Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

This was neither a forced act of deep penance nor anything of the sort; rather, it was merely that I had shamelessly scribbled down matters which ought to shame my humble self—at times labeling them as recounting life experiences, at others claiming them as memoirs—and having grown accustomed to peddling words for wine money, whenever I spoke of my own affairs now, from those days at sixteen or seventeen blowing the shakuhachi flute alongside scraps of old diaries, down to my recent shamisen lessons in Tsukiji, I had dressed everything up with such tooth-achingly trite pretexts that there remained scarcely anything left worth writing about anymore.

Yet still, in the depths of my old desk’s drawers and the damp corners of leak-stained closets—traces of twenty years’ revelries, bills from teahouses wandered through hither and thither, or perhaps letters from courtesans scrawled with artless pleas—whenever I so much as glanced at these scraps, my eyes turned keen as a hawk’s.

In this way, even gathering paper scraps became a cause for dread.

Reflecting here at length on the origins of my writing career, the first novel I published as a standalone book was through Bīkusha, operated by my friend Hakusanjin Akaki-kun. When I counted the years, it had already become a thing of seventeen years past. Hakusanjin Akaki was a Waseda-educated literatus and a brilliant disciple of Renzan; in Meiji 34 (1901), he joined forces with his fellow disciple Kuroda Kozan to establish residence near Fudō at 27 Sanbanchō, Kōjimachi, where they planned to publish literary works. At that time, the publishing of literary novels was nearly monopolized by Shunyōdō; writers who were not disciples of Kōyō or Rohan had almost no means to make their works public. Thus, the chivalrous Hakusanjin determined to invest his funds, first to elevate the momentum of our Thursday Society by establishing an entity called Bīkusha and launching the monthly magazine *Jōzetsu*. *Jōzetsu* was fashioned into a 32-page booklet under the motto that “even a dagger could slay a man,” with Kuroda Kozan becoming editor-in-chief to write lead editorials in every issue; Ikuta Kizan and I contributed novels, Nishimura Shosanzan translated Western classics, Kaneko Shisō provided overseas literary reports, and Inoue Aa Aa published haiku and essays. Concurrently, Bīkusha launched a "Youth Novel Series," first publishing Ikuta Kizan’s novel *Freedom Marriage*, followed by my humble work *Ambition*, Nishimura Shosanzan’s *The Housemaid*, Kuroda Kozan’s *Assault on Academia*, and others; they also had Hoshino Bakujin compile *A Compendium of Classical and Modern Haiku* in four volumes. The following year, Bīkusha further expanded its operations and even opened a bookstore for selling books and magazines on Kagurazaka Kamiteramachi-dōri; however, President Akaki-kun suddenly found himself compelled to return to his hometown due to personal circumstances, and alas, all endeavors came to an abrupt halt. The magazine *Jōzetsu* remained in Kozan’s sole hands and was retitled *Haikara*, but its vigor could no longer match what it once had, and before long, it ceased publication.

From this point onward, I became acquainted with Professor Ikuta Kizan and the Daigakukan publishing house. I persuaded Master Iwasaki to publish the literary magazine *Katsubundan* and managed its editing alongside Inoue Aa Aa. *Katsubundan* attempted to boost sales figures by not only publishing works from Thursday Society members but also broadly welcoming submissions from young contributors. However, magazines of this type—such as Kojima Usuiko’s *Bunko* and Mr. Taguchi Kikutei’s *Shinsei*—already wielded considerable influence at the time. The newly launched *Katsubundan* made strenuous efforts—repeatedly holding editorial meetings at Ueno’s Santei-tei, inviting contributors, and organizing lectures where Thursday Society literati exchanged literary ideas—but when the publisher, startled by mounting monthly losses, grew disenchanted with literature and moved to embrace pulp fiction, *Katsubundan* swiftly ceased publication.

Around Meiji 35 (1902), Kinkōdō in Honmachi 1-chōme suddenly advertised the publication of various magazines such as *Bungaku Fujin Shōnen* and other fiction materials, astonishing the public.
To speak of Kinkōdō, it was a publisher well-known for textbooks.
With this publisher’s capital at their disposal—were they now to embark on issuing literary magazines?—we and others could scarcely wait for the first issue, anticipating that even Shunyōdō and Hakubunkan, which had until then dominated the field, would pale in comparison.
When we saw what eventually appeared, the literary magazine was titled *Bungeikai*, with Sassa Seisetsu as editor-in-chief and editorial staff including Hirao Fukko, Kusamura Hokusei, and Saito Choka; its opening pages indeed featured new works by Hirotsu Ryūrō, Izumi Kyoka, and others.
Yet these new works failed to stir significant discussion in critical circles, while the magazine itself drew censure for being merely bulky, lacking any consistent editorial stance or focus.
Thus did the established magazines *Bungei Kurabu* and *Shinshōsetsu*—the former persisting in its popular style, the latter in its specialized approach—maintain their longstanding dominance over the magazine world.

Upon releasing its first issue, Kinkōdō’s *Bungeikai* announced a call for full-length novels with an attached prize.
Though they deliberately refrained from publicly announcing the judges’ names, it was evident they were none other than the magazine’s editorial members starting with Mr. Seisetsu.
My awkward work that might be called *Jigoku no Hana* was what I submitted to this contest.
It failed to win any award but gained recognition from the editors and was thus honored with publication as a standalone volume.
The manuscript fee at this time stood at seventy-five yen.
Now, among those selected then—if memory serves—first prize went to Yonekitsu Sekketsu’s *Sengoku-iwa*, second prize to Saitō Keishū’s *Zangiku*, and Taguchi Kikutei’s unnamed work.
All these writers achieved success and fame only to depart the literary world early; reflecting on this, I alone remain now, parading my drifting self through streets of public scorn.
It must be called pitiable beyond endurance.

Speaking of prize-winning novels, even before that time I had tried my hand two or three times at the weekly short story contests held by *Yorozu Chōhō*. It was said that the judges were Matsui Matsuyōko, and there were also those who claimed it had been the late Saitō Ryokuju. It was said that among the applicants, there were many renowned masters who occasionally dabbled in writing for pocket money. At that time, there were various prize-winning novels, and among them, when one observed that the short stories in *Yorozu Chōhō* were the most outstanding, it would seem that such rumors were not entirely without foundation.

After Kinkōdō published my standalone book, somehow or other I too came to be counted among the ranks of new writers.
It was certainly the spring of Meiji 36, if I recall correctly.
At the Ichimura-za theater, Itō Yōhō and Kojima Bun’ei’s new troupe staged Chikamatsu’s *Jumon Matsu* as the opening act, Professor Ōgai’s verse drama *Ryō Urashima* as the middle act, and Kōyōzanjin’s *Natsu Kosode* as the grand finale.
Moreover, for this troupe’s current production, our acquaintance Hatakeyama Kohei—a Waseda-educated literati—was to make his stage debut as Itō’s disciple. Wishing to lend some encouragement, one day I too made my way to Ichimura-za alongside Fūyō, Kizan, Kattō, and their circle.
Coincidentally, on that very day, the Myōjō school members centered around Yosano Tekkan had gathered in the dirt-floor gallery to applaud *Ryō Urashima*.
As the curtain was about to rise, Hatakeyama Kohei—who had previously been a bearded man—now cleanly shaved and well-dressed in haori and hakama, stepped outside the curtain and respectfully announced that the Itō Troupe had been granted the honor of staging Professor Ōgai’s new kyōgen play this time.
When Act I, Scene II concluded and the curtain fell once more, the person beside me suddenly tugged my sleeve, pointed to a mustached man in the neighboring gallery box puffing on a cigar, and declared, “That is Professor Mori! Come, I must introduce you!” Paying no heed to my flustered astonishment, they dragged me off.
It was at this time that I first had the honor of meeting Professor Mori.
Professor Mori turned to me with a smile and remarked that he had already read *Jigoku no Hana*.
Since entering the literary world, I had never been struck by such joy and honor.
Though it was still an age without streetcars, that night I walked alone from Shitaya along the stream of Ochanomizu to Kōjimachi, not once thinking the distance far, painting in my heart various delightful dreams of the future as I made my way home.

