—her brain cells ruptured, unable to withstand that extreme tension. She collapsed, having exhausted all her strength and spirit. I cannot count how many times I have been purified by the purity of her internal life. Compared to her, I truly felt vague and muddied. Just by looking at her eyes, I would always sense more than a hundred lessons could teach. In her eyes there indeed existed the heavens that rise above Mount Adatara. When creating her bust, I keenly felt the unattainable nature of these eyes and was ashamed of my own impurity. Even now, looking back, it seems she inherently carried a fate that made it impossible for her to live safely in this world. She had lived in a world so utterly divorced from the atmosphere of this one. I remember there were times when she seemed to me like a soul merely provisionally existing in this world. She had no worldly desires. She lived solely through her devotion to art and her love for me. And so she remained forever young. The youthfulness of her spirit was matched by an equally remarkable youthfulness of appearance. Every time I traveled with her, people at various destinations would think she was my sister or even my daughter. She possessed that particular kind of youthfulness—even as death approached, one could not at first glance believe her to be a woman past fifty. At the time of our marriage, I could not imagine her growing old, and once jokingly said, "I wonder if even you will become an old woman?" To which she carelessly replied, "I’ll die before I grow old," I remember.

And so it came to pass exactly as she had said. According to psychiatrists, the brains of ordinary healthy people can endure considerable anguish, and those who develop mental illness are mostly either born with some predisposition or have acquired it through injuries or serious diseases. There appeared to be no mentally ill individuals in her family; however, her younger brother—the eldest son of her household—had significantly aberrant behavior that ultimately led to the family's bankruptcy, while he himself contracted a grave illness and died destitute in the slums. Yet one cannot believe there existed a hereditary predisposition strong enough to be deemed genetic. It is also said she suffered a severe skull injury from a cutting stone in infancy, but this healed completely without complications and seems unrelated to her later illness. When her brain developed abnormalities, the doctor asked me whether she had contracted some disease abroad. I had no recollection of such an event, and though both my blood and hers were tested repeatedly, the results always came back negative. Thus it becomes difficult to definitively confirm any physical predisposition for schizophrenia within her. But looking back now, all her tendencies since I've known her could also be seen as having crept step by step toward this illness. Even that purity was something extraordinary. When fixated, she would abandon all else without regret—possessing what might be called an irrepressible temperament—while the intensity and depth of her love and trust in me could almost be likened to an infant's. What first struck me about her was the beauty of this exceptional character. To put it plainly, she was extraordinary through and through. In my poem "Two People Under a Tree,"

This is the hometown where you were born. The heaven and earth that gave birth to this wondrously distinct physical body. That I composed these lines too stemmed from this genuine experience. Whether she had been approaching her final collapse step by step, or whether the illness had been relentlessly advancing like an inexorable spiral—it was only when nearing the end that I began to vaguely sense something amiss; until then I had not harbored the slightest doubt regarding her mental state. In other words, while she was extraordinary, there existed no clinical abnormality. It was around the time her menopause approached that I first sensed an abnormality.

Let me briefly set down here the her within memory.

As mentioned before, it was Ms. Yanagi Yaeko—my senior from women’s college—who introduced Nagano Chieko to me. Ms. Yanagi Yaeko was the wife of Mr. Yanagi Keisuke, a painter who had been my friend since my New York days, and at that time she was engaged in work for the Sakura Maple Society. It was around Meiji 44 (1911). In July of Meiji 42 (1909), I returned from France, drilled a hole in the roof of the retirement house located in my father’s garden to use as a studio, and there I vigorously studied sculpture and oil painting. While establishing a small art shop called Rōkandō in Kanda Awajichō where I held exhibitions for emerging artists and participated in Japan's burgeoning Subaru group's new literary movement, my belated youth simultaneously erupted—I fell into what might be called a rather intense life of indulgence through frequent interactions with Mr. Kitahara Hakushū, Mr. Nagata Hideo, Mr. Kinoshita Mokutarō, and others. It was a time when I spent days in chaos from anxiety, restlessness, longing, and despair over something unknown—planning even to relocate to Hokkaido only to fail immediately, experiencing a mental crisis where I myself couldn’t fathom what would become of me. Mr. Yanagi Keisuke may have had a friend’s deep consideration, but it was precisely during such a time that she was introduced to me. She was exceedingly elegant and quiet, her sentences trailing off; she would simply look at my works, drink tea, listen to talk about French paintings, and then take her leave—this was her usual routine. At first, only her skillful way of dressing and the appealing delicacy of her figure caught my eye. She never brought any of the paintings she had created, so I had no idea what she was working on. Around that time, arrangements were made for my father to build my current studio; by Meiji 45 (1912) it was completed, and I moved in alone. She came to visit here with a large pot of gloxinia as a congratulatory gift.

