Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Retainer's Mansion The only one I knew since childhood was Judge Tanada Koichiro, who would meet an inexplicable death. He may have been seven or eight years older than me—we didn't attend the same school or share playmates—but the Tanada house stood directly across a wide expanse of rice paddies from my home. At that time, my father worked as a technician at our small town's agricultural research station and lived in government housing, while across those paddies on the other side of the dusty old highway rose the Tanada residence with its castle-like array of imposing stone walls and earthen embankments.

The Tanada house, being descended from this town's former domain castle deputy chief retainer as they say, differed completely from my cramped home—its grounds expansive, its mansion overwhelmingly grand in scale. When ascending the stone-strewn slope along a bamboo grove so dense and dark even at noon, one would find boxwood hedges running parallel to the bamboo thicket for nearly a hundred meters atop massive embankments with layered stone walls. And beyond the spacious stone steps towered a massive kurakimon gate. Moss-covered granite paving stones flanked by neatly trimmed enkianthus shrubs led to a stately samurai-style entrance with its formal step, while a bronze basin serving as rainwater barrel stood to the side. From the towering roof beams to the deep cedar forest looming over the tiles, one could easily imagine ancestors in formal kamishimo being seen off by their ladies-in-waiting and retainers as they departed grandly for the castle—yet precisely because no such ladies-in-waiting or retinues remained—only a mother, a maid, and a married couple of servants—the Tanada household maintained an eerily quiet stillness whenever visited, imparting even to a child a sense of desolation akin to a great family's decline.

Moreover, what gave it that lonely air wasn’t solely due to such a massive mansion or ancient stone walls. What felt indescribably eerie even to a child’s mind were the stories about the Tanada ancestors that Grandmother frequently recounted. Behind the Tanada house soared a great cedar forest as previously mentioned, within which several storehouses stood scattered since ancient times. Beyond the artificial hill in the inner garden lay a sprawling pond of stagnant azure water—so expansive one could scarcely believe it privately owned—its distant edge where mixed forests blended into a field. When emerging into this field, beyond the path where pampas grass and miscanthus vied for space, the mountains of Shimabara Peninsula—Myojin Peak and Ouchiyama—lay hazed in purple. Perhaps they were clearing the midslope grasslands by fire, for crimson flames could often be seen smoldering through the summer evenings. Grandmother would say that even if I went to play at Mr. Tanada’s house, I must never go near the cedar forest behind it or the pond under any circumstances. I was sternly warned countless times that there used to be an execution ground there long ago, and because the vengeful spirits of those killed still wandered about, ghosts appeared. According to Grandmother, among the Tanada ancestors—I believe she said it was the fourth head—there had been a chief retainer of such short-tempered and cruel disposition that killing people meant no more to him than crushing an insect. His wife had passed away early, and his favorite beautiful maid had been attending to his personal needs, but even this maid—claiming she wouldn’t obey him—he tormented relentlessly until finally cutting her down with his own hands, or so the story goes.

What I still remember from listening to Grandmother’s stories was the one thing my childhood self couldn’t comprehend—why they had to execute that maid with their own hands. He didn’t have to kill O-Taka just because she wouldn’t listen to him! I couldn’t help feeling this dissatisfaction, but as I grew older, even those circumstances Grandmother hadn’t been able to explain in detail—Ah! Now I see!—began to make sense. I had gradually come to comprehend. Grandmother had been evasive, reluctant to tell me as a child—that execution by his own hand must have stemmed from the chief retainer’s jealousy over unrequited love. But for a child, the actual truth of such matters was of no concern whatsoever. The wrinkled, white-haired grandmother would become intensely invested... The terror of her face when she stretched out those bony fingers to scold and punish me defied description. With feelings on the verge of screaming, I clung to Grandmother’s sleeve, but in any case, after incurring the displeasure of a certain-generation master, the beautiful maid was tortured to death. Moreover, fearing exposure of the torture killing to society, the chief retainer—despite repeated inquiries from the woman’s family—absolutely refused to disclose the truth of what had transpired. “She violated our house laws by taking a lover and absconded! That insolent wretch—execute her on sight!” He kept ranting such frenzied claims while maintaining a facade. In those days when none could oppose samurai households, though the woman’s family thought there must be some deeper circumstance behind their daughter’s alleged improper conduct—for such disgraceful behavior was unthinkable—they could never voice such suspicions to the peerlessly powerful chief retainer; thus they ended up swallowing their tears in resignation. Yet the one who could not resign himself was that maid’s fiancé. This fiancé had been sent to a temple as a child and became a monk, but only this monk could not resign himself to his betrothed’s disappearance unless he heard the truth. If she had indeed eloped, he pleaded to at least hear the full story, making repeated visits to the Tanada mansion—though of course the head of the household would never meet him. They kept spouting irresponsible excuses to drive him away. However, as rumors of this cruel, selfish chief retainer had resounded far and wide—Ah! Even the monk might have found something to agree with. Though he believed his fiancée had indeed been killed, the truth remained unverified; though he wanted to avenge her bitter fate, against the chief retainer—second only to the lord in regional authority—a powerless monk could do nothing.

Driven to desperation one day, this monk took his treasured shakuhachi flute and infiltrated the chief retainer’s mansion. The chief retainer happened to be away attending at the palace, but the mentally unhinged monk staggered to the base of a towering pine tree on the pond’s edge, sat down, and took out the shakuhachi he had brought. He had thought to let his fiancée’s soul—quietly resting somewhere within this mansion where she must have died—hear at least this shakuhachi sound she had always loved, but the melody that soon emerged from the moistened mouthpiece appeared as nothing less than a plea to heaven: like weeping, like choking, voicing the pitiful helplessness of powerless humans.

"The sound was so clear—seeping into people's hearts—that even those unaware of the circumstances who heard it would feel a profound sadness welling up within them. It was at such a moment that the Chief Retainer returned from the palace."

“Hmm, someone’s playing the shakuhachi.” With a feeling that chilled him to the bone, the chief retainer dismounted from his horse. Uncharacteristically subdued, he crossed his arms with deliberate calm and moved slowly along the lengthy stone-paved path, silencing the welcoming attendants with a glance. Even after entering the parlor, he remained motionless behind the shoji screen, listening intently in the direction of the pond. The monk, having finally finished playing his shakuhachi, placed the flute back into its bag, eyes brimming with tears as he glared fiercely at the mansion.

