Pathway to Japanese Literature

Those who graduated from Imperial Universities undoubtedly believed they had graduated from good schools. In bureaucratic Japan, there existed no more advantageous qualification than graduating from an Imperial University. Those who came out of Waseda, those who came out of Keio—each remained satisfied with their alma mater. There were occasionally people who lamented that graduating from an unremarkable school had caused them lifelong disadvantage—but what was their true intent? When entering a school, one originally gave it considerable consideration. It differed entirely from buying a watermelon only to find it not red when split open.

I was not a graduate of Imperial Universities nor Waseda nor Keio—I came from mission schools. Moreover,I had graduated from two such institutions: Aoyama Gakuin and Meiji Gakuin. What I learned at these two mission schools remains my lifelong blessing. Graduates of religious academies aren’t necessarily pious believers. Some among us were downright rowdy characters. There was one such man—now over sixty—who declared merrily at an alumni gathering,

“Hey,” he said with a chuckle. “I truly think it was good that I entered the mission school. If I’d gone to another school, I’d undoubtedly have become an even worse person.” Here, I thought, was where the mission school’s education lived on. We did not strive to become saints or sages, but we did receive an education that taught us to constantly reflect on our own lives. The background of Chronicles of Mediocrity draws from both Aoyama Gakuin and Meiji Gakuin. Dr. Johnson’s “schools that teach God’s way” and “schools that mold Christian gentlemen” are becoming ever more necessary. In these times when the world has undergone a great upheaval, with many people feeling lost, we mission school graduates feel as though we have returned to our natural environment. Since we received a thoroughly democratic education, I think this is only natural as long as the world continues changing for the better. Upon reissuing Chronicles of Mediocrity, which I wrote over a decade ago, I feel particularly moved.

Sasaki Kuni

Introduction

Our alma mater Meiji Gakuin, in its phonetic elements, “You can’t put food on the table with Meiji Gakuin!” phonetically resembled [the saying]. “Meiji Gakuin: You can’t put food on the table!” “Meiji Gakuin: You can’t put food on the table!” everyone used to say. This meant that even if you graduated, you couldn’t secure a job. Meiji Gakuin was different from the schools of that time in that it did not aim to cultivate salarymen. Principal Dr. Johnson, “Meiji Gakuin—it does not produce people who chase wealth.” “It cultivates Christian gentlemen.” “Man shall not live by bread alone.” “To teach that is the role of a school—that, our school Meiji Gakuin, everyone, what do you think?”

He kept emphasizing this point persistently. It was extremely blunt Japanese. Dr.Johnson’s sermons and lectures—their content aside—were listenable because his grammar was amusing. There were too many “that”s. You wouldn’t get bored just counting all those “thats.” “I came to your country in Meiji 10 (1877), earlier than all of you.” He would start with such quips. This meant he had come to Japan before any of you were born. “My Japanese was praised by the Home Minister.” “Country people are impressed.” And he was immensely proud of this.

According to Dr. Johnson’s philosophy, all worldly matters were unacceptable.

“Japan won. “That is not great. “Believe in God. “That is great!” With that declaration, soldiers were deemed unacceptable. “Those who made money. “Those who amass wealth solely to amass more—they cannot enter heaven. “The poor believe in God. “That is great!” With that declaration, businessmen too were deemed unacceptable. “Learning distant from the Bible is demonic learning. “Those who study it are not great. “Believe in God. “That is great!” With that declaration, scholars too were deemed unacceptable. “Learning close to the Bible is divine learning. “Those who learn it, those who teach it—they are all great!”

With that declaration, theologians seemed to be the greatest. However, the Master himself held a Doctorate in Theology. Under the guidance of this Principal, we seven classmates who received an education wholly unsuited to putting food on the table saw—through some strange twist—one of us become a nouveau riche. At one point, with tremendous momentum, he donated a 170,000 yen auditorium to the school. He hasn’t been doing too well since then, but he remains the most successful among all our alumni. The remaining six, needless to say, are failures. A man who had devoutly believed in God had died. The man who went to the United States immediately after graduation has long been missing. One provincial middle school teacher, one insurance company clerk, one pastor, and then there's me. In any case, they all manage to put food on the table. However, I am the one struggling the most. I’m managing three schools, and on top of that, I have to write instructional booklets as a nighttime side job just to put food on the table. Dear readers, you must have noticed how booklets titled Secrets of English-Japanese Translation and Secrets of Japanese-English Translation have been proliferating lately. That is the anguished cry of my livelihood that I am putting out. “Meiji Gakuin—I can’t put food on the table.” Somehow, I can’t help but feel that I alone am carrying on this tradition.

Except for Mr. Tachibana, the teacher, everyone is in Tokyo, so we occasionally meet. To the home of Mr. Akabane, the nouveau riche, I go twice a week as a tutor for his sons. It’s infuriating, but that guy gives me excessive payment under the guise of assistance, so needs must when the devil drives. “Teacher, I hear you were classmates with the master?” On one occasion, the student servant spoke up. “That’s correct.” “Given that he’s achieved such standing, I suppose he was quite brilliant even from his student days?”

“Well...” And I avoided giving a clear answer. “Successful people are different right from their very appearance, aren’t they?” “He was always large-framed.”

“I suppose he was quite quick-witted?” “Well... Lowerclassmen often came to Mr. Akabane’s place to ask about Shiji’s Biography of Laozi.” “Ah, so he was accomplished in Chinese classics as well?” The student servant sighed in admiration. “No—ha ha...” “What’s the matter?” “Mr. Akabane would remark in puzzlement that everyone came to ask about the same passage.” “Where exactly?” “When I asked, he said, ‘The noble man possesses abundant virtue yet appears simple as if foolish.’ That’s the passage.”

“I see. So Mr. Akabane already possessed such abundant virtue even back then.” “No—it’s the latter part, I should think. They were actually coming to mock him. ‘It’s right here,’ they’d say—five or six of them pointing at the character for ‘foolishness’—but Mr. Akabane never noticed. He would politely explain it every time.” “He truly has an air of greatness about him, doesn’t he?” “But he was different, I assure you—Mr. Akabane.” I had no choice but to let Mr. Akabane take the credit. “He’s truly remarkable.” “Well now, I suppose he is the most successful among our alumni.”

“Teacher, one does want to rise in the world, doesn’t one?” “You’ll go far too. But success isn’t just about money, you know.” “At any rate, it’s remarkable that he employs his former classmates as tutors.”

And the student servant reached this disagreeable conclusion. It was pathetic being treated like a servant. I really shouldn't be calling him something as familiar as Mr. Akabane.

However, Mr. Akabane himself never put on airs, so it was a relief. "My kids all take after me—not a single decent head among them." "At the mission school we never had failures, but schools these days are strict." "I'm counting on you." he said as he emerged from below.

“How about it? Once we all get together and reminisce? I’ll play host.” He wanted to meet our other classmates too, but no opportunity had arisen yet. Reverend Abe, trained by Dr. Johnson, held a grudge against the nouveau riche. “With that guy involved, the venue’s bound to be some den of vice anyway.” he said, refusing outright. “A teahouse.” “I must beg your pardon.” “Would you come if it were somewhere more pure?” “A pure location alone isn’t enough. Well then, feel free to decline.”

“What’s wrong with that? You have high standards and thus despise him unreasonably, but seen through society’s eyes, even Akabane is a proper gentleman.”

“Is it because he keeps a mistress?” “Of course he does bad things.” “But on the other hand, he’s also making atonement.” “Didn’t he donate a 170,000-yen auditorium to the academy?”

And I took the trouble to defend Mr. Akabane. “I don’t like that.” “But didn’t you give the congratulatory address at the inauguration ceremony?” “At that time I was moved, but since then I’ve come to understand that man’s true character.” “Why?” “That auditorium turned out to be a house built on sand.” “Behold—it has crumbled in the earthquake.” “That couldn’t be helped.” “The earthquake was an ordinary calamity.” “The cleanup requires five thousand yen.” “At that time, I went to Akabane’s place in my capacity as a private individual to negotiate.”

“Hmm.”

“Since he donated it, he has an obligation to rebuild it immediately,” “I argued that point strenuously, but the bastard kept dodging with evasive answers.” “Isn’t that asking a bit much of you?” “Why?” “The Akabane back then isn’t the same as the Akabane of the boom times.” “After suffering from the post-war slump and losing a third of his assets, he then got hit hard by the earthquake disaster.” “What’s this ‘slump’ you’re talking about?” “Don’t you know?”

“I am a pastor who preaches the way of God.” “It can’t be helped. “A slump’s a slump.” “Prices suddenly drop.” “With his assets already reduced to a third and then suffering earthquake damage, rebuilding’s simply impossible.” “If he won’t rebuild, I told him he should at least clean up the mess.” “Once you donate something broken, you’re responsible for that much!” “Well...” “Akabane said he’d give it some thought anyway.” “As he should.”

“But he cowardly refuses to take responsibility. He has only donated five hundred yen as reconstruction funds. Since the academy spent five thousand yen for that bastard’s sake—with him contributing just five hundred of it—they’re left bearing forty-five hundred yen in cleanup costs.” “Pastors sure do have strange ways of calculating things.” “Am I wrong? He’s only putting up five hundred yen when it costs five thousand!” “Ah, I see.” “I must decline to associate deeply with people of questionable character.” “But then you won’t be able to do missionary work. All humans are children of sin.”

“If you wish to hear about the Way, I’ll expound on it as much as you like. Do bring them to my church.”

And Reverend Abe was highly principled. Mr. Nozaki the insurance agent also did not hold favorable feelings.

"That guy isn’t the Akabane of old anymore," he said. "Back in our student days, weren’t you closer to him than I was?"

And once again, I found myself playing mediator. “After graduation our paths diverged, so we haven’t kept in touch—but that bastard completely changed his attitude once he came into money.” “But didn’t you used to stop by every time you went to Kobe?” “Back then he wasn’t like that, but recently he’s grown completely arrogant.” “Did you get into a fight?” “No—even when I go, he won’t meet me.” “That shouldn’t be the case.” “I’ve gone three times since joining the insurance company. He must have thought I came to solicit him or something. He had the nerve to turn me away at his doorstep!”

“That’s odd.” “I’m not going back.” “There must be some misunderstanding.”

“No—on the third attempt, I thought I’d arrange things in advance and called, but they just gave me this spiel about how 'the master absolutely refuses to come to the phone,' leaving me completely in the dark.” “That bastard’s putting on airs.” “If he’d just left well enough alone, it would’ve been fine—but no, I thought I’d give it another shot. Went over there only to get hit with ‘We’ve got a VIP guest right now’ and got shown the door again.” “Then does that mean you won’t be seeing each other anymore?” “I met him at the alumni association’s consultation meeting the other day. “That bastard and I are both council members.” “Did he say anything?”

“I was so irritated that the moment we came face to face, I gave him a good whack.” “That’s rather violent.” “There he was, still making that same foolish face, and goes ‘What?’ I tell you.” “He must have been surprised.” “I fired back with a ‘What?’ of my own.” “I think that got the message across well enough.” “And then what did you plan to do?” “That was the end of it.” “He’s truly an insolent bastard.” And Mr.Nozaki was fuming. To be fair, this man had been rough since his student days. He was impatient and prone to stuttering; when flustered, his hands would act before his words.

Now, having brought forth four classmates from some twenty-odd years ago and introduced their current circumstances, this has been but a true preface.

I would now write a novel ill-suited to my station. There was a profound motivation behind this. Originally I was an English teacher. Whenever I took up my pen, I could produce nothing beyond "Secrets of English-Japanese Translation" and "Secrets of Japanese-English Translation." Yet I had recently come to feel something profound. At that time, while compiling what I called "New English-Japanese Translation," there emerged from my gathered materials this passage: "The world has grown sick of biographies of great men and now demands chronicles of mediocrity. Though hundreds of Napoleon biographies have been published and read by tens of millions—has a second Napoleon ever appeared? Has even one emerged? No. From this we see that biographies teaching great men's successes amount to hocus pocus. (Note: 'Hocuspocus' refers to magicians' incantations—originally pseudo-Latin terms meant to dazzle.) Far better to guide masses through chronicles of mediocrity that make them reflect on ordinary people's failures. The world needs no multitude of Napoleons. Behold— Is there not only one Europe? Et cetera."

I felt as though I had awakened. I regarded this passage as a mission that came directly from heaven to me. If failures can serve as lessons for posterity, then I possessed more material than English-to-Japanese translation. First of all, entering a school that didn't even put food on the table had been a failure from the start. Writing about everything from my school days to the present exactly as they were would suffice. To make matters even more convenient, my classmates were uniformly mediocre. Even Mr. Akabane, the nouveau riche, had achieved his success through what might be called the mistake of the European War. There was nothing more to be done about me. Having graduated from a school that didn't provide, at least I didn't go hungry—that was good enough. I had resigned myself to everything. However, I wanted to benefit future generations, if only in some small way.

"Let the Chronicles of Mediocrity begin!" With that, I rose up.

When I told Mr. Akabane about this plan, “Are you going to write about me too?” he asked with a somewhat uneasy look. “Hmm. You might end up being a main character.”

“But I’m currently having a writer from my hometown work on my biography.”

“Well, this is a surprise!” “That’d be contradictory.” “Are you paying the compilation fee?” “Hmm. They’d take a lot.” “In exchange for writing for free, I’ll tell things exactly as they are. If the one from my hometown is a portrait, then mine would be a photograph.” So I retorted sarcastically. The despicable tendency to imagine oneself possessing the makings of a great man after achieving even minor success. Even Mr. Akabane, whom everyone acknowledges as seemingly foolish, proves this point. “Let the Chronicles of Mediocrity begin!” “Let the Chronicles of Mediocrity begin!”

Having solidified my conviction, when I next cornered Mr. Nozaki from the insurance company, I explained to him the necessity of this kind of literary endeavor. “That’s rather unlike you.” Mr. Nozaki agreed while offering tentative criticism, “Since it’s probably just some desperate move of yours, do whatever you like—but don’t you dare write about me.” and added this condition. “Is that a problem?” “Of course.” “Why?” “I’m the exception. “I don’t make good material.”

“Even as gray hairs sprout one by one, being a regular employee at an insurance company obviously puts you in the mediocre group.”

I looked at the area around his temples. Because he still believed himself young, he detested this above all else. “Even if we’re both regular employees, mine’s a foreign company.” “The system’s different.” “Plus I got off on the wrong foot.” “Everyone from the academy ends up that way.” “Changing jobs so much’s been a curse.” “Anyway, I’m the exception.” “Write about me and I’ll thump you.” Mr. Nozaki was rough as ever. He had talent but remained convinced of exceptional bad luck. Recognizing one’s own mediocrity seemed a Herculean task.

“Let the Chronicles of Mediocrity come to pass! Let the Chronicles of Mediocrity come to pass!”

Next, making use of a Sunday, I visited Reverend Abe. To settle matters with this man, Sunday proved most suitable. Since he delivered sermons morning and evening and grew thoroughly exhausted, even if objections arose, he wouldn't oppose them strenuously. Sure enough, he was mid-sermon at the church. We were that very Stick Gang who once exploited night's shadows to pilfer strawberries from Dr. Johnson's backyard. I wondered what drivel he'd spout now. He was holding forth volubly. He was preaching earnestly. His silver tongue had been formidable since student days,

“Now, uh, Martin Luther, in Wittenberg, you see...” he had practiced so thoroughly it bordered on tediousness. While recalling these things, when I shifted my gaze from Reverend Abe’s face to the wall, the sermon title— "The Ordinary Life of Ordinary People" —was displayed.

“You bastard! You’re really doing it! Did you know I was coming or what?” I had to admire him. After the service ended, I stopped by the parsonage and talked at length.

“That’s excellent. Did listening to my sermon give you the idea?” “Nah, just a coincidence. A chance alignment.”

“Interesting.” “Write it grandly.” “People like Hidaka of Kyoto and Fujioka of Sendai are exactly the material you should bring in.” “I’ll mainly make use of folks from the academy.”

“Mr. Akabane would be good too.” “Hmm.”

“Mr. Tachibana is also well-suited. He’s been living an utterly ordinary life in the countryside for over twenty years as if it were a single day. There are also plenty of teachers at the academy.” Reverend Abe pointed out each potential subject one by one, but kept himself entirely off the shelf. Yet this very pastor who preaches “The Ordinary Life of Ordinary People” remains unaware of such things—truly, this is how it goes. “Mediocrity be praised! Mediocrity be praised!” “What’s that? That...”

“I made a mistake. ‘Chronicles of Mediocrity be praised!’ ‘Chronicles of Mediocrity be praised!’” “A slogan for promoting mediocrity?” “Indeed.” “‘Mediocrity of mediocrities, all is mediocrity.’ ‘I too shall preach it grandly.’ ‘You handle the writing.’ ‘I’ll handle the speaking.’” “Everyone in the world has this notion of ‘the masses and I.’ ‘They don’t include someone like me among the common folk.’” I retorted pointedly. “Indeed, that’s true. ‘Especially among our circle, there are many such people.’ ‘They deliver tedious sermons and fancy themselves grand.’”

“Chronicles of Mediocrity be praised! Chronicles of Mediocrity be praised!” “Mediocrity of mediocrities, all is mediocrity. It’s true. You can write this—there’s plenty of material!”

Reverend Abe did nothing but concur, yet persistently kept his own "I" separate.

Those who aspire to be Napoleon are indeed numerous. Every single one of them is just that. This could benefit friends even now, not to mention future generations. All people, without exception, are being misled by conventional biographies of great men.

“The world does not need many Napoleons.” “Behold.” “Is there not but one Europe?” “Right then,” “I shall concoct this antidote myself.”

And so, steeling my resolve more firmly than ever, I returned home and immediately—

“Misao, I’m going to write a novel.”

I declared.

“Huh?” “I’ll write a novel.” “You? Oh my! Utterly ridiculous! Ho ho ho...”

And my wife immediately burst out laughing. What an awful woman. She thinks I'm just an ordinary mediocrity. My tongue slipped. “Chronicles of Mediocrity be praised! Chronicles of Mediocrity be praised!” “You’ve been saying that rather often lately.” “This is God’s direct instruction.” “I find that most disagreeable.” “What’s that?” “Moreover, when you speak of writing novels on top of everything else, I can’t help feeling concerned.”

"Why?" "I thought you might be acting just a tad peculiar." "Don’t underestimate me. If I say I’ll write a novel, does that mean I’ve lost my senses?" "But that depends on the person, you know." "But aren’t you an ABC teacher?" "Oh, come on—just you wait and see!" "Are you in your right mind?" "Of course I am."

“Well then, I’ll be watching.” “But there’s one more thing I’d like to ask you.”

“What is it?” “What do you intend to do about the exam prep books?” “You’ll have to wait.” “No.” “Why?”

“Won’t there be trouble later if the royalties don’t come in?” “I won’t let you go hungry.” “Then go ahead and write whatever you like.” “If you can manage it.” “I most certainly will.”

And so, out of sheer stubbornness, I found myself compelled to set pen to paper.

Chronicles of Mediocrity be praised! Chronicles of Mediocrity be praised! This is it.

A prodigy at ten. "Exemplary Conduct and Academic Excellence"

This sums up my entire elementary school days. At that time, the ordinary course lasted four years and the higher course four years. Having maintained my status as a model student of excellence throughout all eight years, I was awarded a certificate by the district chief upon graduation. Until the previous year, this had included twenty-two volumes of Nihon Gaishi, but I learned from my father that starting that year—since the town’s bookstore had ceased its donations—it consisted solely of the certificate. My father happened to be principal of that elementary school. That I received certificates of excellence year after year was no mere coincidence. Being the principal’s child meant the teachers showed me particular favor. For my own part too, conscious of being the principal’s son, I exerted twice the effort of others.

My father was not like that, but my mother was exceedingly strict. “Tomoichi, since your father is the principal, you’re different from other children.” “You must be number one.” “If you were to fail, your father couldn’t remain as principal.” she would say to impress upon me. “What do you mean he can’t stay on?” “He would have to resign as principal.” “What happens if he quits?” “We won’t be able to stay in the village.”

“What happens if we can’t stay?” “We would have to go somewhere and become beggars.”

“That’s awful!” “Since it’s so serious, please don’t fail and become an honor student.” “What’s an honor student?” “It means being number one.” “I will become that. I will surely become that.”

And I made a firm promise. Even with a child’s mind, I felt a heavy responsibility and applied myself earnestly, never neglecting my daily review. “Meh… Men… Woof… Straw… Tiger… Person… Fillet… Turtle… Goose… Kite” The fact that I can still recite from memory the first-year elementary reader even today, forty years later, makes this clear.

"Lesson One. The small person in this picture held a large bow and hit a distant target. This person, after growing up…" I found myself wondering why I recalled this. This was certainly from the third year of the regular course.

"Lesson One. The Kusanagi Sword. During the reign of Emperor Keikō, when the eastern barbarians frequently rebelled and the provinces were in turmoil, the emperor dispatched Prince Yamato Takeru to subjugate them. When Prince Yamato Takeru arrived in Suruga Province... This was Higher Year 1, which would now be Regular Year 5. Strangely, only the first lesson remains etched in memory."

We were this Suruga Province. When I learned this part, a question arose in me, "Teacher," I called out and raised my hand.

“Mr. Kawahara, what is it?” The teacher had an air that no one welcomed my questions. “Was it the people of Suruga Province who resisted Prince Yamato Takeru and set the fire?” “That’s correct.” “They were savages.” “Teacher, then we’re in trouble.” “Why is that?” “If they’re the savages of Suruga Province, then they’re our ancestors.” And I found this terribly audacious. “Bwa ha ha ha!”

And my classmates burst into laughter. “No, those savages were all wicked people, so they have no connection to us. As this book states, every single one was either burned to death or annihilated.” “Ah, I see now.” And I felt relieved.

“Everyone,”

And the teacher drew everyone’s attention, “When reading a textbook, if you merely read the characters without considering what is written, it will amount to nothing. Everyone, you laughed at Mr. Kawahara’s question just now, but that shows a grave misunderstanding. If you read the characters while also reading their meaning, it’s only natural that various doubts will arise. That act of pondering and inquiring is precisely what constitutes the higher-level reading curriculum. Everyone must take Mr. Kawahara as your model.”

And the teacher praised me. From my first year of elementary school, I had been the model student of the class. Whenever someone displayed poor manners, the teacher would invariably say, “Take Mr. Kawahara as your model.” At those moments, all eyes would focus on my face. I would sit perfectly straight, exactly as a model student should. At first, this filled me with pride, but gradually it grew stifling. Yet returning home to my mother’s approval remained my greatest delight.

“Mom, I got praised by the teacher again today.” “That’s good.” “How come?” “A boy named Yoshimura Koichi and a boy named Samejima Saburo started grappling with each other in the classroom.” “Oh my! A fight?” “Yes, it’s so rough—it’s a problem. They did it right in the classroom, you see.”

“During class time?” “Yes. The teacher was in the middle of telling us that everyone must get along well.”

“Oh my.” “I was the one who stopped them.” “Then what happened?” “The teacher scolded them both. He said there’ll be penalties if they do it again. Then he told everyone to look at Mr. Kawahara. That you must behave properly like me.” “How splendid. I’ll give you a little reward.”

And Mother would bring out some sweets. When told I was everyone's model，I would start to believe it myself. If，for some reason，I wasn’t praised by the teacher for a while，it felt unsatisfying. However，classmates were mostly children of farmers. Neither in academics nor manners were they any match for me. “Mother，the teacher hasn’t been praising me lately.” Even if he sniffled，he would immediately—

“Mother, today the teacher said Mr. Kawahara is impressive.” The day would come when he would make such reports. If there was an opportunity to be praised, he would never let it slip.

“What is the meaning of this?” “Raise your hand if you understand.” When the teacher would look around, “Teacher!” And I would immediately thrust my hand up first and wave it about. “Would someone come up here and try singing this school song by yourself?” “Teacher!”

“Mr. Kawahara.” The teacher would point at me. “Windmill ah! Wind blows now! Round and round it whirls oh—no! First it whirls more—ah! First it whirls again mmm...” I would sing with my entire face becoming a mouth. There’s no doubt they all thought I was an insufferable fellow. “Would someone come up here and try writing Memenwanwara on the blackboard?” “Teacher!” “The chalk has run out, so someone please go to the staff room and bring some more.” “Teacher!”

I was bursting with desire to be praised. It’s a pathetic tale, but that’s children for you. I made vigorous efforts outside the classroom as well. Since I had such notions as one good deed a day even as a child, I want at least some credit for that. On the way to school stood the village shrine of Hachiman. After entering second grade, whenever I passed before it, I made sure to take off my cap and salute. Merely praying at the time to become number one wasn’t enough. With the added meaning of fulfilling my heartfelt wish, I made a point of this. However, walking along while talking with friends, I would sometimes forget. There were times when I didn’t notice and kept going, but when I remembered, I would run back to bow. One day, that very act caught the teacher’s eye.

“Mr. Kawahara, that’s quite commendable.” Not only did the teacher praise me, but he also presented this example in class, “All of you must follow Mr. Kawahara’s model in this matter too.” and incorporated it into ethics lessons. I remained unsatisfied with merely being a model for my classmates; I began tending to younger students as well. The first-years would loiter on their way home. In scattered clusters, they’d drift toward this corner and that alleyway, never keeping to a straight path. Should they chance upon a snake devouring a frog, they’d stand watching until every last morsel disappeared down its throat.

“You all must hurry home; your fathers and mothers are waiting.”

And I was already a third-year student. “What’s it to ya?” “What do you mean by ‘What’s it to ya?’?” “You the teacher?” “I’m not a teacher, but you shouldn’t dawdle on your way home.” “What’s it to ya?”

And the first-year students had no manners. Ever since then, every time they saw my face, “What’s it to ya?” they would retort. The second-year students were much the same.

One day, I caught up to two or three first-year students tormenting a puppy by the roadside, “Stop abusing animals!” I admonished. “What’s it to ya?” “What do you mean by ‘What’s it to ya?’?” “This dog feels pain when hit with a stick, just as you would.” “Mind your own business!” Then one of the children tried to tie its tail with a rope.

“Stop that!”

I pushed that brat aside and snatched the stick from another child. “Are you the teacher?” “I’m not a teacher, but isn’t that pitiful? If you keep spouting nonsense, I won’t stand for it!”

“What’s it to ya?” “I’ll hit you!” “Try hitting me! Come on, hit me!” The three crowded in. I raised the stick. However, being a model student was stifling. If I hit them, my conduct grade would drop to a B. “Now then, come along to school.” All I could do was say that and drag them along. Good deeds might earn praise from teachers, but they brought no joy to peers and juniors. In fact, they only hindered social interactions. I gradually began to realize that. “Mother, I’m troubled because I have no friends. Everyone refuses to play with me.”

I would often plead. “It’s better not to play with rowdy children, you know.” “Why don’t you go visit Shō-chan and Toku-san?”

And so my mother recommended relatives’ children. However, both Shōsaku and Tokusaburō,

“All you ever do is play school, Tomo-chan—it’s boring!”

With that, they would immediately head home. Even my cousins were like this; how much more so complete strangers. My classmates excluded me from their group. Looking back now, it’s no wonder they did. They were all at that age of boundless mischief. Having one of the ethics teacher’s informants among them meant every plan hit a snag. “Hey there, Mr. Konishi and Mr. Sato—where might you be off to?” Even when I inquired, “What’s it to you? Just out for a bit.” was all the answer I’d get. The hand towels dangling from both their waists made it clear they were bound for the river to swim. Yet my presence only annoyed them. They couldn’t very well ransack melon patches between dips with me tagging along. They suspected I’d go tattling to the school. And let’s not forget the resentment—being the principal’s son meant everyone assumed I got special treatment. When the teacher in class would call out,

“Mr. Kawahara” When the teacher called out "Mr. Kawahara" and pointed at me, someone would invariably clear their throat. However, being officially recognized for academic excellence and model conduct meant I couldn’t afford to dwell on such matters. I continued striving as always, but amidst this, I discovered that danger was closing in on me. I was startled, but it was already too late. My classmates had grown dissatisfied with merely passive exclusion.

It was during our second year of high school, on the evening we departed for an overnight trip. We visited Kunōzan and stayed in Shizuoka. The teacher,

“Now then, everyone must go to bed quietly.” “Since this is an inn, making noise will disturb the other guests.” “You all understand, don’t you?” When he had stressed this and entered a separate room, I, as class leader, “Everyone, go to bed at once.” I added an unnecessary touch. However, everyone flatly refused. Excited about staying at an inn for the first time, they kept making noise nonstop. “Come on, go to bed now.” I urged them again and, to set an example, was the first to get into bed. Because I was tired, I immediately drifted in and out of sleep. The others, having talked themselves out, seemed to have fallen asleep as well. Before long,

"This guy's really got some nerve." The voices—"This guy's really got some nerve"—shattered my dream. "He thinks he's the principal's child and gets all high and mighty." "The teacher shows him favoritism by sucking up, so he gets all full of himself." "At school, fine—but he has the gall to come all the way here and flaunt his class leader status." came the chorus from the group. I kept my eyes closed, but through their voices, I could discern each one of them. "Because of this guy, I've been scolded by the teacher countless times." "Same here." "Same here."

“We all feel the same way.” “What on earth is he thinking?” “He’s an idiot.” “He’s a complete moron!” “If the teacher flatters him, he’d climb a pepper tree upside down.” “Hey, let’s just hurry up and beat him already.” “If we cover him with a futon and start poking, no one will know who did it.” “Hey” “Hey”

I could no longer stay lying there. I abruptly sat up, "What do you think you're doing?" I declared decisively. At the same moment, Kunibu launched his attack. That was the signal. Four against one—there was no winning. I was pinned down and then mercilessly beaten. "Learn your lesson from this and be more careful." said Kunibu. "…………" "Don't flaunt your academic prowess." "…………" "Don't flaunt your moral integrity." "…………" "Think carefully about this. We've been building up a grudge against you since first grade."

“…………” “We came here prepared to be expelled.” “…………” “Go ahead and tell the teacher. But don’t think moonlit nights will be your only companions from now on.” This was their offer of private settlement. I kept silent. The four of them crawled back into their respective beds with that final remark. They had crept over from all directions to my pillowside as part of their prearranged scheme.

A trivial incident governs one’s entire life.

The fact that I—who was supposed to attend Normal School—entered Meiji Gakuin and, over thirty years later, conceived the Chronicles of Mediocrity and took up my pen all stems from a single night long ago at an inn in Shizuoka. Immediately after returning from the school trip, “Father, once I finish my second year of higher elementary school, I want to go to middle school right away.” I proposed.

“Middle school?” “Yes.” “Weren’t you supposed to enter Normal School?” “I don’t want to go to Normal School because you can’t enter without graduating from higher elementary. And I want to become someone great.” “That’s a commendable attitude, but just middle school alone would leave things incomplete and cause problems.”

“I’ll go from high school to university.” “But consider our family’s circumstances. If it’s just middle school, I can somehow manage, but anything beyond that is beyond my means.” “Just middle school will suffice. I’ll handle the rest myself.”

“That’s difficult.”

And my father did not entertain it. However, as long as I remained in the higher elementary course, I couldn't escape being a model student. The teacher, as usual, “Everyone can’t do it? Alright then, Mr. Kawaraken—you try.” and let me take the credit. Kunibu’s gang was far beyond mere throat-clearing now. Having once gained an advantage through violence, they grew cocky and would try to pick fights at every opportunity. The class leader’s authority went unheeded with alarming frequency. While being praised by the teacher and bullied by my classmates, I once again advanced to third grade with top marks.

