Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. My First Meeting with Futabatei

The first time I met Futabatei was at the end of autumn in Meiji 22 (1889). Before recounting this memory, I must first say a few words about myself in proper order.

Prior to this, I had often heard about Futabatei from Iwakubo Busō.
Iwakubo fervently praised Futabatei’s character, vehemently declaring, “Futabatei is a philosopher—moreover, a man of grand stature!”
*Ukigumo* was one of my favorite books at the time, and I had admired works like *Aibiki* and *Meguriai* so deeply—reading them over and over—that I desperately wanted to meet him at least once, yet I had not found the opportunity.

At that time, there were few people in literary circles with whom I associated.
I deeply admired the literary elegance and talent of Kōyō Meikō and the other Ken’yūsha members; however, my original aspiration had been economics, and I regarded literature and the like as nothing more than a leisurely diversion.
To put it plainly, at that time—even among the Ken’yūsha members themselves—and indeed even the author of *Shōsetsu Shinzui*, who championed literary reform, none contemplated art as profoundly as we do today.
As for those like me—mere supporters, hangers-on in literary circles—we couldn’t possibly have had any true understanding of supreme literature.
Even if one playfully elevated authors like Samba, Kyōden, Sonosaki, and Saikaku as great men, I did not in the least believe that such figures deserved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the august predecessors of National Learning or Confucian scholarly circles.
Rather than concerning myself with their characters being this or that, I simply couldn’t bring myself to respect grandiose novels and plays.
Even when reading the literary theories of Tsubouchi Shōyō and Takada Hanpei, I could admire their arguments but couldn’t bring myself to take the novels themselves seriously.

The first time I was profoundly moved and came to hold a reverent belief in the novel was through Dostoevsky’s *Crime and Punishment*.
It was in the summer of Meiji 22 (1889), while staying at a certain inn in the foothills of Mount Fuji, that I read *Crime and Punishment*—reading and rereading this single volume I had brought in my traveling case time and again until I finally came to marvel at the greatness of Russian novels.

Because I lacked talent for ornate language, from the very beginning I neither thought I could become a literary man nor had any intention of becoming one.
However, I had loved novels and miscellaneous writings since childhood and had explored them quite extensively.
By that time, I had already read through most ordinary rental books and was now hunting exclusively for Yamamoto-ya books at the Seido Library.
I had also read a few Western works.
Therefore, though I was utterly inept at composing prose—not even fit to tie the shoelaces of Ken’yūsha’s readers—having exhaustively hunted down every novel since Kisanji’s time, I found that even while admiring the Ken’yūsha gentlemen’s deft literary talents, their depths of erudition seemed transparently shallow to me, leaving me less moved than by Enchō’s sentimental tales.
Since I had not encountered many works—whether those of ancient authors or foreign novels I had glimpsed with partial understanding (by then I had already read Zola and Daudet)—that struck me as worthy of wholehearted devotion, my estimation of literature at that time was not particularly high.

However, when I read *Crime and Punishment*, it was as though I had encountered a lightning strike in a wilderness—my eyes dazzled, my ears deafened—and I was struck by a profound emotion unlike anything I had ever experienced before.
Since such solemn, reverent emotion could never be imparted by art alone, I came to deeply perceive the author’s immense power, believing that the convictions harbored within him had struck a chord deep within my soul.
At that moment, my heart felt filled with a sensation as though I had set aside *Crime and Punishment* and immediately embraced the great spirit of Dostoevsky himself.

From that moment on, my view of novels completely transformed.
Until then, I had disdained literature, becoming a half-hearted cheerleader while privately considering it nothing more than a time-wasting diversion; but from that moment onward, I came to regard such an attitude as profanity against solemn literature, and simultaneously felt an existential dread at the thought of someone like myself—with impoverished thoughts and tenuous beliefs—speaking flippantly about it.

At the same time, I recalled Futabatei.
I had been listening to Iwakubo Busō’s assertion that Futabatei was a philosopher with a sense of oddity, but I could not help but imagine what sort of person Futabatei must be—this man deeply versed in Russian literature, which had produced a great writer like Dostoevsky.

Prior to this, I had read Stepnyak’s *Underground Russia* and developed an interest in Russia’s national character and thought, even carrying it in my luggage when I traveled to the foothills of Mount Fuji; but upon being deeply moved by *Crime and Punishment*, I found myself recalling Stepnyak and also summoning Futabatei to mind.

Looking back now, it seems strange to connect Stepnyak and Futabatei, but at the time, I thought they must share some distant kinship—if not in exact form, then in some remote commonality.
At that time, I had not yet seen Stepnyak’s portraits or read his biography, but I inferred him to be a man brimming with an intrepid and headstrong disposition. Since I had also often heard from Iwakubo that Futabatei was “a philosopher,” I imagined his appearance as one who combined the dignified composure of a philosopher with the fierce resolve of a revolutionary—traits that seemed to radiate from his very brow.
Contrary to how many people far and wide who knew Futabatei had imagined him—prior to meeting him—as a refined, elegant scholar-type novelist, I had never thought of him that way from the beginning.

When I returned to Tokyo at the end of autumn, I discovered, to my surprise, Hasegawa Tatsunosuke’s name among the name cards left by visitors during my absence. Rejoicing as though finding a plum while yearning for something sour, I visited Futabatei in Sarugakuchō for the first time on the evening two days later.

It was exactly just after sunset.
When I was guided past the veranda of the sitting room into a gloomy, oppressive earthen storehouse, there stood a square-jawed, beardless giant of a man moving a dim lamp from atop a high desk and kicking aside the futon on a black-lacquered box—where he had apparently been seated—to replace it.

After exchanging initial greetings appropriate for a first meeting, I glanced around the room. Shrouded in the dim lamplight, I couldn’t clearly discern everything—beyond the slightly grimy bookcase holding the lamp were no decorations worthy of the name, not even a chair accompanying the crude desk—but a black-lacquered box, its height worn down to an appropriate degree and resembling a bookcase, seemed to serve as both a seat and a lamp stand. In stark contrast to the studies of Meikōsai and Kōyō, cluttered with towering stacks of miscellaneous books interspersed with bizarre paintings and curios, it was far too austere.

His appearance did not differ much from what I had imagined. With a hoarse voice that matched his composed countenance, he spoke with immense gravity, as though squeezing each word from the depths of his belly. When we who prattled on with mere words heard that voice brimming with substance, we felt ashamed of our own verbosity—so superficial and weightless it seemed.

I have forgotten what we discussed, but what remains firmly imprinted in my mind is this: when I asked about the book left open on his desk—half-read—Futabatei looked deeply embarrassed and said with palpable shame, “It’s truly mortifying—here I am only now getting around to reading *On the Origin of Species*. Those of you who read English books can access such masterpieces early on, but in Russia there’s nothing beyond literary works, so I’m just now gnawing at classics even a three-year-old knows.” Even now, thirty years later, I—who have yet to glance at Darwin—still feel ashamed when I recall it, but even more so at that time, I felt like wanting to vanish.

