Pathway to Japanese Literature

Kafū, aged forty-one.

New Year’s Day. A cloudy, cold day. Around nine o'clock I awoke, drank a bowl of chocolate in bed, ate a piece of croissant (crescent-shaped bread), and read from *Drafting Principles and Doubts* left unfinished last night. I have—so I state—for over ten years since returning to Japan taken toasted bread and jam each morning. This night I found myself unable to suppress a melancholy without cause. Wang Cihui’s verse: "Where sorrows overflow, there is a place to hear songs." I softly recited Wang Cihui’s verse—"Upon arriving to hear songs, tears fall anew"—and returned home at the third watch. The wind and rain passed; the stars stood vivid and dense.

January 2nd. Cloudy and cold. Around noon, I rose and went out to bathe at the public bath on the main street. In the afternoon I intended to visit the graves, but feeling a chill, I lay down again. In the evening, the moxibustion therapist came. At midnight, Yaefuku came and stayed over in her spring kimono with its hem pattern as it was. When I first saw this courtesan, she struck me merely as a docile woman, with nothing particularly noteworthy—but tonight, studying her form intently beneath the lamplight, I found her features uncannily reminiscent of Okina Ietomatsu from years past, particularly in the corners of her eyes and shape of her mouth. In the delicacy of her sloping shoulders, she surpassed even Neitomatsu in eerie allure. In the early morning, after Yaefuku had left, I lay upon my pillow and frequently found myself reminiscing about days gone by. When I awoke from sleep, the sun was already high.

January 3rd. 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 the house, I had ordered the gardener to transplant a wintersweet by the graveside; upon inspecting it, the flowers had not opened. The transplanting season was ill-timed—it must have withered. In the evening, I returned home. I copied Drafting Principles and Doubts. At midnight, Yaefuku came and stayed over.

January 4th. As days of intimacy with Yaefuku passed, their bond grew increasingly intense. Years of solitude surrounding me; suddenly I felt as though spring had arrived.

January 5th. The cold was severe. I spent the entire day copying Drafting Principles and Doubts.

January 6th. At Ko-Tokiwa in Hamachō, I drank with the proprietress of Masudaya, a brothel beneath the theater tower, and the courtesan Yaefuku. At Yozakuraki, I met Utazawa Shibakinu and spoke of the plum-blossom almanac. The day was warm.

January 7th. Intending to purchase apple bread and other provisions, I went to Ginza in the evening. The evening glow over Sanjukkenbori Kawazutsu-dori was exceedingly beautiful.

January 8th. They brought three households from the pleasure quarters said to be works of Takematsuya Saikaku. At Shunyōdō publisher’s request, I compiled Danchōtei Letters myself. Yaefuku’s nightly stays at my residence had continued without fail since January 2nd.

January 9th. Before noon, I practiced the Seishin shamisen at Umekichi’s place. In the afternoon, I compiled letters as on the previous day. This day saw the first rain since entering the year. The wife of the Masuda household brought Meiji-ya biscuits.

January 10th. Rain fell.

January 11th. At dusk, the rain cleared. The wind was warm. I dined alone at Fūgetsudō. I occasionally encountered the Umekichi couple coming by. It was said they were going to Fudeya Kōbei’s performance at the Ichimura-za. On my pillow, I read Gourmont’s novel Sikisuchin.

January 12th.

Overcast and sultry. The cough was severe. In the afternoon, I lay ill. I read Gourmont's novel. At night, I copied Drafting Principles and Doubts.

January 13th. Mr. Ōishi came for a consultation. At night, Takematsuya came to inquire about my illness. The wind was fierce; the cold was severe.

January 14th. Mr. Kurai paid a visit. I went to Sakuraki and dined together with him.

January 15th. My cold had not yet healed.

January 16th. I invited the elderly woman from Sakuraki to consult about removing the courtesan Yaefuku from the registry and establishing her under the name of an adopted daughter. I already knew my remaining life was not long and spared no mental effort concerning matters after death. My household was by no means wealthy yet neither entirely destitute; therefore when last year I visited a certain lawyer and inquired about the disposition of my inheritance, I learned that upon the death of a household head with no heir, the headship would pass to the closest blood relative among the kin. If one were to insist on avoiding this, there would be no other way than to establish an adopted son or daughter during one's lifetime—such was the explanation given. Since the courtesan Yaefuku fortunately had neither parents nor siblings and her disposition appeared exceedingly gentle, deeming her suitable to nurse my illness, I had begun consultations regarding this matter several days prior. When the elderly woman from Sakuraki secretly investigated her background, she found her to be an unforeseen parasite—a woman of such standing that not only was she unfit to be an adopted daughter, but one might even question whether she could be managed merely as a courtesan. With a laugh at how people are not as they appear, I let the matter remain secret as it was.

January 17th.

The day was clear and warm. I visited Miyazono Chiharu; due to illness, there was no practice.

January 18th. At Kasuga, I ate lunch. In the evening I had been invited to Sanshōan Katōsetsugo Hatsu, but owing to a slight ailment, I did not go. I went to bed early and read.

January 19th. I received a letter from Mr. Igawa. It concerned contributing to the 10th-anniversary commemorative issue of Mita Bungaku.

January 20th. Hachirō, the geisha from Shinbashi-chō, came to consult about wanting to practice Sonohachi-bushi.

January 22nd. I went to Ichimura-za with the geisha Hachirō, but upon encountering someone in the audience, we immediately turned back from the teahouse, proceeded to Kasuga for dinner, and returned home. This day was windless and warm.

January 24th. Cloudy and cold. The sky was that of a snowy evening. In the afternoon, I met Hachirō at Miyuki in Sanjukkenbori.

January 25th.

Sawaki Kozue and Igawa Shigeru—two individuals—paid a visit.

January 26th. The cold grew more severe with each passing day. In my lonely back-alley dwelling—where there wasn’t even a gas stove installed—upon waking in the morning, I ate bread and chocolate while still in bed; remaining thus without rising, I read until around noon. On this day, I proofread *Sneer*, the old work to be included in Volume 3 of my *Complete Works*.

January 27th. I summoned Hiranoya the pouch shop from Hamachō and had them repair my tobacco pouch.

January 28th. The proofsheets for *American Stories* arrived.

January 29th.

I purchased a telephone from Utsumi Denkiya at Yoroibashi Corner. I had originally disliked having a telephone at home; however, finding solitary living exceedingly inconvenient and there being no maids with any sense of attentiveness, and as I intended not to hire even a servant in the future, I diverted funds from my leisure pursuits to purchase a telephone. If I were to handle daily errands like those with fishmongers and greengrocers via telephone myself, there would be no need to employ maids or such. In any case, in modern Japanese life, a Western-style single life was exceedingly inconvenient and difficult to maintain.

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

January 31st. Snow fell from earliest dawn. It was as fine as sand.

February 1st. As Chiharu had recovered from her illness, Sonohachi-bushi practice began. I practiced Ohan. The Shibakane sisters of the Utazawa-bushi school also attended the Sonohachi practice session. Hachirō the geisha became a disciple and practiced shamisen at Toribeyama that day.

February 2nd. At Kotamitei in Umenomachi Kawashidōri, I invited Miyazono Chiharu, master of Sonohachi-bushi. Kotamitei was a place operated by the geisha Kotama, who was renowned for her skill in dance under the theater turret. It is said to have opened around last November.

February 3rd. Toward dawn, snow fell again. In bed, I proofread the old work Sneer.

February 4th. It was Setsubun. I went to Sakuragi with Hachirō the geisha and performed the Tsuina bean-throwing. The afternoon hung warm and muggy, as if steaming. When night fell, the cold turned suddenly severe, and in the dead hours a fierce wind rose up, shaking this shabby house in the back alley. I could not sleep.

February 5th.

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

February 7th. The master of Shunyōdō came and requested to have my clumsy verses made into woodblock prints and sold. Though I declined, since they did not heed me, I brushed the verses as follows. Resembling the face of Shibaraku: a decorative lobster.

A yukata rivaling summer theater actors! Tracing a figure-eight? The goldfish’s swimming path. This winter solstice envies the neighbor’s sunlight— Neighboring Ichi-chūsai—strewn pine needles.

February 8th. I walked along Higashi-Nakadori and stopped by Yazawa’s shop, but there was nothing in particular to buy. Having walked this street for ten years, there are now shopkeepers from the secondhand clothing stores and utensil shops lining both sides who recognize my face and offer greetings. Upon returning home, I found that proofsheets for my complete works had arrived in great quantity; thus I applied corrections until midnight.

February 9th.

