Pathway to Japanese Literature

In the summer of the first year after Japan's defeat, there was an old man who became a frequent topic of conversation on hotel verandas and by villa hearths on foggy nights at this highland summer resort situated three thousand seven hundred shaku above sea level.

He was an old man of about sixty years, crowned with gloriously beautiful white hair and possessing crane-like purity and leanness - a majestic visage belonging to the phenotype shared by aged Western luminaries like Goethe, Liszt, and Paderewski. Yet such spiritually profound expressions rarely manifest on Japanese faces, compelling observers to wonder what elevated mental existence this person must have lived through - one couldn't help but marvel. His attire was equally striking - the fabric being an old-fashioned British Worsted cherished some twenty years prior for its handwoven cotton-like firmness and subdued elegance; the cut followed early Taisho-era fashions, but regardless, there persisted an indescribably awkward quality to how he wore it that defied precise analysis. They say that when dressing African natives in Western clothes, no matter how properly arranged, they inevitably become disheveled with time. In this old man's manner of dress lingered something akin - an ill-fitting quality that resisted exact description.

This old man resided at the villa of Sakai Arataka—whose entire family had perished in the Tokyo air raids—alongside a palpably melancholic young man named Sofue, making it their daily habit to stroll through larch groves near the golf course and susuki grass plains beneath Mount Atago, while utterly abstaining from the summer resort's social engagements. Sakai Arataka was among the most affluent members of the nobility—a man blessed with overflowing health and intellect who nevertheless maintained no connections to companies or enterprises, possessed neither hobbies nor special skills, and brought down the curtain on his life as an Oblomov-style idler living in complete indolence and inactivity; yet his final moments proved to be of unprecedentedly extraordinary nature.

Kotoko, his wife, came from Kyoto's Nishitōin family and had been Komatsu Akinori's betrothed; yet for some reason she married Sakai, Komatsu's uncle, coming each summer to Karuizawa with their beautiful yet somehow fanatical daughter Ayuko—though none had heard of such an outstanding elder among Sakai's relatives, and at least in these past twenty years, no one had witnessed anyone of that description visiting Sakai.

At the hotels, opinions had nearly settled on the notion that he was likely someone who had long resided abroad and returned on the last European repatriation ship in April; but then someone pointed out how incongruous his Taisho-era style and peculiar way of dressing were under such circumstances, casting doubt upon this speculation. On an afternoon when such rumors had become entrenched on verandas and hearths, the old man came alone to the hotel grill—a rare occurrence—and ordered lunch from the waiter using the difficult English word 'Spiter.' While it indeed meant lunch, this was a word that had been used about five hundred years prior and had now become completely obsolete.

Of course the waiter could not possibly comprehend such obsolete language, but having roughly inferred the meaning and brought lunch, the old man then staged the curious spectacle of eating by wrapping salted pork around his right index finger in sixteenth-century European fashion—yet far from being affected eccentricity or derangement, this manner demonstrated such domestic familiarity and perfect mastery that those witnessing it felt a melancholic bewilderment, growing almost ashamed of their own fork and knife usage.

Thereupon, one of those present in the grill swiftly edged closer and took the chance to strike up conversation. His speech flowed with remarkable clarity and nuance, betraying neither mental disarray nor impairment of thought, yet whenever matters of Japan's social conditions from the past twenty years arose, he would reveal bewilderment and descend into stammering incoherence. The Manchurian Incident meant nothing to him, the Shanghai Incident might as well have never occurred, and regarding the Pacific War, his grasp proved so tenuous that it was as if he had merely overheard rumors of such an event. Convinced he must have dwelled abroad—in some remote frontier at that—they pressed their inquiry, only to receive a response indicating he had never once ventured beyond Japan's shores, having remained within the country all along.

From that time on, the old man never ventured out alone again. He would occasionally come to the bar for an apéritif, but always accompanied by the young man; whenever someone tried to speak to the old man, the youth would somehow interpose himself and take charge of all responses. It became clear that the young man accompanied the old man to prevent him from being spoken to. Because these unclear, vaguely defined circumstances continued to accumulate thereafter, the old man became a sort of superhuman presence within the foreground of the summer resort. However, the companion's identity was soon revealed. He was Sofue Hikaru, eldest son of a renowned architect; having long resided in London, he became involved in theater following figures like Kunitora Hiko—rumors circulated that he had become a disciple of Sessue Hayakawa and worked as an extra in Pathé-Natan films in Paris—but a certain individual conveyed that he had nonchalantly returned to Japan in the spring of the year the Pacific War began.

On a fog-heavy evening nearing August's end, the two came to the hotel bar as usual, but after drinking a glass of Balthazar, the old man left first while Sofue Hikaru came out to the veranda smoking a cigarette. About five regulars had remained at that hour—having anticipated such an opportunity—when one of them addressed Sofue without formalities. "Mr. Sofue, what manner of person is that distinguished elder always accompanying you?" "If it wouldn't be presumptuous, we'd consider it an honor to make his acquaintance."

Sofue sat in a rattan chair in the dim light, staring at the cigarette ember that had just begun glowing red, then raised his face and spoke. "I imagine you must all be inquiring about who that mysterious old man truly is," he said, "but to satisfy your curiosity, the most expedient way would be to tell the tale of his rebirth." "I see," someone interjected, "so that old man was one of those who recovered their civil rights this time?"

“No—when I speak of my rebirth, I mean it in the sense of emerging from beneath a grave.”

“When you say grave...” “It refers to that grave—the one that buries people.” An indescribably unpleasant feeling swept over them, and they all shuddered in unison. Fog flowed like a river across the hotel lawn, and it was indeed a chill-inducing evening. “There was a novel called *The White-Haired Demon* by Kuroiwa Ruikō, but your story too has something of that romanesque quality about it.” “I too read that revenge tale when I was a boy.” “While that tale contains the usual contrivances and forced logic typical of fabrications—elements that paradoxically grant it a sort of salvation—in that person’s past, regrettably, not a single such artifice existed.”

“So, is that person happy now?” “One might indeed call it happiness,” Sofue continued, “but like a faint votive light that only deepens the shadows, or woodcutters’ axes echoing through ever more distant mountains, this resurrection seems to me to have intensified the very essence of true tragedy. I am woefully inept at extemporaneous speech—if you would grant me three days’ reprieve, I shall compile notes and recount everything in detail while reading from them.”

With this promise, he departed.

Three days later, Sofue came bringing a notebook filled with finely written notes. Thereupon, they all moved from the veranda to Viscount J's villa, sank into the armchairs by the hearthside, and listened to his tale to their hearts' content. What Sofue had recorded in his notebook was the following strange and eventful tale.

My association with Sakai Arataka began precisely twenty-nine years ago in the summer of Taisho 6, counting from this present year. As you may still recall, since Sadanji’s Jiyu Gekijo (Free Theater), it became fashionable among our circle to hold private theatrical performances of translated plays, with groups like Konoe Hidemaro’s, Mishima Akimichi’s, and Hijikata Yoshi’s *Meiseiza* taking the lead; but by the late Taisho era, stimulated by France’s avant-garde movement, they regained new momentum.

Sakai stood as one of the standard-bearers of this movement—a man who had even managed attending lectures at Tokyo Imperial University's Law Department and Waseda's Literature Department simultaneously to hear Mr. Tsubouchi speak—but when it was decided that summer of Taisho 6 to raise the inaugural beacon of Japan's avant-garde movement through a new production of *Hamlet*, we used a three-month summer recess to lodge collectively at Sakai's villa and begin intensive rehearsals. The casting stood thus: Komatsu Akinori as Hamlet, Sakai as King Claudius, Ophelia played by Nishitōin Kotoko—Komatsu's betrothed who would later become Sakai's wife—and myself as Hamlet's steadfast friend Horatio.