At that moment, about thirty or forty minutes after I had arrived, a man named Y—who was said to be a graduate of the university’s Classical Chinese Literature Department—came to visit.
The issue of Japanese prose’s future was raised by this man.
As for Futabatei’s response at that time—though I can no longer recall the exact phrasing—it essentially conveyed the following meaning:
“What, fundamentally, is the purpose of writing?
Is it to elucidate truth, or is it to explain life? Until this question is resolved, we cannot discuss the future of prose.
Once this question is settled, the writing most suited and closest to achieving that purpose will naturally become the style of the future—” such was the essence of his argument.

I was struck by surprise at this answer. At that time, I had read Spencer’s treatise on style along with two or three other notable essays on prose, but never in my wildest dreams had I expected to hear such discourse on prose from a so-called novelist. Y, the Classical Studies graduate who had posed the question, wore a perplexed expression and said nothing.

Having read Dostoevsky and felt as though struck by lightning, I was further overwhelmed—as if battered by a thousand-foot waterfall—upon meeting Futabatei. Until then, I had indeed regarded novels and other so-called soft literature as mere fleeting diversions; yet through this first encounter with Futabatei, however dimly perceived, I came to recognize in literature a solemn, profound significance that engages with life itself. No meeting with anyone left a deeper impression than that initial encounter with Futabatei.

II. Tsunomori's Women's Photo Studio

It was around Meiji 24 (1891), and Futabatei had once taken lodgings on the second floor of Tsunomori’s Women’s Photo Studio in Yotsuya.
Though calling it a photo studio might suggest some refinement, it was in fact a shabby, low-class house on the outskirts of the post town that resembled a merchant’s lodging—a ramshackle place where Futabatei was not the only lodger, and it was impossible to tell whether photography or renting rooms was its primary business.

One autumn night when I happened to visit, he was in uncharacteristically high spirits with a slight tipsiness, and from some turn in the conversation—I cannot recall how—we ended up discussing photo studios, a topic wholly unrelated to our usual subjects.
He expounded on how a photo studio required no capital; how it promised easy profits relative to minimal investment and labor; how the technique was so simple that even women could master it with modest dexterity; how in such a business, customer service mattered more than technical skill, making women’s natural charm advantageous for clientele; how the widow running this particular studio reportedly earned decent income. After piling up such talk, he declared something utterly disconnected: “Since being a bureaucrat holds no appeal, I think I’ll try my hand at being a patron for a women’s photo studio instead.”

“A women’s photo studio sounds interesting.”
“But is there a suitable woman to become a technician?” I asked. He replied with an air of having anticipated the question: “There is—there’s a woman practically tailor-made for this.”
“The skills will have to be taught from here on out, but technical expertise itself is trivial.”
“What matters more is customer service—the ability to handle both demanding mustachioed soldiers and bewildered country grandmothers with equal care, while boldly cutting through business obstacles with fighting spirit! Fortunately, there exists a woman who has navigated life’s tempests—a living education.” He then expounded at length: how modern women’s education proved useless; how their learning resembled cosmetic rouge and powder—mere surface adornment; how forging true character required life’s bitter experiences rather than academic training; how teahouse women and geishas, though fallen to society’s depths, overflowed with unexpected moral sentiment, proving far more capable than sheltered young ladies or wives fresh from girls’ schools in practical matters. “She needn’t be some paragon of female fortitude—but without a woman who’s weathered life’s storms, no man can find a true partner.” He recounted the story of an unspecified woman recently encountered—scorned by society due to her circumstances—who possessed “a spirit undaunted by worldly ways and noble empathy attuned to life’s subtleties—qualities no girls’ school could impart.”
“Give such women modest education and independent professions, and they’ll become splendid ladies far surpassing the vain wives graduating from girls’ schools today,” he declared fervently.

The logical path leading to this conclusion was impeccably orderly, but since the conclusion amounted to claiming that those in disreputable trades surpassed amateurs, I—holding fundamentally different views on women—could not accept each point one by one.
But setting aside the debate, as he—who had been slightly tipsy at first—gradually grew serious and spoke in a low, somber tone, haltingly, it felt as though the lonely desolation of autumn had seeped into me, and I found myself profoundly savoring each word I could not inwardly accept.

“What are you going to do with that woman?”

“I have no particular plan,” he said, “but to awaken the dormant humanity within her circumstances, I want to provide her with a proper profession or education.” Starting from the woman’s story, his words expanded into a discourse on life, touched upon Comte’s positivism, and like a spider spinning its web, gradually spread into a grand philosophy of humanity. To start a women’s photo studio was not so much about providing a profession to a single woman as it held profound significance akin to a great sage—bearing a grand vow to save the world—establishing a hall for street preaching.

But when I pressed further with questions—“Who is this woman? Where is she now?”—he would only say, “She’s just an ordinary acquaintance; it’s not yet time to reveal anything,” and refused to elaborate.
Yet he bore an air of someone deeply convinced: “I fell for her spirit at first sight—I believed her worthy to discuss life with.”

From time to time—or rather, intrusively—a woman who was likely a boarding house maid, her face plastered in stark white as though from twelve floors below, would appear to pour tea or tend to the charcoal brazier. All the while, she put on a coquettish air, fidgeting as if longing to be teased.
The grave weight of Futabatei’s voice and the solemn mood accompanying this earnest discussion clashed unbearably with the lowborn woman’s frivolous high-pitched tone—a dissonance so grating it made one’s skin crawl.

Around midnight, the white-powdered woman came and said, “Since it’s nearly time to retire, shall I lay out the bedding?”
Though I thought it late, when I first noticed the time and hurried to rise from my seat, he insisted I stay since the digressions showed no sign of ending, and instructed her, “Bring bedding for the guest as well.”

Futabatei was not only skilled in discourse but also relished it.
But it was rare for him to be as excited as he was that night.
The later it grew, the more engrossed we became; though I have now forgotten most of that conversation, he spoke of quietly profound subtleties of human emotion—entirely unlike his usual cold scientific critiques.
Even as two o’clock became three, the conversation flowed ceaselessly without end, and though we lay down on the bedding and burrowed into the futons, reasoning that it had grown too late, we still seemed reluctant to let ourselves fall asleep like this.
“Let’s sleep,” one would say while turning over, only to shift back after a while with “I just can’t sleep,” and start speaking haltingly—continuing our talk even as roosters crowed and dawn light seeped through the shutters’ cracks.
As it had grown bright and there was no point in sleeping further, I left the bedding and said, “Well then, I’ll head back.” With an air of unfinished conversation still lingering, he abruptly stood up and declared, “Since I won’t be sleeping anyway, I’ll walk you partway for some exercise.” After hastily washing his face, we left the house together—descending from Tsunomori through Sakamachi, passing before the Officers’ School to Ichigaya Mitsuke—strolling leisurely through the pale dawn where most houses still had their shutters closed. When we reached the torii of Hachiman Shrine and prepared to part, he suddenly smirked as if struck by a thought: “Ah, last night’s nonsense—that women’s photo studio plan is canceled,” adding with a wry laugh, “What an absurd amount of blather I indulged in!”