From around noon, light snow began scattering down; it gradually intensified, and by evening had accumulated to such depths that walking grew arduous.

February 16th.

At night, Yaeji came.

February 17th. It was clear and warm. Having been persuaded by Hachirō, I went together to the Ichimura-za. The Harimaya Brothers' Osono Rokusuke proved a magnificent performance. Kikugorō’s Takatoki Tengu Dance was so poorly executed it became unbearable to watch. In the second-floor dining room I unexpectedly met Mr. Koyama; on the return journey I drank with Hachirō at Kasuga.

February 18th. I went to the Yūraku-za and watched the Akasaka geisha sarai. Rain fell this night.

February 19th. No wind and warm. Sakai Kōkōdō brought the Kunichika nishiki-e print series *Kaika Sanjūroku Kaiseki* that had been ordered beforehand.

February 24th. Kiyomoto-kai. On the way home, I encountered rain. Nights of the Kiyomoto-kai are often rainy. I drank at the Kiriya teahouse in Tsukiji. It was a house recently opened by the woman under the care of Suwa, the ukiyo-e merchant.

February 25th. The Mita Literary Society meeting was held 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 was like April.

February 27th. Ichikawa Ennosuke came to visit, and I inquired about his preparations for his upcoming journey to Europe and America—the state of his travel wardrobe and all other necessary arrangements. Occasionally, the two courtesans Chiyogiku and Hachirō from below the turret would visit, stopping by on their way back from Kiyomoto practice. The two women were greatly pleased to find Ennosuke present, and their conversation suddenly took on renewed vigor.

February 28th. At Sanjukkenbori Kasuga, I dined together with Ennosuke, Chiyogiku, Hachirō, and others. The spring breeze grew steadily warmer as the days passed. Yet there remained no means for the shabby house in the back alley to learn of the plum blossoms' tidings.

March 1st.

The spring warmth made even my old cotton clothes feel uncomfortably heavy. When I opened the window, the clatter of geta on the main street suggested summer's approach. That day, I entrusted Kabutochō broker Kataoka Shōten with one hundred shares of Ōji Paper Company stock certificates. I purchased one hundred shares of Inawashiro Hydroelectric Company. Presumably, this used funds from selling the house in Tei-chō.

March 3rd. News of the passing of the King of Korea. The shamisen and musical accompaniments had been officially suspended. However, there were also rumors that the city theaters would not close.

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

March 5th. I was invited to a rehearsal at the Meiji-za. After a long interval, I met Matsu Enjō. An antique red-ground Canton-striped haori. Over what might be taken for a Yuuki-omeshi kosode, I layered a red-striped Canton undergarment. An unreasonably austere taste.

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

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. The illness was not severe. 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. Occasionally there were times when I came to stay at my humble abode. Umekichi and all those under him were women who carried themselves like courtesans.

March 13th. The wind was cold. Kuroda Kozan sent a letter.

March 14th. I brought Takedaya Yoshikata’s brocade pictures titled *Eight Views of Ryōgoku*. Materials on the customs of courtesans in flag pavilions from the early Meiji era had gradually come together. At night, heavy rain fell like cartwheels spinning.

March 15th. The second volume of the Geien Sōsho edition of Kankei Satei was published. I read this all day.

March 16th. Kuroda Kozan visited. I went to Sanjukkenbori Kasuga where we dined together.

March 17th. I saw off Mr. Matsui Matsuyo and Mr. Ichikawa Ennosuke at Tokyo Station’s platform as they departed for Europe. On the way back, I stopped by Suwa Shōten and viewed ukiyo-e. I obtained two or three volumes of kyōka antiquarian books and returned home.

March 18th. A radiantly clear spring day. In the afternoon, I visited Kanda Sansaisha.

March 19th. At night, being invited by Kiyomoto Umekichi, I watched the Hyōke Memorial Amateur Play at the Kabuki-za Theater.

March 20th. Though it was the equinox, I lacked even the vigor to embark on the Six Amida Pilgrimage.

March 21st. The sky hung thickly overcast and muggy; a fierce wind blew sand and dust all day. A day when one somehow felt there might be a great fire in Yoshiwara.

March 22nd. The spring day spread serenely clear, and the sound of geta on the main street suddenly grew dense. At the Nihonbashi Club, there was a preparatory meeting of the Kiyomoto Ichiedokai.

March 23rd. In the evening, there was a rehearsal meeting of the Kiyomoto Ichiedokai at the Nihonbashi Club. They performed Gonpachi Kamino Dan. In the first watch, a light rain fell; momentarily it cleared. The view of Ōkawabata on that spring night after rain held an air worth a thousand gold pieces per moment.

March 24th. A fine rain drizzled down. In the afternoon, I rode the streetcar and viewed the spring hues along the Outer Moat. The willow buds were already green; the color of the grass in the rain grew all the more delicate.

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

March 26th. Since sequestering myself in Tsukiji，my brushwork had not flowed as desired；the tedium was profound. That day，I boiled paste and amused myself by pasting letters from Mr．Ōgai and the late Mr．Sōseki onto the bedside screen．

March 27th. The wind had turned cold since yesterday. I did not leave the house. Rain fell through the night.

March 28th. At noon, the rain cleared. I walked along Sumizutsu Embankment with Hachirō the geisha. I saw cherry blossoms already scattering into bloom. I rested at Hyakkaen and wrote a verse on Raku-yaki. In the garden, the color of the grass after the rain appeared as though freshly dyed. I arrived at Nyūkin-tei and took my evening meal with clam broth. In the tokonoma alcove, I hung a painting of clams by Watanabe Seitei. The brushwork was clear and refined, resembling the authentic style. The time I had drunk at this inn had been on my return from visiting Arima Hot Springs in Akiba during the spring of Meiji 42 with Ajiroko and Otoshi, a private prostitute from Hamachō. Counting on my fingers, I found eleven years had already passed. When I saw the madam of Nyūkin receiving guests, she indiscriminately offered insincere flattery, no different from years past. That vitality was indeed enviable. When the evening meal had ended and a wind arose, rendering the surroundings desolate, I hired a rickshaw and returned home.

March 29th. A cold wind set the electric wires humming. I set up the kotatsu and read Pierre Loti’s new work Quelques Aspects du Vertige mondiale. It is 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 within the precincts, stood as one of the least picturesque among the city's religious institutions; though I had come to live in the vicinity, never once had I taken a stroll there. On this day, when cherry blossoms bloomed in profusion, the scene within the precincts compared to ordinary days had acquired some measure of pictorial charm.

March 31st. It was the Kiyomoto-kai meeting. I went to Yūraku-za.

April 1st. In the evening came Utamaro’s spring volume Bedhead from Takedaya.

April 2nd. In the evening, Matsu Enjō came visiting accompanied by his wife. I went to Ginza Fûgetsu-dô and was treated to dinner.

April 3rd. Flowers bloomed, yet the wind turned cold.

It was the opening day at the Kabuki-za Theater. I viewed Mr. Matsu Enjō’s Shuzenji Monogatari.

April 4th. The night held no chill. I wandered to Tsukuda Ferry Landing and contemplated the nightscape at the river's mouth.

April 5th. Nishimura Shosanjin visited. I was asked to contribute to Kaihō, the magazine he was editing.

April 6th. The sun stood high, yet I remained reluctant to rise. I kept to my bed through the morning hours reading. My inspiration waned with each passing year; all creative vigor had now been utterly eroded. Even my appetite for reading grew dulled by turns. From newspaper accounts of worldly affairs I inferred this truth: men's hearts turned daily more vicious—covetous of wealth and station; partial to revolutionary tumult. Here I stood—afflicted by manifold ailments—achieving nothing; squandering ancestral legacies on warm robes and full meals while days slipped through my grasp. At times my breast knew no peace. Yet consider how Edo's ukiyo-e masters and gesakusha comported themselves during Bakumatsu's chaos—as if dwelling in tranquil times despite clashing arms; some crafting satirical jests. Others rendered lewd illustrations. Their very bearing strikes one today as astonishing. Kyōsai's caricatures; Yoshikata's spring pictures; Robun's writings; Mokuami's kyōgen plays—these stand sufficient witness. Why then do I vex myself so? I must take pattern from Edo's gesakusha.

April 7th. The spring night at last proved suitable for a stroll. As I passed by the storytelling hall in Hatchōbori, I saw signs for Tenzan Eishō and others. I paid the admission fee and entered. By chance, I encountered Mr. Yoshii Isamu there. This may indeed be called a strange encounter. This evening Tenzan performed his signature piece *Sayo Koromo Sōshi*.