Thus, even when I brought manuscripts to magazines like *Bungeikai*, *Shinshōsetsu*, and *Bungei Kurabu*, they would reluctantly buy them about one out of every three times.
However, if manuscripts bought for three months or half a year remained unpublished, I—anxious solely for fame—could not endure it long.
Upon hearing that the poet Ariake Koyu was acquainted with Shinseisha’s owner, I approached Shinseisha through Ko and published another standalone volume there—a work of some three hundred pages titled *Yume no Onna*—since they required no manuscript fee.
Shinseisha—the former name of what is now Shinchosha—at that time maintained a modest shop next to the Kanda Nishikichō ward office.
This book did not appear to cause significant loss for the publisher; subsequently, upon publishing *Actress Nana*, I received a manuscript fee of thirty yen.
This occurred in early summer of Meiji 36; around the time autumn insects’ voices were beginning to grow numerous that year, I suddenly crossed over to America.

What I had neglected to mention in this account of my literary endeavors was that I had been employed by Yamato Shimbunsha, writing miscellaneous reports and serialized stories to earn twelve yen monthly. I recall this was in Meiji 34 [1901], when a certain Matsushita acquired Yamato Shimbunsha and installed Sakuchi Koji as editor-in-chief. His principal disciple Enomoto Hairoku followed him into the company, and I too attached myself to their enterprise.

About a year prior to that time—as I had previously told others—I had become a disciple of Sakuchi Koji and been striking the wooden clappers at the Kabukiza Theatre. When Fukusuke—now known as Shikan—underwent his name-changing ceremony, I received a small-patterned haori as a farewell gift and left the dressing rooms to become a newspaper reporter.

Since these are past events and I have begun speaking of personal humiliations, were I to continue recounting them now, they would reach back even further—to two or three years before my theater days. I had harbored ambitions to revolutionize human-interest storytelling by blending kōshaku recitation with rakugo humor through a new theatrical style of delivery, even becoming at that time a disciple of a Sanyū-school rakugoka who went by the name Asanebō Murakuto.

The teahouses now clustered under gaudy signs throughout the capital bear no resemblance, they say, to those of that era.

When I joined Yamato Shimbunsha, those handling the third-page miscellaneous column were Saikikusanjin and Okamoto Kidō-shi.
Saikikusanjin was none other than Sansantei Yūjin; after Kanagaki Robun’s death, it was truly this old man alone who allowed us later scholars to glimpse the visage of Edo gesakusha in the Meiji era.
Thus I—who daily shared desks in the editorial office and could intimately receive this elder’s teachings—now find tears spilling forth when I reflect on it.
At that time, Okamoto Kidō-shi frequently read romantic adventure novels by Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, and others.
He had taken up residence outside Hanzo Gate, while I was living in my father’s house in Ichibancho; thus we would often walk together along the moat after leaving the newspaper office, conversing as we went.
He was an extremely solemn and reticent person from that time onward.

In Hibiya, the park had not yet been established; on Ginza Avenue, horse-drawn trams plied the streets; at the corner of Owari-cho where Lion Coffee Shop now stands, there were newspapers such as Choya Shimbun, Chuo Shimbun, and Mainichi Shimbun.
The Yamato Shimbunsha was located in a side street of Ginza 1-chōme—the same building that stands there today—and so the young female employees hired at the Iwai Tengu tobacco shop on the main street would often gather in this alleyway, their scarlet underkimonos revealed as they diligently practiced cycling, a sight that occasionally delighted the eye; yet even this has now become a thing of the vanished past.

Women’s bicycles and horseback riding seemed to be the trends of that era—there were clamorous rumors of Yoshiwara Shinagawaro courtesans going on outrides atop Japanese saddles, and Shinbashi geishas parading their bicycles en masse to cherry blossom viewings.

Now, my tenure as a newspaper reporter lasted a mere six months before I suddenly received notice of dismissal, ostensibly due to staff reductions.

Of the incidents that occurred during my time as a reporter, the only ones I still remember are two: the assassination of Hoshi Tōru by his assassin and the disappearance of Kiyomoto Oha.
After quitting my job as a newspaper reporter, I had hoped to reenter the Kabukiza Theatre’s green room as before; but finding myself kept at arm’s length through formal courtesy, I resolved there to change course and began attending night classes at Gyōsei School to study French.
It was in the autumn of this very year that Hakusan and Kozan founded Bīkusha; thus, the reader should understand that our narrative now circles back to its beginning here.

*Amerika Monogatari* was compiled during the winter of Meiji 40 (1907)—the year I crossed from New York to France—in a dimly lit boarding house on Rue Vendôme in Lyon; having gathered both the manuscript and postcards intended for the preface and illustrations, I sent them via registered parcel from the post office near the City Museum to Professor Kobayashi, entrusting him with its publication.
I do not recall how much this manuscript fee was.

When I returned to Japan in the autumn of the following year, *Amerika Monogatari* was already on the market.
I promptly revised the manuscripts I had written during my stay in France and aboard the return voyage, titled it *Furansu Monogatari*, and at the request of those involved with my previous work’s publication, had it published again through Hakubunkan—only to immediately encounter the misfortune of a sales ban, after which negotiations with publishers became exceedingly troublesome.
We proposed returning the 125-yen manuscript fee received at the initial publishing contract, but Hakubunkan insisted this alone could not compensate their loss—citing some clause in the contract that explicitly states authors must bear responsibility should manuscripts cause inconvenience to publishers—and stubbornly refused to yield. Judging this adversary thoroughly unsuitable, I abandoned the matter outright and ceased responding to all further entreaties.
Daily at my home’s entrance, a clean-shaven man in Western clothes would come, loudly demand an audience; when feigned absence became untenable, he would return reciting his usual threats about taking legal action—such utterly outrageous behavior occurring frequently.
At Hakubunkan’s editorial office, there were many acquaintances from the Thursday Society at that time.
Professor Kobayashi specifically occupied the seat of editor-in-chief.
In *Taiyō* was Asada Kūkashi; in *Chūgaku Sekai* was Nishimura Shosanjin; and in *Bungei Kurabu* was Mr. Shian Gaishi Ishihashi—each serving as their respective editor-in-chief.
When I spoke of the disrespectful conduct toward Hakubunkan’s literati during a gathering with these individuals, [they said] those employed in the publishing department were all thus—since there existed not a single soul among them who understood such matters, it would be best to cast it aside and not take it to heart.
Thus, the damage compensation negotiations over *Furansu Monogatari* dragged on for eight years without resolution; in Taishō 5 (1916), Momiyama Shoten published *Kafū Kessakushō*, which included portions of the work, leading to renewed complications.
That unsettling Hakubunkan employee came again frequently to my entrance to recite his complaints.
It was more than just unpleasant.
Even I finally conceded and silently permitted the compilation and publication here of something called *New Tales of France*, which resembled my old work, while in exchange reclaiming the publishing rights to the old work for myself.
Therefore, regarding the artistic and literary responsibility for *New Tales of France* recently published by Hakubunkan, I bear absolutely no involvement whatsoever.
That volume was indeed published against my will.
Since this incident, I have come to fear and despise publishers as one would venomous serpents and scorpions.
Though the four-class system of samurai, farmers, artisans, and merchants no longer exists in today’s world, those merchants who pursue profit without regard for human morality should rightfully be relegated to the lowest rank of society.