＊

Piecing together and imagining the conversation from that night, it seemed there had been a pitiful woman who had fallen into disreputable work due to her circumstances, and with the intention of rescuing her from the mire to provide a path toward self-sufficiency—one that would allow her to become independent even from middle age—the solution arrived at after much deliberation was to have her live in as an apprentice at this women’s photo studio and receive training there.
But whether such a woman truly existed or not, I do not know.
It occurred to me that the white-powdered woman who kept appearing that night might be the one, but I could not believe that the woman Futabatei had been so convinced of—claiming he “fell for her spirit at first sight”—could be such a vulgar wench.
The women’s photo studio plan ended there and then; even when I later broached the subject, he would merely laugh it off as “that empty talk,” leaving it perplexing to this day.
Futabatei was reputed among his acquaintances as a man of deep passions and sorrows, and seemed to have no shortage of romantic entanglements; however, since I generally avoid delving into conversations about drink and women—not just with Futabatei but with anyone—I know little about his affairs in this regard.
Yet even now, Futabatei’s intense countenance and words from that night we talked straight through remain etched in the depths of my senses.

III. Gourmet and Indifference

Futabatei had no indulgences to speak of.
But if one were to insist on finding one, it would have been his gourmet indulgence.
He was no gourmet, but he consistently maintained a rather rigorous standard of extravagance.
He was also an extremely hearty eater.

When I was boarding in Sarugakuchō, since we were close neighbors, we frequently visited each other, and Futabatei would always come in the evening and talk until nearly midnight. At that time, I stayed up late every night working until two or three o’clock, so it became customary for me to order kamaage udon around midnight. I’d call the boarding house maid and, stroking my chin, say “Alright?”—she’d immediately catch on. Futabatei unfailingly savored this customary kamaage udon each time he visited, but one serving often proved insufficient, and he would polish off two with gusto.

Futabatei’s mentor, Furukawa Tsuneichirō, was also known among his acquaintances as a gourmet.
Once, on a stormy day, he suddenly craved eel and defied the wind and rain to rush by rickshaw—with men pulling and pushing—to Matsukane in Kanasugi, renowned at the time.
Unfortunately, the shop was closed with a sign reading “No catch today.” “What a shame—I rushed all this way through the storm!” Mr. Furukawa lamented dispiritedly, grumbling repeatedly. The proprietor, taking pity, said, “Please wait a moment,” and went to consult someone in the back. Returning, he offered: “Given your trouble, if a single eel would suffice…”
There is an anecdote that Mr. Furukawa, greatly satisfied, declared “One will suffice!” and savored the single eel with such relish—as if it were ten times more delicious.
Whether influenced by his mentor’s gourmet proclivities or born of innate culinary inclination, Futabatei was no gourmet, yet maintained rather rigorous standards regarding food.
One time, while strolling together, we visited a certain acquaintance in Banchō, and on our way back near Yasukuni Shrine, evening had fallen. When I suggested we eat dinner somewhere, he wouldn’t readily agree, insisting there were no decent restaurants in the vicinity.
After passing through Bamba, descending Kudan, and strolling around Jinbocho, the time had already passed eight o'clock and our stomachs were growling loudly, yet he showed no inclination to enter any of the beef restaurants in the area.
By the time we finally dragged our exhausted legs to the Kanda River below Myōjin past nine o'clock, being led upstairs and made to wait as usual felt even more interminable than normal. "Keeping your stomach empty like this is the secret to savoring fine food," he declared, then proceeded to polish off five plates of greasy, oversized skewers.

I was relatively indifferent to food and would settle for whatever eatery was nearby when hungry, but Futabatei would never act so casually.
Whenever we went walking, our clash of opinions invariably concerned meals, and each time this happened, he would declare, “We can’t discuss matters over food.”
During the time when streetcars were not yet convenient, he was such a man of exacting standards that after going to Mukōjima for leisure, he would make a special trip all the way to Nihonbashi by rickshaw just to have dinner.

Moreover, he was an extremely hearty eater. Whenever close friends who required no formalities visited, he would line up three or four varieties of fruits and rice cakes piled high in mounds, then proceed to munch away nonstop from one end to the other while talking, paying no heed to his guests.
Particularly fond of mandarins and barrel persimmons, he would pile up peels and seeds into mountains in no time. “Seeing these corpses makes it look like I’ve gorged myself—hardly presentable,” he’d remark while licking clean five or six in the time it took others to eat one or two.

However, his extravagance was limited to food alone; he remained utterly indifferent to clothing and household implements.
The crude desk that had Darwin’s *The Origin of Species* on it during my first visit later had its legs cut off and was used as an ordinary desk until it went to Russia.
As for his inkstone—a crude relic from his student days—he showed no discernment in his choice of ink or brushes either.
Not only the desk but even the alcove were carelessly piled high with manuscript papers, letter scraps, magazines, and books in disarray, with not a single decoration to speak of.
To put it bluntly, his lifestyle was no different from that of a provincial student freshly arrived from the countryside and living in a boarding house—he possessed none of the refined sensibilities one would expect of a literary man, not a care for manuscript paper quality or ink hue.
He remained utterly indifferent to matters like stationery decoration. Once, when such a topic arose, he casually roared with laughter and said, “If I ever made a million ryō, I’d build a study so splendid it would make your eyes pop out!”

He remained equally indifferent to clothing. He was fond of tobacco and would always puff steadily on his pipe, its broken rāo wrapped in paper. But when the tar built up enough to seep into the mouthpiece, he’d habitually tear strips from the merino sash he wore to clean it—calmly cinching a belt that had been gradually ripped until nearly half its length hung diagonally in tatters. When his business fervor persisted and he began frequenting geisha houses, he suddenly started dressing up; on one occasion, having newly tailored a haori coat, he brought out a figured-crested garment to show off.

Though it was a figured-crested haori of considerable weight, the shabby Kai-ori fabric lining made me remark, “This lining does the exterior a disservice—you should’ve splurged a little more.” To this, he assumed a composed expression and retorted, “Why? Haori linings have been made of Kai-ori since antiquity—it’s tradition.”

Then he added, “These days they even line futago silks with Kai-ori. If the lining of a figured silk haori is Kai-ori fabric, it makes one look like a county office clerk or elementary school teacher—clashing with the dignity of a gentleman who frequents geisha houses. Just resolutely switch to damask or satin for the lining.”

(At that time, habutae silk wasn’t yet in fashion.) When I said this, he retorted with a deeply displeased look, “Damask or satin? That’s for aristocrats,” and refused to entertain the idea.

Around that same time, he often wore a plain black serge haori with three crests flat-stitched onto it—a fashionable style of the period. When I praised him, saying, “That’s quite a refined piece you’ve put together,” he replied with evident pride, “I do know a thing or two about this, you know.”

IV. Folk Ballad Enthusiasm

Futabatei was an Edoite at heart.
Despite his stern countenance—though he affected rusticity—he maintained an interest in refined and understated tastes, engaging in measured revelry.
Laying bare my innate provincialism in utterly shunning such social interactions, he would often say: "You'll never grasp true life without some revelry—why don't I show you a proper spot?"

