Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Barbershop's Wall Mirror

Midway along Kagurazaka-dori, at the bend of a narrow side street—commonly known as Honda Yokochō—that runs straight toward Tsukudo Hachiman, there stood a barbershop called Toyoshima.
It wasn’t a particularly large establishment, but with five or six craftsmen employed and branches throughout the ward, it seemed to be quite an old shop that always thrived due to its location.
In the evenings, a banana vendor’s stall would typically set up before it, and anyone would notice how they’d clatter their wooden boards, clap their hands, and shout their spiels in beast-like roars, drawing crowds of curious strollers.

I had been a regular at that barbershop from my Waseda student days to this very day.
It wasn’t that the place was particularly better or more skilled than others, but having initially started going there due to lodging nearby, and because the ambiance and facilities felt somehow agreeable, even after moving elsewhere, I still found myself making the trip there as part of my walks.
Counting now, it had already been a full seventeen or eighteen years.
Throughout this time, barring travels or other exceptional circumstances, I had continued to reflect my face in that large wall mirror once or twice every month; yet somewhere along the way, unnoticed even by myself, my once-lustrous youthful visage—that of a vibrant young man—had changed into a sagging-skinned, deeply wrinkled thing resembling an old man’s face, while the thick jet-black hair I’d once taken pride in had now transformed into what could only be called a pitiful salt-and-pepper mess.

“You’ve gained quite a lot of white hair, haven’t you?”

“Well, it’s suddenly gotten so white lately.”
“I’m not really that old yet, but…”
“As I thought—your white hair has truly come in. We see this often with gentlemen like yourself.”
“I don’t know why, but it makes one rather pessimistic.”
Long ago, when the owner still cut hair alongside his apprentices like any craftsman, we had this exchange one day as he trimmed mine.
Yet when I looked then, even that proprietor’s own crown had thinned into a circular bald patch.

“You’ve changed quite a bit too.”

I had been just about to say that myself.
The owner himself was now nearing fifty—a rather short, roundly plump man with an exceedingly magnanimous air who appeared kindly at first glance... But what had changed wasn’t merely his hair or mine; both the interior and exterior of his shop had transformed until they scarcely retained any vestige of their former appearance.
It was impossible to pinpoint exactly when or how the changes had occurred, but after several renovations, the exterior had improved while the interior grew more spacious and clean, with all facilities gradually upgraded over time.
Even haircut prices—once twenty or twenty-five sen—had risen three or fourfold.
As for trends in haircuts and beard styles, the shop must have witnessed several evolutions through the years.
The fierce turnover among young barbers went without saying; even the owner’s wife had been replaced midway through.
The previous one had likely fallen ill and passed away.
And as for the regular patrons—what countless changes must have unfolded in their lives.
Considering outward appearances alone—for instance, someone like myself who had transformed from a hot-blooded youth into a salt-and-pepper middle-aged man; others who’d turned from robust men in their prime into white-haired elders; and still others, those very elders who’d eventually ceased appearing—such shifts must have occurred aplenty.
Moreover, there were surely many cases where children who until yesterday had been brought by mothers or maids for close-cropped haircuts now arrived as dapper young gentlemen seeking fashionable waves in their luxuriant jet-black hair.
Facing the mirror embedded in L-shaped walls on both sides, I would invariably lose myself in contemplation whenever gazing at my own visage—so suddenly altered it startled even me—drowning in a multitude of emotions each time.

Kagurazaka and I

Even so, how many times must I have reflected my face and figure in that mirror? When I thought of it, that very mirror had been the silent observer that, through seventeen or eighteen long years, had continuously watched my figure approach step by step from youth through middle age toward old age's domain. A man of unknown origin—though I had frequented that shop for so long while remaining naturally taciturn, rarely speaking to anyone and never once uttering a word about my name, status or occupation, so even the owner likely knew nothing beyond my being a longtime familiar face—that very man of unknown origin had for over a dozen years casually visited each month, completed his business and silently departed; and while repeating this routine through long years, before anyone noticed—even himself—his hair had turned white and deep wrinkles had gathered on his face. Even an unfeeling mirror must harbor profound emotions. Every time I considered this, I felt a certain novelistic fascination there.

Such changes are—needless to say—occurring upon all people and things alike.
Moreover, they unfold with such extreme gradualness through time’s passage—so naturally that one cannot pinpoint when or how.
Even if someone might startle upon noticing them suddenly after long years pass, those who watch constantly will scarcely perceive them without special cause.
As part of my ongoing *Great Tokyo Prosperity Chronicle* serialized in this paper—now turning to Ushigome Kagurazaka’s impressions and memories—I find myself gripped by precisely this sensation.

It had already been twenty-two or twenty-three years since I came to Tokyo, yet throughout that time up to today, my life had consistently revolved around this Kagurazaka.
For the first three or four years, due to certain circumstances, I commuted to Waseda University from Shiba Takanawa. At that time, the present-day Waseda Line train only ran as far as Iidabashi—though it soon extended to Ōmagari—but because of transfers and other inconveniences, I ended up using the Sotobori Line train at Kagurazaka-shita for my daily commute.
After I began lodging near the school, no matter how many times I moved from one boarding house to another—or later when I set up a household and moved around repeatedly—I never once left the land of Ushigome.
There had been several occasions when I resolved to try suburban living or move to another ward, but each time my attachment to the familiar land and unease toward the unknown would invariably pull my heart back and bind my body in place.
By now Ushigome had become something of a second hometown to me—and it seemed destined to remain my permanent residence.
If there should ever arise circumstances compelling me to relocate elsewhere in the future, I would require courage akin to one abandoning their ancestral burial grounds for a distant foreign land—and in equal measure would have to taste that same profound sorrow of departure.
And so—if you leave Kagurazaka there is no Ushigome; to say one lives in Ushigome was tantamount to saying one lives in Kagurazaka.

Thus, as one who had grown deeply familiar with and fond of Kagurazaka over many years—so much so that my feet naturally turned there during morning and evening strolls—I had continually witnessed its transformations. Yet if one were to scrutinize each detail, the surrounding scenery must have changed utterly beyond recognition compared to when I first saw it. Still, when pressed to say exactly when, where, or how these changes occurred, I found it as difficult to answer clearly as if asked when and how my hair turned white.
Over a long period, having naturally transformed without any clear when or where, it must have appeared to those who hadn’t seen it in ages as nothing short of astonishing changes and developments; yet to me, accustomed to viewing it daily, I could not help but say that by and large, it remained much as before.

“The Ginza of Yamanote?”

During the Great Kanto Earthquake of years past, while the lower city areas were almost entirely reduced to ashes—and now a new Tokyo was being constructed upon their ruins, its scenery, atmosphere, and character all displaying utterly reborn transformation—our Kagurazaka-dori and the entire Ushigome ward had fortunately been spared from that great fire. Compared to before, no particularly conspicuous or remarkable changes were evident.

