Pathway to Japanese Literature

Kafu, age forty-one.

New Year’s Day. A cloudy, cold day. Around nine o’clock, I woke and sipped a bowl of chocolate within my bedding, ate a piece of croissant (crescent-shaped bread), and read the remaining pages of last night’s *Giu Collection*. It had been over ten years since my return to Japan, yet I still claimed each morning I would have toasted bread with preserves. I could not suppress a melancholy without cause this night. Wang Cihui’s "Where sorrows disperse and songs abound." Humming the line “Arriving where songs are heard, tears again fall,” I returned home at the third watch of the night. The wind and rain passed; the stars stood out starkly.

The second day of the New Year. Cloudy; cold. Around noon, I rose and went to the public bathhouse on the main street. I had planned to visit the graves in the afternoon, but feeling a chill, I lay down again. In the evening, the moxibustion practitioner came. In the dead of night, Yaefuku came and stayed over, still wearing her spring kimono with its hem pattern. When I first saw this geisha, she struck me merely as a quiet woman with nothing particularly noteworthy—yet that night, studying her form closely under the lamplight, I found her eyes and mouth bore an uncanny resemblance to Ogiya Tomisuke of years past. In the delicacy of her sloping shoulders, there was a haunting beauty surpassing even Tomisuke. In the early morning, after Yaefuku had left, I lay upon my pillow and frequently reminisced about past events. When I awoke from sleep, the sun was already high.

The third day of the New Year. Clear and sunny; slightly warm. In the afternoon, I went to Zōshigaya and paid respects at my late father’s grave. Last month, when selling my house, I had ordered the gardener to transplant a wintersweet by the graveside; upon inspecting it, I found the flowers had not bloomed. The season for transplanting was ill-chosen; it must have withered. In the evening, I returned home. Copied Sōketsu Bengi. In the dead of night, Yaefuku came and stayed over.

The fourth day of the New Year.

My intimate relations with Yaefuku grew ever more intense with each passing day. After years of solitude that had enveloped me, I suddenly felt as though spring had arrived.

The fifth day of the New Year. The cold was bitter. Spent the entire day copying *Sōketsu Bengi*.

January 6th. With the wife of Masudaya from the brothel beneath the turret and the geisha Yaefuku, I drank at Ko-Tokiwa in Hamachō. At Yozakuraki, I met Utazawa Shigekinu and discussed plum-blossom calendrical traditions. The day was warm.

January 7th. Intending to purchase apple bread and other foodstuffs, I went to Ginza in the evening. The evening glow over Sanjūkenbori Kawazushidōri was splendid.

January 8th.

Three households from the pleasure quarters—said to be works by Takedaya Saikaku—were brought in. At the request of Shunyōdō’s proprietor, I myself compiled the *Danchōtei Letters*. Yaefuku coming to stay at my house had become an every-night occurrence since January 2nd.

January 9th. Around noon, I rehearsed the *Seishin* shamisen at Umekichi’s place. In the afternoon, I compiled *Danchōtei Letters* as I had the previous day. Rain fell for the first time since the start of the year. The wife of the Masuda household brought Meijiya biscuits.

January 10th. Rain fell.

January 11th.

At dusk, the rain cleared. The wind was warm. I dined alone at Fūgetsudō. Occasionally, I encountered Umekichi and his wife coming by. It was said they were going to present Fudeya Kōbei’s recitation at the Ichimura-za theater. On my pillow, I read Gourmont’s novel *Sikistine*.

January 12th. Cloudy and muggy. The cough was severe. In the afternoon, I lay ill in bed. I read Gourmont’s novel. At night, I copied *Sōketsu Bengi*.

January 13th. Mr. Oishi came for a consultation. In the evening, Takedaya came to inquire about my illness. The wind was fierce, and the cold was severe.

January 14th. Kuraikun visited. I went to Sakuragi and we dined together.

January 15th. The cold has yet to subside.

January 16th. I summoned the old woman from Sakuragi and consulted about removing the geisha Yaefuku from the registry to formally adopt her as my daughter. Being already aware that my remaining days were few, I had spared no mental effort concerning matters after death. Though my household was by no means wealthy, neither was it entirely destitute; therefore, last year when I visited a certain lawyer to inquire about estate disposal matters, I learned that when a household head dies without an heir, the closest blood relative among the kin succeeds to the headship. If one wished to forcibly avoid this, there was no other path than to designate an adopted son or daughter during one’s lifetime—such was the counsel I received. The geisha Yaefuku fortunately had no parents or siblings, and as her disposition seemed exceedingly gentle, I concluded she would be suitable to nurse my illness; thus several days prior I had begun consultations on the matter. The old woman of Sakuragi, having secretly investigated her background, found her to be an unforeseen burden—so much so that not only was she unfit to be an adopted daughter, but even caring for her as a mere geisha gave one pause. With a wry laugh at how people defy appearances, I let this matter remain secret.

January 17th. The day was clear and warm. I visited Miyazono Chiharu, but due to her illness, there was no lesson.

January 18th. I took my midday meal at Kasuga. Though invited that evening to Sankyōan Kawato Setsugo’s inaugural gathering, I did not attend due to a slight indisposition. I retired early to bed and read.

January 19th. I received correspondence from Mr. Igawa. It concerned contributing to the tenth-anniversary commemorative issue of *Mita Bungaku*.

January 20th. The geisha from Shinbashi-chō came to consult about wishing to practice Hachirō Enpachi-setsu.

January 22nd. Accompanied by the geisha Hachirō, I went to the Ichimura-za theater, but encountering someone among the spectators, we immediately turned back from the teahouse, proceeded to Kasuga for dinner, and returned home. The day was windless and warm.

January 24th. Cloudy and cold. The sky threatened snow by night. In the afternoon, I met Hachirō at Miyuki in Sanjūgenbori.

January 25th. Sawaki Kozue and Igawa Shigeru paid a visit.

January 26th.

The cold grew more severe with each passing day. In my humble back-alley abode—where no gas stove was installed—I woke each morning to eat bread and chocolate while still nestled in bedclothes, then remained there reading until noon without rising. That day, I proofread my old work *Sneer*, which was to be included in the third volume of the Complete Works.

January 27th. I summoned Hirano-ya, the bag shop in Hamacho, and had them repair my tobacco pouch.

January 28th. The proof copy of *American Stories* arrived.

January 29th.

I purchased a telephone from Utsumi Denwa-ya at Yoroi Bridge corner. Though I had always disliked having a telephone in my home, living alone had grown so inconvenient—and with no maid displaying even a shred of competence—that I resolved henceforth to employ no servants at all, diverting funds from my indulgences to purchase this device. If I managed daily errands like ordering from fishmongers and greengrocers myself via telephone, there would be no need to keep maids or such. In any case, a Western-style single life was proving utterly impractical within contemporary Japanese existence.

January 30th. I walked along Higashi-Nakadori and purchased obi fabric along with the mounting fabric I had ordered some time ago at the secondhand shop Maruhachi.

January 31st. From the still-early morning, snow fell. Like sand, it was fine-grained.

February 1st. With Chiharu's recovery from illness, Enpachi-setsu practice commenced. I practiced Ohan. The Shibakane sisters, heads of the Utazawa school, also came to the Enpachi-setsu practice. On this day, Hachirō became a disciple and practiced the shamisen at Toribeyama.

February 2nd.

At Kotamitei in Umenokicho Kawashidori, I invited Miyazono Chiharu, the Enpachi-setsu instructor.

Kotamitei was an establishment run by the geisha Kotama, renowned under the stage turret for her skill in dance. It was said to have opened around last November.

February 3rd. At dawn, snow fell once more. Amidst the bedclothes, I proofread my old work *Sneer*.

February 4th. It was Setsubun. I went to Sakuraki with Hachirō and performed the Tsuina bean-throwing. The afternoon hung warm and stifling. When night came, the cold turned suddenly severe; in the dead hours, a violent wind rose and shook the alley's meager dwelling. I lay sleepless.

February 5th.

The sky cleared, but the wind did not abate. In the morning, telephone company workers came and installed the telephone.

February 7th. The owner of Shunyōdō came and requested to have my humble verses printed via woodblock for sale. Though I declined, when he would not be dissuaded, I took up my brush as follows. The decorative lobster resembles the face of Shibaraku. A yukata that rivals summer theater actors! Shall I trace an eight? The goldfish’s looping swim. Envious of my neighbor’s sunlight this winter solstice. The neighbor’s Ichi-chūsetsu festival and spread pine needles.

February 8th. I walked along Higashi-Nakadori and stopped by Yazawa’s shop, but there was nothing in particular to buy. This street I had grown accustomed to walking for ten years; now there were even those among the shopkeepers of the secondhand clothing and houseware stores lining both sides who recognized my face and greeted me. When I returned home, proof copies of my collected works had arrived in great number; I proofread them until midnight.

February 9th.

From around noon, light snow began to fall in scattered flurries; it gradually intensified, and by evening had accumulated so deeply that walking became difficult.

February 16th. At night, Yaegishi came.