April 8th. As usual, striking the shamisen plectrum in the early morning, I went to Umekichi's for practice. On the way, along the streetcar avenue, I saw a disabled man pushing along the cart he rode upon with a bamboo cane, moving leisurely. It was as if he were poling a small boat. In recent years it had become rare to encounter such beggars on the streets; thus I found myself feeling inexplicably intrigued by the sight. Later I realized this day coincided with the Buddha's birthday celebration, when many beggars gathered before the gate of Honganji Temple.

April 9th. A volume of Charles Guérin’s poetry collection L’Homme Intérieur arrived from Brazil through Horiguchi Daigaku. My profound gratitude. In the afternoon I visited Ichimura-za and listened to Umekichi and his Kiyomoto troupe perform Yasuna. The dance piece featured Kikugorō.

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

April 12th. In the evening, Kiyomoto Umekichi visited, accompanied by his wife.

April 13th.

In the afternoon, Mr. Sakai Kiyoshi came for a discussion. In the evening, I went out to Ginza Avenue intending to dine, and upon looking, found a throng of men and women returning from cherry blossom viewing.

April 14th. In Fujimichō, I drank and took a lowly courtesan to view the night cherry blossoms at Kudanshaden.

April 15th. Kuroda Kozan was in Yōrō, Nōshū. He composed this verse: *Through trees where birds sing— / lingering cherry blossoms.*

April 17th. In the afternoon, I went for a stroll. I passed through Hikagechō-dōri and walked in Shiba Park. The cherry blossoms had all fallen, and the mountain’s fresh greenery seemed to drip with moisture. On my way home, passing before the Kabuki-za Theater’s gate, I saw the flower-patterned noren curtains had faded, while roadside cherry trees now bore young buds. Spring at the city gates had already ended.

April 18th. Toothache. Kume Shūji came for a discussion.

April 19th.

I walked through Hatchōbori and saw the night stalls. In this area carpentry shops and reed screen shops stood numerous. In the deep night of back alleys where looms wove reed screens with busy clatter, the sense that spring had departed and summer approached grew keener still—a flavor I found impossible to savor in Yamate's mansion districts. Thinking to compose a mad verse I kept walking along the dim quayside avenue but ultimately stopped unfinished. Nothing proves as difficult as composing kyōka and jōruri.

April 20th.

It was a splendidly clear Sunday. In the morning, I read *Yōkyoku Taizen*.

April 21st. The wind was cold.

April 22nd. In the early morning, three or four apprentice geishas from Shin-Tomichō came crowding in; ordering shiruko via telephone, they ate and sang. The apprentice geishas had of late made my lodgings their favored playground; from time to time they came barging in with practice books in hand, startling me from sleep. The rickshaw puller from Yarigashima Kurumaya Waday apparently believed my lodgings to be the residence of an entertainment instructor. As noon approached, the sky suddenly darkened, and wind and rain assailed us. After about half an hour, it cleared.

In the evening, I dined at Ginza Fūgetsudō with Umekichi and his wife, geisha Hachirō, and others.

April 23rd.

Ichikawa Ennosuke sent a letter from Hawaii. In the local Japanese-language newspaper there, an article about my relocation to Tsukiji had been published in the Literary Gossip Column; [he] had clipped out said article and enclosed it.

April 24th. A certain newspaper reporter had visited repeatedly since earlier days to discuss erecting a monument for Kasamori Asen and urged me to draft an inscription. As June of this year would mark the 150th memorial of ukiyo-e artist Suzuki Harunobu, they wished to establish a monument at a temple in Yanaka and conduct a memorial service; but finding such affairs that merely drew public notice distasteful, I refused to compose the epitaph.

April 27th. Kiyomoto Umekichi newly created something called the Kiyomoto Kōfūkai and held its inaugural gathering this evening at the Inagaki Teahouse in Daigigashi.

April 28th. Under the eaves of the soba shop on the main street that exited the alley, wisteria flowers now bloomed in full splendor, their fragrance spilling forth. Since leaving my old dwelling, I had rarely seen flowers; so whenever coming and going, I unconsciously stopped my steps and gazed intently.

April 29th.

There was a performance by Tokiwazu Mojibei at Yūraku-za. I met the two artists Hiraoka and Matsuzan.

May 3rd.

At Shōji’s barbershop, I happened to meet Artist Hiraoka. He is apparently going to Izu Mountain Hot Springs.

May 4th.

I repaired the broken binding thread of the kyōka anthology kept by my bedside. When I happened to recall those days Yaetsugu and I lived concealed in Yotsuya Arakichō, she would mend the bindings of picture books like Mushi Eramiyama Fukuyama for me. To remember the past is to know all things are but a dream.

May 5th. Though it was the auspicious Dragon Boat Festival, there was nothing in particular worth recording.

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

May 7th. Unable to bear the inconvenience of cooking for myself, I went to Sanjukkenbori Kasuga for dinner.

May 9th. It was said the city grew exceedingly crowded due to the 50th Anniversary Celebration of the Capital's Establishment.

May 10th. Last summer too, when first wearing unlined garments, I had found the loneliness of solitude unbearable; this year again, my heart grows desolate without reason to the point where even the will to pluck the shamisen fails to arise. When geisha Hachirō came, we went together to Fūgetsudō and with a bottle of wine swept away our melancholy. On the return journey, I stood alone watching at the Kabuki-za. Matsu Enjō's was the act "Kitamuki Torazō's Reform at the Penitentiary." Lately I occasionally feel as though I should take up my brush to attempt a script. Were I able to take up my brush, that would be fortunate indeed.

May 11th. A violent wind whirled up sand and dust. After closing the storm shutters，I found myself stewing in airless heat within walls grown stifling beyond endurance． At lamplighting hour，fortune granted us rain．

May 12th. I was invited by Venerable Noma Gozō and went to the Imperial Theater, where I listened to Mei Lanfang’s *The Drunken Concubine*. Chinese drama was what I had long desired to hear. Listening to it this evening—if only intermittently—I found it far more imbued with artistic refinement compared to our nation’s contemporary theater; the grandeur of its composition might indeed be termed continental. I was profoundly moved. What after all constitutes this thing called emotion? So overwhelmed have I become by my ceaseless and vehement aversion toward modern Japanese culture that I find myself realizing anew how difficult it is to suppress feelings of reverence for the cultural artifacts of China and the West. This was no newfound sentiment. When confronted with foreign lands’ superior art, one cannot but feel this way. Yet the sole reason I can dwell in Japan’s modern imperial capital and pass my twilight years in peace lies exclusively in the existence of Edo-period arts—those frivolous things. Are not satirical verse, comic poetry, erotic prints, and the shamisen truly a singularly mysterious art form unseen among other peoples? If one wishes to reside peacefully in Japan, they must perforce seek some slender comfort in these arts.

May 13th. Half overcast, half clear. Throughout the city, the new greenery was to be admired.

May 14th. At the Kabuki-za, I viewed Sōjūrō Uzaemon’s *Sekinoto*. Its crudeness was rather pitiable.

May 15th.

Cloudy with a cold wind. From Shun'yōdō arrived the proof sheets for Volume 2 of the Complete Works, *Tales of France*. In the afternoon, Mr. Iwao Shiroku paid a visit. He spoke of the Thursday Society members' recent circumstances.

May 16th. At Kagaya in Nihonbashi, there was a rehearsal of Sonohachi-bushi. I discussed Toribeyama. Miyagawa Mangyo discussed *Yūgiri*.

May 17th.

I was busy every day proofreading the complete works.

May 18th. My old friend Mr. Imamura Jishichi arrived in Tokyo from Kanazawa. My back-alley lodgings received a visit. The Imamura family was said to be distantly related to Zeniya Gohei. On the coastal highway outside Kanazawa City stood a single ancient pine tree. Long ago, when the Zeniya clan had been executed, Gohei's third son Yōzō—being the leading figure in lake reclamation—had been deemed most culpable and crucified upon this highway. At that time there had been many pine trees, but they gradually withered and died, leaving now only a single tree remaining. People called this the Zeniya Pine, and it had become one of Kanazawa’s noted 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, I was requested to name the ancient pine and compose its epitaph. I declined, being unequal to the task.

May 19th. There was correspondence indicating that Yaefuku of Tomoe-ya had quit being a geisha and become a dance instructor.

May 21st. Rain falls.

May 22nd. Rain falls; cold. I have a stomachache. It is the festival of Teppōzu Namiyoke Inari Shrine.

