Pathway to Japanese Literature

The 210th Day of that year was indeed a cool moonlit night.
Then came the 220th Day’s ill-omened date, passing nearly unnoticed—the evening arrived as always beneath a lingering summer sun in the west, made restless only by cicadas’ cries.
When night fell, there was at least some semblance of ill-omened propriety in the rain that began to fall—though the wind neither tore through banana leaves nor laid low asters or cockscombs. That I remember this so vividly without consulting that year’s diary stems from how following that night’s rain, the season shifted abruptly: thrown into disarray by a chill making summer robes unbearable, I not only layered undergarments but draped a lined haori over myself as midnight approached.
Never in my sickly life had I worn a lined haori before autumn’s equinox; thus when evenings grew abruptly chilly at autumn’s onset, I found myself helplessly recalling that time.

Speaking of that time in my life—my circumstances were as monotonous as ever; there was nothing particularly noteworthy to tell. It was only then that I realized the lonely circumstances I had lived through for several years without much thought—simply letting things take their course—would ultimately become the conclusion of my entire life. From this point onward, nothing particularly interesting would befall me—but then again, nothing particularly sorrowful would occur either. It was simply that I found myself feeling—without any particular reason—that my life would likely come to an end just as an autumn day fades away: gloomily overcast, without wind or rain. I would likely never again take a wife, keep a mistress, employ menservants and maidservants, raise livestock, nor repeat such an ornate lifestyle—with flowers in the garden, songbirds at the windowsill, goldfish by the veranda. The times had changed. In an era when even children from respectable families zealously threw themselves into temperance movements against alcohol and tobacco, to desire each morning the pristine cleanliness of a tobacco tray’s ash receptacle and contemplate the proper warmth for sake alongside the bitter tang of sencha—such thoughts must be the height of folly. That I should sew my own clothes like a Zen monk and warm sake over self-gathered fallen leaves in emulation of a recluse—this was but a notion I suddenly conceived following a certain incident.

Ten years ago, I left my new wife in dismay at her foolishness; seven years ago, I severed ties with my mistress, exasperated by her jealousy—since then, I had lived alone. When my spirits stirred, I immediately hastened by carriage to the pleasure quarters, yet at home remained only orchids, bush warblers, and books. There had been times when, imagining myself afflicted by an incurable disease of the bowels and stomach, I would think how nice it would be to have a woman kindly tend to me as I blew on embers to boil medicinal water on some cold night—but in those days, I had yet to find the desolation of solitude as unbearably intolerable as I did then. For the desolate sorrow of lamenting loneliness had instead become an inexhaustible spring of poetic inspiration. I even developed an inclination to actively pursue desolation and seek out sorrow. A certain unforgettable year… it was again around the 220th Day. In the dead of night, awakened abruptly by the sound of a waterfall-like deluge pounding on the roof and hearing what seemed like rainwater dripping somewhere within the house—unable to return to sleep—I rose and lit a hand-candle. In the house, only an elderly maid slept far away in the kitchen quarters, so the deserted interior—like an ancient temple—was pierced by dampness rising sharply from shoji screens, sliding doors, walls, and tatami mats that assailed one’s nostrils. When wind seeping through gaps made the hand-candle’s flame flicker, my monstrous shadow squirmed from the tatami where centipedes crawled to the walls where geckos clung. While shielding the hand-candle’s flame with my sleeping robe’s sleeve, I thoroughly inspected every corner of the corridors and each tatami room’s closets, but there was no sign of rainwater leaking through. The sound I had heard near my pillow might have been rainwater overflowing from the gutter. I finally opened the cedar door to the detached room that had been my late father’s study. A rosewood Chinese-style desk; a crystal paperweight; a bronze vase; an ebony bookshelf. The single room of over fifteen tatami mats had remained untouched since my father’s time, when he engaged with poetry and books during his lifetime. On the poetry paper spread across the desk, tortoiseshell glasses stood with one thick stem erect, as though awaiting the return of the departed. The eye-stinging scent of camphor protecting the bookshelf from bookworms seemed to reproach my negligence in not having visited this room for so long. I sat down on the mottled bamboo couch, held up the candle, and gazed at the hanging scrolls and poetry panels adorning the walls.

碧樹如煙覆晩波。
清秋無尽客重過。

故園今即如煙樹。
鴻雁不来風雨多。

This is merely setting down one poem from those hanging scrolls that still linger in my memory to this day.
I had lost myself in the pleasant reverie of solitary contemplation until—before I knew it—the candle had burned out and the storm subsided with the break of dawn.

January 2nd is my father’s death anniversary.
One year, on the morning after New Year's Eve—intending to cut a branch of wintersweet to offer at my father's grave—I stood in the garden beneath a coldly radiant moon in the deepest night.
At that time, I still possessed the vigor to set this down in writing immediately.