Futabatei's father hailed from the Bishū domain but had assimilated into Edo's gokenin class through long service in the capital.
His mother too was born to a samurai family of the same domain but was raised and groomed in Edo's ways.
Both parents loved the shamisen—his mother particularly excelled at Tokiwazu ballads—and their household in younger days was said to be one where, in the mild intoxication of evening drinks, his father would recite verses to his mother's shamisen accompaniment (as Futabatei himself recounted).
The Edo gokenin cultivated such artistic indulgences that even the most unskilled among them could manage a passage or two of Kiyomoto or Tokiwazu.
Given that Futabatei's father retained the habit of singing hauta ballads during supper, one imagines he must have devoted considerable effort to this art in his youth.
This pleasure-seeking temperament flowed through Futabatei's veins as well.

The students of that era frequented variety halls just as today’s youth immerse themselves in opera and cinema, and imitating vaudeville performers counted among their extracurricular pursuits.
Futabatei too was an unrivaled habitué of these theaters; during his days at the language school’s dormitory, he became a regular at what would later be called Kawatake in Jinbocho.
Wakatsu of Shin’nai became his particular favorite—he would journey any distance to attend the performer’s shows, and in the dormitory’s lonely hours would growl out Wakatsu’s melodies in a corroded voice to raucous applause.
Futabatei’s imitations of Wakatsu’s mannerisms alongside Yazaki Sagano-ya no Danshi’s “Tekereppu no Paa” routine became legendary throughout the dormitory.
Though Sagano-ya now thrives as a hale sexagenarian, that gruff rustic gentleman once flooded the boarding house with the bawdy energy of his “Tekereppu no Paa” performances.
During Futabatei’s professorship at the language school came an incident at a lodging house on a student excursion: when teachers were pressed by pupils to reveal hidden talents, he bound a hand towel about his head like a nursemaid, clutched a broomstick, and rolling milky-white eyes upward through lowered lashes began crooning “Now then—in Aoyama Hyakunin-chō there lived a samurai called Suzuki Mondo…” His grotesque pantomime of a blind minstrel left jaws agape—this unexpected burlesque from our habitually stern-faced instructor surely echoed Wakatsu’s routines perfected in younger days.
Little wonder students stood thunderstruck—who could imagine Professor Hasegawa Tatsunosuke, that walking effigy of “solemn dignity” sheathed in Western tailoring, harboring such ludicrous arts?
Yet this apparition of propriety was pure Edoite—born to a Bishū father assimilated into Edo’s petty samurai class through long residence at the domain compound.

When he lived in Higashikatamachi, there was a house nearby where Tokiwazu was skillfully performed.
Futabatei would go listen over the fence every evening at that hour.
He would listen in rapture to the sensual melodic phrasing that seemed to seep into his very bones, often imagining—and speculating about—a vengeful middle-aged woman straight out of Tamenaga Shunsui’s *nakamoto* tales. But when he finally went to inquire about it, he said, “So I tracked down that Tokiwazu master performer at last, only to be utterly astonished—she wasn’t what I expected at all!
“Far from being a vengeful middle-aged woman, she was a wrinkled, kindly old granny!”
“How does such a sensual voice come from a throat like the dried-up neck of a gamecock? Listening only to her voice, it feels as though your body might melt—but seeing her face leaves you utterly disgusted,” he said.
But even though seeing her face left him disgusted, it seemed he couldn’t forget the feeling of being entranced by her voice, for he continued to occasionally go listen outside the fence afterward.
A passage in *Heibon* reads: “When listening to skilled singers perform Shin’nai or Kiyomoto ballads, something like the essence of our nation seems to faintly manifest itself in those vibrant voices and subtle melodic phrasings—touching some hidden thing in the depths of my heart, awakening memories I cannot name, until an indescribably nostalgic feeling wells up.”
I interpret this passage—“what the Japanese people have gleaned from two thousand years of lived experience arrives not through mediated forms of thought, but directly via the human voice, pressing upon the psyche in its intangible state”—as explaining Futabatei’s state of mind when enthralled by these artistic performances.
But to put it this way risks making it sound absurdly convoluted and tedious—ultimately, it must have been that somewhere in the recesses of Futabatei’s mind lay a latent, quintessentially Edoite decadence, resonating with these folk ballads as products of the same cultural decline.
In his intricate reasoning that connects what the Japanese people have gleaned from two thousand years of lived experience to their national character, one glimpses Futabatei’s ethos as a man devoted to his country.

However, even among Japanese folk ballads, there was an occasion when we went together to a Kato-bushi performance, but he seemed quite put off by it. “Well, being relatives obliges us to listen twice over,” he remarked dismissively, declaring that such pieces were products from the shamisen’s infancy and showing no genuine admiration whatsoever. While we largely agreed in our criticism of Kato-bushi, when I asserted that among Japanese folk ballads, Nagauta deserved the highest praise, he dismissed Nagauta as domestic music suited for housewives, countering that only Tokiwazu or Shin’nai could evoke the uniquely Japanese brand of wistful melancholy—like a spring dusk over Sumida Riverbed veiled in mist—that seeps into the very bowels of the populace. This theory of folk ballads was founded upon an understanding of Japanese national character, but its formation owed partly to his parents’ fondness for Tokiwazu—to which he had been accustomed since childhood—and most significantly to his inherent plebeian inclination to side with the lower classes, which naturally deepened his affinity for these plebeian melodies.

Futabatei had absolutely no interest in Western music.
Whenever I spoke of my interest in it, he would dismiss it with a single phrase: “Western music is nothing but screech.”
“There are Western pieces with considerable depth—if you’d listen to a serenade by Haydn or Schubert, you’d savor rather profound sentiments. And not all beautiful music must be profound…” I invited him two or three times to concerts, but he refused outright: “I’ll have none of that Western racket!”
When he lectured at Sakurai Girls’ School, he was invited to attend a graduation ceremony but left immediately when a piano performance began midway through—a fact recorded in his diary.
In his later years, he wasn’t quite so stubbornly prejudiced, but still thoroughly detested Western music.
Had he lived through this era of Western music’s popularity—forced to endure the saw-toothed screech of violins and coloratura sopranos resembling strangled chickens at every turn, let alone radio broadcasts—Futabatei would scarcely have endured it.
He couldn’t have choked down his disgust even if he’d tried.

V. Dogs and Cats

More than folk ballads, what he loved were dogs and cats.
It may seem odd to group folk ballads with domestic animals, but when considering Futabatei’s personal tastes, while he had distinct preferences and critiques regarding folk ballads—never fully impressed by any performer—he showed absolutely no discrimination toward domestic animals, loving all dogs and cats equally.
In his diary from the *Ukigumo* era, he wrote: “Lately, even when I passed by that neighborhood dog I’d long been acquainted with, it neither wagged its tail nor followed at my heels—it merely thrust out its snout to sniff me before turning away. I had thought to myself this must be because I rarely dined on meat those days and thus seldom had morsels to offer it. Though I’d dismissed this thought as trivial, an inexplicable unease lingered.” This suggested he felt lonesome at being spurned by a dog he’d grown fond of—even struggling to provide leftover scraps having strained their bond.