“O-Taka! Now you understand how I feel, don’t you? I don’t know where you rest, but find peace. Go where you must go. How infuriating this is! O-Taka! Do you bear grudges or not? Become a demon and take vengeance upon the Tanada house! Haunt them through every rebirth! Just watch—within three generations, Tanada Daizen’s household will fall! Let weeds choke this mansion!” The monk began walking toward the field, but in the heart of that willful chief retainer—who had been listening with tearful intensity—there abruptly surged a sentiment beyond cruelty or heartlessness. The mere thought that her youthful fiancé’s existence had made her disobey his commands sent such rage coursing through him that his vision darkened.

“What an insolent wretch! Utterly unforgivable!” “You dare barge into the Chief Retainer’s mansion so brazenly!” “Souhachi, Gouzou, Kakunoshin!” “Chase after him, capture him, and drag him back here!” At their demon-like master’s command—veins bulging—the retainers immediately pursued the monk. Yet this strong-willed, resentment-filled, mentally unhinged priest proved no easy target for their subduing. As the master was the master, so too were the retainers retainers... In the end, they bound him hand and foot—these retainers emboldened by their master’s authority.

“They beat him, kicked him, tormented him mercilessly—and then did what should never have been done!” “In the end, they falsely accused that monk of conspiring with the lady’s maid to steal the household’s money and flee, then killed him.” “And they did something even worse.” “You know that pond I’m always warning you about—the one you must never visit alone?” “Around that pond long ago was an execution ground, and around that execution ground they built a circular fence of bamboo stakes...”

On a certain month and day, they circulated notices throughout the surrounding villages that they would carry out a burning execution as a warning. And amid a large crowd of spectators swarming... "Around the monk bound hand and foot, they piled mountains of firewood and burned him alive while he still drew breath. The flames spread from the firewood to his robes, and with a sizzle-sizzle-sizzle-sizzle, his body fat began to burn. Writhing in agony, he cried: 'Tanada Daizen! You’ve committed every atrocity and pinned false charges on me! Do you think there are those who bear grudges or not?! Behold! Behold! Within three generations, weeds shall overrun your mansion!' 'Enough of your racket! You there—pile on more firewood!' And so they ended up burning him to death."

As a young child, I sighed and looked up at Grandmother. "But what do you think happened? The power of human resolve is truly terrifying—just as they removed the firewood, thinking the monk’s body—now completely charred black—must surely be finished, it took two or three steps toward Daizen." The spectators turned pale and fled with a panicked cry. "The monk’s body that had started walking suddenly tripped on something and fell with a thud... and as it collapsed, it raised a cloud of dust and crumbled into ashes." “So you see, haven’t I always told you?” “When you walk alone there at twilight—when no one else passes through—even now, the monk’s resentful face appears dimly beyond the pampas grass and reeds.” "In a thin voice calling out, 'Hello? Is there a Tanada household around here where a lady’s maid named O-Taka works?'"

Unable to bear it any longer, I buried my face into Grandmother's sleeve.

“Hahahaha! It’s all right, it’s all right—the story’s over now.” “If you don’t go to such places in the first place, those terrifying things wouldn’t come out.” Grandmother would pat my head and end the scary story, but this phenomenon of a man—completely charred black from burning, starting to walk only to crumble into ashes—was by no means unique to the monk at Tanada’s execution ground. In later years, I recall reading in a kōdan book about a certain bold retainer of Toyotomi Hideyoshi who burned down Sakai in Senshu Province—after being executed by burning, his charred corpse, devoid of eyes, nose, or mouth, began walking only to crumble into ashes upon collapsing. Such eerie legends may naturally invite strange tales, yet there seemed no particular falsehood that Grandmother had added to embellish them.

At any rate, when I recall the desolate scenery around Kamikōji from forty or fifty years prior—the very landscape Grandmother had described to frighten me—and consider that her tale reaches back yet another hundred or two hundred years beyond that, I cannot help but feel one cannot categorically deny that within those lonely mountain samurai residences—places so forlorn you might hear foxes howling even at midday—there might well have existed such tyrannical chief retainers alongside ladies' maids and monks of ill repute. Yet I still remember clearly how I would gaze at my younger friend Tanada Koichiro—with his jet-black hair and cool eyes—who lived unperturbed in that dreadful house steeped in eerie karmic ties, viewing him as something supernatural... as if he were the young master of a mystically shrouded samurai residence.

II. The Sister's Death Given our age difference, we didn’t play together constantly, but there were times when I’d forget Grandmother’s warnings and slip deep into the Tanada house to play tag with neighborhood children. Lost in our games, we’d run out to the fields and hide in the hollow of a great tree by the pond’s edge—until pale evening mist began drifting across the water’s surface, while temple bells boomed faintly from afar. Suddenly, I’d imagine hearing a thin voice whisper by my ear: “Is there a mansion called Tanada around here?” Forgetting that stepping outside now meant being caught by demons, I’d impulsively leap out into the open.

I have many such childhood memories. But when I was in fourth grade at the village elementary school, my father was transferred to the main ministry in Tokyo, so I abandoned this remote rural life and came to Tokyo. About two years later, I moved again due to my father’s transfer—first to Nagano, then Maebashi, then Urawa—and in this Urawa, my grandmother passed away at the age of seventy-six. Of course, since leaving Omura, I hadn’t been going around openly discussing rumors about the Tanadas. But it seemed that fear had seeped into my very being, for I appeared to take genuine solace in having left Omura—or rather, in having left that house on Kamikōji.

“If I say such things, you might think Grandmother’s being foolish again.” “Back then, even after daybreak, there was truly this oppressive, unpleasant feeling—it might have been my imagination, but whenever I looked at anyone’s face... they all wore expressions as if burdened by some haunting presence, making it seem like dusk had fallen from morning onward.”

As if sealing her words with heartfelt conviction, Grandmother chanted Buddhist prayers while splashing vigorously to wash her face in the bathtub.

Now then, I wonder how many years had passed since then when I met Mr. Tanada Koichiro, with whom I had long lost contact. By that time, my father had retired and was spending his remaining years in leisurely comfort in the tranquil suburbs of Shizuoka, his final post. I believe it was around when I had graduated from university, completed my training at the university hospital, become a full-fledged doctor, and was visiting my parents' home in Shizuoka after a long absence—though my mother kept insistently telling me to "go visit him, go visit him," while I truly had no time for such things—that Mr. Koichiro made a special trip to visit me when I returned to Omura for summer vacation.