The elderly maid who had served me for many years contracted what was called the Spanish flu around that time and died. Since then, having found no honest servant to replace her, I began from time to time to slice bread myself, brew coffee, and even uncork wine bottles. Even a life of inconvenience akin to self-catering was not particularly hard to bear when poetic inspiration welled up in my heart. When I ventured near Ginza, I would usually stop by Seiyōken to buy bread and canned goods before returning home. It was a night of bone-piercing cold, heavy with the promise of snow. The two loaves of bread I bought—apparently freshly baked—kept me pleasantly warm from underarms to fingertips all the way home. The vicinity of Seiyōken became bustling with geisha coming and going once night fell. I recalled the quatrain from Spring Tides Poetry Collection that I had once cherished—"Six crimson windows remain unopened / A wondrous courtesan draws warmth from her bosom"—and found myself unable to suppress a laugh at how even without embracing such a woman, holding loaves of bread while walking kept me equally free from cold.

When poetic inspiration wells up, even a life of solitude holds no desolation.
Poverty and illness—take for instance Lang Shiyuan’s “Though carriages shun this remote place...”
There is “Warbler and flowers never abandon the poor,” and Bai Juyi’s “Poverty tempers the resolute scholar’s mettle.”
Were I able to recall a line such as “Prolonged illness elevates human compassion,” some small comfort might yet be found.
Yet poetic inspiration remains inherently mysterious and unfathomable.
It comes not when summoned, answers no desperate cries.
Thus when striving to forget loneliness’s ache through poetry’s salvation—only to find inspiration still withheld—sorrow first attains its most wretched extremity.
Those emotions of reverie that poets privately savor and pride themselves upon—bereft of inspiration—become mere petty complaints and seeds of remorse.

There had been times when, while walking through town, I would avert my eyes in shock from the dazzling yuzen-dyed fabrics displayed at kimono shops and hurry away. This was because I wished to avoid recalling the irretrievable joys of youth. When the smell of simmering beans from a prepared dish drifted over from the neighboring house, I irritably closed the window shutters. For I could no longer endure remembering the pleasures of family gatherings I had once known. When descending to plant flowers in the garden; when standing at street corners awaiting carriages; even when a breeze would lightly brush my sleeve as I reached to raise the window blind—in such moments, I would be overcome by sentiments akin to those of a conscripted soldier yearning for his distant home. Thus, for one living alone, there could be nothing as trying as rain—more than wind, more than moon, more than insects' voices.

In my diary on a certain day,

The prolonged rain still showed no sign of ceasing; I developed abdominal pain from the light chill. As night fell, wind arose and blew out the lamp; still, no dreams took shape. My thoughts wandered aimlessly. On rainy nights, within the lonely bedroom where silence seeps into the heart—this was an Edo folk song. Through one sleepless night, a solitary guest listens. The master's window framed a Japanese banana plant. This was Shao Du's widely known poem. I also recalled Du Xunhe’s lines: "At midnight before the lamp—ten years’ worth of matters." A moment of gentle rain touched the heart. Indeed, the rain struck windows, flowed from eaves, dripped through trees, splashed against bamboo—the resonance of these sounds moved the human heart in a manner surpassing wind's howls through tall trees or water's sobs in ravines. The sound of the wind was a voice of fury; the voice of the waters was a wailing lament. As for the sound of rain—it was neither anger nor lamentation; it only spoke, only pleaded. Human emotion remains unchanged through the ages; who listening to this alone at night upon their pillow would not be moved to sorrow? How much more so for me, afflicted as I was? If the rain lasted three days, I invariably developed abdominal pain. It could truly be called a heartrending sensation. There was one in Wang Cihui’s regulated verses from *Doubtful Rain Collection* that said—

*This ailing frame has truly become the rain’s proving ground.*
*Groans beneath the lamp harmonize with cicadas' cries.*

Thick dust, fallen leaves—a courtyard without a wife.
Disordered volumes, lingering fragrance—a solitary guest’s bed.

*An unwelcome growth I bear without complaint, like some giant gourd.*
*In vain this chronic affliction—how can I endure this burden on parched bowels?*

Only should one repeatedly recite the words of Nanhua.
*The well’s reflection—Hengjing is the Medicine King.*

This poem precisely articulates for me the life of solitary convalescence.
Hence I have copied it here again.

The rain that began falling on the evening of that year's 220th Day scoured away every last bush clover blossom and pressed their branches earthward, yet neither bowed the towering asters nor felled the leaden-headed cockscombs.
Instead, after drizzling ceaselessly for two days and nights, even on the third day the stubborn murk of an unrelenting sky made evening glories and moonflowers venture tentative blooms in midday's pallor.
Dampness clung more tenaciously after rainfall than during it; where my hands rested while writing, the desk glistened with condensation, brush shafts and pipe stems grew tacky to the touch, and sliding door paper sagged so perilously I feared gusts seeping through gaps might tear it loose.
This body frail enough to don lined haori before autumn's equinox—should such sodden days persist tomorrow and beyond—would surely require a physician's summons.
My infirm frame had truly become rain's proving ground.
Yet when I chanced upon the shamisen abandoned in the alcove and marveled at its unbroken skin, there came too the gladness of my afflicted flesh escaping its customary gastric torment.
After three days' rainbound confinement, I ventured to Ginza for errands and respite both.

It was when I had bought fifty everyday brushes called Hōsun Sengan and two bundles of incense at Kyūkyodō, hung two bottles of white wine from Kameya’s shop, and was heading toward the Outer Moat Line that I learned of the matter: that Oharu—the mistress of my acquaintance who goes by the artistic pseudonym Master of Saishindō—was to become a proper geisha once more.

