Pathway to Japanese Literature

One

The previous evening, Tazumi Shō came to visit.
He was a close friend of Yumura’s younger brother Rikurō, who had died at the end of the year before last.
He had stopped by on his way to Fukuoka University this time.
Due to the recent flood, the railway was impassable, so they said they would take a steamship to Kobe.
He wore a white kasuri-patterned summer kimono with a coarse weave, a black obi, and crisply pressed new hakama trousers in a waterfall stripe pattern.
In his country dialect, he kept calling Yumura by the name “Mamoru-san” in seven different variations.

“If Rikurō had been healthy, he would have come to university with me this year.”
“The evening before last at the station, your mother said that and wept,” Tazumi said as he sat down, bringing up the matter.
“That’s right,” Yumura answered.
“This person is also a Second Higher School alumnus, friends with Rikurō, and has come to Tokyo’s law school this time,” he said, introducing the student named Komura who had come with him.
Komura claimed they had met before, but Yumura maintained the pretense of a first encounter to the end.
Because he had been restlessly bustling since morning, he forcibly detained the two who said they were going to sightsee in Hibiya and treated them to beer.
He had them slice tomatoes and Kamakura ham, and open square cans of Miyako-yaki as well.

When the drinking grew more raucous, Komura abruptly shifted his tone and said, “If I ask you, you’d understand, wouldn’t you? What exactly is this thing called love?” he asked. It was a common occurrence—most people brought this problem to artists. Not that they thought it an issue only artists could resolve. Furthermore, let it be noted that Yumura Mamoru was a disciple of Master K and a novelist who had recently gained renown. He was thirty that year yet still unmarried, living with his younger sister and her husband.

“Love is love—what’s the point of asking such a thing?” Yumura shrugged his bony shoulders.

“But I thought you might have some unconventional view.”

“There’s nothing more to it—when a man and woman come together striving to build a life more complex and ostensibly beautiful than before, people label that love.”
“In short—it’s merely about making the effort,” he added dismissively, flicking Orient hair oil from his sleeve.

“Is it truly that simple?”

“Simple or not, love isn’t some fact to be painfully confronted or debated with interest.”

“But I can’t be satisfied with just that,” Komura pressed further.

“Can’t be satisfied?” he asked, fixing Komura with his small but gleaming eyes. “If you’re saying such things, have you ever actually been in love?” Yumura pointed at him with his index finger.

Tazumi was the one who became flustered instead, abruptly shrinking his neck and lightly poked his friend’s foot.

Komura earnestly replied, “Yes, I have—though whether that counts as true love or not, I can’t say.”

“What did you do—break up?”

“Well, we broke up.”

“And you?” he pointed at Tazumi this time.

“I haven’t,” Tazumi stiffened, shoving his hands into his hakama.

“And why did you break up, Komura?”

“Well, my parents’ disapproval was one reason, and—”

“You must hate her—you must hate the woman,” Yumura sputtered, hurling his own words like stones.

“No, I don’t particularly hate her—I heard her circumstances,” he said. “It was unavoidable.”

Yumura swayed his drunken head back and forth—What validity do a woman’s circumstances have?—yet each time he remembered, he poured himself another drink and gulped it down.

“That’s not true—I still believe in her.”

“Have you slept?” Yumura suddenly asked.

“I would never—never do such a thing,” Komura said, his face bright red as he sullenly closed his mouth.

“It’s no good.
“You’re still chasing a love straight out of stories or poems.
“I did it too.
“And it just happened recently.
“And we broke up—same old circumstances on her part.
“You must’ve seen it—there was an article in the newspaper: ‘Yumura fell for some female student, and now he can’t write a novel due to being in the throes of anguish and torment.’ That one, you know.”

“It was in the Kokumin Shimbun,” Tazumi said.
“Is that really true?”

“It’s true—now it’s a laughing matter, but back then, even this was serious.”
“No—I thought it was serious.”
“Well, I too tried to make the love found in poems a reality—because I was a fool.”

“But society’s love—surely it isn’t all just cold, frigid things like you say.”

“It’s no good.”
“You’re all still young.”

“Is that so?” The two didn’t argue even when pressed.
They were diligently stuffing the stew that had just arrived into their hearty stomachs.

II

Yumura had been irritable since morning that day, doing nothing but scold his younger sister.
The saltiness of the salted horse mackerel, the cleaning of the tatami room, the failure to provide hot water in the copper kettle—each and every one grated on his nerves.
For forgetting to wash the undergarments, he had scolded his younger sister until she burst into tears.
"You idiot! So utterly heartless! What am I supposed to wear now?"
"Even if you're a country bumpkin, you should at least manage that much!" he ranted viciously, but his younger sister just kept her pale, sickly face bowed in silence, until finally, exasperated, he snapped, "This is hopeless."
"Let's hire a maid. Fortunately, Master K made an offer."
"Then you two can become honored guests and have three meals a day served on trays!" he pressed further.
He had resolved not to say this one thing, yet ended up letting it slip out.
Sure enough, the younger sister apologized in a trembling voice.
"I'll fix what I overlooked, so please forgive me today."
"If we let you hire a maid now, we'd feel too wretched to keep burdening you like this," she said, pressing her hands to the tatami and sobbing quietly.
"No way, no way! Better a stranger hired with money than being tended by such callous siblings," Yumura repeated as he withdrew into his study.
His younger sister offered a clipped apology through the sliding door, but he didn't even respond.