February 17th. It was clear and warm. Urged by Hachirō, I went together to Ichimura-za. The Harimaya brothers' *Osono Rokusuke* was a magnificent performance. Kikugorō's *Takatoki Tengu Dance* was so poorly executed that it was unbearable to watch. In the second-floor dining room, I unexpectedly met Mr. Koyamauchi. On the way back, I drank with Hachirō at Kasuga.

February 18th. I went to Yūraku-za and watched the Akasaka geisha sarai. That night brought rain.

February 19th.

The day was windless and warm. The nishiki-e print *Thirty-Six Enlightened Banquets* by Kunichika, which I had previously ordered from Sakai Kōkōdō, was delivered.

February 24th.

Kiyomoto Association. On the way back, I was caught in the rain. The nights of the Kiyomoto Association are often rainy. I drank at Tsukiji's Kiriya meeting house. It was the house recently opened by the woman who manages affairs for Suwa the ukiyo-e merchant.

February 25th. The Mita Literature Society convened at Sasaya outside Sukiyabashi Bridge. There was wind, but the cold was not severe. On the way back, I walked through Ginza with Mr. Kume and inquired after Mr. Hiraoka’s illness.

February 26th. The warmth resembled April.

February 27th. Ichikawa Sanosuke came to visit and, stating that he would soon embark on a journey to tour Europe and America, inquired about preparations for travel and various other matters. Occasionally, the courtesan Chiyogiku from beneath the yagura and Hachirō would come to visit on their way back from Kiyomoto practice. Seeing that Sanosuke was present, [they] rejoiced greatly, and their conversation suddenly gained vivacity.

February 28th.

At Sanjūkkenbori Kasuga, I dined together with Sanosuke, Chiyogiku, Hachirō, and others. The spring breeze grew increasingly warm as the days passed. Yet there was no way to know the state of the plum blossoms in the back-alley shanties.

March 1st. The spring warmth was such that even my old cotton garment felt heavy. When I opened the window, the sound of wooden clogs on the main street evoked a sense that summer was approaching. On this day, through the brokerage firm Kataoka Shōten in Kabutochō, I had them purchase one hundred shares of Ōji Paper Company stock. I purchased one hundred shares of Inawashiro Suiden Kaisha. For this, I used the money from the sale of my house in Chōchō.

March 3rd. News came of the passing of the King of Korea. Shamisen and musical accompaniment were officially suspended. However, there were also rumors that the city’s theaters would not close.

March 4th. Chiyogiku came. She had come to secretly meet Sanosuke.

March 5th.

I was invited to a rehearsal at Meiji-za. I met Matsuenshi after a long time. A crimson-ground haori with antique Chinese Guangdong stripes. The kosode, which appeared to be Yūki-omeshi, was layered with a red-striped Kantōzan undergarment. An uncompromisingly austere taste.

March 9th. Though it was the opening day at Meiji-za, I had a slight ailment and did not go.

March 10th. Cloudy with a cold wind. Koreans were vigorously engaged in an independence movement and were said to be attempting to put into practice the principle of ethnic self-governance.

March 11th. My illness did not improve. The courtesan Hachirō came and nursed me. Despite being the proprietor of this brothel, there were rumors of some connection with the sons of neighboring geisha houses. There were times when I came and stayed at my humble abode. Umekichi and all the rest were women who gave off the air of licentiousness.

March 13th. The wind is cold. Kuroda Kozan sends a letter.

March 14th. I acquired Takedaya Yoshikata’s nishiki-e prints titled Eight Views of Ryōgoku. Materials on the customs of courtesans in flag houses from the early Meiji period were gradually coming together. At night came a heavy rain like cart axles.

March 15th. The Geien sōsho edition of Kankei sazutsu (Miscellaneous Notes by a Winter Lamp), Volume 2, was published. I spent the entire day reading it.

March 16th.

Kuroda Kozan visited. I went to Sanjūkkenbori Kasuga and dined together.

March 17th. I saw off Matsui Matsuyo and Ichikawa Sanosuke at Tokyo Station as they departed for Europe. On my way back, I stopped by Suwa Shōten and viewed ukiyo-e. I acquired a few volumes of old kyōka humorous verse books and returned home.

March 18th.

A spring day, radiant and clear. In the afternoon, I visited Kanda Sansaisha.

March 19th. At night I was invited by Kiyomoto Umekichi and attended a performance of the Hyōke Memorial Amateur Play at the Kabuki-za.

March 20th. Though it was the equinoctial week, I lacked even the energy to set out on the Six Amida Pilgrimage.

March 21st.

The sky hung leaden and oppressively overcast, muggy; a fierce wind whipped sand and dust all day long. For no particular reason, it felt like a day when Yoshiwara might erupt in conflagration.

March 22nd. The spring day spread serenely clear; suddenly, the clatter of geta grew thick along the main thoroughfare. At the Nihonbashi Club, there was a Kiyomoto Ichiedakai rehearsal.

March 23rd. At night, there was a Kiyomoto Ichiedakai rehearsal at the Nihonbashi Club. They narrated the "Gonpachi no Ue no Dan" segment. Early evening—a light rain fell, then cleared momentarily. The view from Ōkawabata after the rain on a spring night held an air of fleeting beauty, each moment worth a thousand pieces of gold.

March 24th. A fine rain fell in a mist. In the afternoon, I took the streetcar and viewed the spring scenery of the Outer Moat. The willow buds had already turned green, and the color of the grass in the rain grew intricately vivid.

March 25th. It was said that cherry blossoms had already bloomed here and there in the city.

March 26th.

Since secluding myself in Tsukiji, my brushwork did not become as I wished; the boredom was extreme. That day, I boiled paste and pasted letters from Mr. Ōgai and the late Sōseki onto a pillow screen, finding amusement in the task.

March 27th.

Since yesterday, the wind has been cold. I did not leave the house. Night rain falls.

March 28th. At noon, the rain cleared. I took Geihachirō and walked along Sumidazutsumi. I saw that cherry blossoms were already blooming here and there. I rested at Hyakkaen and wrote a haiku on Raku ware. The garden’s grasses after the rain appeared as though dyed. I arrived at Nyūkin-tei and ate my evening meal with clam soup. I hung a painting of clams by Watanabe Shōtei in the tokonoma. The brushwork’s elegant simplicity resembled the true [style]. The last time I had drunk at this inn was on my return from visiting Arima Hot Springs in Akiba during the spring of Meiji 42 (1909), accompanied by Ajiroko and Otoshi, a private prostitute from Hamamachi. Counting on my fingers, eleven years had already passed. When I saw the madam of Nyūkin receiving guests, she flattered them indiscriminately with feigned courtesy, no different from years past. Her vigor was rather enviable. As the evening meal concluded, a wind arose, rendering the surroundings desolate; therefore, I hired a rickshaw and returned home.

March 29th. The cold wind made the electric wires hum. I laid out the kotatsu and read Pierre Loti’s new work *Quelques Aspects du Vertige mondiale*. It was a collection of wartime essays and short pieces.

March 30th.

I viewed the cherry blossoms at Tsukiji Honganji Temple. This temple, with its newly constructed halls and sparse trees in the precincts, ranked among the least scenic of all the city’s temples; thus, though I had come to reside in this neighborhood, I had never once visited. On this day, the cherry blossoms were blooming in profusion, and the scene of the temple grounds, compared to ordinary days, had gained a certain pictorial charm.

March 31st. It was a Kiyomoto Association gathering. I went to the Yūraku-za.

April 1st. At night, the proprietor of Takedaya, Utamaro, brought something called *Haruhon Nei Midaregami* ("Spring Book: Disheveled Hair in Slumber").

April 2nd.

In the evening, Matsuenshi and his wife came to visit me. I arrived at Ginza Fūgetsudō and was treated to an evening meal.

April 3rd. Flowers bloomed, yet the wind grew cold. It was the opening day at the Kabuki-za. I viewed Mr. Matsuenshi’s Tale of Shūzenji.

April 4th.

The night held no chill. I rambled to Tsukuda Ferry Landing and viewed the estuary’s nightscape.

April 5th. Nishimura Shosanzan visited. He requested a contribution to Kaihō, the magazine he edits.

April 6th. The sun stood high; still I felt reluctant to rise. I remained abed through the morning reading. My inspiration had waned with the years, my creative drive now utterly worn away. My appetite for reading too grew prone to weariness. Judging by newspaper accounts of worldly affairs, people's hearts seemed daily more violent and wicked—coveting wealth, craving revolutionary chaos. At this juncture I found myself afflicted by myriad ailments, accomplishing nothing; merely squandering ancestral inheritance in warm clothes and full belly while days slipped vainly by. At times unease gripped my breast. Yet consider what Edo's ukiyo-e artists and gesaku writers achieved during Bakumatsu upheavals: though armies clashed, they composed themselves as in peacetime—some crafting satirical gesaku comedies. Others produced obscene illustrations. Their composure viewed from today merits astonishment. Kyōsai's satirical prints, Yoshikazu's erotic art, Robun's writings, Mokuami's plays—all testify abundantly. Why then do I vex myself pointlessly? I must emulate those furrowed brows of Edo's gesaku authors.