Komatsu was an uncommonly earnest man who, upon being cast as Hamlet, would drag out every last document concerning the Elizabethan era from his deceased father's library. He would investigate without exception all aspects of contemporary customs and daily life—from architecture and clothing to crafts, accessories, tableware, cuisine, etiquette, hunting, and games—even perusing fables of the period like Mantuanus' *Eclogues* and *The Lion and the Fox*. Such was his approach. Komatsu’s father had long served as a diplomat in Britain; the Ochiai residence—Japan’s sole example of pure Anglo-Romanesque architecture—housed a library so renowned it was nicknamed the British Library, thus providing an environment more than sufficient to satisfy such dilettantism.

Once he had thoroughly internalized the circumstances of the era in which *Hamlet* was written, he next embarked on researching Denmark, Hamlet’s homeland—borrowing reference materials from Nordenskiöld at the Danish embassy, tirelessly pursuing studies of sixteenth-century laws, institutions, culture, national character, and daily life without respite. When this phase had finally reached some conclusion, he at last applied himself earnestly to interpreting the script, consulting annotated editions by Dyce and Kessel while deliberating over each action for even the simplest words like "So," "Such," and "That." Even amidst these preparations, he continued making extraordinary efforts to fully become Hamlet—collecting stage photographs of all renowned actors who had played the role from William Irving and David Garrick to Forbes Robertson, John Barrymore, and Cecil, while devising costumes and makeup.

As I mentioned earlier, Komatsu's residence in Ochiai was an Elizabethan-style edifice with multiple gables - its porch lined with white pillars, its balconies adorned with antiquated fixtures embossed with lion crests, its diamond-patterned lattice casement windows fitted with stained glass. The second-floor ballroom they called the dance hall featured a coffered ceiling of faded oak and high wainscoting of ebony oak, imitating sixteenth-century banquet halls for country gentry and warrior-monks. Eschewing painted backdrops or stage flats entirely, they aimed to expose these architectural styles in their raw state - attempting a curtainless production true to circa 1600, when Shakespeare performed command performances for Queen Elizabeth in Middle Temple Hall's grand chamber - striving to achieve classical stage effects unattainable in conventional theaters.

When the day of our private performance finally arrived, this innovative production garnered such attention that even renowned theater critics and first-rate newspaper reporters flocked to attend. It proceeded as an overwhelming success beyond expectations without significant disruptions—until just as we reached the final "Castle's Great Hall" scene, an unforeseen incident occurred. The climactic Act V Scene II, as you know, reaches the tragedy's zenith with "Laertes, Ophelia's brother dueling Hamlet, culminating in the Danish royal house's extinction." The set design for this scene was indeed elaborate—leaving the stage front's oak wainscoting fully exposed while concealing the starkly contrasting large windows at both ends with old rose velvet curtains bearing the Danish royal family's gold-embossed crests hung in stately drapery, positioning the throne near the left-wing curtain where the King and Queen would observe the duel alongside their courtiers.

King Claudius, intending to kill Hamlet under the pretext of this duel, had secretly given Laertes a poisoned sword, though Hamlet remained unaware of this treachery. In both the first and second exchanges, Laertes sustained only superficial wounds; when the third clash commenced, the combat intensified dramatically, forcing Hamlet into gradual retreat toward stage right. Laertes pressed his advantage with relentless long thrusts. Hamlet was meant to deflect the blade's tip while maintaining contact with the backdrop curtain, executing a choreographed pivot from stage right to center front.

As I played Horatio, standing deep stage left among the courtiers, Hamlet parried Laertes' long thrusts near the heavy curtain at stage right when—without warning—he suddenly jerked his head forward in a bizarre gesture, reeled against the drapery, and vanished from the stage as though swallowed whole by the curtain.

We were momentarily startled, but concluded Komatsu had spontaneously decided to add an extra scene to the play, and so watched with knowing laughter—yet Hamlet never reappeared. Though we could have laughed at our own predicament, Laertes—left without his duel opponent—was panicking beyond description. He shouted nonsensical lines toward the curtain—"Come out now!" or "Hiding is cowardly!"—while thrashing about alone. Apparently unable to endure any longer, shouting something unintelligible, he plunged behind the curtain himself—only to immediately reappear on stage with a deathly pale face,

“It’s awful—Komatsu’s dead!” he cried, trembling as he pointed toward the curtain. No longer concerned with the play, the King, Queen, and courtiers all hurtled toward stage right together. When they entered behind the curtain, they found Komatsu lying prone near the entrance forty feet below, his crimson blood clinging to the paving stones around his head like smashed sea squirts—thick and viscous. Anglo-Romanesque architecture, characterized by its towering style with each floor having considerable height—so much so that even what was called the second floor was excessively elevated—had maintained a strict rule of never opening the stage windows during performances to prevent accidental falls. However, as it had been an exceptionally hot day, it appeared someone had carelessly forgotten and opened one. Komatsu, unaware of this, became so engrossed in the duel that he inadvertently leaned against the curtain, causing him to tumble out of the window. Unfortunately, the window overlooked a granite portico, and he struck his head on the paving stones below.

They immediately rushed him to a nearby hospital, but his condition remained critical—for about four days he hovered between life and death, and at one point was declared beyond hope of recovery. Yet through gradual improvement, he barely managed to cling to life, though the septic encephalitis ultimately caused mental abnormalities that led to his admission to a psychiatric hospital in the suburbs—after which all trace of him vanished, with no word of whether he lived or died.

Due to swift measures being taken, the incident was kept from becoming public, but with their momentum broken by this affair, the New Theater Research Group disbanded; then some time later, when this story came up in a certain setting, a friend who had been among that day's spectators,

“Back then, when Sakai’s King Claudius descended from the throne and entered behind the stage-left curtain—what did he go there to do, I wonder?”

He suddenly remarked. "Sakai was... When exactly?" "A little before Komatsu's Hamlet staggered against the curtain." "And when did he come out?" "It lasted barely five minutes. He'd already returned before Laertes went behind the curtain. You didn't know?" "I hadn't known." Sakai's throne as King Claudius stood at the front stage edge near the audience to emphasize soliloquies, diagonally adjacent to the Queen's seat on stage right. From there toward upstage, we courtiers stood in three rows watching the duel. Having no reason to glance toward the king's side, none among us had noticed Sakai slipping behind the curtain.

One might consider that Sakai had gone behind the curtain to drink water or such, but when recalling how Komatsu had jerked his head forward as if in shock just an instant before staggering into the drapery, I couldn't help feeling something peculiar. However, as I explained earlier, since the rear wall's wainscoting remained fully exposed—making it impossible to reach stage right without openly crossing the stage—one could not consider Sakai's entry behind the left-wing curtain as having any relation to Komatsu's fall at stage right. Yet during that period, Sakai would constantly smirk with an indefinably unsettling quality about him, and when speaking with him, I would often feel sudden chills without any apparent reason. Though Sakai and I were friends, our association was extremely superficial—merely having been drafted into this play together—so there was no reason for me to endure such discomfort; I gradually distanced myself and soon severed our ties.

During my university days, influenced by figures such as Tenoo Shiro and Kosakai, I developed an interest in Roback's characterology while conducting research in differential and personality psychology, which led me to pursue formal studies in Britain. It was the spring of 1925 when I turned twenty-six. For nearly seven years thereafter, I devoted myself to Allport's theories until seeing Koori Torahiko's production of Germaine's *Shuzenji Monogatari* reignited my theatrical obsession—I began researching stage design and performing in avant-garde private productions while idling away my days—until one spring day in Showa 9 [1934], when Sakai arrived in London with his wife Kotoko and their thirteen-year-old daughter Ayuko in tow, as though on a casual promenade.