A cloudy autumn day dimmed early.
When I opened the gate, a light already glowed beneath the eaves.
I pulled the cork from the wine I'd brought back, finished dinner immediately, and without smoking, took up my writing paper.

Respectfully submitted: Since then, days have passed without any word from me, for which I offer no excuse.
As my discourteous neglect toward various parties accumulates—to such degree that there are even matters to which I can never show my face again—I most humbly beseech your magnanimity to pardon this lack of decorum, being but the customary failing of literary vagabonds.
In truth, I have been afflicted since last winter with an ailment that has caused me to age precipitously, growing exceedingly indolent in all matters; thus I remain unable to compose the text for the new Enbuhachi festival piece discussed during last year’s celebration of Saishindō’s completion—rendering your magnanimous intentions void and leaving no means to atone for this incompetence.
Thus my literary work has of late fallen into such neglect that while unable to refuse publishers' demands—they making extravagant claims of paying one yen per character—the truth finds me growing anxious about my advancing age, thinking this will not do; though at times I sit at my desk knitting my brow into furrows, after writing but a page or two my brush inevitably falters and only irritation arises. Therefore I hereby resolve to use convalescence as pretext to write nothing for the time being, merely rereading without restraint those books I devoured in younger days, thus barely alleviating my ennui—such being my present state.
The very act of sleeping only to wake, waking only to eat—even passing each day as it comes has become unbearably trying to my very being, I hereby declare.
Therefore, as replacing the broken strings of my shamisen proved too troublesome, I left it as it was and discarded it; moreover, I have hereby returned the bush warbler to the bird seller the other day.
To Yūrakuza and other concert venues I have of course made no recent appearances; likewise to theater performances or fashionable establishments—hence lacking opportunity to hear of your esteemed self’s present circumstances, this matter alone being hereby declared most regrettable.
However, while I had been assuming your esteemed self's plans for reviving the Enbuhachi festival were steadily advancing, this evening I chanced to encounter Ms. Oharu on Ginza Street and learned she has taken leave from Saishindō—a development so unexpected as to leave me utterly astonished.
Given that this concerns a bustling thoroughfare—and particularly on a rain-laden evening at that—I could not at all comprehend the rationale behind assuming a license would simply be issued within two or three days.
Being utterly perplexed by these circumstances, I humbly inquire under the pretext of apologizing for my prolonged silence—though in truth, this stems from that novelist’s habit of hungering after others’ gossip—and beg your gracious pardon; I shall shortly call upon your residence to pay respects, but first must tender apologies for my remissness in haste.

September [Day] Respectfully, Kinfu Sanjin

Saishindō Cultured Pact

As I was affixing stamps to the envelope, the elderly maid slid open the fusuma screen to clear away the meal tray. Whether from having eaten, the lit lamp, or perhaps because I had closed the rain shutters, the study's slight chill felt somehow more bearable than during daylight hours. Yet the rain seemed to have started falling again. Though no dripping sounds reached me, through the clamor of chirping insects came the lonesome noise—the clack of geta sandals as the maid opened the side gate to mail letters, accompanied by the heavy rustle of an oil-paper umbrella being unfurled. A rain without dripping could only be this mist-like drizzle. Speaking of autumn night drizzles—their power to dampen surpasses even the rainy season's—but as routine dictated, I stoked the tobacco tray's fire to burn atractylodes against bookworms in my sketchbooks and volumes, then retrieved the long paulownia box from the closet to store away the shamisen. Seizing the moment, I pulled out the wicker trunk holding all friends' correspondence and sorted through it to examine letters from the Master of Saishindō. On a rainy night of solitary living, there was nothing to do but attend to such matters.

Master of Saishindō was the artistic pseudonym of a certain Mr. So-and-so, one of the directors of a well-known corporation. As his real name carried certain improprieties, I shall here refer to him as Yō-san, adopting the parlance of courtesans. It was about twenty years ago at a university in America that we first became acquainted. Yō-san had been known as a haiku poet among those circles when he was at a Japanese university. Even now he occasionally produces masterful verses—were one to mention Yō-san’s haiku pseudonym, those in the know would certainly recognize it. However, the alternate name Saishindō was likely known to no one besides myself. Moreover, now that house called Saishindō stood empty, Master Yō had lost all occasion to use that name again. The origin of Saishindō had been explained by himself in the letters that followed.

Respected Sir, I had the honor of perusing your new work while riding to my office by automobile.
In my haste I managed only to glimpse a fragment of its opening section; yet your brocade-like prose compelled admiration I could not contain—so thoroughly did I forget my station as a mere motorcar passenger amidst pressing duties that I found myself profoundly moved by your composition's literary virtues.
At present, during this season of fresh foliage and evening warblers, I am filled with utmost envy for your luminous study graced by clear windows and spotless desks.
Now regarding the cottage beside Akasaka's Toyokitsune Shrine—for which we imposed upon your design sensibilities since last December—the final plastering has at last dried, and with Oharu having vacated Shinbashi yesterday, I most humbly entreat you to grace us with your presence the evening after next when we shall mark this modest dwelling's completion with libations among our usual circle, despite the presumption of this request.
That night we shall of course host Miyazono Sensai alongside Uji Shisen, Togochū and others; I therefore implore you to steel yourself for interactions befitting familial relations.
The telephone line at Shiba [number] should moreover be connected within today or tomorrow; should I receive your gracious reply despite these inconveniences, it would bring me immeasurable joy.