April 7th. The spring night at last invited a leisurely stroll. As I passed by the storytelling hall in Hatchōbori, I saw signs for Tenzan Eishō and others. I paid the entrance fee and entered. I happened to encounter Mr. Yoshii Yū there. This might be deemed a chance encounter. This evening, I read Tenzan’s signature piece *Sayo Koromo Sōshi*.

April 8th. As usual, in the early morning when the shamisen was played, I went to Umekichi’s for practice. Along the way, on the streetcar avenue, I saw a lame man leisurely pushing the cart he rode in with a bamboo cane. It was as though he were poling a small boat. In recent years, seeing such beggars on the streets had become rare; I found myself feeling an inexplicable sense of curiosity. I later realized this was because many beggars had gathered before Honganji Temple’s gate for the Buddha’s Birthday ceremony that day.

April 9th. A copy of Charles Guérin’s poetry collection *L’Homme Intérieur* was sent to me from Brazil by Horiguchi Daigaku. My deepest thanks. In the afternoon, I went to the Ichimura-za and listened to Umekichi and the Kiyomoto group perform "Hōmyō." The dance was by Kikugorō.

April 10th. I was overwhelmed with proofreading the printed text of *Amerika Monogatari*.

April 12th.

In the evening, Kiyomoto Umekichi came to visit, accompanied by his wife.

April 13th. In the afternoon, Mr. Sakai Kiyoshi came to visit. In the evening, intending to take supper, I went out to Ginza Street and saw men and women returning from flower viewing jostling in crowds.

April 14th. In Fujimichō, I took a low-class prostitute out drinking and viewed the night cherry blossoms at Kudan Shrine.

April 15th. Kuroda Kozan was in Yoro, Mino Province. He composed a verse and said: Peering through trees at singing birds—late-blooming cherry blossoms.

April 17th. In the afternoon, I went for a stroll. I passed through Nichōme-dōri Street and walked in Shiba Park. The cherry blossoms had all fallen; the new greenery across the mountains dripped as though overflowing. On my way back, passing before the gate of the Kabukiza Theatre, I saw that the colors of the flowered noren had faded and the cherry trees planted along the roadside had turned to young buds. Spring in the capital had already come to an end.

April 18th. Toothache.

Kume Shūji came to discuss.

April 19th.

I strolled through Hatchōbori and observed the night stalls. In this area there were many joinery shops and bamboo blind shops. The hurried clatter of looms weaving blinds in the back alleys late at night—this deepening sense that spring had departed and summer drew near—was a flavor one could scarcely savor amidst the mansion-lined streets of Yamanote. Though I wished to compose a kyōka poem and continued walking along the dimly lit riverside street, in the end I could not and gave up. Nothing is as difficult as composing kyōka and jōruri.

April 20th. It was a perfectly clear Sunday. In the morning, I read Yōkyoku Taizen.

April 21st. The wind is cold.

April 22nd.

Early in the morning, three or four apprentice geishas from Shin-Tomi-chō came barging in; they ordered shiruko via telephone, ate, and sang. The apprentice geishas had made my lodgings their favored playground of late; from time to time they came barging in with their practice books, startling me from sleep. The rickshaw puller from Yoroshita Kurumayado Wada-ya believed my lodgings to be the residence of an arts instructor. As noon approached, the sky suddenly darkened and wind and rain assailed. After about half an hour, it cleared. In the evening, I dined at Fūgetsudō in Ginza with Umekichi and his wife, Hachirō, and others.

April 23rd. Ichikawa Sanosuke sends a letter from Hawaii. A Japanese-language newspaper in Hawaii had reported on my relocation to Tsukiji in their "Literary Gossip" column; he had clipped out the article and enclosed it.

April 24th. A certain reporter from a certain newspaper had been visiting me repeatedly since the other day，urging the erection of a monument for Kasamori Asen and demanding that I draft an inscription. As this June would mark（or was marking）the 150th memorial of ukiyo-e artist Suzuki Harunobu，there had been（or was）a proposal…；however,…。

April 27th.

Kiyomoto Umekichi newly established an association called the Kiyomoto Kōfūkai and held its inaugural gathering this evening at Inagaki, a riverside teahouse in Daichi.

April 28th. On the eaves of the soba shop along the main street that emerges from the alleyway, the wisteria flowers now bloomed in full splendor, their fragrance permeating the air. Having left my former dwelling where flowers were scarce to behold, I found myself pausing involuntarily whenever coming or going to fix my gaze upon them. April 29th. At the Yūraku-za Theatre came a Tokiwazu performance by Mojibei. There I encountered the two artists Hirayama and Matsuzan.

May 3rd. At Shōji’s barbershop, I happened to meet Master Artist Hiraoka. It was said that he was going to Izu Mountain Hot Springs.

May 4th. I repaired the torn binding thread of the kyōka anthology that had been at hand. When I occasionally recall how Yaefuku would mend picture books like *Mushi Eramiyama* and *Fukuyama* during her time living hidden in Yotsuya Araki-chō, Looking back on former days, all things prove but a dream.

May 5th.

Though it was the Dragon Boat Festival, there was nothing in particular worth recording.

May 6th. The old woman I had recently hired left due to a sudden illness. I resumed cooking for myself.

May 7th.

Unable to endure the inconvenience of cooking for myself, I went to Sanjūgenbori Kasuga to have dinner.

May 9th. It was said that the city was extremely crowded due to the 50th Anniversary Celebration of the Capital’s Establishment.

May 10th.

Last summer too, around the time I first wore unlined robes, there had been an unbearable loneliness in solitude; this year as well, my heart grew desolate without reason to the point where even the will to pluck the shamisen would not arise. When Hachirō the geisha came calling, we went together to Fūgetsudō and swept away our melancholy with a bottle of wine. On my return path alone, I stood watching at the Kabuki-za. It was Matsuenshi’s act “Kitamuke Torazō’s Reformation at the Penal Institution.” Lately I occasionally felt an urge to take up my brush and attempt scriptwriting. If only I could grasp that brush—what fortune that would be.

May 11th. A violent wind whirled up sand and dust. Having closed the storm shutters, I found the house interior growing stiflingly humid. At lamplighting time came merciful rain.

May 12th. Invited by Mr. Noma Gozo, I went to the Imperial Theatre and heard Mei Lanfang's *The Drunken Concubine*. Chinese drama had long been something I wished to hear. Having now listened to it this evening—compared to our nation's contemporary theater—it proved far superior in artistic refinement, its majestic spirit truly continental in scale. I was profoundly moved. What does this emotion signify? My intense aversion toward modern Japanese culture has grown so overwhelming that I find myself helplessly revering Chinese and Western cultural achievements. This feeling is hardly new. Confronting exceptional foreign art invariably stirs such sentiments. Yet what allows one to dwell in Japan's modern capital and peacefully endure old age exists solely through Edo period art's frivolous charms. Are not satirical verse, comic poetry, spring pictures, and shamisen music—these truly constitute an art form mysterious beyond compare among nations? To reside untroubled in Japan, one must inevitably seek slender consolation through these arts.

May 13th. Half-cloudy, half-clear. Throughout the city, the fresh verdure was to be admired.

May 14th. At Kabuki-za, I watched Sōjūrō and Uzaemon's "Seki no Tobira." Clumsiness rather deserves pity.

May 15th. It was cloudy with a cold wind. Shunyōdō sent the proof sheets for Volume 2 of the Complete Works, *Furansu Monogatari*. In the afternoon, Mr. Iwao Yonryoku visited. He spoke about the recent circumstances of the Thursday Association members.

May 16th.

There was a rehearsal of *Sonohachi-bushi* at Kagaya in Nihonbashi. I spoke of Toribeyama. Miyagawa Mangyo narrated *Yūgiri*.

May 17th. I was busy every day with proofreading the Complete Works.

May 18th.

My old friend Mr. Imamura Jishichi arrived in Tokyo from Kanazawa. My alleyway residence was visited by Mr. Imamura Jishichi. It was said that Mr. Imamura’s family had a distant familial connection with Zeniya Gohei. Along the coastal road outside Kanazawa City stood a single ancient pine tree. Long ago, when the Zeniya clan had been executed, Gohei’s third son Yōzō—being a prominent figure in lake reclamation projects—was deemed most guilty and subjected to crucifixion on this very road. At that time there had been many pine trees, but they gradually died off until now only a single tree remained. People called this Zeniya's Pine, and it had become one of Kanazawa's famous sights. After Mr. Imamura spoke at length about his desire to erect a stone monument here engraving the origin of the ancient pine’s name for posterity, he requested that I name the old pine and compose its epitaph. I declined, as I was not equal to the task.

May 19th. There was correspondence stating that Yaefuku of the Tomoe house had quit her work as a geisha and become a dance instructor.

May 21st. Rain fell.

May 22nd.

Rain falls, and it is cold. I have a stomachache.

It was the festival of Teppōzu Namiyoke Inari.