May 23rd. At Inagaki-tei on Daichi Riverbank came a rehearsal of the Kiyomoto Kōfūkai. Returning homeward, I passed before the gate of my former dwelling in Hatagomachi. The facade had altered into that of a meeting house. Emerging onto Kawaramachi's tram thoroughfare, I surveyed night stalls. The bustling spectacle differed not from what these eyes had daily witnessed four years prior. In those days my ailment remained mild; dawn till dusk I would wander nearby lanes and laboriously edit Bunmei magazine. Since removing to Tsukiji last year, my brush has lain utterly motionless. A grievous thing.

May 24th. Perhaps from having caught a cold, my head ached and my spirits were low. At dusk I leaned against the window and looked down at the alleyway: sparrows clamored in the young trees of the meeting houses and kept women's residences across the way; the blinds hung in every house remained unsoiled by dust; even in this oppressive back-alley scene of early summer, there lingered an unforced freshness. When my ailing body confronted this scene, it only stirred deeper sorrow. Under the lamp, I worked diligently to proofread old manuscripts. For this was part of compiling the fifth volume of my Complete Works.

May 25th. The newspapers daily reported on Chinese anti-Japanese movements. In short, this was due to our government's Satchō faction pursuing militaristic policies. The scourge of nationalism had instead diminished national prestige; we could count ourselves fortunate if this did not ultimately endanger our country.

May 27th. At the Kiyomoto-kai gathering, I met Hiraoka Matsuzan’s two children.

May 28th. I went to Sansai-sha on Kanda Hitotsubashi-dōri.

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

May 30th.

Yesterday morning at eight o'clock came notification from her house that the old woman who had served for many years had died of heart disease. This old woman had been born to a farming household near Shibamata in Bushū province. She was the wife of a masseur named Kyūsai who frequented my Koishikawa residence; not long after being widowed, she entered service at various households, showing remarkable dedication in supporting her mother-in-law and one child through her meager wages. When I moved my residence to Ichibanchō around Meiji 28-29 [1895-96], she came into my employ and worked continuously thereafter—over twenty years having passed since then. Last winter when I sold my Ōkubo house, I had meant to dismiss her as she requested, but lacking any replacement, I brought her along to my back-alley house in Tsukiji. Around mid-last month she developed eye trouble, so I granted her temporary leave to recuperate. Since then there had been no word from her at all—a circumstance I found strange—when suddenly came this tragic news. Though she had passed sixty years of age and been in robust health, I had privately thought this old woman might be the one to witness my final moments and perform Buddhist rites for me despite our lack of blood ties—but nothing proves more inscrutable than the measure of human life.

May 31st. The new moon is like a sickle.

I walked along the coast of Akashi-chō.

June 1st. The wind was cold again. 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 Viewing and Symposium and watched Umejū perform *Kōbō ga Tsuji* (Crossroads of Nations).

June 4th. There had been no rain for some time when, come evening, a storm swept in. The night in the back alleys lay desolate from early evening onward—no dogs barked, no shamisen notes resounded—only the roar of water overflowing from the gutter’s downspout cascaded like a waterfall. Under the lamp, I organized old manuscripts.

June 5th.

Though the rainy season had not yet set in, the sky hung misty with drizzling rain. I attended the Genbunsha Symposium at Kabuki-za Theater. From this day on, I wore single-layer garments.

June 6th.

In the evening, there was a Genbunsha symposium at the Wakamatsu residence in Nihonbashi. Dark clouds closed over the sky, yet no rain fell. The humid heat was intense.

June 7th.

I was invited by Mr. Sasagawa Rinpū and drank at Kinsui in Ōkawabata. Two or three ukiyo-e merchants had also been invited and arrived. There was a consultation regarding the execution of Suzuki Harunobu's 150th death anniversary memorial service.

June 9th. Tsukiji Namiyoke Shrine began its three-day festival that day.

June 10th. The day before yesterday at Kinsui, having been urged by Mr. Rinpū and thus reluctantly compelled to promise drafting Kasamori Osen's monument inscription, I composed the crude text below and mailed it. Kasamori Osen Inscription Japan's true specialties—those born of women in nightless quarters and known across five continents—are nishiki-e prints and Yoshiwara. For over one hundred fifty years has Osen of Kagiya Teahouse in Kasamori preserved her countenance through Harunobu's nishiki-e—her bewitching name still resplendent today. This year do the capital's connoisseurs choose Harunobu's death anniversary to raise this monument for Osen. Inscribed by Kafū Shōshi during sixth-month summer of Taishō Kibi [1919], when bonito swarm thick as oblivion itself.

June 11th. They say the rainy season set in yesterday. From evening onward, thunder roared.

June 14th. The temperature dropped to sixty-eight degrees. Messrs. Kume and Uno of the Imperial Theater came.

June 15th. I entered as a disciple at the household of Tsuruga Wakadayū. I practiced Shinnai-bushi's "Orchid Butterfly". Lately, having repeatedly heard reports of Kiyomoto performers' extravagance and presumption, I resolved to abandon Kiyomoto altogether. Ennosuke sent a picture postcard from England.

June 17th.

At Meiji-za, I watched a rehearsal performance by young actors below the name-title rank. I met the two sons of Koyamauchi and Hiraoka and dined at Fūgetsudō in Ginza on my return journey.

June 18th. Yayū read *Uzurakoromo*.

June 19th. It was cloudy with a cool wind. In the afternoon, I strolled through Asakusa Park. The renowned sake shops and archery establishments behind Kannon Hall had all been cleared away, and their former grounds were now undergoing roadworks that erased every vestige of their past appearance. Many people walked through the park accompanied by Yoshiwara courtesans and their matrons. The world changes beyond recognition in the briefest absence; one can only stand astonished. June 21st. I completed proofreading Volume 2 of my Complete Works.

June 22nd. On Ginza-dori, I met Mr. Okano Sakae, a painter.

June 24th. Clear skies; the heat intensified by the hour.

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

June 26th. It rained. I handed over the manuscript for Volume 3 of my Complete Works to the Shunyōdō messenger.

June 27th.

Clear skies. At night at the Kiyomoto-kai gathering, I unexpectedly encountered Mr. Aoyama. I drank at Miyukitei in Sanjukkenbori.

June 29th.

A rehearsal by Kiyomoto Umekichi’s disciples and geishas for the Isshikai. It was held at Yūraku-za. With the sparse attendance, there was somehow a desolate mood. In recent years, it had become popular for masters of performing arts—not limited to Kiyomoto nagauta—to rent theater halls and hold rehearsals. However, neither the master nor the disciples showed any progress in their art; rather, there was a tendency toward decline. In my estimation, when courtesans of our time learn the shamisen, it is not out of love for the art itself, but solely for appearing in public venues to peddle their reputations. Writers take up their brushes to see their names in magazines; performers pluck their strings without understanding what it’s all about. To lament the decline of the artistic path is itself folly.

July 1st. It was apparently a commemorative holiday for the signing of the peace treaty marking Germany’s surrender. The Factory Banks all suspended business. In the back alleys too, every house had hung out national flags. The sound of fireworks being set off incessantly near Hibiya could be heard. The people of the alley all seemed to have left their homes empty and gone out to enjoy themselves; the neighborhood was quieter than usual even at midday, with only the sound of the cool wind rustling the reed screens striking the ear. While boiling paste all day and pasting the closet wall, I formulated a draft for what might be titled a short essay like "Night of the Festival." If I were to write freely of these memories—beginning with recollections of the Constitution Promulgation Festival around Meiji 23 [1890], then moving to recent celebrations like the Korea Annexation festivities and the bustling nights of the Imperial Ceremony—the contrast between myself, a solitary recluse, and the spirit of the age would naturally emerge through these implicit layers.

July 4th. It rained all day without ceasing.

July 5th. The rain ceased and it suddenly turned hot. It seemed the yellow plum season had already passed. Every corner of the neighborhood bustled with laundry; the sound of water being drawn and poured never ceased; the foul stench of cheap soap permeated the air, sickening the heart.

July 6th. Again, rain fell. The toothache grew severe; I could not sleep through the night.

July 7th. Shunyōdō sent royalties for Volume 2 of my Complete Works. The sum was six hundred and seventy-five yen. In the evening, I went to Shinbashi-za and watched Mr. Okamoto Kidō’s play *Rainy Night Melody*.

July 8th.

The rain ceased; the wind turned bitterly cold. I closed the window and read Mr. Rohan’s *Yuujouki*.

July 9th. Sensōji Temple’s 46,000th Day Festival was underway, yet unusually the sky remained clear and the breeze cool. In the afternoon, I went to Mitsubishi Bank. If I were to write down recollections of pleasant days that are neither here nor there—like a cool summer in a rickshaw or a warm winter—I could compose an excellent short essay, I thought with focused intent. At night, there was a Genbunsha theater critique meeting at Nihonbashi Wakamatsuya.