The roads had been paved with asphalt, facade-only Western-style buildings had multiplied, and cafés and merino shops proliferated—compared to the past, one could say it had changed considerably, though one might equally argue it remained much the same.

But be that as it may, Kagurazaka was, for me, one of Tokyo’s most beloved streets.

The other day, a friend living in Shiba came and said to me.

“Where do you usually go for your walks?”

“Why, Kagurazaka, of course.”
“I go out nearly every night,” I answered promptly.

“Is Kagurazaka truly that remarkable?”

“It’s not particularly splendid, but rather pleasant.”
“Besides, being so accustomed to it over the years, my feet simply wander there of their own accord whenever I step out.”
“If you venture as far as Ginza, well—there’s scarcely any other convenient place for strolling hereabouts.”

“How does it compare to somewhere like Ginza?”

“That’s obviously no comparison at all. Everything’s small-time and tacky and shabby and provincial, you know. It can’t help feeling third-rate. But that third-rate, provincial quality is exactly what I love about it. It’s easy to feel close to.”

“Hmph.” My friend nodded, a faint sneer playing about his nostrils. “But I don’t quite understand why Kagurazaka is called the Ginza of Yamanote or considered one of Tokyo’s famous spots. A place like that—aren’t there plenty of them in every ward?”

“Well, you’re right—especially since that place only comes alive at night; during the day, it’s truly dull.”
“But come nightfall, its entire atmosphere transforms completely.”
“You could say that about any place, but in Kagurazaka, the contrast between day and night is particularly stark.”
“That place so utterly plain and bleak in daylight becomes such a wonderfully atmospheric spot at night it borders on the miraculous.”

“It does seem quite lively at night, doesn’t it?”

“It is lively.”
“That holds true through all seasons, but especially from now until midsummer—it becomes particularly intense.”
“Part of it is the narrow space, but when crowds peak, you can barely move around.”

“There’s nothing particularly worth seeing here, and not a single decent shop to speak of, it seems.”
“It must be Bishamonten-sama’s divine favor after all, ahahahaha.”

“Ahahaha, I don’t know why, but anyway, they come streaming out as if compelled by some shared urge.”
“Not just people from Ushigome—they come from nearby Kōjimachi too, even distant Koishikawa and Zōshigaya.”

“Why did that place become such a bustling spot? You being a thoroughfare regular must know all about it.”

“I don’t know, nor do I have any interest in finding out. That may well have originally been due to Bishamonten-sama’s divine favor, but in any case, since Ushigome has long been a bustling district, people naturally gather there. You need only acknowledge the plain fact that it’s lively precisely because people come out. But if we’re merely talking about liveliness or crowds, then as you said yourself, even within Yamanote there are plenty of places far surpassing Kagurazaka. Take nearby areas like Yotsuya’s streets—or especially Shinjuku’s recent developments; their bustle is truly remarkable. Even Yamabuki-chō-dōri right next door—that stretch from the Edogawa River down past the Yaraicho police box—likely rivals Kagurazaka in foot traffic. Yet the atmosphere of those places feels utterly different from Kagurazaka’s.”

Kagurazaka Mood

I took a sip of my cooling black tea and continued.

“I sometimes go walking along Yotsuya’s streets since they’re near my home, but perhaps because I’m still unaccustomed to them—there’s a vague clutter about them, an incoherence in the air—and I seldom find myself in the mood to amble leisurely through night stalls.”

“What’s more, both Yotsuya and Shinjuku nearby still lack that sense of being a freshly developed area—they feel more like thoroughfares for errands—and perhaps due to all those trams and automobiles coming and going, there’s an odd restlessness.”

“But when you reach Kagurazaka, you slip effortlessly into a purely carefree strolling mood.”

“This doesn’t seem to be my personal fancy alone.”

“The reason being—come evening, everyone who gathers there, men and women alike, appears to arrive in the same lighthearted spirit as mine: purely for strolling or taking an idle walk.”

“Thus from such congregations brews an atmosphere unlike any found elsewhere.”

“That dense air where everyone seems absorbed in their promenade—”

“That’s what I call the Kagurazaka mood, and it’s precisely this mood, this atmosphere, that I adore.”

“In places like Ginza or Asakusa, you grow self-conscious of being in sightseeing districts or amusement quarters—it makes one formal—but in Kagurazaka you melt into a blithe strolling humor, free to peer into every night stall along the way.”

“The narrow scope leaves something wanting, yet in return you may wander back and forth through the same stretch—pausing with feigned interest at banana hawkers’ tired performances, listening with mock curiosity to snake-oil peddlers’ spiels or Salvation Army sermons long stripped of novelty, gazing vacantly at sign painters absorbed in their craft, even crouching before five-in-a-row game stalls to play foolish little pranks while inwardly scoffing at their absurdity.”

“At times I’ve even caught myself transfixed by imagawayaki vendors grilling their wares, sweat dripping down their brows in the swelter.”

“Now don’t laugh—truth be told, few places beyond Kagurazaka let you sink into such heedless, almost selfless humor.”

“Elsewhere such antics might jar—but here? Not in the slightest.”

“And all the while you might chance upon friends or glimpse some passing beauty.”

“Ahahaha.”

“Ah, that’s it, that’s it!” my friend laughed in unison.
“Well now, having endured this lengthy sermon, shall we go experience this Kagurazaka mood firsthand?”

“Alright.”

So we promptly set out. It was a bit of a detour, but since I thought we’d take the tram anyway—and partly spurred by my role as a guide—we headed toward Yanagichō Street where my house was located. Then—though we hadn’t noticed until then—it turned out that very evening was Yanagichō Street’s festival day; despite dusk having only just fallen, a great many children were out, making it quite lively.

“Well, well, there’s a festival day in a place like this.”

My friend remarked with surprise.

“Ah, there are mostly just child’s baubles here, but even this area has started drawing quite crowds lately.”
“Since last year or so, festival nights have gotten busy enough to stop traffic,” I said.

“So a second Kagurazaka might spring up here?”

“Ahahaha, the road ahead remains long indeed.”
“If they ever lay tram lines through here, development might follow—but for now it’s pure countryside without even a proper café serving decent coffee.”

“Can they lay a tram line here?”

“Well, there’s been talk—the tram that runs straight from Gokoku-ji’s front in Otowa crosses the Edogawa River and comes below Yarai’s police box would go further through Enokimachi and Bentenchō, with plans to connect all the way from here to places like Shiochō in Yotsuya.”

“Then it’d be convenient.”

“But when that will happen, I wonder.”
“I hear there’s talk it was discontinued due to post-earthquake reconstruction projects or something.”

Tiger Bishamon / Horse Bishamon

At that moment, I came upon three girls from my household standing hand in hand before a toy shop.

“Father, please buy me a balloon.”