May 23rd. At Inagaki-tei in Daichi Kawagishi, there was a rehearsal of the Kiyomoto Kōfūkai. On my way back, I passed by the front gate of my old cottage in Hatagochō. The façade had changed and become a teahouse. I went out to Kawaramachi Denshatsū and looked at the night stalls. The bustling crowd scene differed not at all from what I had observed day and night four years prior. At that time, my illness had not yet grown severe; morning and evening I would stroll through nearby lanes and diligently edit the magazine Bunmei. Since moving to Tsukiji last year, my brush has remained utterly still. It is truly lamentable.

May 24th. Perhaps because I had caught a cold, my head ached and I felt unwell. As I leaned against the window at dusk and looked down at the alley, across the way in the new trees of the mistress houses and such, sparrows clamored noisily; on every house, the reed blinds hung in the windows remained unsoiled by dust—even in this stifling back alley of early summer, there was a spontaneously refreshing charm. When my sickly body beheld this scene, it only stirred deeper sorrow within me. By lamplight, I worked to proofread old manuscripts. This was in order to compile the fifth volume of the Complete Works.

May 25th. Newspapers daily reported on the Chinese anti-Japanese movement. In short, this was the result of our government’s militaristic governance by the Satchō clique. The pernicious effects of nationalism might lead to a decline in national prestige; it would be fortunate indeed if they did not ultimately imperil the nation itself.

May 27th.

At the Kiyomoto Association, I met Hiraoka Matsuyama’s two children.

May 28th.

I went to Sansaisha on Kanda Hitotsubashi-dōri.

May 29th. I spent the entire day revising old manuscripts. In the evening, Mr. Yamamoto, editor-in-chief of the magazine Kaizo, paid a visit.

May 30th.

Yesterday morning at eight o’clock, notification came from her home that the old woman who had served for many years had died of heart disease. This old woman was born to a farming family in Shibamata, Bushū Province. She had been the wife of Kyūsai, a masseur who frequented my house when I resided in Koishikawa. Not long after being widowed, she entered service at various households, and her dedication in supporting her mother-in-law and one child with meager wages was truly commendable. Around Meiji 28 or 29, from the time I moved my house to Ichibancho, she came and worked without cease. Over twenty years have passed since then. Last winter, when I sold the house in Okubo, I had intended to dismiss her as she requested; but as there was no one to replace her, I brought her along to my alleyway house in Tsukiji. However, around the middle of last month, she developed an eye ailment, so I granted her temporary leave to recuperate. Since then, having received no word from her even once up to today—a circumstance I had found puzzling—I was suddenly met with this tragic news. Though she was over sixty, as she had always been healthy, I had privately thought that perhaps this old woman—despite our lack of familial ties—would be the one to witness my final moments and perform a Buddhist memorial service for me. Yet how unfathomable a person’s lifespan proves to be.

May 31st. The new moon resembled a sickle. I walked along the coast of Akashichō.

June 1st. The wind remained cold. Mr. Okamura Shikō paid a visit.

June 3rd. Yesterday, in response to Shikōko’s request, I went to the Imperial Theater for the Genbunsha New Arts Theater Review Meeting and watched Umekō’s performance of Gappō ga Tsuji.

June 4th.

It had not rained for some time, but from evening onward wind and rain assailed the alley. The night in the back alley grew desolate from early evening, with neither the bark of dogs nor the sound of shamisen audible—only the cascading roar from the overflowing gutter resembling a waterfall. By lamplight, I sorted through old manuscripts.

June 5th. Though the rainy season had not yet begun, misty rain veiled the sky in haze. I attended the Genbunsha critique meeting and watched a performance at the Kabukiza theater. From this day onward, I don unlined garments.

June 6th. In the evening, I attended the Genbunsha critique meeting at the Wakamatsu residence in Nihonbashi. Dark clouds shrouded the sky, yet no rain fell. The sweltering heat was oppressive.

June 7th.

I was invited by Mr. Sasagawa Rinpu and drank at Kinsui in Okawabata. A few ukiyo-e dealers had also been invited and arrived. It was a consultation regarding the execution of the 150th memorial service for Suzuki Harunobu.

June 9th.

The Tsukiji Namiyoke Shrine held its festival for three days starting today.

June 10th. The day before yesterday at Kinsui, having been urged by Rinpusi and thus compelled to agree to draft an inscription for Kasamori Osen’s memorial, I composed the following crude text and mailed it. Kasamori Osen Memorial Inscription What defines our Land of the Rising Sun through endless nights sustained by women’s grace—what has reached acclaim across five continents—are ukiyo-e and Yoshiwara. For one hundred fifty years and more, Osen of Kagiya Teahouse in Kasamori has preserved her countenance in Harunobu’s ukiyo-e prints; her alluring fame endures undiminished. This year, discerning patrons of the capital have selected Harunobu’s death anniversary to raise a monument for Osen. Dated this summer of Taishō Kibī, June—when bonito reigns supreme—inscribed by Kafu in brief commemoration.

June 11th. It was said the rainy season had begun yesterday. From evening onward, thunder rumbled ceaselessly. June 14th. The temperature dropped to sixty-eight degrees.

Messrs. Kume and Uno from the Imperial Theater came.

June 15th.

I entered apprenticeship with Tsuruga Wakadayū. I practiced the Shinnai piece “Ranchō.” Lately, there had been frequent reports of Kiyomoto musicians’ extravagance and presumption; accordingly, I intended to cease my patronage of Kiyomoto altogether.

Sanosuke sent a picture postcard from England.

June 17th. At Meiji-za, I watched a rehearsal performance by lower-ranking young actors. I met Koyamauchi Hiraoka's two children and had dinner at Fūgetsudō in Ginza on my way back.

June 18th. Ariyuki read Uzurakoromo.

June 19th.

Cloudy, with a cool wind. In the afternoon, I strolled through Asakusa Park. Behind Kannon Hall, all the well-known sake shops and archery parlors had been demolished, their site now undergoing road construction that erased every trace of its former appearance. Many people accompanied by Yoshiwara prostitutes and their madams were strolling through the park. How the world ceaselessly transforms in but a moment's inattention—it leaves nothing but astonishment.

June 21st. Proofreading of Collected Works Volume Two was completed.

June 22nd. On Ginza Avenue, I met the painter Mr. Okano Sakae.

June 24th.

Clear skies; steadily, the heat intensified.

June 25th. I visited Painter Hiraoka at Kagetsu. Our informal conversation lasted until midnight.

June 26th. Rain fell. I handed over the manuscript for Collected Works Volume Three to Shunyōdō’s messenger.

June 27th.

Clear skies.

In the evening, at the Kiyomoto gathering, I unexpectedly met Aoyamako. I drank at Sanjūgenbori Miyukitei.

June 29th. A rehearsal gathering of Kiyomoto Umekichi’s disciple performers, Ichigikai. Held at Yūraku-za. With sparse attendance, I felt an inexplicable sense of desolation.

In recent years，it became popular for masters of performing arts—not limited to Kiyomoto nagauta—to rent theater spaces and conduct rehearsals. Yet neither masters nor disciples showed any further advancement in their artistry；rather，there was a tendency toward decline. I surmised that when geisha of our time learn the shamisen，it is not out of love for the art；rather，it must be solely for appearing in public venues to sell their reputations. Literary men take up their brushes solely to see their names in magazines；performers pluck their strings without understanding the meaning of it all. To lament the decline of the artistic path is itself an act of folly.

July 1st. It was said to be a commemorative holiday for the signing of the peace treaty marking Germany’s surrender. Factories and banks had all suspended business. Even in the back alleys, every house put out national flags. The frequent sound of fireworks being launched in the Hibiya area could be heard. The people of the back alleys seemed to have all left their homes for leisure, rendering the neighborhood uncharacteristically quiet for daytime, with only the sound of the cool breeze rustling bamboo blinds standing out to the ear. All day, I boiled paste and pasted closet walls while formulating the draft of a short essay I might title “Night of the Festival.” Beginning from recollections of the Constitution Promulgation Festival around Meiji 23 [1890], and continuing to write down whatever came to mind—the recent holiday commemorating Korea’s annexation, or the bustle of the Imperial Enthronement’s night festivities—the contrast between myself, a mere recluse, and the era at large would naturally emerge in faint traces through such accounts.

July 4th.

All day the rain fell without ceasing.

July 5th. The rain ceased, and suddenly it grew hot. It seemed the rainy season had already passed. The entire neighborhood bustled with laundry work; the sound of fetching and splashing water never ceased; the foul stench of cheap soap filled the air, nauseating to the chest.

July 6th. Rain fell again. The toothache grew severe; I could not sleep all night.

July 7th. Shunyōdō delivered the royalties for Collected Works Volume Two. The sum was six hundred and seventy-five yen. In the evening, I went to the Shinbashi Enbujo Theatre and saw Mr. Okamoto Kidō’s play *A Night of Rain*.

July 8. The rain ceased, but the wind grew bitterly cold. I closed the window and read Mr. Rohan’s Yūjō-ki.

July 9th. Though it was Sensō-ji Temple's 46,000th Day Festival, the sky had cleared unexpectedly and a cool breeze stirred. In the afternoon, I went to Mitsubishi Bank. As I rode in the carriage, I pondered deeply—if I were to write down recollections of those ambiguous days that felt cool like summer yet warm like winter, I might craft an exquisite short essay.