It had been ten years since I last saw Sakai. Though he had grown remarkably plump with a settled, pleasant expression, through eyes honed by characterological study I discerned that his cranial vault conformed precisely to Aschaffenburg’s classification of the Atteken type. Individuals possessing this cranial form are the *a priori* criminal—those marked by an innately grim destiny that leaves them no path in life other than committing crimes. Realizing this and observing him with subtle attention, I found Sakai’s characterological classification aligned with what Freienfels termed Type C—the intellectual cruelty type.

I shall avoid becoming overly technical, but the development of individuality essentially expresses the entire consistent journey of one’s ancestors—their influence remains strongly imprinted upon one’s lineage. In other words, humankind is but a synopsis of lengthy family histories—so fierce was the impulse I felt to investigate what great villains might have existed among Sakai’s ancestors. The vague sense of disgust and terror I had always felt when speaking with Sakai sixteen years earlier—so this was why; for the first time, I understood the reason.

But to my astonishment, Sakai’s wife too proved unmistakably of the criminal type. Kotoko's ears were classic examples of Morel-type ears with their helix folded at the upper portion—those possessing such ears being termed emotional criminal types, individuals with an exceedingly troublesome disposition who beautify crimes through emotion and become intoxicated by them—they were, so to speak, the most perfectly matched pair of villainous spouses one could imagine. Having originally disliked both Sakai and his wife, I now completely lost any desire to engage with them; yet understanding their criminal nature, the tragic end awaiting their daughter Ayuko became vividly clear before me, and feeling unbearably sorry for her, I took her on walks through Kensington Gardens and Green Park, or brought her to see films at the Strand. The following spring, Sakai's family went on a two-month trip to Paris for leisure, but for some reason they hastily returned to Japan via America in great hurry.

From then on, my life contained nothing particularly worth recounting. I liquidated not only my father's assets but even his Tokyo residence, remitting the funds abroad to sustain a futile existence wandering meaninglessly between Europe and America, until fleeing back to Japan penniless shortly before the London Blitz began—left without so much as a roof over my head, let alone money for tomorrow's meals—until I asked a friend to secure me an orderly position at a certain psychiatric hospital in Aoyama, through which I finally caught my breath.

As Japan's situation intensified, my living conditions deteriorated day by day, and I endured a hopeless, wretched existence—until one December evening in 1944 when Tokyo's bombings had begun, while riding an Aoyama-bound train, from above my head,

“Long time no see. When did you return to Japan?” someone called out. When I looked up, there stood a twenty-two or twenty-three-year-old girl wearing a chic virgin wool ski suit—this garment being a green variant of the “Pine Tree Suit,” a ski outfit made from Hudson Bay blanket material that Macy’s department store in New York had released during the 1939 winter “Snow Fashion” season. In the midst of this war, thinking no one would notice, she wore an American-made ski suit as makeshift air-raid gear and feigned ignorance—she must be quite a character, I thought, half-amazed as I studied her face—but try as I might to recall who she was, my growing irritation eventually made me sullenly fall silent. Then the girl, stretching both corners of her lips into a peculiar smirk,

"You've forgotten, my dear. I am that strange girl who always clung to you and walked about in London. It's Sakai Ayuko, you know." Now that she mentioned it, there could be no doubt. That sallow-faced, pitifully plain girl from before had somehow achieved a metamorphosis - her features now bore the sharp, beautiful countenance of Kotoko in her youth, as if honed to a fine edge. Those quick-moving, clever eyes crafted expressions of boldness rare among Japanese women, though their natural vitality was ruined by heavy eye shadow, transforming them into that peculiar beauty found in high-ranking court ladies strolling boulevards - a beauty mingled with something vaguely sullied. Schalk’s principal type in Zeemann’s system—she was manifesting that intractable classification known as the fluid courtesan type. As I found myself somewhat moved by how Sakai and Kotoko’s criminal elements had combined to manifest in Ayuko in this manner, she—apparently discerning my destitute circumstances from my disheveled appearance—suddenly adopted a haughty tone,

“Aren’t you in some sort of trouble right now?” “If that’s the case, we could help you out.” “Since you once took care of me in the past, there’s no need for reserve.” “Why don’t you come to our house with me now?” “Father and Mother are here,” she stated bluntly. I thought her an impertinent creature, but given my dire straits, I resolved to follow Ayuko in hopes that our past acquaintance might secure me some measure of assistance.

Sakai's residence stood at the foot of the slope in Akasaka Omotecho, where a dim porch lamp faintly illuminated the carriage porch—its tightly sealed, gloomy aspect showing not a single light leaking from any other window. Before long, Sakai and his wife emerged. When they had come to London eleven years prior, he had been plump enough to appear prosperous, but now he had grown gaunt; all traces of that fluid brightness and cheerfulness, that seemingly contented generosity, had completely vanished, reverting to that gloomy sarcastic demeanor of his student days.

As for his wife Kotoko, she had developed an unpleasant obesity that inspired disgust in contrast to Sakai, and despite her sluggishness, maintained an unstable demeanor as if in constant agitation. Sakai appeared to take no interest in someone like me and responded with detached indifference, but before long, "You claim to have specialized in psychopathology—if you'll pardon my asking—but to what extent exactly?" he inquired. Harboring ulterior motives to borrow at least some money from Sakai, I explained the specialized methods of characterological research using layman-friendly examples—Allport's fifteen-item personality study methodology: social framework analysis, physiognomic studies, particularly frequency records of daily behaviors like how many times someone laughs per day; social measurement; Seleno's so-called psychological topography through friendship groups and acquaintance circles; pattern and handwriting studies; action tests; special reaction predictions; deep analysis of unconscious behaviors; free association and fantasy analysis—adding that I wished to compile this research but couldn't proceed properly due to my poor living conditions. Sakai seemed deeply interested in this discussion, asking various questions about action tests and deep analysis methodologies, then remarked, "Rather fascinating scholarship, isn't it? "If that's how it stands, why don't you abandon that trifling occupation and come to my house instead? "I shall provide you with two rooms on the eastern side of the mansion for your study and residence, so do not concern yourself with worldly needs—settle down and devote yourself to completing your writings. "I'll provide all possible support. "Since Ayuko was studying psychology at university, she might be able to serve as your assistant," he proposed. Then Kotoko, as though some temperamental shift had been triggered within her, became remarkably cheerful in the manner of a dissociative patient,

"The very essence of scholarship is aristocratic by nature, don't you agree." "I cannot approve of squandering one's precious talents by contending with mere livelihood." "Now, you must do it." "I recommend it with all my heart," she urged earnestly. Ayuko, for her part, placed her hand on my shoulder in a suspiciously amorous manner while,

“Your face resembles Suutin’s ‘The Dead Christ’ exactly,” she said. “Chillingly macabre! Father may call you an assistant, but what you need now isn’t an assistant—it’s a nurse. I could stay by your side all day tending to you. Like Mary Magdalene, I’d wash your feet daily with the Duchess of York. I’ll serve you like a handmaiden.”

I am not particularly likable myself, nor do I believe Sakai and his wife possess such noble sentiments as to desire academic patronage. That the Sakai family should suddenly begin showing such goodwill after a single explanation—when I considered Sakai's normally extreme selfishness, I couldn't help but feel vaguely suspicious—yet for my part, being wholly consumed by the desire to escape my immediate dire poverty, I decided without deeper consideration to rather gladly entrust myself to Sakai's protection.