My seven-year-old youngest daughter was first to cling to my sleeve and begin acting sweetly. Before my accompanying friend, she knew through experience that I couldn't refuse. Without protest, I silently pressed a ten-sen white copper coin into her hand.

"Big brother is here too!"

In her excess of joy—or perhaps because of it—she meddlesomely informed me of this. Sure enough, walking a short distance further, within the crowd surrounding a square-capped student holding aloft a long scroll densely covered with numbers as he expounded on mnemonic secrets, I caught sight of my eldest son's retreating figure. But thinking it would be troublesome if caught, I passed by with feigned ignorance.

Here and there, eddies of people swirled and flowed like waves; in this narrow corner of the outskirts—though it retained a rustic, modest, even rather charming air—there nonetheless drifted a serene, leisurely festival atmosphere befitting an early summer evening.
Young female students from the Women’s Medical College in nearby Kawada-chō, dressed in black Western-style clothing and usually strolling in clusters of three, stood out as a distinctive feature of the festival there.
There were also those who entered the pickled goods store to buy tsukudani simmered preserves or fukujinzuke pickles.

“Every festival day’s the same no matter where you go,” my friend remarked rather dismissively.

“Well, you’re not wrong there. Especially here—it’s rather meager, mainly catering to children. Yet call it a festival day, and people still flock out in droves—strange, isn’t it? And the shops and everything else around here gradually improve on their own, you see. So as a prosperity strategy for the area, festival days are absolutely necessary, you see,” I said.
“Even in Kagurazaka’s case, while there must have been all sorts of conditions and reasons that contributed to its present-day prosperity, I believe that in the very beginning, it was primarily the Bishamon festival days that provided the driving force. In fact, nowadays it’s become impossible to distinguish regular days from festival days—but even during my time here, originally only on the evenings of the Tiger and Horse Bishamon festivals would there be a particularly large number of night stalls, hence larger crowds, and it was precisely on those festival nights that Sakanamachi and beyond would be closed to traffic. Back in those days, we too would say things like ‘Today’s Tiger Bishamon!’ or ‘Today’s Horse Bishamon!’ and head out from deep in Waseda, inviting friends or being invited by them—much like how my children now hold hands and go to see the neighborhood festivals. Rather than looking at night stalls, we’d just stroll through the crowds, enjoying things like catching whiffs of young members of the opposite sex or brushing sleeves with them—Ahahaha.”

“You must’ve really shown your delinquent streak back then,” my friend laughed while needling me.

“Oh, not at all—we were perfectly upstanding citizens. Unlike today’s modern boys, when it came to us back then, every last one of us was afflicted with that so-called ‘What is life?’ disease. That left us utterly spineless in such matters. And unlike these days where cafés—for better or worse—let you casually glimpse women, there was nothing of the sort back then. At best once every three outings, we’d huddle at places like Shungetsu next to Bishamon Temple or Sarashina in Tōriji-chō, debating life and literature over a single bowl of three- or five-sen zaru soba noodles, only to trudge home alone in the end. So ordinary days back then were rather quiet. The night stalls were just sushi carts at first, but before we knew it, they started appearing nightly like in Ginza, crowds swelling each evening until the whole area flourished beyond recognition. Now we can’t even tell which days are festivals anymore—no need to remember Tiger Bishamon or Horse Bishamon dates. These days, whenever you go out, it’s all the same liveliness and glitter—that pleasure-seeking air thickening by the day.”

Ant Pilgrimage to the Capital

When I was studying at Waseda University—and even after graduating—which spanned from the late Meiji era into early Taishō years, I remember how during Bishamon festival days they would hang two especially large red lanterns at the shrine entrance, with two or three tents housing monkey performances and peep shows erected within those cramped grounds. But like all things, these quietly faded into obscurity with the changing times.

The proliferation of plant nurseries formed another hallmark of Kagurazaka's festivals back then. From slope's crest to base, both sides brimmed with flower vendors and bonsai shops packed shoulder-to-shoulder, while stores selling garden trees routinely overflowed onto both sides of the Sotobori tram-line street—sometimes even spilling before the police station opposite or along the moat's embankment edge.

To this day I can still see it clearly—people cradling potted plants under arms, hoisting bonsai high on shoulders, or hefting full-grown trees through Kagurazaka's uniquely vibrant throngs. Geisha and their apprentices brushed sleeves with housewives and students amid this kaleidoscopic swirl of classes and callings, all navigating the luminous bustle that defined these festivals.

I believe this scene persisted until five or six years before the Great Kanto Earthquake, yet now such distinctly festival atmospheres have nearly vanished altogether. As nightly stalls grew prosperous, the nurseries themselves seemed to dwindle into decline.

In exchange, a permanent plant nursery operating day and night had recently emerged within Bishamon’s precincts—one that conveniently offered rapid delivery and even planting services anywhere desired—making it quite interesting to observe how it thrived daily.
Though this new venture had begun just one or two years prior—whether Lord Bishamonten himself managed it or merely leased his grounds for rent—it utilized the vacant lot left by some earthquake-destroyed hall to brilliant effect: much like the plantings in his front garden, it cultivated a small grove of evergreen foliage through all seasons, simultaneously enhancing the shrine’s scenic charm while turning a profit. One couldn’t help but bow to such divine ingenuity—truly befitting a deity!—and I found myself wishing all gods and buddhas enshrined in Tokyo’s temples might take our Kagurazaka Lord Bishamonten as their model.

While sharing these tales of past and present with my friend, the impatience of waiting for the tram drove me instead to climb Yakimochizaka on foot. From in front of Ichigaya Elementary School, I ambled along the tram line street until—before I knew it—I had passed the peculiar building of the telephone office in Kitamachi, Ushigome’s foremost large structure that resembled a stacked white sea cucumber mochi, and found myself already near Sakanamachi’s tram stop.

“Whoa!
“Well, this is quite the crowd!”

My friend involuntarily stopped short at the corner police box and, looking around to both sides, exclaimed with exaggerated emphasis.
Looking out, it seemed precisely the peak hour of human tide—countless streams of people surged in unison along a single brightly lit street flanked by tram tracks, mingling like converging currents as they flowed in from one direction toward Teramachi and from the other toward Kagurazaka Hon-dori Avenue.
And at times, packed trains with their bright faces lined up like a string of bells clanged softly, alternately damming and letting through that human current, while alongside the blare of automobile horns, the traffic officer’s hands swirled busily.

“Is it always like this?”

“Every night’s like this.”

“It’s like a grand procession of ants on a pilgrimage to the capital.”

Indeed, I thought that metaphor was apt. And I, centering on this short and narrow single street, could vividly picture the scene of people streaming in from countless alleys branching out in all directions—and even from beyond those alleys—each drawn toward there by its beautiful lights and gathering together like tributaries flowing into a river’s main current; it filled me with immense delight.