The supply merchants who came to the kitchen entrance every morning to take orders initially put on an air of utmost honesty but invariably ended up gradually lowering the quality of their goods to seek ill-gotten gains; rice dealers, sake dealers, firewood dealers—all were no exception.
When publishers launched a monthly magazine, though at first they obediently complied with whatever the editor-in-chief said, with each subsequent issue they began to act like a wife who nags incessantly for things—watching for and seizing every opportunity, tirelessly and relentlessly scheming only to vulgarize their content and pursue profit.
Ideals were the lifeblood of literati; profit merchants held dearer than life itself—nay, than their very necks. That these two should prove as incompatible as fire and water was but inevitable.

Following my work *Furansu Monogatari*, which was banned by the authorities, there came a short story collection titled *Kanraku*. Later, there was also a work titled *Summer Appearance*. The story “Kanraku” initially faced no issues when serialized in *Shinshōsetsu*, so at the request of the owner of Ekifūsha—who then kept shop in Iidamachi 6-chōme—I had them compile it with other short stories into a single volume for publication, only for it to be swiftly banned. Ekifūsha had previously sent one hundred yen as a token of gratitude; yet even when the publication ban occurred, since they did not engage in unreasonable negotiations like Hakubunkan, we on our part felt deeply apologetic and hastily sent the manuscript for a volume titled *Kafūshū* as compensation. This work fortunately went through multiple editions. When Ekifūsha closed its shop, Momiyama Shoten purchased the printing plates for *Kanraku* and republished it under the name of a certain employee. However, this time, it has been sold without any censure and remains on sale even now, it is said.

The work *Summer Silhouette* was something I wrote for publication in the January 1915 issue of *Mita Bungaku*. Yet after completing the manuscript and rereading it myself, I found puzzling passages that made me tilt my head—*Is this quite right?*—and thus abandoned its release altogether. When Momiyama Shoten learned of this, they repeatedly dispatched employees to insist on publishing it as a small booklet. Given our close relationship at the time, I could not bring myself to refuse outright and ultimately handed over the manuscript.
However, I made it clear my name would not appear on the publication notice—and that should any trouble arise, we would assume no responsibility whatsoever—taking pains to stress this point repeatedly until they understood thoroughly.
Sure enough, not only was this booklet banned from sale, but Momiyama Shoten was required to submit a written explanation to the authorities and received a severe reprimand.
Momiyama Shoten still occasionally tells people, "Thanks to Mr. Nagai, we’ve often had terrible experiences."
Thus, the fault lies entirely with the author, as it were.

In the Kansei era of old, it is said that Santō Kyōden of Santō-an was manacled for composing witty pleasure-quarter tales because his publisher Tsutaya Jūzaburo, flouting official prohibitions in pursuit of profit, had pressed him to wield his brush.
In any case, for an author to grow overly familiar with a publisher invites calamity.

There exists a work titled *Ihadenno Monoki*.
This, it is said, Kyokutei Bakin wrote to covertly disparage others and exalt himself.
Though my *Kadenomo no Ki* bears some nominal resemblance, rest assured no such unsavory designs ever stirred beneath.
To write what merits writing is but to follow one’s customary quill habits.

II

Lately, a journalist from *Shinchō* magazine took my writings—works scarcely worth glancing at—and using these as a foundation, compiled what they called my literary chronology, intending to publish it in their pages; thus came inquiries about sundry matters from days long past.
Through this, matters that I had completely forgotten in my daily life now came to mind again here in many instances.

Indeed, my career as a man of letters may be said to have begun in the autumn of Meiji 31 (1898), when I was twenty years old—on the day I carried an unfinished manuscript titled *Bamboo Blinds Moon* and knocked at the gate of Professor Hirotsu Ryūrō's residence in Ushigome Yarai-chō.
At that time I was a second-year student in the Chinese Department of the Foreign Language School; though days when I attended classes at the Hitotsubashi campus were rare, I spent each day insatiably visiting theaters and storytelling halls here and there—or else, when at home, immersed in composing novels, haiku, Chinese poetry, and kyōka verses as diversions, paying no heed to my parents' lamentations.
Having thus written some four or five stories, my desire to seek instruction from a professional novelist grew increasingly difficult to suppress; finally without waiting for anyone's introduction, I one day suddenly visited Professor Hirotsu's residence and requested to become his pupil.
That I came to know of Professor Hirotsu's residence in Yarai-chō was through having inquired beforehand via telephone with Shunyōdō Publishing House.

I was at that time Professor Ryūrō’s most ardent admirer.
Works such as *Imado Shinjū*, *Kurotokage*, *Kōchiya*, and *Kame-san* were those I so adored that I could not set them aside; at the time, I far preferred Professor Ryūrō’s dialogue-style novels over the blend of refined and vernacular prose by the likes of Kyōka, Baizan, and Rohan.

I no longer recall the exact address in Yarai-chō where Professor Hirotsu’s residence stood, but this much I remember: ascending Kagurazaka and proceeding straight along Teramachi-dōri for several blocks, one turned left into a narrow side street where, on the right side, there stood a single-story house with lattice doors—a dwelling that surely lacked any formal gate structure.
However, the garden was spacious with no shortage of trees, and even before the water basin stood an old plum tree whose form twisted in an intriguing manner.
Opening the lattice door and stepping up, one entered a three-tatami room followed by a six-tatami room (here, in later days, his disciple Hasegawa Tōgai would place his desk). Beyond that, partitioned by four-panel sliding doors, lay an inner chamber of eight or perhaps ten tatami mats—this very room served as both guest parlor and the professor’s study.
In the tokonoma alcove hung a single ink painting of a courtesan standing in profile—a scroll never replaced no matter how many times one looked—while before it stood a desk of simple lacquered-paper construction, exceedingly crude. The Professor placed not a single book upon this desk nor within the alcove; only an aged bookshelf leaned against the sliding doors bordering the six-tatami room, upon which lay haphazard piles of old magazine-like materials bound with hemp string.
From this alone, one could sufficiently discern that the Professor had never concerned himself with worldly possessions and that his disposition remained ever carefree and unburdened.