“Father, there’s nothing to be done about this year anymore, but please by all means send me to middle school starting next year. I can’t take it anymore.” “Why?” “They say I only become a top student because you’re the principal, Father.” “That’s absurd!” “But they all say that and torment me!” “Who exactly?” And Father knew each and every one of my classmates by name. “Every last one of them. I’ll become a great man someday and tie up every last one of them in the village.”

“There’s no need to fret so much.” “They’re all just speaking out of jealousy.” “There’s no need to let it bother you.” “I’m so frustrated.” “They do all sorts of things to trouble me.” “The teacher has been holding me up as an example and scolding everyone since first grade—there’s a mountain of resentment built up against me.”

“Hmm,” “Around this time last year…”

As I began to recall, tears streamed down my face.

“What’s wrong?” “…………” “Go on, tell me.”

“I was beaten.”

“Who by?” “Where?” “When we went on the school trip and stayed in Shizuoka.” “Who did the beating?” “Go on, tell me.”

And Father became serious. Due to his professional duty, he could not simply let it go. I recounted the entire story, “I will become a great man no matter what and bind everyone. Please send me to middle school.” I pleaded tearfully again. “I understand completely.” “Will you do it for me?”

“Let me think about it. If you want it that badly, I suppose we can find a way.” “I’ll definitely become a great man and bind every last one of them!” “You don’t need to bind them. If you become great enough, it’ll be the same as having bound them.” “And then I’m done being a model student.”

“Just endure it a little longer.” “But I don’t have any friends – it’s miserable.” “Act out and you’ll make friends.” “Is it really all right if I act out?”

“Absolutely! Go ahead and pick fights or do whatever!” “If it’s one-on-one, I won’t lose to Kunibu or anyone else.” “Tomoichi,”

“What is it?” “You’ve endured it well all this time. I was wrong.” And father said tearfully.

He could never forget. That was the day.

The town pastor came to visit. This man had been making efforts to bring Father into the church. “Young man, won’t you come to Sunday school?” He urged me as well and gave me beautiful cards each time he visited. But Mother said, “Because Jesus was crucified—it’s scary!” Because she said that, I never went even once. “Pastor Urabe, isn’t there some way to relieve my son’s anguish rather than my own?”

And Father brought up my problem in that day's conversation. "What kind of situation is this? Isn't your son a model student?" Even Pastor Urabe knew my academic record. "To tell the truth, I've been regretting that very model student status since this morning." "That's fine. Repent and believe in God." "Don't jump to conclusions like that—it's a problem." "Ha ha ha ha!" "Even though I was always with him, I remained unaware of my own child's suffering for six whole years. Good grief, what a blundering tale this is!"

And Father explained my situation. Incidentally,

“Given these circumstances, he no longer wants to remain at his parent’s school and has declared he wishes to enter middle school as soon as possible. To tell the truth, I want to have him graduate from higher elementary and send him to normal school, but forcing only a parent’s will—as even this model student situation makes clear—would destroy the boy. But middle school is also problematic. On a primary school teacher’s income, we can’t afford to send him beyond that level, so it would leave things half-finished,” he confessed with lingering uncertainty. “How about sending him to Meiji Gakuin?”

“Hmm...” “Meiji Gakuin.” “Is there such a school?” “You’re quite out of touch with the world.” Pastor Urabe laughed. However, when I think about it now, this was nothing more than Pastor Urabe’s subjective view.

“Meiji Gakuin?” “Where is it located?”

And Father asked. Even today, when I mention that my alma mater is Meiji Gakuin, I am usually met with this question.

“Of course it’s in Tokyo.” “Hmm… What kind of school is it?” “It’s the mission school I graduated from.” “When you say ‘mission school’...?”

“It’s a school run by American missionaries.” “There are Middle School and High School Departments.” “The Middle School Department is the middle school.” “Since Westerners teach from the first year, students become proficient in English.” “It’s rather an unusual sort of school.” “Upon graduating from the Middle School Department, students can enter American universities.” “Studying abroad is completely out of the question.” “No, you go there and work while you study.”

"That must be difficult." “Not at all—if you work during summer vacation, you can earn a year’s tuition. In fact, I’ve managed it that way myself.” “Hmm...” “I’ll go to that Meiji Gakuin.” I leaned forward. I didn’t really understand what it meant, but I found myself drawn to the term mission school.

Breaking Free from Modeldom

From the village to the town was half a ri. Since it only became a city thirty years later, it must have been a small town back then, but to me, it looked like a great metropolis. Our teacher cited the main street of X Town during reading class as an example when explaining the phrase “merchants’ houses stand row upon row like the teeth of a comb.” My mother’s younger sister had settled on that main street. Her business was a clog shop. This shop had my cousin take in a son-in-law, who now serves as head of the footwear association. I would bring eggs as gifts when visiting and return home with clogs I received. Even now, whenever I see straw-wrapped egg packages in plays or such, I picture a schoolchild carrying one along the rice field path to X Town.

One day, while stopping by my aunt’s house, I found myself wanting to visit Pastor Urabe. I had been invited before but had never gone, frightened as I was by anything Christian. Yet after hearing about Meiji Gakuin, something within me had stirred. Father too— “Go once and listen carefully,” he urged. “But he’s a Christian,” Mother fretted when “Nonsense—there’s nothing wrong with Christianity!” Father declared stoutly. And so my resolve hardened.

Pastor Urabe’s house was behind the church. When I entered, Pastor Urabe himself came out,

“Oh! You’ve actually come to visit, haven’t you?” he welcomed me gladly. “Pastor, I have come to hear about Meiji Gakuin.”

“Come, please step this way.” “Pastor, I’m not here to talk about Jesus.”

Having made this clear, I stepped inside. I was surprised to see a great many Western books with glinting gold bindings lined up, “What kind of books are these?” I ventured to ask. “They’re mainly theology books.” “Did you bring them from America?” “Yes, I did.” “They’re beautiful. This is my first time seeing Western books.” “Before long, when you enter Meiji Gakuin, you’ll be reading such things too.” Pastor Urabe smiled warmly. “Pastor, what kind of school is it? I’ve been thinking about nothing but Meiji Gakuin lately.”

“It’s enormous!” “The grounds measure over thirty thousand tsubo, with every building being Western-style brick construction.” “Ohh...”

“There’s a clock tower. “It’s a large clock about one ken in size, but for some reason, it was always five minutes behind.” “Ohh...” “The dormitory was three stories tall, and the tower reached five stories.” “Mount Fuji could be seen clearly.” “Ohh...” I expressed admiration at each new detail. Pastor Urabe continued, “Ah yes. “There were photographs of Meiji Gakuin.” And saying this, he showed me two or three large photographs. It was still an era without picture postcards.

“It’s just like the West.” “Since it’s a mission school, they brought over Western schools exactly as they were.” “I see. "How splendid. "Is this the five-story tower where you can see Mount Fuji?”

“Ah,” “Since there’s a basement, it’s actually six stories in total.” “What’s a basement?” “It’s a room underground.” “Ohh...” I gazed intently at the dormitory building. In those days, the Western-style buildings in ○○ Town were limited to just the police station. It was white-painted, bore a golden chrysanthemum crest, and had an imposing air—yet remained merely a two-story wooden structure. The third floor had just seen its first restaurant established, and people simply called it “the third floor.” Every time I passed by “the third floor,” I would invariably look up and think what a splendid house it was. Perhaps because we were born at the foot of Mount Fuji, we had an instinctive reverence for tall things. Because our fire watchtower stood about one ken taller, we used to mock the children from the neighboring village. However, the neighboring village remained unfazed. “We’re uphill, so our ground’s higher than yours,” they retorted.

“Dr. Johnson is the president.”

Pastor Urabe shifted from buildings to people.

“The Prime Minister?” “No—he’s the school’s president.” “He’s the principal.” “He’s a remarkable man.” “The Doctor must be quite something.” “His scholarship is remarkable, but his character is even more so.” “That’s what we call a great man, I suppose.” “Saigo Takamori?” “If Saigo Takamori had believed in God, he might have turned out like that.” “I’ve been thoroughly impressed on multiple occasions.” “Ohh...”

“When I was in fifth grade.” “One day, Dr. Johnson’s cook came to me in tears.”

“What’s a cook?”

There were many things I didn’t understand. After all, I was just an elementary school student in the immediate aftermath of the First Sino-Japanese War. Moreover, I had been raised in the countryside. With this context in mind, I ask for your understanding regarding all matters. “A person who cooks. This cook was not a very good person. He managed the household for Dr.Johnson and wanted to make money, but since the doctor was frugal, he didn’t engage in wasteful practices. He came to me once and said that both Dr.Johnson and his wife were stingy beyond belief. So it seems he finally grew fed up and requested leave from Dr.Johnson.” Then Dr.Johnson asked, “What—not to your liking?”

“Can he speak Japanese?” “He speaks peculiar Japanese. The cook answered that he would return to his hometown because his parent was ill. Dr.Johnson said,‘That’s unfortunate. Here’s some money as a get-well gift.’ Then he stood up and brought the bank passbook. ‘This money—all of it—is yours. Take that home with you.’ The cook was astonished. ‘You’ve been here five years. I saved up an amount equal to your salary so you wouldn’t struggle in your old age. This—all of it—is yours.’ The cook reportedly sat down right there and cried,‘Sir,I'm so sorry!’”

“So he regretted it.” “Well then he came rushing over to me and asked me to apologize to Dr. Johnson.” “I went along with him.” “The cook had been skimming small amounts from Dr. Johnson’s funds all along, but overwhelmed by his kindness, he completely mended his ways.” “It’s exactly like a story from a morals textbook.” “Indeed.” “The power of love is extraordinary.” “The cook became a fine believer and still works at Dr. Johnson’s place.” “What do you think?” “Dr. Johnson is a great man, isn’t he?”

“I see.” “Since they’ve been influenced by such a principal, it’s no wonder there are truly remarkable individuals among the graduates.” “Take Mr. Tomioka from the first graduating class—he’s the best in Japan!” Pastor Urabe continued to speak earnestly. “A cabinet minister?” “No—he’s a pastor.” “Ohh...” “Mr. Nishimura of Osaka is from the third graduating class, but as an orator, he’s probably the best in Japan.” “What does he do?” “He’s a pastor.” “Ohh...” “Mr. Yasukawa—the one who came to this church the other day and gave a talk—he’s also first-rate.” “Your father was deeply impressed.”

“What does he do?” “He’s a pastor.” “Ohh...” I was disappointed. They’re all pastors. “Doshisha in Kyoto has produced remarkable individuals, but Meiji Gakuin is no less in producing remarkable people.”

“Pastor,” “What is it?” “Hasn’t Meiji Gakuin produced any cabinet ministers?” “We don’t produce such things.”

“Even if they aren’t cabinet ministers—hasn’t Meiji Gakuin produced any truly remarkable individuals?” “The ones I’ve just mentioned are all truly remarkable individuals. They’ve discarded their very selves and devoted themselves to society.” “But hasn’t it produced any remarkable individuals who bind people?” “Pardon?” “Even someone just beneath a minister would do.” “No bureaucrats have been produced.”

There was a considerable gap between Pastor Urabe's mind and my own. "I wanted to become a great man who could bind people—that's why I thought of going to Meiji Gakuin. But that won't do." "What on earth do you mean? When you say 'bind those people'—" "Last year during the school trip, Kunibu and three others beat me up. I can't stand how humiliating it was." "I see." "No matter what it takes, I'll become great and bind all four of them."

“Tommy, that won’t do.” “Why not?” “That’s a grave misunderstanding.” “How exactly is it a misunderstanding?” “You must love your enemies. ‘Resist not evil. If someone strikes your right cheek，turn to them the other also,’ Christ has taught us.” Pastor Urabe took a small copy of the New Testament from the bookshelf, “I’ll give you this. ‘It’s here. Go on and read it.’”

As he said this, he opened it and handed it over. I read through the indicated passage. Had this been Augustine or Luther, they would have instantly achieved great enlightenment and been awestruck on the spot; but for those of mediocre stock, the hide of their soul was so thick that inspiration could not penetrate. Not only were they unfeeling, "Pastor, if you're going to talk about Jesus, I'll go home."

“Pastor, if you’re going to talk about Jesus, I’ll go home,” he protested.

It was truly a shameful state of affairs.

“Now, now, please listen.”

“……” “All humanity are brethren. Are you familiar with the story of Adam and Eve?” “I’m not familiar with that.” “This isn’t a story about Jesus. This happened before Jesus was born.”

Having made this clarification, Pastor Urabe recounted the Book of Genesis in broad strokes, “Since all humanity are brothers across the four seas, you must not hate one another. Dr.Johnson’s story from earlier is precisely that example, isn’t it? He saved up money and prayed constantly for the sake of the cook who had done wrong.” he preached the religion of love to me.

“Pastor.” “What is it?” “If we loved our enemies, Japan would have been taken by China by now.” “Well.” “What do you make of that?” “The schoolteachers have stated so.” “The very act of war is already wrong." “That was an unfounded mistake, carried out through tears.” “However, we had to do it again. Because Japan behaved meekly this time, it suffered a great loss.” I brought up a current events issue. The concept of universal brotherhood made sense to me, but I couldn’t reconcile myself to pacifism. According to the schoolteachers’ opinion, since Japan had returned the Liaodong Peninsula to China due to interference from Britain, France, and Germany, it must repay these three enemy nations with substantial interest added in the future. They had taught us that this responsibility rested upon your shoulders.

“But Tomo-san, if you hate that Kunibu boy so much, doesn’t that make every day unpleasant?”

Pastor Urabe returned to the original issue.

“Uh…” “Give it your all and try enduring it. You’ll feel refreshed.” “He’s impertinent every single day—I don’t even get a moment to endure it!” “He must be quite a bad boy, hmm?” “He’s always getting scolded by the teacher. That makes him resentful, so he keeps picking fights with me.”

“I see.” “Instead of waiting until I grow up and get tied down, I’m thinking of just picking a fight now.” “That won’t do either.” “Pastor, what am I supposed to do?” “Read the Bible and think deeply about it.” “You’ll come to understand in time.”

“I thought if I consulted the Pastor, I’d understand everything immediately.” “What could you possibly grasp? It’s God who instructs everyone. Tomo-san, come—let us pray together.” “Am I meant to become Jesus?”

I panicked, but Pastor Urabe had already begun to pray—a prayer that through divine guidance, we might walk the right path. Having no objection to this, I accepted the Bible and resolved to ponder its teachings deeply. At that time, Kunibu remained my sole concern. My eagerness to enter middle school early stemmed chiefly from wanting to escape that brute's torments. Though these matters seem trifling in retrospect, a child's mind operates differently from an adult's. School grew loathsome to me, and I often complained petulantly. Apparently at my father's request, the teacher ceased praising me, yet Kunibu persisted in treating me as his archenemy—never confronting me directly, but ever preparing escape routes before launching his taunts.

“When a desperate bird takes refuge in one’s bosom, even the hunter does not kill this.” When Kunibu first memorized this proverb from his reader, “Class Leader,” he called me, “What is it?” forcing me to answer, “It’s not about you.” “It’s about the desperate bird that took refuge in your bosom.”

he said. “Class Leader.”

“…………” “Why aren’t you answering when I’m calling you?” This time, he questioned my responsibility. It was irritating, but there was nothing I could do.

The next time I visited, Pastor Urabe asked, “Tomo-san, have you read the Bible?”

asked. “Hmm.” “How was it?” “I don’t really understand, but since you told me to, I endured it.” Given that he had prayed for me too, I couldn’t help feeling obliged and resolved to follow his teachings as best I could. “That’s good. Your heart must feel completely refreshed now, mustn’t it, Tomo-san?”

“No, Kunibu is an exception. That guy’s the ringleader, so I just can’t bring myself to forgive him.” “So the other three are already forgiven, then?” “Yeah...” “Then just one more push.” Delighted, Pastor Urabe talked for a short while, and then,

“Tomo-san, today I will teach you how to pray.” “Repeat after me exactly as I say and see for yourself.” “You’ll surely feel refreshed in spirit.”

Having urged this, he knelt without even waiting for my consent. I had no choice at this point but to follow along and parrot his words. Now that I think about it, it was the Lord’s Prayer. For the most part, I had no objection,

“as we forgive those who sin against us...” The only part I disliked was precisely this passage. Who would ever forgive him? I kept praying with that thought in mind, so God must have been taken aback.

The next time I went, Pastor Urabe, “How did it go? Did you forgive Kunibu-kun?” he asked point-blank right from the start. Pastor Urabe knew well of my anguish. And so I found myself going there. “I don’t have time to forgive. They keep acting impertinent time and time again.” I explained the details of their behavior.

“I see.” “I’ll tie him up no matter what! Father also says that if I go all out dealing with Kunibu’s nonsense instead of holding back like before, it might actually do some good.”

“Tomo-san.” “What is it?” “Shall we pray once more?” “I don’t want to.”

“Ha ha ha!” “Tomo-san.” “I don’t want to!” “Then let’s stop praying and try another method?” “Tomo-san, do you have the strength to fight Kunibu and pin him down?” Pastor Urabe asked a strange question. “Well... “In a one-on-one fight, I don’t plan on losing.” “Since last year, when I realized being just meek wasn’t working, I’ve been putting studies second and focusing entirely on sports.” “Whether it’s sumo wrestling or footraces, I usually come out on top against most opponents.”

“Physical education is commendable.” “Today I ran all the way from the village to test how long I could keep up my sprinting.” “Remarkable vigor,” “Let’s measure your strength properly—why don’t we arm wrestle?” “Let’s.” I immediately challenged him across the desk but lost both matches. Yet Pastor Urabe praised me: “You’re rather strong.” “I can’t beat grown-ups,” I muttered, nursing my pride. “I happen to be strong even among adults.”

“Then I still can’t beat you.” “I tried testing you.” “With that much strength, you could beat most children.” “Tomo-san, how about just taking Kunibu down?”

“Is it really acceptable not to love my enemy?” “Naturally it would be better to love them, but wouldn’t clinging to resentment like this every day only make you bitter?” “I suppose...” “Moreover, if you go so far as to make long-term plans to subdue Kunibu, wouldn’t that defy God’s divine will?” “I suppose...”

“Tomo-san, can you absolutely not endure it?” “I can’t.” “The best thing is to endure it. The next best thing is to strike back and put it all out of your mind.” “I’ll strike back.”

“Well then, go ahead and do it.” “But Pastor, is it really all right if I fight?” “The fact that you’ve come to think that much shows progress, but there’s no helping it. “It’s the First Sino-Japanese War. “Strike down Kunibu! “I’m praying to God that you’ll win.” Then the pastor said something completely unexpected. That I later became a believer in Christ owes its impetus to the profound emotion I felt at this time. Admittedly, given that my faith began through such circumstances, it was utterly dubious. These days I only maintain church affiliation, yet I hold no ill feelings toward Christianity.

Pastor Urabe’s single remark resolved over a year of my inner turmoil. I promptly put it into action. The next day, before gymnastics period began, I was playing on the athletic field with two or three classmates. Just then, Kunibu came riding in with his three underlings made into horses. After the human-horse race at the sports festival, this had become quite the trend. The weaker ones became the horses. Kunibu passed by my side and knocked off my hat. “What do you think you’re doing?” I shouted at the top of my lungs, chased after him, and struck the side of Kunibu’s temple with the dumbbell I held. Kunibu jumped down from his horse. I had braced myself expecting him to attack immediately, but that wasn’t what happened. He bent down and clutched his head. Blood came out.

“You’ll pay for this!” “I’ll remember, all right!” “Wait at Hachiman-sama on the way back!” “I’ll be waiting.” and exchanged hostile words. Kunibu went straight to the wellside and cooled his head. Given that he immediately attended gymnastics, it wasn’t a serious injury. Since the model student had resorted to violence, everyone seemed thoroughly surprised.

“It’s Kunibu’s fault.” There were also those who sympathized with me. Even more than I was disliked as a model student, Kunibu was hated as a troublemaker. However, Kunibu had underlings. Since they would surely come to his aid, I enlisted my cousin Toku-san. “Alright, alright. If they show up, I’ll show up too.” he agreed. Tokusaburo-kun was a fourth-year higher elementary student. They were at an age of rapid growth, so there was a stark difference in caliber between third and fourth years.

After school, I hurried to Hachiman Shrine with Toku-san. As I prayed for victory, I recalled Pastor Urabe had been praying too. Both Japanese and Western deities now watched over me. Soon Kunibu arrived with his usual three followers. "If you three interfere, I won't hold back!" Toku-san declared with finality. "Right..." The underlings nodded and glanced at Kunibu. Toku-san's involvement took everyone by surprise. Kunibu and I needed no explanations - we both knew exactly why we fought. We suddenly began battering each other.

“Hang in there!”

Toku-san cheered him on. Kunibu's allies seemed to remain silent out of fear of Toku-san.

We soon became locked in a grappling match. Having tripped over a tree root and fallen first, I took a few blows but immediately bounced back and stood up. We were grappling again. For a short while, we pushed and were pushed around where the large enoki tree had spread its roots, but I finally managed to twist my opponent down and straddle him.

“Tommy, bash his head against the tree root!” Toku-san approached. “Got it!” I grabbed Kunibu’s head with both hands and bashed it against the tree root with a thud thud. This hurt more than hitting him. “How’s that?” “………” “Still not enough?” “That’s enough.” “Apologize!”

“………” “Still not enough?” “I was wrong.” Kunibu too had finally resigned himself. When I let him go, he sat up and started bawling. “Tommy, that’s enough for now. Now finish off these bastards too!” Toku-san glared at the three.

“We had nothing to do with this.”

The three stepped back. “No—there was!” “Tommy, these bastards were the ones from the school trip, right?” “That’s true, but they were just egged on by Kunibu, so let’s leave it at that.” I was exhausted from dealing with just Kunibu. “Just apologize!” Toku-san was in such a fury that he looked ready to start swinging. “We apologize.” The three apologized to me. Some classmates had come as far as the torii gate to watch.

On this day, I cast off my mantle as a model student. Kunibu could no longer stand up to me. The others too began to fear me. From then on, I persisted as the gang leader until graduation. People may call children little barbarians, but that’s exactly what they are. Nothing is more disadvantageous than playing the saintly gentleman in a barbarian society. It was only by defeating Kunibu that my existence came to be acknowledged. Even a class leader holds no sway without physical strength. In reality, I had been a cornered bird. But now my commands reached every corner of the class.

“It’ll be a problem if you don’t listen to me.” Even when I pleaded they wouldn’t listen, “Hey!” A single harsh shout sufficed. Little barbarians held physical prowess in higher regard than good conduct and academic distinction.

“I’m going straight to Tokyo’s Meiji Gakuin once I finish third grade next spring. “It’s a six-story mission school!” “You lot can graduate from higher elementary and go become dirt farmers!”

Even as I said this, not a single one of them dared to oppose me. Yet I was fated to graduate from higher elementary school. As the end of the third grade I had been waiting for drew near, it was decided that a middle school would be established in XX Town starting the following year.

“Tomokazu, since it’s conveniently timed, you’ll commute to the town’s middle school from home.” And so my father had decided.

“So I have to stay in higher elementary another year?” Naturally, I was dissatisfied. “That’s right.” “But if I’m going to enter anyway, it’s more advantageous to do so even a little earlier.”

“No—if you graduate from higher elementary, you can enter the second year. Even if you went to Tokyo now, three years of study would leave things half-finished, so you’d still only get into the first year after all.”

“But next year it’ll be the second year anyway, so wouldn’t that be the same thing?” “Don’t talk nonsense. There’s a difference in cost between going to Tokyo and commuting from home. If we get through middle school economically, that’ll set things up for moving on to higher schools afterward.” “Oh…” “If you commute to the town’s middle school, I’ll have you enter Meiji Gakuin’s higher division after you graduate.” “I see.” “If you go to teacher training school, you’ll at least become something, but with just middle school alone, it’s utterly useless. Since you’re our only child, I discussed with your mother about figuring something out.”

And my father had been thinking well ahead into the future.

Middle School Students of Yore

When viewed from today’s climate of fiercely competitive school admissions, my middle school days feel like they belong to another era. Thirty-some years ago, when the first middle school was established in my hometown of XX Town, entrance exams were out of the question. The school authorities panicked at having no applicants. The middle school principal circulated an extremely polite letter of request to elementary school principals. As my father was an elementary school principal and I was set to enter the prefectural middle school, I was shown that letter at the time and still remember it to this day. In addition to expounding on the necessity of secondary education, they appealed regarding their circumstances,

"We earnestly beseech you regarding the aforementioned matter: After holding sincere discussions with those who have completed at least two years of higher elementary education and their guardians, should you deign to send us even one or two students, for the advancement of our nation's secondary education there could be no greater honor. With profound obeisance," It had been concluded thus.

However, when I recently visited a certain middle school principal before my third son’s entrance exam, "If this concerns school admission inquiries, we must decline any meetings as these days we're troubled by many visitors of that nature." I was splendidly shown the door. When business prospers, one’s airs of discernment grow loftier. It’s completely topsy-turvy. Middle schools in those days were humble. Not only did the principal distribute promotional flyers, but the clerk also went out to nearby villages for recruitment. They went around visiting notable households one by house,

“Congratulations on your honorable son having completed two years of higher elementary education this term. Now, how does this matter strike you?” he would say. “What’s this about?” “What on earth...” “Might we trouble you to consider enrolling him in middle school? The tuition is one yen per month, textbooks two yen and twenty sen. Please examine this schedule.” “One yen for tuition! That’s absurd!” “Utterly unreasonable!” Farmers kept tight pursestrings. Elementary school tuition had been five sen for ordinary classes and eight sen for higher levels. “However, upon graduation he would qualify as a volunteer soldier—reducing three-year conscription to one.”

“I see.” “Your son can even enter university and easily earn a monthly salary of ten yen or so.” "In today's society, education is absolutely indispensable." "To begin with, the number of middle schools in this prefecture compared to others..." The clerk began his rehearsed argument about the urgency of secondary education as instructed. However, despite considering ordinary elementary education sufficient, having been flattered by the village head and principal, he viewed higher elementary education as nothing but unnecessary extravagance, "No can do." he said, refusing to accept it.

“Now, now, please do consider the benefits of education…” “No can do!” “When we had to send children away to boarding schools in other regions, that was one matter, but now that one has been built right here within walking distance from home…” “I keep sayin’ ‘No can do!’ but you just don’t get it, do ya?” “I must apologize for this unfortunate intrusion.”

And the clerk could do nothing more. If he persisted any further, he’d get whacked with a hoe. It wasn’t a matter of keeping out eager applicants as we see nowadays. Though they wanted to admit them, they wouldn’t come. From this, one can see that Japan’s secondary education had indeed made remarkable strides. In any case, given the complete lack of applicants, those who had completed higher elementary education were immediately admitted into the second year. I and Mr. Yasui, the deputy mayor’s son, took advantage of this privilege. Additionally, the eldest son of landowner Gondo entered first grade.

“Mr. Gondo and Mr. Yasui have money to do as they please, but what exactly is Kawahara thinking?” The villagers began voicing their doubts. “Isn’t he just an elementary school principal?” “How much salary do you suppose he even draws?” “He’s overstepped his station.” “Mightn’t he be skimming school fees?” “Principal Kawahara’s been keeping company with those town Christians lately.” “Maybe the Jesus money’s flowing in.”

With that，it was said Father’s reputation suffered temporarily. It was an era when those without money needlessly humbled themselves. For the son of an elementary school principal to receive secondary education with a one-yen tuition fee was considered an outrageous act that defied tradition. It was different from today，where the poor proudly call themselves proletarians.

I was completely liberated for the first time when I entered middle school. During my elementary school years, being the principal’s son meant I was always conscious that I attended my father’s school. My mother, “Tomoichi, if you don’t come out on top, your father will lose face.” With these teachings, she instilled this conviction within me. The teachers too, “As expected of Mr. Kawahara—he performs excellently.” they would say and praise me. This of course meant that I was the principal’s child. The responsibility weighed heavy. Even in my childish heart, I felt compelled to uphold my parents' honor. Therefore, I couldn’t do anything bad. Year after year, as a model student, I strove to perform good deeds until I became subjected to covert attacks from my peers.

But middle school was entirely my own domain. Everything could be handled exactly as I willed. Though I regretted not being able to attend distant Tokyo's Meiji Gakuen, I rejoiced at having been liberated from my father's school.

“You know，middle school’s really great，isn’t it?” One morning on our way to school，I shared my thoughts with Mr. Yasui. “That’s different from elementary school.” “For one thing，the school building’s new.” “I’m truly delighted.”

“Me too.” “I'm even more delighted than you are. That’s precisely why!” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Because I don’t have to be a model student anymore!” “So that’s why you didn’t bow before Lord Hachiman just now?” “You’ve got me there.” “Ha ha ha ha!” “If you do something like that once you're a middle school student, you'll get laughed at.” “I thought I'd become a Christian.” “Become something like a Christian? Not a chance!” “You’re better off not becoming something like that.” “The reason I’m more delighted than you is that I don’t have to be number one anymore.”

“You’ll end up first anyway.”

Mr. Yasui, who had said this, had been second in elementary school.

“What are you talking about? It’s already hopeless.”

“Why?” “In elementary school, I forced myself to study because I thought I mustn’t cause trouble for my father. But it was tough.” “I had sensed that.” “There was another factor—the teachers went easy on me. Because I’m the principal’s child, you see. In real ability, you’re superior.” “That’s impossible!” “Anyway, it’s fine now. Even if I don’t come out on top, the principal won’t be troubled.” “He will.” “Why?”

“Didn’t the principal say at the entrance ceremony the other day that everyone should study intending to be number one?” “That’s contradictory. There can only be one top student in a class.” “It means we should all strive to be that one person.” “Then the principal is certain to be disappointed for thirty-nine people’s worth. After all, there are forty students in our class.” “There you go again with your logic.” “Since there are two first-year classes, that makes seventy-eight people’s worth of disappointment. Combined with my class, that makes 117 people’s worth. Just imagine this continuing up through fifth grade—he’d have to be disappointed for hundreds of people’s worth!”

“Ha ha ha!”

“I’ve quit putting on an act.”

“Slacking off now?” “Yeah.” "What an admirable mindset so soon after starting school!" “Ha ha ha!”

I suddenly felt my spirits lift. "But we bear a heavy responsibility, I tell you." "Why?" "Didn't the principal say we second-years must set an example as the inaugural class?" "Model students have learned their lesson, but having no upperclassmen is delightful." "Because there's nobody above to hold us down."

“You bet.” “We can hold our heads high.” “It’s a blessing that we become upperclassmen the moment we enter.” “The first-year students sure do salute us often, don’t they?”

Mr. Yasui was also pleased. “If we glare at those who don’t salute, they’ll end up doing it.” “They’re scared of us.” “We’re in a different league, that’s why.” “We’re all grown-up here. You know that lanky guy Kumamoto?” “Yeah.” “That guy’s failed multiple times at Tokyo middle schools and is already seventeen, they say.” “He looks tough.” “He keeps talking about how he caused trouble in Tokyo.”

“He’s an annoying guy. That Komatsu fellow standing next to him is getting on in years too.” “He seems like a studious type.” “It’s said he was working at the municipal office but resolved to enroll here.”

I had heard this from a student from ○○ Town and had been showing respect to this man. "That’s admirable." "He’s so earnest that he keeps asking questions all the time." "There’s another one named Hasegawa, right?" "He might as well be an adult, don't you think? He has a little beard growing."

"He must be eighteen or nineteen by now." "He was working as a substitute teacher at an elementary school there." "Mr. Yamaguchi, who's lined up next to me, apparently studied under him at one point."