Master of Saishindō

Professor Kinfu Sekihoku

P.S. Having deliberated over the drum-taut fusuma paper for that six-tatami room with earthen porch, I ultimately employed wastepaper collages of Bunka-era Yoshiwara courtesans' letters sold to me years past by a certain Edo-za master—an arrangement that has unexpectedly proven felicitous in my humble residence.
Therefore have I imposed the appellation Saishindō upon that house, though being fundamentally deficient in literary elegance, this unworthy one's capricious naming stands prepared for revision—should any more fitting designation exist, I earnestly entreat your guidance, ardently awaiting the honor of personal consultation.

Master Yō was wealthy but no nouveau riche.
He possessed dignity and erudition, being particularly abundant in refined tastes.
The letters dispatched to me bore varying artistic pseudonyms according to their purpose, yet even through these one could discern the breadth of Master Yō's cultivated interests and scholarship.
Some years past when I had inquired regarding a calligraphy album by Tōkō Genrin—an Edo-period calligrapher of the Tenmei era—Master Yō had returned a reply signed "Ringo-an, most humbly bows."
This likely sprang from playful inspiration derived from Sawada Tōkō's alternative sobriquet Raikindō.
There had even been an occasion when, following an automobile collision, he signed his convalescent reply as Tomita Sainan.
The appearance of "Hanbee" in the subsequent letter I shall transcribe presumably originated from his rehearsals of "Kuchizukei Hakkei" and entanglement with the geisha Koharu.

Last night I once again detained you against your will; I must humbly beg your forgiveness for this inexcusable imposition. Though already nearing life's fifty-year slope, this shameful spectacle of one who cannot properly keep a daughter-like figure constantly at his side—presented to your esteemed eyes without compunction—constitutes such presumptuous conduct that, though excused by the setting's nature, leaves me crimson-faced with utmost embarrassment when sobered. However, should this profligate gentleman's heartfelt confession ever serve as material for your esteemed literary brother's future novel, last night I laid bare these trivial matters in unvarnished inquiry—such being the nature of my contrition. Regrettably, due to an extraordinary general meeting of the company the day after tomorrow, practice at Hanrintei will be suspended. I most earnestly intend to present 'Kuchizukei Hakkei' within this month, and would humbly entreat your esteemed self to apply utmost diligence in study; I already anticipate with pleasure the collaborative efforts of Ohana and Hanshichi.

From Hanbee

Dear Professor Kinfu,

Back then, whatever others might say, I still retained a youthful spirit. When I first heard the approach of forty, each time I took up my brush to write in diaries or miscellanies, I would lament the coming of old age—yet looking back, this very act proves I had not yet truly aged. As long as I still had the energy to voice complaints and grievances, it could not be said that true despair had taken hold. The fact that I could declare without shame in public that modern geishas’ shamisen playing was unbearable served as proof that I still retained some charm and had not lost my desire for indulgence. If I retained the desire to indulge, it followed that my will to study had not waned. My interest in literary creation naturally arose as well. One night, having heard someone perform Enbubushi, I resolved to savor and learn its ancient melodies and began attending lessons at the master’s house in Yagenbori. Around that time, through a chance conversation, I discovered that my old friend Yō-san had also explored various artistic pursuits—from Nagauta and Kiyomoto music to Enbubushi—and for two or three years already had been enthusiastically inviting the same master to a teahouse called Hanrin in Kobikichō for practice sessions after work. We both found this coincidence so peculiar that we clapped our hands and laughed. Following Yō-san’s suggestion, I stopped attending morning practices and began visiting Hanrin in Kobikichō in the evenings.

Master Yō would invariably rush from his company in his private automobile around half past four on practice days, finish up the session, then detain me and summon his favored geisha to treat us to dinner.
And when it came to half past ten, he would prepare to leave with clockwork regularity.
On rainy nights, he would even go out of his way to bring me home by automobile right to my gate.

The geishas summoned to Master Yō's parlor were said to have once included name-taking performers from traditions like Nagauta and Kiyomoto, but by that time they had become strictly limited to members of the Kawato-Ichū-Enbū troupe—even those deemed young being no younger than twenty-five or twenty-six. There were elderly courtesans who appeared more like masters than geishas. Thus the figure of Oharu—who had reportedly just turned nineteen at the time—stood out like a lone crimson bloom amidst verdant foliage, her conspicuousness evoking inadvertent pity; one could not help but surmise without asking that this woman enjoyed Master Yō's patronage.

Oharu possessed a robust, large build with a truly ruddy complexion.
Her large, wide eyes, thick eyebrows, and clean hairline gave her face the sharply defined contours of a relief-carved visage; yet this clarity equally accentuated her flaws—a somewhat oversized mouth and slightly protruding jaw—rendering her countenance strikingly devoid of charm while lacking any trace of melancholy.
If voluptuous women are considered fashionable in any era, then Oharu should naturally be counted among their ranks.
The moment I realized that the fashionable Oharu was Master Yō’s possession, I must admit I felt somewhat taken aback.
However, that feeling was immediately revoked when I came to know that Oharu—contrary to both her youth and modern appearance—had largely adopted the Enbubushi shamisen style.