July 12th. Mr. Osanai visited. I was requested by the Kokumin Bungeikai to write a script. In the evening at Ginza Tōzai Market, I met the proprietor of Kagetsurō and had a light drink at Purantan-tei.

July 13th. The wind blew fiercely, cold as late autumn. Though the weather had been unseasonable, this year I had fortunately suffered no stomachaches. Yet since the old woman Shin died, daily matters had become nearly unbearable. I went to Ginza Fūgetsudō and had dinner.

July 19th. Thunder rumbled; a sudden downpour arrived. I heard the Ryōgoku Kawabiraki had been canceled.

July 20th. The heat grew severe. I went out to the rooftop drying platform to take the cool. The squalor of the back alleys visible at a glance makes one realize, as always, that Japanese life lacks any order and is lazy and unclean. Though contemporary people vehemently emphasize how modern Japanese life teeters on crisis, if one observes these actual conditions, citizens’ lives remain utterly devoid of discipline—merely unsightly—and the absence of individual awakening appears no different from feudal times of old.

July 21st. At Inagaki on the Shimoji riverbank in Asakusa, there was a Kiyomoto Kōfūkai rehearsal. The waterscape visible from the upper floor—with its forest of pilings—proved truly remarkable. I relocated with two or three courtesans to a barge moored at the pier and drank. When the rehearsal concluded, I traveled by rickshaw with Chiyogiku and other rudder-side courtesans to Kotamitei in Kobikichō. Noma Okina transported the group of apprentice geishas including Wakachiyo via motorboat along Tsukiji’s coastal waterways before joining us at Kotamitei for supper.

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

July 23rd. I went to Yūraku-za to watch a puppet play. It was by the Osaka Bunraku-za troupe. Osaka's puppet theater made one realize all the more its value today, when Edo-period theater and jōruri narratives were all on the verge of decline. The hairstyle and facial features of the Oshun puppet observed this evening bore resemblance to the women seen in Torii Kiyonaga's woodblock prints. It must have taken its ancient style from the Tenmei and Kansei eras. The Matsuōmaru puppet seen in the scene of Sakuramaru's seppuku evoked Shunshō's woodblock prints.

July 24th. A wind arose, making the sweltering heat somewhat more endurable. Finding no space for book-sunning in my cramped quarters, I laid them out upon the rooftop drying platform.

July 25th. The proofreading of Volume 3 of my Complete Works began on this day.

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

July 28th. Again I attended the jōruri puppet theater at Yūraku-za. I unexpectedly met Miyazono Chiharu. On the way home, a sudden rain swept through; the cool wind washed away the sweltering heat.

July 29th.

I read Dr. Yokoi’s Dai Nihon Nōshoden.

July 30th. For two or three days, the sky stayed cloudy with oppressive humidity; heavy rains would fall only to cease abruptly. This pattern of showers starting and stopping closely resembled the autumn 1910 flood that inundated the capital.

July 31st.

The Genbunsha drama critics' roundtable meeting was held at Wakamatsuya in Nihonbashi. That evening when I inquired with Mr. Oka Kitarō about the Yūraku-za puppet theater—lately even the puppets proved unworthy of viewing. That they kept transplanting Ganjiro’s mannerisms into puppets to cater to vulgar tastes was an unspeakable outrage that occurred repeatedly. Moreover, it was not even claimed that the puppets having come to Yūraku-za this time were Kyoto puppets. This night fortunately saw no rain, but the sky grew increasingly unsettled; the wind too carried a fishy stench.

Metropolitan newspapers had temporarily suspended publication due to a wage increase movement by their typesetting workers, it was reported. This was according to Mr. Ihara’s account.

August 1st.

The downpour continues unabated.

For the Genbunsha joint review meeting, I watched Kikugorō's *Botan Dōrō* at the Imperial Theater. As it was opening night, the intermissions ran long; the curtain call passed midnight and neared one o'clock. Through the rain, I returned home sharing an umbrella with Ikeda Daigoko.

August 2nd. I went to Shinbashi-za to watch a Bunraku-za troupe puppet play. I happened to meet Master Painter Okada.

August 3rd.

There was a Genbunsha joint review meeting. At the meeting, I met Mr. Uda Torahiko for the first time.

August 4th. Mr. Tanizaki Jun'ichirō visited. He requested a preface for his work Kindai Jōchishū. The rain gradually cleared, but the wind began to blow, and by nightfall it took on the semblance of a tempest.

August 5th. The dark clouds dispersed, bringing clear weather. A cool breeze announced autumn's arrival. I took an afternoon walk. Riding the Yamanote tram, I unexpectedly passed by the environs of the Ōkubo Old Residence. My feelings knew no bounds.

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 was beautiful. The view of the canals in Akashi-chō was like beholding Hokusai’s uki-e.

August 8th.

I drafted the preface for Mr. Tanizaki’s new work *Kindai Jōchishū* and mailed it.

August 9th. I again attended a puppet play at Shinbashi-za. I unexpectedly met Yaetsugu inside the theater. At night, the moon was beautiful.

August 10th. The evening coolness resembled water. I went to the ferry landing at Tsukuda in Akashimachi and beheld the moon.

August 11th.

Tonight too, the moon shone bright; a cool breeze blew ceaselessly. Tokyo’s summer held such coolness as this even in its back alleys. I could not fathom the mindset of those who went spending money at resort inns.

August 12th.

Midday heat reached about ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit, yet from evening onward the wind turned cool. I attended the third program of puppet theater at Shinbashi-za to watch *Gappō* and *The Sake Shop*. Tonight too, the moon was splendid.

August 13th. I read Gafu Zatsuroku from Tōjin Setsuwa.

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

August 15th. The wind turned cold. I felt unwell. In the afternoon, someone from Shunyōdō came to request proofreading approval for the second volume reprint of the Complete Works.

August 16th. I had a stomachache. It was cold enough to make one want to put on a lined haori. When my ailing body met unseasonable weather, my spirits suddenly sank, and sorrow knew no bounds.

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

August 19th. The cold and stomachache persisted.

August 21st. I visited Dr. Ōishi and requested a prepared medicine.

August 22nd.

I met Mr. Komiya Toyotaka by chance at Fugetsudō.

August 23rd.

I heard cicadas chirring in the garden of the neighboring teahouse.

August 26th.

The heat returned once more. I proofread Complete Works Volume 3. My cold remained unhealed.

August 29th. I had a fever.

September 1st. Having heard that former Imperial Opera members from pre-revolutionary Russia 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. That I should be able to hear opera in a Japanese theater, and on such a sweltering evening at that, was something I had never once imagined. It can indeed be said that the Great European War has brought about results more unexpected than one could ever have imagined. I am unable to record here the chaotic impressions of this night.

September 2nd. This evening there was a performance of Toraiyata. The scorching heat, having entered September, had instead grown fiercer. The theater interior was as if within a greenhouse. In years past, when I had frequently heard this piece at theaters in New York and Lyon, if I recalled those times of trudging through midnight snow back to my lodgings, I somehow felt as though I were hearing an entirely different kind of music now.

September 3rd. I listened to Faust. The lingering heat grew ever more severe.

September 4th.

I listened to Carmen. On my way home, I drank at Purantan with Master Painter Matsuyama.

September 5th. There was a performance of Boris Godunov. Due to the severe autumn heat, I am greatly fatigued.

September 6th.

I lay bedridden all day.

September 7th. I requested Dr. Ōishi's visit via telephone, but he ultimately did not come.

September 8th.

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

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

September 10th.

My cold remained unhealed.

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

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

September 13th. Autumn rain fell ceaselessly. The surrounding neighborhoods lay silent and desolate. Conducive to sickbed repose.

September 14th. The rain cleared and the lingering heat returned. The affliction grew severe.

September 15th.

I went to the Imperial Theater and listened to Boris Godunov again.

September 16th.

The wind and rain raged. The shabby house trembled, making sleep impossible. I had grown utterly weary even of this lonely dwelling in the back alleys. I could not suppress the urge to travel abroad.

September 18th.

In the evening twilight, I went to the Thursday Association, met its members, and shared reminiscences of our long separation. An evening’s idle talk with old friends seemed capable of soothing a century’s worth of sorrows.

September 19th. Since Kagetu magazine ceased publication, Aajiko—with whom all correspondence had lapsed—suddenly came calling. Word had it Kozanjin now left the newspaper offices nightly.