The Development of Tōriji-chō

Traditionally, when one speaks of Kagurazaka, it refers to the stretch from this corner of Sakanamachi down to the foot of the slope at Ushigome Mitsuke; but now it has come to be called Kagurazaka Hon-dori Avenue, with all of Tōriji-chō incorporated into its area as one continuous district.
The Tōriji-chō street, when I first came to Tokyo and passed through it over twenty years ago, had been a narrow, gloomy passage about half its current width—the eaves of low row houses protruded from both sides so closely that on rainy days even two people walking side by side with umbrellas found it difficult. This I still faintly remember.
The Bunmeikan, now a movie theater, had originally been an exhibition hall of the same name; but when a fire broke out in that area and burned down the entire vicinity, the townscape was subsequently expanded to its present form.

Back then, across from what is now Yasuda Bank, at that corner where Shōten-sama’s small red hall stood, there had been a beef restaurant called Iroha.
Speaking of Iroha, though it has now declined and is scarcely seen anywhere, in those days it had many branches throughout the city and was famous enough to be counted as one of Tokyo’s notable specialties.
Adorned with red and blue colored glass doors as its distinctive landmark, that Kagurazaka branch also stood out prominently at a crossroads as conspicuous as a sword’s ornamental rivet.
One time, I went up to that shop with a friend—marking my very first venture into a Tokyo beef restaurant.
With great trepidation about potential costs, I picked up my chopsticks; yet we both ate until full. When checking the bill to find it totaled just over sixty sen for two, I sighed in relief and affected nonchalance by handing seventy sen with “Keep the change”—though recalling it now feels dreamlike.

The Ushigotei vaudeville hall located a short walk further on was a place I had hardly visited in recent years, though I used to frequent it regularly in the past.
Until perhaps seven or eight—or even ten—years ago, when one spoke of vaudeville halls in Ushigome, that establishment had been considered preeminent.
Whether featuring rakugo or other acts, it had prospered so mightily that crowds perpetually overflowed into the corridors; before moving pictures grew prevalent, people regarded it as Ushigome residents' sole entertainment venue.
It was there too that I first heard Kosan and Enju perform rakugo.
I believe it was also at that Ushigotei where I initially became captivated by Ayanosuke and Kozosa's gidayū recitations and Kagadayū and Shichō's shinnai ballads.
Yet for reasons unknown, several years ago those first-rate rakugo performances and variety acts ceased being staged there entirely, replaced by nothing but Yawata plays and Yasugi-bushi folk songs.
While this new programming deserves recognition as distinctive in its own right—and undoubtedly thrives splendidly through its patrons' favor—I cannot help feeling an indefinable melancholy whenever I recall former times.
The location proved ideal; entering that narrow alley measuring barely three or four shaku across gave one the quintessential atmosphere of an old-style vaudeville house, while Kosan and Enju's solo performance lanterns hung high beneath the eaves never failed to catch attention and kindle our enthusiasm for yose theater.
Even now its exterior remains unchanged from former days; yet set against the surrounding bustle, it somehow seems less conspicuous than before.

Now Kagurazaka Engeijō seems to have become the sole regular venue for rakugo (traditional comic storytelling).

If we were to continue such nostalgic reminiscing, there would be no end—but in any case, Teramachi Street’s recent development has been extraordinary. Originally fated by its topography, it had been growing year by year as a main thoroughfare connecting Kagurazaka to Yarai and Waseda, but its progress became markedly pronounced after the Great Kanto Earthquake. In the disaster’s immediate aftermath, Kagurazaka—already known as Yamanote’s premier bustling district—remained unscathed. People converged here from all directions in droves, and commercially as well as recreationally, Kagurazaka took on the appearance of having become one of Tokyo’s great centers. Day and night, Teramachi Street from the slope’s base became packed with roadside stalls; thereafter, it gradually attained a bustle rivaling what I call Kagurazaka proper, and now presents a scene of increasingly rapid development extending toward Yarai.

Unique Charm

That said, however, the atmosphere indeed differed considerably between Teramachi Street and Kagurazaka proper.
No matter how one looked at it, the fact remained that the latter stood a class above in every respect—a truth no one could deny.
It might have been akin to the difference between time-honored establishments and new shops—surely I wasn’t alone in feeling that only after crossing Sakanamachi’s tram line did I truly enter Kagurazaka.
The mere presence of that single tram track made all the difference—though the townscape appeared identical, with no variation in outward bustle or passing crowds—yet the entire atmosphere and hue abruptly shifted. To call this “local color” might have overstated it, but one sensed something akin to regional distinctiveness here, a quality that rendered this phenomenon curiously compelling.
For Teramachi Street to attain the same atmosphere as present-day Kagurazaka Hon-dori Avenue would still require many long years to pass.

Moreover, one must also take into account that all the side streets and back alleys on both sides here have become nests of geisha houses and meeting places.
The scene of alluring geisha and apprentice geisha in their formal attire parting through that shoulder-to-shoulder crowd as they crossed from one side street to another remained unchanged from days of old—setting aside judgments of good or bad—and there was no disputing how profoundly this shaped Kagurazaka’s distinctive atmosphere and character, setting it apart from all else.
And though that avenue at first glance seemed purely an uptown street of Yamanote, the moment one stepped into its side alleys, it abruptly transformed into a realm of narrow downtown lanes steeped in Shitamachi sentiment—a pleasure quarter of shaded willows and blossoming revelry. Yet this uptown mood and downtown palette, without contradiction or division, mysteriously harmonized and blended along that single thoroughfare, evoking what was called the “Kagurazaka ambiance”: a unique effervescent air and alluring atmosphere that had become an irreplicable charm found nowhere else.
One often observed scenes at cafés like Tawaraya or Ozawa where respectable ladies from fine households, families dressed like young mistresses, groups of students, and people accompanied by geisha sat side by side or faced each other at neighboring tables; yet there in Kagurazaka, this did not strike one as particularly unnatural or discordant. Moreover, none of these groups seemed to feel awkwardness or constraint toward one another—a sense of freedom that, to my knowledge, existed nowhere but Kagurazaka.

I strolled along while talking to a friend about such things.
My friend nodded in agreement to each of my points with an expression that seemed to say I see.
And he remarked that it was no wonder they called it the Ginza of Yamanote, and that the Shitamachi atmosphere was still quite strong here.

“Moreover, since there are no trams or cars passing through here and it’s a town with buildings lining both sides, it’s all the more clean and lively.”
“It’s a bit like Asakusa’s Nakamise,” he said.

“Yes, that’s part of it too.”
“Moreover, there’s another thing—here, the pedestrian traffic generally flows in two layers.”
“You see, people coming from the foot of the slope go all the way to near the Teramachi post office and turn back, while those emerging from Teramachi go up to the top of the slope or down to the foot and then retrace their steps along the same path.”
“It’s exactly like people zigzagging back and forth inside a bag.”
“So when I stroll around like this, I keep bumping into the same people over and over—not only that, but everyone walking here feels like a familiar face.” As I spoke, I pointed out the regular strollers we always saw, who happened to be passing by just then.