When I first timidly opened the lattice door and requested an audience, after a short while emerged a man around forty with a mustache beneath his nose, large eyes, and a somewhat dark complexion.
His demeanor and age made him appear unmistakably as the master of this house, and thinking *This must be the author of* Imado Shinjū*, whom I so revered*, I hastily steadied my startled heart, managed to present my card, and blurted out my desire to meet the professor despite the suddenness of my visit. The mustached man who resembled a scholar replied without hesitation, “The master is presently away; I shall relay your message upon his return.” With no alternative, I said, “Then I shall call again tomorrow morning,” and left through the lattice door—yet something about this man being Professor Ryūrō himself nagged at me. Stealthily peering through a gap in the Ken’niji-style fence into the garden beyond, I saw on the veranda of a room where all the shōji screens stood open to the lingering summer heat of a September evening that same mustached man drawing a tobacco tray close, leisurely smoking as he gazed at the garden stirred by dusk winds.
So my imagination had not been mistaken after all.
Since I had come to visit suddenly without bringing any letters of introduction, the master himself had come out and refused me by claiming he was absent.
Thus seeing no path forward but to visit my earnest Professor repeatedly until gaining an audience, I returned the following evening to request entry once more—this time a maid-like old woman answered and promptly led me to an inner chamber.
Looking, there sat a person writing at a lacquered-paper desk before the tokonoma alcove who set down their brush and turned toward me—so alike to yesterday’s interlocutor they could have been twins—yet upon sitting close and scrutinizing them anew saw someone slightly younger in age and somewhat slimmer in build: a different person altogether.
In later days when I heard from the professor’s account, it turned out that the person who had come out to receive me was his esteemed older brother—a portrait painter accustomed to traveling the provinces.

That evening, though I earnestly pleaded to become his disciple, the Professor would not readily consent: “To aspire to become a novelist or such is a grave misjudgment. If you abandon your studies now and stray into this unorthodox path, you will surely gnaw your navel with regret someday. Should you fancy writing, do so only in your spare time from proper work. Moreover, unlike Ozaki or Kawakami, I cannot endure the bother of nurturing and instructing many disciples as they do—though often entreated before, I have always refused.”
“Therefore,” he continued, “it would ultimately be impossible for me to instruct you in a manner that would satisfy your expectations.”
“If you find that acceptable, then there would be no help for it—simply come visit whenever you have spare time.”
He added that if he were not busy, he might be able to correct the errors in wording and kana usage in your manuscript.
My joy truly defied description; after bowing deeply in gratitude, I timidly left behind the manuscript of *Bamboo Blinds Moon* that I had brought with me that day and returned home.

The pleasure Professor Ryūrō took in keeping Japanese white-eyes began precisely around the time I first laid eyes on him.
When I first left behind the manuscript *Bamboo Blinds Moon* and returned home, my heart pounded so fiercely that I paid no heed to whether there were any birdcages present. Yet with each subsequent visit to seek instruction, one or two cages would appear anew until, by winter that year, cages of Japanese white-eyes stood stacked two or three tiers high against a corner wall of the six-tatami room—piled like wares at a bird seller’s shop—and even warbler cages had come to occupy two spaces in the dimly lit tokonoma alcove where an ink-painted courtesan hung as a single scroll.
It is said that the Professor had lost his wife the previous year.
Thus, in that house now without its mistress—a space tinged with unnameable desolation—the Professor alone found amusement in quietly keeping songbirds with his sons Shunrō and Warō. The scene, appearing every bit the embodiment of a man of letters, profoundly deepened my reverence for him.
After that, when I went to bid farewell in Meiji 36 as I was about to depart for America, the Professor had moved his residence to Azabu Ryūdo-chō and had already taken his second wife.

At Professor Ryūrō's quiet residence in Yarai-chō, disciples came to join along with the songbirds.
First came Mr. Hasegawa Tōgai, then Mr. Nakamura Harusame, and finally a female writer—whose name escapes me now—a young woman; each took turns setting up desks in that six-tatami room.
From my father's house in Ichibanchō, I would commute once or twice a week without fail, carrying manuscripts; among these, two or three pieces deemed somewhat worthy of reading were sent to the editorial departments of Hakubunkan or Shunyōdō after undergoing the Professor's revisions.
Alongside this, I also came to observe seniors such as Kawakami Baizan, Oguri Fūyō, and Tokuda Shūsei occasionally visiting the quiet residence in Yarai, and through this, naturally gained the privilege of becoming their humble companion.
Thus, in July of Meiji 32 [1900], my novel titled *Usuginu* was published for the first time in *Bungei Kurabu* under the joint authorship of Professor Ryūrō.
At that time, influential magazines in the literary world all disdained publishing works by new writers; thus I borrowed his name with Professor Ryūrō's permission.
That year, when Asahi Shimbun journalist Mr. Kurushima Kayo—at his residence in Shimo-Miyabichō, Ushigome—collaborated with haiku poet Tani Katsutōshi to publish a literary magazine titled *Garabunko*, they came to Yarai and requested a new work from the Professor.
At that time, as the Professor was swamped with literary work, he dictated a theme to me and had me hastily compose a short chapter.
This work, titled *Yūzemi*, was published in the inaugural issue of said magazine under joint authorship once again.
*Garabunko* ceased publication before even putting out its second issue.

Around that time, a man called Ōyama Godō often came to visit my study in Ichibanchō.
At that time, Ōyama Godō was a disciple of Araki Chikuō, a master of the shakuhachi, and "Godō" was his art name.
I too had long frequented Chikuō’s home in Asakusa Daichi and that of Fukujiro Kadō in Kanda Mitaishimachi; through often playing together pieces such as “Distant Cry of Deer” and “Moon Melody,” we had naturally grown acquainted.
This man, having been born and living in Shimofunabashi-chō, naturally became acquainted through neighborly ties with disciples of Professor Iwaya Sazanami; among them, he grew particularly close to one Ra Gaun—a Qing national skilled in Japanese prose and haiku—and through their mutual visits, I too came to exchange words with Mr. Ra.
Mr. Ra’s haigo was Sosanjin.
He was the eldest son of Luo Gengling, an interpreter at the Qing Legation from Zhejiang.
One evening, this man accompanied me to Professor Sazanami’s residence in Motozono-chō, where a literary study meeting was being held. “On Thursday nights,” he said, “many disciples—Kozan, Kizan, Nangaku, Shinbei, and others—gather there. Why don’t you come along and see?”
This marked my first attendance at the Thursday Society.
As for matters concerning the Thursday Society, even if I do not speak of them here, since they have already been recorded in a work called *The Neighing of Colts* by its master, it would be better to refer to that.