The passage about the dog in *Heibon* stands among Futabatei’s most acclaimed works, though it was in fact a true account of a dog he kept during his Nakasarugakuchō years.
That vanished dog was a wretched mongrel—a mishmash of the ugliest traits from Pointers and Bulldogs—and as *Heibon* describes, an unsightly creature that no eyes found remotely pleasant to behold.
While *Heibon* portrays him rescuing and raising a whimpering abandoned pup, reality saw a stray persistently trailing him home from work until he reluctantly adopted it. Yet being every bit the fox-like nuisance depicted in the novel, his family loathed it and struggled to keep it properly contained.
But Futabatei—never one to let behavior dictate affection—tended to it despite the hassle. The dog grew attached, trailing at his heels whenever he left until he resorted to confining it behind lattice doors when heading to work.
During his absences, it would mope despondently, emitting occasional mournful whines. Yet upon Futabatei’s return and the creak of lattice doors, it would joyfully leap up, spring onto his knee as he sat removing shoes on the threshold, and slather his cheeks with licks, forepaws draped over his shoulders.
“Now now, none of that,” Futabatei would gently rebuke, yet allow the slobbering to continue unabated.
At times, overwhelmed with glee, it would come barreling into the parlor—muddy paws and all—to pester him playfully.
Hardly endearing in its antics, Futabatei would nonetheless chuckle while narrowing his eyes to scold, “Now now, you’ll muddy the tatami,” before shooing it to the garden and tossing bread scraps.
This remained his daily highlight.
*Heibon* contains the passage: “…When Pochi faces me… he ceases to be a dog.
Or do I cease to be human?
…Unclear which it is, but through mutual passion and fervor, distinctions between man and beast dissolve into seamless unity”—capturing precisely that fleeting sentiment.

One day, while Futabatei was away at work, this dog bolted out the moment a guest came and opened the lattice door, fleeing somewhere never to return.
When I happened to visit one evening after about a week of neither visiting nor being visited, the dog that always leapt up without fail was absent. When I asked, “What happened to the dog?”, he replied in a listless voice drained of vigor, “Whether it ran away, was taken, or simply vanished—it’s gone,” narrating the circumstances of its disappearance while pursing his lips and heaving a sigh.
“So there’s absolutely no trace of it?” I pressed. He explained that since then, he had walked all over searching daily after returning from work but found nothing. “It’s likely already been killed,” he murmured despondently.
“Yesterday, someone from the liquor store came by on an errand and said they’d seen a dog that looked just like mine at Ikinosaka slope—children had tied a rope around its neck and were dragging it away. I rushed there immediately and asked all around, but no one knew a thing.”
“Was it tormented to death by children? Did it fall victim to a dog killer? Either way, I must resign myself—it’s gone.” He was so despondent that one might think even losing his own child wouldn’t have left him this crestfallen.
“If this were a family tragedy, I might have known what words of condolence to offer—but with a dog, I couldn’t fathom how to console him. ‘Dogs have a way of turning up when you least expect them to,’ I ventured.”
“He’ll come back without fail, I’m sure,” I added.
But Futabatei muttered, “No—I’ve already given up!” and fell silent, leaving no further words to take root between us.

At that time, he was so preoccupied with matters concerning the dog that he rarely gave voice to his usual life philosophies or studies of the lower classes.
Around that time, my friend’s purebred setter had given birth to puppies. On one occasion, when someone suggested taking care of one of them—a puppy with a coat more beautiful than deep velvet, described as clever, agile, and courageous yet habitually composed—Futabatei made a bitter face and said, “No, I’ve no desire to take it. When not enough time has passed since my previous wife’s death, how could I ever consider taking a new wife, no matter how beautiful she might be?” His voice trembled with sorrow as he reminisced about the ugly dog he had lost.

More than dogs, what he loved even more fervently was cats. Anyone who frequented the houses from the Minamigawa-cho days through Iidamachi and Higashikatamachi knew of the large, plump white-furred female cat that never left Futabatei’s side. By the Higashikatamachi period, she had grown quite senile and spent most of her time dozing, but this old granny of a cat would occasionally clamber onto Futabatei’s lap, mewling sweetly as she played in her languid manner. Had this been a wrinkled old human granny putting on the coquettish gestures of a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old girl and exuding sweetness, her lewdly playful air would have made you want to knock her flat—but since it was a cat, it didn’t seem strange at all. Instead, Futabatei beamed like a grandfather doting on his grandchild, indulging her fondly.

This cat, too, had originally been a stray that wandered in from somewhere during the Minamigawa-cho period, with rather unremarkable features from its coat to its face.
Yet Futabatei would often say, "Even if no one would praise her, she’s a precious, adorable daughter," cradling the cat and rubbing his cheeks against it.
“Judging a cat’s appearance by human standards is wrong. Even if no one would praise this cat, among fellow cats, she might be considered quite a beauty. As proof, when she’s in heat, tomcats come swarming in droves,” he said.

He also declared, “Even if one’s appearance were unsightly, judging likes and dislikes based on looks is not what true love is about.”
“Just as parental affection does not waver even if one’s daughter is unattractive, so too must the same human sentiment apply to cats.”
“For humans to judge dogs’ and cats’ appearances as good or bad and love or hate them accordingly is truly shameful,” he declared.

In Futabatei’s household, after the master, it was the cat that was cherished.
Fearing catastrophe should any harm befall the cat during the master’s absence, one can scarcely imagine how much the entire household worried over it, treating the creature as a burdensome responsibility.
There was even this curious incident where the wife of the greengrocer who frequented the house came running in with a panicked look and hurriedly reported, “A terrible thing has happened! Just now, your esteemed cat was chased by a dog from the side street and has fled into the alleyway over there!”

Even when purchasing side dishes, after the master’s portion came the cat’s share.
They never served leftover dishes.
At times, there were muttered wishes of “I wish I were a cat.”
As the vulgar saying goes—when acquiring a dog they ask how many children you have, but with a cat they inquire how many kittens—reflecting how cats, unlike dogs, detest being handled by children. In Futabatei’s household, the cat held the master’s favor and they never allowed children to treat it as a plaything.
Even the children understood their father’s prized possession—his eldest son Gentarō, who had died years prior, would declare “That’s Father’s kitty” even during his most mischievous years at five or six years old, never once laying a finger on it.