“I see—it really does feel like everyone’s come out for a stroll,” said my friend.

“And they’re not in some formal outing mindset, but rather with a lighthearted feeling, like someone just throwing on a yukata. So it somehow feels carefree and leisurely. And they say the merchants around here are more honest, leisurely, and have a calmer disposition compared to those in other areas. Since there are few one-time customers here, even if the shops compete with each other, they apparently don’t resort to underhanded tactics against customers,” I recounted just as I’d heard from others.

Ushigome Mitsuke

We ambled down to the foot of the slope while looking at night stalls lining both sides.
After crossing the outer moat's tram tracks, we reached Mitsuke Bridge.
Ongoing expansions of national railway lines and station relocations had both upper and lower areas seething with construction—the chaotic footing felt precarious.
Though I couldn't predict how its appearance might change post-construction, I had always considered Ushigome Mitsuke's surrounding scenery the finest among surviving watchtower sites.
The night atmosphere proved particularly splendid when lights illuminated the area, drawing many summer evening strollers, though daytime views held their own charm—willows lining upper banks, cherry trees below, and boats dotting the moat.
The double-decker bridge spanning this waterway made an unusual sight; I often used to spot art students sketching by its sluice gate.

But those cherry trees there were completely ruined after the Great Kanto Earthquake.
Only a mere two or three trees near the station across the bridge bore blossoms, while the rest had withered away for some reason.
There was a time when the cherry blossoms of Mitsuke were renowned—during their season, the stretch from the tram line to the station became a tunnel of flowers. Along the station’s embankment, they bloomed riotously all the way to Shin-Mitsuke, scattering blizzards of petals over the moat’s surface until it seemed one could enjoy proper cherry blossom viewing right there. I found it all so tragic now.

The appearance of rental boats floating on that moat was a very recent development; I recalled it had begun around a year or two before the Great Kanto Earthquake. I had heard rumors multiple times about reclaiming that area to create a municipal park, but they came to nothing, and it instead seemed to have become this sort of private water park—if one could call it that. I didn’t know whose plan it was, but in every sense it had to be called an excellent idea. Now it had become one of Ushigome’s local attractions, and in those days, whenever the weather was fine, it was always teeming with crowds. I too occasionally took my children out for a row on a whim—utterly innocent, delightful, and enjoyable. While primarily occupied by elementary and middle school students, there were also considerable groups of adults, and one could often see a young family in a boat drifting along with the current, their children playing in the shade of a parasol—a scene of domestic harmony. Groups of female students were also quite numerous, and at times, alluring young women—geisha, apprentice geisha, or what seemed to be café waitresses—could be seen rowing with earnest expressions, adding splashes of color to the scene. Upon inquiry, I learned they offered a half-price discount exclusively for female groups to promote physical education—a commendable effort, to be sure—but I once laughed, suspecting it might rather be serving as a decoy.

This area belonged to Kōjimachi Ward, but word had it that the embankment from Mitsuke to Shin-Mitsuke would be opened as a continuous park, with construction already underway and slated for completion within the month. When realized, this vision would see water and land harmonizing throughout the area to create scenery distinct from all others—destined to become an ideal recreation ground for us Ushigome Ward residents who lacked proper parks or promenades, and for some in Kōjimachi Ward. There could be no doubt this would further elevate Kagurazaka’s prosperity. That this embankment had never before been opened to citizens as a promenade struck me as truly baffling. Having once climbed there during an evening stroll with five others—only to be apprehended by a detective constable for violating regulations, hauled to Kudan Police Station, and subjected to humiliating interrogation in my most absurdly bitter experience—I found myself yearning for the day when that outdated “No Trespassing” sign would vanish, letting us wander freely at last.

Chronicles of Shop Prosperity

Saying we should have a beer or something before parting ways, we turned back into the bustling crowd.
Around this time in Kagurazaka, as part of particular prosperity measures, they had begun holding regular joint markets approximately once a month alongside their Bon and year-end grand sales. That day happened to coincide with one such event, and all shops lining both sides of the street uniformly hung matching red flags from their eaves to boost the atmosphere.
But in this Kagurazaka, there seemed to be almost no renowned homegrown establishments or major stores with distinctive features worth boasting of.
Even if one were to say they were all more or less the same—nothing but mid-tier daily goods stores catering to ward residents—it was unlikely anyone would offer much criticism.
Immediately after the earthquake, branches like Mitsukoshi and temporary sales areas such as Matsuya in Nihonbashi had been established, but all proved transient and were soon either withdrawn or shut down.
And now, it seemed to have returned to its former Kagurazaka self.
As for somewhat notable shops newly established post-earthquake, there were only about two branches—Ginza’s Muramatsu Clock Shop and Shiseido—both appearing as permanent fixtures that chose central Kagurazaka locations near Bishamon where they stood side by side.
And it became an undeniable fact that with these two shops’ establishment, the surrounding area grew brighter, cleaner, and more refined than before.
(However, both these shops would end up closing not long afterward—Postscript)

Manchō the sake dealer, Sōma-ya the paper goods store, Ozawa the pharmacy, Hishiya the thread shop, Beniya the confectioner, Tawaraya the fruit seller—however, as ordinary shops go, to my knowledge these would be considered long-established, well-known establishments.
Beniya was indeed a branch of the same store in Koishikawa Andōzaka; while it used to specialize in Japanese confections with dorayaki as its signature item, these days Western sweets have rather taken precedence, giving it a somewhat Fūgetsudō-like air—it would likely be considered first-rate among confectioners not just in Kagurazaka but throughout the Yamanote area.
Two or three years before the earthquake, they had renovated it into a three-story Western-style building with a coffee shop on the second floor and a dance hall on the third; however, after the earthquake, they closed the dance hall and repurposed the third floor into a coffee shop like the second floor.
Employing charming young waitresses and offering not only the usual café fare but also shiratama dumplings and their signature Japanese sweets, it remained bustling with students and families.

Among confectioners, there were still two or three other famous ones beyond these—the Ginza Kimuraya branch at the top of the slope, the Shiose branch, and Teramachi’s Funabashiya, which had a somewhat second-rate feel.
But I had little use for sweet things.
My wife would patronize these shops as needed for our children or guests depending on her whims, but at Sōma-ya and another paper shop called Yamada at the foot of the slope, I occasionally found myself relying on their manuscript paper.
Then among the bookstores most relevant to me—with Seibundō, Kizankaku, and Teramachi’s Nanbokusha being the larger ones, plus two or three others besides—the fact that six or seven shops selling new books existed within that cramped area, each thriving just as much as the next, had surely been evidence of how Waseda University’s presence drew many students and intellectuals here.
Used bookstores were scarce, and now only Takehisa on the tram line street in Iwato-chō remained.
Takeda Hōshindō, which had previously specialized in used books and been often mentioned alongside Kanda’s Katakiya for its abundance of foreign-language volumes, had gradually transformed over time until it had become entirely a new bookstore.