Due to her husband’s business failure, it had already been nearly three months since the couple had come to take shelter at Yumura’s house. The timid couple made “We’re so sorry” their constant refrain, but with no decent jobs to be found, they passed their days idly by doing copying work for her brother and running errands. In ordinary times, Yumura would simply respond magnanimously: “Don’t mention it—if it’s just about having food, stay as long as you need. Take your time finding work.”

And he was comforting them with those words. Even though she was called his younger sister, she had been sent off as a foster child early on; passed along in foster care and taken in by that household, she was only returned four years prior—hence, the sibling affection between her and Yumura had naturally grown thin. She had received no education and had grown up just as she was born. The brother-in-law had originally been a bank employee in Sendai, Yumura’s hometown, and through the arrangements of his aunt, they had been brought together. He was born in Tokyo. He had left home this morning to look for work and still hadn’t returned. Since there were relatives in the downtown area, he was likely intending to stay there.

After finishing his unpleasant dinner, Yumura lay alone on the veranda.
He had no inclination to face his work desk.
Because the liquor store and fishmonger had deferred their end-of-month payments, he thought he absolutely had to write to meet the promised fifth-day deadline—yet still he could not take up his brush.
He had to finish the unfinished portion, but he found even that loathsome.
He even considered going out to amuse himself, but there was nowhere that seemed likely to offer any interesting conversation.
A severance letter had come from Master K.
He had heard Tatsuma had gotten a house, but since all of that was likely connected to this recent severance incident, going to visit him would feel awkward.
Moreover, first of all, there still was no notice of his residence.

Having severance letters delivered by Master K was already a frequent occurrence; even if he told others about it, they’d just laugh, “Again?” A man of intense emotions, he would stir up a fuss over trivial matters but resolve them just as swiftly. If someone stayed away for ten or fifteen days, immediately a welcoming person or a letter would come. The previous time—on the night of the waning moon—when he had grabbed some fellow disciples while drunk and hurled harsh insults at them, Master K had been quite furious at first, but his stubbornness had not lasted even a month. Even this time, it wouldn’t last long. Such was the nature of things. Master K had only gotten angry because baseless rumors had been published prominently in the newspaper—rumors he assumed to be Yumura’s prank. After wasting days fuming, if I went to apologize, it would undoubtedly settle without incident. And then—after he’d had a bit more to drink—he would grab Yumura’s hand and say: “You hateful bastard—there’s no man as detestable as you.” “This time for sure—this time for sure, I think… But when we part, it’s so lonely. No matter what I do, I can’t bring myself to end things.” “With you—it must be what they call a rotten fate.” Saying this was so transparent it hardly bore mentioning.

However, Yumura thought.
In fact, even when we last met on the evening of the 23rd, there had been nothing unusual—we had parted ways after drinking as amiably as usual. Yet right on its heels, not even ten days later yesterday, he severed ties over that mere newspaper article. It was absurd.
There must be something more, he thought.
My overly stubborn attitude must have irritated him, and my tendency to willfully stir up trouble must have irritated him as well.
He thought his recent aloofness must have irritated him too.
But that alone wasn’t enough.
There must be something more, there must be something more—he kept thinking.

Yumura absentmindedly looked up at the sky.
The evening of departing summer; the stillness is like water.

III

Yumura was quite drunk.
Of the seven beer bottles that had been brought out, five were what he had drunk.
His gaunt, angular face was pale, and his eyes were sharp.
The fingers of his left hand stuffing the pipe were twitching spasmodically.

By some chance, the conversation turned to the issue of faith.
Of course, since both were affiliated with Christianity, it was only natural the conversation had turned there.
But both of them drank alcohol; if one could not attain faith apart from the church, they were saying it was fine to defy religion.

Yumura suddenly infused his voice with force. “In this modern age there is utterly no faith; God’s authority has crumbled to earth.
“All that remains is mere understanding—an era so wretched we cannot even believe in God’s existence beyond our comprehension,” he declared.
The two students exchanged frank glances.

Yumura continued.
“Couples—close friends—lovers—call them what you will—they’re all alike.
That business about trusting hearts beating together with some mysterious warmth flowing between? That belongs to an age long gone.
The modern world has divorced itself from poetry and tales.
There’s no affection left beyond mutual understanding.
All that remains now is love with cruel cold eyes.”

“If you think that way, life becomes lonely, doesn’t it?” Komura said.

“Lonely? Of course it’s lonely.”

“But must you cling to loneliness so desperately? It’s self-destructive.”

“This isn’t about profit and loss—it’s life’s true face.”
“We who were born into this modern age—our very existence is misfortune,” his voice burned.

“Then shouldn’t we compel ourselves to seek faith?”
“Build it up where possible.”
“The thought of an age without faith—merely contemplating it chills me.”

“Build it up?”
“That might be good.”
“However, there are those who cannot build even if they wish to.”
“I too am one of those people.”
“Those who can effortlessly believe in the Nativity, miracles, and resurrection—like you all—are truly fortunate.”
“That’s happiness,” he said, and forcefully twisted up the lamp’s wick.