In his childhood, he had apparently had a fair complexion, but the Mr. Koichiro I now met had become a lean, sun-darkened, dashing First Higher School student. He was said to be a second-year student in the liberal arts department. "Is your father well?" My parents, wondering if his mother was also in good health, were pleasantly surprised and endeavored to entertain him hospitably. I was shocked to hear that his father—who had long served as a county magistrate in the prefecture—had passed away five or six years prior, but according to what I was told, in that remote castle town in Kyushu, particularly in the old samurai residences in the outskirts, there had been no significant changes, and that large, lonely mansion now housed only his mother, a maid, and a tenant farmer couple. Seeming accustomed to it, Koichiro-kun didn’t appear particularly lonely.

Since I had free time and was at leisure, I acted as Koichiro-kun’s conversation partner, and we chatted about various matters related to the land where we had spent our childhood days. But what remains in my memory to this day is the time when Koichiro-kun himself brought up the strange old legends entwined with his family.

“I don’t know how to put it, but my family has had all sorts of rumors passed down through the generations—they say that house inevitably produces one unnatural death per generation, or that ghosts appear there.”

he said in a tone both lamenting and faintly derisive. Of course, we were not native to Omura, and he probably thought we couldn’t possibly know such rumors. However, he did not go on to elaborate any further details beyond that, merely uttering it in a youthful, lamenting tone characteristic of a young man—as if prompted by some fleeting impulse.

"But my father didn't die in any strange way either... So rather than those ridiculous rumors, what I still don't understand is—" he said with a contemplative look in his eyes, as if weighing whether to voice his thoughts. "It's about my sister's death."

“Oh? You had an older sister?” “I never knew!”

“She did exist. But she’d been sent away to live elsewhere since childhood, so you wouldn’t have known.” The young man smiled with a touch of loneliness. The sister had returned to her parents when she was thirteen—this must have occurred after we had left Omura. Of course, he never explained why she’d been entrusted to another household. “……It was exactly when my sister turned seventeen. I didn’t know she’d quarreled so deeply with Father either—but one morning when I awoke, the house felt different. Neither Mother was in the sitting room nor Father. Even the tenant farmer couple were gone. From beyond the artificial hill… I thought I heard voices near the pond, so I went to look—still groggy from sleep, still in my nightclothes. Father, Mother, and the tenant farmer couple—they were all there. In the pond, two or three large stones protruded above the water. Father stood atop those stones, leaning so far forward his face nearly touched the surface as he peered into its depths. Mother squatted at the water’s edge, pressing fingers against her tear ducts. The tenant farmer’s wife clung to her side, desperately trying to console her. The tenant farmer himself waded through the pond with a long pole, endlessly thrusting it downward to test for resistance.”

Submerged in the pale blue water up to his thighs, his belly and legs tangled with algae as he stood holding his pole, the tenant farmer—must have sensed something through the contact—suddenly paled. Father, Mother, and the tenant farmer’s wife—all who had been watching—rushed over toward him. Even now, the young man cannot forget that breath-stopping instant. Moreover, in the next moment, the tenant farmer—his face ashen, even paler than the pond’s waters—began carefully pushing his pole toward the shore as if maneuvering some heavy object...then abruptly discarded it and clasped his hands in prayer—a sight burned into memory.

“Y-you...!”

“Y-Young mistress!” Shrill voices erupted all at once, stirring up ripples as *it* revealed itself there—! ……From within the disheveled kimono peeked pale legs… hands… within hair undone like serpents, closed eyes…… Mother and the tenant farmer’s wife, weeping prostrate, heedless of their soaked garments as they splashed through the water to cling to the corpse…….

“M-Miyo… why… why in such a wretched state?”

“Young mistress! How pitiful you look, Young mistress!” “If that’s how it was… why didn’t you say a word…” Amidst the panicked voices, what remains etched in the young man’s memory even now is his father standing rigidly behind his mother and the tenant farmer’s wife, coldly looking down at it. Perhaps “coldly” didn’t quite capture it. Or perhaps a figure delivering a fierce rebuke unlike anything the young man had ever witnessed before would have been a more fitting description for that scene.

“Fool! Fool! You utter fool!” “You’ve disgraced us!” “Was that meant as a lesson to us?” “Were you trying to shame us by dying?” “If you hated it so much, why didn’t you say so from the start?” “If you were so damn opposed, why didn’t you say something?!” Moreover, Father was shouting resentfully, stamping his feet while tears streamed down his face. The father, who usually doted on his daughter and had never once spoken a harsh word to her, was now berating her so shamelessly in public—perhaps this was a form of bitter grief over mourning her death.

Moreover, with Mother and the tenant farmer’s wife clinging to his sister’s corpse and weeping instead of trying to stop Father as he stood there shouting… Why had his sister died? And why was Father so enraged like that? While all those causes remained entirely unknown, the young man still could not forget the horrifying spectacle of that time. It had been a cold morning. That cold morning—a bitterly frosty morning of a severity rare even in Western Kyushu—had been etched vividly into his mind.

"And even now, you still don’t understand why your older sister committed suicide in such a manner?" "I don’t know." "I may seem inattentive, but even now I have absolutely no idea." “Though they wore such lonely expressions, neither Father nor Mother ever spoke of my sister… Father had always been reticent, but after that incident, he became even more tight-lipped… I hated broaching unnecessary topics and seeing my parents’ shadowed faces, so I too kept silent… And then even the tenant farmer’s wife soon fell ill and died…”

“I see—I hadn’t known you had an elder sister, let alone that she had passed away in such a manner… When you entered First Higher School, your father must have been delighted.”

“My father had already passed away long before that. After my sister died—three or four years had passed—he died.”

“And then you stayed in that house with your mother all that time?” “That’s right.” “Oh! How on earth aren’t you lonely?” “I’m used to it, so it doesn’t bother me at all.”

The young man let out a sardonic chuckle. And though such pitiful talk had ceased—indeed, none of these accounts had young Koichiro ever attempted to relate to me in any systematic fashion of his own accord. In response to my questions, he answered haltingly from heavy lips... All I have done now is organize those memories.

In general, this young man appeared to have an introverted nature that belied his seemingly vigorous exterior, carrying himself with a composure beyond his years; yet perhaps because of this, he could at times even seem gloomy—and it was thought that such a disposition harbored inner melancholy and sorrows, emotional undercurrents he seldom allowed to surface. But be that as it may, as I listened to his story at the time, I had not the slightest inkling that the pond where the young man's sister had drowned—the same cursed pond that had once been an execution site where monks met mysterious deaths—was one and the same.