September 20th. A slight ailment persisted; my heart remained depressed, finding no joy. Occasionally when the former courtesan Yaefuku was invited to a nearby restaurant establishment，I would encounter her passing before the latticed front of my shabby dwelling.

September 21st. The Russian émigré opera company performed Tosca this afternoon. For ten years since my return to Japan, I had had no opportunity to hear Western music; but having now unexpectedly been able to listen to an opera, all desire to take up the shamisen again utterly vanished. Though I knew there was a Kiyomoto performance at the Yūrakuza Theater this evening, I did not attend.

September 22nd. When speaking of the autumnal equinox approaching, I found myself inexplicably suffused with profound inner loneliness. Though the sky cleared beautifully that day, the lingering summer heat remained intense. Sunlight streaming through the drying area on the back roof glared as fiercely as midsummer. Memories flooded back unbidden - of those lingering summer afternoons at my country house in Ōkubo, when I would spread balsam and cockscomb seeds across the engawa to dry - bringing boundless sorrow. Just then came raucous shouts from children outside my window; rising to investigate, I found a stray dog struck by a motorcar, around which the youngsters had gathered to beat and torment it. Whenever I see these town ruffians and mustachioed policemen, I think how I should abandon my home at once and depart for foreign shores.

September 23rd.

When someone came and informed me that there was a house for sale at just the right time in the precincts of the Higiri Jizōson in Shiba Shirokane Sankō-chō, I went to see it in the afternoon. The garden at the back extended to the cemetery with a single hedge; though quiet and not without charm, it had been left as it was because the property adjoined a slum before the gate. My current lodging being of course a temporary arrangement, these days I found myself nearly unable to endure the narrow squalor of the surroundings. The coming and going of military horses was not as intense as in Ōkubo; yet I wished to establish my dwelling in Yamate, where there were many trees. On the return journey, I rested at the tea pavilion by Hyōtan Pond in Shiba Park. The autumn sun already sank; the twilight’s faint light drifted among the trees—a scene beyond all words. When I had resided in my Ōkubo home long ago, the city’s parks merely stirred feelings of aversion; now, gazing upon even the slightest cluster of trees brought an abrupt sense of cool clarity. Though I found it hard to suppress my remorse, when I repeatedly reflected on these bitter thoughts, there was nothing to be done about the fate of this solitary existence. My wanton life, having reached forty years, seemed to have come to a complete impasse. I read Renée’s poetry collection "The Mirror of Time" while sipping tea. When I left the park, night had already fallen. I dined alone at Ginza Fūgetsudō and proceeded to the Mita Literary Society. I discussed with Mr. Yosano Hiroshi, after a long interval, our past wanderings through Paris.

September 24th. The Russian opera company gave their final performance. They were two pieces: Pariyatchi and Kawareryarusuchikana.

Leaving the theater, Messrs. Kume and Matsuyama along with Mr. Hiraoka visited the studio in Uneme-cho. Together we dined at Seiyōken. In the dining room I saw a man in French military uniform and four or five women who appeared Russian, each seated at separate tables. Whenever I observed their manner of conversing, I could scarcely restrain my wanderlust. Yet confronted with this ailing body of today—could I truly resume that vagabond existence of former years? Contemplating this, tears rose unbidden.

September 25th. Rain falls; the night is cold. At home, I wore a serge summer kimono.

September 26th.

Though it was a fine autumn day, I remained vainly at home. In the evening, I attended the dress rehearsal of Matsu Enjō’s Freedom Theater.

September 27th. The clear autumn sky held not a single cloud. Hearing that there was a suitable house for sale in Takanawa Minami-chō, I went to see it. When I passed by the gates of Rakutenkyo and stopped in intending to renew acquaintances, the master was not present. I walked home via Nihon'enoki from Sarumachi.

September 28th.

In the afternoon, I went to Kanda Sansaisha. On the way, I visited Matsu Enjō in Surugadai. We conversed until evening, when it was time for him to leave for work at the Freedom Theater.

September 29th. An employee from Tokyo Building Company came and informed me that there was a plot of land for sale in Koishikawa Kanefune-chō measuring approximately seventy tsubo. The autumn sun was already beginning to sink when I went to inspect it, guided by the company employee. As Kanefune-chō was my birthplace, I thought that if circumstances permitted, I might purchase this land, build a cottage there, and make it my final resting place. Ascending Kongōji-zaka and turning at Akachibashi corner—where I first raised my infant cries—I found the plot lay behind Dr. Tajiri's residence, with Mr. Ishibashi Shian-gaishi's house as its neighbor. Entering through the tilting gate, I saw broken storm shutters, crumbling walls, and rotting tatami mats. The garden stood choked with weeds too thick to walk through. In one corner grew a solitary persimmon tree. Its fruits showed faint coloring as if awaiting visitors, while near the shoe-removal stone lingered a few wild chrysanthemums and begonias—their forlorn beauty piercingly poignant. Leaving through the gate, I called on Mr. Ishibashi to inquire about the neighborhood. We exchanged brief words at his entrance before I took my leave. Seeing how suddenly aged Mr. Ishibashi had become stirred unexpected emotion within me. Everything witnessed this day differed from ordinary sights—each thing moved the heart in its own way. The late autumn twilight hung gloomily dark, dreamlike in its melancholy.

September 30th.

Attended a play at Genbunsha Kabuki-za. The performance was Kiri Hitoha (A Paulownia Leaf). Rain fell that day.

October 1st.

October 2nd.

A sudden rain fell. Genbunsha Joint Critique Meeting.

October 3rd. The weather cleared splendidly. I walked along Okawabata.

October 4th. The autumn gloom proved apt for aimless wandering. I strolled through Marunouchi, came to the Kanda French Bookstore, and bought two or three volumes of novels.

October 5th.

Autumn rain fell incessantly; the wind gradually intensified. The new chill seeped into the skin. I felt as though the citywide wind and rain were traversing Chongyang Festival.

October 6th. The autumn gloom was like a dream. I visited Mr. Ishibashi and ceased making direct inquiries to the landowner regarding the transfer of the neighboring house. The price had not been deemed acceptable. On the way back, I made an offering at the Daikokuten shrine within Dentsū-in Temple. Looking at the statue of Venerable Binzuru inside the hall, one eye had been damaged and the bib was torn. The floorboards of the temple building too had decayed in places. Tiles had fallen and pigeons had grown fewer. When I recalled how in my boyhood this Daikokuten shrine saw many worshippers, its hall bustling with votive plaques and various offerings, I found today’s ruinous state unbearable to behold for long, and so departed through the gate. Descending Andōzaka and ascending the stone steps of Ushitenjin, I rested briefly in the tree shade.

October 7th. Autumn rain fell incessantly.

Oka Kitarō visited. Next month, as Matsu Enjō was to begin working at the Kabuki-za Theater, a new play script was requested. Since my illness had sapped my vigor and I could no longer hold a brush, I declined.

October 8th. How splendid the mid-autumn moon. I walked along the Akashimachi coast. Last year’s Mid-Autumn fell on September 19th and was similarly clear. For two years in succession I encountered splendid moonlit nights. It was a rare occurrence. [Marginal note in red] Change 仲 to 中.

October 9th. The late autumn sky stretched clear and unbroken. Unable to endure my seclusion in this crude dwelling, I walked to pay homage at the shrine of Meguro Fudō. Resting at the tea house by the main gate and gazing out at the temple grounds, I saw that the hills beyond the temple gate had fallen into shadow, the crowns of ancient trees growing darker still. The setting sun hung low amidst the grove beside the tea house, sharply slanting its light across the flat ground before the temple gate. From beyond the grove came the distant sounds of a construction site. As I contemplated the spreading development of the suburbs, even the sound of the falling waterfall no longer seemed forlorn. From the direction of Ōkuni, the sound of geishas’ shamisens also began to reach me. This place too will likely not be far from becoming vulgarized like the Tsunohazu Jūniso Precinct. When I was about to leave the tea house, I happened to notice a woman who appeared to be the mistress of this establishment—around twenty-two or twenty-three years old, her hair in a round chignon adorned with a red ornament, clad in a Meisen silk short coat with a carp-mouth pattern—her appearance free of grime and not uncomely. For no particular reason, I found myself recalling Mr. Ryūrō’s masterful novels—The Stolen Bones, Tangled Threads, and others—with their vivid character portrayals. On my way back, I visited Rakanji Temple; hurrying along the path, I saw the sixteenth-night moon rising from Chiyogasaki's hills. The chorus of insects swelled from the grassy thickets along the path.