Instead, used bookstores at the night stalls had greatly increased in number. This was worth adding as one of Kagurazaka’s distinctive night stall features in a prosperity chronicle. To be sure, these were all common shelf-worn items or stock clearances—rarely did one find a hidden gem among them—yet they seemed to sell well given the location. A man I knew who had once been a clerk at a Waseda used bookstore began specializing in night stalls, setting up there nightly. He profited handsomely from it and now ran a fine shop behind Waseda University in Totsuka, having become known as a success in that trade.

If I were to add a word about the overall atmosphere of the night stalls, it would be this: generally speaking, these days there was a gradual decrease in carnival-like temporary vendors operating for single occasions and an increase in serious practical fixed shops—a phenomenon I could not speak for in other areas but found particularly noticeable in places like Kagurazaka.

Cafés and Others

The number of cafés and similar food and drink establishments was truly considerable.
Especially after the earthquake, they had increased remarkably; at times, even along the main street alone, it felt almost as if every doorway bore one.
Each possessed distinct characteristics and thrived through their respective patrons with differing preferences, making it impossible to simply declare any superior or inferior.
However, generally speaking, when it came to Kagurazaka’s cafés at that time, Tawaraya and Ozawa across from it seemed to be regarded as the two representative establishments.

Tawaraya and Ozawa were not merely positioned directly across from each other; in every aspect, they stood as mirror images. By seniority, Tawaraya held four or five years' precedence and had gained renown for its superior cuisine. I heard many patrons even made special trips from downtown districts solely for meals there. As one more accustomed to drinking than dining, I knew little of culinary matters, yet noted how most artists I knew—writers, painters, musicians—would inevitably gravitate there for food and drink when visiting Ushigome. Five or six years prior, the regulars who congregated there had even formed a "Tawaraya Society," holding fellowship gatherings at the Tokiwa ryotei—though being fundamentally a fruit shop, its ability to serve fresh seasonal produce remained an enduring advantage. Yet customers seeking such delicacies seemed increasingly drawn to the main branch's fruit parlor atop the slope.

When Ozawa the pharmacy opened a similar café directly across from Tawaraya—of all places—it caused quite a sensation among us Kagurazaka regulars.
In other words, high-quality cafés had gradually emerged in Kagurazaka as well through this development, making the area increasingly built-up and adding to its prosperity.
A little later, Café Star opened across from them, forming a tripartite rivalry with Tawaraya for a time until Star soon went out of business and became what is now Ebisu Beef Restaurant.
How time flew—they say this year marks ten full years since Ozawa first opened.
While naturally possessing characteristics distinct from Tawaraya—its second-floor dining area occasionally hosted banquets for literary circles and other groups—they began employing waitresses on the first floor around last wintertime; whether due to this or not, it seemed lately to have grown even more prosperous.
In contrast to Tawaraya’s compact coziness, while Ozawa did carry a somewhat scattered atmosphere, that very quality made it all the more relaxed.

In addition to the grounds under Ushigome Kaikan and Yamada Café, which were well-known, I hadn't been there much myself and thus wasn't well acquainted with their specifics. Midway up the slope, a genuinely good café called Hakujūjido had recently opened. And we must not forget Yamamoto in front of Bishamon—the originator of cafés in Kagurazaka—which served Paulista-style inexpensive coffee.

After the earthquake, the opening of a Plantin branch in Koyokochō of Tsūji-chō had provided us with a most pleasant and comfortable corner, but its closure shortly thereafter was truly regrettable. Some time ago, there had been a rumor that Shinchosha purchased that site to donate it to the Literary Artists Association as a club for us literary people, but it seemed that plan had ultimately come to nothing. Now hung a sign for a certain gynecologist. That place had long ago been a Western-style restaurant called Meishinken. What would now be called a café, it was said that Ozaki Kōyō—who lived nearby in Yokoteramachi—along with others from the Ken'yūsha group and people from Waseda’s humanities department, had often frequented. Even during the time when I attended school, that signboard had still been hanging. Now, the son of Meishinken from that time (though he was already an old man in his fifties) ran a tatami-room tempura restaurant called Yūkō on the tram line street in Iwato-chō. He supposedly took haiku lessons from Kōyō Sanjin and carried the pen name Yūkō, though his tempura appeared more accomplished than his opening verses. I heard that Mr. Izumi Kyōka and Mr. Kaburaki Kiyokata still patronized the place to this day, with Kyōka’s haiku, Kiyokata’s paintings, and a noren curtain collaboratively created by both gentlemen hanging above the indoor counter.

Kagurazaka, the Geisha District

It had been quite some time since I last went to eat at Kawatetsu no Tori, but I imagined it remained as prosperous as ever.
That place held deep familiarity for me, an establishment brimming with countless memories.
I had been a regular since my student days, though there was a time when we would often go there to eat and drink whenever occasion arose.
For gatherings ranging from two or three people up to about ten, it was generally decided to be Kawatetsu; even meetings like the Ushigome-kai of literati residing in Ushigome were always convened there.
In Kagurazaka, if one sought a place to casually dine out, even now I supposed it would still be Kawatetsu.
Of course there existed numerous similar establishments—poultry shops, beef restaurants, ordinary Japanese restaurants—but since geisha frequented all those places, they proved somewhat inconvenient for those wanting to purely enjoy dinner with family or drink leisurely while chatting with friends.
Even establishments with old distinctive features—like Kinozen the sushi restaurant and Shimakane the eel restaurant—had eventually begun accommodating geisha, leaving only Kawatetsu among places of that caliber where geisha did not enter.
Moreover, Kawatetsu’s chicken truly lived up to its long-standing reputation, and we were always able to enjoy it while finding it delicious.
I often found myself wishing Kagurazaka had another Japanese restaurant of similar standing without geisha—one serving reasonably good food where families could visit casually, like Takeba Shokudo in Ginza.

I thought I had now reached the point where I should tour around Kagurazaka's restaurants a bit. And I felt a desire to glimpse Kagurazaka’s flourishing geisha district in its full bustle, but unfortunately, the hour had already grown late. Back when the renowned large restaurant Yoshikuma still stood before the ward office in Tansu-chō and establishments like Kyūyūtei existed in Tsūji-chō, Kagurazaka as a geisha district had undergone remarkable changes and developments; the atmosphere and mood of the area had entirely transformed, and though I myself was not without various memories of it, here I would simply record as-is the rumors people told of the present—how in that narrow quarter, nearly six hundred geisha of all ranks, divided into two factions of old and new inspections, vied fiercely each night across over ten restaurants like Tokiwa and Sueyoshi and nearly a hundred teahouses, their bustling activity undeterred by any economic slump. I recalled about twenty years ago—when we first left school and ventured into society, just beginning to breathe that era’s air—how from the stabbing incident between a certain student and his geisha lover arose the prohibition notices plastered on every teahouse entrance: "Students Not Admitted." Such things had now become tales of the distant past. Carousing with wild drinking and drunken antics at places like Edo-gen in the so-called Hot Spring Alley (now beside Ushigome Kaikan) and Akabingtan’s oden stall in the narrow lane opposite—these too had been buried deep within the pages of old memories.