Just after the passing of His Majesty Emperor Meiji, I went to Inubō for sketching. At that time, she had come to another inn with her younger sister and a close friend, and we met again. Later she came to stay at my inn, and together we went on walks, shared meals, and sketched. Perhaps because our behavior seemed suspicious, one of the inn maids always followed us on our walks to keep watch. They apparently thought we might commit a lovers' suicide. According to what Chieko later recounted, had I said anything unreasonable at that time, she would have immediately drowned herself. I was unaware of such matters, but during our stay at this inn, I was deeply struck by her pure demeanor, her selfless and simple nature, and her boundless love for nature. She who took delight in the beach silvertop along your shore was utterly childlike. Yet again, while bathing, I happened to catch sight of her in the adjacent bathhouse and suddenly felt a premonition that some fateful bond existed between us. She was remarkably well-proportioned.

Before long, passionate letters began arriving from her, and I too came to believe there was no woman other than this person to whom I could entrust my heart. Even so, I repeatedly questioned whether this feeling might be temporary. I also warned her. It was because when I thought of the struggles my future life would bring, I couldn’t bear to involve her in them. At that time, malicious gossip about the two of us was being spread among the narrow circle of artists and women, and both of us were greatly troubled in dealing with our families. However, she believed in me completely, and I rather worshipped her. The more malicious voices filled our surroundings, the more strongly we were bound together. Knowing the impure elements and residues of turbidity within myself, whenever I began to lose confidence, she would always illuminate what lay inside me with her pure light.

Within the myriad defiled forms of myself With a child's sincerity, You, in your nobility, discovered the self within me What you discerned remains unknown to me Were I to appoint you peerless arbiter, Through You my heart finds joy This self I cannot comprehend I believe dwells enshrined within my living flesh Thus I too gave voice in verse. It was her unadulterated love that ultimately rescued me from my self-destructive decadence.

For two months in August and September of Taishō 2, I stayed at Shimizuya in Kamikōchi, Shinshū, and that autumn painted dozens of oil paintings for the Seikatsusha exhibition held at the Kanda Venus Club together with Mr. Kishida Ryūsei, Mr. Kimura Shōhachi, and others. In those days, everyone going to Kamikōchi would cross Tokugari Pass via Shimajima and Iwana-dome, which was quite a considerable journey. That summer at the same lodging were Mr. Kubota Utsubo and Mr. Ibaragi Inokichi, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who had come specifically to climb Mount Hotaka. After September began, she came to visit me carrying her painting tools. On the day I received that news, I crossed Tokugari Pass and went to meet her at Iwana-dome. She entrusted her luggage to the guide and climbed up lightly. The mountain people were also astonished by her strong legs. I again crossed Tokugari Pass together with her and guided her to Shimizuya. Her joy upon encountering Kamikōchi's scenery was truly profound. After that, every day I carried both our painting tools on my shoulder and went around sketching. She seemed to be slightly suffering from pleural pain at that time, but while in the mountains, it apparently never became anything serious. I saw her artwork for the first time during this period. It had a distinctive quality in its rather subjective view of nature, and I thought it could become remarkable if fully developed. I painted every striking vista of Hotaka, Myōjin, Yakedake, Kasumizawa, Roppyakudake, and Azusagawa. She continued to look at one of the self-portraits I had painted during that time even during her later years of illness. At that time, Mr. Weston asked me whether she was my sister or wife. When I answered "A friend," he gave a wry smile. At that time, a certain Tokyo newspaper wrote about the two of us in Kamikōchi under the exaggerated headline "Love on the Mountain Peaks." It was probably based on rumors from people who had descended the mountain. This once again caused distress to the families.

On October 1st, the entire mountain party descended to Shimajima. The splendor of the golden foliage from the katsura trees that filled Tokugari Pass’s mountain bosom remains unforgettable. She, too, often recalled and spoke of this.

From then on, my parents were terribly worried. I felt truly sorry toward my mother. All of my father and mother's dreams were shattered. Neither leveraging my return from foreign study to break into the sculpture world, nor accepting suggestions to become a schoolteacher, nor taking a proper Edo-style bride—it all became utterly incomprehensible. I truly felt remorseful, but ultimately proposed to my parents in Taishō 3 that they permit my marriage to Chieko. My parents granted their permission. Since we would not be attending to my parents and would be living separately in the studio, we decided that all land and buildings would remain the property of my younger brother and his wife, who lived with our parents. The two of us established a household completely bare. Of course, we didn’t make any trips to Atami. And then a truly prolonged life of poverty continued.

Although she had been raised in an affluent family—perhaps because of that—she remained remarkably detached from money and never understood poverty's true dread. Even when I summoned secondhand dealers to sell clothes during financial straits, she would watch impassively; if the kitchen drawer held no coins, she simply refrained from shopping. Though we sometimes discussed what might happen if we truly starved, whenever I insisted we must finish our work regardless of circumstances, she would repeatedly affirm: "Yes—your sculptures must never remain incomplete." With no steady income, money flowed relatively abundant when present but vanished completely come tomorrow when depleted. Once gone, none could be found anywhere. Over twenty-four years, I likely made kimonos for her merely two or three times. Gradually she abandoned the diaphanous garments of her unmarried days, adopting plain attire until sweaters and trousers became her household uniform—yet this simplicity held remarkably beautiful harmony. As expressed in that poem declaring “You grow more beautiful by the day”—

When a woman gradually discards her trappings, Why do you become so beautiful?