Even Komura couldn’t help but scowl.
“However, we can believe in Christ even apart from the Nativity and miracles.”
“The Lord’s life itself is already an immense poem and religion.”

“That’s what they call the beauty of Christ’s character—a phrase I’ve heard countless times,” he said, gulping down his drink. “In other words, it’s just understanding. To believe in certainty means you’ve already left faith behind.”

“So you mean we should drag religion back to primitive times?”

“Of course, unless everything reverts to primitive times, it’s hopeless!” he shouted.

“Then where might we obtain our peace of mind?” Tazumi inquired humbly.

“How could peace of mind exist in this modern age? If someone discovers this ‘new happiness’ or ‘unknown god’ exactly as Western poets envision—splendid. But until then, humans merely writhe in turmoil—swayed endlessly by the world’s cold waves, agonizing without respite.”

“What about superstition?”

“Superstition might be acceptable too, but I doubt even that remains attainable for us.”

“How should one put it? In other words—could it be modern science’s influence?”

“The root cause is undoubtedly that. In human hearts, the capacity for wonder has vanished; the fear of unseen eyes has disappeared.”

“Is that so?”

“True religion cannot exist unless it belongs to people who are awed by rain and startled by wind.”
“The great power of awe is what grants humans true faith.”
“In other words, modern people have become far too accustomed to nature.”

The ensuing conversation continued for a long time.
Yumura was the only one speaking.
The two students could do nothing but listen in silence.

“We have had the privilege of hearing such an instructive talk and were greatly enlightened,” the two students said with deep bows before taking their leave.

After the two had left, Yumura had his younger sister hang the mosquito net and lay down, but his mind remained alert from the earlier conversation, rendering him unable to sleep.
The alcohol had also worn off.

Faith and understanding—it truly seemed a profound problem.
It would certainly make for a novel.
A protagonist born into this faithless modern age who yearns for faith—that’s interesting; I could definitely write that.
I could write a novel Tatsuma would likely enjoy.
Admittedly, I’d never deeply considered this matter until now.
Today—by chance, or rather pure coincidence—the words had spilled from my lips.
It was Yumura’s habit that whenever he chanced upon a problem, it would grow into an immovable issue within his stories, taking on flesh and bone.
Tonight was indeed another instance of that.

He tried applying the earlier debate to reality.
Love, friendship, marriage—they all fit perfectly.
Alongside that, the incident involving Master K and the incident involving her—all would be resolved.
He was so happy he could hardly contain himself.

When he woke up the next morning, a relocation notice had arrived from Tatsuma.
He could no longer endure it and immediately ordered a carriage to leave the house.

Part IV

The address was written in precise detail—Takadanobaba block 400-something, north side slightly closer to Waseda than that bathhouse—so Tatsuma’s house proved easy to find. A nameplate read “Tanaka Tailors.” Yumura stepped down from the carriage.

Tatsuma shared the same literary mentor as Yumura. Having long been stationed at that gate, his bond with their teacher ran deep—a distinction akin to that between an outsider and a hereditary vassal. He was a gaunt man with sunken eyes and terrifyingly thick eyebrows who strained to craft novels from metaphors and riddles alone. His oft-repeated maxim held that if waking life constituted reality, then a life of dreams must equally be real. Though he had yet to complete any substantial work, he perpetually vowed to produce one eventually. He claimed to write with his soul rather than ink brushes. True to his reputation for late rising, he appeared to have just awakened—milk still accompanied his lunch tray. On the ikkanbari desk lay two Zola novels: A Love Episode and The Sin of Abbé Mouret.

“Still the same as ever, aren’t you? Keep your nose out of it,” Yumura said, avoiding the veranda’s glare as he settled in the room’s exact center.

“Then I’ll take my leave,” Tatsuma replied, shoving the kettle-topped brazier toward his guest before returning to his meal.
It was his habit to nibble at food with rabbit-like chomps of his front teeth.

“Truth is, I came today to discuss a novel concept—wanted your critique.”

“Writing again? How industrious,” he remarked, laying chopsticks across his knees.

“If I don’t write, I can’t eat.”

Yumura explained in detail what he had told Tazumi the previous night, then said, “Look here—we were born into this unfortunate age devoid of faith.
“An unfortunate age—what becomes of people when they don’t trust one another?
“Anxiety, doubt—it’s truly terrifying.
“A time when husbands distrust wives, friends doubt friends, parents suspect children.
“Just contemplating it chills me.
“I want to try writing about this terror.
“A novel with a protagonist who’s a child of modernity, agonizing over whether any suggestion of reassurance exists.”

“Well,” was Tatsuma’s only reply.

“But what do you think? Don’t you find a world without trust to be either unsettling or wretched?”

“It’s fine to think so,” he said, briskly shoveling down his chazuke. “However, in our era of heightened self-consciousness, that is likely an inevitable tendency.”

“Don’t you have any anxiety? Any anguish?” Yumura’s tone pressed urgently.

“However, the development of self-consciousness means detaching oneself from others—it also means striving to revive the imprisoned self,” he said, pushing the meal tray aside and calmly exhaling tobacco smoke.

“Another lecture—I didn’t come here for a seminar.”