“Well, this is a surprise! So a teacher and student have ended up as classmates, huh?” “You bet.” “If the teacher ends up beneath us, that’d be rough, I tell you.” “Who knows? Since the second-year class was recruited from high school graduates, we knew there’d be plenty of seasoned folks—but I never expected an actual teacher among them.” “They’re completely out of our league.” “Look here!” “What is it?” “You’re still determined to come out on top, aren’t you?”

“Nope.” “Still better to go all out for our village’s honor.”

And Mr. Yasui returned to the initial topic.

The consequences of being relieved from responsibility immediately manifested in the first-term report card.

My overall evaluation was Fair, and I ranked thirteenth. “You couldn’t make first place, could you?” Father seemed somewhat disappointed. “Yes.” “Middle school isn’t like elementary school.”

“Yes.” “But you could have at least made it into the top ten.”

“Well...” Feeling apologetic, “It’s because my arithmetic, geography, and history were poor,” I explained. “I see.” Father kept staring at the report card,

"Thirteenth?" "This might be about right." "Yes." "What rank was Yasui?" "Tenth."

“Hmm.” “Mr. Yasui was actually more capable than I was even back in elementary school.” I stated what I truly thought. “That’s not true.” “…………” “What child came in first?” “It’s not a child.” “Hmm?” “They’re an adult. “It’s Mr. Hasegawa.” “I see. “He used to be a teacher, didn’t he?” “Yes.”

“And second?” “The town office worker. This one is also an adult.” “I see. And third?” “Third is a child, and fourth is an adult again.” “There sure are a lot of older students.” “Since there are seven or eight people who graduated from higher school three or four years ago, I simply can’t compete.”

“Well, well... If it’s within the teens, I suppose that’s acceptable.”

“Yes.”

“Middle school isn’t like elementary school. This might actually be about right.” My father seemed to recall something and relented with surprising ease. My mother remained silent, but I had braced myself for her inevitable subsequent scolding—and sure enough, later,

“Tomokazu!”

came the call. “What is it?” “Can’t you be first in middle school?” “Yes.” “If you don’t at least make third place, your father won’t be able to hold his head up.” “It’s fine.” “Can you do it?” “No, since not a single person knows about Father’s reputation anyway.” “Even so, isn’t it strange that you were a model student for eight years in elementary school but only thirteenth in middle school?” “In middle school, there’s no favoritism. It’s different from the school where Father is the principal.”

“So you were first in elementary school because of favoritism?” “Yes.” “There’s no such thing.” “Whether in elementary school or middle school, it all comes down to your own studying alone.” “There are adults there.” “Since we entered second grade immediately, we only study difficult subjects.” “How could you understand middle school matters?” And I had already learned how to pressure my mother.

Four years of middle school life were far more enjoyable than my elementary school days. I kept my grades in the teens as per my father’s instructions. I once reached eighth place, but then fell to twenty-fifth the next time. Since then, the pull toward the twenties grew stronger, and I generally maintained my position around eighteenth or nineteenth place. With results like these, there was no fear of earning others’ resentment. To be fair, our class remained consistently united and harmonious throughout. The class presidency was always held by Hasegawa-san, with Komatsu-san from the town office steadfastly remaining as vice president. They commanded authority as the senior students. Even Mr. Kumamoto, who had returned from Tokyo, proved less of a ruffian than his reputation suggested.

At first, we half-jokingly called Hasegawa-san "Teacher Hasegawa." “Please stop with the ‘Teacher’ business,” he said. “Aren’t we classmates?” Hasegawa-san looked displeased. “Well then, Hasegawa-san.” “What is it?” “How old are you?” I asked—the question having been requested by Mr. Yasui and several others.

“Eighteen.” “Is that true?” “Would I lie? How old are you?”

“I am fifteen.” “Then there’s only a three-year difference.” “How many years were you a teacher?” “What does that matter?” Hasegawa-san disliked inquiries about his age. “How old are you, Mr. Komatsu?” And I had also been asked to do this in passing. “You’re asking me?”

Mr. Komatsu scratched his head. “Yeah.” “Same as Hasegawa.” “Is that true?” “You’re oddly suspicious.” “It’s not like that, but everyone told me to ask.” And I made my excuse. That was early in our enrollment. Not long after that, these two elders were absent for a day. With the older students gone, their absence stood out, “What’s going on?”

"Haven't all the diligent students taken a day off together?" And we found it strange.

“I know.” And indeed, the elder called Kitamura shrank his head.

“What’s going on?” “The draft physical exam.” “Ah, makes sense!”

And everyone burst into laughter. This revealed the two men’s true ages.

The next day, I,

“Mr. Hasegawa, you lied.” I said, latching onto Mr. Hasegawa. Of course it was a joke. “I give up!” “You’re a liar too, Mr. Komatsu!” “No, I’m saying I’m the same as Mr. Hasegawa.” “Crafty, crafty!” “Ha! Ha!” And they all jeered and raised a great commotion.

“Who on earth spilled the beans?” Mr. Hasegawa asked.

“It’s Mr. Kitamura.” “Mr. Kitamura may not look it, but he’s senior to us. He got his done last year.” “There’s always someone above you.” “Nyah-nyah!” And with this, we finally knew who was truly the eldest among us. “Exposed! Exposed!” Mr. Kitamura scratched his head and stuck out his tongue. It was truly a class with many older students. However, this Mr. Kitamura was currently making a name for himself as a city council member in ○○ City. The first-year students were such distinguished individuals. Mr. Komatsu took the certification exam for Japanese and Chinese classics after graduating and had since been teaching at our alma mater day in and day out for over twenty years. As for Mr. Hasegawa, he was a figure straight out of an inspirational biography. Since there were many such steady individuals among our older classmates, our class remained consistently disciplined and enjoyed the teachers’ unwavering trust.

Given that I would confront them directly about the ages they concealed, I had no qualms. As a result, I grew familiar with these older students and became particularly close with Mr. Hasegawa. Even when making unreasonable demands, the age gap prevented arguments from arising. "What an incorrigible fellow you are." he would concede with resignation. I remember this occurring after becoming a third-year student, when one day Mr. Hasegawa "Kawahara-kun, they say you're a Christian?" inquired. "I am not a Christian."

“Is that so? Well, that’s alright then.” “Is being Christian such a bad thing?”

To this, I felt slightly irritated,

“It’s bad.” “Why is it bad?” “Christianity is a Western religion after all. If all of Japan becomes Christian, Japan will be taken over by the West.” Mr. Hasegawa was caught in an extremely commonplace prejudice. Due to my respectful relationship with Pastor Urabe, even though I wasn’t a Christian, it didn’t sit well with me to hear Christianity spoken ill of. “Mr. Hasegawa, that’s utter nonsense.” And thus my immediate rebuttal marked the beginning of it all. A sixteen-year-old teenager and a twenty-two-year-old young man were worlds apart. Each time I was bested in these exchanges, out of frustration I began visiting Pastor Urabe to seek guidance.

“Kawahara has turned to Christianity.” “He’s a Christian, that guy.” Rumors began circulating. “Alright. Then I’ll just become a Christian!” And so I was soon baptized. Since I had entered the faith out of defiance, it was hardly commendable. I was also helping with the plan to refute Mr. Hasegawa. It was the same as when I had resolved to tie up Kunibu before. Mediocrity is contemptible. We end up deciding major issues based on minor problems.

As we advanced through the grades, we began discussing our futures.

“Kawahara-kun, you’re so fortunate.”

One day, Mr. Hasegawa said enviously. "Why is that?" "You always look so cheerful. You've never known life's hardships." "Do you mean you yourself have no hardships?" "Well, I suppose that's true." "How rude!" "I am constantly tormented." "If you don't believe in Christ, that's only natural." And I fancied myself the very picture of enlightenment.

“Here we go with the preaching again.” “Is your torment about life’s big questions?”

"That’s part of it, but there’s something more pressing."

“What is it? What on earth is it?” “Shall I tell you?” “Yes?” “Well, let’s just drop it.” “That won’t do! Is it a love affair?” “Don’t talk nonsense.” “Then what is it?” “Well…”

Mr. Hasegawa looked around. We were leaning against the vaulting horse in the schoolyard.

“I won’t tell anyone.” “Kawahara-kun, you’ve looked after me for a long time, but I must bid you farewell soon.” “What’s wrong?”

“The truth is, I came to this school under the promise of being adopted into another family.” “That’s why I’m tormented.”

“Is adoption itself a sin?” “No—it’s their line of work that’s improper.” “What is it?” “A brothel quarter.” “What?” “A brothel house.” “I ended up agreeing just because I wanted to enter middle school, and now I regret it.”

“So what will you do?”

"I'll run away." "If I stay here, I can never cut these ties." "From now on, I'll make my way with my own two hands." "Where will you run away to?" "Tokyo, of course."

“When?”

At the moment I asked, “Move! Get out of the way!” Voices rang out. Two or three classmates had come to jump over the vaulting horse. Mr. Hasegawa, “Soon.”

he answered and began to walk.

“Mr. Hasegawa.” “What is it?” “Is there truly no way to sever these ties if you remain here?” “There’s absolutely no way.”

"But there's less than a year left." "I can't afford to consider personal interests. I don’t believe in Christianity, but I’ve come to truly understand what sin means. I can’t keep deceiving myself any longer." "Hey now—arguing again?" As Mr. Komatsu approached, the conversation remained as it was.

The next day, Mr. Hasegawa did not come to school.

Mr. Komatsu, “Kawahara-kun”

He called out "Kawahara-kun" and dragged me to Mr. Kitamura’s place.

“What is it?” “Can you come into town tonight?” “Well...”

“Mr. Kitamura and Mr. Hasegawa are holding a gathering.” “You heard from Mr. Hasegawa, didn’t you?” “Is this about the Tokyo trip?”

“Yes, that farewell party.” “Mr. Hasegawa says he wants you to come too.” “Do make sure to come if you can.” “I’ll come.”

I agreed. The venue was a restaurant. There were geisha too.

According to school regulations, this would definitely have been grounds for expulsion. Yet the three drank sake with utter nonchalance. Even when they had been puzzling over the National Reader in the classroom, here in this place they became splendid adults. I shrank into myself and listened intently to their discussion, feeling as though I had stumbled upon some fundamental problem of life for the very first time.

“This whole mess is your fault!” I grew even more astonished when Mr. Kitamura began his drunken tirade. “Why?” “Just have a drink.” “I don’t want to.” “What good’s a man who can’t drink?” “Enough, Kitamura.” Mr. Hasegawa intervened. “I can’t abide Christians.”

“Cut it out, you idiot.” “This whole mess is Kawahara’s fault!” “Why do you say that?”

This also irritated me.

“It’s because you went preaching about Jesus.” “A brothel’s still a business!” “I didn’t know anything about that.” “Business or not—it’s no proper trade. If Hasegawa becomes some brothel-keeper, I’m done with him.”

Mr. Komatsu advocated his hardline position. "I leave everything to you." "I leave everything to you," Mr. Hasegawa repeated several times. "Of course."

The two eagerly agreed. “When a man sets forth on his ambitions, he does not linger at the village gates...” When Mr. Hasegawa began reciting， tears spilled from my eyes. “We’ll see him off to the station.” “Since it wouldn’t do for you to be out late， you should head back now.” “And you mustn’t tell anyone about attending this gathering.”

“I leave the rest to you,” Mr. Hasegawa said repeatedly. What left the deepest impression during my four years of middle school life were these three individuals and that evening’s farewell party. This impression was particularly profound because Mr. Hasegawa’s arduous studies ultimately proved successful. Even now, whenever we meet, we inevitably end up talking about that evening. “Kawahara-kun, well then, I’ll see you in Tokyo next year.”

With that, Mr. Hasegawa exited the restaurant carrying a heavy-looking bag. "You need to leave early—keep your mouth completely shut," Mr. Komatsu pressed. Mr. Hasegawa departed for Tokyo on the eleven o'clock last train.

The next day, Mr. Kitamura and Mr. Komatsu were summoned to the faculty room multiple times at school. When I noticed their absence two days later, they had received a two-week suspension. They had submitted Mr. Hasegawa’s withdrawal notice to the class supervisor and, in the course of explaining the circumstances, openly confessed to having held a farewell gathering at a restaurant. I understood why the two had told me not to tell anyone. Middle school students back then were formidable.

With my pack on my back,

From my hometown to Tokyo took five hours; I got off at Shimbashi. It was an era when Tokyo Station did not yet exist. It has been nearly thirty years now. I carried the fashionable canvas bag of that time, my heart pounding, as I walked along the platform. I seem to remember it being about two or three blocks to the ticket gate. After retrieving my luggage, I immediately called a rickshaw man.

“Meiji Gakuin.”

“And this was the destination I had waited four long years to reach.” “Huh?” “Meiji Gakuin.” “Where’s that?” “It’s a Christian school.” At Shimbashi Station, I first revealed my country bumpkin nature. Tokyo stretched endlessly. Unlike my hometown, where simply saying “middle school” would orient anyone.

“Which ward is that in?”

“Akasaka Ward, Aoyama.” “Is Aoyama near the drill ground?” “Since this is my first time, I don’t know. It’s in 7-chome.” “It’s far.” The rickshaw man balked. I don’t remember the exact amount we settled on, but I recall it wasn’t much different from five hours’ train fare from my hometown. Wherever we went stretched nothing but city. “Tokyo sure is big.” I inadvertently blurted out.

“It certainly is!” The rickshaw driver answered as if Tokyo were his own. “Where exactly is Kanda Ward?” “You’re completely off the mark!” “Do you know about the night school in Kanda?” “Kanda’s a regular nest of schools.” “Hmm.” And once again, I regretted it. Better to keep quiet. The reason I had asked about Kanda was that I had remembered Mr. Hasegawa. Mr. Hasegawa, an older classmate who had dropped out midway last year due to circumstances, was attending night school while delivering milk in Kanda.

Human memory is a strange thing. As I now take up my pen, I picture in my mind the dog killer killing the dog. That was the scene I witnessed during this first ride from Shimbashi to Aoyama. It was beside a merchant house’s rainwater barrel. A man approached the dog wagging its tail and gave it something, then immediately struck it with a sickening thud using a stick he’d been hiding behind his back. The dog collapsed. The dog killer struck it again and again. Naturally, I was drawn to look that way—as was the rickshaw driver. Just then,

“Coming through!” a voice called out. A carriage. And a two-horse one at that. It was the first time I had ever seen something so splendid. Inside rode a general of imposing stature. His was the pockmarked face that had become familiar through photogravure prints since the publication of the Sino-Japanese War Record. “That’s General Ōyama, isn’t it?” And I immediately understood. “That’s right, it is.”

“That’s right, it is,” said the rickshaw driver. The dog killer and the general—things I had forgotten for years now suddenly rose before me. That aside, after riding for nearly an hour—just as I concluded this fare wasn’t particularly high—I arrived at Meiji Gakuen, the institution I had aimed to reach for years.

I had heard from Pastor Urabe that it consisted entirely of brick Western-style buildings, but I was genuinely amazed by their actual magnificence. I had them set me down right at the gate. Just then, a young man about my age also alighted from a rickshaw that had arrived moments after mine. His attire mirrored mine—traditional Japanese clothing with hakama trousers—and he sported a hand towel hanging from his waist. When I moved my bag and trunk to the entranceway, he brought in nearly identical luggage. Upon realizing we shared the same purpose for coming here, I felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity. Yet the young man squared his shoulders and glared at me. That wasn't all—when I approached the reception desk to submit my letter of introduction from Pastor Urabe, he shoved forward as if to push me aside,

“Please give this to Mr. Inomata.” and tried to have himself served first. I grew irritated and glared hard at him. He squared his shoulders defiantly and kept staring back unblinkingly. I decided he was an insolent brat. Students in those days were rough. I’d been cautioned that Tokyo scholars would provoke fights at the slightest excuse. The elderly receptionist who’d taken our letters of introduction soon reappeared in the corridor. “This way please.” he gestured. We were ushered into the office.

“Please wait here.”

The old man left us in a cramped corner and walked away. At a nearby desk, Secretary Mr. Inomata was dictating something to a clerk. My attention was caught by the teacher's glasses. No matter how many times I looked, there were no sidepieces. They were pince-nez. As this was my first encounter with both a box carriage and pince-nez, my curiosity stirred. We were made to wait quite a long time. When standing straight grew painful and I slightly adjusted my posture, my shoulder touched that young man's shoulder. Then the young man jabbed me sharply in the side with his elbow. This time I couldn't let it pass. I jabbed him back with interest. The bastard waited for his chance and jabbed again. I jabbed back. Several rounds of elbow jabs were exchanged between us.

“You there.” Mr. Inomata called out. “Yes, sir?”

The young man stepped forward ahead of me. Utterly shameless bastard. Since I'd thrown in an extra jab for good measure, I'd be the one coming out behind. "Who are you?" "Nozaki." "This would be an introduction from Mr. Maruo?" "Yes sir." "How fares Mr. Maruo these days?" "Yes sir. He asked me to convey his regards." "Thank you." "I wish to enter the Higher School Department—submitted my application and personal history from home—have they arrived yet?"

“Please wait a moment.”

Mr. Inomata took out a bound set of documents from the shelf by his desk and flipped through them while, “Nozaki Kizaburō. This one, I presume?” “Yes, sir?” “Hamamatsu Middle School. Didn’t you graduate last year?” “Yes, sir?”

“What have you been doing until now?” “I was just playing around at home.” “Didn’t you apply to another school somewhere last year?” “I applied to the Higher Commercial School and messed up.” The young man scratched his head. I thought it served him right. “What is your reason for applying to the Academy’s Higher School Department this time?” “Well, you see... um... I thought of making my mark in the business world in the future.” “I see.” “It’s a very good school, and Mr. Maruo said that if you want to study languages, this is the only place to do it.”

“How were your middle school grades?” “They were neither good nor bad.” “What rank did you graduate in?” “Middling.” “Since I was twenty-ninth.”

“Out of how many students?”

“Well...” “There were thirty-four or thirty-five students.”

“Ah.”

Mr. Inomata looked thoughtful. I too found it odd that such a thing as a middling rank could exist. He was saying blatantly contradictory things without any composure.

“It’s because I took about three weeks off in my fifth year that’s working against me.”

“Since the Higher School Department here is primarily taught by Westerners, you’ll find it quite challenging if your English skills are lacking.” “Yes, sir. I heard that from Mr. Maruo as well.” “How were your English grades?” “They were middling.” “What exactly did you do to get this three-week suspension noted in the ‘Rewards and Punishments’ section of your resume?” “Well...”

The young man, having reached an impasse, scratched his head again. "Out with it, then." "There were signs I tried to organize a strike." "I see." "I'll never do it again." "How was your conduct?"

“They were middling.” “What do you mean by 'middling' in conduct?” “In short, it’s a B.” “Though actually, it’s a C because I received that punishment.”

“Which is it? The real truth now.” “It’s a C. Middling.” “Very well.” “Will you admit me?” “Aren’t you planning to apply to other schools again?” “No.” “You’re not planning to use this place as a stepping stone to take the entrance exam for Tokyo Commercial College, are you?” “That’s absolutely not the case!” “If you’re truly determined to study here, I’ll gladly grant your admission.” “Please, I humbly request.” “From this letter, it seems you wish to enter the dormitory, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then please wait there.” With that, Mr. Inomata dismissed the young man, “You, come here.”

[He] called me. “Yes.” “You are Mr. Kawahara, introduced by Pastor Urabe, correct?” “Yes.” “How is Pastor Urabe’s health?” “Yes. Pastor Urabe conveyed his earnest regards.”

“Thank you.”

“As I’ve been aiming for the Higher School Department, I had already completed the admission procedures from my hometown.” With that, I looked at the desk. My application and resume lay spread across it. “What was your graduating class rank in middle school?” “Seventeenth.” “Out of how many students?” “It was a class of thirty-four.” “So you’re truly middling then. Was this academy your long-standing aspiration?”

“Yes. Actually, I had wanted to enter the middle school division from the start, but due to family circumstances, this is my first time coming to Tokyo.” “When were you baptized?” “In my third year.” “Are your father and mother also believers?” “No, I’m the only one.” “What is your future ambition?” “I haven’t decided yet.” “Very well. Now then, take your time to think it over while studying.” “Yes.”

“Hmm.”

With that, Mr. Inomata reread Pastor Urabe’s letter, “Do you need to work to supplement your tuition?” he asked. “No.” "What on earth is Pastor Urabe talking about?" “That must have been Pastor Urabe kindly mentioning it out of consideration. My tuition has all been taken care of.”

“Working while studying is rather difficult.” “Yes.” “However, we have scholarship provisions for high-performing students.” “I’m nowhere near qualified.”

“You’ll be entering the dormitory, then?”

“Yes.” “In that case, please wait there together with Mr. Nozaki.”

“Yes.” With that, I stepped back and stood once more in the corner alongside that same young man. Having already been nudged once, I was just thinking I’d return the favor at the first opportunity when— “You,”

“You...” the guy whispered. “What is it?” “Since we’ll be classmates, let’s get along.” “I don’t know.” “You...” “Well, that’s that then.” With that, I gave him a nudge with my elbow. The enemy took it meekly. He had now become an ally. Mr. Inomata called an office worker and, after resuming dictation where he had left off earlier, took his hat, “In that case, Mr. Kawahara and Mr. Nozaki, I’ll guide you to the dormitory.” With that, he started walking. “You”

Mr. Nozaki urged me. They no longer vied to go first.

“I’m terribly obliged.” I felt sorry for troubling the teacher himself. “Oh, it’s nothing—I’m just on my way home anyway. “My place is right behind the dormitory.”

And so, Mr. Inomata lived on the school grounds.

We entrusted our trunk to the reception desk and followed along, carrying just our suitcases. "It's so big!" Mr. Nozaki let out an admiring voice. "It's said to be over thirty thousand tsubo." "There's a clock tower just like the one in Ginza." "That clock is always five minutes behind, I hear." "Hmm."

“The three-story building with a five-story tower rising beyond the clock tower must be the dormitory, right?” When I said this, Mr. Inomata— “You’re quite familiar with things, Mr. Kawahara.” —responded with surprise. “I’d heard all about it from Pastor Urabe.” “I see.” “He even showed me photographs.” “That explains your detailed knowledge. Speaking of dormitories—Pastor Urabe was quite the troublemaker in his youth.” “Is that so?” “He once jumped from that third-floor window over a tempura soba bet.” “How dangerous! Was he injured?”

“He was fine, but he did get a nosebleed. He tempted God too much and was severely scolded by Dr. Johnson.” “Was he really such a rowdy person back then?” “How has he been lately?” “He seems like a saint now.” “He must’ve grown old and settled down.”

“So he learned from Dr. Johnson after all?”

“From his first year in the middle school division. He wasn’t a bad student, but he was quite the mischievous lad.”

“How was Mr. Maruo?” asked Mr. Nozaki. This introducer also appeared to be a graduate.

"He was a man devoid of vitality." "He still is." "He’s been stuck at that Hamamatsu middle school ever since—does he have a decent reputation there?" "Middling, I suppose."

“Same as you? Ha ha ha!”

Mr. Inomata laughed cheerfully. “Mr. Nozaki, are you from Hamamatsu?” And in truth, when I had heard “Hamamatsu” earlier, it had struck me as promising.

“Yes,” “Where are you from?” “I’m from ○○.” “Then we’re from the same prefecture.” “I’ll be counting on you.” “Please do.”

“I was on guard because I thought you were from Tokyo,” Mr. Nozaki explained. It came off more as a challenge than caution, but there was no helping it with a man who genuinely believed that ranking 29th out of 34 or 35 students was perfectly average.

Just then, a dignified, middle-aged Western man with graying hair was passing by. “Good afternoon.”

he greeted. Mr. Inomata stopped and engaged in conversation. I had been studying English for four full years, but this was my first time hearing authentic English spoken. I only understood "Good afternoon," and couldn't make heads or tails of the rest. Mr. Nozaki seemed to share my bewilderment, staring blankly and tilting his head. Mr. Inomata had probably informed him about our enrollment last. “Dr. Johnson and such,”

he said while pointing at us. Thinking this must be Dr. Johnson, I bowed. “Very glad to see you. Congratulations!” Dr. Johnson extended his hairy hand and shook our hands. A handshake. This was also a first. “This is our President. Dr. Johnson.” “Dr. Johnson.” Mr. Inomata made the introduction. Dr. Johnson said, “This Meiji Gakuen is different from other schools. “It is a school that teaches the path of God.” “Yes”

And I tried using English for the first time in my life.

“This is not a school that teaches money-making.”

“Yes.” “The entrance ceremony will be held the day after tomorrow.” “Let’s talk again in the chapel.” “Good-bye.” “Good-bye.” This time, Mr. Nozaki used it.

Before long, they arrived at the dormitory. Mr. Inomata did not go inside,

“Mr. Oto!” he called. “Yes, sir!” answered the caretaker as he emerged. “I’ll leave these two in your care.” After giving these instructions, Mr. Inomata said, “This dormitory operates on a self-governance system. There is no dorm supervisor. Upperclassmen serve as monitors. Since none of the monitors have returned yet, for now please have Mr. Oto assign your rooms.”

With these words, he left. In this way, we ended up in the same room. Since we had no other acquaintances, we quickly became close. The fact that we were from the same prefecture was a delight. As we talked it over, we realized we had taken the same train there. Even our boxed lunches were the same ones we had bought at Kōzu Station. “Then we’re exactly the same right down to our guts!” Mr. Nozaki said with a laugh. “This must be fate.” As I had also affirmed, we remain close friends to this day. We constantly visit each other. Since neither of us has been successful, perhaps that’s precisely why we get along so well.

When we ate the dormitory meals for the first time and went out for a walk in the vicinity, “Hey, I hear Meiji Gakuen is a Christian school, right?” Mr. Nozaki spoke up as though he had only just made the discovery. “Of course it is.” “That Maruo guy’s a real piece of work.” “Isn’t he your teacher?” “For a teacher, he’s a damn liar." “Never breathed a word about it being a Christian school.”

“Hmm...” “I thought it was an English school.” “Did he explicitly say it wasn’t a mission school?” “What’s a mission school anyway?” “It means a Christian school.” “He never mentioned any of that—just kept saying Meiji Gakuen was the best place to build English skills.” “Then it’s not exactly a lie.” “No—it amounts to deception.” "I never dreamed it was a mission school." “This complicates things.”

“Why?” “If I have to become a Christian, that’s a problem.” “You don’t have to become one.” “Are you a Christian?”

“Yes.” “Are all the students Christians?”

"That’s probably not the case." "Well, if that’s how it is…" "Faith is voluntary." And I had a day’s head start over Mr. Nozaki regarding this matter. "Hey, what exactly is a monitor?" "I don’t know."

“That Westerner said he’d speak at the chapel, but what exactly is a chapel?” “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out myself.” “I just met another Westerner at the gate.” “There are apparently many Western teachers here. All those small Western-style buildings are their residences.” “Then my English would improve. Maybe I should stay after all?” “But didn’t you already enroll?” “Even if I did enroll, I can still withdraw anytime.” “Then what did you mean earlier when you proposed we form a sworn brotherhood and act together as fellow prefecturals?”

“That’s because I didn’t know it was a mission school.” “I’m utterly shocked.”

Mr. Nozaki had been a scatterbrained man from the very start. "Do you dislike Christianity that much?" "Well, *I* don't particularly mind, but my family considers Christianity an enemy because of our business."

“Is it a brothel?” I impulsively asked what had just crossed my mind. “How rude!” “What? Then—” “Then what?” “It’s a liquor store.”

“I see.” “Christianity’s part of the temperance movement, you see.” “That doesn’t necessarily have to be the case.” “No—it’s a sworn enemy.” “They’re absolutely incompatible.” “Do you like alcohol?” “I dislike it.” “Instead, I like cigarettes.” “Like this.” With that, Mr. Nozaki took them out from his pocket. At that time, they were called Tengu Tobacco. “Cigarettes aren’t allowed at the school either, you know.”

"I know." "Then why don't you quit?" "I'll do it discreetly. Actually, I already smoked one in the bathroom earlier."

“Mr. Nozaki.” “What?” “Someone like you is a disgrace to the people of Shizuoka Prefecture.”

“Why?”

“How could there be such a cowardly act?” “If I resolve to quit, I’ll naturally stop.” “You’re still wavering, aren’t you? I hate people from Shizuoka Prefecture because they’re weak-willed.” “Kawahara, did that anger you?” “No—I’m a Christian. Christians don’t get angry.” “Since we’ve gone through the trouble of becoming friends, maybe we should study together after all?”

“It doesn’t matter either way.” “Hey, you—won’t you join me in anything and give it your all?” “What are you trying to do?” “It’s time for a fight! If you and I team up, we won’t lose to those from other prefectures.” “I don’t engage in fights or anything like that.” “So it’s because you’re a Christian after all?” “Yeah.” “But you’re one strange Christian, huh?”

“What did you say?” “Take a look. You’ve already gotten angry.” “I don’t get angry.” “When I poked you earlier, didn’t you poke me back exactly the same number of times?”

“Ha ha ha ha!” “There’s no such Christian.” “You’re a fake Christian!” “Ha ha ha ha!”

Having had my weak point struck, I could only laugh to cover my discomfort.

That evening, we talked for a long time. Since we were from the same prefecture, we had all sorts of things to talk about. Mr. Nozaki smoked a cigarette with relief despite there being no dorm supervisor. As for Meiji Gakuen itself:

“I guess I’ll study here after all.” No sooner had he resolved this than he again— “That Maruo bastard’s really something terrible.” “Not only did he get me into this mission school, but he apparently wrote awful things about me in my recommendation letter.” “When I met Mr. Inomata, he treated me differently from you.” “Maybe I should just cut my losses and leave this place quick.” With that change of heart, he ultimately— “When I’m stuck like this, sleeping on it always clears my head.” “Everything’ll be settled by tomorrow morning.”

It ended inconclusively.

The next morning, the moment I awoke, I immediately thought of the five-story tower. Having heard that Mount Fuji could be seen from there, I promptly went up. Indeed, it was clearly visible - standing daintily atop what appeared to be Hakone and other mountains. This was my hometown's mountain. Naturally I felt nostalgic, yet I remained thoroughly rational. After all, it had only been yesterday since my arrival. I still didn't feel homesick. "It's smaller than I expected," I even caught myself thinking.

“Mr. Kawahara.” Then Mr. Nozaki came up there. “Oh, you’re awake?” “I’ve already made up my mind.” “What did you decide?” “I’ll do it here.” “That’s a relief.” And I rejoiced.

“I’ve made another decision.” “What is it?” “I will never become a Christian.”

“Hmm.” “Are you impressed?” “Of course. Lots of folks come here because they’re Christian, but you’re different.” “Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

“What is it?” “Because I’d hate to lose a fight with Jesus, I’m quitting smoking. Look! Like this!” With that, Mr. Nozaki twisted his tobacco pouch and tore it apart. “That’s a fine resolve.” “If you smash it to pieces like this, there’ll be no lingering attachments.” “That’s rather impressive!” “But there are cigarette butts scattered here.” “I see.” “There’s more over here too.” “Perhaps boarding students come here to smoke.” “Then this poses a real problem!”

“No, no!” “Ha ha ha...” “You can see Mount Fuji.” I pointed. That day, when we went to the office to pay the enrollment fee and tuition, another classmate arrived. This fellow was none other than the present-day nouveau riche Mr.Akabane. Mr.Inokuma introduced us,

“It appears you three will be our only new students,” said Mr. Inokuma. “Though six more are coming up from the Middle School Division.” “I am Akabane Akira from Gunma Prefecture,” he announced with a formal bow. “I humbly request your kind consideration.”