Your body, bathed by years, A heavenly metal traversing endless skies It was during that time I composed these verses.

Even she, who remained unfazed by her own poverty, was deeply wounded by her family's ruin. She appeared to have returned to her family home multiple times to reorganize the finances, but they ultimately went bankrupt. The Great Fire of Nihonmatsu Town. Her biological father's eternal sleep. The heir's dissipation. Ruin. For her, this must have been an unbearable regret. She often fell ill, but each time she returned to her rural home, she recovered. How the loneliness of having no home to return to must have tormented her. That she did not have many companions to distract from her loneliness—though this stemmed from her inherent disposition—was itself a form of destiny. She staked everything on her love for me and gradually drifted away from her school friends. She had only a few close friends: Ms. Sato Sumiko of the Tachikawa Agricultural Experiment Station and two or three others. Even so, their interactions occurred only once or twice a year. During her school days, she was quite healthy and apparently engaged in rather strenuous exercise, but after graduation she always had pleural issues, and within a few years of marrying me, she finally contracted severe wet pleuritis and was hospitalized, fortunately making a full recovery, but later, when she began horseback riding lessons at a certain training facility—perhaps because of this—she developed kyphosis and was hospitalized again for incision surgery. She suffered from appendicitis among other ailments, and some part of her was always ailing. The period when she enjoyed the best health in her life was around Taishō 14 (1925), lasting one or two years. Yet even when ill, she was never gloomy. She was always serene and composed. When sad, she would cry tears, but soon recover.

Around Shōwa 6 (1931), when I was traveling in the Sanriku region, the first signs of mental disturbance came upon her. I had never left her alone at home for more than two weeks during previous trips, yet this time I traveled for nearly a month. When I heard accounts from the niece who had stayed during my absence and from my mother who had visited, it appeared she had felt profoundly lonely—there was an instance where she told her mother, "I will die." She was at the age approaching menopause. The following year, Shōwa 7 (1932), was the year of the Los Angeles Olympics, but on the morning of July fifteenth, she did not wake from sleep. It appeared she had taken Adalin after midnight the previous night—the twenty-five gram powder bottle lay empty. She lay plump and rounded like a young girl, eyes shut and mouth closed, remaining supine on the bed as she slept unroused by any amount of calling or shaking. She still breathed, her body temperature remaining quite high. I immediately had a doctor come to administer detoxification treatment, filed a report with the police through him, and admitted her to Kudanzaka Hospital. A suicide note was found containing only words of love and gratitude toward me and an apology to her father. The text showed not the slightest trace of mental disturbance. After one month of treatment and nursing care, she recovered and was discharged. For the next year she lived in relatively good health, but when I noticed various neurological malfunctions beginning to occur, thinking that perhaps a trip would help, we traveled together around the hot springs of Tohoku region; however, upon returning to Ueno Station, her condition had worsened compared to when we departed. Her symptoms waxed and waned. Initially she saw so many hallucinations that she would lie in bed sketching each one in her notebook. While noting their changing forms moment by moment with timestamps, she drew them successively to show me. She spoke with deep emotion about their unparalleled beauty of shape and color. After going through such a period for some time, her consciousness as a whole became severely hazy, requiring me to handle both her meals and bathing as if tending an infant. Both the doctors and I thought this a temporary menopausal phenomenon, so we relocated her to the house at Kujūkuri Beach where her mother and sister lived and had her take Oba Hormone supplements among other medications. I visited by train once each week.

In Shōwa 9 (1934), my father was hospitalized at the university hospital for a gastric ulcer and passed away on October 10 after being discharged.

By the coast, her physique grew robust and she emerged from her stupor, but her neurological deterioration progressed further. She began playing with birds, becoming a bird herself, standing in a corner of the pine grove, and chanting "Kōtarō Chieko Kōtarō Chieko" for hours on end. When arrangements following my father's death had settled somewhat, I brought her back from the coast to the studio, but her illness advanced like a steam locomotive. She underwent examination by Dr. Moroōka Son, but as violent behaviors emerged and home care grew dangerous, through an acquaintance's referral we admitted her to James Hill Hospital in Minami-Shinagawa in February 1935, entrusting everything to Director Dr. Saitō Tamao's devoted care. By fortune, we secured final nursing care from Chieko's niece—Ms. Haruko, a kind-hearted woman who had become a first-class nurse. Recalling in detail her decline since Shōwa 7 remains too agonizing for me to chronicle. Yet during her hospital life's latter half, her condition stabilized relatively; though mentally fractured, her hands joyfully achieved through paper-cutting what oil paints had denied her. Her hundreds of paper-cut works stand as abundant poetry, life records, joyful forms, chromatic harmonies, humor, and tender affection's plea. There she lived in true health. Showing them to visiting me became her greatest delight. As I examined them, she smiled and bowed with radiant happiness. On her final day, she handed me a bundle she'd organized herself, faintly smiling through labored breath—a face of utter peace. Washed with lemon scent I'd brought, she left this world in perfect stillness hours later.

It was the night of October 5, Shōwa 13 (1938).