“But that’s precisely how it is—everyone equally acknowledges our era has already distanced itself from faith.”

“Is that all?”

“Is that all it is?”

“That’s right—you’re just comprehending it through others’ ears.”
“I speak from my own mouth what surges up from my own heart.”

“How does that differ?”

“There—that’s precisely it! Observe how cold your words are.”

“Yet isn’t it strange?”
“Natural indeed—extreme, unadulterated nature.”
“This seems quite a different argument coming from you, who advocates primordiality theory.”

“Why do you lack such passion?”

“It’s you who has a tendency to conflate thought and reality.”

“That’s enough—I get it already. You’re someone who isn’t surprised by anything,” Yumura ended the conversation. “I’ll show you through my work soon enough.”
More often than not, it ended with these words.
No matter what problems were posed, Tatsuma had never once been stirred.
They were either coldly dissected or criticized.
At such times, he too would fire back with a single declaration: “I’ll write it and show you.”
Tatsuma, lacking both physical stamina and mental vigor, had yet to write a single complete work.
That was a weakness he himself regretted.
Yumura was a man who did not overlook others’ weaknesses.

After calmly drinking his tea, Tatsuma spoke again.
“By the way, you’ve been cut off by Master K again, I hear.”
“I was cut off—ah, I was indeed.”
“What’s going through your mind?”

“How should I know? It’s the one who did the severing. Since it’s such a ridiculous issue—whether I badmouthed him or not—with no way to explain it away, I’ve decided to just drop it.”

“I heard about that for the first time yesterday and was actually thinking of going to see you.”

“Don’t bother with formalities.
“After all his talk about being my dear friend until yesterday, he starts this severance nonsense over some idiotic trifle.
“True enough—I was selfish.
“To others, I must’ve acted so willfully that we hardly resembled master and disciple.
“But since I believed Master K trusted me completely, I assumed he’d overlook minor transgressions.”

“That’s wrong. How can there be such a thing as an artist believing in others?”
“Why? Why?”
“Everyone has self-consciousness.”

“And yet you have no discontent?”
“Don’t you feel anything living among untrustworthy people?”

“It can’t be helped—it’s the era.”

“If this is the era, then it’s an utterly wicked one.”

“So what is it then? This concept for the novel you mentioned—it sprouted from that severing of ties with Master K, didn’t it?” Tatsuma gazed at Yumura with deep-set eyes.

“I’m different from you. I can’t live in a world without faith. Understanding alone could never satisfy me—above all, it’s unbearably lonely.”

“This isn’t like you. You’re saying something unexpectedly weak today.”

“I’m not weak. I’d been deluding the world all this time. At least I alone believed others could trust me—that’s why I acted as selfishly and stubbornly as I pleased. I was a fool, wasn’t I?”

The two remained silent for some time.
Tatsuma kept smoking cigarette after cigarette.
Yumura picked up Zola’s novel, opened the cover, looked at the advertisements, and displayed a strangely restless demeanor.
Tatsuma forcefully knocked the last ashes against the rim of the brazier.

“So what do you think?
What became of Ms. Tatsuko?” he asked with a piercing gaze.

“What can I do? It remains as it is.”

“You must think of her sometimes, I suppose.”

“Who?” Yumura’s voice was sharp.

Once more, the conversation broke off.
Along the main street, a dull-toned advertising band passed by.

“Well then, I’ll take my leave,” he said abruptly, standing up.

“Why? It’s still early—let’s talk at length. It’s been so long.”

“Another time. I’m going home to write.”

“What enviable vigor,” he said, looking up with genuine envy.

“Well then—give my regards to Master K.”

“What’s gotten into you? Are you truly intent on severing ties?”

“I’m not doing it—it was done to me. I’d been deluded, you see. I’d always believed people were beings who believe.”

“What does it matter if we don’t believe? Friendship can persist through understanding alone.”

“I don’t want friendships built on understanding. Anyone will do—from now on, I’ll seek those I can believe in,” he said coldly and stepped outside.

With evident reluctance, Tatsuma saw him out to the gate.

“You’ve become preposterously formulaic,” he said, watching him board the rickshaw.
“I didn’t become anything—it was made of me.”
“Farewell,” Yumura said.

V

Cutting through the myōga fields, following along Count Ōkuma’s estate and turning, he entered the newly developed Waseda Tsurumaki-chō—he was certain the corner had a stationery shop.

“Sir, shall we go via Ichigaya?” The elderly rickshaw puller stopped there and turned to look back.

“No—home. Hurry,” Yumura urged impatiently from the rickshaw.
He intended to return straight home and face his writing desk.
No way he’d lose—his heart roared that he’d write and prove it.

The rain had continued for two or three days; though it had stopped, people said it wouldn’t last long since it was a night rain.

The autumn afternoon had snapped clear—it must have been past two o’clock—and in the deep blue sky, sharply white clouds shone like mica.
The September day was bright.
Brighter than summer.
Yet it was not a light that seeped steadily into the colors of things, but one that floated lightly upon their surfaces and shifted restlessly.
From the opposite direction came a man who appeared to be a laborer, wearing tall wooden clogs and holding a rain umbrella.
The oil-paper umbrella glinted sharply before his eyes.
It was a pallid face tinged with leaden blue.