III

After the passing of Mr. Ōhashi, master of Ōtsu-an, a novelist named Miyake Seiken came to serve as editor-in-chief of *Bungei Kurabu*.
In daily interactions, Miyake Seiken would habitually boast with pride: “Ever since *Bungei Kurabu* appointed me as editor-in-chief, its circulation has suddenly surpassed thirty or forty thousand.”
When discussions turned to literature, he would brazenly declare that while one could list countless so-called novelists these days, those truly skilled in prose—if you excluded Rohan of Mukōjima—had none who could surpass him. Such self-aggrandizement ensured that not a single rising writer failed to despise Seiken.
Yet since publishing in *Bungei Kurabu* required securing the editor’s favor, many swallowed their anger and humbly visited his house beyond Toranomon’s gates.
One day, I too went bearing a box of sweets with a letter of introduction from Mr. Ikuta Kizan and accompanied by Inoue Aaashi.
Having heard much of this renowned figure, we privately braced for a doorstep rejection—yet were inexplicably ushered to a second-floor study with the remark, “You are disciples of Iwaya, I presume?”
Seiken readily opened with “Have you written anything thus far?”
At that time, Aaashi frequently delighted in Saitō Ryokuju’s writings under the alias Hagaki Hanamori, often composing works akin to Ryokuju’s *Memorandum*.
That night too, we timidly presented manuscripts from our pockets for his review. Examining them with feigned care, Seiken noted the thick ink and precise calligraphy: “Impressive for someone so young.” Shifting gears, he viciously denounced upstarts’ impertinence before concluding: “To write well, master Chinese classics—not just Han Yu and Liu Zongyuan. Romantic novels demand this most.”
“In Chinese novels,” he declared, “neither Rohan nor I shall ever lag behind others.”
Aaashi had studied at Dr. Shimada Kōson’s home school, versed deeply in Chinese learning.
My humble self—no temple acolyte but privy to scraps overheard from my father—managed answers when pressed. This won Old Man Seiken’s trust; that night, our manuscripts gained immediate approval for *Bungei Kurabu*.

It was none other than Mr. Seiken who would later take the trouble to introduce me to Professor Fukuchi Ōchi Koji.
Yet this visit differed from when I first called upon the senior members of the Ken'yūsha, and I found myself unable to fulfill my wish with ease.
At that time, Professor Fukuchi’s residence stood on Kawagishi-dōri in Kobikichō near Aihikibashi Bridge, aligned with the fifth-generation Otowaya residence.
From my house in Ichibanchō—a considerable journey without streetcars—I walked repeatedly; arriving thrice at eight in the morning hoping to catch him before departures, and five more times at dusk timing his returns. Each visit saw me present Old Man Seiken’s letter of introduction while pleading for an audience—only to be met with excuses of absence, busyness, indisposition, or guests—until no hope of success remained.
Even I had grown somewhat weary, fearing further persistence might breach decorum; thus resolving that laying bare my modest theatrical devotion through a treatise might someday aid my aspirations. I drafted a lengthy essay and left it discreetly upon the genkan step before departing.
When over half a month had passed, I suddenly received notice from Enomoto Hakasshi—steward of the Fukuchi household—requesting I preliminarily receive matters for discussion with the Professor via dispatched carriage. Immediately following the address given, I proceeded to Hakasshi’s lodgings on Kawagishi-dōri in Kobikichō.
This was the summer of Meiji 33 (1900), when I was twenty-two years old.

Hakasshi, having discerned my sincere wish to enter the Kabukiza playwrights’ room and undergo practical training in the theatrical arts, departed together with me for the Fukuchi residence. Entering through the kitchen entrance, he had me wait in a side room for a short while before leading me to what appeared to be the Professor’s study.
It was a summer evening when the river breeze was cool, the time when the lamps had just been lit.
Professor Fukuchi appeared to have just emerged from the bath, wearing a yukata with flat sleeves and medium-sized peony patterns, a crepe heko obi tied at the front, seated atop a large leather cushion as he leisurely smoked tobacco through a silver-banded pipe.
Hakasshi reverently placed his hands on the floor and took a seat slightly forward from the threshold; thus accompanied, I descended one step further and could only barely rest my knees upon the threshold.
Awaiting Hakasshi’s mediation, I stated my boundless honor at unexpectedly achieving this evening’s audience—yet all the while agonized alone over how to respond should Professor Fukuchi personally inquire about my academic background, my heart pounding like a geisha reporting for license inspection at a police station. But the Professor, without so much as glancing my way, began discussing with Hakasshi news from Paris’s theater world, prompted by a newspaper mailed that morning from Kawakami (the activist-performer Otojirō) in Paris.
Thus, after about thirty minutes, I was once again accompanied by Hakasshi and took my leave from the Fukuchi residence to return home. Then, three or four days later, when rehearsals began for Kabukiza’s Bon Festival performance, I—with Mr. Enomoto as my guarantor—submitted a written pledge to Kabukiza and at last became a man of the theater world.
The wording of the written pledge was as follows.

I, hereby aspiring to become a kyōgen playwright through discipleship under Professor Fukuchi, having been granted permission to enter and exit the green room of your esteemed theater, shall absolutely never disclose any secrets of the theatrical arts or confidential matters pertaining to said green room. Accordingly, this written pledge is submitted for future reference.

Kabukiza rehearsals would continue to use the third-floor gymnasium as standard practice.
Before rehearsals began, Hakasshi would send postcards to summon those from the authors’ room; they would divide tasks and transcribe excerpts.
On that day, I was introduced by Hakasshi to the playwrights; subsequently, when the Professor arrived for work the following day to oversee the script reading, his remark—“Please take good care of him”—delivered in his august voice, led the playwrights themselves to attempt treating me as a special guest of honor. Thereupon, I consulted Hakasshi: “Guest treatment is not my desire—amateur theatrics would only bring profound disgrace. I earnestly beg to be employed without the slightest reservation, in accordance with the green room’s time-honored customs.” As I persisted in this plea, Hakasshi accordingly reported again to the Professor and assigned me as an apprentice under a playwright named Takeshiba Shichizō, from whom I would learn all aspects of green room protocols, including the striking of wooden clappers.
At that time, in the Kabukiza playwrights’ room, there were four authors excluding Mr. Enomoto.
Takeshiba Shichizō (Takeshiba Seikichi), being a direct disciple of Master Mokuami, served as a kyōgen playwright attached to both Naritaya and Otowaya, primarily responsible for the wooden clappers signaling act openings and closings in the plays of the Dan-Kiku duo.
There were also authors named Takeshiba Kenji and Hama Masanosuke.
Kenji, being a disciple of Terauchi Kawazake Shinshichi, was still in the prime of youth, while Masanosuke—said to be a disciple of the late Segawa Jukō—despite his advanced age, would commute from his lodgings near Asakusa Hill to the Kobikichō green room even in midwinter without wearing a hat, his kimono hem hitched up to expose his shins, clad in a half-coat and weather clogs. He wrote ledgers for costumes and wigs of all sizes and neatly drafted playbills and signboard designs.
This old man knew in detail such matters as the front decorations of the three theaters in Saruwaka-chō.

Now, the Bon Festival performance during which I first joined the theater division and closely observed rehearsals featured a troupe comprising Shuzō Somegoro, Iekado Ebizaburō Matsusuke, and others—Danjūrō and Kikugorō being absent. The first piece was Somegoro’s *Kagekiyo*; the middle act was Professor Fukuchi’s new nagauta dance piece *Onna Benkei* (Shuzō’s specialty); the second piece was Iekado Ebizaburō Matsusuke’s *Genyadana Ōgiri* and Iekado Ebizaburō’s *Onna Narukami*, with Tokiwazu accompaniment by Hayashinaka Demeshi.

My duties as an apprentice playwright were to insert two wooden clappers for each act during rehearsals and strike them sharply and decisively, record the curtain opening and closing times in a diary, and in the event of any urgent notifications needing to be relayed throughout the green room, make rounds to every corner—actors’ rooms, large props team, small props team, costumes, wigmakers, musicians—leaving no area uninformed.