III. Omura's Vacant House

The young man stayed at my house for about three days, I wonder? As a rare visitor had come, Father and Mother were overjoyed and sent him off with local specialties like strawberries, tea, and dried fish upon his return—though I remember eventually receiving Omura's famous products from their side too. On our end, we found ourselves suddenly abuzz with talk of Omura and Tanada family rumors, but since we weren’t particularly close to begin with, our visits gradually ceased until five—perhaps even ten—years seemed to slip by unnoticed. Still, we had sporadically kept up letter exchanges during that time, so I knew that over those ten years the young man had graduated from the university’s law department, passed the Judicial Officer Examination, served as a judicial apprentice in Osaka, been appointed as a full-fledged judge, and was now serving at the Osaka District Court. One time when I returned to Shizuoka, I found my parents happily discussing something with lengths of hakama fabric spread across the kotatsu.

"What's that?" "That?" they inquired,

“We thought we’d send a congratulatory gift since Tanada’s son is getting married.” “The story is that he’s marrying the daughter of a prominent merchant from Okayama or such, I hear.”

That was Father's reply. On their side there was an elderly mother, and on our side an elderly couple; owing to old-fashioned obligations of courtesy, they must have occasionally sent such news our way. While such tidings must have occasionally reached my ears too, by that time perhaps fifteen or sixteen years had already passed since I had opened my practice in Nishiohkubo. With three boys—the eldest being fourteen—and patients thronging at thirty to forty a day, it had become utterly impossible for one person to handle both consultations and house calls. The number of physicians had increased, numerous nurses were employed, maids arrived, wet nurses came, clerks and manservants multiplied—my visits to my parents in Shizuoka dwindled to once every two months, once every three months... By then they had grown truly infrequent. Consequently the name Tanada was heard less frequently than before, but I believe it was around that time the name "Judge Tanada" began appearing prominently in newspapers. At that period there existed a major political party called Kenseikai led by Kato Takaaki, within which was Minemura Kazuhito—a renowned elder statesman of integrity who had repeatedly served as cabinet minister. But what demon possessed him? This senior figure became implicated in a bribery scandal surrounding the relocation of Osaka's Matsushima pleasure quarter, an affair that stirred nationwide controversy as the Matsushima Incident. For this case Judge Tanada was appointed to preside over the court as chief judge and sentenced the defendant to three and a half years of penal servitude! The declaration of this harsh punishment and related details became sensational newspaper fodder.

The pale child from that mansion had now risen to become an imposing presiding judge adjudicating a major political party elder's crimes—Father seemed so deeply moved by this development that whenever I occasionally brought my children to visit his retirement residence in Shizuoka, "Look at that—he's really made something of himself, hasn't he? [...] Seeing him like this, I just can't reconcile this with the snot-nosed brat he was until yesterday," Father said, narrowing his eyes as he gazed repeatedly at the newspaper he'd already read.

“Well now, if this child were to return to Tokyo with a stethoscope, they’d make a proper doctor too.” “Parents never stop thinking of their children as five or six years old, no matter how much time passes.” “I see, I see. Ah, that makes sense.” “Even when parents see children growing up, they remain utterly blind to their own aging, I tell you.”

It had turned into a laughing matter. But, “Mrs. Tanada must be overjoyed as well, don’t you think?” When I asked,

“Oh, you didn’t know yet?” “That person had already passed away some time ago, though.” “Hmm, when was that again?” “When Mrs. Tanada passed away—”

Father was asking Mother to confirm her memory. It was then that I first learned of this mother’s passing as well, but just as the father’s death had not been an unnatural one, I recall that this mother’s death also held no particular mystery.

Around that time, I once went to Omura. That said, I didn’t make a special trip there. It just so happened that I had attended an academic conference held at Nagasaki Medical University, and since Omura was just a stone's throw away from Nagasaki, I made a detour to visit. I left my suitcase at Sanukiya Inn in front of the station and traced the path to places like the elementary school I used to attend, the former castle ruins of the feudal lord that continued along the highway from in front of that school, the castle town shore where old pine trees roared in the sea breeze where I often played with friends, and my family’s old residence in Kamikōji where we used to live. How many years had it been since I last wandered through this land of memories? There was nothing I saw or heard that wasn't nostalgic, yet at the same time, seeing how not a single tree or blade of grass differed from days past in their bearing, I couldn't help being astonished that I had spent my childhood in such narrow confines—and to eyes long accustomed to Tokyo after this absence, everything appeared so provincial and cramped, so stifling it seemed to clog the nostrils.

Be that as it may, with feelings half-nostalgic and half-disillusioned, I stood lingering around the house where I used to live while dogs barked at me, but when I suddenly cast my eyes toward the slope ahead and saw the Tanada house—still standing imposingly atop its ancient stone walls like a fortress—I could not resist the impulse to extend my steps there too and yearn for times past. No one had perished, but my feelings at that time may have been filled with a sentiment akin to "the people gone, yet the mountains and rivers remain unchanged." As I climbed up this bamboo grove path, unchanged from days of old, I passed by Tanada’s gate and ventured out to the marshes and fields beyond.

The winding path twisted through fields overgrown with pampas grass and reeds, while beyond the tips of leaves, Myojin Peak of Shimabara Peninsula and Ouchiyama still showed their faces unchanged—yet whether this area held living souls or none at all! The silence cut deep, such desolation! To think the Tanada house had been lived in all these years in such a desolate place... No wonder Grandmother had been terrified of it long ago! Feeling an eerily oppressive presence, I turned back down that same path.

When passing through Tanada's crown-pole gate again, I had naturally assumed his name would now be displayed there—yet when I glanced up, the nameplate still read "Tanada Koichiro" unchanged. “Oh? They still haven’t sold it and are keeping it?” As I looked up, a sixty-something old man sweeping the fallen leaves was watching me with a curious expression.

“Is this house still owned by Mr. Tanada?”

And without any particular reason, I stood there lingering and found myself wanting to exchange words with that old man. “...That’s how it be...” “Mr. Tanada who’s in Osaka...” “The master ain’t in Osaka—he resides in Nagoya, you see.” “Ah yes, Nagoya, Nagoya... I’d had such news...” “Beggin’ yer pardon, but who might you be stayin’ here as?” “Oh, no, I don’t have any particular business here. I was friends with the master of this house long ago and used to live just up ahead...”