When he reached Menuki in this town—the four corners where the Chinese goods store and tailor shop stood—the long row of houses stretched straight ahead, visible nearly as far as Yamabushichō.
During the university’s vacation, even the town’s appearance seemed to laze about, stretched long in ochre hues.
Voices brimming with youthful hope and shouts could not be heard in any corner.
Bicycles, rickshaws, painted delivery carts—not a single one of such things could be seen.
All passersby slowed their pace, choosing sunlit spots as they walked listlessly like autumn flies devoid of vigor.
The boarding house had thrown open its entire second floor and was drying mosquito nets and futons.
Among the Chinese goods stores and wine shops that prided themselves on innovative storefront decorations, some had their large shutters halfway lowered.
In the barbershop with many full-length mirrors hung in rows, the sound of scissors seemed idle.
Upon the gaudy, exaggerated signboards, only the sun was shining brightly.
And there were Chinese restaurants with eaves and pillars painted in deep colors, rundown old bookstores that seemed to have been driven out from the bustling streets of the downtown area, and modest tobacco shops where husbands helped out while working elsewhere—all standing in tight rows.

In Rossetti’s poem, there was something called “The Throne of the Day’s Queen”—a work depicting a young man at the ticket office lying stretched out in the daytime square, peeling watermelon rinds with a penknife. Though entirely unrelated, he recalled that poem. Then he surveyed this town—a desolate place devoid of composure. “Its soul has been drained away,” he thought.

Bathed head to toe in autumn light, an apprentice-aged boy strode forward with chest thrust out. He was a dark-eyed child walking barefoot on the rain-hardened road, his mouth clamped shut. A large palm-fiber brush stood upright in the bowl of his apron, while he carried a pot of blue paint in one hand. As they passed each other, he glanced up at the rickshaw with sunken eyes. Though just a boy, his face showed the grim resolve of one biting back fury. Yumura turned to look behind him, but the rickshaw's hood blocked his view. He burned to know what expression the boy had worn when looking back—unseen eyes in the shadows, unseen eyes in the shadows—until his nerves frayed enough to make him clench his fists.

Honk, honk went the discordant horn as the automobile passed by.
Threading through the perilously narrow gap between the wheels of Yumura’s swerving rickshaw, letting them hear the heavy engine’s roar, the thick rubber tires sped straight down the dustless road ahead.

“Whoa, that was close!” The rickshaw puller’s shout came only after they were ten ken away.
Then he briefly halted the rickshaw and wiped his sweat.
On the seat sat two noblewomen in light dresses, not even turning their heads.

“It’s Mr. Ōkuma’s,” a woman called out as she rushed from the hardware store.

“The color’s different—it’s Mitsukoshi,” said another woman now, one carrying a lidded container.
She raised a hand to shade her eyes and watched it go.

Yumura suddenly noticed and calculated his income for the current month in his mind. It would at least suffice. As long as he kept writing next month and the month after that, he could manage well enough. Even without Master K’s mediation, two or three bookstores still came to buy his works. For now, it was secure, he thought. Write—just write—he swore to himself. He recalled hearing that Sudermann had said, “Artist, paint; do not speak.” He had indeed spoken too much. Mingled too much. He must be silent—utterly silent—and write. The familiar desk, the familiar window light—he must remain silent and write. The sky must be blue, the earth green—he must render them in deep, vivid colors.

He emerged onto Yamabuki-chō’s street.
At the corner stood a crowd of people.
Five or six Qing-dynasty Chinese students—their lower garments split open—were shouting abuse about something.

Both sides were lined with houses bearing low roofs.
The floors of homes submerged in recent floods still hadn’t dried.
At night they set up shelves before vacant storefronts at the corner where yakitori and oden stalls did business—there about seven morning glory pots with withered leaves stood lined up.
Signs in kana reading “Goods for Sale” had been posted.
The vines stretched long and trailing.
Here too people formed a clamorous crowd.
At a storefront stood a woman with large breasts exposed, holding a bottle of sake up to sunlight for inspection.

“Hey, take off the horo!” Yumura suddenly shouted from atop the rickshaw.

“Huh?”

“Take off the horo!” he shouted.

The rickshaw puller lowered the shafts and briskly flung the horo back behind him.

“Will this do?”

Exposing his pale face to the sun and not wearing a hat, Yumura nodded.
The rickshaw puller gripped the shafts again.
And then he started running again.
He was Teishichi, a fifty-six-year-old man from Mukimiya who had entrusted his shop to his talkative wife.
Fond of alcohol and often sneaking away from his wife to visit Yumura, he would end up being treated to morigiri sake.
He declared that due to his weak heart, this would be his final year in the trade.

He emerged onto Sakuragichō Bridge.
Just as they encountered a funeral procession, the rickshaw came to a stop in front of the greengrocer at the base of the bridge.

Having crossed the bridge, the long funeral procession advanced slowly under the bright sun.
The vanguard dragon lanterns stood positioned at the foot of Kuse Mountain.
Over a dozen laborers carried an unpainted wooden coffin studded with nails.
The white burial shroud with its pale green and verdant trimmings revealed itself as the nails glinted and swayed.
The bereaved family members in sedge-hat attire walked quietly with bowed heads, their shoulders aligned in newly crested robes.
The head priest’s carriage and his assistant’s followed.
Behind them stretched dozens of funeral carriages, all with gorgeously lacquered covers lowered in an endless line.