In the evening, there was a Genbunsha theater viewing and critique meeting at Nihonbashi Wakamatsuya.

July 12th.

Mr. Kōsai paid a visit. I was commissioned by the National Literary Arts Association to write a script. At night in Ginza’s Tsukushi Market, I met the proprietor of Kagetsuro and had a light drink at Plantain Tei.

July 13th.

The wind was fierce and cold as late autumn. Though the weather had been unseasonable，this year I had fortunately experienced no stomachaches. Yet since Old Woman Shin’s passing，daily matters grew nearly unbearable. I went to Ginza Fūgetsudō and took my evening meal.

July 19th. Thunder rumbled; a sudden downpour arrived. It was reported that the Ryōgoku River opening had been canceled.

July 20th. The heat grew harsher. I went out to the drying platform on the roof to cool off. At a single glance, the squalor of the back alleys below revealed—as always—the Japanese way of life: devoid of any order, indolent and unclean. Though the public vehemently emphasized that modern Japanese life stood on the brink of crisis, a glimpse into such actual conditions revealed that citizens’ lives remained as disorderly and merely squalid as ever, while the lack of individual awakening appeared no different from feudal times of old.

July 21st.

At Inagaki on the Asakusa Daishi riverbank, there was a Kiyomoto Kofūkai rehearsal. From the upper floor, the view of Hyakuhongi stakes across the water appeared particularly fine. I moved our seats to a barge moored at the pier and drank with two or three geishas. After waiting for the rehearsal to conclude, I went by carriage with the geisha Chiyogiku and others from below the scull to Kotamitei in Kobikichō. Old Man Noma loaded a group including the apprentice geisha Wakachiyo onto a motorboat, circled around Tsukiji’s waterways along the coast, and likewise came to Kotamitei for dinner.

July 22nd. Having heard that Mr. Hiraoka, proprietor of Kagetsu, possessed many paintings by Tanaka Totsugen, I went to view them.

July 23rd.

I viewed a puppet theater at Yūraku-za. It was performed by the Osaka Bunraku Troupe. At a time when Edo-period theater and jōruri were all on the verge of decay, I came to appreciate all the more the preciousness of Osaka’s puppet theater. The form of the face and hair of the Oshun puppet I observed this evening bore a resemblance to the women seen in Torii Kiyonaga’s woodblock prints. It must have adopted an old form from around the Tenmei and Kansei eras. The puppet of Matsuōmaru seen in the scene of Sakurumaru’s seppuku brought to mind Harushō’s nishiki-e.

July 24th. With the wind blowing, the summer heat became slightly more bearable. Since my humble house lacked space for airing books, I spread them out on the rooftop drying platform.

July 25th. The proofreading sheets for Volume Three of the Collected Works began on this day.

July 26th. The heat was intense; my tooth ached.

July 28th. Again I attended a jōruri puppet performance at Yūraku-za. I met Miyazono Chiharu by chance. On the return journey, a sudden rain struck; a cool wind washed away the blazing heat.

July 29th. I read Dr. Yokoi’s *Dai Nihon Nōshoden*.

July 30th. For two or three days, the skies hung heavy with clouds while the sultry heat grew oppressive; torrential rains would sweep in only to vanish abruptly. This rhythm of deluge and respite—falling, ceasing, then falling anew—bore uncanny resemblance to the great autumn flood that had inundated the capital in 1910.

July 31st. The Genbunsha Drama Critics' Roundtable was held at Wakamatsuya in Nihonbashi. When I asked Mr. Oka Onitaro about the puppet theater at Yūraku-za this evening, he replied that lately even the puppets were not worth seeing. Transferring Ganjirō’s mannerisms into puppets to cater to the audience’s tastes—such outrageous acts occur frequently. Moreover, it was not said that those who had come to Yūraku-za this time were Kyoto puppets. This night was fortunately without rain, yet the skies grew increasingly unsettled; the wind carried a fishy stench.

It was reported that various newspapers in the capital would suspend publication for the time being due to a typesetting workers' wage increase movement. It was Mr. Iharada's account.

August 1st. The sudden rain did not let up. For the Genbunsha joint review meeting, I watched Kikugorō’s *Botan Dōrō* at the Imperial Theater. Being the opening day, the intermissions were long, and the curtain call approached 1 a.m., well past midnight. In the rain, I returned home sharing an umbrella with Ikeda Daigoko.

August 2nd. I viewed the Bunraku-za puppet theater at Shinbashi Enbujō. By chance, I met Master Painter Okada.

August 3rd. It was the Genbunsha joint review meeting. At the meeting, I met Mr. Uda Torahiko for the first time.

August 4th.

Mr. Tanizaki Jun'ichirou visited. I was requested to write a preface for his work *Modern Collection of Love Follies*. The rain gradually let up, but the wind began to blow, and as night fell, it took on the appearance of a storm.

August 5th.

The dark clouds dispersed, and the weather turned clear. A cool breeze heralded autumn. In the afternoon, I went for a stroll. I boarded the Yamanote train and unexpectedly passed by the vicinity of my old residence in Okubo. My emotions were boundless.

August 6th. I had business in Marunouchi. On the way, I rested in the shade of the trees at Hibiya Park.

August 7th. The half-moon looked lovely. The view of Akashi-cho’s canal resembled viewing Hokusai’s perspective prints.

August 8th. I drafted a preface for Mr. Tanizaki’s new work *Modern Collection of Love Follies* and mailed it.

August 9th. Again I viewed the puppets at Shinbashi Enbujō. Unexpectedly, I met Yaetsugu inside the venue. Night. The moon was beautiful.

August 10th. The evening coolness flowed like water. I went to the ferry landing at Tsukuda in Akashi-cho and viewed the moon.

August 11th.

Tonight again, the moon shone brightly; a cool breeze blew ceaselessly. Even in Tokyo’s back alleys, summer held such coolness as this. The mentality of those who went to resort inns and spent money there was beyond my comprehension.

August 12th.

Although midday heat reached about ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit, the wind turned cool come evening. At Shinbashi Enbujō, I watched the third program change: *Gappō* and *Sakaya*. Tonight the moon was also beautiful.

August 13th. I read the Yuefu Zalu recorded in Tangren Shuohui.

August 14th. All day, heavy rain washed away the scorching heat.

August 15th. The wind was cold. I felt unwell. In the afternoon, a person from Shunyōdō came and requested the proofreading for the reprint of the second volume of the collected works.

August 16th. I had a stomachache. It was cold enough that I wanted to wear a lined haori. When my ailing body met with unseasonable weather, my spirits suddenly sank, and melancholy knew no bounds.

August 17th. The cold surpassed that of the previous day. Misty rain hung hazily throughout the day. I read Tangren Shuohui.

August 19th. My cold and stomachache had not abated.

August 21st. I visited Ōishi Kokushu and requested prepared medicine.

August 22nd. At Fūgetsudō, I unexpectedly met Mr. Kōmiya Toyotaka.

August 23rd.

In the garden of the neighboring geisha house, I heard cicadas singing.

August 26th. The heat returned. I proofread Volume Three of the Collected Works. My cold remained unhealed.

August 29th. I had a fever.

September 1st. Having heard that members of the Imperial Opera Company from before the Russian Revolution would perform opera at the Imperial Theater for fifteen days starting today, I asked Mr. Kume to purchase tickets in advance. Tonight’s performance was the Italian opera Aida. I had never imagined that I would be able to hear opera in a Japanese theater, and on such a sweltering summer evening at that. The great turmoil in Europe has indeed brought about results that must be called the most unexpected of all possible outcomes. I cannot record here the disordered impressions of this night.

September 2nd. This evening there was a performance of Toraivyata. The scorching heat, upon entering September, had instead grown more intense. The theater’s interior was like a greenhouse. When I recalled how I had repeatedly heard this piece in theaters of New York and Rio in years past—those times when I would return to my boarding house through midnight snow—it somehow felt like listening to an entirely different composition now.

September 3rd. I listened to *Faust*. The lingering summer heat grew increasingly severe.

September 4th.

I listened to *Carmen*. On my way home, I drank with Painter Matsuyama at Pulantan.

September 5th. There was a performance of Boris Godunov. Due to the intense autumn heat, my body was greatly fatigued.

September 6th. I lay bedridden all day.

September 7th. I requested Dr. Ōishi’s visit by telephone, but he did not come in the end.

September 8th.

The moon is lovely. It must be the full moon of the seventh month in the old calendar.

September 9th. Night. There was rain. This was the first rain since September began.

September 10th. My cold has not healed.

September 11th. Dr. Ōishi came for an examination. It rained all day.

September 12th. The rain did not cease. The lingering heat departed, and the autumn chill suddenly assailed my sickly frame. That night, I removed the mosquito net.

September 13th. Autumn rain pattered on. The surroundings lay desolate. It was conducive to lying ill.

September 14th. The rain cleared, and the lingering heat returned once more. My illness and suffering were severe.

September 15th. I went to the Imperial Theater and listened to *Boris Godunov* again.