This cat, spoiled by the master’s affection, behaved with utter disregard for decorum.
Whenever guests came and food was served, it would invariably slink out from somewhere and shuffle over to sniff at the offerings.
Cats in the world at large sneak up stealthily and seize any moment of carelessness to snatch their prize, but Futabatei’s cat, having never been scolded, knew nothing of fear.
It would shuffle over with leisurely confidence, and if there happened to be something it fancied—salt crackers or rice cakes, perhaps—it would wear an expression declaring ownership of everything in the house down to the ashes beneath the hearth, then calmly plunge its face into the sweets bowl and begin crunching away.
Futabatei narrowed his eyes and said, “Now, now—must you repeat such a filthy habit?” He quietly picked up the cat onto his lap, took a sweet from his palm to feed it, and while stroking its head repeatedly, continued, “This permissive education is why your manners are so troublesome. But fundamentally, it’s wrong to discipline a cat. Trying to bind cats with human morals is mere human selfishness—an utterly vexing imposition on them.”
However, when after the meal trays were laid out, it would sniff ever more vigorously at the raw fish’s pungent aroma, thrust its face forward without any regard for whether it was a guest’s tray, and brazenly attempt to steal a bite first—even with permissive education, he could not simply allow it to brazenly plunder the guests’ dishes. At such times, he would pull it to his lap and portion out side dishes onto his own bowl lid or small plate to let it dine alongside him.
But this mischievous cat was quite the hearty eater and wouldn’t be satisfied with just a meager portion.
The cat would devour an entire plate of sashimi all by itself, licking it clean, yet still remain unsatisfied. Stretching its neck, it would suddenly snatch away a piece just as the master was about to bring it to his mouth with his chopsticks.
Futabatei narrowed his eyes and, with a beaming smile, remarked in delight, “What a nimble fellow!”

Futabatei treated his cat exactly like a young mother pampering her firstborn—constantly tucking it into his lap, perching it on his shoulder, holding it as he slept at night, and whenever it misbehaved, melting into tender expressions to nuzzle his cheeks against it or plant kisses.
The mischievous cat reciprocated this indulgence with equal fervor—sticking out its tongue to slobber licks across Futabatei’s face.
“I keep telling you to stop kissing me, but I simply can’t resist,” he said, his imposing features softening as he cradled the cat beneath his chin, delighting in licking and petting it like a young girl.

During his time in Iidamachi, when I visited around ten o’clock one Sunday morning, he said he had just gotten up and looked sleepy. When I remarked that even for a Sunday, this was rather late to be sleeping in, he replied, “Last night, I couldn’t sleep at all due to the cat’s delivery.” As I pressed for details, he explained that with the cat’s delivery month drawing near, he had prepared a trunk in his study cupboard and laid out a small cushion to serve as a birthing area. However, last night from early evening onward, her condition grew peculiar—when he tried placing her into the trunk’s birthing space, she would immediately dart out, breathing laboriously while whimpering hoarsely and incessantly rubbing her body against things in a strange manner. “If she gives birth here, it’ll be disastrous,” he explained in meticulous detail about the cat’s delivery—how he forcibly placed her into the trunk and held her down while gently stroking her back to her waist until she seemed to settle comfortably, how after some time she delivered one kitten, and how he ultimately helped deliver nine by dawn. “The only ones who’ve become midwives for births are Benkei and me.” “But compared to Lord Benkei, the cat was far more impressive,” he said with a triumphant look. From then on, it became a habit—each time she gave birth, he would invariably serve as midwife, boasting triumphantly, “If a dog and cat maternity hospital were established, I’d have the perfect credentials to become its director!”

Strangely enough, despite being cherished so dearly, this cat had no name.
The family referred to it as "Shiro" for convenience, but Futabatei never called it by name.
“Names don’t matter—they’re unnecessary. Giving cats names is just human affectation of superfluous formalities. A cat would never take pleasure in being called by a name,” he would say.
In such details too, Futabatei’s true character—his disdain for empty fame and hollow honors—was revealed.

The most curious thing was that, despite loving cats and dogs this much, he had never once received one from someone else.
“Because they come to me abandoned or lost, I pick them up and raise them—so keeping dogs and cats brings more hardship than joy.”
“I would never go out of my way to keep them,” he would say.
Futabatei’s feelings toward dogs and cats were the same as those he held for human children.

6. Futabatei's Writing Quirks

Futabatei was constantly preoccupied with matters of writing style.
It may seem natural for literary figures to agonize over matters of writing style, but in today’s iconoclastic age, they ought to cast aside all past stylistic models—even while enduring similar struggles—and liberate themselves completely from traditional theories of composition and rhetorical flourishes.
To put it in extreme terms, if one can fully express their ideas, then matters of form and rhetoric should be entirely acceptable from a revolutionary’s standpoint.
Futabatei himself had presented quite bold and decisive arguments in his theories on writing style, yet when it came time for him to take up the brush, he would meticulously scrutinize every detail without end—from kana orthography and the correct forms of Chinese characters to the selection of compound words, the analysis of nonsensical neologisms coined by young literati, and even the placement of punctuation marks.

Because people of Futabatei’s era had mostly received systematic education in classical Japanese and Chinese texts, they were tormented by the practice of assigned compositions in these disciplines, instilled with the mistaken notion that literature equated to writing style.
The writing education of that era consisted of imitating classical texts, with lessons such as Sanyō’s repetition of *Xiang Yu Benji* hundreds of times until he memorized every chapter and phrase becoming deeply ingrained—making it profoundly difficult to eradicate these entrenched conventions at their roots.
Futabatei himself, fundamentally steeped in Chinese scholarship, daily repeated readings of Wei Shuzi and Zhuanghuitang, read Sei Shōnagon and Kamo no Chōmei with equal dedication, delved even into the popular literature of Bakin and Kyōden Samba, practiced compositions by imitating Chikamatsu or Bakin, and engaged in habits like translating vernacular texts into classical Chinese and vice versa—never fully shedding these tendencies, he retained until the end his disposition as a stylist perpetually preoccupied with matters of writing.
On one hand, he was a revolutionary who had fundamentally dismantled conventional literary forms; yet simultaneously, he remained an intensely meticulous new craftsman of minute details.

When I said I was not a novelist or could not become a literary man, there were various complex meanings behind it, but my own resignation that I lacked talent in writing was also one of the compelling reasons.
Those who read Futabatei's works would likely never doubt his literary talent, yet Futabatei himself remained constantly anxious about his own literary gifts, neurotically obsessing over matters of writing style.
Rather than his ideals in writing being too lofty, it was that he never lost his old stylist temperament, so he remained perpetually preoccupied with matters of prose.
He cherished Turgenev for his prose, and even in his later years when he no longer held him in such high esteem, he continued to marvel at the rhetorical finesse. While acknowledging that works like Dostoevsky’s *Crime and Punishment* represented the pinnacle of Russian literature, he nevertheless dismissed Dostoevsky’s writing as utterly clumsy and incomplete, ranking him below Turgenev—his literary critiques were all too often shackled by preferences for stylistic merits.
For instance, even regarding contemporary literature—while he acknowledged Rohan as the foremost figure—it was the *Complete Works of Kōyō* that he kept close at hand.
When it came to Chikamatsu or Saikaku, he appreciated the delicate stylistic nuances of their prose more than their underlying concepts, often remarking on how intriguing their rhetorical flourishes were or how skillfully crafted their wordplay proved to be.
While disparaging Kōyō’s observations on life and character portrayals as common and shallow, he would fervently praise his prose as masterpieces without equal in any era, constantly poring over them with meticulous attention.
Most astonishing was how he even deliberately subscribed to youth-contributed literary magazines like *Shinsei* or so-called “such-and-such literary circles,” savoring the minutiae by adding meticulous critiques and evaluative comments to essays by anonymous youths barely out of middle school.
It was precisely the same attitude as a botanist taking keen interest in even roadside weeds and studying them in meticulous detail.