One evening, after finishing practice as usual, I was persuaded to change rooms and share a drink with Master Yō.
Oharu and all the geishas who should have come as usual failed to appear until nearly nine o'clock—apparently due to some gathering of local geishas at the Kabukiza—and that evening even the master, claiming to be feeling slightly under the weather, finished practice and promptly took a rickshaw home.
Master Yō and I, while having the maid pour drinks for us, took advantage of the unreserved conversation to discuss our respective thoughts on everything from the value of Edo popular music as an art form to its relationship with modern society and even its future prosperity and decline.
The shamisen, needless to say, is a delicate and sorrowful art that emerged in the pleasure quarters over two centuries prior and had already reached its full completion.
As long as the vestiges of past prostitution known as the pleasure quarters persist unchanged in modern society, the shamisen too shall retain the power to endure.
The shamisen, like ukiyo-e and Kabuki theater, is not an art that should be viewed through modern society's general social and moral perspectives.
It is not the living voice of modernity.
Because it is a whisper from the past, when those who grieve hear it, they are instead stirred by boundless fascination and emotion—much like courtesans who know not the grief of a fallen nation.
It carries the lingering charm of those singing *Backyard Flowers* across the river.
This is precisely the value of Edo popular music in the modern era.
This has long been my theory.
Master Yō found that listening to music provided far simpler comfort from his daily professional toils than the appreciation of visual artworks.
Toyotomi prepared tea, but joruri narrative music was preferable to tea.
Among all schools of Jōruri, none surpasses Enbū in solemnity.
He stated that Enbubushi's ghastly yet elegant melodies possessed a charm akin to hearing the whispers of ukiyo-e beauties within a dream.
In the end, both of our arguments amounted to nothing more than an antiquarian appreciation of Edo vocal music.

As the maid stifled a yawn and rose to replace the sake decanter, Master Yō called my name with an air of gravity. And continued: “Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you for some time now. It’s about Oharu. What do you think of Oharu? Will she improve? By rigorously training her in Enbubushi, I’d like to eventually have her inherit the iemoto’s name—what are your thoughts on that?”

Enbubushi differed from other schools of Jōruri and, due to the scarcity of practitioners, there was apprehension that unless steps were taken then to preserve it, the tradition would inevitably die out before long. There could be no objection to Master Yō’s plan to protect the fading old Edo music through his artistic inclinations and financial resources. Moreover, I myself had particularly acknowledged that Oharu's skill—uncharacteristic for her age—was worthy of pinning hopes upon; when I stated my thoughts accordingly, Master Yō slowly tilted a sake cup to his lips as he explained the circumstances.

“By no means could I be buying geisha just for their charm at this age.”
“There’s nothing left but to train her in some art for my own amusement.”
“Since it’s you I’m speaking with, I’ll speak frankly—though appearances might suggest otherwise, I do consider myself something of a moralist.”
“I detest today’s so-called gentlemen and tycoons alike.”
“If I despise tycoons, then socialists hardly impress me either.”
“Since this world has no use for earnest discourse anyway, I’ve made that my pretext for nightly indulgences... But never mind that... There’s actually some method behind this uncharacteristic whim of training a geisha in the arts.”
“Squandering fortunes on tea bowls and decorated paper is but a pastime.”
“Training geisha in the arts differs little from such diversions.”

"I have supported quite a number of people thus far,"
"I tended to them earnestly, yet ultimately achieved nothing beyond recognizing this era's inherent defects."
"At present, three students reside in my household."
"My eldest son too should matriculate at university come next year."
"I harbor not an iota of those base desires—to be thanked merely for extending care."
"Success or failure—such matters lie beyond my deepest concerns."
"My sole wish remains that they become individuals with whom I might converse pleasantly through all seasons."
"Every soul I've nurtured has met with worldly success."
"Yet their very manner of succeeding proves most distasteful to me."

“I won’t mention names, but this happened seven or eight years ago. There was a young painter whom others recommended to me and who myself thought showed promise—I provided him financial support. I believed he would become a pure artist like Buson or Kazan, but I was utterly mistaken. No sooner had he won prizes once or twice at exhibitions and gained some renown than he began carrying himself like an established master—training disciples in earnest, forming factions, exploiting newspapers and magazines to vigorously promote himself. It was exactly like a political campaign. But the results were fearsome—in less than ten years, that destitute student became master of a mansion that even Tani Bunchō’s Shasanrō would find commendable.”