And Mr. Akabane bowed politely. "Likewise." With that, Mr. Nozaki squared his shoulders and glared. It was a bad habit. He would immediately pick a fight.

First Impressions

Mr. Akabane, a native of Gunma Prefecture, also moved into the dormitory and settled into the room next to ours. After he finished unpacking his luggage, he immediately came out, “This is a fine school, isn’t it? This is my first time in a Western-style building.” Mr. Akabane smiled warmly. “Are schools in Gunma Prefecture all thatched-roof huts?” With that, Mr. Nozaki mocked. “The schools are all Western-style buildings—we’re talking about dormitories here.” “Where I’m from, even our dormitories are Western-style buildings.” “Where would that be?” “Shizuoka Prefecture.” “How remarkably progressive.”

And Mr. Akabane did not argue. "It's rather disheartening that there are only three of us new students." I changed the subject. Mr. Nozaki was looking to pick a fight. If a fight broke out, he believed that I, being from the same prefecture, would back him up. “They say that’s one of this school’s distinctive features.” “Is having few students one of them?”

“Yes. “It’s better not to have too many.” “Why?” “There’s a degenerate student who goes around picking fights.” And Mr. Akabane said offhandedly. Mr. Nozaki squared his shoulders. As I was thinking this wouldn’t do, sure enough, “Mr. Akabane, is Gunma Prefecture a place with lots of horses?” With that, Mr. Nozaki started in.

“Well...” “It’s a prefecture swarming with nothing but horses, isn’t it?”

“The character [for Gunma] may look like that, but horses belong to Fukushima Prefecture.” “We don’t breed them at all.” “Then I suppose their faces are long? “The place must be swarming with horse-faced people?” “That’s not true. “Great men have come from there.” “Who?” “Dr. Niijima Jō. “And he’s from my very own hometown.” Mr. Akabane’s eyes shone. “A cabinet minister?” “No.” “An industrialist?”

“Aren’t you familiar with Dr. Niijima Jō?”

“Never heard of ’em.” “Ha ha ha…” And I burst out laughing. “What’s so funny? You.”

And Mr. Nozaki snapped at me. “How could anyone enter Meiji Gakuen without knowing Dr. Niijima?” “An alumnus?” “The founder of Doshisha. He was a pioneer in the Christian world.” “I’ve heard of Doshisha, but...” “He was a great educator who’s already passed away.” “I’m not a believer, you know. I’ve heard of Mr. Fukuzawa, though.”

And Mr. Nozaki looked thoroughly annoyed.

Before long I, “Mr. Akabane, are you a believer?”

I asked.

“No.” “Is your family Christian?” “No. “I dislike Christianity.” “Then why did you enter this school?” “The truth is, last year I took the entrance exam for the Higher Commercial School and was rejected.” “I might try again.” “Is this just a temporary stopgap?”

“Yeah. But I’m not certain.”

And Mr. Akabane grinned. "This I can talk about." Mr. Nozaki chimed in agreement. "Ha ha..." "I flunked the Higher Commercial School last year too." "I had a feeling that was it."

“Why?” “Your exam number was 259, wasn’t it?” “That’s right.”

“I’m number 260.” “You were at the desk right in front of me.” “Oh.”

“You cheated, didn’t you?”

“Don’t joke around!” “I was watching from behind. You used a dictionary during the English exam.” “Oh... oh...” “That’s precisely why it made such an impression. When we met earlier, I thought your face looked familiar.” Mr. Akabane pressed on relentlessly. “I don’t do underhanded things.”

“Ha ha ha...”

“But cheating on entrance exams doesn’t work.” “Actually, I did it too.” “See?!” “I saw yours.” “When was that?” “During the math exam.” “If you looked at mine, you’d fail.” “That might be why.” “That’s your punishment. Ha ha ha...” The simple-minded Mr. Nozaki completely changed his attitude and began talking as if they were old acquaintances. “Are you going to take it again too?”

“Well…”

“I’ve decided to take it anyway, I suppose.”

“In that case, maybe I’ll give it a try too?” And thus, so soon after entering the school, they began discussing plans to flee to another institution. “With both of you making such half-hearted attempts, there’s no real drive.” And I was disappointed. “It’s not necessarily just a temporary attempt!” “I can’t say for sure either.” “If I fail, I’ll just stay put like this.” “I’m the same.” “The Higher Commercial School is difficult. I’m not good at mathematics. I’m no good at English. And on top of that, my memorization skills are hopeless, so there’s absolutely no chance.” “I’m the same. Since I’ve made up my mind, it might be better to stay here after all.”

“This place is a vocational school too. If we graduate, things will work out somehow.” “You’ll only gain English proficiency.” “That’s precisely why. Maybe I should stay after all? Redoing mathematics from scratch would be agony.” “The mere thought of studying until I waste away disgusts me.” “If you could just master English, the Higher Commercial School would make no difference. Since we’ve already gone through the trouble of enrolling here, perhaps we should abandon that idea altogether.” The two wavered unsteadily, leaning whichever way the wind blew. Their direction changed with each passing whim.

Just then, someone briefly peeked into the room from the corridor.

“Who’s there?”

“Who’s there?” Mr. Nozaki challenged. He truly was the sort who loved to throw his weight around. “It’s me.” “Just saying ‘me’ means nothing.” “It’s Abe.” “Do you require something?”

I interrupted Mr. Nozaki and stood up to leave. I couldn't let them start a fight. "Did you all enter the Higher School Department?"

“Ah.” “I’m in the Higher School Department too. I just returned now.” “Is that so? My apologies. As we’re new students, we humbly ask for your guidance.” “I’m a new student too.” “But you came from the middle school division, didn’t you?” “Yes.” “Then you’re our senior. We ask for your guidance.” “The honor is mine.”

“Please come in.” And Mr. Akabane welcomed him.

This was Reverend Abe, who now commanded due respect among Christian clergy in the Tokyo metropolitan area as pastor of ○○ Church. "I'm Abe," he said. "Since I'm something of a troublemaker, I ask for your understanding." "I am Kawahara." "I'm Nozaki Kizaburō - the rowdy one."

And Mr. Nozaki puffed up his shoulders and glared.

“I hail from Gunma Prefecture. My name is Akabane Akira.” “I’ve only just arrived and don’t yet know how things work here.” “I kindly ask for your understanding.” And Mr. Akabane bowed politely. “I should say the same.”

“If I may get straight to it, Reverend Abe.” “What is it?” “Where is the restroom?” “It’s on the bottom floor.” “Which part of the bottom floor?” “I’ll accompany you.”

And Reverend Abe guided him there. "What a piece of work."

And I was astonished.

“He’s an idiot. That pumpkin bastard from Gunma—” And Mr. Nozaki uttered insults. Reverend Abe had already excelled in eloquence since those days. Compared to the rest of us, he was more sociable too. After guiding the Gunma native to the restroom, he brought his own chair from the room and launched into an eloquent discourse on Meiji Gakuen’s past and present. “It’s hardly a thriving school at all. The grand buildings are mere facades. There are more teachers than students, you see. The Higher School Department has never had more than ten students.”

“Is it really that few?” And I was astonished anew.

“Are you three the only new students?” “So I’ve heard.” “In that case, the first-year class has these four and five more students. The second-year class has two students. The third-year class had one student who died, so altogether there are eleven.” “Ah, I see.” “The Higher School Department fares the worst. Next comes the Theology Department. I’d say there are about twelve or thirteen.” “What’s the Theology Department?”

And Mr. Nozaki asked. “It’s a place that trains Christian pastors.” “So this is a real Christian mission school, then?” “That’s correct. Lately, it’s been growing a bit more active. It’s said that the numbers of students and teachers have become equal, and Dr. Johnson is delighted.”

“The Pastor Urabe I know is a graduate of this school. Back then, I hear each class only had one student.” And I recalled. “That’s right. In the past, it wasn’t thriving. If you look at the alumni register, there are only two or three graduates each year. But last year, eight students enrolled all at once. Dr. Johnson was so surprised he slipped right off his chair, I hear.” “He’s panicking like a fool,” said Mr. Nozaki. “However, Dr. Johnson is an extraordinary person.”

“He’s an impressive man. I had the honor of meeting him yesterday.” And I wanted to know more about Dr. Johnson. I had been told about him by Pastor Urabe, so I was interested. “Well, he must be a saintly gentleman indeed.” “Even judging by his appearance alone, he’s no ordinary man.” “There’s something extraordinary about him. Other teachers aren’t like that, but I naturally bow my head only to Dr. Johnson.” “Who is more extraordinary—Mr. Niijima Jo or Dr. Johnson?”

Mr. Akabane seemed unconvinced. “Though Mr. Niijima Jo belongs to a different denomination from ours here, they say he called Dr. Johnson extraordinary.” “Dr. Johnson also mentioned Mr. Niijima Jo in his sermons and praised him highly.” “That’s only natural.” “Are you a believer?” “No, I’m not a believer—but I share a hometown with Mr. Niijima Jo.” “I see. “Gunma Prefecture, wasn’t it?” “Yes—and the very same town.” “Then An’nakō?”

“Yes.” “Since I’m currently researching Mr. Niijima Jo’s biography, please tell me what kind of town it is.” “Yes.” “The horse keeps neighing over there.” Mr. Nozaki taunted. “What’s that?” “What?” “Calling someone a horse is downright rude!” “If it were just ‘horse,’ that’d be one thing. “I haven’t tacked on the ‘deer’ character yet.” “Are you calling me an idiot?” “Took you this long to notice?” “Hey, quit picking fights.”

And I intervened. "You don't know a gentleman's manners."

"You're the one who doesn't know a thing! It's cowardly to brag about Mr. Niijima Jo when you're not even a believer!" "What? You didn't even know Mr. Niijima Jo yourself, did you?" "Not knowing makes me more honest than you."

“……” “What do you say?” “I see.” “Cut it out.” “I’ll stop.” And Mr. Akabane was an inscrutable man. I thought he would put up a big fight, but he immediately compromised.

Reverend Abe gave up on Mr. Niijima Jo and returned to the previous topic. "Only the Middle School Department currently meets societal standards." "There must be nearly two hundred students." "It began thriving with our class." "We were twenty in total." "So six are coming from that group?" I chimed in again. "That's right—they're all interesting fellows." "What about the remaining ones?" "A good number entered Waseda and Keio." "Some are going to America."

“Ahh.” “Since three or four are taking national university exams, some defeated warriors might come back in September.”

“What are ‘defeated warriors’?” “They’re the casualties who were rejected from Ichi-kō and Kōshō.”

“I see.” “That hits close to home.” Mr. Akabane shot back at Mr. Nozaki.

“Actually, we’re last year’s defeated warriors too.”

Mr.Nozaki scratched his head. Both of them had an unexpectedly innocent side. “Mr.Kawahara, you’re a believer, aren’t you?”

“Where is your church?” Reverend Abe asked. From the context, this mention of 'defeated warriors' could also imply they hadn't been believers to begin with. “Well...” “In my hometown.” “And where is your hometown?” “It’s ○○ Town in Shizuoka Prefecture.” “When did you receive baptism?” “In my third year of middle school.” “Then we’re the same,” he said. “Are you entering theological school?” “No. What about you?” “I haven’t decided yet, but I do want to enter.”

“My aspiration is to become a middle school teacher.” “That’s a good path too. Those who leave here mostly become English teachers.” “But they don’t have the qualifications, I hear?” “Well...” “They can’t get teaching licenses.” “However, many have become teachers.” “They obtained those by taking the certification exam.”

Since my father was an elementary school principal, I was well-versed in these matters.

“What could have happened to them? The two of them—” Then Reverend Abe wondered. Mr. Nozaki and Mr. Akabane were nowhere to be seen.

“Well...” “Perhaps they got angry because I was only talking to you and forgot about them?” “That’s probably not the case.” “Have you been friends from the start?” “Well, I met Mr. Nozaki yesterday and Mr. Akabane as of today.” “They both seem like quite the stalwarts, don’t they?” “They'll surely get into a fight before long.” “I was worried earlier.” “Mr. Nozaki entered the mission school without knowing what it was.” “I see.” “He’s an eccentric man. "He agonized over it all day yesterday."

“Mr. Niijima Jo has changed quite a bit as well.” “Given his face, that’s only natural.” “Just when you notice something elderly about him, there’s also something childlike.” “A face that’s both masculine and feminine—utterly impossible to pin down.” “He must be combining old and young, men and women all by himself.” “Ha ha ha!” “Shall we give him the nickname ‘Old and Young, Men and Women’?” “You mustn’t do that. We are believers.” “Believers should have freedom of speech too, shouldn’t we?”

“No, it’s not about discussion. It is judgment among brethren.” “'Do not judge others’?” “You too will be judged.”

“Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!”

Mr. Nozaki and Mr. Akabane did not return after all. After Reverend Abe continued talking further, he introduced Mr. Yoshida, who had just returned at that moment. After that, I sat alone at my desk and wrote letters to my parents back home and Pastor Urabe.

“Hey”

Then Mr. Nozaki returned together with Mr. Akabane. “Where did you go?” “Mr. Akabane and I went to a soba shop and formed a sworn friendship.” “We really opened up to each other.” Mr. Akabane broke into a grin that transcended age and gender. I later learned that both of them had tried drinking sake to act tough. However, finding it utterly lacking in sweetness, they vowed to abstain from alcohol. They apparently also made a solemn pledge to study diligently.

The next morning, there was an entrance ceremony. Out of nine new students, four had failed to appear, and with two second-year students also absent altogether, just five of us sat huddled together in the middle of the spacious chapel. Just then, over a dozen teachers—a mix of Japanese and Western—entered with solemn dignity and lined up on the platform. “How about this? Would you please come further forward?” “Would you please come further forward?” With that, Mr. Inomata, the secretary, beckoned. We moved to the frontmost benches. Next,

“Please sit one person per bench.” That was the instruction. The teachers lining the platform laughed. Their careful planning to make their headcount appear greater lay exposed. The ceremony began with a hymn. Being a believer, I knew the proper decorum. Yet Mr.Nozaki and Mr.Akabane seemed wholly uninitiated. Reverend Abe and Mr.Yoshida boomed their praises. Incidentally, a Western woman played the organ. Positioned directly before me, I studied her with raw curiosity. In my provincial hometown, I'd glimpsed Western women perhaps twice before. One had worn a face netting - mark of a kept woman, so I'd heard. Bear in mind this was a country bumpkin's perspective from pre-Russo-Japanese days. Keep this firmly in mind as you read.

When the hymn ended, Mr. Inomata read from the Bible and began the prayer. “Heavenly Father… We deeply thank You for granting us—along with this new academic year—an unprecedented number of promising young men.” “Last year’s incoming class had three students.” “Of these, one has been summoned by You and has come into Your presence.” “The previous year’s incoming class had one student.” “This one too has been summoned by You and has come into Your presence.” “The year before that saw four students, of whom one was summoned by You and has come into Your presence, but the remaining three graduated safely and are now out in society searching for work.”

I later learned from Reverend Abe that Mr. Inomata’s prayer also doubled as a report to the congregation. Current students seemed to die every year. To be "called by You" meant precisely that. Moreover, all three of last year’s graduates still had not found employment. In that brief moment, I came to understand just this much disheartening information. “Father. “There are nine this year. “Oh, my cup overflows. “Since the founding of our academy, welcoming such a large number of young men into the Higher School Department is unprecedented. “However, four of them are not present at this gathering. “Approximately half are being negligent. “All of them are graduates from this academy’s middle school division. “Regarding this matter, I find myself unable to contain my regret. “Father, they are weak. “I humbly pray that You guide them to return to their alma mater as soon as possible and fulfill their duties as students. “Furthermore, today our current students have not come. “They were supposed to join us in joyfully welcoming our new brothers. “Father, they too are weak.”

and complaints about the students were also mixed in. I found myself in complete agreement with this. “Father, we who bear the responsibility of education are truly weak.” “Without Your guidance, we can accomplish nothing.” “Grant us special discernment and patience.” “We must not be satisfied with merely distributing knowledge.” “The educational policy of our academy lies in each teacher personally practicing what they teach, thereby cultivating Christian gentlemen.” “Therefore, we must endeavor to draw closer to our students.” “It would be commendable to invite them to our homes for earnest discussions whenever opportunities arise.” “Accompanying them in strolling through the school grounds and nearby areas would also be commendable.”

Along these lines, there were also instructions for the teachers.

Mr. Inomata finished his long prayer and,

“We will now ask Dr. Johnson, President of Meiji Gakuen and Doctor of Theology, to address us.” he announced. “Everyone!”

Dr. Johnson appeared at the pulpit with a gentle smile. “Today marks a great joy bestowed by God.” “This may not be our first meeting.” “I recognize some faces here.” “However, this is the first occasion for Higher School Department students.” “The reason for this joy—I came to Japan and have been waiting since before your births.” “This is God’s guidance.” “Everyone—you must each have reasons for coming to Meiji Gakuen?” “For what purpose have you come?” “What is Meiji Gakuen?” “This is a crucial matter.” “What say you all?”

It was remarkably fluent yet unusual Japanese. “This Meiji Gakuen—I will explain. “It is not a school of academic learning. “It is not a school for making money. “A school that teaches the way of God! “A school for assembling Christian gentlemen! “For those who do not understand this now—they will face disappointment later, and I feel sorry for them. “Those who study for academic pursuits—return home at once. “Those who study to make money—return home at once. “Meiji Gakuen—it is not a school for those people to come to. “A school for assembling Christian gentlemen! “What do you all think about this?”

When Dr. Johnson spread his arms wide with the intention of stirring emotion, Mr. Nozaki rose from the seat beside me. "What seems to be the matter?"

Dr. Johnson tilted his head. “I’m leaving.”

Mr. Nozaki started walking toward the entrance. “Wait.”

Dr. Johnson beckoned from the podium, but it was not enough,

“Someone please stop him!” he pleaded. Mr. Akabane chased after him and whispered something. Mr. Nozaki returned to his former seat. “The pursuit of wealth through scholarship, the labor of one’s hands—these are not inherently wrong. However, all of those are only truly proper when they come after following God’s path. The most important thing—the purpose of Meiji Gakuen. What is that, you ask? It is a matter of the soul. Man shall not live by bread alone. It is the relationship with God. The proper relationship between God and man—that is the most important thing. It is the purpose of Meiji Gakuen.”

After Dr. Johnson had earnestly preached for a short while, "Just now, there was a student who became angry. That—it was not due to my poor Japanese. I learned it earlier than all of you. I understand it perfectly. All Westerners who speak Japanese as fluently as the Japanese are disliked by them. They are detestable. Mr.Howarth here still cannot speak a word of Japanese. The other day, Mr.Howarth's bicycle collided with a rickshaw. The rickshaw driver was furious, but Mr.Howarth didn't understand Japanese. A policeman came and apologized to Mr.Howarth. Also, the other day, my bicycle collided with a rickshaw. I can speak Japanese. The rickshaw driver declared, 'You insolent bastard!' A policeman came and scolded me at length. I felt the disadvantage of knowing Japanese. I earnestly request that you all avoid any misunderstanding."

he concluded. I didn't understand what misunderstanding he meant. He must have thought Mr.Nozaki got angry precisely because his Japanese was too proficient.

That day, the exchange between Mr.Nozaki and Mr.Akabane was amusing. "What'll you do?" Mr.Akabane asked.

"I'm dropping out after all." "That breaks our pact." "Why?" "When sworn brothers make a vow, if you quit school I must quit too." "Do whatever you want!" "What's eating at you anyway?" "I came here to study money-making." "My future's in business." "Same here." "Then quit with me!" "No—staying amounts to the same thing." "Shouldn't spiritual matters come first here?"

“That’s about character,” said Mr. Akabane. “Any principal would say something like that.” “Telling me to go home is outrageous,” Mr.Nozaki retorted. “Principals all talk like that,” Mr.Akabane countered, his tone pragmatic. “Just empty threats. Same as parents disowning kids. Nobody with half a brain takes it seriously.” Mr.Nozaki crossed his arms in silence. “Look,” Mr.Akabane pressed, leaning forward. “When you stood up to leave earlier, didn’t they stop you right away?” “Let me think it through,” Mr.Nozaki finally replied.

Mr. Nozaki crossed his arms. "Do you dislike having few students?"

“…………” "Fewer is better, I tell you." “Why?” “If there are fifty students, they can only retain one-fiftieth of what the teacher teaches.” “If there are nine students, they can retain one-ninth of it.” “That’s not how the math works!” “Of course it’s a metaphor.” “If the class is small, we can’t slack off because the teacher can keep an eye on us.” “They naturally end up studying.” “You’re making this tough.” “The very idea of trying to study comfortably is where you’re going wrong.” “Don’t get smart with me.” “If you just build up your English skills, Tokyo Commercial College would be no different.” “Make up your mind already!”

“Well...” “I’ve taken a liking to this school.” “There’s potential here.” “But students die here one by one every year!” “We’ll be fine. It’s the believers who die.” “It’s the believers who die.” “At any rate, wait for me tonight.” “Don’t go saying things like you’ve met a debt collector.”

“I’ll make up my mind after sleeping on it.”

“Let’s go for a walk.” “I’ll tell you more.”

Mr. Akabane was earnest.

Esteemed Classmates

“God. I have reached the land of Canaan.” This was my expression of gratitude. Every aspect of life at Meiji Gakuen satisfied me completely. Having yearned for this school through years of anticipation, there could be no room for dissatisfaction. Even had I entered the Imperial University - that academic zenith - I believe I would not have experienced greater fulfillment than this. In my emotional fervor, I temporarily transcended my ordinary self. My dormant faith found fresh stimulation.

“Here it is. I shall be reborn with this new enrollment.” And so I made a vow. I wrote to that effect and sent it to my parents back home and Pastor Urabe. I created a detailed timetable for prayer, study, self-reflection, socializing, exercise, and other activities, which I carried out faithfully. One morning, when I climbed the five-story tower and opened my eyes after a brief prayer, Reverend Abe had come right beside me and was praying too. Impressed by his devout attitude, I began praying again. I opened my eyes once more, but Reverend Abe still kept his head bowed. I prayed yet again and opened my eyes a third time, only to find him still fervent in devotion. I thought I was no match for him. But finding defeat too bitter to bear, I started praying anew from the beginning. When I finally proclaimed “Amen” aloud, Reverend Abe harmonized with his own “Amen,” bringing our session to a close at last.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

The two exchanged greetings simultaneously. “You’re remarkable.” And Reverend Abe let out a sigh. “Why?” “You pray extraordinarily well.” “You’re the one who prays extraordinarily well.” “Oh no, I could never match you.” “That’s not true at all. I finished quickly and looked over at you. When I saw you were still going, I started again.” And I confessed the truth as it was.

“I did the same thing. Not wanting to lose, I forced myself to start over even after finishing.” “Even so, I’m opening my eyes for the third time.” “I counted one, two, three—and sure enough, exactly three times myself.” Reverend Abe likewise made no attempt to hide this. We had imagined it was like holding one’s breath underwater, marveling at how long we could persist. It was childish. Faith evolves. Reverend Abe has now become an exemplary pastor, while my own growth halted at this stage.

Setting aside Mr. Nozaki and Mr. Akabane as special cases, perhaps because we had met first, I became close with Reverend Abe earlier than with my other classmates. Evidently sharing this goodwill, he would sit beside me in the cafeteria. “What is this?”

I asked. “It’s a leek cutlet.” Reverend Abe replied. In the chapel too, without either of us making a conscious effort, we would sit side by side. “What is the name of that bald-headed Westerner?” “It’s Mr. Nicol.” “How old do you think he looks?” “About sixty, I suppose.”

“Poor thing.” “He’s about forty.” “He’s young, then.” “If hair doesn’t grow on that head of his, his wife won’t come back from America.” “Ah,” “Mr. Nicol has been desperately drinking raw goose blood every morning, they say.” “Does that really work?” “It probably doesn’t work.” “Mr. Nicol can’t stop thinking about his wife and his bald head.” “There, see how he’s stroking his head while taking out his pocket watch to check it, don’t you think?” “Yeah.”

“There’s a photo of his wife set inside the lid of that pocket watch.” “I see.” And each time, I gained something from it.

It was a few days after classes had begun. After school, Reverend Abe “Mr. Kawahara, would you care to take a walk around here?” “There’s a nice spot I know.” invited me. “I’ll accompany you.” And it happened to be just the time for a walk. In those days, Tokyo’s outskirts gave way directly to rice paddies, with farmhouses clustered around Meiji Gakuen.

“It’s just like the countryside, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” “There’s a waterwheel here, isn’t there?” “This is my walking path.” “I come here alone in the evening and walk while meditating.” “You’re quite the poet, aren’t you?” “When you come out into such beautiful nature, anyone becomes a poet.” “I hadn’t imagined there was such a quiet place in Tokyo.” “In the evening, the sun sets over that forest.” “It’s an indescribable view.” “It really is lovely.” “Let’s walk while singing hymns.”

Reverend Abe promptly raised his booming voice. I too joined in and began walking along the rice paddy path. Before long, from behind, “Oi!” “You damn fool!” there came calls.

"It's Mr. Nozaki and Mr. Akabane." I turned around. "Wait up!" Mr. Nozaki raised his hand and came running over with Mr. Akabane. “Are you out for a stroll?” Reverend Abe asked. “Nah, it’s this.” Mr. Nozaki showed the cigarettes he had. “We can’t smoke in the dormitory, so we come out to this area.” Mr. Akabane also took a few puffs. “That’s no good, Mr. Nozaki. Didn’t you say you’d quit?”

I deliberately scolded him in an exaggerated manner.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t last three days.” “You’re hopeless. Typical of Shizuoka Prefecture—” “It’s Gunma Prefecture tempting us, you see!” “Ha ha ha!” Mr. Akabane slapped his knee and burst out laughing. I finally understood why the two of them sometimes went out for walks.

It dawned on me. “Oh come now, give me a break.” Mr. Nozaki seemed to feel responsible. “I don’t mind.” “It’s your choice after all.” “Don’t you trust me anymore?” “That’s not true.” “I’ll study properly.” “I’ve finally resolved to settle down.”

“That’s enough. I was just joking.” I felt sorry.

The four of them started walking together.

“Mr. Abe.”

Mr. Akabane spoke to him. "What is it?" "Why exactly is smoking forbidden?" "Well... I'm not sure." Reverend Abe avoided giving a direct answer. He must have thought they were trying to pick a fight. "Does the Bible have a rule that says 'Thou shalt not smoke tobacco'?" "There's no such thing. Christ lived before the time of tobacco." "Look here, Mr. Nozaki. I won." Mr. Akabane declared triumphantly. "I already know that," said Mr. Nozaki.

“You didn’t know that, did you?” “That comes from the Bible’s commandments, I said.”

“There’s no way someone from before tobacco existed would make rules about tobacco.” “That’s true.” “Look here.” “But even if it’s not a direct commandment about tobacco, wouldn’t it amount to the same thing if we reinterpret its meaning for our times?”

“It’s too late to try covering it up now.” “Cover it up? Don’t be ridiculous! I only said tobacco must be bad because it generally goes against the Bible’s teachings.” Mr. Nozaki insisted. “You’re sly. You don’t know a thing!” “What don’t I know?” “You didn’t know about Mr. Niijima Jō, did you? You don’t know anything about Christianity!”

“You’re the one who doesn’t know.” “You didn’t even know about mission schools, did you?” Mr. Akabane pressed. “Please stop. You’ll start fighting,” Reverend Abe worriedly cut in. After both fell silent for a moment, “Mr. Akabane, then do you know about Christ?” Mr. Nozaki stepped forward again.

Mr. Nozaki stepped forward again.

“Of course I do!” “What year B.C. was Christ born?” “Well…” “Go on, say it! Hurry up and say it!” “Wait.” “An approximation is fine. It’s a Western history exam. If you know, then say it quickly!” “Hold on a second.” Mr. Akabane, while deep in thought, reached a dead end.

“Look here, you fool!” Mr. Nozaki delivered the final blow. “……” “Who doesn’t know the Christian era?” “I know! Christ was born in 1 A.D.” “It’s no good parroting answers after being told!” “You tricked me into this.” “I didn’t know!” “Because you resorted to sophistry! This is unbelievable! Your brain’s addled!” There was something almost foolish about Mr. Akabane’s demeanor. Reverend Abe resumed singing hymns. I shouted too, determined not to be outdone. But I couldn’t match him. Reverend Abe produced a terrifying bass roar.

“Your voice is quite deep, isn’t it?” At the break in the song, I asked. “It’s bass.” “Huh?” “Bass.” “What do you mean?” “Aren’t you aware of it? I’ve been formally trained,” he declared.

he declared. Growing up in a country church leaves one so ill-equipped. I felt somewhat ill at ease, and when I suddenly looked back, Mr. Nozaki and Mr. Akabane were already gone. "What happened?" "They kept their distance—it was too stifling."

“They turned at that farmhouse over there.”

As I stopped and looked back,

“You fools!” I heard a voice calling out.

“What awful fellows!” “Kawahara and Abe, you fools!”

“What? You bastards!” I advanced two or three steps toward the voice. “You mustn’t do that,” Reverend Abe restrained me. “You must not resist evil.” “That’s too rude.” “Those two had something weighing on their conscience and ran off because they couldn’t walk with us. It’s better not to concern ourselves with them anymore.” “Ah, they went there,” Reverend Abe said. “They’ve come out onto the broad path.”

And I recognized the figures of the two among the trees. "The road that leads to destruction is wide, and its gate is large. And many enter through it."

And Reverend Abe quoted scripture. Without delay, "The road that leads to life is narrow, and its gate is small; those who find it are few," I retorted. "Ha ha ha!"

“Ha ha ha!” “Those two are philistines.” “They take thought for their life—what they shall eat and what they shall drink.” “They do not know that life is more than food.” “Behold the birds of the air. They toil not, neither do they reap; nor do they gather into barns.” “Take therefore no thought for the morrow.” “Take thought for tomorrow’s troubles tomorrow!”

“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” And the two of them conversed through the words of Christ. There was a mutual pretense of “We know this too.” “By the way, Mr. Kawahara, have you come to like Meiji Gakuen?”

And Reverend Abe shifted the conversation. “Yes.” “It’s a good school, isn’t it?” “It’s quite satisfactory, but there’s one thing that took me by surprise.” “What is it?” “Since it’s a mission school, I thought all the students would be believers, but that’s not the case at all.” And I pretentiously flaunted my inherently shaky faith with an air of certainty. When I think about it now, it was such a foolish thing. “That can’t be helped since they admit anyone.”

“If it’s a mission school, they should encourage faith more, don’t you think? They should take a more evangelistic approach.”

“The Chapel services serve that very purpose.” “With such methods, we’ll never attract true seekers of faith, will we?” “Well...”

“Are there those who volunteer for baptism?” “There are.” “As for me, I was one of them.” “And on Sundays, there are sermons morning and evening.” “Who will be doing it?” “It’s Dr. Johnson.” “In the evening, it’s other people though.” “I do want to hear it soon.” “There’s one the day after tomorrow.” “Let’s go together.” “It’s held together with the girls’ school.” “Will there be female students attending?” “Yes.” “We sit on the right side.” “The girls’ school group is on the left side.” “That’s what makes it amusing, you see.”

“What do you mean?” “They all look toward the female students.” “During the sermon?” “Yes.” “That’s utterly improper!” “Ha ha ha!”

“Wouldn’t they get scolded?” “Well, you see, since the clock’s hung on the left wall, they pretend to look at that as cover.” “How sneaky of them.” “We call these ‘leftward glances.’” “I see.” “Since everyone kept glancing left like that, Dr. Johnson once ribbed them in chapel: ‘Your necks seem to have developed a permanent tilt to the left—might anyone explain why?’” “Ha ha ha!” “Everyone does it.”