Thus, from the very next day, I settled into a Perchig-style luxurious room and began my pretense of scholarly writing while receiving Ayuko’s somewhat excessive attentions; through observation, I came to understand that Ayuko was a fanatic type who, once fixated on an idea, became utterly incapable of changing her convictions—a strange girl possessing mediumistic traits, prone to visions and auditory hallucinations, who could induce trance states at will to commune with deities. Therefore, her daily actions contained numerous eccentricities that defied common sense judgment, with particularly extreme superstitions—such as never letting her lips touch the outer side of a spoon or always beginning stair ascents with her left foot—each holding significant reasoning for Ayuko; and since she lived within such a questionable framework, her manner of expressing affection became something almost inhuman, utterly devoid of shame or hesitation, allowing her to unrestrainedly display extreme affection whether in public or private.

Being such a sensitive girl, she had easily seen through my lack of enthusiasm for writing, but Ayuko seemed rather to prefer this state of affairs; from then on, she began finding some pretext every day to draw me out. I do not know what lax notions Sakai held regarding his child's education, but not only did Ayuko's handbag always contain astonishing sums of money—she knew illegal restaurants, secret bars, dance halls, and baccarat clubs remarkably well—dragging me from one to another as though it were her occupation.

On the day incendiary bombs fell on Kanda at February's end, we danced wildly at a wild party in some house in Zushi and ended up staying over when we couldn't return home. As I was changing into pajamas, Ayuko entered with a childlike face still clouded with sleep, "Marius's spirit came," she said in a dazed voice.

I had forgotten to mention that Marius’s spirit was said to be a benevolent entity that periodically appeared to prophesy Ayuko’s fate and offer various counsel. When visited by this spirit, she would transform into a softly sentimental girl quite unlike her usual self. That night was no exception—dragging the hem of an oversized white nightgown borrowed from the lady of the house, so voluminous it concealed her feet, she stood with a hazy gaze that resembled nothing so much as Ophelia in her madness as seen on stage. I thought to myself, “Here we go again,” and asked, “So what did Marius’s spirit say?” Ayuko sat down beside me on the bed and replied, “He said your factor and my factor parted ways somewhere on February 10, 1601, and haven’t met for three whole centuries since.” “So if we don’t get married by midnight tonight, he says we’ll have to spend another three centuries searching for each other again.” “I don’t want that!” “I don’t care how—just hurry up and marry me already.” “There’s only ten minutes left until midnight!” “No more dallying!” she cried, limply flinging her arms around my neck and pushing me down onto the bed.

Thus their relationship gained an ominous depth, taking on the form of betraying Sakai's friendship—yet both Sakai and his wife appeared not only to have permitted their connection from the very beginning, but indeed seemed positively inclined to encourage it.

About a month after the two of us had entered into that kind of relationship, one day in early April, Sakai summoned me to his study and abruptly said...

“Mr. Sofue, do you know that Komatsu is still alive?” “Komatsu? Which Komatsu?” “The Komatsu Akinori who played Hamlet some thirty years back.” This was entirely news to me, so I too was startled, “Oh, I didn’t know that. So what’s he doing now?” I inquired, whereupon Sakai assumed an expression of feigned innocence— “You’re aware Komatsu lost his mind, I presume, but that madness took quite a peculiar form. He regained consciousness, but all of Komatsu Akinori’s past memories have vanished, leaving only those of Hamlet. You could call it a combination of retrograde amnesia and dissociative disorder—though you being the expert would know all about that—but ever since then, Komatsu has lived these thirty years at the Ochiai residence, fully immersed as Hamlet. So, I have one request to ask of you—”

Sakai’s request was that, given these times, it would be better for everyone involved if Komatsu could be released if possible, but he wanted me to go and investigate whether there was any danger of him running wild. Komatsu Akinori had been a distinguished young man with refined features and a brilliant intellect—an object of admiration among our entire generation. Particularly in my case, I had even secretly harbored something akin to feminine affection for him; thus when I heard Komatsu had endured such a shadowy existence for nearly thirty years, I felt an inexpressible pity and wanted to free him if at all possible.

“That’s a pitiful story.” “I’ll certainly examine him,” I said, to which Sakai responded with great delight, “If you’ll do it, I can rest assured.” “Being poked and prodded by some incomprehensible psychiatrist would be unpleasant, you see.” “The trouble is he’s so difficult that he won’t let any doctors near him, so there’s no choice but for you to move in disguised as an orderly and handle things discreetly—will you consent to that as well?”

“That’s no trouble at all.”

“Thank you for that. I’ll have the butler Kitayama informed you’re a newly hired orderly—do keep up that pretense accordingly.”

Early the next morning, I left home and took the bus to Ochiai; entering the street before Seibo Hospital, Komatsu's residence came into view at the dead end. When I counted, it had been exactly twenty-eight years since that time; while the front of the house had become slightly soiled and an air-raid shelter had been dug beside the carriage porch, everything else remained just as it had been in days of old. When I rang the doorbell—it appeared Sakai had notified them by telephone—the butler Kitayama came to the entrance. Twenty-eight years prior, when he had been drafted into a private performance to play Polonius—no trace of that remained in his appearance now; his once-imposing mustache and long goatee had turned pure white, leaving him with a visage that could still play Polonius without alteration.

Kitayama showed me to the parlor and then, with a scrutinizing look, began inquiring about my background and such.

"You must have heard the details from Sakai." "Though you'll find it utterly absurd—having to perform this clumsy provincial theater act daily—life here isn't so terrible if you endure that alone." "Your duties involve taking temperatures twice daily, urine tests every other day, recording temperamental states in the medical log... Your predecessor grew morbidly sentimental, developed delusions about wrongful confinement, spread nonsense through neighborhood associations and police complaints—single-handedly stirred up a Meiji-era Soma Incident-style scandal—until contracting I.I. (infectious insanity) and being committed to an asylum." "The patient here possesses uncanny magnetism—take utmost care not to be ensnared," he warned as a woman entered—plump and pallid like freshly boiled asparagus, twenty-five or twenty-six with every nurse-like affectation—and sank into a chair. Vivid hues spilled from between her splayed knees as she struck a slovenly pose, cheek propped on the table.

“You must be the new arrival.” “I’m playing the role of a maid here, you know.” “But depending on the situation, I might become Queen Gertrude or Ophelia—it’s all up to the moment,” she said, using a coquettish glance that made one’s flesh crawl while

“Do you understand?” “Depending on your mood at the time, I can become maiden or matron—pleased to make your acquaintance… I’m Komemura Aiko… though you may call me Imamura.” “Because ‘Hesomura’ is just too crude-sounding, you see...” Doubled over as if she couldn’t contain her laughter, she giggled softly—then suddenly went blank— “I hear you studied psychopathology, but what are your thoughts on Hamlet’s character?” “The common notion of him being some righteous, sensitive youth is pure fiction! Take Act 3, Scene 4—when berating his mother, he blurts out things like ‘What business brings your noble spirit here?’ then desperately insists ‘Let me prove my sanity by repeating every word I just said without error!’ This very lack of insight—protesting his sanity while exhibiting textbook symptoms—alongside verbatim repetition of phrases are classic signs of certain mental illnesses... What a strange man Shakespeare was.” “To make a madman your protagonist and have sane people mill about around him—what a preposterous dramatic contrivance.” “Ultimately, Hamlet’s tragedy is what you might call a ‘Tragedy of Madness’—a madman’s delusions causing those around him to become victims one after another.” “Does such a thing even possess artistic value?” “Tolstoy dismisses it as not worth three coins—and I quite agree.” “That ‘madman’s play’ isn’t worth taking seriously,” she continued prattling on in a frenzied manner, her words flowing without end.