October 10th. Recalling the pleasure I had felt when writing Hiyori Geta during yesterday's outing, today I again took advantage of the clear weather and boarded the Yamanote Line train from Yūrakuchō. As we approached Shinagawa, the sky suddenly darkened, with thunder and sudden rain resembling midsummer's peak heat. Remaining seated in the train while waiting for the rain to clear, before long we had left Shinjuku behind and arrived at Ueno Station. Having no choice but to alight, I took shelter from the rain at Sannōdai tea pavilion. As dusk approached, I heard withered lotus leaves in Shinobazu Pond rustling desolately in the evening wind. Desolation is to be cherished. I returned home in darkness. I had not walked in the suburbs for three or four years since falling ill. That day, seeing development along the railway tracks left me astonished. The sight of small workshops and rental houses built in chaotic disorder—their ugliness surpassed even the city's outermost slums. The Japanese people seem ultimately incapable of constructing cities. The withering state of Ueno Park's ancient cedars and old pines exceeded all expectations. After supper I proofread my old work Hiyori Geta among others. Late at night the rain ceased and the moon shone brightly.

October 11th. At noon I visited Dr. Ōishi at Nakasu Riverbank Hospital. The physician was not in attendance. I returned home empty-handed. When afternoon shadows lengthened, I left once more to walk through Hibiya Park, resting on a bench beneath the trees where I read Milbo's short story collection Peeped Cider. That night, having proofread Volume Three of my Complete Works, I spent the deepest hours revising old manuscripts. The seventeenth-night moon slanted its light through my 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 was reflected in the yellow leaves.

October 13th. Mitsuyo, my niece in Shitaya, sent a picture postcard requesting my attendance at the girls' school commemorative event. Nothing moves people as much as the writings of the young. After waiting for the sudden rain to clear, I made my way to the girls' school in Asakusa Shichikenchō. It stood near Mizosedo Soshidō. On the school grounds, I encountered Ōkubo Teijirō's mother from Shitaya. My emotions overwhelmed me. Yet what I found most detestable remained Izasaburō's attitude. But now silence seemed best. In the afternoon, I returned home and sat at my desk. Since moving to Tsukiji, this being the first day I felt inclined to take up my brush, my joy defied expression.

October 15th. At dusk I climbed Atagoyama. As I gazed upon the city dwellings' roofs gradually darkening below—the day waning into evening—a certain sentiment naturally welled up within me after prolonged contemplation. Li Shangyin wrote: *The setting sun is infinitely good.* Might his line 'Only that twilight approaches' have sprung from such a feeling as this? I had meant to dine at the mountaintop hotel, but finding it reserved entirely for the French Aviation Corps—who refused temporary patrons—I had no choice but to proceed to Ginza and drink at Fūgetsudō. Lying abed, I read Estonié's novel *L'Emprinte*.

October 16th. I dined with Aajishi at Fukkitei in Sanjukkenbori and proceeded to the Thursday haiku gathering. Several years ago, Fukkitei had served matcha for a mere one yen; now it had become four yen per portion. This night lay heavy with dew and sharp with wind.

October 17th. The weather was clear and fine. I spent the day proofreading and writing. At dusk, I walked along Aihikibashi Riverbank, went out to Ginza, purchased groceries, and returned home.

October 18th. The fine weather of Indian summer persisted. A year with as little rain as this one must be rare. Every day, I walked along Akashichō’s coast road to view the waterscape at dusk.

October 19th. Clear.

October 20th. Clear.

October 21st. I read Roches’s work Turquie Agonisante. It is a work that deeply laments the injustice of the imperialist policies that European Christian countries imposed upon Turkey. In the afternoon, I went to Nakasu Hospital.

October 22nd. Clear. Having completed the manuscript for my vignette *Fireworks*, I made a fair copy. The proofreading of Volume 3 of my Complete Works neared completion.

October 23rd. At the Thursday gathering, I conversed with a Cochin man named Huang Diao. Huang Diao had a good command of French. For many years he had researched new methods of arithmetic based on the Eight Trigrams of the Yi Jing, devised a method for transcribing the pronunciations of various languages, and it was said he had come to Japan to disseminate these two techniques. On the return journey, the autumn rain fell thick and steady.

October 24th. I arrived at the French Bookstore on Ogawamachi corner and purchased two or three volumes of Estonié’s novels. I viewed the festival at Shōkonsha and returned home.

October 25th. Aajishi came. In the rain, I drank at Ginza’s Café.

October 26th. The owner of Bunkyūsha Publishing House paid a visit.

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

October 28th. In the evening, the Mita Literary Society convened at Sasaya. On my way back, I met Okamura Kakikōko on Owari-chō Street and drank at Seishinken.

October 29th. I did a thorough cleaning. I relocated the dust to Hibiya Library. The sasanqua had already scattered, and I saw the fatsia gradually forming flowers. I recalled the garden of the Ōkubo old residence and grew melancholy.

October 30th.

I went to the French Bookstore and stopped by the Imperial Theater, where I unexpectedly encountered Matsuba Ko, who had newly returned to Japan.

November 1st.

I viewed a house for sale in Akasaka Hikawa-chō. On the way, I passed through the precincts of Hikawa Shrine. The shrine's grounds surpassed Shibazono and Ueno in their lush canopy of towering trees. That such profoundly secluded places still existed within the city came as an unexpected joy. In the evening, upon returning home, I found a letter from Jiko. Around this time last year, I had drained myself of resentment toward both people and society, yearning to abandon my ancestors' old residence and instead bury myself in some mountain ravine; yet now, at this moment when memories of bygone days returned unbidden with bittersweet clarity, receiving word from Jiko moved me more deeply than I could express. I drafted a reply and dropped it into a street postbox glistening with autumn rain. All night long, the rain fell in desolate droplets.

November 2nd. In the evening, I unexpectedly encountered the courtesan Kikugorō of Ushigome on Ningyōchō Avenue. It is said she had recently moved to Yoshichō. That night, Mr. Gotō Haruki of the Thursday Association came and persistently demanded the manuscript for a novel to be serialized in a provincial newspaper.

November 3rd. I watched the athletic meet at Shitaya Shichikenchō Girls’ School.

November 5th. It was cloudy and humid. In the afternoon, I took a walk around Azabu. I stopped by the Imperial Theater. This night was the first day of the Rooster.

November 6th. It was said to be the thirteenth night.

November 8th. Having heard there was land for rent in Azabu Ichibeichō, I went to inspect it. On the way back, I emerged at Gazenbō. The terrain here rose and fell unpredictably, and the view of jagged cliffs enveloped in early winter’s dusk haze presented an unexpectedly fine scene. When I emerged before Nishinokubo Hachimangu Shrine, I saw the full moon rising. After returning home, I read Madame Noailles’s novel New Hopes.

November 9th.

Shunyōdō had been persistently requesting the publication of a new work these past few days. However, after moving to Tsukiji, I had not taken up my writing. Fortunately recalling an old manuscript concerning ukiyo-e, I compiled it under the title Edo Art Theory and presented this. In the afternoon I went to Yotsuya and visited Ofu, who had once served in our household.

November 10th.

Around noon, Mother came to visit. If even offering a bowl of coarse tea in this alley’s shabby house proved difficult, I guided [her] to Fūgetsudō and we took lunch together.

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

November 12th. I again inspected the rental land in Azabu Ichibeichō. On the way back, I walked through the precincts of Hikawa Shrine. The yellow leaves on the jagged cliffs were splendid everywhere. The evening wind grew gradually colder.

November 13th. I decided to rent the cliffside property in Ichibeichō. I summoned Nagai Kihei from the construction company and entrusted him with all necessary arrangements. I resolved to wait until spring, build a hermitage, and retreat into seclusion. In the evening, I attended the Thursday Association gathering.

November 14th. Upon reviewing last year’s diary, I found that the agreement to sell the Okubo property had been finalized on November 13th. I executed the land lease certificate exchange on this year’s corresponding date. How strange it seemed. At dusk, A-A-ko visited.

November 15th. Hearing that Izaaburō was absent, I went to Nishi-Ōkubo and paid respects before a kindly visage. Pastor Washizu also arrived. For the first time, I obtained the joy of familial communion.

November 17th. It was cloudy and warm. I read through Madame Noailles’s novel *The Face of Jade*. The poetry of this lady poet was something I had loved reciting in previous years and never ceased. Taking up one or two volumes of her novel to read today, they fell far short of her poetry.

November 18th.

Rain fell. The streets were like a swamp; walking was impossible. In Wang Cihui’s regulated verse there is: “Autumn rains had barely ceased when the streets became canals.” Amidst the sound of muddy footsteps, [one] closes the gate and dwells within. There is one that says: Truly, this is an actual scene.