“Hey, can’t you take some roundabout way?” Yumura demanded, leaning out toward the rickshaw puller.

“Detouring through Kaidaichō’d be trouble—hardly worth the bother,” the rickshaw puller said without moving.

Passing the procession, he saw Ōtori Avenue stretching ahead.
From Ninth District to First District, it ran perfectly straight.
The air hung so crystalline that near and far alike dissolved into one hue.
White grew whiter still—starch-stiffened sleeves gleamed cold.
Lips and limbs alike shone parched and beautiful, stripped of oil.

Yumura took out a rolled cigarette from his sleeve and struck a match.
After wasting several matches, he finally managed to light one, but without even properly smoking it, hurriedly flung it into the river.
In front was a greengrocer; as the market goods had not yet arrived, the shop stood utterly desolate.
Moreover, the tomatoes, watermelons, and other eye-catching summer fruits with their vivid colors had mostly been cleared away, replaced by the subdued hues of autumn fruits arranged here and there.
Pears that had been washed away by water were piled into a large mound at Oyama, with a stake bearing a sign erected there.

The funeral procession had still not passed through.

Yumura grew impatient.
At the base of Kuze Mountain, in Kuchōme, Otowa, lived his former lover.
He thought she might come out.
Today of all days, I don't want to meet her. I don't want to see her.
He had always passed through without incident, but today his heart felt strangely agitated.
I'd resigned myself to letting others approach me—a mere roadside figure who shouldn't matter either way—but no, it doesn't work like that.
The man she'd chosen was a company employee back from abroad, one who'd navigated the flashy social whirlpools of the West.
They said his souvenir trunk contained rings and brooches and Russian calico with gaudy patterns.
By now she might be lifting eyes brimming with worldly pride to whisper in her new lover's ear.
"The past is past," she might be saying while clutching the man's shoulder.
It had been her habit to place one hand on a man's shoulder while fiddling with his hair with the other.
To stretch her legs sideways while rhythmically patting her chest area.
The palm that struck people hurt.

“I will not forget. I will never forget.”
These were her parting words.
“Don’t forget. Don’t you ever forget,” Yumura pressed.

The greengrocer’s green onions glistened in the sun.
They glittered phosphorescently.
Yumura felt as if he had become an exposed criminal and pressed his pale forehead with both hands.

The funeral procession passed by.

"I'll write and show you, I'll write and show you," Yumura declared aloud in that manner.

VI

The inside of the house he had entered from outside was dark.

“Welcome back,” said the younger sister as she appeared.

“Where has Yuai gone? Still not returned?” came the angry voice.
Yuai was the name of the younger sister’s husband.

“What’s happened? He still hasn’t come back—” The ends of her words dissolved halfway into fear.

“What?”
He deliberately asked again.

“He still hasn’t come back…” she said, sitting there cramped and small, adjusting the disheveled front of her kimono that always earned her scoldings.

“Go over there!” he shouted, and with heavy footsteps, Yumura retreated into his study.

He took out manuscript paper and poured ink into the inkstone.
He wrote the title he had conceived along the way: “The Power of Faith.”
The hand trembled.
The loneliness and torment of those who had awakened to a world where believing held no power—where only understanding remained—this was what he meant to write.
He wrote two or three lines, but the prose refused to cohere.
He spoiled three pages.
This time he altered the title to either “From the Unseen Behind” or “The Unseen Eye.”
Still he could not write.
Children flocked around the well just outside and began clamoring noisily about something.
Yumura flung down his brush and rolled onto his back.

He took out a scroll and wrote smoothly.
"I was mistaken; approaching too closely was my error.
I humbly accept the severing of ties."
And he began to write that he intended to preserve his solitude and devote himself endlessly to creation.
To Master K.
To Tatsuma, he wrote only briefly in bold strokes: "I believe there exists a path on which I may live."

The wind blew in with an icy chill, cold against bare skin unclothed by an underrobe.
The sky would clear only to cloud over again immediately—truly a restless sky.
The pine in the garden, the ginkgo, the Yoshino cypress—in the distance, the zelkova of the opposite estate, the magnolia, the willow, even the autumn grasses at the garden’s edge—all the leaves within sight were stirring.
Rustling, they all stirred, showing the undersides of their leaves.

“Hey!” Yumura called out while lying down.
He wanted hot tea.

There was no response.

“Hey, hey,” he called out two or three times, but there was no response.
He stood up abruptly and opened the kitchen door.
The younger sister had placed a mirror by the bay window, attended to her appearance, and was gazing fixedly at her reflection.
She seemed to have applied some white powder as well.

“Hey, didn’t you hear me calling?” he said, standing on the cold threshold.

“Oh!” The younger sister turned deathly pale and hid the mirror.

“What are you doing? Idiot! Primping?”

The younger sister remained silent, head bowed.

“What’s with that face? This isn’t some post town’s serving room—what do you think you’re doing with this place?”

She had decorated a glass mirror against the wall of the two-tatami maid’s room, lining up cheap perfumes, lily-labeled face powders, and washing powders in tins on the small shelf. In a square clear glass bottle meant for table salt sat crimson hair oil that looked like red wine.