Kitayama was stroking his beard while gazing at the garden through the window, but when Komemura reached a pause in her speech, he opened the sturdy oak door at the end of the long corridor—announcing they would now introduce me to the patient—entered inside, told me to wait there awhile, then disappeared with Komemura behind the crimson velvet curtains that hung heavily to the floor. I had waited in the chair for nearly thirty minutes when, as they still hadn't returned, I wondered what could be happening and quietly drew back the curtain to look. Beyond lay a spacious room with an exquisite mosaic floor where diamond-lattice clerestory windows were arranged in harmonious formation, rows of columns on the left supporting a high vaulted ceiling that divided the side aisle, while spring sunlight streaming through stained glass rose windows painted chromatic patterns across the floor. At the chamber's far end stood a throne adorned with Tudor-style vertical motifs, flanked by a single high-backed chair carved with a lion's head.

Looking up, I saw along the garden-facing side corridor a girl with blond braids cascading gently over her chest—wearing a whalebone skirt over a lace bodice and holding a large Spanish fan—walking solemnly beside a white-haired old man draped in a white robe and brocade outer garment, their procession leaving in its wake an elegant fragrance that set hearts aflutter.

At this moment, I found myself at a loss for how to express my bewilderment. Might I be confined forever within this Elizabethan world, never to return to modernity again? I was seized by such inexplicable anxiety that I shuddered involuntarily. I quickly regained my awareness that the old man dressed as Polonius was Kitayama and the girl wearing a blonde wig was none other than Komemura, but even I could never have imagined that an authentic Elizabethan lifestyle would be so extravagantly maintained in this corner of Tokyo—and amidst such war at that.

They soon drew back the curtains and returned to the waiting room, where they took out from a large costume closet against the wall a complete set of items—tights, an embroidered doublet, a red wig, a peacock feather-adorned hat, a slender sword, strange shoes with upturned toes fastened by silver clasps...—dressed me in them, then led me before the throne at the far end. When I had glimpsed it earlier, it had been hidden behind a pillar and remained unseen, but now I noticed a life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary standing slightly bowed upon an arabesque-carved pedestal to the right of the throne... No—it was not Mary’s likeness. Upon closer inspection, it proved to be a statue of Ophelia wearing a floral wreath instead of a halo—her cheeks tinted rose with white lead powder, arms cradling violets, clover blossoms, and other such modest wildflowers, standing with head slightly tilted forward as if about to speak—yet this was not the Ophelia face painted by Rubens, but rather Kotoko's visage with her oval face and gentle eyes beneath arched brows.

Polonius left me before the throne, went to the clover-shaped door on the left, put his hand to his mouth, and gave a light cough—whereupon from beyond the door came a faint voice: “Who art thou that dost so oft come to trouble me? Ah, the weariness of life. Eternal sleep alone is to be desired.” Soon came heavy footsteps, and a man of about sixty entered the audience chamber with downcast eyes—clad in a black silk doublet fastened with a silver belt, wearing a triple-layered ruffled collar—who quietly ascended the platform and took his seat upon the throne.

What a magnificent face. Eyes quiet as one resigned to fate; a pale, broad forehead bespeaking high intellect; gently drawn lips expressing forbearance. The way he sat with hand to brow and head bowed was so quintessentially Hamlet-like that one might think even Irving or Barrymore could never have achieved such magnificent embodiment. Yet he was only fifty-four - tufts of shockingly white hair peeked out from beneath his wig, his eyes already bore the rings of age, eloquently testifying to the devastating toll these twenty-eight years had exacted upon Komatsu.

Polonius stepped forward courteously, “Lord Hamlet, Rosencrantz has arrived,” he declared in theatrical cadence. Hamlet abruptly raised his eyes and fixed his gaze upon my face before continuing according to Act 2, Scene 2’s script: “Ah, well now—how nostalgic this is! How now, Rosencrantz—is’t a fair prospect?” he inquired. I too promptly matched his tone: “Merely middling, my lord.” Hamlet stared unblinking as he demanded: “Now let me ask freely as friends—what brings thee to Elsinore? Have you received a message from both Majesties? By your own preference? Is your visit entirely of your own volition? Out with it truthfully!” he said in a voice that seemed to ooze forth.

Though this exchange followed Act 2, Scene 2 verbatim, Komatsu pressed further as if he had seen through my having come under Sakai’s orders—leaving me momentarily at a loss for response—when: “Now, Rosencrantz—by the faith of our friendship and our childhood bond, speak to me plainly without concealment." “Did you receive a summons, or how?” It might be my overimagining, but Komatsu seemed to recognize me and was beginning to suspect why I had come to this place. If this were a play, I would consult with the companion who accompanied me here about how to respond, but having no such partner, I answered truthfully: “I have received a summons.”

From the following day began my life of close attendance as either courtier or Rosencrantz. At eight each morning I went to Hamlet's bedroom bearing an earthenware water jug and footed cup. This water served for washing and gargling, though at that moment I would cast ambergris into the censer in the room's corner. When a maid then brought breakfast, I received it, laid the table, and stood by Hamlet's side until he finished eating—all while pantomiming fly-swatting with a 'fly chaser'.

Hamlet ate the simple breakfast of steamed bread served on a wooden plate with vegetables using his bare hands, washed his soiled fingertips in water from a wooden bowl, drank that water down, then meticulously wiped his lips with a napkin—thus concluding the morning meal. When the meal ended, Komatsu would go to the audience chamber, kneel beneath the Ophelia statue, and offer some lengthy prayer. After that, he would either enter the drawing room to read or sometimes go out for a walk in the garden. Though this constituted his entire daily repetition, Komatsu's mental constitution was most lucid on rainy days; followed by cloudy days; while on clear days, it became markedly playful in nature, exhibiting symptoms of restless agitation throughout daylight hours and difficulty engaging in deep thought.

Through various observations, there was no evidence of excessive indulgence in fantasy, abnormal recklessness, impulsive actions, marked emotional shifts, or episodes of obsessive thoughts and hallucinations; he occasionally complained of mild headaches and exhibited delayed speech initiation, but no language impairment was observed.

Before long, I noticed that Komatsu was imitating various psychiatric symptoms without any underlying connection. Psychiatric symptoms generally form distinct, organically interconnected clusters; yet observing Komatsu's manifestations—while displaying agitation, they lacked the euphoria characteristic of manic episodes, showed none of the unnatural behaviors or mannerisms typical of catatonia, and deliberately feigned an absence of orientation—these very inconsistencies revealed the absence of genuine pathology. At times he would imitate delusional disorder, but his consciousness remained remarkably clear, and moreover, he could not replicate all of its symptoms. He would put on an act resembling pressured speech, yet his responses lacked the eccentricity typical of catatonic patients, with no discernible impairment to his emotions or volition whatsoever.

Considering these points, Komatsu might have been closely observing and skillfully imitating the madness of a male nurse who had gone insane and been hospitalized in a psychiatric hospital—for even had he wanted to acquire basic psychiatric knowledge, Komatsu possessed absolutely no means or opportunity to obtain such books. However, modern psychiatry doubted the existence of S.M. (simulated madness), considering those who imitated insanity to already constitute pathological personalities by established theory. Thus what I believed to be imitation might unexpectedly have been genuine, rendering definitive judgment in that regard exceedingly difficult. But about one week later, as I attended beside Hamlet during his reading while swatting flies as usual, Hamlet made strange gestures while perusing Mantuanus' "Bucolics".

This was one of Komatsu’s favorite books, and on this day too, he seemed to have come across some particularly resonant passage—reciting in a low voice while flipping through the pages constantly—when suddenly I noticed his right index and middle fingers moving rhythmically near his stomach. At first I watched absentmindedly, but then a certain association was abruptly evoked. Among my acquaintances there existed one who would always rhythmically fiddle with his waistcoat’s watch chain when engrossed in reading—indeed, were I to enumerate those who performed such incidental actions, I could effortlessly name several. What had stimulated me was precisely this memory. Hamlet’s doublet bore a thin ribbed fastening at the chest which he now rhythmically manipulated—this fastening might be serving here as a mental substitute for a watch chain. For Hamlet—afflicted with dissociative amnesia bereft of modern memory—to fidget with a watch chain... This should have been utterly impossible. I felt intense interest in this point—whether this constituted a symptomatic act, accidental movement, mere spasmodic motion, habitual gesture or isolated tic... This alone permitted no definitive conclusion, but the subsequent circumstances that then occurred would lend clear direction to this inquiry.