September 16th. The wind and rain were severe. The ramshackle house trembled; sleep proved elusive. I had grown utterly weary of this back-alley lonely dwelling. I could not suppress thoughts of traveling abroad.

September 18th. At dusk, I went to the Thursday Association, met the members, and spoke of our long-severed bonds. An evening’s idle talk with old friends—it seemed a century’s sorrows had found solace.

September 19th.

Since Kagetu Magazine ceased publication, there had been no word from Aajishi for some time, but now he suddenly came to visit. Kozanjin had left the Mainichi Newspaper Company every evening.

September 20th.

I had a slight ailment; my heart remained gloomy, finding no joy. Occasionally, when the former courtesan Yaefuku was invited to a neighborhood tavern, I would encounter her passing by the lattice front of my crude dwelling.

September 21st. The Russian émigré opera company performed Tosca this afternoon. For ten years since my return to Japan, I had not once had the opportunity to hear Western music; but upon unexpectedly being able to listen to an opera this time, all interest in taking up the shamisen again completely vanished. I knew there was a Kiyomoto Association gathering at Yūrakuza this evening but did not go.

September 22nd. At mention of the autumn equinox, I found myself inexplicably overcome with desolation at the rear of the house. Though the sky cleared splendidly that day, the lingering summer heat still held fierce. Sunlight pouring in from the drying area on the back roof glared as harshly as midsummer. Memories returned unbidden—of afternoons long ago in my Ōkubo country home, when on days like this I would spread balsam and cockscomb seeds across the veranda to dry—and an unbounded sadness welled within me. Just then, roused by children’s raucous shouts outside the window, I went to investigate and found a stray dog struck by an automobile, the youngsters clustered about beating and tormenting it. Whenever I glimpsed the town’s ruffians or that policeman’s bristling face, I thought how dearly I wished to abandon this house and flee abroad at once.

September 23rd. When someone came and repeatedly informed me that there was a suitable house for sale in the precincts of Higiri Jizōson in Shiba Shirogane Sankō-chō, I went to inspect it in the afternoon. The garden’s rear—where a single hedge continued into the cemetery—was quiet and not without charm; however, since the front adjoined a slum, it had been left as it stood. My current lodging being but a temporary arrangement from the start, I found myself lately unable to bear the oppressive narrowness of my surroundings. Though the traffic of military horses here lacked Ōkubo’s ferocity, I nevertheless wished to establish my dwelling in Yamate, where trees stood in abundance.

On my way back, I rested at the tea pavilion by Hyōtan Pond in Shiba Park. The autumn sun had already begun to sink, and soon the twilight’s faint light drifted among the trees—a scene beyond words. When I lived in my Ōkubo residence long ago, the parks in the city had evoked nothing but futile disgust; yet now, gazing upon even a modest cluster of trees immediately stirred a sense of cool clarity within me. Though regret was hard to suppress, when I bitterly reflected again, there was nothing to be done about the fate of this solitary existence. My wanton life, having reached forty years of age, seemed to have completely reached an impasse. While reading the poetry collection "The Mirror of Time" by Renée that I had brought along, I drank tea. When I exited the park, it was already night. I dined alone at Fūgetsudō in Ginza and proceeded to the Mita Literary Society. I discussed the old days of wandering through Paris with Mr. Yosano Hiroshi after a long interval.

September 24th. The Russian opera company held its final performance. The two pieces were *Pariyacchi* and *Kawareriyarusuchikana*. After leaving the theater, I visited Umenokōji-chō's studio with Messrs. Kume and Matsuyama and Mr. Hiraoka. We dined together at Seiyōken. In the dining hall, I saw a man in French military uniform and four or five women who appeared to be Russian, each sitting at their own tables. Whenever I observed their manner of conversation, I could scarcely suppress my wanderlust. Yet now in this weary and ailing body—can I truly lead a wandering life as I did in years past? When I think of this, tears well up unbidden, and I cannot hold them back.

September 25th.

Rain falls; the night is cold. At home, I wear a serge single-layer garment.

September 26th.

Though it was a day of perfect autumn clarity, I stayed idly at home. That evening, I went to see the experimental performance at Matsuenshi's Free Theater.

September 27th. The autumn-clear sky stretched unmarred by clouds. I heard there was a suitable house for sale in Takanawa Minami-chō and went to see it. As I passed by the gate of Rakutenkyo, I stopped to renew our old acquaintance, but the master was absent. I walked back from Sarumachi through Nihon'enoki.

September 28th. In the afternoon, I went to Kanda Sansaisha. On the way, I visited Matsuenshi in Surugadai. In the evening, we conversed until it was time for him to leave for work at Jiyū Gekijō.

September 29th. An employee from Tokyo Building Company came and informed me that there was a plot of land for sale in Koishikawa Kanetomi-chō, approximately seventy tsubo in size. The autumn sun already beginning to sink, I went to inspect it under the employee’s guidance. Since Kanetomi-chō marks my birthplace, I resolved that if circumstances allowed, I would purchase this land to build a cottage and make it my final abode. Ascending Kongōji Slope and turning at Akago Bridge—where I first uttered infant cries—I found the plot situated behind Dr. Tajiri’s residence, adjacent to the home of Mr. Ishibashi, known as Shian Gaishi. Passing through the tilting gate, I saw broken storm shutters, crumbling walls, and decayed tatami. Weeds choked the garden until walking became impossible. A lone persimmon tree stood in one corner. Its fruits bore faint hues as though awaiting visitors, while a few lingering wild chrysanthemums and begonias by the shoe-removal stone deepened the pathos of the scene. Exiting the gate, I called on Mr. Ishibashi to inquire about the neighborhood. We conversed briefly at his entranceway before I took my leave. Seeing how abruptly age had overtaken him stirred emotions I could not suppress. Everything witnessed this day diverged from the ordinary—each sight stirred the heart without exception. The late autumn twilight hung dim as a dreamscape; this alone could explain it.

September 30th. Attended a play at Genbunsha Kabuki-za. The play was *A Single Paulownia Leaf*. That day, rain fell.

October 1st.

October 2nd.

A sudden rain fell. Genbunsha joint review meeting.

October 3rd. A fine day. I walked along the Ōkawa riverside.

October 4th. The autumn gloom was ideal for a leisurely stroll. I walked through Marunouchi, reached Kanda Furansho Shoin, and purchased two or three volumes of novels.

October 5th.

The autumn rain fell incessantly, and the wind gradually strengthened. The first chill seeped into the skin. The city filled with wind and rain evoked the sense of having passed the Double Ninth Festival.

October 6th.

The autumn gloom was dreamlike. I visited Mr. Ishibashi and ceased making direct inquiries to the landowner regarding the transfer of the neighboring house. The price was not satisfactory. On the return path, I made an offering at the Daikokuten shrine within Dentsū-in’s precincts. When I looked at the Venerable Pindola in the hall, one eye was missing and the bib was torn. The floorboards of the hall building also had areas that had decayed. Tiles had fallen, and pigeons too had grown scarce. In my youth, many would visit this Daikokuten shrine; when I recalled how the votive plaques within the hall and diverse array of offerings once thrived, I could no longer bear to look upon today’s ruinous state—thus I departed through the gate. I descended Andōzaka, climbed the stone steps of Ushitenjin, and rested briefly beneath the trees.

October 7th. The autumn rains continued unceasingly. Oka Kitarō came for a visit.

Next month, as Matsuenshi was to begin working at Kabuki-za, a new play script was requested of him. As my illness left me dispirited and unable to take up the brush, I declined.

October 8th. The Mid-Autumn moon was fine. I walked along Akashimachi Coast. Last year’s Mid-Autumn fell on September 19th and was similarly clear. Two consecutive years brought splendid nights. A rare occurrence indeed.

[Marginal note in red ink] Change "仲" to "中".

October 9th. The late autumn sky cleared completely. Unable to endure seclusion in my humble abode, I walked to pay homage at Meguro Fudō’s shrine. Resting at the wayside teahouse by the Sōmon gate and gazing out over the temple grounds, I saw that the stretch of hillocks beyond the Sanmon had fallen into shadow, the crowns of the ancient trees grown especially dark. The setting sun hung low between the mixed grove beside the wayside teahouse, casting a sharp, slanting light upon the flat ground before the mountain gate. From beyond the thicket of trees came the distant sounds of a construction site. When I considered how the suburbs continued to spread open, even the sound of the falling waterfall no longer felt desolate. From the direction of Ōkuni’s house, the sound of a geisha’s shamisen had also begun to be heard. This place too would likely not be far from becoming vulgarized like the precincts of Tsunohazu Jūniso Shrine. As I was about to leave the wayside teahouse, I happened to notice a woman who appeared to be the wife of this household—around twenty-two or twenty-three years old, her hair in a round chignon fastened with a red cord, wearing a meisen silk short coat with a carp-collar. Her appearance, though slightly disheveled, was not uncomely. I found myself recalling, for no particular reason, Master Ryūrō’s masterful novels—*Hone Nusumi* and *Motare Ito*—and their vivid character portrayals. On the return path, I visited Rakanji, and as I hurried along the way, I saw the sixteenth-night moon rising from Chiyogasaki’s hillocks. In the grassy thickets by the roadside, the chorus of insects swelled.