“You think you’re in any position to primp? Idiot! Consider your own station! What good does polishing your head do when you’re just a freeloader, you country bumpkin!” he shouted thoughtlessly. The younger sister turned pale and trembled violently.

“Why don’t you think about establishing yourselves? No matter how much I call you a fool, can’t you even realize that much?” he shouted again.

“That’s why… today Yuai also…”

“What? Spit it out!”

The younger sister began to cry.

“Disgusting color. What the hell,” said Yumura as he grabbed that hair oil bottle and threw it into the sink.
It had spilled onto the hardened dirt floor.
It shattered with a terrible crash.

“Elder brother, I was wrong… Please forgive me…,” the younger sister prostrated herself on the wooden floor there.

“What’s wrong? What’s even wrong?” he raged uncontrollably, hurling the face powder jar and washing powder too—each item one by one.

“You don’t regard your brother as a brother at all.
“There’s nothing more important than my husband.”
“Hmph—your husband’s so important,” he mocked in a low voice and returned to his study.

He turned to face his manuscript but remained too agitated to write; his younger sister's muffled sobs seeped through the walls.
"Today's hopeless," he muttered under his breath. When he finally grabbed the soap and left for the bathhouse, night had long since fallen.

Outside, it was already dark.

In the evening, Yuai returned.
Since yesterday he had stayed with relatives in Asakusa and looked around various places, but had found no promising prospects.
Having heard that a brokerage in Kabutocho needed a clerk, he went to inquire only to find they had already hired someone new.
"When luck's against you, it's no good no matter how far you go," Yuai muttered dejectedly.
He was an inherently timid man who floundered even when accounting for his debts.

“There’s no help for it. Just take your time looking,” Yumura said magnanimously.

“But it’s truly inconsiderate of us to keep imposing on you like this indefinitely—I’m resolved to take any position available, wherever it may be.”

“It’s nothing, Seki-han. We’re in this together.”

“But you see, we’re a married couple.”
“And as you can see, since she’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, I imagine there must be things that don’t sit well with you.”

“But she’s my sister after all,” he laughed. However, his eyes watched the other man uneasily.

The younger sister prepared the meal and brought it. Since the two had already finished eating, only Yumura sat down to eat. He turned up the lamp’s wick.

The younger sister sat beside her husband as though she had completely forgotten what happened earlier, talking animatedly. Yuai told her various stories he had seen along the way—how expensive things were downtown, how flashy the fashions had become, that all three theaters he checked were sold out, and how surprisingly affordable installment plans for Chichibu stripes were. Hearing this, she pleaded with him to take her downtown someday without fail. She had come to Tokyo two months prior and had yet to step outside even once.

“I’ll take you there eventually. In due time, I’ll take you to see a play too,” Yuai replied.

“Your ‘eventually’ never comes to pass—saying ‘eventually’ over and over has already made it two months,” she pressed in a persistent tone.

“This time I mean it.”

“Definitely, definitely—I mean it,” she pressed.

“Ah, alright, alright,” he laughed.

Yumura set down his chopsticks as if throwing them and called, “Mr. Yuai.”
Rikuzaburō was Yuai’s given name.

“Mr. Yuai, you’re quite something—planning to drag this one onto trains too? They’ll mistake her for a spinning mill girl.”

“Heh heh,” he scratched his head with his pipe. “But there’s no helping it.”

“Cozy little pair, aren’t you,” Yumura said as he withdrew into his study.

Seven

Having given up on writing, he lay prone there and took out some new books to look through.
He merely glanced sporadically at frontispieces and prefaces, showing no sign of immersing himself in reading.
When he noticed the itch and looked down, a mosquito was sitting on his leg.
When he slapped it irritably, the blood stained his palm.
The sister and her husband had gathered in their usual spot beside the entrance and were talking in hushed voices.
Their laughter could also be heard.
“That’s it,” Yumura said with a sour expression.

He pulled out a well-thumbed, sheepskin-bound New Testament from the bookshelf.
When he opened it blindly, chapter eleven of the Gospel of John appeared; he began reading from verse seven but soon stopped, his heart not in it.
The next time he opened it was to Chapter Six of the Gospel of Matthew—the famous Sermon on the Mount.
Since it had been his beloved book since childhood, he read it as one reads poetry.
He merely read.
In the end, he read aloud.
And when he reached the passage—“Foxes have holes, birds have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head”—the voice he heard speaking to himself grew increasingly disordered and trembled.
He continued reading.

When he pricked up his ears, the sister and her husband were arguing about something.
They were keeping their voices down, but the room was so small that their words came through as clearly as if he could reach out and grasp them.

“Don’t be stupid—where would we get the money to go out?”
“You’re talking such carefree nonsense,” came Yuai’s voice.

“But it’s not like we need money for everything fun.”

“Then how are we supposed to have fun—with clenched fists or seashells?”

“How should I know!”

“Huh? How do we have fun?”
“Tell me how. I want to have some proper fun for once, like everyone else.”

“Like when we were back home?”

“Exactly—when you bring up that time, I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Because it’s already decided—you’re sick in the head.”