From the striking of the arrival drum until the day’s performance concluded, even in midwinter I wore no haori; within the room I refrained from smoking rolled tobacco. When theater managers or visiting guests appeared at the playwrights’ quarters, I would meticulously pour and serve tea, align their sandals, and when senior playwrights arrived, fold their haori, serve their meals, and assist them tirelessly throughout.

Among the green room guests for whom I frequently aligned sandals and served tea were Ōtsuki Joden and Nagai Sokugaku.

When September arrived, I was there able for the first time to witness the true faces of the Dan-Kiku duo and observe their rehearsals. I recall that the play was indeed the full production of *Mito Kōmon Ki*, with the middle act being the “Daitokuji” incense-offering scene. Danjūrō had fallen ill during that year’s spring performance, to the extent that there were even rumors of his critical condition; thus, the atmosphere of this grand joint performance with Kikugorō was unexpectedly boisterous even before the curtain rose. In November, the first act was *Taikōki* from “Umadarai” to “The Attack on Honnōji Temple,” with Danjūrō as Mitsuhide and Kikugorō as Harunaga; the middle act was Danjūrō as Hōgan in *Kikubatake*. Kikugorō’s gestures as Torazo Fukusuke’s daughter were so youthful for a man over sixty, exquisitely balanced as if tears might well up—indeed, even in the green room, there was no one who did not marvel at this peerless actor of past and present. The second act was Kikugorō’s *Kamiji*. This was Kawazake Shinshichi’s newly adapted staging of the maruhon *Kamiji*. Act I featured the “Combing of Koharu’s Hair” scene, where Ichijūrō’s *itchu-bushi* rendition of Koharu was directly transformed into a nagauta solo performance, then transitioned to the Kawashō Teahouse scene. Act II opened with narration by the Takemoto troupe, shifting from the kotatsu scene familiar to us to the Tenmabashi Tahei Murder scene. At that time, the theatrical world did not yet know Ganjiro, and *Kamiji* seemed a most novel thing. To speak of Kikugorō and Ganjiro in the same breath was inherently erroneous—their difference being that of cloud and mud—yet when I recall Kikugorō of those days through eyes now accustomed to Ganjiro’s recent performances, Otowaya’s figure at curtain-rise—reclined backward with a straightedge as pillow—defied all description. The way he staggered forth clutching Koharu’s hand along the hanamichi, planting his feet in the fundamental stance at its customary midpoint before tightening his stiff obi with reversed hands and glaring forward—this was artistry never to be witnessed twice. As for this matter of adapting the play, the care they poured into rehearsals was something utterly beyond what people today could conceive. On the day when the script reading was completed, Otowaya had invited Takemoto Aioidayu to the second floor of the teahouse Sanshuya and made him perform the entire act of *Kamiji*, which all the appearing actors listened to attentively; moreover, after the jōruri was finished, he personally questioned the chanter about the delivery of each role’s lines—I can well imagine the extent of their painstaking efforts. Even after the opening day, they altered the stage arrangements two or three times more, yet even then, matters seemed not to have settled.

If I were to indulge in tales of theatrical arts there would be no end; therefore I lay down my brush.
The Kabukiza Theatre had by then nearly altered its exterior appearance, yet being no true reconstruction from foundation up, each room of its green rooms remained unchanged from how I had seen them in those days.
A decade later when I returned from distant lands and chanced to visit an acquaintance there, those former rooms stood empty - no trace remained of their former occupants nor their exquisite skills nor their artistic styles all swept from earth's face - truly evoking that lament of nations perishing while rivers and mountains endure.
Laugh not at this folly of long-windedly recounting only bygones.
In those days upon entering through green room entrance: turning left brought one to Fukusuke Matsusuke's chamber; turning right led directly to head playwrights' quarters where Yaōzō's room stood adjacent.
Beyond lay small props and costume departments; proceeding away from corridor's end one reached Danshū's chamber.
With small garden before it [the room] took on semblance of detached house.
Ascending front staircase revealed rooms for Saruzō and Somegoro; adjoining these stood Iekado Ebizaburō's chamber with mirror stands arrayed alongside.
From there beyond wigmakers' quarters stretched Kikugorō's exceptionally wide-fronted chamber adjacent to Kataoka Ichizō's; proceeding further soon brought one to Shuzō stationed at rear staircase landing.
Third floor being generally large common room needs no elaboration.
Danhachi Umesuke served as head.

IV

On a day of autumn heat when writing felt unbearable, I began tidying the drawers of cosmetic cases and dresser drawers around me—there I unexpectedly discovered four or five letters from Professor Ueda. Three years had already passed since the Professor’s passing, and this year’s death anniversary too had slipped by.

How swiftly time gallops—like the fleeting light of a horse!

The first time I gained the honor of Professor Ueda’s acquaintance was in March 1908, when he was staying in Paris.
Prior to this, while I had been employed at the Yokohama Specie Bank in Lyon, there was an occasion when I visited Dr. Chōfū Anezaki at a guesthouse on the Saône River for official business; it was then that I learned of Professor Ueda’s arrival in Paris from Italy.
Even before I saw that person, my heart had already begun to roar strangely.
What could be the reason?
The reason my humble self came to deeply yearn for Western landscapes and cultural artifacts during those years was none other than the influence of Professor Mori’s works such as *Improvisatore*, *Moonlit Grass*, and *Shadow Grass*, combined with Professor Ueda’s writings like *Recent Overseas Literary Criticism*.
The first time I came to know what Baudelaire’s poetry collection *Les Fleurs du Mal* truly was came through Professor Ueda’s history of modern French literature featured in a special issue of *Taiyō* titled “The Nineteenth Century.”

Thus I resolved by whatever means to learn the French language and set foot upon French soil; now at this fortunate juncture when half that aspiration had already been achieved, I heard that Professor Ueda had come to Paris. My joy defied comparison. Before long I resigned from the Lyon bank and entered Paris, lodging at a guesthouse in the Latin Quarter. Yet having originally known not a soul in Paris, I found no means to discover where Professor Ueda stayed nor any channel through which to seek introduction. From my first wanderings in North America onward I had grown thoroughly accustomed to these friendless years; now even the will to seek others had naturally faded, so I passed my days drifting alone through Parisian streets in listless reverie.

One night, I went to a vaudeville theater called Shōkōtei on the left side of the main boulevard before the Senate building. This vaudeville theater too must have been among those things viewable only in Paris. Though its cheap admission fee and vendors peddling alcohol and coffee differed little from Montmartre's baser variety halls, the performances reached heights of refinement—each night featuring extremely novel orchestral pieces or opera fragments performed by young musicians from the Conservatoire. From time to time they would ask their regular patrons to vote on new performance themes or request critiques of compositions and playing—one could well sense how Shōkōtei exerted extraordinary efforts in propagating this refined, cutting-edge music. That I managed to hear nearly all of Debussy's new compositions without omission occurred on this very evening at Shōkōtei. The first time I laid eyes upon Professor Ueda was also on this Shōkōtei night.