On this point, I stood in complete opposition.
This likely stemmed from my own deficiencies as a poor stylist, but having long championed an extreme anti-prose doctrine that disdained literary polish—to the point of being denounced by Kōyō as a literary beast whose theories amounted to "the distant howling of wolves"—my anarchic approach to writing led me into frequent clashes with Futabatei over matters of style, privately nursing discontent toward his antiquated literary sensibilities.
Yet I often found enlightenment in hearing subtle theories of prose too refined for my coarse perception to fully grasp, and witnessing his relentless toil—reworking drafts dozens of times until the very flesh withered from refinement—I couldn’t help but bow in heartfelt admiration.
When sorting through his posthumous papers, I chanced upon early manuscripts and discovered how completely the tone, nuance, and flavor of his prose differed between these initial drafts and published works—as if composed by different men. Understanding that Futabatei’s flawlessly honed sentences, permitting neither surplus nor deficit in their five-minute perfection, were forged through endless tempering, my awed reverence for the grueling labor behind his craft deepened immeasurably.

7. Moonlit Night in Tabata

In the thirty-sixth year [of Meiji], shortly after returning from China, he grew concerned about cerebral anemia and convalesced in Tabata for a time.
When I visited after a long absence—under the pretext of checking on his health—he was not as weakened as I had feared, so we spent half the day in leisurely conversation until around nine in the evening.
When I tried to take my leave and return home, he insisted on walking me to the station—a mere two or three blocks—and together we ambled through the cloudless moonlit night.

It was not a full moon, but a cloudless, crystalline moonlit night. From atop the hill, gazing into the distance, an indescribable panorama stretched endlessly before us—the entire expanse bathed in white light as if brushed with silver pigment.
It was a pleasant evening in mid-autumn, neither cold nor hot, and the scenery was so captivating that the two of us unconsciously paused for a time to gaze at our surroundings.
Futabatei suddenly shouted in his resonant voice, “Bright moon…”, then after a moment’s pause, “…but no verse comes.”
“But if a masterful verse were to surface here, my bond with being a literary man would never be severed.”
“The fact that I’m at a loss for words is reassuring—in this state, I still have potential as a businessman,” he scoffed with a laugh.

Despite having timed our departure for the train, we became so captivated by the moon and lingered too long—so at the station, the bell rang.
In a panic, we dashed down the steep slope and tumbled into the station to buy tickets just as the final train came charging in with a ground-shaking rumble.
Having no time to cross the bridge, we stepped over the rails and scrambled into the train. When I peered out after boarding, Futabatei—who had come chasing after us—stood outside the fence and said in his usual rusty, booming voice, “That was a close call—traveling with Master Bashō!”
At that very moment, the train began to move; we exchanged farewells through the window, but his lonely figure retracing its way along the narrow path grew hazy in the moonlight.
It was around that time that Futabatei’s health first began to decline.

8. Two Days After the Great Naval Battle of Tsushima

He was most vigorous during the Russo-Japanese War.
Though his treatment at Osaka Asahi was not particularly favorable, he would go to the Tokyo editorial bureau daily or every other day, taking pleasure in reading overseas telegrams and battlefield communications the instant they arrived.

A telegram reading “Cannonfire heard” appeared in the morning paper, and around noon on the day when rumors that the naval battle had finally begun—or was about to begin—threw society into uproar, Futabatei breezed in and called out loudly from the entrance:

“We’ve finally done it!” he shouted.

“Did we do it?” I too rushed out from the back. “The results?”

“The full details aren’t clear yet, but victory is certain.”
“We must have sunk five or six of their ships.”
“The telegrams have arrived, but the Navy Ministry is suppressing them so we can’t put out an extra edition,” he declared with a triumphant look as if he were a staff officer from Imperial Headquarters or the Navy Ministry, adding, “I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.”
“I dashed out early this morning and have been stationed at the office until now.”
“In the end, we still don’t know the full details, but with each telegram that arrives, the spoils of victory keep growing—it’s unbearably delightful.”
“At the company, even the janitors and errand boys are ecstatic.”
“The extra editions are already printed, but since the Navy Ministry remains silent, we can’t release them and are getting frantic.”
“Though I think they’ll probably announce it by evening today—since I came to the neighborhood on an errand, I’ve come to secretly leak the news.”

The normally composed man broke into a radiant smile that couldn’t contain the joy surging within him wave after wave. “A decades-old weight has lifted in an instant,” he declared. “Those rust-eaten hulks crusted with oyster shells aren’t fearsome in themselves, but letting them slip away to Vladivostok would sap morale. This at least brings provisional closure.” He paused briefly, then added thoughtfully, “No detailed reports yet, but everything seems extraordinarily favorable… Depending on developments, Ross’s lot might be utterly pulverized. Today’s telegrams will prove most gratifying.”

“I can’t stay like this—I must return to the office at once!” he declared hurriedly, darting out without even drinking his tea. Pushing open the rattling lattice door, he leaped into the waiting rickshaw while shouting, “A great victory! This time we’ve finished off Ross for good! Even teetotalers ought to celebrate with champagne!” then urged, “Faster, faster!”

Such a flustered, hectic meeting never occurred again before or after.
“That Ross bastard might’ve been utterly annihilated,” he declared, his face radiating pride as if he were the Chief of Naval General Staff or the Chief of Staff himself.
He had likely been unable to savor this joy alone and thus came rushing over in a fluster.

9. Futabatei’s Destructive Power

A certain man who was close to Futabatei said:
“Futabatei is a destroyer who utterly demolishes people’s thoughts and beliefs, but having destroyed them, he provides nothing to replace them.”
Since thoughts and beliefs are things one must forge for oneself rather than receive from others, those who seek them are mistaken—but Futabatei would deploy arguments as unassailable as an impenetrable tactical formation, launching unexpected attacks that left opponents flustered and tormented, his dialectical mastery allowing him to manipulate adversaries at will.

Of course, his arguments were neither the impassioned oratory of one howling like a mountain wolf beneath open skies to defend constitutional governance, nor the glib eloquence that flows like water over planks or crackles like flame on oiled paper. Rather, they advanced with striking clarity—like Kōshū-style battle tactics where spearheads align without gaps, pressing steadily forward in an unrelenting push.
Moreover, his piercing arguments struck straight to the heart with biting sarcasm; each word carried the force of a hammer, leaving nothing they touched unshattered.
Those who drew near to Futabatei and had their thoughts and beliefs shattered by this sharp hammer of colossal weight, left dazed and directionless, were by no means limited to one or two individuals.