“If it’s a sickness, then it’s a good one—doesn’t cause any trouble.”

“That’s just like you—I give up.”

“Heh, this is how I am,” he said, putting on some comical gesture.
His sister snorted.

Yumura irritably slammed the Bible against the fusuma with a thud.

“You’re such an idiot—be quiet. Brother is working.”

The two of them again lowered their voices affectionately and began whispering.

“Why can’t we? Huh, why?” This time his sister pressed him.

“There’s no helping it.”

“Hmm, how strange. Why ever not?”

Yuai appeared to be silently reading the newspaper.
His sister pressed close to his ear, clearly unwilling to concede.

“So why can’t we? We came to Tokyo thinking ‘Tokyo this, Tokyo that,’ yet we haven’t even seen Asakusa—how utterly pointless.”

“Having seen Ueno should suffice.”

“But even Ueno—the exposition had already ended by then.”
“I wanted to see the illuminations.”

“It’s nothing but electric lights bunched together.”
“You can see those even in Suidōchō.”

“You’re the only one who gets to go everywhere.”

“I’ll show you soon—I’ll take you by carriage, buy you a kimono at Mitsukoshi, get you a ring at Shirobotan, and then show you Okuyama’s ball-riding act.”

“You’re such a fool. I want to go out.”

Then the conversation turned to Okuyama.
Yamagara’s acrobatics， Hanayashiki’s dolls， Chinsekai， the aquarium—various topics came up.
The younger sister had let her guard down and was now intoxicated by the conversation.

Yumura stood up with a pallid face.
And when he went out to the three-mat room and slid open the fusuma there, his sister—who had been lying down—sprang up and sat rigidly.
He exchanged a few pleasantries, but Yuai merely bowed respectfully with a "Ha, ha," doing nothing but puff on his cigarette.
The younger sister naturally remained silent.
She peered from under her brows to gauge her brother's mood.

He returned to his study again.

It was around ten o'clock.
Yumura suddenly invited him, saying, “Mr. Yuai, let’s go have a drink.”

“Oh, I...
“If Brother would like to drink, I will go and buy some beer.”

“What nonsense—no need for pouring,” Yumura said as he left the house.

They entered a Western-style restaurant in Suidōchō. When they went up to the second floor, there were about two groups of customers. In particular, seven or eight Chinese students from the Qing dynasty had taken up position in a corner, chattering away loudly in their distant homeland’s language.

It was Yumura’s habit to drink whiskey cut with beer. Yuai said Japanese sake was more to his liking and stuck solely to that.

Yumura spoke in a friendly tone, but Yuai remained overly deferential. The conversation failed to ignite. Particularly irritated by the Qing dynasty Chinese students’ insolence as they clamored noisily at the waitress, Yumura furrowed his brows and kept gulping down his drink.

“Brother, let’s go home already,” Yuai said around midnight.
Both groups of customers had left, and downstairs they had already begun closing the doors.

“Let’s go somewhere else and drink again.” Yumura’s voice was heavily slurred.

“Where do you mean? It’s already late—it’s midnight, you know.”

“Twelve o’clock is fine—there are houses still awake in Kagurazaka,” he said impatiently, grabbing his hat and trying to rise.

“But tonight is late,” he said hesitantly.

“Let’s make a huge racket—waah!”
“And drink!”

“Besides, they’re waiting at home too.”

“So you’re saying we should go home? Then go,” he said, gulping down the remaining beer in one go. “You’re fortunate to have a home to return to.”
“I don’t,” he said, wiping the droplets trailing down his lips with a sharp swipe of his palm.
“But Brother, drinking now would amount to the same thing.”
“You could always have some tomorrow instead.”

“I have a great deal to talk about,” he said, planting himself there and refusing to budge.

“If it’s a conversation, I’ll listen,” said Yuai, signaling to the troubled waitress as he took a seat.

“Do you think your wife’s cute?”

“Well now, this is awkward,” he said, scratching his head.
The waitress burst into stifled giggles.

“Being the sort who finds his wife cute—that’s no good.”
“You’re determined enough to sacrifice for your business ventures though, eh?”

“I suppose that’s so.”

“No good.”
“No good.”
“No good,” he said, letting his head loll limply.

"But if I were to let that out, Brother would be in trouble. That's why I'm holding back," she said with a laugh.

"I suppose so. Ha ha ha ha. Well then, I'll thank you. I'll thank you."

The two of them left there.
Despite his repeated whining along the way—which they forcibly calmed—once they returned home, he was carried to bed by his sister and the other man.

Perhaps he had been dreaming; when about thirty minutes had passed, Yumura awoke and,

“Mr. Yuai! Mr. Yuai!” he called.
He called again and again.
With lamp in hand, the younger sister timidly approached the bedside.

“What do you require? I shall attend to it.”
“He’s completely drunk and out cold.”

“Is that so?” Yumura exhaled a rancid breath.

“You people are happy—truly enviable.”
“That’s how it should be.”
“Forever and ever, go on living like that.”

he said.

The younger sister didn’t know what to say.

“Lend me your hand—your hand,” he said, seizing his younger sister’s fearful hand in a tight grip and shaking it. “Ah—live your whole life like that,” he added, releasing his hold.

(November 1907 [Meiji 40])