October 10th. Recalling the pleasure I had felt when writing *Hiyori Geta* during yesterday’s suburban excursion, today too—taking advantage of the fine weather—I boarded the Yamanote Line train from Yurakuchō. As we neared Shinagawa, the entire sky abruptly darkened, with thunder and sudden rain resembling the dog days of summer. Resolving to wait out the rain’s passing, I kept sitting in my carriage; then suddenly leaving Shinjuku behind, we ultimately reached Ueno Station. Having no alternative but to disembark, I took shelter from the rain at Sannōdai’s tea pavilion. As dusk approached, I heard the withered lotus leaves of Shinobazu Pond rustling bleakly in the evening wind. Cherish this desolation. I returned home through deepening darkness. I had not walked in the suburbs these three or four years since falling ill. This day’s sight of development along the railway tracks left me astonished. The disorderly jumble of small workshops and tenements presented a scene more unsightly than even the city’s outermost slums. The Japanese people appear ultimately incapable of constructing proper cities. The withering of ancient cedars and pines in Ueno Park exceeded all expectations. After supper I proofread my old work *Hiyori Geta* along with other writings. In night’s deepest hour, rain ceased and moon shone crystalline clear.

October 11th. At noon, I visited Dr. Ōishi at Nakasu Kawagishi Hospital. The eminent physician was not present. I returned home fruitlessly. In the afternoon I left home again, strolled through Hibiya Park, rested on a bench beneath the trees, and read Milbo’s short story collection *Pepped Cider*. At night, after proofreading Volume Three of the Complete Works, I revised my old writings until late at night. The seventeenth-night moon slanted, illuminating the window.

October 12th.

In the morning, a clerk from Takedaya in Kanda Suehirochō brought the Geien Sōsho. In the afternoon, after a nap, I read among the trees of Hibiya Park. The slanting sun of late autumn shone upon the yellow leaves.

October 13th. My niece Mitsuyo of Shitaya sent a picture postcard requesting that I come to the girls' school commemorative event. Nothing moves people as profoundly as the writings of the young. I waited for the sudden rain to clear and went to the girls' school in Asakusa Shichikenchō. The school was located near Mizoten Soshidō Hall. Within the school grounds, I encountered Sadajirō Ōkubo's Mother of Shitaya. My emotions were boundless. In this regard too, Izasaburō's attitude was truly detestable. But now, it was best to say nothing at all. In the afternoon, I returned home and sat at my desk. Since moving to Tsukiji, today marked the first time I had felt inclined to take up my brush—such joy defied description.

October 15th. At dusk, I climbed Atagoyama. The roofs of the city houses below gradually darkened, and as I gazed long upon the sun’s descent, a certain mood arose of its own accord. Li Shangyin’s “The setting sun is infinitely good...” When he said “It’s just that dusk is near,” was it with such thoughts as these? I had wished to dine at the mountain hotel, but as it had been reserved for the French Aviation Corps, they declined temporary guests and would not admit me. Having no choice but to go to Ginza, I drank at Fūgetsudō. I read Estonié’s novel *L’Empreinte* in bed.

October 16th. I dined with Aajishi at Sanjukkenbori Fukkitei and proceeded to the Thursday Haiku Gathering. A few years ago, Fukkitei had served matcha for a mere one yen, but now it had become four yen per person. This night the dew lay heavy and the wind bit cold.

October 17th. The weather was perfectly clear. I spent the entire day proofreading and writing.

At dusk, I walked along Aihikibashi Kawagishi-dori, went out to Ginza to purchase groceries, and returned home.

October 18th. The fine weather of Indian summer persisted. A year with as little rain as this must have been rare. Every day at dusk, I walked along the seaside avenue in Akashichō to view the waterscape.

October 19th.

Clear.

October 20th. Clear.

October 21st. I read Rocchi’s work *Turquie Agonisante*. It bitterly deplores the wrongful aggressive policies of Europe’s Christian nations toward Turkey. In the afternoon, I went to Nakasu Hospital.

October 22nd.

Clear. Having completed the draft of my essay *Hanabi*, I transcribed a clean copy. The proofreading of the printed sheets for Volume Three of the Complete Works was finally nearing completion.

October 23rd. At the Thursday Gathering, I conversed with a man from Cochin named Huang Diao. Huang Diao understood French well. He said that for many years he had researched new methods of mathematics derived from the Eight Trigrams of the I Ching, devised techniques for transcribing the pronunciations of various languages, and had come to Japan to propagate these two arts. On the return journey, autumn rain fell densely.

October 24th. I went to the French Bookstore at the corner of Ogawamachi and purchased two or three volumes of Estonié’s novels. I returned home after viewing the festival at Yasukuni Shrine.

October 25th. Aajishi came. I drank at the Katsufūē Café in Ginza in the rain.

October 26th. The proprietor of the publishing house Bunkyūsha paid a visit.

October 27th. The warmth resembled early summer. The willows along the streets remained green. I drank with Aajishi at the Momokawa tavern in Ushigome. In the garden grounds, insects still sang.

October 28th.

At night, the Mita Literary Society meeting was held at Sasaya. On the way back, I met Okamura Kakukōko on the street in Owari-chō and drank at Seishinken.

October 29th. I conducted a thorough cleaning. I moved the dust to Hibiya Library. I observed that the sasanqua camellias had already scattered their blossoms, while the fatsia was just beginning to form its flowers. I recalled the garden of the Ōkubo old residence and was filled with melancholy.

October 30th. I went to the French Bookstore and stopped by the Imperial Theater, where I chanced to meet Matsuba Ko, who had newly returned from abroad.

November 1st.

I viewed a house for sale in Akasaka Hikawa-chō. On the way, I passed through the precincts of Hikawa Shrine. The towering trees here were more luxuriantly dense than those in Shibazono or even Ueno. That such a serenely secluded place still existed within the city was an unexpected joy. Upon returning home in the evening, I found a letter from Ji-kun. Around this time last year, I had resented both people and the world utterly—having left my ancestors’ former residence and yearned instead to fill some ravine—yet now, at this very moment when memories of bygone days returned unbidden with nostalgia, receiving word from Ji-kun moved me profoundly. I drafted a reply and dropped it into a postbox on the street in the autumn rain. All night long, the sound of rain dripped desolately.

November 2nd. In the evening, on Ningyōchō Avenue, I unexpectedly met the geisha Kikugorō of Ushigome. She said she had recently moved to Yoshichō. In the evening, Mr. Gotō Haruki, a member of the Thursday Gathering, came and persistently requested the manuscript of a novel to be published in a certain regional newspaper.

November 3rd.

I observed the athletic meet at Shitaya Shichikenchō Girls' School.

November 5th. Cloudy and sultry. In the afternoon, I took a walk around Azabu. I stopped by the Imperial Theater. This night marks the first Tori-no-Ichi.

November 6th. It was said to be the Thirteenth Night.

November 8th. Hearing there was land for rent in Azabu Ichibei-chō, I went to inspect it. On my return, I stopped at Gazenbō. The ceaseless undulations of this terrain revealed an unexpectedly fine scene—the view of rocky cliffs swathed in early winter's twilight haze. When I emerged before Nishinokubo Hachimangu Shrine, I saw the full moon ascending. After returning home, I read Mme Noyelle's novel *A New Hope*.

November 9th. Shunyōdō had been frequently requesting the publication of a new work these past few days. However，since moving to Tsukiji，I had not taken up brush and ink. Fortunately，I recalled having old manuscripts concerning ukiyo-e；compiling them under the title *Edo Art Theory*，I presented it to them. In the afternoon，I went to Yotsuya and visited Ofu，who had once served in my household.

November 10th.

Around noon, Mother came to visit. Since even offering a bowl of coarse tea in the alley’s shabby house proved difficult, I guided [her] to Fūgetsudō to share lunch together.

November 11th. Rain fell. I sent the provisions from Seiyōken that I had promised yesterday to Mother’s residence.

November 12th.

I again inspected the rental land in Azabu Ichibei-chō. On the way back, I walked through the precincts of Hikawa Shrine. The yellow leaves on the rocky cliffs were resplendent everywhere. The evening wind turned gradually colder.

November 13th.

I decided to rent the plot of land on the cliff in Ichibei-chō. I summoned Nagai Kihei, an employee of the construction company, and entrusted all procedures to him. I intended to await next spring, build a hermitage, and retire into seclusion. In the evening, I went to the Thursday Gathering meeting.

November 14th. Looking through last year's diary, I saw that the agreement to sell the Okubo property had been made on November 13th. This year on the same month and day, I executed the land lease certificate. One must call this remarkable.

In the evening, Aāko came.

November 15th.

Hearing that Izusaburō was absent, I went to Nishiōkubo and paid my respects to Mother’s kind countenance. Pastor Washizu also came. For the first time, I experienced the joy of a family gathering.

November 17th. Cloudy and warm. I read through Mme Noailles' novel *The Face of Jade*. The poems of this poetess were those I had cherished reciting through past years without cease. Today I took up a volume or two of her novel to read, but how vastly they fell short of her poetry.