“...So you're sayin' you're practicin' as a doctor in Tokyo now...?” “Yes... That doctor would be me. Did you hear about this from Mr. Tanada?” “That there sure is! Well now, welcome ya come all this way—why don'tcha... uh... step inside for a spell...”

Apparently having heard about me from Mr. Tanada, he kept insisting—"I'll open the storm shutters now, do come in for some tea"—but after declining his persistent invitations, I made my way from beside the nearby winter camellias toward the rear garden. From between the tips of old trees growing beneath the stone walls and the gaps in the moso bamboo, the house where I used to live could be seen far below, small in the distance. According to the old man, Mr. Tanada felt an extraordinary attachment to this ancient mansion; even now, whenever he had a few consecutive days off from his government duties, he would immediately bring his wife back and enjoy living in the timeworn residence. Therefore, the old man entrusted with looking after the place said he never neglected to keep it clean throughout the year so that the master could return at any time.

“No, no, there’s no need to open them… It’s not like I have any particular business here… I’ll be leaving right away.” But since he opened them once daily anyway to let in air, the old man was sliding open the storm shutters room by room. I peered in from outside without removing my shoes; between the profound stillness surrounding me and the timeworn smell of antiquity—not to mention how vividly Grandmother’s ghost stories came rushing back—I couldn’t help feeling goosebumps rising across my skin. I thought to myself how houses of old were built on a grand scale with robust woodwork, yet their careless approach to lighting and ventilation left them steeped in an indescribable gloom. Having surveyed the area, let me attempt to draw a rough sketch to show you. From this, readers will have grasped just how much this friend had favored desolate places.

Even if you were to look at my rough sketch, readers might not sense any particular gloominess. One might think there are only about ten rooms or so. I had merely looked in from outside, but even so, I imagined there were probably about seventeen or eighteen rooms. Therefore, I have indicated the parts I imagined with dotted lines, but in any case, as this was a retainer's mansion of a feudal domain, they may have torn down various parts that made it much larger in the past. My sketch may not be accurate, but whether in the kitchen or the formal reception rooms, the ceilings were high and the decorative beams large—all bearing the soot of ages—and each seemed to have a space of about ten tatami mats. To make matters worse, the cedar forest behind blocked out the sunlight, casting a pitch-black shadow over it all—how ghastly it was! Though I had previously said the entire house exuded a gloomy darkness, perhaps "sinister" would have been more appropriate than "gloomy." I have never seen a house so utterly sinister as this. Perhaps because Grandmother’s ghost stories had seeped into my mind, I couldn’t help but feel an eerie unease—the sort that makes one reach for antiquated expressions like ‘demons wailing somewhere’ or ‘the roof ridge sinking low,’ as if compelled to describe this creeping dread with musty old adjectives.

As I walked around the house and came near the north-facing sitting room marked with II—this room, its front shrouded by cedar trees, was especially gloomy even within the already sinister house, so dark that even in daytime one might expect ghosts to appear—there lay something glossy black in the corner of this room. "Oh, isn't that a piano?" Startled, I stopped in my tracks.

“Who does it belong to? That...” “This here is the master's room...” the old man came to a halt. “When the master returns, you see, he plays it.” “The master has another one in Nagoya as well, you see, and he’s so fond of it that he keeps it carefully stored away like that.” “When he returns, he often plays it, you see.” “The wife?” “Nah, it’s the master, you see.”

“Nah, it’s the master’s, you see.”

“Well now, Mr. Tanada... playing the piano... I had no idea... Huh! A piano!” According to the old man, even at the end of last year, the Tanada couple had stayed there for six whole months. “I don’t quite understand myself, but seems somethin’ disagreeable happened at his government office—talk of quittin’ his post or not... Though they lived here half a year together, even then His Lordship would face that piano near every day,” he said.

"What on earth was he playing so much?" “Well now, we folks haven’t a clue ‘bout such things, you see.” The old man laughed, opening his toothless mouth with pitch-black gums. "The master composes his scores, you see... and then plays 'em on the piano." "Huh… Mr. Tanada, you mean—" I gave a perfunctory response, though of course I myself had no particular musical tastes or interests whatsoever. I simply nodded, feeling as though I were glimpsing a hidden facet of the solemn man who, as Chief Judge, had presided over the Matsushima Incident.

“Ya come all this way special-like ‘n’ we can’t even do right by ya... Don’tcha come on in ‘n’ have yerself some tea now—why, the master’d be right pleased if ya did.” After bidding farewell to the persistently inviting old man, I descended the slope along the bamboo grove once more, emerging onto the path by the rice fields with its Koshin mound and the stream bank where I’d chased fireflies with bamboo leaves in hand as a child. When I stopped to look back—gazing at the Tanada house, still castle-like atop its slumbering forest and stone walls, unchanged by anything added or subtracted these forty or fifty years—I found myself seized by the illusion that I wasn’t a father of three nor a doctor at all, but still that snot-nosed brat from long ago.

IV. Rhapsody Thinking that stories of Omura would interest them even more than me, on my return journey I stopped by Shizuoka and enlivened our gathering with nostalgic tales of Omura for my elderly father and mother. Of course, I also sent a brief letter to Judge Tanada in Nagoya, explaining how in a fit of nostalgia I had visited his home during his absence and, guided by the old caretaker, had reminisced about old times from afar. From Judge Tanada came a formal reply stating he had learned of my visit through the caretaker's message; that he and his wife had lamented how they wished I had come inside for tea; that should I ever visit the region again I must certainly call; and that when next coming to Tokyo he hoped to meet me and exchange old stories—or so I recall. But of course there arose no occasion for me to visit Nagoya, nor did the other party have any pressing matter warranting a special visit; such exchanges proved insufficient to bridge our growing estrangement, and thus two or three more years slipped away like a dream. During that time both my father and mother passed away one after another, leaving my relationship with Judge Tanada completely estranged as in days of yore—then around that time I found myself scheduled to go to America for about a year. At my age this could hardly be called proper study abroad, but having been responsible for my parents in youth—which ultimately prevented me from remaining at the university research department—it became something akin to a fifty-year-old's belated education. Entrusting the hospital to my staff, I prepared to inspect new medical facilities.

I spent the time from 1949 to March of the following year at Johns Hopkins University Hospital in Baltimore, and on my return trip decided to tour European medical facilities while visiting West Germany, France, Italy, and other countries—but what I want to discuss happened during my stay in Bonn, West Germany.