About two days later, I was playing shogi with Hamlet at dusk by the window. As outside the window steadily paled into dusk and the shogi board grew indistinct, I was about to pull the bell cord to have a candlestick brought in when Hamlet, while intently staring at the shogi board, obliquely reached his right hand toward the side table and repeatedly made motions as if searching for something.

The reason it caught my attention was that it looked precisely like fingers groping for a desk lamp's switch. On that side table sat a bronze shrine covered by a round shade, its form bearing striking resemblance to the bronze electric lamp upon our desk. Since Elizabethan and modern eras cannot coexist within stereotypical paranoia's conceptual framework, if this were indeed a motion of searching for an electric lamp's switch... that is to say, if it were Hamlet's Vergreifen (misdirected action), then one could only conclude that while Hamlet had fully recovered, he was feigning madness out of some necessity.

After considering various possibilities, I conducted a simple yet remarkably effective small-scale experiment. It was an experiment that involved suddenly asking Komatsu his age during his trance-like state. In response to this, I had anticipated two possible answers. That is, twenty-six and fifty-four... Twenty-six being the age at which that unfortunate incident occurred, and fifty-four being Hamlet's current age. If Komatsu were to answer twenty-six years old, it would be reasonable to consider that he was either extremely cautious or still in a state of interrupted memory; conversely, if he were to answer fifty-four years old without hesitation, it would indicate that he was a malingerer.

I had vested interest and expectation in Hamlet's response, yet to my astonishment, Hamlet utterly defied my anticipations by answering forty-four years old. This led me to conclude that Hamlet's mental illness might have naturally cured itself over a decade prior, and upon reporting this implication to Sakai by letter, he telephoned the very next day with an urgent summons for my immediate attendance.

When I arrived, Sakai was waiting impatiently in the study, and before I had even fully settled into the chair—

“I’ve read your report.” “The suspicion that Komatsu’s madness might have been cured—I’ve held that from the start.” “The first to notice was Kitayama—he immediately sent a telegram to Paris.” “What happened?” “It was a telegram saying Komatsu had turned completely white-haired overnight.”

"So that explains why you rushed back to Japan that time?" "That's right. But if he'd truly regained his sanity, it would be natural for him to file a lawsuit and assert his rightful claims—there'd be no reason to keep feigning madness through this charade. There had been no change at all until last winter, just before you came to the house—when Ayuko suddenly received a divine vision." "That vision claimed Komatsu had healed and was biding his time to exact revenge upon us. As you know, Ayuko's spiritual insights never miss their mark. So I went to investigate him myself, but couldn't discern anything conclusive. Then you conveniently came barging in—which was when I requested your examination." "Anyway!" he rattled out, words tumbling like shrapnel. "The fact remains—Komatsu has recovered!"

I had reported to Sakai out of academic interest without giving it much thought, but as I observed Sakai's cruel countenance, I was suddenly struck by anxiety that mishandling this might alter Komatsu's fate for the worse. “Wait a moment. You can’t just decide something like that so easily. That doesn’t qualify as a proper report or anything of the sort—it’s more like an essay,” I said. Sakai turned away as if pondering something, then suddenly whirled around and fixed me with a piercing glare.

“Aren’t you hiding something from me?” “If you maintain this attitude, I fear our relations will become dreadfully strained.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What do you mean? Don’t play dumb. Since you’re an authority in characterology, you should know exactly what kind of man I am. There’s no need to hide it.” "The fact that you say such things proves it was indeed you who did Komatsu in back then. Before Komatsu collapsed into the curtain, his head jerked forward—but that was you striking his head through the drapery with a rod or something, wasn’t it? Still, how did you move from downstage to upstage?”

“Simple.” “Outside the window runs a bellows passage just wide enough for one person.” “While everyone was engrossed in the duel, I slipped out through the window behind the downstage curtain, entered through the upstage window, and waited for Hamlet to lean against the drapery.” “So taking Komatsu’s property was your plan from the very beginning, wasn’t it?” “That’s right—I researched it extensively.” “That such a fool would possess five million yen in assets and a beautiful fiancée, while an exceptional man like myself hasn’t a single thousand yen to his name—no matter how you consider it, it’s utterly unreasonable.” “That man is content as long as he has his books, but I need money—as much as possible—because I enjoy pleasure and luxury.”

"So Ms. Kotoko was complicit too." "Of course she was. The Queen's chair sits right beside the throne—Kotoko had to be complicit for that theatrical feat to work. Komatsu likely never knew, but we'd been entangled since a year before the incident." "So what exactly are you ordering me to do?" "Good—you grasp things quickly. Here's the matter—if his madness has truly healed, I want you to discreetly eliminate Komatsu. If he files for asset restitution, we'd be paupers by dawn tomorrow. That would prove utterly insufferable. For twenty-eight years we've stationed Kitayama as sentry to block those pestilent lawyers and patent agents, yet there's no guarantee he hasn't devised some channel to the outside world. Well then, Mr. Sofue—will you comply? The terms are favorable, I assure you. I'll quietly grant you one-fifth of the estate. Naturally Ayuko will be included. Shall we seal our compact there?" I felt an inexcusable emotion welling up,

“You’ve grown indolent in your old age,” I said. “The man who demonstrated such deftness before two hundred spectators. Wouldn’t it be simpler to handle it yourself rather than entrusting it to the likes of me?” Whereupon Sakai sneered, “I struck Komatsu’s head—but I’ve no recollection of pushing him down. Komatsu fell of his own accord. I must insist you refrain from misapprehending that particular detail. In truth, I’ve resolved never to commit murder, for I place faith in conscience’s power. Thievery may prove an unprofitable trade, but nothing in this world matches the futility of killing men. Let any undertaking acquire murder’s bitter aftertaste, and one’s refinement plummets instantly. Having taken Komatsu’s fortune for my pleasure, I’d hardly play the fool by halving my own enjoyment through such crude methods.”

I had long known that Sakai possessed balanced common sense and never became agitated under any circumstances, but until that day I had never once considered him to be such a thorough villain.

“If you resolve to always have others commit murder, your conscience should in theory remain unscathed for life—but isn’t that logic rather too convenient for you?” “That arrangement may suit you perfectly well, but it does me no favors.” “Even I must have some shred of conscience left, you know,” I said. Sakai slowly tapped the ash from his cigar,

“Mr. Sofue, calm down and consider carefully… There truly are people who would be happier dead than alive.” “It’s possible he himself no longer wishes to live.” “He simply cannot commit suicide because he lacks the courage.” “Don’t you want to help him?” “But if you refuse, Kitayama will do it.” “There are plenty of others who’d want to do it.” “In certain circumstances, even Kotoko would slip him a dose without hesitation,” he said, suddenly seizing my hand. “Mr. Sofue—Ayuko is pitiful.” “She’s genuinely in love.” “I would prefer you take her... But no matter how pitiable Ayuko may be, I have no intention of sending my only daughter to someone who might turn against me at any moment.” “When I tell you to kill Hamlet, it’s not that you’re the only one who can do it.” “You too—I’m saying you should have a weakness like mine.” “To ensure you don’t overstep and threaten your uncle-in-law, I’m saying you should get your hands dirty too… You don’t need to answer right away.” “Well, I’ll let you take your time to think until tomorrow.”

Having said everything he wanted to say, he lumbered out of the study.

Three days later, while organizing the bookshelves in Hamlet's living room, I discovered some peculiar numbers meticulously carved into the wall behind them with a knife.