The regular patrons of Shōkōtei were largely student painters from the Latin Quarter; at times, I would see a white-haired old man who seemed to be a down-and-out poet. When intermission was already over that evening, I suddenly noticed among the audience a man whose yellowish complexion matched my own; he too, upon seeing me, exchanged quizzical glances with me across our separated seats. Yet since I did not know who he was, we exchanged no words and parted. This was none other than Professor Ueda; that evening, he wore an English-style suit, his beard trimmed in the British fashion, with a pince-nez gracing his face.

The next day, as I was writing a letter at Café Pantheon on the crossroads of Saint-Germain, there were two compatriots at a table across from me. When we saw each other, one was Takimura Ritarō-kun from the French department whom I had known from my time in the Chinese department at the Foreign Language School; the other was Matsumoto Jōji-kun, who had been about two years my senior at Hitotsubashi Middle School. That evening, these two old friends invited me to join them at the inn in front of the Cluny Museum where Professor Ueda was staying.

In the spring of the following year (Meiji 42), which I remember being still cold, I had already returned to my homeland and was staying at my father’s house. One day, Professor Ueda suddenly visited dressed in an unpatterned iron-gray habutae haori over a Hakata obi-tied informal kimono. My joy at this moment proved neither greater nor lesser than when we first met in Paris. Generally speaking, most bonds formed during foreign travels resemble what proverbs call wayfaring companions—they snap cleanly upon homecoming. Yet the Professor’s regard for my humble self transcended such transient ties. With the brazier between us, we exchanged glances as if marveling at each other’s Japanese-garbed forms, then spoke of Parisian days that now seemed like yesterday—until melancholy settled over us.

In the early days of Meiji 43, when Professors Mori and Ueda were called upon to participate in reforming Keio University’s Literature Department, my humble self too sought to cling to their coattails and achieve some modest purpose.
That matter has now become a past nearing ten years.
Though there were indeed matters difficult to speak of openly at the time, now that a decade has become its own era, no matter how unrestrained my pen might be, it should no longer bring trouble upon others.
During that period—though my consideration for my father did not naturally progress—I found myself troubled by thoughts of perhaps becoming a teacher somewhere.
When I suddenly caught wind of rumors that the Third Higher School sought someone to teach French, I promptly consulted with the professor then in Kyoto about the matter.
To this inquiry I have now by chance discovered his reply at the bottom of a storage chest.
Rereading it was like hearing the living professor’s words before me.
I have presumptuously transcribed this below precisely because such emotion cannot be wholly restrained.

Dear Sir, I humbly beg your forgiveness for having let so much time pass without correspondence. Yet each time I encounter your delightful works in newspapers and magazines, I am profoundly grateful for your endeavors on behalf of us art devotees and for preserving the nostalgic tastes of Tokugawa. As for my humble self, since last autumn I have regrettably found no opportunity to visit the capital, remaining distant from its vibrant activities; though daily resolving "tomorrow, surely tomorrow," matters have dragged on until now. However, by month's end I am determined to come to Tokyo and pay my respects. In truth, an urgent matter has arisen that I wished to discuss with you in person at once, but as circumstances do not permit this, I must instead convey it by letter.

Last year, when you mentioned in your letter the matter of the French language instructor position at the local higher school, I promptly investigated the situation; however, as the appointment would commence this September, the principal had not yet deeply considered candidate selection. Thus, I concluded that your appointment would naturally follow should Dr. Matsui—who shares close ties with your esteemed father—provide an introduction. Accordingly, I refrained from making undue commotion. Yet deep within me lay another consideration: while your arrival in Kyoto would bring me immeasurable joy, transplanting you—now engaged in brilliant new artistic endeavors in the Imperial Capital—into the stagnant air of academia and moreover relocating you to a provincial backwater like Kyoto with its half-hearted classical pretensions might prove disadvantageous both for yourself and our literary cause. This hesitation led me to deliberate at length. As time passed and I observed subsequent developments, though several candidates emerged, none were finalized. Upon inquiring about the professorship’s specifics, I learned it involved teaching only the most elementary French—likely for students bound for Tokyo’s French law departments—and given this rural locale’s limitations, stricter demands than those for university instructors might arise. Weighing all factors, I found it an unappealing venture; even were you to endure it, confining an artist of your stature to this cultural hinterland with its dearth of stimulation seemed utterly regrettable—a conviction that had only strengthened. Hence my delay in replying until now, for which I most humbly apologize; I resolved to seek some grander undertaking instead, yet matters dragged on. Then on January 31st came sudden correspondence from Tokyo bearing extraordinary news.

I have been informed that this matter is to be treated with utmost secrecy, but in truth, there exists a plan for Keio Gijuku in Tokyo to thoroughly reform its Literature Department and gradually commence grand activities within literary circles henceforth; accordingly, they have felt it necessary to appoint a central figure for the department. To this end, the seniors at Mita convened a grand meeting at the Kōjunsha and, if I recall correctly, privately consulted Professor Mori Ōgai as well. When selecting a literary figure to assume full-time duties at the school and orchestrate various schemes, they settled upon either Mr. Natsume Sōseki or my humble self. However, Mr. Natsume found it difficult to sever ties with the Asahi Shimbun, causing negotiations to stall. Furthermore, when Keio representatives visited Sendagi to request—through Professor Mori—that I undertake this role, Professor Mori reportedly stated that my own negotiations would prove challenging due to my affiliations with Kyoto University. When they then asked who might be suitable should I decline, Professor Mori recommended you. The representatives thus proposed that if they were to approach me, they might as well disclose all circumstances: should my personal situation render me immobile, they wished me to immediately transfer these negotiations to you. In response to Professor Mori’s letter, I set forth various considerations but ultimately replied that I could not presently leave Kyoto, while also conveying my deference to his discernment in recommending you. Having now laid bare all particulars, I earnestly inquire: what are your inclinations regarding this proposal? That you might become Mita’s central pillar and from there make bold strides across literary circles is my sole entreaty; I ardently await glad tidings of your acceptance. Of course, this merely seeks your private intent—formal negotiations shall follow once matters are settled.

The particulars may be reserved for our meeting, but from what my humble self has gathered, this seems not merely a matter of elevating the school but rather the prelude to a far grander movement. Take the Imperial Theater, for instance—it appears Keio could wield it almost at will, and needless to say, I foresee various intriguing possibilities. As one who believes the theatrical arts to be an artist’s highest calling, upon hearing this I immediately recalled Molière, Gluck, Goethe, Wagner, and Antoine, stirring within me a fervent desire to assist this delightful enterprise in some form. You would do well to consult Professor Mori for further details, though I fear this letter’s current state of affairs fails to fully convey the nuances—but such is the gist of it.

As for the conditions, I shall see to it that there be no cause for dissatisfaction; in that regard, it shall be nearly akin to carte blanche. Should your gracious acceptance be forthcoming, Professor Mori will oversee all matters accordingly. In any event, for art's sake, I humbly pray to receive news of your favorable assent at this juncture—in haste.

February 5

Ueda Bin

To Mr. Nagai Kafū

Given that today’s literary world teems with sharp-eyed and quick-eared individuals, I humbly request that everything remain confidential until finalized.

While in the countryside, continually thinking of the places I once visited, I have used paper from the hotel where I once stayed to convey my regards even more warmly than to Etsuko.