The group I happened to meet at the same hotel—contrary to my own itinerary—consisted of judges and prosecutors including one Doi from the Supreme Public Prosecutors Office and the Director-General of the Minister's Secretariat at the Ministry of Justice, all of whom were touring France, Germany, and other parts of Europe before proceeding to observe America's judicial system. "Oh, you were friends with Judge Tanada?" "Mr. Yasui!" "This gentleman here was apparently childhood friends with Judge Tanada." "Well now, that's quite rare!" "I work at the training institute."

The judges and prosecutors who were introduced all expressed surprise at my childhood friendship with Judge Tanada, relentlessly pursuing gossip about him. While we might have been friends long ago, I naturally knew nothing about the judge in his present life. Through their accounts, I learned various details—among them that this man, who had been a sickly-looking boy in youth, now possessed robust health coupled with an intensely reticent, nearly gloomy disposition. "But can one be too serious?" Judge Yasui remarked during our conversation. "For scholars or professors it might suffice, but judges pass judgment on living people. They could stand to be somewhat more approachable and cheerful." "I don't grasp this 'human-like' criticism," countered the Director-General. "He has a compassionate heart and profound empathy. As judicial officers go, he's exemplary."

“Of course I won’t comment on Mr. Tanada’s character!” “But I do think he may have strayed from his path.” “He was meant to become a composer and diligently hone his innate talent by himself.” “I believe he was someone destined to live as an artist.” “So without even realising it himself, he must be enduring considerable anguish—don’t you agree?”

“What?! Does he compose music?”

Startled, I couldn't help but interject.

“Oh!” “You didn’t know?”

Judge Yasui was even more surprised. “When it comes to Miura Jo, he’s quite famous in that field.”

Mr. Yasui mentioned Judge Tanada’s pen name for his compositions. "For unrefined people like us, it’s beyond comprehension, but he seems to possess remarkable talent." "He must have released quite a few compositions by now, don’t you think?" “Huh, I didn’t know that.” "He had that kind of talent?" "...Him?!"

I widened my eyes, but in that moment, I couldn't help but recall those words I had once dismissed in Omura. “Now Professor Riesenstock from the music school…” Then, Prosecutor Doi of the Supreme Public Prosecutors Office interjected.

“He has returned to Germany and is staying there now. After dining with us tonight, it’s been arranged for him to play the piano. How about we have Professor Riesenstock perform one of Mr. Tanada’s compositions then? Wouldn’t you care to join us?” “Ah, that’s splendid, that’s splendid… We’ll be expecting you, so do come.” The others voiced their agreement too, and in the end, persuaded by the entire group, I was prevailed upon to attend that evening’s dinner party.

As for what sort of person Professor Riesenstock was, readers likely know more than someone like me, so there should be no need to enumerate superfluous details—but how many years had passed since the professor, as Germany's foremost pianist driven out by Hitler, had been plucked from his position as conductor at the Gregor Theater to become a professor at Ueno Music School? This old professor nearing seventy—who had sent forth many disciples into Japan's music world, acquired a Japanese wife, handled Japanese as skillfully as his native tongue, and thoroughly loved Eastern customs—would clearly bury his bones in Japan in anyone's eyes, but he was visiting his war-ravaged homeland Germany for the first time in years since the war's end. However, what I wish to convey occurred after that evening when I had been introduced to the old professor, spent an hour dining with him alongside the group of judges and prosecutors, and then found myself listening to his piano performance. Though called a hotel hall, it wasn't particularly spacious. Would it have measured about fifty or sixty tatami mats? They were listening to the professor's piano—some lounging in palm shade, others seated beside coconut and rubber trees, legs crossed, smoking cigarettes, tilting wine glasses atop scarlet carpet—and as per prior arrangement, after finishing pieces by Saint-Saëns and Bach, the professor picked up the score resting atop the piano.

“Would you like to hear this next? “Or this one?”

he picked up another score. “Professor, if I may trouble you—might we hear a composition by this Miura person?" "Given that Dr. Maejima here present has been friends with Miura since their childhood days, yet declares having never once heard any of his musical works." the Director-General of the Cabinet Secretariat said, indicating me with a gesture.

“Very well.”

The professor responded in German. “Let me try playing… in my own fashion… Hmm… The title is ‘Memories of My Childhood,’ isn’t it… Composer Jo Miura.” While reading aloud, Professor Riesenstock took his seat before the piano. Light, crisp notes came gushing forth from the tips of the professor's withered fingers. After tinkering in this manner for some time—perhaps having grasped the composition’s intent—the professor began playing anew from the beginning at a leisurely tempo.

But what I want to convey is that very moment. As if keeping time, the professor swayed his body back and forth with each keystroke, pressing down on the pedals with force, until he had played through what seemed to be about one sheet of music. “Good grief!”

And... I had no idea how to render that pronunciation on paper. This was neither German, nor English, nor French. Yet it was a phrase muttered with a bitter smile—not just by Germans, but by Americans, French, Dutch... all Westerners—in a tone of exasperated resignation, their entire faces contorted in frowns whenever thoroughly perplexed. Even now, as the Professor suddenly let out this universally understood bitter smile and rose to his feet, clutching the scorebook like a hawk while shaking his body and contorting his entire face in a frown.

“This is a formidable piece... The composer is possessed by something." “This is a terrifying piece… I have never played such a piece… Mr. Doi, what kind of person is this composer?” “His real name is Tanada... He’s a judge named Tanada Koichiro." "A currently serving..."

“Oh, Judge! “Currently serving…! “A judge could very well bind me—who knows? “I can’t endure this… This is a terrifying composition.” “…This person is possessed… This isn’t a composition made by human hands… This person doesn’t have long to live…”

And he fixed his gentle aged eyes intently in my direction. "Do you want to hear? This piece?" "If it wouldn't trouble you, Professor..."

“I cannot bear it—but if you wish to hear… very well! I shall play it—a terrifying piece.”

And the Professor turned back to the piano. We strained our ears even more intently than before, but at first heard an accompaniment resembling a roaring north wind assaulting roof tiles and shaking forest treetops. Amidst that cacophony, human howls occasionally reverberated. Then piercing through this din came the crystalline tones of a shakuhachi flute, its mournful melody striking our ears with poignant clarity. What made us prick up our ears occurred about five or ten minutes into the piece's progression—amidst another tempest of shouts and screams came a crackling eruption like brushwood set ablaze. Then roared forth gale-like ferocity. When this subsided into hushed silence—Thud! A collapsing sound echoed, after which we heard only quiet accompaniment with an owl's eerie cry as the piece naturally concluded.