“But they’re all believers, aren’t they?”

“It’s not limited to believers.” “Because they’re students.” “Do they graduate from both the Middle School Department and the Theology Department?”

“Yes. The theology students do the most ‘leftward glances.’” “Well, that’s a surprise!” “They say everyone does that in America and such places.” “Speaking of which, you’re leaning a bit to the left yourself.” “Ha ha ha!” “I’m perfectly fine.”

Reverend Abe denied this. “In our class, the believers are just you, me, and Mr. Yoshida, aren’t they?” “There’s also Mr. Tachibana—even he counts as a believer.” “Is he devout?” “He’s a 'bat believer.'” “Huh?”

“He’s a ‘bat believer.’ You’ll find it in Aesop’s fables—when the bat joins the birds, it declares ‘I’m a bird,’ and when among beasts, claims ‘I’m a beast.’ Mr. Tachibana does precisely that. With believers, he plays the devout; among non-believers, he acts the skeptic.” “What a disagreeable fellow.”

“He’s shrewd.”

“I dislike such two-faced people.”

Because I had just undergone a spiritual awakening towards self-reform, my ideals were excessively lofty and my judgment of others unduly severe. “But his academic record is excellent. He’s a scholarship student.” “Is he ranked first?” “Yes.” “Then you must be second?” “I’m third. Mr. Yoshida holds second place.” “Mr. Yoshida appears rather sincere, doesn’t he?” “He’s truly exemplary. His faith is genuine. His father being a pastor explains it.”

“That explains it!”

“The rest are all non-believers, and among them there are even atheists.” “Who?” “Mr. Takagi. He’s quite a character!” “Isn’t there another one called something?” “Do you mean Mr. Saeki? Or Mr. Tani?” “Well. Who could that be? He called me a country bumpkin. Mr. Nozaki got so angry he shoved him away!” “The tall one?” “Yes.” “Then that’s Mr. Saeki.” “He’s rather impertinent, isn’t he?” “He’s surprisingly decent at heart. Being the spoiled son of wealthy parents, everyone flatters him so he acts high and mighty. Mr. Tani is Mr. Saeki’s lackey.”

“They’re both day students, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Both of them had equally poor grades and kept ending up in provisional classes.” With that, Reverend Abe roughly completed his accounts of each classmate.

On Saturday evening, there was a class gathering. I seem to recall it was the day after that walk, though it might have been later. At the gathering, when Mr. Nozaki and Mr. Akabane grappled and overturned a table, even today, over twenty years later, it remains a topic of conversation. Class President Tachibana and Vice President Yoshida were the initiators, and an English-language invitation was circulated. “So this ‘fellowship meeting’ is a ‘social gathering,’ eh? “I’ve got one down.” “As expected of a mission school.”

Mr. Nozaki felt.

“This is wrong! It should be called a *society*.” Mr. Akabane put forward a different argument. “That’s a different kind of meeting!”

“A meeting’s a meeting, whatever you call it.” “A group meeting is a society.” “An assembly is either a ‘gathering’ or a ‘meeting’.” “Oh, I see.” “Got it? Christ is from Year One.” Mr. Nozaki’s remark went a step too far. Mr. Akabane silently bit his lip. This appears to have become the sticking point.

The meeting was held in the classroom. There were still no electric lights; we relied on oil lamps. These too had been brought by the organizers themselves. Though there was an assembly room in the dormitory, Saturday meant it had already been claimed by another group. We carried the lectern table to the center and formed a circle around it. With day students absent, only seven of us attended. Mr. Tachibana delivered his opening remarks, "I will now call upon each of you in turn to give a thorough self-introduction." "Mr. Kawahara."

and suddenly pointed at me. I stood up, though unprepared. After hurriedly stating my junior high school and date of birth before sitting down, Mr. Tachibana spoke: "Where is your hometown?" "Please elaborate further." he requested. I stood up once more, "My hometown is ○○ Town in Shizuoka Prefecture, nestled at the foothills of Mount Fuji where eternal snow crowns its peak." I supplemented.

“Shizuoka Prefecture—give us more!” Mr. Nozaki egged me on. “Mr. Akabane.” Mr. Tachibana called on him. We three stood side by side. “I hail from Gunma Prefecture.” When Mr. Akabane rose, everyone snickered. They’d heard this spiel countless times. “Though I name it Gunma Prefecture, it’s no mere pastureland. Great men have sprung from its soil.” “Here we go—Niijima Jō again!” Mr. Nozaki cut him off. “Who’s this Niijima Jō? His ilk speaks nothing of Gunma’s true spirit. From our prefecture emerge greater men thick as morning mist!”

“Who?” “Behold the long wakizashi that swept through all of Japan, beginning with Kunisada Chūji! They all hail from Jōshū. Why, the very phrase ‘Jōshū long wakizashi’ exists because of them! Shizuoka Prefecture doesn’t compare!” “…………” “What utter nonsense! What’s so special about Shizuoka’s Mount Fuji anyway?” “…………” “Mogusaemon Haritsuke was Jōshū’s righteous commoner! Since ancient times, we Jōshū men have been steadfast in honor! We keep our promises and would gladly lay down our lives! I am one such man of Jōshū! Born in Annaka Town—a stingy wretch, I admit—but I humbly beg your kind consideration.”

Mr. Akabane imitated a gambler’s swagger. There was great applause.

“Mr. Nozaki.” Mr. Tachibana called on him. “What do you mean Shizuoka can’t hold a candle to it? Don’t you know Shimizu no Jirōchō?” Mr. Nozaki glared at Mr. Akabane. They were both cut from the same cloth—here in the mission school classroom, boasting about gamblers from their respective hometowns. “If you have complaints, I’ll hear them later.”

“Mr. Nozaki.” Mr. Tachibana prompted. “I’m from Shizuoka Prefecture—same as Kawahara-kun here—but a bit further west in Enshū.” “Enshū people are stronger than Jōshū people.” “They aren’t strong!” Mr. Akabane jeered. “No—they are strong! “As proof, there are twenty or thirty graves of Jōshū vagrants in my village.” “This is because long ago, when Jōshū gamblers came looking for fights, they all got beaten to death.” “Which side is stronger—the ones who killed or the ones who got killed?”

With that, Mr. Nozaki tapped Mr. Akabane—who was sitting beside him—on the head. “You bastard!” As Mr. Akabane stood up, he slapped Mr. Nozaki across the face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Mr. Nozaki grabbed his hand, and they started grappling. “Cut it out!” We tried to stop them, but the two of them kept struggling and began toppling over onto the desk. With a clattering noise, the room plunged into darkness. “The lamp’s broken!” “Look out!” As they all cried out in unison, they began groping around. At that moment, the floor burst into flames. The spilled oil had caught fire. “Fire!” A voice cried out. They took off their haori jackets and beat out the flames. Both Mr. Nozaki and Mr. Akabane had forgotten their fight and were helping out.

“This is utterly outrageous!” With that, the old janitor rushed over with a lantern. “We’re fine now.” “This won’t do. We cannot rent out classrooms to those who start fires. I shall report this to Mr. Inomata.”

"We'll be careful from now on." Mr. Tachibana pleaded earnestly, but the janitor refused to yield. Not only was their gathering canceled outright - come two mornings later - but there appeared upon... "All classroom assemblies are henceforth prohibited." ...the school bulletin board.

Believers and Non-Believers Even when Mr. Nozaki and Mr. Akabane fought, they would quickly make up. The morning after their brawl at the gathering, they were indeed glaring at each other, but by afternoon,

“Hey—quit moping around. Want to go for a walk?” Mr. Nozaki was the one who initiated the conversation. “Alright.”

Mr. Akabane readily agreed. Since it happened to be when the two had met by chance in my room, "I was sure surprised last night!" I remarked mockingly to them. "So Shizuoka Prefecture came out stronger, eh?" "What're you talking about? Gunma Prefecture was stronger." "You're really serious about this too, huh?" "If someone pokes me, I can't just stay quiet."

“There was an audience to consider.” “I was riding the tiger’s momentum.” “Ha ha ha!”

“Ha ha ha!” And the two of them no longer harbored any lingering resentment.

The gathering was canceled due to the fight, but we classmates soon began interacting with open hearts. Since we were in the same dormitory and did everything together, things moved swiftly. The day students were only Mr. Saeki and Mr. Tani. These two— “We’re just temporary here.” “Exactly. Meiji Gakuen can’t put food on the table. Staying here until graduation would be a disaster.” With that, they attended only English classes to take entrance exams for government schools. “What could those bastards be thinking? They’re mocking our alma mater.”

Mr. Takagi exclaimed indignantly. However, it wasn’t just the alma mater. The two flaunted their Edoite pride and looked down on us new students from the countryside. During the translation explanation group study session, when I faltered, “Big Brother Nitta, get it together!” they jeered with comments like that. Thinking they were unpleasant folks, I also didn’t speak to them. Among them was Mr. Nozaki, “Saeki’s such a cocky bastard.” Mr. Nozaki said. Mr. Tani did it too, but Mr. Saeki’s larger build made him stand out all the more. “Why?”

Mr. Akabane was nonchalant. "If you don't get it, that's fine." "Please tell me." "If it's a fight, I'll back you up." "He looks down on us." "That can't be right. He shows me respect by asking me English questions." "Isn't that just cocky?" "He did it to me too." "He did it to me too." I'd been subjected to it two or three times as well. "Are they testing our knowledge?" "You'll live forever."

“Why?” “A Jōshū longsword-wielder is all bark and no bite.” Mr. Nozaki grew even more impatient. “Even if you’re a Jōshū longsword-wielder, you can’t pick a fight that isn’t being sold.” “They’re selling it.” “It depends on the question.” “They wrote *rustic* at me and asked, ‘Do you know this character?’”

“Didn’t you know either?” “I know what ‘rustic’ means. It means ‘country bumpkin.’” “Oh really? When I said I didn’t know, he had the nerve to say there’s no way you wouldn’t know it.” “Damn it!” “Did you just figure that out now?” “Anyway, I’ll look it up in the dictionary.”

Mr. Akabane was certainly slow on the uptake.

I recall that it wasn’t long after that. During conversation time, the eccentric Mr. Nicol called out Mr. Akabane’s name— “Mr. Akabeen” he called. The Romanized spelling of Akabane tended to be rendered in English pronunciation as “Akabeen.” Each time, everyone laughed.

“Sir, my name is Akabane.” Mr. Akabane requested a correction. “Very well, Mr. Akabane.” “Yes.” “You’ve provided us with an excellent discussion topic.” “...” “Why does everyone laugh when I call you Akabeen?” “Please explain the reason.” “...” “Is Akabeen the name of a tree? “A stone? “Or perhaps a bird?” Mr. Nicol immediately incorporated this into conversation practice. But Mr. Akabane had already left and couldn’t be heard.

“What is it? What is it?” he asked me in Japanese. I was half at a loss myself, “It’s an explanation about Akabeen.” I gave him the hint.

“Akabeen” Mr. Akabane promptly put a finger under his eye and stuck out his tongue. “Mr. Akabeen” “Japan, Akabeen!” “Mr. Akabeen”

“Japan, Akabeen!” “Mr. Akabeen, stop that!” Mr. Nicol knocked on the desk. Mr. Nicol was indignant. “Sir,”

And Mr. Tachibana stood up. "What is it?" "Regarding Akabeen, I would like to present what I know." "Go ahead and tell me." Mr. Nicol was still glaring at Mr. Akabane. "Mr. Akabane did not mean any disrespect to you, Sir. He was presenting a practical example of Akabeen. Originally, Akabeen refers to a facial expression used when rejecting someone, typically employed among those who share an exceptionally close bond."

Mr. Tachibana explained with relative fluency. Mr. Nicol seemed convinced, “Understood. Mr. Tachibana, thank you.”

After expressing his thanks, he turned to Mr. Akabane and, “Mr. Akabane, I have gained some insight through your example of Akabeen.” “Thank you.” “This, Japan, Akabeen!” “That will suffice.” “This, me, Akabane!” “Understood.”

“Yes.” When Mr. Akabane sat down, everyone burst out laughing, clutching their stomachs.

After class ended,

“That Japan Akabeen act was harsh, eh?” Mr. Nozaki jested. “Jappan Akabeen would’ve been better, don’t you think?” And Mr. Akabane remained unfazed. When I think how this very ruffian became a millionaire nouveau riche, it truly makes the world seem an odd place.

There are two digressions related to this Akabeen incident. One was that Mr. Nicol promptly put it into practical application. One day, during Mr. Inokuma’s English literature class, “Gentlemen, you must not teach falsehoods to Westerners and have them carry those lies.”

Mr. Inokuma glared. ………… “These people have come here intending to devote their entire lives to Japan, so if they are met with dishonesty, they will be pitifully disappointed. Who taught Mr. Nicol that Akabeen business?” “It was me.” And Mr. Akabane stood up. “What do you think you’re doing with such mischief?” “That was during conversation class…” “No—we’ll discuss that later. Go to the faculty room and at least apologize to Mr. Nicol.”

“Yes.” “Mr. Nicol went to a church last Sunday and was laughed at during his sermon when he incorporated that into his gestures.” “He says he can’t trust what students say anymore and is utterly dejected.” ………… “I must ask you to be more careful.” Because Mr. Inokuma was unaware of the circumstances, they thought they had successfully deceived him.

The other was the splash damage that Mr. Saeki incurred.

One day, when Mr. Tani encountered Mr. Akabane head-on in the classroom, “Japan Akabeen!” When he said this and mimicked it exactly, Mr. Akabane suddenly lashed out. Mr. Tani dodged and fled. When Mr. Akabane gave chase, Mr. Saeki intercepted him. “Don’t get in my way!” “Well, fine then.” “This is what happens when you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.” And Mr. Akabane kicked away Mr. Saeki’s mandolin that had been left there. Because Mr. Saeki stopped by practice on his way home from school, he always brought it with him. Students back then were recklessly rough. After all, it was the year before the Russo-Japanese War began. Those who played Western music were considered beneath contempt. There had even been discussions among them about meting out physical punishment to Mr. Saeki simply for playing the mandolin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” And Mr. Saeki was naturally indignant. “You go and learn the violin of all things!” “It’s not a violin—it’s a mandolin.” “It’s all the same either way.” “You blockhead! What’s wrong with learning the mandolin?” “Shut up! Traitor!” Mr. Akabane immediately trampled the mandolin underfoot—sheer brutality without rhyme or reason. Mr. Saeki stood frozen, too stunned to retaliate. “Edo natives are all talk after all.” Mr. Nozaki muttered in deflated disappointment.

“If it had started, I was planning to help out.” Mr. Takagi had also been lying in wait. As a matter of faith, I do not condone violence, but I found myself hoping Mr. Saeki would get beaten. As classmates, Mr. Saeki and Mr. Tani would fade from my memory after this. The two of them used the approaching government school entrance exams as an excuse and stopped coming to school. However, it seemed they had failed both that year and the next, for when we became second-year students in autumn, they re-enrolled as first-years like defeated soldiers.

“Hey. Back again, huh?”

And Mr. Akabane bragged.

“Don’t cause any trouble.” “Meiji Gakuen is still the best after all.” With that, the newcomers left from below.

We seven classmates managed to get along quite well. For Mr. Nozaki and Mr. Akabane too, the scuffle at the social gathering proved their last. Perhaps having realized they were evenly matched, they never resorted to physical force again. Even when tensions occasionally arose, they would quickly open their hearts to each other once more. Mr. Takagi joined these two, and the three became inseparable. This was due to their shared habit of smoking tobacco. I got along well with these three, while also remaining close to Reverend Abe and Mr. Yoshida among the believers. Class Monitor Mr. Tachibana aligned himself with neither group. He always acted alone, single-mindedly striving to win the authorities' trust.

The coursework turned out to be surprisingly manageable. Since most teachers were American and taught everything in English, we were bewildered at first but soon grew accustomed. With only seven students, we had group study sessions every class. Mr. Akabane too, “Just as I told you! Like it or not—this is how you build real strength.” Having thus boasted of his foresight, he now had to apply himself accordingly. “This settles it then. They say there’s no failing here—we’re safe.” Mr. Nozaki planted himself firmly in his seat. “In the Higher School Department, we absolutely never fail students.”

Mr. Tachibana guaranteed. "Why is that?"

“The Higher School Department treats its students as gentlemen.” “I see. Pissing from the third floor—such fine gentlemen we are.” Mr. Nozaki ducked his head. During the first term exams, the reality of this gentlemanly treatment became clear. Mr. Akabane was often held up as an example, but even our star pupil couldn't write his logic exam answers. Time was relentlessly bearing down. "Hey. Help me out." he whispered desperately toward me in the adjacent seat. “No way. Mr. Partridge is watching.”

Whispering this, I refused to comply. The questions were difficult. There were some I couldn't do either, and I clung to my desk until the bell rang. Mr. Partridge approached Mr. Akabane’s desk, “Can’t you write anything at all?” he asked. “Yes.” And Mr. Akabane had also come to understand such things. “Even a little is fine. A truly small amount.” “...”

“This answer sheet is too large for you. This much will suffice. Go ahead and write.” Mr.Partridge tore off a corner of the paper about the size of a medicinal plaster and handed it over，grinning. Mr.Akabane also had no choice. He wrote his name，bowed，and returned. Nevertheless，when the second term grade report came out，his Logic score was 60， “As expected—the gentlemanly treatment．With things like this，I’m obliged to study out of sheer decency．” he said happily． The gentlemen were downright lazy． Having gotten a taste of it in the first term，they began to show their true colors from the second term． Clear autumn afternoons were always full of temptations．

“How about it? Why don’t we skip Mr. Mason’s class and go for a walk?” During lunch, someone would propose. I was one of them. The resolve I’d mustered upon entering school had long since vanished. “Alright.” The smokers, who were impatiently waiting for dismissal, naturally warmed to the idea. “But if we fall behind in lessons, we’ll struggle later!” “Let’s get Reverend Abe and Mr. Yoshida on our side.” They promptly began plotting. Reverend Abe was after all a gentleman too. “I agree,” he said. “On such a fine day, nothing surpasses meditating in nature.”

he responded. Mr. Yoshida, too, “I’m feeling a bit tired, so I was just thinking of taking a rest.” Since he was naturally frail, he never objected. Class Representative Mr. Tachibana, being a scholarship student, tended to try being the sole good boy and seize such opportunities. “If everyone skips, it’ll be considered a strike, so I’ll be the only one to go out and inform the teacher.” “The teacher won’t hold class for just one person.” he would make appropriate arrangements both for himself and for the whole group. However, if they did this too often, they would be scolded by Mr. Inomata.

The gentlemen, getting carried away during such walks, would play pranks. One day, Mr. Nozaki climbed a chestnut tree along the field. Mr. Akabane performed the role of gathering them below. Mr. Takagi and I were keeping watch. “Hey!”

And the farmer suddenly appeared from behind something. The three of us immediately ran away, but Mr. Nozaki up in the tree couldn't do a thing. He clumsily descended and was caught by the farmer. "Come on. Come to the police box." he kept shouting and wouldn't let go. Mr. Nozaki paid some money and finally had the farmer relent. Not long after that, someone came to the dormitory to sell persimmons. When Mr. Nozaki looked down from the third floor, it was that farmer. He promptly went down and,

“You’ve got some nerve, you bastard!” he grabbed him. “Oh! Is that you, sir?” The farmer also remembered him. “What was that the other day?” “I’m terribly sorry.” “Since when do people who come and go from the school have the right to apprehend its students?” “I must have failed to recognize you properly, sir.” “Bastard!”

“Now, now, please restrain yourself!” “Don’t you know there’s a proper way to apologize?” With that, Mr. Nozaki kept jabbing and arguing until he made him hand over a heap of persimmons. These were by no means virtuous methods. Given how things went, the students of the school tended to have a poor reputation among the neighboring farmers. I had, before I knew it, developed a deep association with this group of non-believers. They were more interesting than those sanctimonious believers who did nothing but spout pious platitudes. Neither Mr. Nozaki nor Mr. Akabane were as much villains as they appeared to be. Simply due to youthful bravado, they were merely recklessly putting on a brave front; at heart, they were good-natured people. Mr. Takagi’s approach was different in turn. He didn't boast of physical strength but excelled at defeating others in arguments. He had an established theory about everything. Once he started arguing, there was no end to it. When walking together, he would froth at the mouth while,

“You agree, right? What do you say?” He would press his shoulder against me each time. “Hey! Careful! I’ll fall into the river!”

And I had to caution him from time to time. “Mr. Kawahara, the idea that there’s no salvation for humanity outside Christianity is just Dr. Johnson’s self-serving argument.” “What do you think?”

And I recalled how Mr. Takagi had provoked me soon after my enrollment. It was when we were talking on the athletic field's grassy lawn. "That's a matter of faith." "Of course it is, but I'm asking whether that faith is actually correct or not." "Since I'm a believer, I maintain there's no savior apart from Christ." "So other religions won't do?" "Of course not." "By your faith, God becomes terribly unfair." "That's not true. God's love is impartial to all."

“No.” “He was generous to Westerners but neglected Easterners.”

“Why?” “If we follow your faith, doesn’t that mean God has only saved Europeans since Christ’s time and abandoned Easterners?” “That’s just a matter of communication.” “Hmph. Are you saying even an almighty God can’t transcend mere transportation barriers?” “...”

“Mr. Kawahara.” “What?” “In short, religion’s no different from food.” “Why?” “In the Orient where rice grows, it’s perfectly fine to live on rice. In the West where only wheat grows, they can just live on wheat.” “That’s true. But if wheat comes into Japan, wouldn’t it be fine to eat it?” And so I turned his own metaphor against him. “That’s not an issue.” “Look.” “However, the idea that you must eat wheat or die is mistaken. How about that?”

“Well...” “If God is truly impartial, He wouldn’t scold people whether they eat rice or wheat.” “That would be the case.” “See here. Dr.Johnson’s faith is mistaken. He’s exerting effort in all the wrong places. If there really is a God, He’s laughing right now.”

“God does exist.” “That’s an entirely different matter.” “You.” And Mr. Takagi had pushed me all the way to the hedge bordering the athletic field.

In the third term of my first year, the Russo-Japanese situation grew critical. My classmates split into pro-war and anti-war factions. This division inadvertently fell along the lines of the non-believers faction and the believers faction. As evidence that I, a believer, had reverted to being a non-believer, I advocated for the pro-war stance. “You, let’s climb the tower and pray.” And one morning, Reverend Abe invited me.

“No way. It’s cold.”

And I refused. “You’ve stumbled because of the current situation, haven’t you?” “Now is not the time to turn the other cheek. If we keep preaching non-resistance, our country will be taken from us.” “You all don’t understand. Mr. Yoshida and I have been climbing the tower every morning to pray. Russia is a nation that believes in God too, so they’ll surely repent.” Reverend Abe was earnest. Their attempt to halt the war through faith showed admirable fervor. At that time, there were even adult believers like this as well. On the non-believers’ side, Mr. Takagi represented the extreme pro-war advocates.

“Ever since the Triple Intervention forced us to return Liaodong, this resentment has seeped into our very marrow. What use is reasoning or gourd logic?”

he lamented indignantly every day and skipped afternoon classes. "If we fight, Japan's war will be righteous." As for Mr. Tachibana, the fence-sitter, he remained non-committal as usual; however, one day, in an attempt to curry favor with the pro-war advocates, "Since we're standing our ground against their attack in self-defense, it's a righteous war. Even if we lose, we'll have moral justification." Mr. Tachibana added by way of explanation. "What do you mean, 'even if we lose'?"

And Mr. Nozaki raised his head like a viper.

“But I don’t have any confidence we can win.” “Russian spy!”

“What?” Even the mild-mannered Mr. Tachibana finally stood up in anger. “Anyone who shows favoritism to Russia is a Russian spy!” “I’m not taking sides.” “Don’t you start spouting such defeatist nonsense from the get-go!” “War isn’t something you wage based on economic conditions. “The other side is a world power.” “We have the Yamato-damashii! “As if we’d lose!” “Yamato-damashii doesn’t exist in psychological terms.”

“Jesus! Traitor!”

“How can you say something so outrageous?” “It’s spineless cowards like you that make Russia act so high and mighty!”

Mr. Nozaki looked ready to lunge at him with a threatening glare, but— “Hey, you blockhead!” Mr. Akabane grappled with him and stopped the fight. “What do you mean by 'blockhead'?” “Now, now, calm down.” “How rude!” “Nobody wants a war like this.” “Have you become a pacifist now, after all this time?” “You Russki spy-lover!”

Mr. Nozaki glared. Because they were close friends, he had softened it to “approximate.” “It’s not a matter of emotions,” said Mr. Akabane. “I know—it’s a fair and square debate,” retorted Mr. Nozaki. “This isn’t even a debate,” Mr. Akabane countered. “Japan has now gotten entangled with a bad adversary and has no choice but to wage war. It’s not about winning or losing. If we don’t do it, we’ll perish—so we have no choice but to see it through to the end.” Though Mr. Akabane looked dim-witted in appearance, he grasped the broader situation. The whole group felt strangely stirred. Everyone actually came to feel this was no longer a debate.

Lately I hear Mr. Akabane, having become a nouveau riche, has commissioned a writer from his hometown to compose his autobiography—this particular episode I would very much like to have him write about in grand detail.

The war began immediately. However, with successive victories, there was little need for concern. If this was how things would be, we should have done it sooner—the Russophobia vanished in an instant. We repeatedly skipped school under the pretext of victory celebrations. There was a tendency to use patriotism as an excuse for frivolity. It was precisely around that time. A turning point came in my faith. One day, when I went out for an afternoon stroll to celebrate yet another victory, I noticed from afar that people were rushing toward the railway tracks. The train had stopped and was blowing its whistle.

“They ran someone over!” And we too hurried along the rice field path toward that direction. Having reached the scene first, I immediately— “Good God!” recoiled backward. A young woman had been run over. Her torso had been severed in two, presenting a sight too gruesome to behold. “How awful…” Even the usually thick-skinned Mr. Akabane turned deathly pale and spat repeatedly. “Ugh, I hate this.” Mr. Nozaki also shuddered. “Let’s get out of here.” And I urged everyone to start walking. The pitiful figure of the accident victim lingering in their eyes, all four of us walked along the rice field path in silence for a time.

“Kawahara.” Mr.Takagi broke the silence. “What is it?” “God does not exist.” “…………” “There is no soul either.” “…………” “What do you think?” “Well...” And I fell into deep thought. “Humans have a mind because they’re alive. Once you die，that’s all there is.” “…………” “They’re no different from birds or beasts.” “Could it be that there’s no soul?” “There isn't. Believers are mistaking the mind for the soul.” “That’s not true. There’s something beyond the mind.”

“What do you think happened to that woman back there, Kawahara?”

“…………” “Can you look at that state and still believe there’s a soul?” “If the body dies, that’s all there is.” “If souls exist and are immortal, nothing could be more conveniently advantageous than that.” “But they don’t.” “There are no souls.”

Mr. Takagi pressed on as usual. The realizations of ordinary people differ from those of great men. Luther witnessed his friend's death by lightning before his very eyes and entered into deep faith. Repelled by the pitiful figure of the accident victim, what little faith I had maintained began to waver.

“There’s no such thing as a soul.” “Looking like that, there’s no way one could exist.”

And Mr. Akabane too had sunk into despair. “Agh—I can’t stand it! I can’t stand dying!”

And Mr. Nozaki was holding his head with both hands.

Around Graduation

The other day, when my nephew who had become an Army second lieutenant came to visit, "He was such a young officer," I thought as I watched him fixedly. Though he wore a military uniform, he looked just like a middle school student. "He’s still just a fledgling," my wife explained. He was the eldest son of her cousin.

“Even so, he’s young. Must’ve been promoted exceptionally early.” “I am the youngest among my classmates, though.”

The second lieutenant seemed to regret being young.

“Nobu-san’s grades are excellent, you see.” And my wife was immensely proud of this nephew. “You’ve got a bright future ahead.” I had no objection to this,

“Military men have gotten younger, haven’t they?” I said again. “……” “Do the soldiers obey your orders?” “They do.” “Can you wage war?” “Well…” The second lieutenant looked troubled. “In our student days, military men were impressive figures. Whether army or navy, whenever we met them on the street, I felt like bowing reverently to each and every one.” “Hmm.”

“Military men must have war.” “Yes, sir.” “When a national crisis arises, no matter what anyone says, it’s the military men who matter most. Back then, everyone was serious. People these days have forgotten the debt owed to military men.” “Was your student days during the First Sino-Japanese War era, Uncle?” “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not such an old man yet.” “I beg your pardon. Then it must have been during the Russo-Japanese War era, right?” “That’s right. You must have some memory of it, right?” “I have no recollection whatsoever.”

“Hmm.” “I had not yet been born.”

“Hmm.”

I was surprised.

“Look here. When people start looking young, that’s proof you’re getting old yourself.”

And my wife laughed. "I see." "How old were you back then, Uncle?" "Well... Twenty or twenty-one, I suppose."

“Then you were younger than I am now. It’s only natural that military men would look old to you.” Nobu-san also launched a flank attack. The more soldiers begin to look young to a person, the more their own years creep up on them. This was something I had always felt—for when officers appeared childlike to me, it meant I too had truly aged.

My days at Meiji Gakuen cannot be considered apart from the Russo-Japanese War. That campaign occurred during Meiji 37-38 [1904-1905], but in terms of school life, it spanned three academic years from first through third grade. Therefore, most of my memories are set against the backdrop of war. By the time we graduated, peace had been restored, but the postwar slump clung to us tenaciously. We were already graduates of Meiji Gakuen—a name phonetically close to “can’t earn a living.” There were absolutely no jobs available. Everyone was troubled. This has had a profound impact on who I am today. Mr. Takagi quickly resigned himself and went to America. Mr. Nozaki also got off to a poor start. As for someone like Mr. Akabane, after ten years had passed, he continued assisting with the transport business at his uncle’s place in Kobe until the outbreak of the European War. Admittedly, because this provided an opportunity to become a nouveau riche, this man alone reaped the benefits. He himself believes he achieved grand success, but in truth, it was merely the proverb “misfortune lasts but three years” extended to ten. When I consider it this way, even though we never took up arms and fought directly, we still held a deep connection to the Russo-Japanese War.

An era of national unity—Japan had not seen such a time of tension since. Even in the chapel services of a school that preached a religion of peace,

“O God, bestow Your abundant blessings upon the soldiers fighting for our nation.” Such a prayer was offered up. It came from Dr. Johnson. By his philosophy, any nation that wages war stands in error. The meaning seemed to be that only blameless soldiers deserved pity. “This war will not cease until it reaches its worst extremity. For Japan’s sake, for Russia’s sake, and for the sake of world peace—this is truly a grievous matter.”

he had been stating something utterly matter-of-fact. However, Professor Inomata and the other Japanese teachers vigorously demonstrated their patriotism.

“O God, grant us Your further guidance so that our forces may repel the Russian army from Manchurian fields at the earliest.” "In recent days, the enemy forces had concentrated their strength in Fengtian." "Our forces have now launched a full-scale attack against them, securing an unprecedented great victory." Professor Inomata continued. Then facing the students, “As our prayers made clear, we have occupied Fengtian.” “There is nothing more to worry about.” “The enemy nation’s surrender lies plainly in sight.” “You may all devote yourselves to studies without concern.”

Judging by how he spoke, it was more of a report than a prayer.

Since academia was in such a state, society naturally buzzed with excitement. Extra editions came out nearly every day. As these invariably reported great victories, public morale soared. One day, I went with Akabane-kun to Kanda to buy books. Just then, “Extra! Extra! Great victory! Extra!”