This letter had been meticulously penned on stationery bearing Hotel Bristol’s emblem from Vienna; the Etsuko appearing in its text referred to your esteemed wife. The manner in which he so earnestly admonished and instructed my humble self—was this not precisely like a loving mother gazing upon her child?

Through this single letter, the circumstances of my entry into Mita at that time became naturally clear.
In response to my reply, the Professor’s letter arrived posthaste and read as follows.
I hereby present its full text.

Having received your letter of February 7th, I deeply thank you for granting my abrupt request; I have since imagined you engaged in various consultations with Professor Mori regarding this matter. Though your letter was modest in tone, I earnestly entreat you to lend your assistance to Mita’s momentous endeavor—for I firmly believe success is assured through your involvement. Precisely because we recognized that only someone of your caliber could not merely assume teaching duties but also impart a kind of elan to inspire future development—a task beyond ordinary scholars—did we extend this request to you. My humble self intends to come to Tokyo by month’s end or early next month; at that time, we shall discuss this matter thoroughly.

In Kyoto, I found myself utterly without conversational partners; I had no recourse but to take walks and dine with household members. From New Year's Day until now, I passed each day drafting my humble works to distract myself. This place remains fundamentally ill-suited for reading or creation—a bourgeois realm unworthy of mention, this tedious provincial backwater. Lately, however, I began associating with a young naval officer who married Rui, daughter of Mr. Ito, and two or three Frenchmen who abruptly joined our circle last month—matters have thereby grown slightly more engaging.

In yesterday’s work of yours, the passage where the Yanagibashi geisha gazes upon Shinbashi as though it were a rival territory was most delightful to read; I was also deeply impressed by your recent section evoking Maurice Barrès’ remembrance of his hometown’s poplar rows. Here in Kyoto, Mr. Hirata Hagemoku—an Anglophile who adores Beau Brummell—is utterly delighted by such things. As my humble self believes literature requires neither rigid forms nor doctrines but rather free rein to sprawl in all directions, I envy how your works flow forth as naturally as birdsong. I earnestly hope you will henceforth turn your pen to diverse realms, leaving those critics who scramble to catch up breathless in your wake.

"It is said that on the 26th at the Yūrakuza Theatre, there will be Mr. Vinietti’s music and a performance of *La Traviata*; I would consider it most fortunate if you could come to Tokyo in time for this, though I fear it may prove rather difficult."

Though I have only once had the honor of meeting your esteemed father and mother during our previous gathering, I humbly request that you kindly convey my regards to them. In haste.

February 11th morning

Ueda Bin

To Mr. Nagai Kafū

In this manner, whenever my humble works were published, Professor Ueda would either contribute writings or come to my home to graciously encourage me.
As the first issue of *Mita Bungaku* was finally about to be published, Professor Ueda’s letters grew ever more detailed in their minutiae, attaining the utmost kindness.

“Dear Sir, I humbly rejoice in your continued good health. How has the management of *Mita Bungaku* progressed since our last correspondence? Recently, Hara—clerk of Ōkura Shoten—sent me written inquiries twice regarding unrelated matters. In his letters, he first mentioned stalled negotiations (concerning an informal discussion with Yosano-kun), then appended news of renewed talks having commenced between yourself and the University. In any case, I am well aware of the difficulties inherent in managing a magazine.”

Regarding this matter—what might Professor Mori’s opinion be? In my humble view, while it remains necessary to set manuscript fees somewhat higher than others as I previously stated, there is no need to make them excessively high; I believe it would be futile to aim for selling too many copies from the outset. To summarize: if it is a two-hundred-page magazine, would a total monthly expenditure of three hundred yen suffice? Under self-management, a portion of this would assuredly return as revenue. For the publisher, even if they incur losses of several tens of yen monthly over a year, there should also be benefits from serving as an advertising organ on the other hand. Under conditions approximating these, Ōkura seemed likely to accept—yet by what arrangement did they decline? Be that as it may, I trust the magazine will launch by mid-next month. Accordingly, I humbly request you inform me of the manuscript submission deadline and such matters. My humble self also wishes to contribute at least one piece.

Since the day before yesterday, I had been traveling along the Uji River with my wife and daughter, staying at a riverside inn, then proceeding to rest at the newly built Nara Hotel the following morning. From there, we hired a carriage to tour the sights beginning with the deer at Kasuga Shrine’s precincts—yet riding in that car bearing the hotel’s red flag had made us feel precisely like members of an American tourist group. In Nara laMorte, this village one might call a land of dreams, the sound of temple bells—no mere carillon—evoked ancient times with pathos as we sat there. At that moment, I reflected: when Abe no Nakamaro departed this small town for continental China—Tang-dynasty China at that—he must have found himself unable to return, cursing Japan much like those who now wander Europe’s great cities. Next time you visit, I dearly wish we might go together to Nara. My wife sends her regards—in haste.

March 21

Ueda Bin

To Mr. Nagai Kafū

In Taishō 5, I was already ill and exhausted.
I truly desired to withdraw and sever all worldly ties, hiding away in a back alley of Asakusa Daichi where brothels stood row upon row.

Coinciding with the first day of the Ryogoku Grand Sumo Spring Tournament, the area had somehow grown restless with anticipation as noon approached.
I had just returned from the public bathhouse with a towel in hand when, at my gate, I encountered the Professor who had journeyed east from Kyoto to visit me.
And so, upon realizing that the Professor’s profound magnanimity had not condemned my dissolute ways, my joy became unbearable; I immediately invited him to Fukagawatei across the street—little suspecting this convivial meeting would become our eternal farewell banquet.
Having talked ourselves out over half a day, we left the tavern—only to find the main street choked with sumo crowds dispersing and trams clattering at their peak hour. Deeming it no place to linger, we withdrew once more to the second floor of my hideout and continued conversing until long after nightfall.
Near my house—where the residences of Toyosawa Matsutarō and Takemoto Harima no Tayū mingled with brothels—the deep resonance of a thick-necked shamisen, utterly unlike women’s vocal exercises, would occasionally drift through. Our discussion thus turned to Edo folk songs and *Itchiku Shoshinshō*, a text the Professor had recently been commissioned by a certain publisher to reprint. From there it shifted to critiques of my works from that period, during which he remarked that among such pieces, Kasamori Osen’s composition stood as the most composed in diction, most pliant in conception, and most polished in form.

A few days later, when the Professor was to depart again for Kyoto, I—though how I cannot say—had never once seen him off at the station until then.
In hindsight, it must have been an intuition that foretold it.
That evening alone, I was strangely moved to go to Central Station; at a dining table until the train’s departure, I sipped coffee with your esteemed wife and daughter while speaking of awaiting your next summer visit to the capital—a hope that proved utterly futile.

On July 9, Taishō 5, before Professor Ueda’s death had been publicly announced, Mr. Baba Kochō conveyed the tragic news to two or three close friends.
In my haste, I had a carriage rushed to the Professor’s Shirokane residence, only to find a wisp of incense smoke already drifting desolately by the coffin. When I beheld this, I was struck by a sudden emotion—as though the smoke were that of ten thousand volumes of books turned to ash in Xianyang’s conflagration.
It was because I had come to realize that what our contemporary culture had lost through the Professor’s passing was nearly beyond measure.

Taishō 7 manuscript