“There is another successful live-in student from my household who leaves me utterly exasperated.”
“This one is an educator.”
“When he was attending university, one day he asked me to teach him haiku. Since I wasn’t averse to that path myself, I even lent him books from my collection.”
“At times I would take the initiative to press him—‘How about it? Have you composed any verses yet?’—and even correct them for him.”
“But upon later reflection, that man wasn’t particularly fond of haiku—he had likely inquired about such things merely to curry favor, knowing I occasionally composed verses.”
“Anyway, being such a shrewd man, after earning his degree and becoming a teacher at some provincial girls’ school, he soon married into a wealthy local family as their adopted son-in-law—nowadays he manages a private kindergarten and elementary school with considerable acclaim.”
“If that were all there was to it, there would be nothing to criticize.”
“I must greatly admire it, but what I truly dislike is that man’s methods.”
“He seems to regard the enterprise of education as nothing more than managing a shop or company.”
“Every year he comes to Tokyo and visits influential figures in both government and private sectors.”
“In his third year, he went to America under the pretext of an inspection, and upon returning after about half a year, he vigorously toured around giving speeches.”
“Well, that’s all well and good.”
“What I particularly dislike happened last year.”
“Despite having barely turned forty, he attempted to erect a bronze statue of himself in a local park to boast of his own achievements.”
“No matter how grand Itohira’s stone monument may be, that was done by his descendants, so there’s nothing to be done about it.”
“There would be no issue if one erected one’s own bronze statue in one’s garden purely as a personal indulgence—but his approach of subtly persuading students’ parents to fund it, manipulating local journalists to manufacture public approval, all while feigning composure—that is what vexes me.”

“I generally disapprove of how people nowadays pursue social advancement. Even should they fail and come borrowing money, I’d welcome them gladly if only they maintained an uncomplaining spirit. However successful they become, I detest those lacking honorable conduct. From such experiences, I grew weary of earnest patronage—found the whole endeavor absurdly futile. Though not directly related, while training Oharu in Enbubushi, this uncharacteristic fancy took root—what if I shaped this woman into my envisioned artist? Since all serious engagements with society proved fruitless, I resolved to cultivate performers instead. As you know, today’s artists—men and women both—are hopeless beyond remedy. No true masters shall emerge from their ranks henceforth. Moreover, unlike Nagauta or Kiyomoto, Enbubushi faces extinction when current masters die—none remain to inherit the tradition. Should Oharu apply herself rigorously as I intend, this dalliance might masquerade as preservationist work—a ‘serious undertaking’ to safeguard popular music.”

It was about three months later that Master Yō settled on having Oharu perform and began construction on a mistress residence.

When I looked at the letter from that time,

I was concerned about your cold.
Given your willow-like constitution and the current season, I earnestly hoped you would prioritize your health above all else.
In truth, there had been a matter on which I wished to receive your instruction; I had anticipated meeting you last night at our usual place. However, upon learning of your convalescence and thus losing the opportunity for personal discourse, I penned this missive in wine-induced haste without regard for proper penmanship.
Regarding the consultation—as you were aware of the mistress residence matter—having previously requested various parties to seek suitable properties, yesterday I received notification through an agent's office that two appropriate houses had become available, which I accordingly viewed on my return from the company.
One was situated at Daichi-gashi, while the other lay behind Akasaka's Toyokawa Inari Shrine.
Originally, I had considered Tsukiji most convenient and had requested properties there from the outset. But being informed that no suitable houses had yet been found—and there being a risk that prolonged delays might dampen this hard-won enthusiasm—I wished to hear your esteemed opinion and finalize either Asakusa or Akasaka from those options.
Regarding Oharu herself—while Daichi-gashi was certainly convenient in location—the neighborhood gossip would likely prove tiresome; though the location was somewhat inferior, she had expressed a preference for the Akasaka property.
The Akasaka property for sale possessed an aged garden with trees, but the house itself was deemed fundamentally unsound.
As for the Daichi-gashi property—though I considered it barely habitable provided one replaced fixtures and fittings—the location alone proved excessively built-up with poor sunlight; moreover, the second floor offered no view of the river whatsoever. The price—being leased land with only a thirty-tsubo house—demanding ten thousand yen net without discount struck me as exorbitant.
While one could endure the Edo-facing property despite its lack of garden, it would indeed have been peculiar were it not for its riverside location.

Now, regarding Akasaka—this area has long been considered ideal for nouveau riche gentlemen’s mistresses’ residences, so even if one were to purchase a property here and later tire of it, the agent assures there would conversely be prospects of selling at a profit.
The property spans approximately seventy tsubo with a house priced at fifteen thousand yen; being sloped land where the garden lacks flatness yet holds natural charm, and with Toyokawa Inari’s forest situated immediately beyond the fence, I consider it first and foremost suitable for either a retirement residence or mistress quarters.
When I went to inspect it yesterday, I found most agreeable the effect of worshippers’ clapping hands and birdsong being faintly heard through the grove of trees.
The terrain being shaded by the shrine’s forest to the northeast and appearing oriented southwestward, when rebuilding this old house one need only block even the western sunlight to achieve favorable ventilation; thus I believe we shall mercifully avoid suffering Tafuku’s lament—“My dwelling’s ill-built heat persists through summer nights.”
In any case, as you are aware, even within the capital’s Yamanote district—where Tōrin composed his verse “Through city streets, leaves scatter before Fuji’s gale”—the winter west winds and autumn western sun remain ever to be avoided.
The orientation being uncertain due to having forgotten the compass, I intend to conduct a preliminary inspection; thus I most earnestly hope to await your esteemed self’s full recovery and request your appraisal during your convalescent stroll.
I deeply apologize for this great inconvenience, but since ancient times, it has been said that in youth, one’s indulgences should be women.
In middle age, artistic pursuits.
In old age, building and gardening.
They say that if one merely refrains from such indulgences, wealth will accumulate—yet that my own progression through these very pastimes aligns so perfectly with the ancients’ admonitions strikes me as truly laughable.
Therefore, as the culmination of my indulgences, I wish to construct a mistress residence with all conceivable elaborations—might I humbly request your design ideas when leisure permits?
Though all may be called Edo-style, for performing Enbubushi itchū-bushi and such arts, I humbly believe we should proceed in a manner slightly more antiquated than what one sees in Ume no Koyomi’s illustrations—cultivating an atmosphere akin to that found in Harunobu’s picture books.
In Edo aesthetics, all matters must follow the esteemed Tenmei style!