It left an indescribable aftertaste.

Moreover, even after the piece ended, no one uttered a single word. Everyone remained utterly silent. Amidst this silence, only Professor Riesenstock replaced the scorebook and began playing either Strauss or Badarzewska’s The Maiden’s Prayer. As for Miura Jo’s composition now, not a single comment was interjected—as if he wanted to wipe away all memory of that abhorrent piece as soon as possible—and he poured his aged passion entirely into this new work. And in both the professor’s eye color and bodily movements, not a trace remained of the oppressive air that had lingered until moments before—he seemed to be reveling in the lively motion of his fingers.

Some were lighting cigarettes for the first time, others were exchanging whispers—a strangely charged atmosphere settled over the gathering.

But,

“Where is Mr.Tanada now?” When they tried asking the person beside them,

“...I believe he should currently be working at the Tokyo High Court...” That was the reply. Why had the Professor been so astonished to declare this a formidable piece, and what had he meant by saying the composer wouldn’t live much longer? Not long after that, the professor returned to Japan and continued teaching in Ueno as before. However, since our professions differed and our social standings were worlds apart, I never met him again afterward, and thus I remain utterly clueless as to what he meant. To add to this, it was a newspaper article from December 24th of last year—but to explain it properly, I thought it best to first present the full text of that article here.

V. The Enigmatic Duel

On last December 24th, newspapers nationwide simultaneously devoted two or three columns in their society sections—some even allocating four or five—

"Gruesome! Tokyo High Court Judge Tanada Duels with Colleague Judge Izawa. Omura City, Nagasaki Prefecture: Major Disaster on Isolated Island"

Beneath this opening line, they reported an unprecedented mysterious incident.

"In a picturesque bay visible at a glance from Omura City lies Usu Island—an uninhabited islet with a circumference under five kilometers." "The entire island was so densely covered with pines as tall as a man that this handsomely shaped islet, resembling an upturned mortar, was cherished by townspeople and regarded as an ideal picnic spot." "The small boat navigated through crystal-clear waves—so transparent one could see straight to the bottom—covering what must have been a distance of roughly fifteen or sixteen minutes." "On Sunday the 22nd of this month, officials from Omura Immigration Detention Center residing at 93 Furumachi Residence in the city—Nakagomi Sadao (26 years old), Iwase Chuichi (24 years old), Akizuki Toshiko (21 years old), and Yomimura Michiko (23 years old)—who had gone there for leisure, discovered while strolling along the southern coast of the island a gentleman in a gray suit and checkered overcoat, approximately forty-five or forty-six years old, collapsed and crimson-stained at the base of a creeping pine seven or eight meters from the shore. Further north at twelve meters' distance lay another slender gentleman of similarly refined attire, likewise blood-soaked and lifeless, causing a major commotion."

According to an urgent investigation by Omura National Police, the gentleman in the gray suit was identified as Mr. Tanada Koichiro (44 years old), a Tokyo High Court judge on medical leave for pulmonary illness for the past year and renowned under the pen name Miura Jo as a composer. The other gentleman was confirmed to be Mr. Izawa Takao (46 years old), also a Tokyo High Court judge who had traveled west four or five days prior to visit the ailing judge and had been staying at his residence. From surrounding circumstances, it became clear that both men had secretly landed on the uninhabited island two or three days earlier, clashed blades with lethal weapons, sustained multiple critical injuries, and perished.

According to Police Doctor Yoshida Yosaburo’s analysis, the duel was believed to have been conducted between the 18th and dawn of the 21st of this month. As it occurred on an uninhabited island with no witnesses, authorities determined the bodies had been left abandoned for four days until their discovery, with the corpses in an extremely gruesome state. The sword found beside Judge Tanada measured 1 shaku 8 sun 6 bu (approximately 55.8 cm) in blade length and, though unsigned, was attributed to Rai Kunimitsu—a master smith of Yamashiro Province’s Kyōrai school. The blade discovered beneath Judge Izawa’s corpse, similarly blood-drenched, was confirmed as a masterwork of Bizen Ichimonji Yoshifusa matching identical dimensions. Judging by the men’s countless sword wounds and the human tissue and bloodstains clinging to both blades, authorities concluded both jurists had wielded these famed weapons in sustained combat until meeting their gruesome deaths.

Moreover, in a strange turn of events, after summoning Mrs.Mitsuko (39 years old) from the Tanada residence at 320 Kamikōji in the city and continuing their thorough investigation, authorities confirmed both swords were indeed ancestral heirlooms passed down through generations of the Tanada family. On the 18th of this month, Mrs.Mitsuko had gone to Nagasaki City with her maid Tamaki Ume (19 years old) to purchase ingredients for hosting Judge Izawa Takao - her husband’s close friend who had traveled from Tokyo for a visit.After returning via the 5:07 p.m.train to Omura Station and spending over forty minutes journeying home by rickshaw, she found both Judge Tanada and Judge Izawa absent.It was presumed that during her absence,the two men had taken the Tanada family’s ancestral swords and secretly departed for Usu Island.

Since then, Mrs. Tanada had been desperately searching through acquaintances and possible leads, but those who knew both men unanimously expressed utter bewilderment—Judge Izawa had maintained a close colleague relationship with Judge Tanada since their Tokyo days, never once quarreling under normal circumstances, leaving no conceivable reason why they had to continue dueling with lethal weapons until meeting their deaths. Mrs. Tanada had long been renowned for her beauty, but her chaste reputation was beyond reproach; Judge Izawa was likewise a man of integrity, and of course no suspicions of illicit passion surrounding Mrs. Tanada could be found. "Even the relevant authorities, regarding this as one of the most bizarre incidents in recent memory, have urgently convened deliberations and are frowning in suspicion."

This constituted the initial reports from various national newspapers that emerged on the 24th of last month regarding this incident. Both in content and strangeness, it was presumed that you esteemed readers already retained clear memories of this matter.