Several people came running while ringing bells. In the commotion, one of them collided with Akabane-kun,

“Watch out!”

he shouted. He was worked up, with his headband tied tightly around his forehead. "What?!"

And Akabane-kun immediately assumed a defensive stance. However, as proof that the newspaper seller had no intention of picking a fight, “Great victory!” he said, thrusting one into his hands. “Thank you.” And Akabane-kun was, as usual, good-natured. “Mr. Hasegawa.” And I chased after the newspaper seller. “Oh, Kawahara-kun.”

The newspaper seller stopped and grabbed his bell. "Well, this is a rare encounter." "I didn't think I'd be found." "I was looking for you." "Hey! The Baltic Fleet's been annihilated!" And Akabane-kun thrust the extra edition before my eyes. I had reunited with an old friend from my hometown middle school whom I'd parted ways with. Even such encounters had the grand backdrop of the Battle of the Japan Sea.

“Akabane-kun, this is Mr. Hasegawa.” “See, I told you about him before.” “I must excuse myself for now.”

Mr. Hasegawa seemed somewhat awkward. “No—I’m the one.” “This is my classmate Akabane-kun.” “Hailing from Gunma Prefecture, I am Akabane Akira. Nice to meet you.” Akabane-kun introduced himself. “It’s a shame we’ve only just had the pleasure of meeting, but you must be in a hurry.” I had no choice but to infer as much from Hasegawa-kun’s appearance. “Oh, I’m actually free today.”

“Then let’s find somewhere to talk.” “Let’s go in there.”

And Hasegawa-kun invited us to the milk hall. Students in those days were modest. They would eat jam bread and drink milk, putting on airs in a manner befitting their station. “You’re a man of justice—Mr. Kawahara’s quite impressed, you know.” And Akabane-kun promptly started in on Hasegawa-kun. Having obtained a copy of the special bulletin—he seemed thoroughly impressed. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Sake shops may be pardoned, but I cannot approve of brothels.” “Well...” “Toiling for justice’s sake—that’s truly noble!” “It’s not exactly like that.” Hasegawa-kun looked uncomfortable. The other patrons were listening. “Akabane-kun, try this butter bread. It’s splendid!” I urged him. If I didn’t plug his mouth somehow, he’d keep blathering and make a scene.

“It’s been ages，hasn’t it? You’ve grown up so much.”

And Mr. Hasegawa murmured. "You've aged." "That isn't so." "No—"

“You’re overexerting yourself, you know.” “Every time I came to Kanda, I kept thinking I might meet you—I was keeping watch.” “I passed by Meiji Gakuen this spring. I nearly stopped by for a visit, but...” “It would’ve been good had you stopped by.” “This clothing, you see.”

“I don’t mind at all.” “Do you hear from the others?” “I occasionally receive letters from Mr. Komatsu. Mr. Kitamura is at Waseda.” “I met Mr. Kitamura.”

“When?”

“Just the other day—when I went out to sell special bulletins as usual.” “I last saw them in my hometown this New Year. I didn’t know your address.” “I don’t tell anyone.”

“Why is that?” “That was our agreement. And you mustn’t ask either.” “It can’t be helped. But surely you can at least tell me what you’re doing now.” “This is how it is. I deliver newspapers.” “Aren’t you attending school?” “I attend night school.” “What kind?” “It’s a law school.” “Which one?” “If I say that, you’ll figure it out.” “Wouldn’t it be acceptable even if I were to find out?” “That won’t do.” “You’re as stubborn as ever.”

And I gave up. "But Kawahara-kun, even like this, I’ve attained peace of mind. On this point, I must thank you." "What do you mean?" "The seeds you sowed have sprouted."

“Ah, I see.”

"I’ve begun to catch sight of God." "Are you going to church now?"

“Yes.” “I’m reading the Bible too.” “……”

"I retract all my arguments from back then. You're five or six years younger than me, but you were the pioneer." "Ha ha ha!" And Akabane burst out laughing.

“What is it?” Hasegawa turned around with a puzzled look. “He’s quite the pioneer. This guy can’t see God anymore.” “Cut it out.” And I was at a loss.

“It was around this time last year,” I said. “When we went out walking together, I saw a woman who’d been struck by a train. That’s what made me an atheist.” “You’re not an atheist,” Hasegawa countered. “You’re an agnostic.” “It’s all the same in the end.” “No, it isn’t.” “It is. For people who don’t go to church.”

And Akabane was being boisterous. “Would you like another glass of milk?” “That’s enough already. Fearing that your misdeeds will come to light, do you intend to silence me?” “You got me. Ha ha ha!”

And I scratched my head. Akabane-kun was, as you can see, a man who seemed both dull-witted and shrewd.

“Your faith must have wavered temporarily. That’s something that tends to happen.” And Hasegawa-kun kindly defended me. “It’s a reaction.” “To what?” “When I was back in my hometown, everyone around me was a non-believer and would speak ill of Christianity. Alright, if that’s how it is—I became a believer determined to show them. However, when I came to Meiji Gakuen, most of those around me were believers. Among them, there were guys who would flaunt a faith they didn’t truly have just to curry favor with the teachers, so I ended up getting fed up with it all.”

“Because you were such a rebel.” “Who knows?”

“That’s certainly true.” “He’s by no means the meek man he appears to be.”

And Akabane once again made a poor guarantee.

“Did you graduate from faith before even graduating from the Mission school?” “……”

“What’ll you do after graduation?” “Since I don’t understand life, I don’t know what I ought to do.” “Everything’s changed utterly, hasn’t it?” Hasegawa-kun looked disappointed. With only bread and milk to keep us going, we soon went our separate ways.

When it came to problems of life and faith, many were deeply troubled, but I remained unperturbed. My classmate and devout believer Reverend Abe grew concerned, "You—you are stumbling," "Pray, I implore you." Reverend Abe often urged me thus, but I— "It's no use anymore"— was all I could answer. President Johnson, having been specially entreated by Pastor Urabe, would call out whenever we crossed paths in the schoolyard,

“Kawahara-san, wait a moment,” he called out. “Ah.” “How have you been lately?” “Same as always.” “The soul over the body.” “……” “I haven’t seen your face at church.” “I’ll start attending from now on.” “Please do.” “Ah.” I made that promise and dutifully attended once or twice. I couldn’t bear to trouble the saintly man’s heart any further. “Kawahara-san, wait a moment,” became a running joke between Nozaki-kun and Akabane-kun. Dr. Johnson, whose virtue we had once admired, now became our personal bane. Even having received the same mission school education, while some like Reverend Abe dedicated their entire lives to the faith bestowed upon them, others like myself lost what little belief we’d possessed. Nozaki and Akabane remained stubbornly impervious throughout. We classmates came to represent every extreme imaginable. Tachibana-kun the bat believer stayed ever the bat believer.

While the wartime upheaval likely contributed to society's restlessness, we really slacked off tremendously between our second and third years. Even Reverend Abe and Yoshida—men of faith—were no scholars. Those skipping classes always marched in step with the non-believers' faction. In the end, Class President Tachibana-kun often found himself single-handedly managing the classroom. Even after September brought peace and social calm, our poor habits remained unchanged. Both semesters' grades proved dismal without exception. Seeing how first and second-years fared no better, that following January at third semester's start—after Professor Inomata, our faculty secretary, delivered a general reprimand in chapel—

“If you think the higher department offers gentlemanly treatment, you’re gravely mistaken.” “Those who fail to meet the required score will be flat-out failed.” “I state this here and now as a precaution.” “Is that clear?” “Gentlemen.” “Regretting it when things have come to this point won’t save you!”

he warned. "That’s just a bluff."

Takagi-kun interpreted this charitably. "Of course. The Higher Department has never failed anyone since its establishment."

Tachibana-kun also assured us. We hadn’t taken that assurance at face value, but we had still underestimated the authorities’ resolve. Despite Professor Inomata having repeatedly given us warnings,

“It’ll be fine. If we get serious when exams come, it’ll be fine.”

While we kept underestimating things as usual, the exams came, and Yoshida and Akabane failed. The former was sickly and couldn't keep up. The latter was sloppy and hadn't studied at all. We quickly convened a consultation meeting.

“Let’s campaign to save both.” Takagi-kun initiated the movement. “But will it succeed?” Tachibana-kun voiced his apprehension.

“You can’t say things like that—and you call yourself class president!” Nozaki-kun pressed urgently. “Of course we’ll do it if we must,” “You—go see Professor Inomata on everyone’s behalf.”

“I’ll go. “I’ll go—I’ll go.” “But…” “But don’t count on someone who keeps saying ‘but’.” “I’ll go.” I exclaimed indignantly.

“I’ll go too.” Reverend Abe also sprang into action.

“Let’s all go.”

So it was decided. That evening, Professor Inomata watched us filing through the gate from his second-floor study. He came down immediately, but— "You’ve come about Yoshida-kun and Akabane-kun’s grades, haven’t you?" —he preemptively cut us off at the entrance, making clear his intent to send us away. "That’s correct." Tachibana-kun spoke on behalf of everyone. "We’ve already announced it, so there’s nothing to be done." "Despite our repeated warnings, they didn’t study—it’s entirely their own fault." "That’s entirely reasonable, sir, but couldn’t they at least receive provisional passes?"

“There’s no such thing as a provisional pass for graduation.”

"Is there no other method available?" "Well…"

And the professor tilted his head.

“Please, Professor—do something for them!” Everyone pleaded in unison. “We’ve actually scheduled to summon those students directly and discuss matters thoroughly, so you all must refrain from involvement for the time being.”

“Professor.” “I cannot unilaterally alter what has been decided by the faculty council. If this matter alone concerns you, I shall now take my leave.” With that, the professor slid shut the entrance’s shoji screens.

We called out to Akabane-kun and Yoshida-kun themselves, who had been hiding in the shadow of the hedge. “Did you hear?” “Yeah.” The two of them nodded. “Since there still seems to be hope, go immediately and see them. Don’t lose your temper.” I admonished them. “Excuse me.” Akabane-kun once again requested an audience. We retreated to the playground and waited. The two of them returned after about thirty minutes had passed. “What happened?” Everyone crowded around. “It means a retest.”

And Akabane-kun was grinning.

“What?” “We’re getting a retest.” “When?” “Next term.” “Then does that mean you can’t graduate with us?”

“Yeah. It can’t be helped.” “It can’t be helped.” “Even this counts as special consideration, apparently.” Yoshida-kun also had no complaints.

However, we, the concerned group, began our campaign once more. The believers group withdrew, leaving me, Takagi-kun, and Nozaki-kun. “If you’re going to let them graduate a month from now anyway, wouldn’t it be the same to do it now?” “We who entered together and have studied together cannot in good conscience leave the two of them behind.” That was our selfish reasoning. Professor Inomata would not accept it. Takagi-kun, given how things had unfolded, “If Akabane-kun and Yoshida-kun aren’t with us, we won’t attend the graduation ceremony.”

Takagi-kun began to press. “That is entirely your prerogative. There’s no need for consultation.” And the professor remained resolutely firm in his dismissal. That was the night before the graduation ceremony. We carried it out exactly as stated. However, after the ceremony ended, we realized. The three of them couldn’t receive their diplomas. “What do we do?” “We have the right.” “Let’s go see Professor Inomata now.” And so it was decided. That very evening, we promptly presented ourselves at the entrance, and Takagi-kun was the first to...

“Professor, I am truly sorry for everything.” Takagi-kun apologized. “If you’ve come to understand, that’s enough.” “Professor—” “What is it?” “We’d like to receive our diplomas, but...” “Those are in the Principal’s possession. It has nothing to do with me.” “If we go to see the Principal, may we receive them then?” “Well,” “the Principal said you didn’t attend today—those big eyes of his were brimming with tears.” “I am truly sorry.”

“Shall we go upstairs to discuss?”

The professor invited us, but we felt uncomfortable and left just like that.

The next morning, the three of us confirmed Principal Dr. Johnson’s arrival at school from the dormitory window and knocked on the door to his office.

“Come in.” There came a reply.

“Good morning, Dr. Johnson.”

The three of us stood rigidly at attention. “So my self-indulgent sons have come?” “...” “Why have you come?” Dr. Johnson seemed indignant. “We’re terribly sorry,” I said as the representative. “We came to apologize.” “Good,” he replied. “No need to worry.” “...” “Morning work busy,” he continued gruffly. “Must write America now about graduation ceremony.”

“Professor, could we receive our diplomas?” “I cannot hand those over.” “Professor,” “It’s because those who didn’t attend the graduation ceremony don’t want them, isn’t that right?” “No, we came here because we wanted them.” “They are in this desk drawer, but it is God’s will—there’s nothing to be done.” “There will continue to be those who skip ceremonies and cause trouble for everyone.” “If I were to give them out, Principal, I couldn’t maintain oversight.”

“...” “I will not hand them over. Instead, I shall discard them from this window now.” “...” “Collecting paper scraps does not constitute theft.” “Uh...” “I will not hand them over. I shall discard them. Do you understand? Collecting paper scraps does not constitute theft. Return promptly.” With this decree, the Principal rose. We gave hasty bows and descended to wait in the schoolyard. The second-story window opened, and three diplomas came fluttering down like leaves.

Triumph and Despair We had taken care to grow out our hair since around New Year's and began parting it as graduation exams approached. Everyone's heads were gleaming. Akabane,

"I can't study because my hair's all sticky," he said. "Look here! My hat's gotten all messed up like this!" Though he found it bothersome, he bought pomade every time he went out for a walk. "Just how much are you putting on, anyway?" I asked. "Isn't that supposed to be one jar a day?" he answered nonchalantly. He was an extreme man. When he realized he couldn't graduate with everyone else, he immediately reverted to his previous crew cut and, "I'm impulsive by nature. "Since I kept my hair long, I couldn't study properly and ended up letting my guard down."

he added as an explanation. Since then, he never grew his hair out again. His impulsiveness had been genuine all along. Nowadays he was mostly bald—if he tried using a flatiron, he’d burn himself.

Among the five graduates, Tachibana-kun—the valedictorian with exceptional grades—was consequently appointed to remain at the middle school department as a teacher, where a vacancy had just opened up. We layabouts naturally raised no objections. Tachibana-kun appeared content with this arrangement, but then again, that was typical of the prodigy.

“I was asked to stay on, so there was no helping it. I’m devoting myself to our alma mater.”

he said as if making an excuse. “What’s the monthly salary?” And we were making that an issue. “Well...” “Do they really give you thirty yen?” “No—not at all.” “Twenty-five yen?” “It’s even lower.” “Twenty yen?” “Seventeen yen, it is.” Tachibana-kun was a man who cared deeply about appearances, so he had been extremely reluctant to disclose it.

“I could earn forty yen at a rural middle school, but it’s for our alma mater.” “It can’t be helped.” “Moreover, if I stay here, I can interact with Westerners—it’ll be educational.”

he added another excuse. Once Tachibana-kun’s position was settled, the only ones left figuring out what to do with ourselves were Nozaki-kun and me. Reverend Abe would enter seminary straight away. Takagi-kun was set to leave for America as soon as he scraped together travel funds.

“Hey, what are we gonna do?” Nozaki-kun came to consult me. “Well...” “Since we’ve already graduated, we can’t just keep staying in this dorm forever like this.”

“Anyway, let’s go see Professor Inomata and Dr.Johnson.” “Dr.Johnson’s no use.”

“Why?” “He keeps lecturing that ‘Meiji Gakuen is not an institution for monetary gain’.” “But securing employment for graduates is the school’s responsibility,” I countered, dissatisfied with how little effort the authorities were expending on this matter.

The two of them had planned to visit Professor Inomata first but encountered President Johnson on the school grounds. “Mr. Kawahara, wait a moment,” Dr. Johnson called. “Thank you for the other day,” I said, expressing my thanks. Not long ago, all the graduates had been invited and treated to a dinner. “Not at all...” “Doctor.” “How are things? Lately?”

“Actually, I was just about to ask you about that.” “Please come along. Mr. Nozaki too.” Taking advantage of Dr. Johnson’s invitation, we accompanied him. “Doctor, we want to find some work from now on.” I broached. “A job? Splendid. What will you do?” “That’s what we don’t understand.” “Work that aligns with God’s will—finding that is what’s important.” “Since we’ve already graduated, we must manage on our own. We want to do something.”

“What will you do?” “That’s what we don’t understand.” “Work that aligns with God’s will—you still haven’t found that yet?” “We haven’t found it.” “This is most troubling.” Dr. Johnson was misunderstanding. I wasn’t searching for a divine calling.

“I’m open to anything, but...” “Mr. Kawahara, you—the work to which God has called you, the most suitable job—is there something?” “Think carefully about that.” “Well...” “How about becoming a school teacher?” “I originally intended to become a teacher and studied for that purpose, but...” “That would be perfectly acceptable, “That would be perfectly acceptable, Mr. Nozaki.”

“Hmm.” “You—the work God has called you to do, the most suitable job—is there something?”

“I want to enter the business world.”

“That would be perfectly acceptable.” “But there are no openings.” “Search for it. ‘Seek, and it shall be given. Knock, and it shall be opened to you.’” “Hmm.” Then Nozaki gave me a meaningful glance. This meant he wanted to wrap things up quickly—there was no prospect here anymore.

“This Meiji Gakuen—a school that teaches God’s path.” “A school that assembles Christian gentlemen.” “………………”

“Graduates of this school may forget their learning. “However, there is one thing that must not be forgotten.” “What is that one thing?” “…………” “Financial poverty—that is no shame. “Moral poverty—that is the worst.” “Mr. Nozaki, how about you?” “Hmm.” “Christ was financially poor.” “He was extremely financially poor.” “‘Foxes have holes, “‘and birds of the air have nests. “‘but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.’ But He was not morally poor. “We are all small Christs.” “Financial poverty—that is no shame.” “Moral poverty—that is the worst.” “Mr. Kawahara, have you understood?”

“Hmm. I understand. Well then, I’ll take my leave now.”

And I too finally gave up.

When I took my leave and stepped out into the schoolyard,

“It’s completely hopeless. There’s no point even discussing it.”

Nozaki was dejected.

We next visited Professor Inomata. Professor Inomata, unlike during the recent movement, welcomed us warmly, but regarding our request, “I’m concerned about it, but perhaps due to the recession, there have been no applications at all this year.” “Troublesome.” Professor Inomata could only tilt his head in puzzlement. “Professor, might you have any connections at foreign trading firms around Yokohama?”

Nozaki asked. “Well… “It’s not that there aren’t places where older graduates are employed, but…”

“We’ll follow those leads and go search ourselves.” “Since we’re just idling about anyway.”

“That’s one approach.” “Shall I write you a letter of introduction?” “A man named something-or-other had entered a trading firm called something-or-other.” “You’ll understand if you look at the register.”

Professor Inomata was being quite vague. “Professor, what about provincial middle schools?”

And now it was my turn. “Last year I managed to place Mr. Maki with some principals I know, but this year they haven’t said a word.” “Do you know a great many principals?”

“There are three principals. Since they all trust Meiji Gakuen, they’ll certainly apply if any vacancies arise.” “Please recommend us as soon as they do.” “Certainly. But teachers need licenses—it’ll be problematic without one. You should obtain yours quickly.” “I’ll take the certification exam.” “Now that you’ve graduated, I suppose your tuition stipend has stopped?” “Hmm.”

the two of them answered together. "For now, remain in the dormitory." "As research students, attending even an hour or two of lectures will give you legitimate standing." "Hmm." "I'll arrange matters for your stay here." "Let me handle that—no need to fret. Focus on your studies." "Whether you go to trading firms or provincial schools, it'll still be an uphill battle with your current skills." "Hmm." "Truth be told, I've been conferring with Dr.Johnson about this." "That won't work."

Nozaki let the words slip out. “Why?”

“Dr. Johnson has no sympathy,” “He teaches there’s no shame in being poor.” “But one can’t live without eating.”

“Exactly so.” “Can’t Meiji Gakuen even put food on the table? Ha ha ha!” “It’s precisely because of that reputation we feel so uneasy.” “Yet it’s a curious thing,” he continued. “Everyone manages to eat somehow. Becoming wealthy won’t make your stomach twice as large.” “That may be true, but...” “What Dr. Johnson teaches is this: ‘Take no thought for what ye shall eat or drink.’ Unless man rises above livelihood concerns, he cannot do true work.”

And with that preface, Professor Inomata transitioned into his sermon. Both Dr. Johnson and Professor Inomata—this was simply the school’s ethos, so there was no help for it. Everything they preached was logically sound, each point in its turn—but it was all too lofty. For those of us frantically scrambling to find work, it didn’t quite resonate.

Soon after spring break ended and the new school year began, Akabane-kun and Yoshida-kun took their re-examinations and graduated. Yoshida-kun entered seminary, but Akabane-kun, like the rest of us, couldn't find his footing. "What should we do?" "There's no help for it. We'll still be living off our parents for a while longer." And so everyone resigned themselves to loafing around in the dormitory.

One day, I received word from Professor Inomata. When I presented myself at the faculty room, “How would you like to try teaching Japanese to a Westerner?”

Such was the proposal. "I will do it." "A new missionary will arrive within two or three days." "He’s a young man named Robinson." "You shall teach him Japanese." "I don’t know how much they’ll provide in compensation, but you should be able to earn enough for your tuition." "Thank you very much."

And I promptly accepted. I recall that around the same time, Nozaki-kun was appointed to library duty. “I’ll keep this up until there’s an opening at a trading firm, you know.” And he too was overjoyed. Next, Akabane-kun was summoned. “What kind of position could this be?”

he went with great expectations only to find that—

“The school currently has no work available, so waiting here is pointless.” “I hear you smoke in the dormitory—utterly disgraceful.” “Your presence complicates student supervision. Vacate the premises at once.” Such was the decree issued. “They’re treating people like fools!” Seething with rage, Akabane boarded the night train to Kobe that very day. His uncle ran a transport business. He went relying on that connection. When this man later became a nouveau riche and donated a lecture hall costing 170,000 yen, for a time at Meiji Gakuen, Mr. Akabane stood second only to God Himself. Of course, with both Dr. Johnson and Professor Inomata having passed away, the school’s character had likely shifted.

I began teaching Japanese to Mr.Robinson. Thinking that since it was Japanese there would be no need for translation, I set to work, but found it unexpectedly challenging. Having to explain every single thing in English proved laborious. At times, even I couldn't comprehend what I was saying. Mr.Robinson stared at me in bewilderment. Yet this too became valuable practice. For me exists a once-in-a-lifetime success born of failure. This occurred precisely around that time. One evening, Mr.Tachibana entered my room,

“Kawahara-kun, I have a serious favor to ask of you. “I must ask you to hear me out.”

he said and bowed his head. "What's this? Being so formal." "The truth is, I just heard from Professor Inomata that there's an offer that's come in from a local middle school." "Hmm." "They're asking us to send them someone excellent who's recently graduated." "I see." "Professor Inomata is considering whether to send you or me." "From class rank, it would be me, but from the promise, they say it's you, so he told us to discuss it between ourselves and decide."

“You should go,” I said. “If excellence is required, then it’s you.” Though I wanted that position so badly I could taste it, once academic performance was invoked, there was simply no arguing. “No—excellence doesn’t strictly mean top of the class,” he countered. “After all, no institution requests inferior candidates.” His finger tapped the desk decisively. “It simply means someone competent.” “Regardless,” I insisted through clenched teeth, “I can’t accept.” A phantom weight settled on my shoulders as I gestured toward Robinson’s office across the courtyard. “My commitment to Mr.Robinson keeps me anchored here for now.”

“I too had resolved to devote myself to our alma mater here for a year or two, but my situation differs slightly from yours,” said Mr. Tachibana. “Since there exists a successor who ‘comes after me yet surpasses me in strength,’ it’s not that I cannot move on.” He invoked this scriptural passage as believers often do. “Who is it?” I asked. “That person—” “You.” “Don’t talk nonsense.” “No—while my class rank may be higher, true capability lies with you. Moreover, through this arrangement, I’m considering your circumstances too.”

“What do you mean?” “How much are you receiving from Mr. Robinson now?” “Fifteen yen.” “If you take over my position there, that’s seventeen yen, so it becomes thirty-two yen. The regional position pays thirty-five yen.” “Where is it? Where on earth?”

“Ichinoseki. It’s a cold place.” “Then I’ll let you have it.” I too was greedy—I thought it would be more advantageous to stay in Tokyo and take thirty-two yen rather than go to the cold Tōhoku region and receive thirty-five yen. “Are you truly all right with this?” “Absolutely.” “Then I’ll go to Professor Inomata now and recommend you.” “I’ll leave it to you then.” “Since Professor Inomata had been letting slip such remarks, there’s no mistake—it’s convenient for you and a great help to me.” “Thank you.”

With that, Mr. Tachibana achieved his purpose and left.

I couldn’t help but smile; immediately, I went to visit Mr. Nozaki in the neighboring room. "You know how opportunities start pouring in once they begin?" I laid out my plans. "That's smart," he said. "But I won't settle for nothing in return!" "How about I treat you to soba?" "Let's go."

Nozaki was quick to act.

Mr. Tachibana was transferred to Ichinoseki a few days later. I had been waiting, expecting the successor's position would come to me, but when that teaching assignment went to the newly arrived Mr. Robinson instead, all my expectations were utterly dashed. Mr. Tachibana hadn't deceived me. I'd simply assumed that if he was the first predecessor, I would naturally be the second successor. At the time, I thought I'd foolishly thrown away my priority claim to thirty-five yen, but what appeared to be a failure turned out to be a success.

Before long, I moved into Mr. Robinson’s residence. While teaching Japanese, I also studied living English under him. Having spent nearly two years living almost entirely in English, I naturally developed proficiency. “You speak better English than Japanese who have been in America for a long time.” Mr. Robinson praised me. Westerners are skilled at flattery, so they usually say things like this. However, as evidence that there was considerable merit to this, I passed the secondary school teacher certification exam with outstanding results and was suddenly in high demand from all quarters. Professor Inomata lowered his voice deferentially,

“Kawahara-kun, how about it? Won’t you remain in Tokyo and devote yourself to our alma mater?” he implored. But this mediocrity still nursed resentment over what had transpired two years prior. “That won’t do. I lack experience.” “No, that’s perfectly acceptable.” “Moreover, given how my faith falters, I’m hardly fit to serve as an academy instructor.” I declined and resolved to accept a position at a certain middle school in Kyushu—the most lucrative of three offers that had come my way.

On the way, I stopped by my hometown. I had returned every summer, but this time I was able to reassure my parents. “Father, you can retire from the school now.” I said with pride. “What are you talking about? I’m still perfectly healthy!”

Father still enjoyed an excellent reputation as an elementary school principal. "I'll send money every year from now on." "There's no need for that, but don't go wasting your money." "It's forty-five yen—you've even surpassed Father now."

My mother made salary her standard of value. Father, who normally would yell, “That’s fine.” he had no complaints.

“Tomokazu.” “What is it?”

“You’ve been single long enough—it’s time you took a wife.” Mother had her own maternal worries. “I’ll remain single for the time being.” “While one person can’t support themselves, two people can—and since being alone involves such wastefulness, it’s still better to act quickly.” “That may be so, but my real studies are just beginning.” “For these past two or three years, I haven’t given marriage a single thought.” I had boldly declared this, but truthfully, for those same two or three years, whenever I saw young women, I had developed the habit of assigning them passing or failing grades in my mind.

The recent transfer of Pastor Urabe to Hokuetsu was deeply regrettable. However, the next morning I visited the middle school and met with several former teachers and my old friend Komatsu. Though it had been only five years, the principal and most of the staff had changed. "Kyushu is so far away," he said. "There was a recent personnel change—you could've come here if you'd wanted." Komatsu lamented. "But I wouldn't be able to hold my head up among the former teachers." "That may be true," he conceded, "but there are advantages too."

“Once I’ve completed my training, I’ll have you bring me back.” And I too found that when I returned to my hometown, it remained dear to me. I had also considered how my parents were gradually growing older. “I’ll keep that in mind. So when are you leaving?” “Tomorrow morning.”

“Well then, why don’t we talk with Kitamura-kun tonight?” “That works.” “I’ll inform Kitamura-kun myself, so please come to Shinchaya by six o’clock.” “Where’s that?”

“You know, that’s where we held the farewell party when Hasegawa-kun ran away some time ago.” “I see.”

“Speaking of Hasegawa-kun, he finally made something of himself, didn’t he?” “I met him recently. Last time we met he was hawking newspaper extras, but now he’s a proper lawyer.” “He must have turned into quite the gentleman by now?” “No—not yet. He said he’s still practically a doorman.” “A promising future ahead then. Here on our side, Kitamura-kun’s been doing splendidly. He got elected to the town council this time.” “Will there be drinking as usual?” “Hmm. That one seems to be thriving too.”

Komatsu-kun seemed to want to talk more, but there was a class.

The bell rang. It was a nostalgically familiar sound.

On the way from my hometown to my post, I met Akabane at Kobe Station. We had arranged for just a five-minute stop. Despite the rainy night, Akabane had come out to the platform. “How’s it going?” I leaned out from the window and looked down at Akabane’s apron-clad figure. “It’s no good.” Akabane looked up at me in my suit. Their positions being above and below, the two were a picture of success and disappointment. I briefly talked about my new position. Akabane grumbled a few words about his current situation.

“Well now, you’ll just have to endure it.”

“You’ve studied, after all.” “You’re different from me.” “What?” “How’s Nozaki-kun doing?” “Last year, he joined a trading company in Yokohama.” “I know that, but can he manage it?” “He seems to be doing quite well.” “How much does he make?” “It’s thirty yen, but since he gets half that again as a bonus, it ends up being about what I make.” “Though I’m supposed to get a raise after a year.” “It’s only natural for you, but Nozaki is doing well.”

“He’s finally found his place, you know.” “That guy was pretty much the same as me, though...” “You’ll gradually establish your footing too, won’t you?” “As you can see, I’m still stuck wearing an apron.” “Self-employment holds more promise than relying on a salary like we do. Depending on your skill, couldn’t it turn out any way?” Though I encouraged him with mere words, my true feelings were in disarray. People were keenly aware that unless one earned more than forty-five yen a month, they amounted to less than a decimal point.

“It can’t be helped.” “Don’t you go getting discouraged now!” “Hmm.” “Give it your all! Ah, it’s about to leave now!”

“Goodbye.” “You take care too.”

And Mr. Akabane hurriedly took a step or two back. I thought he still wore that same foolish-looking face. In the over twenty years since then, I have been serving as a tutor at this man’s residence, supplementing my salary. When I think about it now, it brings me profound shame. The destiny of humankind defies all reckoning.

Wakakawahara Rōkawahara

My new post was in ○○ City, Kyushu, and the middle school there was one of the most distinguished in the prefecture. Since leaving it unnamed would be inconvenient, I temporarily named it Prefectural Middle School Shōshōkan. There were thirty colleagues, and I was the youngest.

“Sensei.” I felt self-conscious being addressed as “Sensei” by my senior colleagues.

However, “Sensei, how old are you?” Every time I was asked,

“I’m twenty-four.” I answered, feeling a certain pride. “You’re quite young.” Everyone praised me. The newspaper—whether due to space constraints or other reasons—had printed a few lines about my career history following my official appointment notice. It stated that after graduating from Tōto Meiji Gakuen, I had taught English to British and American people for several years and such. This mention of “English” was of course a mistake by the busy reporter. I had been teaching Japanese. And that to just a single American at that. Yet this error seemed to leave a deep impression on the students. They believe everything appearing in print must be either truth or fact.