Numbers alone explained nothing, but seeing the symbols at their heads made their meaning effortlessly clear. As you're surely aware, this earthworm-like shape represents the "cerebrum" in ancient Egyptian physiology. That Hamlet's mental derangement had naturally healed ten years prior now stood beyond doubt. To put it plainly, Hamlet had regained his sanity in February 1935 and carved that date as commemoration. The zero in the day count likely stemmed from his own inability to clearly discern when exactly his sanity had returned, but considering all circumstances, there were signs suggesting Hamlet's conscious awakening—his true return to reason—had occurred between midnight and dawn.

Hamlet's true awakening had progressed as slowly as the moon emerging from thick clouds, requiring considerable time to reach normal self-awareness. When his consciousness finally crossed into normality, he must have been struck dumb upon realizing his absurd appearance—clad in tights and bearing a sword—utterly unable to comprehend its meaning. When this period passed, after tremendous efforts to resolve his doubts and dredging up memories of dueling Laertes at that private performance, he likely reached these conclusions: that he'd remained deranged since that day for many years; that someone had struck his head from behind the curtain, triggering madness; that he still faced grave danger; and that concealing his sudden sanity until uncovering the truth would be wisest. We deduce his awakening began between midnight and dawn precisely because, had it occurred by daylight, he would have questioned Kitayama before preparing defenses—inevitably revealing his sanity. This fortune underscores Hamlet's composure while testifying to his extraordinary calmness.

Thus Hamlet, through Kitayama and Komemura's casual conversations and the nurses' careless chatter, had patiently gathered fragments of evidence over a long period, pieced them together, and was ultimately able to clearly discern the devastating truth of this affair—that Sakai had embezzled his assets and cast him into these circumstances to steal away Ms. Kotoko, whom he had loved to the point of madness. For Hamlet, true awakening brought no joy—only bitterness and desolation. Upon awakening, he found himself already forty-four... His assets stolen by his uncle, his lover taken, his physical strength waning, his abilities deteriorated—even leading an ordinary life now beyond his grasp. That a friendless, acquaintance-less, powerless self might contend against Sakai was not merely meaningless to contemplate—should Sakai learn of his regained sanity, he would surely not let him live—yet so long as he remained mad, neither livelihood nor life would be endangered. There was nothing left to do. To end his days mimicking madness with Kitayama and Komemura as companions... How Hamlet must have agonized before reaching this resignation! That his hair had turned white overnight must have occurred around this time. As I examined the depth of the dates carved into the wall, each numeral seemed drenched with tears—Komatsu's anguish and torment at that moment became visible before my eyes.

Then, about two days later in the evening, when I went to Hamlet’s living room with the night’s water pitcher as usual, Hamlet stood quietly reading at the lectern by the window. As dusk deepened into twilight, only his face and the book’s pages stood out starkly white in the dimming light, faint remnants of daylight playing upon his melancholic profile—that poet’s countenance etched with dignified sorrow. Even so, what serenity dwelled in this man’s gaze. His eyes held a child’s innocence yet bore shadows of endless monastic endurance. Stripped unjustly of property, lover, worldly pleasures, and human rights alike; subjected to buffoonery beyond precedent; yet he lived without writhing or lamentation—a life that appeared perfectly tranquil. I had long felt that being near Komatsu brought me a purifying clarity—my spirit uplifted and soul cleansed—but as I gazed upon this imposing figure, I began dimly grasping what it truly was: the nature of that mysterious affinity Kitayama had mentioned.

As I placed the water pitcher on the side table and was about to withdraw to prepare dinner，Hamlet abruptly turned toward me and called out，＂Now Horatio—＂ I was startled—

“Ah, what a blunder! Thou—thou art Rosencrantz,” Hamlet said, shaking his head, “Nay nay—thou must indeed be Horatio. ‘I recall that long ago, when I performed in a play, I called thee Horatio.’ ‘Hmm, hast thou forgotten?’” When he uttered such things—which amounted to confessing his own sanity—for Komatsu, there could be no more dangerous declaration than this. I found myself rather perplexed, wondering why such a meticulous man would voice something so careless. As I studied his countenance—Hamlet made an ineffably elegant gesture,

“Horatio.” “Thou art indeed the truest nobleman among those with whom I have kept company.”

"Well now—what’s this?"

“Ah, no—think not this mere flattery. Since this heart of mine became sovereign in discerning matters and grew apt at distinguishing men’s natures, I have stamped thee with the seal of ‘peerless’.”

In Shakespeare's Hamlet, Horatio appears as Hamlet's sole ally in this world—his kindred spirit and irreplaceable confidant—and recognizing this as Komatsu's expression of heartfelt trust toward me, I vowed never to abandon this unfortunate man who extended his hand while adrift in sorrow's lonely sea, no matter what might come. Until now, drawn by Ayuko's affection, I had not been entirely free from complicity through silent acquiescence to Sakai's misdeeds—but having reached this juncture, I found no choice but to resolutely confront Sakai. From the moment I declared betrayal, my life would be endangered—yet severed from Sakai's patronage, I would be left penniless while supporting this invalid-like man. By what means could I strike Sakai down? But standing at the twilight window, my heart burned with smoldering resolve: I had no alternative but to see this through at all costs.

The next day, around six in the evening, there came a call from Sakai instructing me to come immediately. He was likely seeking a response to our previous discussion, but thinking this the perfect opportunity to challenge Sakai, I immediately set out for Akasaka—only to be informed that Sakai had just departed for Ochiai with Kotoko and Ayuko, all three of them together.

When I considered the matter properly, a man of Sakai's caliber would never wait idly for my response indefinitely. The one who had severed me from Hamlet must have finally resolved to take direct action today. In frantic haste, I turned back toward Ochiai and was hastening toward Hamlet's chambers when Sakai—appareled as King Claudius—came returning from the far end of the long corridor with Kotoko as his queen and Ayuko as Ophelia, drawing near until he stood right beside me.

“Mr. Sofue, since waiting for you proved futile, we went ahead and conducted our little experiment without you today,” he remarked with veiled implication. Upon hearing the explanation, it turned out that Ayuko’s age, face, and stature were identical to Kotoko’s from the time of the private performance—the plan had been to startle Hamlet with her sudden appearance, unsettle him, and thereby expose his true identity. When I finally understood that Ayuko’s white flowing robe trailing like spring mist, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers in perfect imitation of the Ophelia statue beside the throne served this very purpose—but seeing Sakai’s displeased face—I inferred this psychological test had achieved little effect and that Hamlet’s intellect had triumphed yet again, bringing inexpressible catharsis. Sakai adopted a somewhat serious expression,

“Mr. Sofue, I am extremely angry at your methods,” he said. “I don’t know why you’re being so sentimental, but stop thinking about nonsense and do exactly as I told you.” He added, “I’ll give you one last chance,” then departed for the main building with Kotoko.

Ayuko was sniffing the bouquet while staring intently at my face. “Hey—is Hamlet sane or mad? Just one word—tell me, please. Come on, come on,” she said, winding her hands around my neck. With no intention of humoring her, I rebuffed—“Ask Marius’s spirit about that”—whereupon Ayuko, surprisingly unperturbed, retorted, “Then that’ll do just fine. I’ll use a trick and catch him by the tail for certain,” before gliding away, the hem of her loose robe trailing behind her.