November 18th.

Rain. The streets are like marshes; one cannot walk. In Wang Cihui’s regulated verse there is a line: “Autumn rains just past, the streets turn to canals.” Amidst the sound of muddy footsteps, I shut my door and stay within. there is one that says, It is indeed an actual scene.

November 19th. Warm wind; again, rain.

November 20th. Clear. A memorial meeting for Hosokawa Fūtani was held at the Yūraku-za theater. I met Aoiyamako.

November 21st.

The cold rain did not cease all day. In the evening, I passed through Owari-chō to dine. By chance, I met Old Man Ōhiko. He remains as hale as ever.

November 22nd. Taketaya came for discussion.

November 23rd.

I purchased Chinese narcissus at Yoshishōdō in Ginza and visited Mother in the afternoon. The maple leaves before the garden were like brocade. I saw the white cat that had been taxidermied in the alcove of Mother’s room. This was Koma, the male cat Mother had kept for many years; the black spots near its ears made it unmistakable without needing to ask. Eight years ago, when the geisha Yaetsugu frequented my study, Mother received a kitten from the barber’s house in Tsunomizusaka, named it Koma, and lovingly raised it. Since then, there had been no mice in the house—Koma fulfilled his duties admirably to repay our kindness—yet the geisha left and never returned, serving only to show how human affections prove more fickle than even a beast’s. That night, Mother spoke in detail of how Koma, weakened with age, had approached death. I was reminded of Pierre Loti’s essay in *The Book of Death and Sorrow* depicting an old cat’s demise, and my sorrow deepened all the more.

November 24th. The cold rain that had come with nightfall scarcely ceased. I attended the Mita Literary Tea Gathering and met Mr. Takitarō Mizukami. On my way back, I inquired with Mr. Kume about Painter Hiraoka’s illness. Sanosuke Sayoko came.

November 25th. The north wind blew fiercely, and suddenly it grew cold.

November 26th. I was invited by Matsuenshi and drank at Suehiro in Higashi-Nakadori. Kawarazaki Gonjūrō, Kawajiri Seitan, and Seto Eiichi—the three also came. On the way back, I was invited by Seitan and went to a teahouse called Tōka in Shingaku-shindō, where we drank again. At Kawasaki-ya, adept at salon talk, he recounted how years ago when visiting Yoshiwara’s Mankai-ro, he had seen a prostitute slashed by a client in a late-night hallway encounter and had fled into the privy. Seitan also told a tale of a ship captain and a phantom cat, which caused the assembled geishas to shudder; he then clapped his hands in delight. I returned home after midnight.

November 27th. Clear and warm. At noon, I went to Nakasu Hospital. My chronic ailment was reported to have greatly improved. In the evening, I attended the Thursday Society meeting. The night view of Takanawa - the new moon floating above the sea - resembled ukiyo-e prints of celebrated vistas from times long past.

November 28th. The cold rain did not let up. Under the lamplight, I simmered carmine and printed ruled paper for manuscript use.

December 1st. Minami Hidetarō came to discuss a matter regarding Mita Bungaku.

December 2nd. I attended Shinbashi-za. Presumably for the Genbunsha Discussion Meeting.

December 3rd.

I guided Mother to view the Imperial Theater.

December 4th. Afternoon Genbunsha critique session. Subsequently, a celebration banquet for Kido and Matsuba’s return to Japan. Both were held at Nihonbashi Wakamatsu-ya. A half-moon floated in the sky; pale smoke, hazily enveloping the town, resembled a spring night.

December 5th. I was invited to Matsuenshi’s house and had lunch with Old Man Ōhiko, Ensyō, and others.

In the south-facing small garden stood one or two frost-laden celosia stalks, their frozen forms possessed of poetic charm. One must admire Matsuenshi's refined sensibility in cherishing these winter-withered autumn grasses.

December 6th. A cold rain fell ceaselessly. I went to Fūgetsudō and had dinner.

Since the old woman Oshin passed away, my household has yet to find a good maid. Nightly I came to take my evening meal at Fūgetsudō. Wine cup in hand while perusing a book spread open on the table, I found myself recalling those days abroad when I took all three daily meals at street-side cafés—a memory that rendered the present loneliness unbearable. I read A Mistake in Life by one Laurent Vineul purchased yesterday. This work features a bachelor philosopher protagonist whose depicted experiences resonated through me with peculiar intensity. Most piercing was its account of the scholar raging against his maid’s cruelty during illness. What consoles my gloom today lies neither in women nor shamisen—French literature alone remains.

December 7th. Proofreading for Volume 3 of my Collected Works was completed.

December 8th. Clear and warm. At Fūgetsudō as usual, I had my evening meal and staggered drunkenly across Izumo Bridge. Tomorrow resides in heaven. The buildings on both banks cast their inverted reflections upon the water's surface. At the Seiyōken food market, when purchasing tomorrow's bread—which seemed freshly baked—the act of carrying it warmed my hands like a hand warmer. Crossing Uneme Bridge and walking along the water, the view of the moonlit canal grew ever more lovely. From the corner of Namiyoke Shrine, I returned home to my alleyway house along the river behind Hongan-ji Temple. The bright moon shone obliquely through the gaps between rooftops, illuminating the window. During my absence, Ginjirō the carpenter from Hakozakichō brought the blueprint for the Azabu construction.

December 9th. Clear and cold.

December 10th. In the late afternoon, Aaako visited. I drank at Seishinken in Ōwarichō. That night, Aaako—unusually refraining from heavy drunkenness—proposed adapting Arai Hakuseki's historical exploits into a dramatic script.

December 11th. Ikuta Kizan held a wedding reception at Rakutenkyo in Takanawa. On the way back, I drank with Noho, Okifune, Kifune, Aa, and others at a sake shop by Kanegasubashi Bridge. Because the streetcars had ceased running, I hired a rickshaw. Where did the others go? That I should wait until morning and ask the white seagulls flying over Shinagawa Bay.

December 12th. I heard that the National Theater would stage my old work Smoke in Three Acts. That night，I went to Yūraku-za and observed its rehearsal. By chance，I met both Kido and Beisai.

December 13th.

From morning onward, a light mixture of snow and rain alternated. At night, I attended the National Theater.

December 14th.

I had a slight ailment.

December 15th. I had a slight ailment. In the afternoon, Nagai Kihē came to discuss the matter of the Azabu leased land.

December 16th. My cold had not yet abated. The chill grew more severe with each passing day.

December 17th. Ichikawa Sanosuke came. A representative from Shunyōdō brought the publication notice for Volume 3 of Mr. Hayashi’s Collected Works and requested my signature and seal.

December 18th. Actress Hanada Ikuko came and presented me with a thirty-yen Mitsukoshi voucher as thanks for the performance of my old work.

December 19th. Clear and cold. At dusk, while on my way to an errand by car, I passed through Dote Sanbanchō. The view of the sunset gazing upon the heights of Ichigaya was most splendid.

December 20th. At Fūgetsudō, I happened upon Kikugorō and his wife. Each time Kikugorō met me, he would ask for a new play. While grateful for his consideration, today’s theaters are no longer places where art may truly be discussed. Though plans for scripts dwell within me, I find no will to take brush in hand.

December 23rd.

At Kyūkyodō’s storefront, I unexpectedly had the honor of meeting Professor Mori. He wore a suit and an old mantle, his mustache having turned half-white.

December 24th. Aaako came. I drank by the hearth at Seishinken for half a day. Rain fell at midnight.

December 25th. Clear and warm.

December 26th. Matsuenshi came to visit accompanied by his wife. In preparation for Mr. Okakura’s performance of the new play Kozaru Shichinosuke at the Meiji-za next spring, he had come to view my collection of sentimental novels and spring pictures as references for costume fittings and mannerisms.

This night was even warmer than the previous day.

December 27th.

In the afternoon, I visited Nakasu Hospital.

From Shōbu Riverbank, as I gazed out over the Ōkawa River, warm winter sunlight shone across the water’s surface. Among the cargo boats coming and going, some had pine decorations erected near their rudders. At the moored boats, boatmen’s children flew kites in play—it was as though viewing Hokusai’s View of Both Banks. In the evening, a Shunyōdō employee brought the bound copy of Collected Works Volume 3.

December 29th.

The wind was warm. I crossed Azuma Bridge and walked along the Ishihara Banba riverbank. December 30th. Clear skies. The warmth was like spring.

December 31st. Clear weather. In the afternoon, intending to observe the New Year's Eve scenes in the city, I strolled to the Kanda French Bookstore and purchased several volumes of Flaubert's complete works, including his letters and essays. I had dinner at Fūgetsudō, passed through the bustle of Ginza Street, and returned home. In bed, I perused Colette Willy’s novels *Lettres* and *Sentimental*, and before I knew it, dawn had broken. Suddenly, someone attempted to slide open the lattice door. When I got up to check, the postal courier had thrown in a bundle of New Year’s cards and departed. On the main street, the clatter of wooden clogs still did not cease. The voice of a drunken man singing as he went could also be heard.