“If he can teach English to British and Americans, he must be an exceptionally skilled teacher.” They had jumped to conclusions entirely. Thanks to this, I was well-received in class. Though I’d heard that teachers starting with upper grades get bullied, there was none of that at all. One day, a fifth-year student “Teacher, I have a question.” said, raising his hand. “What is it?” “Teacher, how old are you exactly?” “That has nothing to do with classroom matters.”

“But sensei—” “Since I’m asking with sincere respect, please tell me.”

“I’m twenty-four.” When I answered,

“I’m done for!” And that student pressed both hands against his head and plopped down into his seat. “Ha ha ha!”

And all my classmates laughed. “What’s the matter?”

When I asked, “Sano-kun is twenty-five.”

another student stood up and answered. Nowadays, a twenty-five-year-old middle school student would be unthinkable, but twenty years ago, they were not entirely unheard of. The boarding house landlady also, "How old are you, Sensei?" soon made an issue of it. "I'm twenty-four."

“You’re quite a young teacher, aren’t you? That must be why you’re so skilled.” “That’s not exactly the case, but in actual years, I’m twenty-three and a bit.”

And I grew even more proud. I remember being twenty-four for several years, though such logic makes no sense. I remained the foremost among the young teachers for those years. When I think back, that time was my prime. Even now I still consider myself reasonably young, but my surroundings refuse to humor this notion. Just yesterday, while tidying my hair before the mirror, my wife entered and— "Oh! I thought you were studying—are you plucking out your gray hairs?" —said with a displeased face.

“They’ve been coming in quite a bit.” “Of course they have.” “You’ve got no sympathy, do you?” I tried to pluck them again, but my wife snatched the tweezers away, “It’s a problem if you keep acting like you’re still young forever.”

Saying this, she took the mirror in hand and gazed into it. "You've got some too?" "Mm-hmm." "Where?" "Right here. There are two or three." "I see. Becoming an old woman little by little, aren't you?" "That's exactly why I should be the only one plucking them. You shouldn't touch yours." "Why?" "The older you look, the younger I'll seem by comparison." "Clever thinking." I had to admire her logic.

There’s no helping it these days. I’ve resigned myself to everything.

But no matter where I looked—right or left—back when I was the youngest around, life seemed like it could be managed a bit more. To the eyes of young single people, the middle-aged and elderly folks around them appeared utterly ordinary.

“What’s with them being that age and still in such a state? You’d think they could manage things a bit better by now.” I was convinced I still had my future ahead of me.

“What? Having such a disgraceful wife like you who keeps popping out kids until we can’t even afford to eat,” I actually began to feel that visiting would be imprudent. Holding a baby,

“Hey, Kawahara-kun.”

“Well now，isn’t this a rare sight! Come up here! This won’t do—gotta take a leak!” When confronted with such antics， “Ah—next time，” I said. “Goodbye.” With that，I fled. With my wife fretting over this and the children clamoring over that—nothing but one mishap after another—it was tiresome even listening from the sidelines. I hadn’t a shred of ambition left. In my free time，I played Go. I played shogi. I chanted Noh verses. Having utterly forgotten both nation and world，I waited for my salary to come. If I had any principle at all，it was clinging on by my teeth.

“Going on like this, fussing about while white hairs sprout—I suppose I’ll end up wasting my entire life.” ‘Poor lot.’ I felt sorry for them. Twenty years had passed since then, and quite a few things had already come to an end. However, when I thought about it, I too soon began to follow their path.

I, who prided myself on being young, had been granted the chance to form a special bond with the oldest colleague among us. When I trace everything back to the beginning, I cannot deny the workings of fate. It had been arranged in such a way that one could not help but follow its course. All human actions might have been fixed from the very start, perhaps unfurling day by day like a scroll.

I was the first to meet Mr. Kawahara.

That evening, I arrived at the station and went up to a rickshaw stand, “Take me to Seisōkan.” As I gave the order, an old man glanced at my face. He too was about to board a rickshaw. With two large trunks besides my canvas bag, one rickshaw couldn’t hold everything. “Another rickshaw.” I made the request, “I’m afraid they’re all out at the moment,” came the reply.

At this moment, I once again happened to exchange glances with the old man. “Rickshaw man, I’ll pass.” With that, the old man got down from the rickshaw he had already boarded, “Please take this one.” and nodded politely to me. “Ah, I’ll wait a little longer.” “Ah, there’s no need for such hesitation.” “I was fully prepared to walk home anyway when you offered.” “Ah, I see. "But…" “Please.” “I’m terribly obliged. “In that case, I’ll gratefully accept your offer.” I expressed my thanks and got in.

At the school, the clerk had arranged a boarding house for me. Having settled there, I went to school again the next morning. First meeting with the principal, I was introduced to all faculty members—and among them was yesterday’s old man. “I am Kawahara,” he said with a bow, “an old relic who shares your surname.” “Please look kindly on me,” he continued. “As for you, Professor—yesterday…” “Ha ha ha!” A faculty member interjected. “As expected of youth—your memory remains sharp!” The old man seemed gratified. I was startled by our shared surname—more so when learning of another “Kawahara” in accounting. Though written differently, all three names sounded identical when spoken—Wakakahara [Young Kawahara], Rōkawahara [Old Kawahara], and Kaikei Kawahara [Accounting Kawahara]—a recipe for perpetual confusion.

My boarding house was an amateur household run by a mother and son - he worked at the municipal office - who agreed to let me stay until the son married. "It should be fine for now, shouldn't it?" I pressed them. "As this concerns marriage prospects," came the reply, "we can't make firm promises." Thus I became an anxious tenant, never knowing when I might be evicted. Though unimpressed by the arrangements, I appreciated their honesty. The elderly woman came from samurai stock and carried herself with refinement. The inherited house felt ancient and shadowy, but having moved to the countryside, I couldn't afford fastidiousness. No - I told myself that even in Tokyo I'd be scrambling for meals, so I resigned myself completely to this fate. Old Kawahara lived across the street. When I promptly paid him a courtesy visit, he returned the gesture the very next day.

“Professor, we do seem to have an odd connection, don’t we?” he said. “It really is strange. I look forward to your continued kindness.” “Let us both do our best.” “I’m still not accustomed to things—I’m in a complete daze.” “But I hear you have experience teaching Westerners? Professor...” “Professor,” I protested, “this feels improper. The difference in our ages must be nearly that of parent and child.” I formally raised my objection. With others it might not matter, but this old man made me feel acutely self-conscious.

"In that case, Mr. Kawahara—" “Yes?” “If I may ask, how old are you?” “Twenty-four.” “I see.” “You’re quite young, aren’t you?”

“If I may ask, and you, Professor?” “Oh, now... “I suppose some things are better left unsaid.” “Ha ha ha!” Mr. Kawahara deflected with a laugh. “Shall I try to guess?” “I’m someone who’s always seen as older than I am.” “Then would that make it just right?” “That’s right.” “I see.”

And I decided not to ask any further. Seventy was exact; sixty was exact too. Mr. Kawahara might have considered fifty to be exact.

"Mr. Kawahara." When I called out "Mr. Kawahara," Old Kawahara said, "It's strange how this feels like it's about my own situation."

he laughed.

“The school has become quite the congregation of Kawaharas.” “They’ve all converged here rather peculiarly.” “Is the Kawahara name particularly prevalent in this region?” “Well...”

“There are students with that surname too.” “There are.” “But what’s common here is the Yoshida surname.” “First off, this house itself is Yoshida.”

“I see.” “They were called the Yoshida group and were quite renowned, I hear.” “Even now, starting with Mayor Yoshida, there are many prosperous people.” “Then this Yoshida must have wielded considerable influence in the past as well, I suppose?” “Well, this entire area is retainer quarters.” “There can’t have been anything of great significance.” “Were they ashigaru?”

“That’s right. At best, a five-koku stipend, I suppose.” “Professor, are you also from the old domain here?” “I am not from this area.”

“Ah.” “Hizen Ōmura Domain.” “If we speak of the past, even I come from a samurai family of distinguished lineage.” “That explains it.” “Do I look like one?” “Ha ha ha!” “You do seem like a samurai.” “Ha ha ha!” “Is the Kawahara surname common in your hometown?”

“Not particularly.” “I’m a commoner myself, but in my village, the Kawahara surname is quite common.” “All the family crests also have the same circle with a sword fragment design as yours, Teacher.” “In that case, our families must have been part of the same clan long ago.” “There must be a connection between us.”

“Indeed, that must be the case.”

And I found Old Kawahara entirely to my liking.

Because they lived within a stone's throw of each other, Wakakawahara and Old Kawahara went to school together every day. On their way back, they usually went home together as well.

“Mr. Kawahara, what do you like to eat?”

One day, the old man asked. "What do you mean by 'what'?" I casually asked back. "Food." "Well, there's nothing particular I could name."

“But there must be something you like? Western food?” Mr. Kawahara pressed on with a grin. “It’s just something like tempura soba.”

Ever since leaving Tokyo, I had long been running on empty. During my school days, if you asked me what I liked, it was tempura soba. Because I was a poor student, I had never eaten any greater delicacy than that. “Do you mean soba noodles?” “No—the tempura.” “Even if it’s tempura, is it still soba noodles?” “I put tempura in the soba.” “It’s still soba noodles, you know.” “They’re different.” “Well, in these parts, we call it soba noodles.” “Ah.” “I shall treat you to tempura soba noodles.”

“No—that’s quite all right.” “There’s no need for you to hold back. I’ll have my wife prepare it，so please come tonight.”

And Mr. Kawahara invited me. I went there with some apprehension, but sure enough, it was tempura soba. The young lady served me. As I had mentioned before, whenever I saw a young lady, I had a habit of assigning her a rating. While eating the soba noodles, I gave the young lady sixty-five points, but as she was about to leave, thinking it a bit harsh, I revised it to seventy points.

In this way, while Old Kawahara held a special connection, I gradually grew closer to my other colleagues as well. Since I had frequent dealings with my English colleagues in particular, it was unavoidable. I came here with some anxiety, wondering what sort of people I might encounter, but found that the world wasn't as cruel as they said. When I got to know them, they all turned out to be well-meaning folks. As it was my first post, it left a deep impression on me. At present, I have friends from my middle school days, friends from my Meiji Gakuen days, and friends from this Seiseikan period. They are all national treasures. They are not something that can be formed anew from this point on.

I was a teetotaler who could never appreciate aged wine, but I felt twice as keenly as others the worth of old friendships. Shibata from the English department would still call on me whenever he came to Tokyo. Though two years my senior and formerly the youngest faculty member, he'd had his seniority usurped by me. "But when I first came here," he said, consoling himself, "I was just like you." Our initial exchanges had been perfunctory, but Shibata's temperament could never abide such superficial relations.

“I’m the sort where relationships either improve or sour—no middle ground.” And he was a man of extremes.

“Hey, Kawahara-kun, let’s settle this.”

One day he proposed. "What is it?" "You sometimes visit Old Kawahara's house, don't you?" "I do go." "Do you share some special bond with that old fossil?" "No particular reason—he's just kind to me." "Am I unkind?" "That's not true."

“Then why don’t you ever come over to my place?” “There’s no real reason, I suppose.” “If there’s no reason, then come over.” “I’ll go.”

“Come today.” “That ‘Come’ is rather harsh, isn’t it?”

I laughed but felt slightly afraid. Shibata was a hulking man with an intimidating demeanor. He had recently achieved his long-cherished ambition of becoming a middle school principal. Though he carried himself with dignity now, during our Seiseikan days he'd been rather rough around the edges. That day after school, I accompanied him home. I'd worried he might resent my previous absence from social calls, but no—it appeared they'd planned this invitation in advance, for his wife stood ready to receive us.

“This is Kanoko, my wife.” Shibata introduced her with deliberate formality. While enjoying the dinner treat, I gave Kanoko-san an eighty-five point rating. But with other wives, there was no helping it. “How do you find it?” “Find what?” “That one there.” “Which one?” I looked up. On the wall beam hung a horizontal plaque inscribed with “Biyi Lianli.” The ink strokes still looked fresh. “Who did this?” “Old Kawahara.” “Skillful work indeed.”

“It’s nothing special, but since he went to the trouble of writing it for the celebration, I paid two yen and fifty sen.” Shibata seemed every bit the newlywed. At school, he had often been teased about it. “Everything seems perfectly harmonious here, doesn’t it?” And I too expressed my congratulations belatedly.

“You flatter me.”

“When?” “This spring break.” “Here?” “No, my hometown.” “Was it Etchū Toyama?” “Don’t joke around. Kanazawa, I tell you. The million-koku domain!” “Either way, it’s in Hokuriku’s snow country, isn’t it?” “You’re quick to make grand assumptions about others’ affairs.” “Is your wife from Kanazawa too?” “That’s right. She’s my cousin.” “Ah.” “We were betrothed since childhood.” “Hmm.” “The deceased’s wishes and their own hopes finally came together.” “I’m much obliged.”

“Ha ha ha!” Shibata looked triumphant. All through this, Kanoko-san, his wife, waited composedly with an unperturbed expression. Ordinary women had already begun to steadily gain self-awareness, and society had somewhat entered an age where everything was done with dashing sophistication. “Changing the subject—Kawahara-kun, are you going to see Horse Face?” “The principal?” “Yeah.” “Horse Face has a sharp look about him.”

“It’s a long face, actually. At faculty meetings, there are times when I watch him closely.” “In contrast, the vice-principal is Man-en.” “That guy’s a rubber doll.” “You’ve got quite the sharp tongue.”

And I unconsciously leaned forward. I had been feeling constrained by the notion that educators must be circumspect in word and deed when, all of a sudden, I felt as though liberated. "I've given everyone nicknames."

“Shall I hear them one by one?” “I’ll reveal them in due time. By the way, you’ve got to go see Horse Face.” “I did go once after arriving.”

“Let’s go again.” “I haven’t been there myself in ages—we should go together.” “There’s nothing to discuss anyway. I’m just sitting here idle.” “Exactly.” “Alone, you’d only end up locked in a staring contest.”

"In that case, I'll accompany you." "Let's go see Rubber Doll together too." "Let's go. It'll be my first time there." "You don't get out much, do you?" "Yeah." "You only go to Old Kawahara's place, don't you?" "I often go there."

“He’s interesting.” “Did I tell you about the war?” “No, I haven’t heard it yet—did he go off to the First Sino-Japanese War or something?” “Don’t talk nonsense.” “Consider his age—his age!” “The Seinan War?” “Older than that.” “The Meiji Restoration.” “I see.” “He went to fight in the Boshin War.” “Even so, they say he cut off an enemy general’s leg.” “The leg?” “Hmm.” “The whole affair was so Old Kawahara—hopelessly behind the times.” “What do you mean?”

“When he advanced and found the enemy general had fallen, he thought, ‘Now’s my chance!’, swung up his greatsword and chopped off one leg—or so they say.” “But since it was just a leg, it didn’t bring him any glory.” “He should’ve taken the head instead.” “No—someone else had already claimed the head by then.”

“What? Ha! Ha! Ha!” “Ha! Ha! Ha!”

And Shibata laughed uproariously.

“Is that all?” “Old Kawahara’s heroic tale…”

“He actually managed to cut down one man.” “That’s something else.” “He came upon enemies and allies locked in hand-to-hand combat. They were grappling, some on top and others underneath, but it was a pitch-dark night, and he couldn’t tell which was which. Just to be safe, he called out, ‘It’s Kawahara!’ When the one below answered, ‘Help!’, he cut down the one on top. That was an ally.”

“Which side?” “The one on top.” “So he killed a comrade?” “Yes. He panicked.” “But his clumsy swordsmanship proved a blessing—they say he didn’t get badly hurt.” “What became of the enemy?” “Leapt up and bolted.” “Quick bastard.” “Must’ve thought two against one was no fair fight.”

“It’s almost like he did them a favor.”

“That’s right. Not killing his ally—that’s his great accomplishment.”

“He seems composed, but turns out to be rather rough-mannered for an old man, doesn’t he?” “But he was young back then, you understand.” “Just how old must he be?” Thus I cautiously broached the question.

“He’s someone who doesn’t speak of his age, but considering the Boshin War was in the first year of Meiji, if he was in his prime then, he must be over sixty no matter how you calculate it.” “Must be inconvenient being that old.”

“It’s because he teaches Chinese classics that he keeps his position.” “If it were English, he would’ve been fired long ago.” “I wonder if he really needs to keep working that much forever?” “He’s an unfortunate man when it comes to his children.” “Both his eldest and second sons have died, and since he has only daughters left, he must still be clinging to his position for now.” “Though he’s behind the times, his gentle nature and lack of interference ensure his position remains secure.” “He seems quite a scholar, doesn’t he?” “He’s a poet.” “When it comes to Chinese poetry, he’s unmatched in the entire prefecture.” And so Shibata, even while speaking ill of Old Kawahara, considered him the pride of Seisoukan.

I am not writing individual biographies of my colleagues, but I would like to mention one more person—Mr. Gomi. He too taught English and, like Mr. Shibata, was a graduate of Tokyo Higher Normal School. Although he was only three years older than me, he gave the impression of being a full decade my senior. His demeanor and appearance gave him the air of a seasoned adult, and he was annoyingly composed, so at first, I disliked this man.

“Mr. Gomi, have you been here long?” When I showed my respect,

“Well...” he said, closing his eyes for a moment before answering, “I only came here last year.” If he’d arrived just last year, there shouldn’t have been any need for such deliberation. I concluded he must be rather slow-witted. Later, when I went out for a Sunday stroll, I spotted Mr. Gomi fishing by the riverside. The Ōkawa River flowed through the city. Upstream, where houses were sparse, held some modest scenic charm. This bank too served as a place to kill time. I sat down beside him and asked, “How’s it going? Enjoying the fishing?”

I asked. “Well...”

Mr. Gomi stared at the float for a while and then caught one fish. After putting that into the creel, he answered, “It’s enjoyable.” “What is it? The fish you just caught—” “Well...” “It was small, wasn’t it?” “They’re little minnows.” “Do you catch a lot?”

“Well...” “Let me see your creel.” With that, I pulled it up to look. “Well now...” I remarked with admiration. They were all minnows, but there were quite a number. “I’ve been at it since morning.” “Could you make a living off this?” “Well...” “You’re rather skilled, aren’t you?” “It’s just a pastime to clear my head.” “Do you catch anything besides minnows?” “Well...” Mr. Gomi stared at the float again without responding. I’d grown thoroughly fed up,

“Goodbye.”

With that, I made my escape. After walking upstream about two hundred meters and looking back from the bridge, Mr.Gomi noticed and waved his hat vigorously. There was goodwill there, to be sure. However, his tempo was slow.

When I told Mr. Shibata about this, "That guy's 'Well...' is quite something, you know."

Mr. Shibata laughed. “He seems like a decent sort, but nothing ever gets settled with him.” “It’s the same in class. When students ask questions, he says ‘Well...’ and ponders for ten minutes each time. Five questions and the whole hour’s gone.” “No!” “It’s true. The man can’t make decisions.” “When we assigned teaching hours this term, I thought eighteen would be too much for me, so I tried taking sixteen and having Mr. Gomi handle twenty. All he said was ‘Well...’ and left me hanging for two days.”

“That’s only natural. He’s always losing out.” “He keeps losing out because he’s always hemming and hawing.” “Well, regardless of profit or loss, he first says ‘Well…’ to play it safe.” “A habit, perhaps?” “In other words, it’s pure foolishness.” “He’s putting his effort in all the wrong places.” “I can’t match your way with words.”

With that, I cut the conversation short. As Mr. Gomi grew closer to us, he changed his habitual “Well...” from the polite “Sō desu ne” to the plain “Sō da ne.” He also used it much less frequently. One day, he came to visit my boarding house. “When I talk with you, I end up getting drawn in and later regret it—or rather, often find myself thinking afterward that things have settled,” he said.

"Why?" "Well..."

“Here we go again.” “What?” “I also end up regretting talking with you.” “Why?” “There’s nothing more meaningless than your ‘Well...’. It’s been grating on me from the start.”

And I no longer held back. “There’s no helping it.” “Why?”

“It’s spiritual discipline, you see.” “Huh...” “If you answer immediately, you risk leaving room for regret. I’m inherently rash, you see. That’s why I’ve devised this method. Before answering, I muddle through with a ‘Well...’ and focus intently on thinking.” “You do it even when there’s no need to think.” “That’s me counting from one to twenty, I tell you.” “No wonder it takes so much time.” “After all, it’s someone else’s time. It’s not like I’m the one waiting here.”

Mr. Gomi put on an earnest front, yet had a rather lazy streak about him. Being a man who thought things through this much, he was quite adept at maneuvering. He had also come to Seiseikan on a transfer, but after three years, he was gone again.

At that time,

“Hey, give me a hand here.”

When I requested,

“Well...” He had merely said that and thought nothing more of it, but apparently he hadn’t forgotten, for two or three years later, he pulled me to his next posting location. We were together there for several more years, so our relationship became particularly close. He is now a girls' school principal. He had been at the school much longer than Shibata-kun. When he came up to Tokyo for a principals' conference recently, he visited me and we talked all night. "When I was assigned to Seiseikan, I was twenty-four, but my eldest son is already twenty-one." "He started university this year."

I demonstrated my advancing age through my child. "Is he already that old?" "Time flies." "We should both expect to go gray and bald." "Your household must feel lonely without children." "I don't mind myself, but since my wife complains, we've arranged to adopt one of her younger brother's children." "I haven't seen your wife in years—is she still growing stouter?" "Well..." "There it begins." "She's become quite the plump matron. By the way, your wife—"

And Mr. Gomi recalled, "How many years has it been for Old Mr.Kawahara?" he asked. "As it was the year Hiroko was born, it has been exactly nineteen years." my wife answered. My wife was the young lady who first treated me to tempura soba. The circumstances that led us to become husband and wife were not at all romantic, which brings into clear relief the visage of mediocrity.

A Practical Understanding

When my first summer vacation came, I returned to my hometown. Being single with no expenses to speak of, half my salary had remained untouched. From this amount, I handed fifty yen to my mother, "Mother, since I didn't bring anything back, consider this your souvenir." When I said this, I couldn't help thinking what a dutiful son I was. "My goodness, is it really all right for me to take so much?"

Mother was surprised.

“There’s still this much left. And next month’s salary will come in untouched as well.” “So middle school teachers really are different after all.” “From now on, I’ll send something every month without fail.” That was my firm resolve. I kept this up for over half a year, as I recall. Yet when I consider that this constituted the full extent of my filial devotion, it’s utterly shameful. The intention was there, but after marrying, I found myself unable to maintain it. My parents perceived this and mercifully told me not to trouble myself—no sooner had I resolved to wait for a salary increase than my first son arrived. From then on, our household grew by one every other year. Salaries refuse to rise with such regularity. The mediocre man had miscalculated. I changed posts several times seeking better pay, but only succeeded in proving the immutable truth that no salary could outpace multiplying children.

“You needn’t worry—it’ll likely end up going to the children anyway.” My father hadn’t counted on me from the beginning, but even had he done so, there truly would have been nothing to be done about it. In reality, I am father to ten children. Four more were born even after first hearing of birth control. But I’ve gotten ahead of myself—this was when I first returned home from my post. I soon departed for Tokyo. Having resolved that staying in the countryside would leave me behind the times, I had determined to breathe Tokyo’s air at least once each year. Though I only managed this the following year before abandoning the practice, I’ll refrain from complaint. I promptly visited Meiji Gakuen. However, being summer vacation, not a single teacher remained. The caretaker Mr.Oto,

“Mr. Kawahara, I hear you’ve achieved quite the success,” he congratulated me. “Oh, not at all—it’s completely hopeless.” “I’m no teacher, but strange as it is—maybe from having handled things here so many years—I can usually tell.” “What do you mean?” “I can tell from when they were students whether they’ll amount to something or not.”

“That’s clairvoyance, isn’t it?” “It’s a terrifying thing, you know.” “Take Mr. Akabane from your class, for instance.” “People like that are utterly hopeless.” “Why?” “People lack discipline.” “They forget not just their hand towels but even their loincloths when they go.”

“Where to?” “To the bathhouse.”

“Aah.” “Not a single person who forgets their loincloth when they go has ever amounted to anything.” “That’s a strange statistic.” And I remembered Akabane at Kobe Station. “Mr. Akabane has forgotten thirty of them.” “I’ve taken all of them and put them to use.” “Ha ha ha!” “There was another one of Mr. Akabane’s partners, wasn’t there?” “Nozaki?”

“Oh.”

“Did that guy forget too?” “Well, he may seem reliable at first glance, but mark my words—he’s got no future.” “Why?” “He came by the other day dressed to the nines, but I could tell right away he’d never amount to anything.” “What happened?” “He saw me but pretended not to know me. Even a lowly caretaker deserves some recognition after years of looking after him. Couldn’t he at least say, ‘How’s it going, Oto-san?’”

Mr. Oto was indignant.

“He doesn’t mean any harm—he just doesn’t notice.” “No, that sort of person is utterly devoid of human kindness.” “Now, someone like Mr.Tachibana is all consideration.” "I thought everyone would want people to be like that." “Did Mr.Tachibana come too?”

“Oh? He came by two or three days ago.”

"That’s a shame." "He said, ‘This is my wife,’ and introduced her to me. People who amount to something are truly thorough in everything they do."

“So he’s already gotten married?”

“Aren’t you aware?” “I don’t know.”

“It must have been quite recent, though.” “As expected, he went to visit Professor Inomata.” “I wonder if he’s still in Tokyo?” “Well... He said he was returning to his hometown.” “A honeymoon?”

“That must have been so. The two of them exchanged looks and looked ever so happy.”

“I see. How auspicious.” “How auspicious indeed.”

And I let slip a smile. I thought him a man content with petty successes.

“It’s such a shame you went to all this trouble, but unfortunately... Dr. Johnson was here until just the day before yesterday.” “Can’t be helped. I’ll take my leave.” “Why not go out this evening and stay over? We’ve kept the monitor room open.” “There’d be fleas, wouldn’t there?” “They’ll devour you alive! All their usual meals have gone home and left them starving.”

“No thanks. I’ve got some errands to run and then I’m stopping by Yokohama.” “Is that so?”

And Mr. Oto escorted me to the gate.

From there, I went straight to Maruzen and then stopped by Mitsukoshi. I recall that Mitsukoshi had only just been established at the time. As I wandered about looking here and there, I thought to get Misao something as thanks for the many soba meals I had been treated to at Old Kawahara's place during the previous term, and bought a pair of cork sandals. These too had only just come into fashion then and were quite a novelty.

It was a time when Tokyo Station did not yet exist. I boarded from Shimbashi and visited Nozaki-kun, who worked at a foreign trading firm in Yokohama. “What’s that?” Nozaki-kun noticed my cloth-wrapped bundle. “Books.” “Did you go to Maruzen?” “Yeah. And I saw Mitsukoshi for the first time too.” “What a country bumpkin you are.” “Can’t be helped. But I did bring back some clever souvenirs.” I unwrapped the bundle and showed him the cork sandals. “Aren’t these women’s?”

“That’s right. Since I’m always being looked after at my colleague’s house, I thought of giving them to their daughter as thanks.” “Huh.”

“What is it?” “It’s a good thing I didn’t have to say thank you. Because you said ‘souvenir,’ I thought you’d brought it to my place.” And Nozaki-kun laughed. “I brought one for you too.”

And I took out a fountain pen. It had occurred to me when buying my own. "This is amusing." "Why?" "A fountain pen clash!" "Did you get it from someone?"

“No—we at the trading firm can have imported ones sent duty-free.” “Smuggling, huh?”

“Nah, we ask folks who go over there and come back.” “I meant to give ’em to you and Akabane, so I put in an order—they showed up the other day.”

“Hmm.” “It’s the latest model—top quality, I tell ya!”

And Nozaki-kun took it out from the desk drawer. “This is nice.”

“If you buy ’em here, they’ll cost you ten yen at least, I tell ya!”

“Thank you. You’re unexpectedly considerate after all.” I took it, but now I was stuck with disposing of the two pens I’d bought. “There’s no helping it with domestic ones like these, I tell ya!”

And Nozaki-kun unhesitatingly disparaged them. "But isn't it just as well that I thought to buy fountain pens from both?" "That's a heartwarming tale, isn't it?" "Since I maintained my principles and didn't produce the goods, I came out ahead." "Principles for domestic goods. Principles for imports." "Is yours better?" "Of course!" "Then could you use this one instead?" "Receiving it's no different. You shouldn't buy domestic fountain pens at all." A grating noise sounded as he answered mentally. "That's why neurasthenia's so prevalent these days."

“No way.” “It’s true, I tell ya! And that’s what they call being penny-wise and pound-foolish, I tell ya! They break down right after a little use and you’ve got to send ’em in for repairs.” “This is a problem. What should I do?”

"I’ve got a brilliant idea, I tell ya!" "What is it?" "Take ’em as gifts to your colleagues, I tell ya!"

“I see.” “Country bumpkins probably can’t tell domestic from imported anyway, I tell ya!”

“There are plenty of those around.”

And so I resolved to do just that.

Nozaki-kun seemed quite pleased with how well he was received at his workplace. After boasting about receiving both a bonus and commission, “So how much are you actually making?” he asked. “Teachers don’t earn much, I’m afraid.” I had no choice but to answer modestly. “Is Tachibana doing any better?” “They’re likely much the same.”

“Even so, you’ve got guts to take a wife, I tell ya!”

“He’s got a petty cleverness about him, you see.” “So what if he’s petty clever, I tell ya?” “He has a tendency to rest content with minor achievements.”

“How about you, I tell ya?” “I have a long road ahead of me.”

“He’s saying something or other, I tell ya!”

“Why?” “You went and bought cork sandals of all things, I tell ya!”

“That’s simply a souvenir.” "If you get married on forty or fifty yen, you'll be stuck fast, I tell ya!" And Nozaki-kun’s breathing grew rough.

These cork sandals became a bit of a problem even after he returned home.

“Tomokazu, where are you taking these things?” My mother found them and grew suspicious. “There’s also an old colleague named Kawahara. Since I’m always being looked after at that person’s house, I thought it would be a token of gratitude.”

"But these aren't sandals meant for old people to wear." "He has a daughter."

And so, while still being questioned, I explained Mr. Kawahara’s household. “How old is his daughter?” “Nineteen.” “You mentioned he has a younger sister, didn’t you?” “Yeah,” I replied.

“How old is that person?” “Sixteen or seventeen, I suppose.” “If you give just one pair, that’ll only breed resentment.” “Ah, right, that’s how it was.” “Why don’t you buy another pair from Hirokoji?”

And my mother cautioned me. In XX Town, about two kilometers from the village, my mother’s younger sister ran a geta shop.

“Do you have anything like this?” “We certainly do.” “I’ll be going back to Tokyo soon enough—I can buy them then.” I strove to maintain fairness. Yet in planning to bring them only for the elder sister while entirely forgetting the younger’s existence, the true leaning of my heart stood exposed.

Apparently having spoken with my mother, one day my father— “Tomokazu, you’ll have to start your own household one of these days too, won’t you?” he asked. “Well...” “Aren’t your colleagues suggesting any marriage prospects to you?” “No, not at all.” “If marriage talks begin, let me know right away.”

“Of course.” “If you take a liking to someone, that’s all well and good—but we too have our own suitable plans to consider.”

“Please rest assured.” “I will most certainly consult with you.” “However, the road ahead still seems long, I suppose.” “If I settle for minor achievements at this point, my life’s plan will go awry.”

I replied.