I parted from my friend and wandered alone around Bishamon, reminiscing about old times with pleasant tipsiness.
It was around eleven o'clock; pedestrians had thinned out, and night stalls along both sides were beginning to close in unison when the road-blocking lanterns were removed, whereupon automobiles suddenly surged in as if awaiting their moment, busily crisscrossing up and down the slope.
The flow of geisha grew conspicuously frequent.
Those returning from banquet rooms, those setting out for engagements, those escorting guests, those chatting in the streets—amidst the clatter of tall geta on asphalt pavements, coquettish voices exchanging *"Good evening"* and *"Farewell"* drifted from every direction.
Some still in their banquet attire could be seen bowing deeply before Bishamonten-sama's gate.
No sooner had a shinnai street performer crossed from this alley to the opposite than wooden clappers' rhythms echoed from some unseen mimicry artist.
At the shrine entrance, two or three suited men who looked like office workers whispered conspiratorially while pulling sleeves in invitation or refusal.
A student group—likely emerging from a café—had just passed by bellowing *"The Northwest of the Capital"* when a man with drunken steps dissolved like a shadow into narrow side lanes.
Thus past eleven o'clock, Kagurazaka transformed into an entirely different scene—a purely pleasure-quarter spectacle glowing with nocturnal allure.

Recollection

I ducked under Miyako-zushi's noren curtain before Bishamon, squeezed between three or four earlier customers, and picked two or three pieces of my favorite tuna.
This Miyako-zushi had been a longtime favorite since its previous proprietor and still seemed regarded as Kagurazaka's finest among sushi stalls.

At Yamani Bar below Teramachi's post office, customers still flowed busily in and out.
Bright laughter spilled through the air.
Before cafés emerged, these bars had sprung up everywhere like pioneers.
And this Yamani Bar—Kamiya Bar in Asakusa excepted—stood as something like their primordial ancestor.

The street in Yokoteramachi—entered by turning beside the Daiichi Bank branch across the way—was a narrow, dirty, cluttered alley yet one possessing distinctive character. Upon entering, immediately to the right stood a statue of Enma, followed by a municipal public cafeteria. The Iizuka Sake Bar—Ushigome’s renowned establishment with its old-fashioned straw noren curtain and signboard reading “Government-Licensed Nigori”—faced another similarly named bar across the way. Then came the apartment building on the former site of the Geijutsu-za Theater, wedged between two or three small cafés and eateries amidst a jumble of hardware stores, dye shops, women’s hairdressers, bookbinders, and pawnshops. Further along stood a Nichiren-sect temple where the ceaseless chanting of sutras echoed morning and night, alongside Tagawa—a rather sizable florist. The public cafeteria demonstrated its prosperity by serving an average of 4,000 patrons daily across three meals—morning, noon, and evening—while at places like the Iizuka Sake Bar, regardless of day or night, one always noticed a forest of pure white sake bottles lining its long countertops. Yet I had always felt a certain fondness for this alley, whimsically dubbing it “Mass Alley” or “Proletariat Food Street.”

On my way to or from walks to Kagurazaka, I had made it my custom to pass through this alley each time—yet every instance inevitably brought back memories of those Geijutsu-za days.
The profound imprints from that autumn of Taishō 4—when that green wooden building first rose in this narrow alley—and from those stirring performances of Tolstoy’s *The Power of Darkness* and Arishima Takeo’s *Death and Its Circumstances* still remain vividly etched in my heart; yet more than these memories themselves, it was recollecting Professor Shimamura Hōgetsu’s lonely sorrowful death and Sumako’s tragic end—and reflecting on his later life and work—that ceaselessly renewed tears of remembrance within me.

My recollections leap further, darting into the precincts of Akagi Shrine behind the post office.
At the very back of that precinct, there was a boarding house called Chōseikan.
It was a quiet house situated on a high cliff, facing north across the valley of the Edogawa River toward the heights of Koishikawa—a place where even Professor Katakami Shin had once lodged temporarily.
The dark six-tatami room, its windows shrouded by a large zelkova tree, later became my own rented quarters from which I commuted to Hakubunkan.
Around that time, Mr. Chikamatsu Shūko moved from the Uekiya Ryokan in Tsukudo to its annex, and the three of us—Kusuyama Masao from nearby Tsūji-chō and myself—founded the Literary Bachelor Society, holding our inaugural gathering at Miyakogawa near Eitaibashi.

The building that housed Chōseikan had previously been a banquet hall called Seifūtei, where Professor Tsubouchi and others—gentlemen such as Tōgi, Doi, and Mizuguchi—engaged in script readings and performance rehearsals, laying the groundwork for what would become the Literary Arts Association. It was said to be a house of historical pedigree.
And that Seifūtei later moved to the banks of the Edogawa River, but to speak of the Edogawa Seifūtei—for those of us connected to Waseda University—it might well be called a historic site.
While many gatherings of Waseda students and professors were held there, what left the deepest impression on me was this: in autumn of Taishō 2, when Mr. Shimamura at last parted from his mentor Professor Tsubouchi’s Literary Arts Association and founded the Geijutsu-za theater company together with Matsui Sumako, their base became this very Seifūtei on the Edogawa River.

Yarai · Edogawa

When I recall those times, even now I cannot help but feel a deep, heart-fluttering emotion.
Even setting aside the extraordinary fervor of those gathered around Mr. Shimamura during Geijutsu-za's founding period, I myself once considered taking the stage. Together with like-minded companions, I would gather daily at Seifūtei hall, attempting script readings alongside Mr. Shimamura and Sumako, and rehearsing performances of Gorky’s *The Lower Depths*.
I had taken on Old Man Ruka’s role, accumulated considerable rehearsal time, and nearly held a trial performance at Waradana’s Kōtō Engeikan in Kagurazaka.
That theater became today’s Ushigomekan—where Fujisawa Asajirō’s acting school operated and experimental performances flourished. Beyond Seifūtei, whether through Waradana’s Kōtō Engeikan, Yochō-chō’s Literary Arts Association under Professor Tsubouchi, or Yokoteramachi’s Geijutsu-za led by Mr. Shimamura—Ushigome proved deeply entwined with Japan’s new theater movement.