Though I couldn't fathom what trick Ayuko might employ, knowing I couldn't afford to let my guard down regarding what schemes the Sakai family might attempt during their stay in Ochiai, I returned to my room for brief sleep before hiding myself behind the throne's high backboard to keep watch—until around one o'clock in the night when Hamlet entered the audience chamber like a shadow and crouched beneath Ophelia's life-size statue,

"I wonder under what star I was born," he muttered, and then, as if unable to bear the sentiment, retreated to the living room with a despondent air. Even a man as composed as Komatsu could still become flustered, I thought, as I ran my hand over the throne's backboard with a sense of helplessness—when the Ophelia statue began to tremble ever so slightly. As I watched in astonishment, the white robe swayed gently once—then smoothly descended from its pedestal to stand blocking my path,

“I finally got to hear it from you.” With that, she suddenly whirled around and dashed down the corridor leading to the main building. Ayuko’s so-called trick was precisely this—she herself would stand upon the pedestal in place of the Ophelia statue and secretly observe Hamlet’s late-night activities. I stood dumbfounded, staring down the corridor—but thinking there might still be a way to correct this deviation of fate, I hurried to the main building only to find Ayuko standing before the liquor cabinet, slowly sipping violet liqueur. I made a conscious effort to adopt a calm tone as I,

"You got me. I lose. I surrender," I said, whereupon Ayuko smirked and replied, "I only did this because I couldn't bear to part with you. Please have at least a little pity on me, who's fallen so hopelessly in love." "I do." "After all, I've clearly witnessed it, so you should resign yourself and do as Father says. I won't say anything, so please report things favorably and keep them appeased. Just stop defying Father. I don't want to watch you die."

“So I’m telling you I’ve resigned myself—I understand perfectly,” I said. “I’ll do as you say. Now that we’ve settled matters, how about giving me a drink too?” Whereupon Ayuko mixed a fizz with practiced hands and set it before me. After parting with Ayuko, I knew trusting her words would lead to disaster—regardless, I resolved to take Hamlet and flee that very night. But upon reaching the audience chamber entrance, an unbearable weariness suddenly overcame me. Leaning against the wall, I slid down in a heap, and though I thought I heard air raid sirens wailing, I then lost consciousness completely.

When I next opened my eyes—how much time had passed?—I found myself collapsed in the side corridor facing the audience chamber entrance where I had been earlier. Though my eyes could see and ears could hear, my entire body had gone numb, leaving me unable to move or utter a sound. As I pondered why things had come to this, I realized Ayuko's sudden dash earlier had been meant to lure me before the liquor cabinet—anticipating my pursuit—where she'd likely laced my drink with mandrake or something similar to leave me incapacitated and unable to interfere.

I lay literally immobilized—limbs useless as a felled log—staring vacantly at the ceiling in clumsy prostration when, sensing movement in the audience chamber, I shifted my gaze to see Hamlet enthroned with Sakai, Ayuko, and Kotoko arrayed dark as shadows beneath him like some spectral council convened. As I strained my ears to discern what might commence, after a prolonged silence came Sakai’s voice: “Your misfortune is destiny—something you were born already wearing as your birthright.” “No matter what power I possess as a man, I couldn’t possibly make you this utterly miserable.”

"As for me, I harbor no thoughts of you possessing such power." "It would prove most fortunate were you to comprehend—you and our household exist under celestial alignments that permit no coexistence." "Since you've wallowed in misfortune till now, why not deepen your wretchedness further that our family might dwell in peace?" "What would you have me do?" "The optimal course would see you embrace madness anew—should that prove beyond your means, might death not serve as alternative?"

"I bear no lingering attachment to wealth or such trifles—I harbor no thoughts of reclaiming it. I could swear an oath to that effect if needed, but would even this prove unacceptable?" "That remains problematic," Sakai countered. "There’s no predicting when your sentiments might shift, nor any grounds for us to feel secure." "Then you insist upon killing me?"

“Preposterous. Whether it’s me, Kotoko, or Ayuko, there isn’t a single soul here contemplating your murder.” “I simply don’t comprehend.” “I’m saying we want you to die by your own hand. But should you become drenched in blood, writhe in agony before our eyes, or leave your carcass strewn about—that would prove inconvenient. If you’ll indulge our extravagance, we’d have you vanish with aesthetic perfection—leaving not the faintest unpleasant impression.”

“Do you really have such a convenient method?” “It’s simple—you enter the air-raid shelter yourself and call out from within, ‘I’m already dead.’” “Then the three of us will gladly assist in heaping soil upon your grave.” “We’ll shape the mound however you please—round or triangular—exactly to your specifications.” “An air-raid shelter becoming a grave—how fitting for wartime aesthetics.” “I didn’t dig that shelter intending it as your tomb.” “Those circumstances developed later.”

“If I were to refuse...” “You won’t refuse.” “Given how this war is progressing, you know full well that surviving onward in your current state will only deepen your misery.” “That is as you say.” “Thank you for understanding.” “Komatsu, once I finish building your grave, I may finally feel genuine sympathy for your wretched life.” “There are few karmic entanglements in this world as profound as ours.” “I have tears in my eyes.”

Then came Kotoko's voice,

“Mr. Akinori, you must die.” “I beg you.” This time in Ayuko’s voice,

“Since my greatest happiness lies in your honorable death, I shall remember this with gratitude throughout my living days.” “Now that matters stand thus, perversely does death grow sweet.” “Then let us die.”

“Have you finally resolved yourself?” “I hate to rush you, but it’s nearly two o’clock—won’t you begin?” “Before I die, I want to strip off this clown’s garb and cleanse myself.” “Do you have a suit?” In Kotoko’s voice: “Kitayama’s suit should be nearby.” “I’ll fetch it.” Soon, in Ayuko’s voice: “How well it suits you! You look years younger.”

“Thank you. Now I shall go.” “We go at an opportune moment.”

Komatsu opened the glass door and went out into the garden. About ten minutes later, when Sakai called out, “Hey, are the shovels ready?” Ayuko’s voice responded, “Yes, three are ready,” she responded. “That should suffice.” “Shall we proceed?”

"Ah! Let us go," they declared while each hoisting a shovel over their shoulders and proceeding into the garden．Yet upon nearing the air‐raid shelter．Sakai bellowed forth, "Komatsu—have you perished yet?" inquired Ayuko． From within that subterranean refuge,

“Ah, I’m already dead.”

Komatsu's reply was faintly heard. The droning roar of the bomber squadron from Komagome gradually drew nearer, but the three of them paid it no mind as they diligently began shoveling soil into the air-raid shelter. Bathed in the pale moonlight, the three figures moving like shadows seemed hardly of this world. At that moment, a group wearing civil defense uniforms came clamoring in.

“Mr. Sakai, bombs have fallen near Kotakibashi. “It’s dangerous—please take care.” “Good work. We’ll take shelter once this is finished.” The civil defense group members stood there aimlessly watching what the three were doing, yet not a single one of them realized that such a brutal burial was being conducted right before their eyes. I lay in the side corridor and shouted at the top of my voice,

Even as I tried to shout "Someone is being buried there right now," my voice wouldn't come out.

It was exactly two o'clock in the morning.

The hearth's firewood burned vigorously, dyeing the faces of those by the fireside crimson. Outside the window, thick fog drifted, and the black branches of aucuba trees in the garden appeared and disappeared as if being washed by water.

Count J said. “I too have heard of Sakai’s terrible end.” “I hear he was torn asunder, split clean in two from the groin when he died.” “And what became of Hamlet?”

"When a bomb fell near the air-raid shelter, the blast and ground movement caused the earth mound to collapse, and Hamlet came leaping out from within." “It was as if the guards of hell had thrown back what they’d once received, declaring ‘You need not die yet.’” "I felt that way myself, but this story has a distinct religious undertone." “like a modern translation of Revelation.” Sofue nodded with a smile.

“...Now, the passage where God prepared a great fish to swallow Jonah is beautiful indeed. I too have come to believe lately that divine providence is constructed flawlessly, like the mechanism of a machine. However, whether hell throwing Hamlet back was a blessing or a curse for him, I still cannot determine.”