Winter comes - if only this were a world where carefree hoods might exist.

I earnestly pray for your complete recovery from illness - each day stretches like a thousand autumns in my anticipation.

November [Day] From Hanbee

Professor Kinfu

At that time, society thrived with a roguish vigor thanks to the European War.
Corporations sprang up at a rate of three or four daily, leaving no doubt that Master Yō's company—with its longstanding capital foundation—amassed colossal profits.
Luxury goods sold best when priced exorbitantly.
With rice prices skyrocketing, even farmers turned speculators—such was the economic frenzy.
The era proved ideal for constructing new mistress residences.
The frequent heirloom auctions held by former noble families serendipitously aided Master Yō's residential project.
Master Yō began inviting me to preview auctions for bidding even before finalizing the property's layout.
True to our haikai sensibilities, we abstained from bidding on grand screens or samurai furnishings but voraciously acquired golden lanterns, lacquered bowls, braziers, washbasins, paving stones, chintz fabrics, and antique Canton silks—anything suitable for decorating a mistress' abode regardless of cost.
When construction concluded, I found myself at the celebratory banquet pressed by Master Yō and his artist guests until I reluctantly composed a draft titled "Chronicle of the Saishindō".
Moreover came the commission to create a new Enbubushi-style musical piece.

From the very next day I began combing through old chronicles and essays collected in reprinted editions by the Kokusho Kankōkai—starting with Enseki Jusshu—seeking materials suitable for the new composition. Each night I would draw the lamp close to my pillow and reread works like Matsu no Ha, Irodake Rankyokushū, Miyako Habutae, and Tosumiken Yōshū so that whenever I discovered a promising historical account or legend I could immediately take up my brush. At that time these matters—the kind of work Edo playwrights engaged in—seemed to me not merely interesting but profoundly significant, so I abandoned without regret the manuscript of the novel I had already begun writing. For I believed that the rhetorical methods of the genbun itchi style—which had become virtually standard for modern novels since Futabatei Shimei’s emergence—proved detrimental to composing Edo-style lyrical pieces structured in 7-5 syllabic meter.

Regarding this DE ARU style—even today after rereading classical texts—I find myself particularly unable to suppress feelings of distaste. While desperately striving to discard this vulgar DE ARU style I lament my utter lack of literary talent comparable to a single maple leaf’s fragility after years of failing to reform these ingrained habits; such is my present state NO DE ARU.

When embarking on that new composition I fervently desired to create something replete with haunting phrases like Chikufujin’s Tamagiku Memorial Water Melody—“Seeing Clouds Tatter”—or Ranshū’s Memorial Floating Shallows—“Though No Umbrella We Hold Three or Four Drops Drench Us”. Since being informed of my illness’s incurable nature the previous year I had resolved—as personal solace before death—to write one or two novels resembling Saikaku’s elegance or Yayu’s stylings.

The essays by Yayu compiled in Uzurakoromo had already received Shokusanjin’s unstinting praise needing no later commendation—yet each time I read them aloud slapping my desk I became certain these texts must endure as Japanese prose models for millennia so long as our civilization persists and language retains Chinese characters.

The reason lies in Uzurakoromo’s unparalleled complexity of thought erudition and classical allusions while maintaining crystalline fluency unmatched in our literary tradition. All Sino-Japanese classical texts form its weft post-Genroku vernacular its warp Yūa’s genius its adornment—only such consummate phrases may first be deemed permissible.

That I drafted “The Chronicle of Saishindō” at Master Yō’s urging stemmed from habitual admiration for Uzurakoromo’s prose. My humble essay was immediately framed upon completion while the new composition’s fragments remain stored in my desk drawer unfinished.

The subject I had determined to adopt for the new composition was the historical account from Edo Meisho Zue concerning courtesan Ume's suicide at Asakusa Hashiba's Ume no Tsuka.
When I prepared to take up my brush upon receiving Master Yō's approval, it was already nearing July's Bon festival, and as per annual custom, practices would be suspended until mid-September.
Master Yō departed for his Ōiso villa with his family.
I found myself bedridden for some ten days by the summer heat.
I resolved to finally sit at my desk when autumn's coolness arrived and Saishindō's practices resumed, but then the master himself fell ill.
By October when the master recovered enough to resume lessons, that ill-fated year saw Master Yō dispatched on company business to Manchuria and Korea.
Upon his return to the capital, year-end soon approached, and then through New Year's—as was customary among performers—practices remained suspended.