Yarai Street had recently improved beyond recognition.
The bustle of Kagurazaka had once extended all the way to Teramachi Street, and before long it stretched even to this Yarai Street, appearing fated to eventually connect with Edogawa Street as well.
Near the fire station, they built a modern rental row house called Yarai Building, making the entire area feel much brighter.
With numerous cafés and other small eateries lining the streets, this section alone seemed to form a small entertainment district; but upon reaching this point, that district had now become purely the domain of Waseda students.
My alumnus friend Washizu Hiroshi-kun—who once published a renowned translation of D’Annunzio’s play *Francesca* and later managed the Tōka-sha publishing house—had been operating an oden restaurant named Edo-ya there since two years prior.
I too occasionally went there to drink Shirataka, and upon stepping out through the noren curtain, my eyes would catch the white signboard of Jinbunkai Publishing Department—run by my friend Mizumori Kamenosuke—glowing in the darkness at the entrance of the alley directly across.
Looking up nearby at Yarai Street before the Sakai residence, Shinchosha’s imposing four-story building loomed majestically skyward as if bearing a third of modern Japanese literature’s achievements on its shoulders, while Dr. Amano’s Oriental Economic New Report building stood slightly removed at an angle across from it—a delightful prospect indeed that between these two titans might someday rise Mizumori-kun’s Jinbunkai tower, forming one corner of a triangle.

The development of Edogawa-dori was indeed nothing short of astonishing in our Ushigome.
Before the Waseda Line tram arrived, the area had been nothing more than a low-lying, filthy slum; but the development of transportation infrastructure transformed it into a bustling shopping district second only to Kagurazaka, with night stalls emerging nightly—its vibrancy now showed signs of surpassing Kagurazaka itself.
Standing before Yarai Police Box, the night scene stretching far across to Kuse Mountain in the distance appeared brilliantly bright and teemed with vitality; yet with the tram line’s imminent opening running straight from Otowa Gokoku-ji Temple to here, once completed, the area would renew its appearance and grow even more bustling.

This brought to mind the decline of Edogawa River's cherry blossoms.
The loss of one of Tokyo's famed landmarks was truly regrettable.
The sight of night blossoms lining both banks had been matchless elsewhere, but just as Sumida Embankment's trees had withered since ancient floods, this place too—whether sacrificed to deluges or ruined by riverworks—had deteriorated beyond recovery.
Though no true substitute, Edogawa Park created years prior now bustled not just as children's playground but as favored promenade for Waseda and Mejiro students.
Under Sekiguchi Waterfall's green shade many now poled pleasure boats, yet none could witness that former liveliness when such activity thronged continuously downstream from Edogawa Bridge, filling currents beneath leafy boughs on both banks.
Does the river flow unchanged though its waters never stay the same?

Heart's Hometown

My walk around Kagurazaka grew too long, leaving me with almost none of the time I had planned to spend heading toward Waseda.
Waseda was my "heart’s hometown."
Centered on the university—from that entire vicinity all the way to Totsuka-Ochiai—there was no place I had not left my footprints, and nothing I saw that was not a source of nostalgic memories; yet now I lamented having no time to walk about retracing each of those traces.

(*The Northwest of the Capital, in Waseda’s forest…*)

This cherished song “Our Alma Mater,” now so widely known that even kindergarten students hereabouts sing it habitually at every turn, was first sung from “Waseda’s forest” in the autumn of Meiji 40 (1907), during the university’s twenty-fifth founding anniversary celebration.
I had entered the university that spring, and so to speak, that song was first sung by us who were students at the time.
The late Mr. Tōgi Tetteki gathered us—the entire student body—countless times in that grand auditorium, a commemorative building from the Tokyo Professional School era said to have collapsed in the earthquake. Swinging his massive frame in every direction, glaring with those uniquely large eyes of his, he wielded his baton with every ounce of his being radiating heat and power as he taught us those lyrics (penned by Mr. Sōma Gyofu) and musical score. On the day of the memorial festival, celebrations commenced with the unveiling of the late Marquis Ōkuma’s bronze statue, culminating that night in a magnificent lantern procession. Setting out from what is now the baseball field, we marched through Tsurumaki-chō Avenue and Yarai-Kagurazaka, past Kudan along the moat to the Nijūbashi fronting the Imperial Palace—all of us singing “The Northwest of the Capital” in unison for the first time. That stirring spectacle still appears vividly before my eyes today.

Over these twenty winters and summers since, while the university itself had developed and expanded to such a degree that it felt like a different epoch compared to those days, the transformative development of its surroundings had been equally remarkable—so much so that the rural Waseda of myoga fields now lingered only in name.

When I was at school, the area behind present-day Tsurumaki-chō—where trams now run—had stretched from around Sekiguchi Waterfall all the way to the distant Omoikage Bridge near Yamabuki no Sato as an expanse of fields. The red brick building of the Tokyo Electric Transformer Substation had stood alone in the middle of those rice paddies, lonely yet imposing in its dissonance with the surrounding rural scenery. The voices of frogs could be heard as clearly as if held in one’s hand through boarding house windows, and fireflies could be seen flitting about. But such vestiges of the past had vanished long ago without a trace; now the land lay densely packed with houses, rendered utterly unrecognizable.

Particularly, the recent development around the tram terminus had been astonishing, and combined with the opening of the road from Totsuka direction passing in front of the stadium to there—though retaining a slightly outskirts-like atmosphere—another lively entertainment district had taken shape there. Indeed, one might observe that the bustle of Waseda’s central Tsurumaki-chō Avenue was gradually shifting to that area.

Tsurumaki-chō Avenue was, after all, Waseda’s sole prominent thoroughfare.
Yet whenever I passed through there, I found myself thinking: What if that avenue—stretching straight from the university gates to Yamabuki-chō Hagoromo Hall—were to become twice its current width, its houses neatly aligned, its sides planted with refreshing shade trees? What if it transformed into a more tasteful, dignified space truly worthy of being called a university quarter? And for the tens of thousands of students, what if it grew into a pleasant promenade rich with gentle dampness and warm sentiment?
How wonderful that would be.
Moreover, how striking the university itself would appear as it steadily shaped its contours and grew ever more beautiful in external appearance.
The area around Ana Hachiman—due in part to the recent establishment of a Higher School just below it—transformed into an unrecognizably bright and bustling town whether along Baba-shita Street or Shimotsuzuka Street on the slope above the former Takadanobaba grounds.

In truth, I had intended to thoroughly trace the marks of transformation surrounding the area called “Waseda”—centered on the university and undergoing remarkable recent development—recounting its past, narrating its present, and telling of student life across eras. Yet as my allotted space had already been exhausted, leaving this account regrettably lopsided, I must reluctantly defer the remainder to another occasion. Here, I shall bring this essay to a close by offering three cheers for my beloved alma mater, this “heart’s hometown,” and for all of Waseda.

(June 1927)