Having directly quoted the newspaper article, if I may append a bit more of the full picture as reported at the time, on the 26th as well, each paper made further efforts to report detailed accounts under the headline "Mysterious Duel Incident Detailed Report." "At the Nagasaki District Public Prosecutors Office Omura Branch investigating the mysterious duel case involving Judges Tanada and Izawa, as their inquiries progress, they find no element that could be considered the core of the incident, and their investigation currently appears to be wandering in a thick fog." Until the very day of their departure on the 18th, both judges had maintained an extremely harmonious atmosphere; particularly noteworthy was Judge Tanada, who welcomed his close friend Judge Izawa's visit with such enthusiasm that despite his recent illness, he unusually took up a sake cup and engaged in warm conversation. Since Judge Izawa's arrival three days prior, during his entire stay at the household, neither Mrs. Tanada nor any of the investigating officials could find even the slightest indication of what might have caused the duel, leaving them utterly perplexed.

Incidentally, Judge Tanada was known for his distinctive compositions as a hobby and stood as one of Tokyo's foremost authorities on Criminal Procedure Law. The mild-mannered Judge Izawa had served three years as Chief of the Civil Division at the Tokyo High Court, while Judge Tanada had been designated to succeed as Director of the Correction Bureau at the Ministry of Justice following recent judicial reshuffling. "In any case, as a mysterious incident, it plunged the authorities into an abyss of profound suspicion and despair." While lamenting the impossibility of uncovering the truth, December 28th's follow-up report—emerging two days later amid intensified year-end commotion—while appealing to readers' curiosity, created the impression of driving those already preoccupied with New Year preparations ever deeper into a bottomless mire of bewilderment.

“Statement from Chief Justice Kimata of the Tokyo High Court: While the prosecution authorities are likely expediting their investigation into Judge Tanada’s case, they remain troubled by their complete inability to even speculate on its cause. Judge Tanada had taken medical leave in November of the year before last to treat his long-standing illness, secluding himself in his hometown of Omura City where he devoted himself to convalescence. His medical leave will expire on the eleventh of next month, but as his health condition is in excellent state, it has been decided he will return to duty. Accordingly, we specifically had Chief Izawa of the Civil Division go this time both for discussions regarding his return and to pay a visit.

Both judges were by nature gentle and scholarly in temperament, and there should be no grounds for conflict or resentment that could possibly exist between them. Within the judiciary as well, given their usually close colleague relationship, this particular incident alone remains utterly incomprehensible—it feels entirely like a dream. "There has just been a phone call, and even Chief Justice Nakada is astonished." Another point is that an account from the boatman who ferried the judges to Usu Island on the day of their crossing appears to have been discovered; under the opening headline "Temporary Insanity?", this boatman's testimony is included.

“On the evening of the 18th, while I was mending my nets, the two gentlemen came and—without a doubt—it was indeed I who ferried them across.” “The agreed fare for the round trip to Usu Island was sixty-two yen.” “I rowed, and the two gentlemen showed not the slightest sign of discomfort in the boat—they smoked cigarettes and laughed all the while.”

“We must have arrived at the island around five-thirty,” he said. “I’ll head back tonight then, since you asked me to come pick you up tomorrow morning around eight. Will that be all right with you, sirs?” When I said that, they chuckled and replied, “With Benten-sama’s shrine at the island’s summit and two grown men having these”—they must have meant the swords—“there’s nothing to fear.” “Among those who visit the island, some stay overnight on moonlit evenings and such,” he continued, “so I didn’t find it particularly strange either. That night, I simply returned home and went to pick them up the next morning around eight o’clock.” “But when I couldn’t find them anywhere—not even at Benten-sama’s shrine on the summit—I figured they’d taken another boat back because I was late.” “I’m utterly shocked things turned out like this,” stated Narse Hanshiro (65) of 245 Katakai, Nishiōmura City.

In conclusion, as there existed no apparent cause that could be considered the true reason behind both men’s deaths, based on the aforementioned boatman’s testimony, it could only be judged that after sending the boatman back on the evening of the 18th, amidst the desolation of the uninhabited island while enjoying the moonlight, Judge Tanada—a man of artistic temperament and delicate nerves—had suddenly suffered a mental derangement, brandished the Rai Kunimitsu blade to attack, compelling Judge Izawa to resort to defensive measures, resulting in both meeting their unfortunate ends. "And given that there remains no other way to interpret this besides such consideration," concluded the investigating prosecution authorities, "we have entirely thrown in the towel."

The newspaper articles I quoted end here, yet even within these reports, one finds many points that defy logical acceptance. Could the desolation of that isolated island have deranged the delicate sensibilities of an artist—a composer? Though the newspapers suggest this, no person—however sensitive their disposition—could conceivably be driven mad by a single night's desolation. Furthermore, given they had already carried their cherished ancestral blades when leaving home, it must be considered evident that beneath their casual banter and laughter, both judges had secretly designated Usu Island in Omura Bay as their death site. If they harbored no intent to kill each other, why would there be need to bring two swords?

Therefore, having reached this stage, it is no longer something that can possibly be resolved through today's civilization and scientific power. It is truly an unscientific argument, but I can only conclude that this outcome must have arisen from something like ancestral karmic fate or the single-minded resolve of spirits cursing the household—from a logic transcending reason that modern scholarship cannot unravel—as there remains no other possible interpretation.

These reasons are none other than what compelled me to trace memories from my childhood and set down in writing these recollections of Judge Tanada. "In this day and age—such absurdity!" you might exclaim. If you would be so kind as to comprehend my intent without derision, I would count myself fortunate indeed.

Moreover—nay, as if to corroborate this conviction of mine that vengeful spirits' curses and ancestral karmic fate had orchestrated events—on January 19th of this year, after the case had reached its conclusion, while Mrs. Mitsuko Tanada, the maid, and the elderly servant couple I had met were all gathered together conducting a memorial service at the family's ancestral temple Gonjō-ji in Azekura-chō district, a mysterious fire of unknown origin ignited from within the unoccupied mansion, causing the historic 180-year-old structure to completely burn to the ground in broad daylight. And then, ever since hearing that what had been confirmed as the remains of a woman from two hundred years ago had been discovered in the burned ruins still smoldering with dying embers—though from where they emerged remains unclear—I found myself compelled to deepen this conviction of mine all the more.

Whether those remains belong to O-Taka, the murdered lady's maid, I leave to the judgment of you esteemed readers. For now, my current interest rests solely with Professor Riesenstock. Professor Riesenstock is currently traveling throughout America, but once he returns to Japan, I intend to meet with him immediately and ask why he stated in April of Showa 25—that is, two years and one month ago—that this composition was extraordinary, and why he declared that the composer would not live much longer. I intend to thoroughly question what reached out to this elderly pianist’s spiritual sensitivity.