The reason this novelist’s creative talent had suddenly dulled and he temporarily ceased writing was that he had been struck by Futabatei’s hammer.
The reason this genius was plunged into ideological turmoil and temporarily branded with an unwarranted reputation of madness was also the result of being crushed beneath Futabatei’s hammer.
Many of those who grew close to Futabatei received this baptism by hammer and were forced to become spiritual vagrants wandering lost.
Even among those who lamented their spiritual starvation, they were not given sustenance to fill their spiritual hunger; instead, that very hunger became playthings for the hammer.

Futabatei's hammer of inquiry not only demolished others' thoughts and beliefs but relentlessly shattered even his own ideas, convictions, plans, and objectives without respite.
Thus he would destroy and rebuild anew, rebuild only to destroy again, ultimately spending his entire life constructing and demolishing like a child toying with building blocks.

Futabatei always said.
“Philosophy,” he would say, “is logic that endlessly pursues questions. Should one ever settle the final question, it becomes dogma and ceases to be philosophy.”
He also said: “The interest of life lies in its incomprehensibility. To assign some fixed interpretation to this incomprehensibility and settle into easy complacency is either ‘resignation’ or ignorance.”
In this manner Futabatei’s hammer was always wielded to destroy lightweight complacent dogmas—“resignation” and ignorance.

10. Futabatei’s Demeanor and Character

Someone once remarked that Futabatei was the sort of man who could have turned Yamamoto Gonnohyōe into a novelist.
Since Count Yamamoto’s standing had greatly declined following the naval issues, and just as it was finally reviving and beginning to lift its head, it was promptly flattened again by an earthquake—being called the Yamamoto of the literary world might not be particularly welcome to Futabatei lying beneath the moss—but their demeanors do share some resemblance.
Comparing him to Yamamoto Gonnohyōe was not necessarily an inappropriate assessment.

However, if phrenology and physiognomy held truth, one might expect that two men sharing similar demeanors would also have some commonality in their personalities—yet in reality, their characters were diametrically opposed.
Had Futabatei possessed even ten percent of Count Yamamoto’s temperament, he would never have fallen into neurasthenia from agonizing over Anna or restlessly fretting.
He would have achieved at least some success in society as well.
But alas, Futabatei was the complete opposite of Count Yamamoto—excessively shy, excessively humble, and excessively fastidious.
If Count Yamamoto had possessed even a fraction of ambition, tenacity, avarice, and moreover slightly thicker skin, Futabatei likely would not have ended his life solely as Futabatei Shimei.

However, Yamamoto Gonnohyōe’s imposing appearance—with its square jaw and coarse beard—took by surprise those who equated literary men with pallid, effeminate figures resembling pale, unripe gourds. After Futabatei’s death, all acquaintances uniformly recounted how his bearing had defied the so-called novelist mold, describing their initial astonishment upon first meeting him. To this dignified solemnity was added a manner of speech—halting phrases heavy with deliberation, delivered through tightly pressed lips as deep vertical creases formed between his furrowed brows—that inevitably led one to perceive him at first glance as a man worthy of trust. Moreover, even when discussions stretched for hours, he never showed the slightest fatigue; addressing all without artifice, his way of laying bare his sincere heart within others’ minds increasingly compelled them to profound admiration.

What should one call Futabatei?
Even if one does not strictly limit the novelist type to pale, lanky men resembling unripe green gourds, Futabatei was not of the novelist type.
He possessed neither the urbane refinement of a literati nor the grating affectation of a sophisticate.
Yet at the same time, he wanted nothing to do with the politician-type pretentiousness, affectation, arrogance, or political patronage.
If considered a gentleman, he had too much domineering spirit.
If considered a daring hero, he was too high-strung.
If considered a practical man, his ideals were too overpowering.
If deemed a moralist, he knew the ways of the world too intimately.
In short, Futabatei’s demeanor could not be defined as that of a novelist, a politician, a gentleman, a daring hero, a practical man, or even a moralist.

He was not particularly skilled at social niceties, but sincerity overflowing from his courteous and humble words compelled others to admire him.
He was neither eloquent nor inarticulate in speech, but excelled in the art of storytelling, imbuing even the most mundane anecdotes with flavor.
Particularly when recounting a novel's plot, he would masterfully bring characters to life before one's eyes through gestures and vocal inflections honed with considerable skill.
That Futabatei commanded such deep admiration owed much to this power of his skillful conversational artistry.

Futabatei was exceedingly humble.
Yet at the same time, he detested losing.
Among close friends who held nothing back, there existed a habitual tendency to insist on left whenever someone said right, and when they ultimately reached the same conclusion, they would say, “Hmm, I see. Then we’re in agreement.”
Even when knowing from the start they would reach identical conclusions, deliberately taking opposing stances was by no means uncommon.
Moreover, their method of constructing arguments that arrived at shared conclusions from contrary positions displayed striking finesse.

The man who detested losing above all else would immediately abandon even a once-resolved matter without hesitation the moment he sensed others had discerned his intentions.
Once, when Futabatei consulted Dr. Tsubouchi about a certain critical personal matter, I inferred his likely state of mind and shared this with the doctor.
Shortly thereafter, Futabatei visited Dr. Tsubouchi and indeed confessed feelings exactly as I had speculated. When Dr. Tsubouchi remarked, “Mr. Uchida also came just now and suggested your state of mind was likely thus,” he instantly reversed himself: “I did consider such matters, but nothing has been decided.” With that, he left the doctor’s residence and came straight to me, protesting: “I’ve just heard from Dr. Tsubouchi—apparently you said such-and-such. This is an outrageous misunderstanding; I’ve never entertained such thoughts.”
Though thinking *There he goes again with that stubborn streak*, I carefully phrased my words to preserve his dignity—insisting that even if my conjecture was mistaken, proceeding as planned would benefit him—and tried to advance the scheme I envisioned.
But though I argued until my throat grew hoarse, he obstinately maintained “I have absolutely no such intentions,” and our discussion concluded unresolved.
Even when he himself had voiced these plans, the instant he felt others had perceived them, he would flip positions without remorse, readily discarding even his own cherished designs—a man whose aversion to defeat verged on the pathological.
Such displays of his contrary nature—these acts of deliberate opposition—occurred so constantly that one lost count of them.

Futabatei was such a man. A novelist who bore no resemblance to a novelist; a man who aspired to politics yet lacked any political bearing; a would-be entrepreneur lacking business acumen and indifferent to wealth; humble to a fault yet pathologically averse to defeat; a dogmatic iconoclast clinging stubbornly to his own convictions; and—to add one more—a man of profound common sense yet utter unconventionality: such was this bankrupt of character, riddled with contradictions, whose life ultimately ended in ruin because of them.

Let us quote two passages from Futabatei’s old diary to serve as material for recalling his visage and character.

“Unless one has resolved to abandon this world, one cannot know its true value.”

“When feeling depressed, one might think that going out would provide some distraction; yet deliberately shutting oneself in to seek out and agonize over troubles somehow feels rather pleasant.”

(Taisho 4 August manuscript; additions made in Taisho 13 October)