Not long after returning to my post, one day there was some kind of gathering at the school, and all the faculty and a portion of the students assembled in the kendo dojo. Ah, right—it was a celebration for the new dojo’s construction. At that time, there was a biwa performance as entertainment. I will never forget it. It was the scene where Atsumori was struck down by Kumagai.

“Kawahara-kun.”

Shibata-kun brought his mouth close to my ear and whispered. "What is it?"

“Take a look at Old Kawahara.” “Huh?” And I turned around. “He’s shedding tears in great big drops.” “I see.” “That’s because he’s remembering cutting off the enemy commander’s leg and feeling the heartlessness of the world.”

And Shibata-kun made a joke.

On the way back, as usual, I was with Old Kawahara, so—

“Mr. Kawahara, do you like the biwa?” I tried asking.

“I neither like nor dislike it.” “But I observed you listening so intently, deeply moved.” “Oh dear, this is rather embarrassing of me.” “No—I didn’t intend it that way.”

“I simply can’t endure those sorts of desperate tales.” “Why?”

“It hits too close to home.” “Is it because you went off to war?” “That’s exactly it.” “I have yet to hear any tales of your wartime deeds, but I would greatly appreciate hearing them this time.”

“Mine isn’t some cheerful tale of glory.” “Since it’s a confession, I’d be troubled if you asked to hear it.” “Wouldn’t that actually be preferable?” “If it were mere boasting about killing people, that would be inexcusable.” “Mr. Kawahara, your perspective truly differs as one would expect.” “In that case, shall I let you hear it someday?”

“I would be most grateful.” “Well then, without further ado—would you come this evening?”

“I will come.” “If I could have someone as reasonable as you listen, then perhaps my feelings might reach someone, in a way.”

And Old Kawahara seemed satisfied.

That evening, when I visited Old Kawahara, I did not have high expectations for the story. Because I had heard he was an incompetent panicker, “Mr. Kawahara, were you injured during the war?” I first inquired about his well-being. “I didn’t get a single scratch. It was just the Aizu Campaign, so it was like twisting a baby’s arm.” And Old Kawahara strained to make grand claims.

“So did you cut down the enemy?” “There was no resisting it. I cut down quite a number of them.”

“Oh my!” "One man, judging by his bearing, was a general from one side." “He lay fallen by the roadside—when I rushed over to look, his head was already gone.” “Ah, I see.” Though I already knew this story, I had to feign the manner of one hearing it for the first time. "He made a fine opponent, but what a pity." “Thinking this was his end now, I went and cut his face—so to speak—and his legs too.”

“Ha ha ha...” “Of course it was a joke. Wasn’t that done with plenty of composure?” “Ah.” “Since it was my first real duel, I wanted to test my sword too.” “But since the enemy was already dead, it couldn’t have been much of a contest.” “Of course that’s true.” “Did it cut?” “No, it didn’t go well. He’d been dead for quite some time.” “Ahh.” “Because the bones had hardened, it didn’t cut cleanly.”

“I see.” “Next, I cut down an ally.” “Killing a comrade?” “It was a pitch-dark night, so there was nothing to be done.” The part Old Kawahara described matched exactly what I had heard from Shibata-kun. “Since I was groping blindly in the dark and my hands faltered, fortunately there were no major injuries.” And this one too failed to cut clean through. He dealt light wounds to his own victorious allies and ended up fully rescuing the enemy from peril.

"But how intriguing. Was that all?" "Ah, no—if that were all, I wouldn't have endured such torment my whole life." "So there was more still?" "I truly cut down one person." "Ah..." I was startled.

“I committed a truly heartless act.” “But it was war, so there was no helping it.” “Though I console myself by thinking that way, still I’m tormented endlessly.” “It was when I was guarding the bridge on the outskirts of Wakamatsu.” “Autumn, September—ah, exactly around this time of year, and on a moonlit night just like this.”

Old Kawahara looked up at the eaves from his seat near the veranda. “...” “Our immediate duty was to sever all passage between the castle town and countryside.” “I stood at the bridge’s center, gazing at the moon.” “Just then—‘Kawahara, strike!’—a comrade shouted from the castle-town side.” At that instant, a woman came running up breathlessly. “I drew my sword and barred her way.” “She was a maiden in her prime.” “Moonlight bathed her—terribly beautiful.”

“Ah…” “The girl remained crouched, clasping her hands in prayer.” “‘She’s a spy!’” “‘Cut her down!’ shouted another comrade.” “‘N-never... never...!’ was all she could do but pray.” “‘Run!’ I said.” “I see.” “Of course I meant to let her go,” he said, “but just then someone shouted, ‘Kawahara! Coward!’ So when she stood up and turned toward the countryside—in that instant—I struck her from behind with a diagonal slash.” “So you did end up doing it?” “It was a moment of madness.”

“But given the circumstances, there was nothing you could do.” “The girl collapsed. And then, while gazing at me resentfully, she sank down lifeless.” “Ah…” “I committed a pointless killing.” “Wasn’t she a spy?” “Ah… If only she had been a spy—but she was an innocent daughter from a respectable family with no crime or wrongdoing.” “Why did she come to pass through such a dangerous place again?” “We had allowed passage until that evening. We later realized she had misunderstood the challenge from our comrades guarding the bridge approach. Since they were from Kyushu and Tohoku, their dialects didn’t communicate well. The daughter, thinking she might be subjected to violence, must have recklessly run away. In the confusion, everyone was in a panic—there were quite a few such mistakes during that time.”

“It must have been a horrible feeling for you, right?”

And before I knew it, I let slip. “It’s absolutely unbearable. Ever since then, that girl still appears in my dreams.”

Old Kawahara bowed his head and sank into thought. At that moment, Misao came in to refresh the tea.

"I've been listening to your war story," I said politely.

"Misao will be twenty next year too, so..." Old Kawahara stared fixedly at Misao's face. "I'll be perfectly alright, Father."

Misao laughed and left. I didn’t understand what he meant by that, but Old Kawahara soon shifted to talking about his postwar experiences, detailing each failure one by one,

“This too is the curse of that Aizu daughter. Nothing good can come of it,” he began to explain. “That makes no sense.” “No, it’s a dreadful thing. The evil’s retribution has clearly manifested upon my household.” “What do you mean?”

"My eldest son died at twenty. My second son also died at twenty." “Ah…” “Misao will be twenty next year too, so she’ll die regardless.” “Mr. Kawahara, you’re saying something utterly preposterous.” "No—in my initial anguish, I consulted a fortune-teller. Every one of those judgments has come true since then." “Did they tell you your children wouldn’t reach adulthood?”

“Ah, that Aizu daughter was probably twenty herself.” “Mr. Kawahara, you mustn’t think in such superstitious terms. If humans repent their sins, they are saved. Moreover, you have already been regretting it for forty years.” I brought out the Christian doctrine of atonement, which I had long forgotten, to comfort him. In truth, I thought that having someone like Dr. Johnson preach to someone like him might be effective. Right before my eyes, he was writhing in agony, but there was nothing I could do about it.

After that, a long silence persisted between Old Kawahara and me. "Mr. Kawahara."

Old Kawahara raised his face. “What is it?” “Since I am such a grave sinner, I will endure whatever suffering comes my way from now on.” “You’re neither a villain nor anything of the sort. You mustn’t get yourself so worked up like that.” “…………” “I had no idea at all.” “What do you mean?” “Without knowing it was such a painful story, I went ahead and requested you to tell it—I truly feel sorry.” “I don’t mind that at all.”

“I will take my leave now.”

Though he had said this, I found myself unable to rise immediately. “Mr. Kawahara.”

And again Old Kawahara called.

“What is it?”

“I don’t care what becomes of me anymore—but could you please save Misao?”

“Huh?” “If you let Misao remain my daughter, she’ll die at twenty next year.” “…………” “Mr. Kawahara.”

“Understood.” “This is an impertinent request, but would you consider it?”

"Does Misao-san have her own will in this matter?" "If not, I could release her as soon as tomorrow." "I won't trouble you with such concerns." "Then I shall follow your words." "Will you give it thought?" "I will take Misao-san." "I will take Misao-san—not for your superstition's sake, but for Misao-san's own sake."

And I resolved at once. My future was anything but long and promising. I went to listen to war stories, settled a marriage arrangement, and returned home.

Economic Hardship My future was anything but long and promising. The conversation began in late September; after a month's interval, we ended up getting married on November 3rd, the auspicious day of Tenchosetsu. "Once the year passes, she'll be twenty, and Misao's life will be in danger." With Old Kawahara pressing me urgently, his eyes blazing, there was nothing to be done. If I write it like this, it may seem as though some unpleasant thing was forced upon me against my will, but that was never the case. Misao's grades, which had been seventy points last semester, were revised to eighty points during summer vacation and then rose from ninety to ninety-five points after returning in September. This is something my wife must not read, so I will make special note of it here. Despite being a mother of ten children, swept up by the intellectual trends of the era, she still vociferously advocates for marital love and such.

Since I had secretly been considering it myself, I found the process straightforward. The day after the conversation began, I visited Shibata, the colleague I was closest with, to ask him to serve as our go-between, and also wrote to my parents back home to seek their permission. Shibata, “That explains why I thought you kept barging in on Old Kawahara.” interpreted it as a calculated move. “I never meant it that way, though.” “You keep saying that,”

“It was entirely accidental. No—actually, you’re involved too.” “Why?”

“During yesterday’s gathering entertainment, you said, ‘Look at Old Kawahara—his tears streaming down,’ didn’t you?” “Yeah.” “I asked on my way back after that, ‘Do you like the biwa?’” “And then?” “Because he said those kinds of narratives struck a chord with him, I meant it as a joke when I said I wanted to hear his war exploits—but when he told me to come tonight, he was dead serious all along.” “I see.” “The tales of valor turned into personal stories, and then abruptly—a marriage proposal. Mr. Kawahara said, ‘Please take my daughter,’ and burst into tears. You know, Old Kawahara has actually cut someone down, despite how he seems.”

“A leg, I suppose?” “No—he really did cut someone down.”

And I told him about the Aizu girl. Even Shibata, who prided himself on knowing everything, had never heard this before. It seemed Old Kawahara had been wrestling with this torment alone, never sharing it with anyone. “Hmm.” “Were you surprised?” “What a pitiful excuse for a samurai. The one time he actually draws his sword, it’s against a woman—and now he lets her ghost haunt him his whole life?” “He’s certainly no paragon of strength. But don’t you find it remarkable that he’s carried this regret for forty years?” “Half-measures. If he truly felt remorse, he should’ve sliced his belly properly or shaved his head—something definitive.”

“You think it’s someone else’s problem, so you dismiss it so easily.” “That’s exactly why he’s been tormented all this time—because he can’t do it.” “But you should consider Old Kawahara’s torment and superstitions as entirely separate matters.”

“Hmm.” “We must examine this strictly as a marriage proposal.” “Naturally that’s my intention.” “I consider it an advantageous match.” “Therefore, I’ve already concluded matters.”

“What the— “Didn’t you come to borrow my judgment?” “I came here to borrow your face. “Please serve as our go-between.” “Okay. “I’ll do it.” “Actually, I was also thinking of suggesting it when the time was right.” And Shibata readily agreed.

From my father came

"...While we have no objections since you have taken a liking to this person, we nevertheless feel somewhat uneasy about this rather abrupt matter." "We presume you have naturally conducted thorough inquiries into their lineage—how stands this matter?" "Furthermore, as an additional condition requiring the ceremony to be held within this year—how stands this matter?" "As my mother is also anxious, I beseech you to inform us of all particulars without omission..." he sent a follow-up inquiry. I documented Old Kawahara’s background and superstitions in detail to forestall misunderstandings. My father was satisfied by this explanation, but my mother persisted in needless fretting.

"...I humbly submit that taking a daughter with such fateful connections as Eri-ni-e's requires careful consideration." "Vengeful spirits are beings of deep resentment." "For a daughter to marry from one Kawahara surname to another would mean sharing the exact same surname; thus I humbly submit this too would prove intolerable." "In other words, I humbly submit that you would be taken and killed." "Even if they do not take and kill you, through their curse I humbly submit you would be unable to bear children." "Even if one were born, I humbly submit they would not grow up due to the curse." "In our village too there exists such an example." "As you know, the Tsutaya family has been taken one after another from above, I humbly submit." "Even if they were to grow up, through the curse I humbly submit they would not become anything fragrant." "I humbly beseech you to consider these matters most carefully."

and my father privately cautioned me in a confidential note. For the ceremony, my parents came all the way from afar. Since the groom, the bride’s father, and the matchmaker all worked at the same school, the principal and all our colleagues attended, making it an exceptionally lively celebration.

As it was a once-in-a-lifetime event, I remember that scene vividly. Mr. and Mrs. Old Kawahara wept with joy. On our side too, my mother was crying. Having since attended many weddings and witnessed such scenes, I can say mothers generally cry. They appeared overcome by sheer happiness.

After the principal delivered a congratulatory speech on behalf of his colleagues, “By way of preface, as an individual, I would like to offer this new household one method for marital harmony,” he began. This made a profound impression on us newlyweds. Since then, thanks to this advice, we’ve lived in perfect harmony, so I too shall by way of preface pass on the Principal’s exact words to all newlywed households across the land. “My wife and I have been married for twenty-four years—next year will mark our silver anniversary. In all that time, we’ve never once had what you might call a marital quarrel. We’ve maintained an utterly harmonious life. Yet this isn’t because I possess superior character or my wife has exceptional self-discipline. It stems solely from a promise we made during our newlywed days. At that time, I told my wife: ‘Being short-tempered by nature, I may occasionally lose my temper. But when I do, you must never lose yours.’ She agreed,” he continued, “but added: ‘I too shall exercise caution, yet over many years, I cannot guarantee I’ll never lose mine. Should that occur, you must never lose yours either.’ In essence, we made identical demands. Thus we established this household rule: no matter what happens, husband and wife shall never be angry simultaneously. We’ve faithfully observed it to this day. You can’t have a sumo match alone. Therefore marital quarrels simply don’t occur. What say you, Mr. Kawahara?”

“Groom Mr.Kawahara,”

And here the Principal called out to me. "That is a most admirable precept."

At this, I was not a little flustered. There was likely no other instance of pressing the groom for confirmation at a wedding reception. “The husband and wife shall never get angry at the same time. Will you kindly carry this out?” “Ah...” “As proof of your pledge, please raise your hand.” The Principal must have mistaken this for a classroom. When I raised my hand, everyone applauded and cheered. “Bride Misao,” “...” “The husband and wife shall never get angry at the same time. Will you kindly carry this out?” “...”

“As proof, kindly raise your hand.” The principal might have been slightly drunk when he said this. My wife turned bright red and raised her hand. Everyone applauded and cheered once more. Whether it was because this sank in, we have never had a marital quarrel. After about half a year had passed, naturally, both parties’ selfishness began to show bit by bit. It was inevitable that each other's veneer would peel away to reveal the bare wood beneath. I would occasionally lose my temper, “That’s a problem, isn’t it?” I would say, puffing up in a huff.

“You’re quick, aren’t you?” “What?” “Just when I thought I’d finally get angry this time, you beat me to it.” My wife could no longer stay angry. I always made sure to strike first. Thanks to this strategy—though it made me rather selfish—no storms ever arose between us. My wife would sometimes puff up her cheeks in frustration. But on those occasions, Oh ho! I’ve seized the initiative again, I’d reflect. Since I usually insisted on having my way, I’d occasionally yield. She’d then huff away with full justification, looking terribly pleased with herself, but finding no resistance from me, her indignation would deflate until she finally broke into a smile.

We were a prolific couple. We married in November, and our eldest son was born the following autumn. From then on, our family grew either every other year or annually until reaching ten. We never had twins, but both our third and fourth children were born a year apart. When I first came to Seiseikan as a single man, by the time I transferred to Shikoku after five years of service, we had become a couple with three children. “You’re quite young, aren’t you?” The man who had been praised found that at his next post, “My, my, you have quite a crowd there, don’t you?”

“Ah... I have three.” “That is... Well... “No—considering that situation, you’re quite young.”

And now there was an added condition.

Though I had not yet turned thirty, I felt my intellectual development had stalled around this point. In earlier years I'd harbored some scholarly ambitions, but with a four-year-old, two-year-old, and one-year-old all wailing in chorus, studying became impossible. I've always particularly detested noise. With no help beyond my wife, I naturally pitched in. Back when I saw colleagues cradling infants, I'd secretly scorned them as lacking ambition—yet now that very fate had befallen me. Returning home meant constant bustle.

“Misao,” “What might that be?”

Both of us were holding the little ones as we responded.

“Mother was worried, but it turned out completely the opposite, didn’t it?” “Yes.” “They really do keep coming.” “Oh ho ho.” “And they’re all healthy.” “But it’s a shame you can’t focus on your studies.” “Oh, come on. It can’t be helped. That’s how it seems to be everywhere.” “You…” “What is it?” “I felt sorry for you and hadn’t mentioned it yet, but…” “What?” “A little more…”

“Huh?” “It really does seem to be the case.” “Hmm.” “If we start now, we’ll have another set born just a year apart.” “I’m shocked. Oh dear, he’s peed!” I couldn’t hold back either. During the three years in Shikoku, two more were born, and we transferred to Chugoku. Children kept increasing every year or every other year, but salaries wouldn’t rise unless about three years passed, so life inevitably became difficult. I made it my aim to seek transfers each time my salary increased, striving for further raises. At that time, there were also good positions available in Kyushu. That was a middle school in a famous hot spring town arranged through our matchmaker Mr. Shibata. Due to the nature of the area, prices were somewhat high, but even the rental houses had hot spring water piped in. It was an invitation suggesting we go with the intention of taking a hot spring cure until my salary rose one more rank.

“A hot spring town would be impossible!” My wife opposed it outright. “Don’t you think it would be good for the children’s education?” “That’s one reason, but the hot spring warms us up.” “You’re so uneducated!” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “They’re already coming fast enough with my body as it is.” “I see.” “If you go taking hot springs every day, just see what happens!” “You’ll end up having twins!”

“Hey. Are you angry?” “Yes.” “Well, there’s no helping it then.”

And so I gave up on the hot spring town. Since our transfers were originally driven by the children, there was no helping it if there was a possibility of more being born there.

In Chugoku,

"Kawahara-kun is the grand champion." This reputation became officially certified. People no longer called me youthful or brilliant. The sheer number of children simply commanded notice. To be precise, during those three years there, two more had been born. Two births meant one promotion rank. Though the ratio seemed favorable—transferring after each raise to climb further—the relentless arrival of new children kept hardship unchanged.

When, after moving through Wakayama and Nagoya, the number of children reached ten, I thought. Of course, I had thought about it many times before, but within those thoughts, I had always believed that things would somehow work out.

“Misao,” “What is it?” “I simply can’t keep up with this any longer!”

And one evening, I crossed my arms. I no longer had a baby to hold. Since there were ten children—a mix of boys and girls—the older ones could help out as needed.

“I do believe I’m perfectly fine now, though...” “Were you still thinking of having more?” “Oh ho.”

“What’s so funny?” “Oh, come now.” “This isn’t a laughing matter.” “Are you angry?” “Hmm.”

“What displeases you?” “There are too many children.” “If that’s what this is about, I’m the one who wants to get angry far more than you.”

“Why?” “If I keep giving birth one after another like this, there’ll be no form or shape left to our lives, don’t you agree? It’s not like I can even go out sightseeing like other wives…” “Misao!” “What is it?” “What’s with that tone?” “……” “I already told you I’m angry first. You’re not allowed to complain.” “Yes.” “Keep that smile on.” “But didn’t you just say this wasn’t a laughing matter?”

“Don’t talk back. “‘Cause I’m the one who got angry first.” “Yes.” And my wife had no choice but to comply—it was part of our agreement. “When I thought about it, it was utterly unbearable.”

“Then what will you do?” “I think I’ll quit teaching.” “Oh my!”

“Tsuneo’s already seventeen,” I said. “He must enter high school next year.” “Why not have him attend the high school here?” “High school’s one thing—but with our current situation, we can’t send them to university. Just wait until that time comes.” Middle school, girls’ school, and those below kept coming one after another. “We’ll have to marry off Hiroko too.” “I lie awake myself sometimes when I start thinking about it.” “A sōnin-ranked teacher would never resort to sending his children into service.”

“Hmm.” “Educators are such strange creatures, aren’t they? You educate other people’s children yet can’t educate your own. Though admittedly, we may have had too many.” “If only there were half as many.” “No, even half would be difficult. With my current salary, it’s utterly impossible.” “But if we were to stop, it would be even worse.” “I’ll quit and take the pension.” “Would the pension be about one-third?” “No—I’ll go work at a private school in Tokyo to earn money. Only the pension would remain. Since they pay by the hour over there, the more I work, the more extra I can earn.”

“Do you have any prospects in mind?” “There are.”

“About how much would the monthly salary be?”

“It’s not a monthly salary. “It’s hourly pay. “At two yen per hour, teaching thirty hours a week makes two times thirty—sixty yen. “Calculating four weeks at four times sixty gives 240 yen. “Adding sixty yen from the pension brings our total income to three hundred yen.” “You may proceed with that plan.” “I can’t leave immediately.” “Starting next month would be perfectly acceptable.”

“I’ll go during summer vacation to make the arrangements and come back.”

And so I resolved to change my course of action. Just around that time, Akabane came to visit. However, he did not come to my house; instead, he called the school from a hotel and ordered me to appear. In the past, it might have been different, but now that our statuses differed, there was nothing to be done. “It’s Akabane. Akabane Akira. I’m from Gunma Prefecture.” “Akabane Akira.” “From Gunma Prefecture.”

His self-introduction was just as it had always been. “Hmm... Is that Akabane-kun?” “Hmm.” “Well... That’s rather unusual.” “I’m at Shinachū. Won’t you come right away?” “I’ll come up. My class has just ended.” No matter how I tried, I couldn’t adopt an equal tone. When you’re poor, you become more susceptible to feeling wealth’s oppressive weight. The suit I wore to Shinachū Hotel looked shabby. In rural towns, certified middle school teachers receive due respect, but in places like Nagoya, they’re treated no better than insurance salesmen. I was shown to the reception room and kept waiting nearly an hour. With two guests ahead of me, I was finally summoned to Akabane-kun’s room in turn.

“Hey, kept you waiting!” said Akabane-kun. “I was the one who waited.”

“Where?” “In the reception room.” “You should’ve said that sooner. These people today came on their own accord. Just a bunch of nobodies crowding in—real nuisance.” “Hmm.” I thought admiringly, “It’s been a while.” and he immediately relaxed. “I just wondered whether you were dead or alive.” “I’ve been remiss in keeping in touch.” “No, I’m the one.” “You’re busy, I suppose?” “Yeah.” As if suddenly remembering, Akabane-kun

“Wakatsuki.” he called. A splendid gentleman emerged from the next room and bowed deeply. “I won’t be seeing anyone else anymore, so proceed accordingly.” “Yes, sir.” “You may leave now.” “Yes, sir.” “Feel free to handle matters as you deem fit.” “Yes, sir.” “That will suffice.” “Yes, sir.” The gentleman bowed with each response and withdrew. He had a sharper countenance than Akabane-kun and appeared to be his secretary. “It’s been eighteen years,” I said. We had remained out of contact since meeting at Kobe Station when I was transferred to Seiseikan. Initially, I refrained from writing out of shame over my shabby appearance at that encounter, but since he too sent no letters, seven or eight years slipped by in mutual silence. Then, when word of Akabane-kun’s success reached me, I found it irksome that people might assume my fortunes had improved accordingly—and so I let things lie.

After talking for a short while, "How many children do you have?" Akabane-kun asked. "Ten." "Ten?" "Yep." "You've really gone and made them. Ha ha ha!" "How many do you have?"

“Five.” “All boys.” “And yours?” “Exactly half and half.” “They take after you - all top students, right?” “Well...” “Maybe seeing their parents’ struggles every day makes them study hard at least.” “Mine are hopelessly lazy.” “And they’ve all got ugly mugs.” “That can’t be true.” “No really - would’ve been better if they took after my wife, but they all look like me.” “No way they could turn out decent!”

Akabane-kun insisted vehemently. This part of him hadn't changed from the old days. "You donated an auditorium to the academy, didn't you?" "Yeah." "That's commendable of you." "What's that supposed to mean? Ha ha ha!" "What's the matter?" "It's a jab at my wife. A rumor went around that I spent thirty thousand yen on keeping a geisha. Just a rumor, mind you." "Hmm." "Completely groundless." "You're certainly putting effort into your excuses." I said sarcastically. "Because you're an educator, you see." "Then what did you do?"

"That wife of mine was furious, you see. So when some teacher or other from the academy came soliciting donations soon after, she went ahead and did it on her own authority, saying we had money to spare at home."

“I see.” “There was no backing out now, you see.” “Then the donation loses its sense of gratitude, doesn’t it?” “Of course. They caused trouble for us at graduation and then just threw us out without any support, I mean. Do you think I have any goodwill toward the academy?”

And Akabane-kun rolled up his sleeves. His resentment ran bone-deep. “But aren’t you a trustee?” “That was their doing over there—probably their scheme to drag me out again.” “So you’re moving to Tokyo? I saw it in the alumni bulletin the other day.” “I’ve already moved. Next time you come, drop by.” “Actually, I’ve been thinking of returning to Tokyo myself. If we stay in the countryside forever, we can’t provide proper education for the children.”

I confided my recent decision. "So how much are you actually making here?" "Don't ask me that." "Why not?" "It's not even worth discussing." "But you're already the vice principal, aren't you?" "I'm one step below vice principal."

“So you’re actually making three hundred yen?” “What nonsense are you spouting?”

“Hmm.” “Well, there’s ten of them, you know.” “Even if I became principal, it still wouldn’t be enough.” “If it’s that difficult, should I try to do something about it?” “That’s fine.” “Given it’s you, I suppose there must be some petty quibbles." "But wouldn't having to keep seeing that become a problem?" “I’ll go to Tokyo and earn my keep at a private school.” “In that case, let me find you a position in Tokyo.” “Isn’t that outside your field?” "I'll pull some strings. “When it comes to company positions, that’s my specialty, but I intend to make it work somehow.”

“Do you know any principals?” “Don’t know.” “But private schools have these things called financial backers.” “That must be the case.” “Since I’ve got two or three guys bringing me favors daily, I’ll work through trade-offs.” “But how much should I demand?” “Well...” “How’s three hundred yen sound?” “With my pension included, I’ve estimated around that figure.” “What’s your pension worth?” “Fifty or sixty yen, I’d reckon.”

“Then let’s estimate your pension at fifty yen and I’ll contribute a hundred.” “I won’t accept it from you.” “No, I’m asking you to tutor my children.” “Their heads aren’t much good, and truthfully they don’t get along with tutors—it’s been a real problem.” “You and I have been friends for years.” “We can’t very well leave each other to die.” “What do you say?” “Will you take charge of my children?” “If I do go to Tokyo, I’ll of course make arrangements.” “Then we just need to find a position covering the remaining hundred fifty yen.” “What?” “Straightforward enough, isn’t it?”

Akabane-kun had settled the matter entirely on his own.

However, this was soon realized. Through Akabane-kun's arrangements, I obtained a hundred-yen position at what was called the Oriental English School in Kanda. With my pension and tutoring fees as financial backing, I submitted my resignation that summer and moved to Tokyo. On the way, I had planned to bring my parents along and fulfill my filial duties by stopping at my hometown, but with ten children in tow, things didn't go as intended. Within three or four days of staying there, I had completely exhausted mother's patience.

“Mother, they’re all cute, aren’t they?” I pressed for praise. “Well, they’re cute enough.” "You said we wouldn’t have children, but as you can see. That’s just superstition." “No. It’s because I asked an ascetic to ward off misfortune.” “Hmm, that worked a bit too well, didn’t it?” “It’s rarely ever seen—ten children born with none missing. I visit Hachiman-sama every day without fail, rain or shine.”

“Hmm, I suppose that’s working too, isn’t it?” “Just because you’ve become a Christian doesn’t mean you can abandon our clan god. All of you must go pay your respects at the shrine.” Mother was nothing if not devout. I promptly gathered my wife and children and set out. Along the way, we passed several familiar faces—among them Kunibu-kun, my old sparring partner from elementary school days. We exchanged greetings in passing, but after they’d moved on: “Some Christian group, eh? Or are they all Tomosan’s kids?”

he said loudly to the man accompanying him. It’s possible he wasn’t joking at all, but that such doubts had genuinely arisen.

One day, my mother asked,

“Tomokazu, how do you manage to keep up with your schoolwork?” she asked. “Why do you ask?” “The house feels exactly like a sports festival. It’s giving me such a headache.” “With so many of us, it must be quite a bother for you.” “Cute as they are, I simply cannot go to Tokyo or anywhere like that.”

“That’s a problem. What does Father think about this?” “He says he wants to live a bit longer.” “Well then, there’s nothing to be done about it. Ahh… With so many children, one can’t practice filial piety.” “There’s no need for that. Raising all these children itself constitutes the greatest filial piety.”

“If you think that way, I’m happy too.”

I gratefully expressed my thanks.

Five years had passed since then. How time flies. Our eldest son was attending Imperial University. Our eldest daughter had graduated from Girls' High School and was helping with household chores; below them came two middle schoolers, two high school girls, two elementary pupils, and two not yet in school—bringing our total tally to ten.

I had climbed this steep slope for so long, but the true mountain pass lay ahead. A father must work to provide.

Recently, when Shibata-kun, who had served as our matchmaker, came up to Tokyo for a principals’ conference and stopped by, “You’re truly something,” he said in praise. “If I don’t work myself to the bone, this many mouths will go hungry—there’s no choice.” “Still, it’s impressive.” “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m perfectly fine. I’ve come to see this as normal.” “Just how many hours are you putting in?”

“Let me see...” I was working so much that I couldn’t even answer immediately. “Two daytime schools amount to thirty-six hours. “The night school is every other night for nine hours, making forty-five hours a week in total.” “That’s rough.” “That’s three times—no, two and a half times—what the teachers on my side handle.” “And then there are Sunday lectures—four hours in the morning and afternoon.” “So that makes forty-nine hours?”

“Private tutoring every other night—that’s six hours at most, I suppose.” “Oh my, oh my! There’s still more?” “Altogether fifty-five hours. Ahh, and there’s more still—I do some writing in my spare time.” “Right, right. Thank you for that Japanese-to-English translation book the other day. You’re working fifty-five hours and still find leisure to write such troublesome things?” “I return around ten at night and write till twelve. Since it’s separate from teaching, it makes for a decent change of pace.” “You’re a man of inexhaustible vigor!”

“Well, it can’t be helped, you know. But it’s a curious thing—when I think it’s for the children’s sake, it doesn’t feel burdensome at all.”

“That’s a commendable attitude.”

And Shibata-kun was even more impressed. "I've been teaching Goldsmith's Vicar at the daytime school lately. That opening passage contains an eternal truth." "What's that? I've read it before too, but I've forgotten." "I have it memorized. 'I was ever of opinion that the honest man who married and brought upa large family...'" "Since it's troublesome, just translate it for me." "It means an honest man who takes a wife and raises many children contributes more to society than those who stay single and theorize about population."

“I see.” “Napoleon is Napoleon, and ordinary people are ordinary. It seems we have no talent beyond raising our children properly.” “Quite right. But compared to our Seiseikan days, your ideas have grown quite moderate. Is it age creeping up on you?” “No—I’ve realized. Rather, it was the children who made me realize it.”

I had my hands full raising each of my ten children to be proper adults. I truly didn't think I had been endowed with any greater talent. Twenty years of experience had taught me this. The extraordinary deed of an ordinary person was at least realizing oneself to be ordinary. Therein lay some measure of peace and acceptance of one's lot in life.