November 19th. A warm wind blew; rain fell again.

November 20th. Clear weather.

A memorial service for Hosokawa Fūkoku was held at Yūrakuza. I met Aoyamako.

November 21st. The cold rain did not cease all day. In the evening, intending to dine, I passed through Owari-chō. By chance, I met Old Man Ōhiko. He remained as hale as ever.

November 22nd. Takedaya came to visit.

November 23rd. Purchased Chinese narcissus at Yoshishōdō in Ginza, and in the afternoon visited Mother. The maple leaves before the garden were like brocade. In the alcove of Mother’s room, I saw a white cat that had been stuffed. This was Koma—a male cat Mother had long kept—identified by the black spots near its ears; though unasked, the matter was clear. Eight years ago, when the geisha Yaetsugu frequented my study, I received a kitten from Tsunomotozaka Barber’s House, which Mother named Koma and lovingly raised. Since then, there had been no mice in the house; Koma fulfilled his duty admirably and repaid our kindness, yet the geisha left and never returned—merely revealing how human affections prove more fickle than even a beast’s. That night, Mother spoke in detail of how Koma had been in his final hours as he aged and approached death. Pierre Loti’s essay in *The Book of Death and Sorrow* depicting an old cat’s demise came to mind, deepening my sorrow all the more.

November 24th. The cold rain ceased only after night had fallen. I attended the Mita Literary Tea Gathering and met Mr. Takitarō Mizukami. On the way back, I inquired with Mr. Kume about Painter Hiraoka’s illness. Ennosuke and Sayoko came.

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

November 26th. I was invited by Matsu Enjō and drank at Suehiro in Higashi-Nakadōri. Kawarazaki Gonjūrō, Kawajiri Seitan, and Seto Eiichi also came. On my return journey, having been invited by Mr. Seitan, I proceeded to a teahouse called Tōke on Shingaraku-shindō and drank again. Skilled in Kawasakiya salon-style conversation, he recounted how some years ago when visiting Yoshiwara’s Ten Thousand Blossoms Pavilion late at night, he had seen a courtesan slashed by a client in the hallway who then fled into the privy. Seitan also told a story about a ship captain and a phantom cat, making the gathered geishas shudder before clapping his hands in delight. Past midnight, I returned home.

November 27th.

The day dawned clear and warm. At noon I visited Nakasu Hospital. My chronic ailment was pronounced much improved. That evening I attended the Thursday Society gathering. The night view of Takanawa—the new moon floating above the sea—resembled those famous-place prints from antiquity.

November 28th. The cold rain did not cease. Under the lamplight, I boiled rouge and printed ruled paper for manuscripts.

December 1st.

Nanbu Shūtarō came to discuss matters regarding Mita Bungaku.

December 2nd. I saw Shinbashi-za. This was likely for the Genbunsha joint critique meeting.

December 3rd. I guided Mother and viewed the Imperial Theater.

December 4th. In the afternoon came the Genbunsha critique meeting. Following this was a banquet celebrating Messrs. Kido and Matsuba's return from abroad. Both events unfolded at the Wakamatsu residence in Nihonbashi. A crescent moon hung in air where pale smoke drifted hazily over rooftops—the whole scene might have been plucked from some spring night's fancy.

December 5th. I was invited to Matsu Enjō’s house and had lunch together with Old Man Ōhiko, Enshō, and others. In the small south-facing garden stood one or two stalks of amaranth frozen stiff under clinging frost—a scene possessing poetic charm. Matsu Enjō’s cultivated taste in loving winter’s withered autumn grasses was truly admirable.

December 6th.

Cold rain fell in a dense mist. I went to Fugetsudō and took my evening meal. Since Old Woman Oshin had passed from this world, my household had ultimately failed to secure a proper maidservant. It had become my custom to dine at Fugetsudō each night. With wine cup in hand while perusing a portable volume laid upon the table, I found myself recalling those days abroad when I took all three daily meals at street-side cafés—and there arose an unbearable loneliness. I read A Mistake in Life by one Laurent Vineul, purchased yesterday. Featuring a bachelor philosopher protagonist, certain episodes within its pages resonated with peculiar intensity. Most piercing was the account of the scholar bedridden and railing against his maid's callousness. Today what consoles my melancholy is neither women nor shamisen—there exists only French letters.

December 7th.

Proofreading of Complete Works Volume 3 completed.

December 8th. Clear with a warm wind. At Fugetsudō I dined as usual and crossed Izumobashi Bridge with drunken, faltering steps. Tomorrow lies in heaven's hands. The shadows of pavilions on both banks floated inverted upon the water's surface. At Seiyōken's food market where I purchased tomorrow's breakfast bread, the loaf seemed freshly baked—it warmed my hand like a pocket warmer as I carried it. When I crossed Uneme Bridge and walked along the waterway, the moonlit canal's scenery grew ever more splendid. From Namiyoke Shrine's corner I returned home through back alleys along Honganji Temple's rear river. The bright moon shone slantwise through roof gaps onto my window. During my absence, Ginjirō the carpenter from Hakozakichō brought blueprints for Azabu construction plans.

December 9th. Clear and cold.

December 10th. In the late afternoon, Aaako visited. I drank at Seishinken in Owari-chō. That night, Aaako uncharacteristically refrained from heavy drinking and proposed adapting Arai Hakuseki's deeds into a script.

December 11th. Ikuta Kizan held a wedding reception at Rakutenkyo in Takanawa. On the return journey, I drank with Noho, Okifune, Mokufune, Aaā, and others at a sake shop by Kanasugi Bridge. As the streetcars had ceased running, I hired a rickshaw. Where had they gone? That I should wait until tomorrow morning and ask the white seagulls flying over Shinagawa Bay.

December 12th. I hear that something called the National Theater will be staging my old work *Smoke* in three acts. That night, I went to the Yūrakuza and observed the rehearsal. By chance, I met both Mr. Kido and Mr. Beisai.

December 13th. A mix of light snow and rain had fallen since morning. At night I attended the National Theater.

December 14th. I have a slight ailment.

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

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

December 17th.

Ichikawa Ennosuke came. He brought the publication notice for Volume 3 of Mr. Hayashi’s Complete Works from Shunyōdō and requested my signature and seal.

December 18th. Actress Hanada Ishi came and presented me with thirty yen in Mitsukoshi gift certificates as thanks for the performance of my old work.

December 19th. Clear and cold. In the twilight, while out on errands, I passed through Dote Sanbanchō by carriage. The view of the sunset seen from the heights of Ichigaya was most splendid.

December 20th.

At Fugetsudō, I happened to meet Mr. and Mrs. Kikugorō. Every time Kikugorō met me, he would request a new script. I appreciated the kindness shown, but today’s theaters were no longer places where art could properly be discussed. Though I did have a draft plan for the script, I had no heart to take up the brush.

December 23rd. At Kyūkyodō's shopfront, I unexpectedly had the honor of meeting Professor Mori. He wore a Western suit with an old mantle over it, 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. Matsu Enjō came visiting accompanied by his wife. They had come to examine the ninjōbon and shunga in my collection for reference regarding costumes and mannerisms, as Mr. Oka's new play Kozaru Shichinosuke would be performed at the Meiji-za next spring. This night proved warmer still compared to the previous day.

December 27th. In the afternoon, I visited Nakasu Hospital. From Shōbu Riverbank, looking out over the Ōkawa River, the warm winter sun shone across the waters. Among the passing cargo boats, some had pine decorations erected near their rudders. At boats tied to the shore, the boatman’s children were playing at flying kites—a scene as if viewing Hokusai’s *Both Banks at a Glance* illustration. In the evening, a Shunyōdō clerk brought the bound Volume 3 of the Complete Works.

December 29th. The wind was warm. I crossed Azumabashi and walked along Ishihara Banba’s riverbank.

December 30th. Clear skies. The warmth resembles spring.

December 31st. Clear skies. In the afternoon, I set out on a stroll to observe the New Year’s Eve scenes in the city center, proceeding to Kanda’s French Bookstore where I purchased several volumes from Flaubert’s Complete Works—epistolary writings and essays of that sort. I dined at Fugetsudō, passed through the throng of Ginza Street, and returned home. On my pillow, I perused Colette Willy’s novels Lettres and Sentimental, unaware that dawn had arrived. Suddenly, someone attempted to slide open the lattice door. Upon rising to look, I found that the postal carrier had deposited a bundle of New Year’s cards and departed. On the main street, the sound of geta clogs still did not cease. The voices of drunkards singing as they passed by could also be heard.