My enthusiasm for writing about Shinjū Umezuka had dried up completely amid such circumstances.
When February arrived bearing Saishindō's invitation to resume lessons, I—who annually keep indoors from bitter late-winter January through March's equinox, venturing out only for windless warm afternoon strolls—pleaded busyness with brush and inkstone while awaiting seasons when thin kimonos suffice.
The solitary life grants uncommon ease in health but demands uncommon hardship when ill.
When laid low by sickness severe enough to warrant total bedrest, complaints become moot; yet during milder ailments needing no nurse, even summoning doctors required personally wrapping rickshaw men's gratuities and ordering maids beforehand to prepare brass basins and towels for physicians' handwashing.
This convalescence multiplying duties rather than easing them left me dreading chills like some hothouse plant—all caution against catching cold proving as fragile as greenhouse glass.

That year was indeed an ill-fated year.
Despite all my usual precautions proving futile, by the time birds sang and blossoms fell I instead found myself repeatedly contracting influenza—whether due to the unusually persistent rains—until even when new bamboo shoots lengthened and loquats ripened, there came not a single day without pressing a hot water bottle to my abdomen, while the nuisance of taking six daily doses of liquid and powdered medicines interspersed between meals persisted.
When lying down to read, my hands would quickly tire from turning pages; when sitting to take up my brush, no inspiration would come. Passing days merely organizing and revising old manuscripts—meant for the scrap heap—at the publisher’s request for a revised edition of my earlier works only served to ceaselessly remind me of past joys.
I would often throw down the vermilion brush,

Gathering remaining books—how many volumes remain?

Frantic footsteps from twenty years past.

With laughter, we tilted rhinoceros-headed cups amidst blossoms.

Drunk, we steadied slender-browed companions aboard moonlit boats.

When Huang Zu raged, he alone took pleasure.

At Crimson Maid’s infatuated moments—utterly pitiable.

Now all my interests lay utterly worn away.

All that remained was love for a bronze brazier’s single coil of smoke.

I would occasionally recall regulated verses from The Yiyu Collection and find fleeting respite from melancholy.
In such a state, even had I taken up the shamisen myself, no inclination to perform jōruri could have arisen.

I spent the entire summer without even sending a reply to Saishindō, as if having forgotten entirely, and autumn too had swiftly reached its midpoint by that evening. The moment I abruptly learned that Oharu had left Saishindō on Ginza Street, I forgot my own prolonged silence and found myself solely perplexed by how matters had unfolded.

The sound of water trickling along the eaves trough into the water jar beyond the damp veranda could be heard. It was no longer misty rain. With the wind came the pattering of scattered droplets shaken from leaves at the eaves edge. Having grown aware of the smoke overaccumulation from continuously burning atractylodes root and tobacco, I reached to open the tiled entrance's sliding door just as the maid—who had gone to deliver a letter to Saishindō—returned clutching mail retrieved from the side gate box. All correspondence was thoroughly damp.

Three postcards lay within: two stockbroker advertisements and one reply-paid card bearing that magazine editor's customary impertinence—"Kindly inform us by deadline of your preferred geisha and restaurant." Of two letters present, one's handwriting immediately identified it as being from Saishindō's master. Certain this must concern Oharu's situation, I tore open the still-damp envelope without waiting to dry it.

It has been an age since last I received word; how fare you in these times?
This year, following the lingering heat’s unexpected chill and compounded by these recent autumn rains, I have been unable to suppress my concern for your esteemed health.
If this state persists without clearing for another two or three days, I fear the various rivers will flood, railways be disrupted, and rice prices soar ever higher.
Now to come abruptly to the matter of Oharu: an undesirable situation having arisen, I have had her return from Saishindō to her former abode.
The ancients already said: idle flowers are best viewed in idleness.
As they say: 'Once returned from a journey, the fan's creases show its age.' To debate such matters would constitute the very height of boorishness; moreover, should others hear of it, it would bring shame upon this house.
To state this would mean that you, with your great discernment, have likely already surmised the matter.
Even someone such as myself naturally has performers attached to geisha; as this is a common matter, I possess ample magnanimity to overlook such things.
Unlike other performing arts, where one might overlook certain indulgences, compelling her to practice Miyazono-bushi—a style consisting solely of love-suicide tales—required particular rigor. Yet she would prolong rehearsals of evening’s amorous tales until morning, letting her hair lose its luster and such; though I had specifically instructed her to narrate with emotional depth daily, this was hardly the “Eight Scenes of Idle Gossip.” While I never wished to be deemed an uncouth man ignorant of the pleasure quarters’ ways, upon discovering her paramour was none other than a movie narrator, I found it intolerable and dismissed her.
Though equally disagreeable, I might have endured political-actor performers or Soga-family-style players to some degree; but with chauffeurs or movie narrators—however much I wished to frame romantic affairs in jōruri patterns—one could never properly establish both sensual allure and artistic spirit, leaving me with sentiments akin to the exposed hidden lining of striped Hachijō silk.
I humbly consider that these sentiments, being in accordance with your esteemed aesthetic theories as ever held, may be all the more worthy of your sympathy.

Whether Oharu means to straighten her left hem once more or will now openly keep house with that moving-picture narrator—of her subsequent affairs I remain wholly ignorant.
The painstakingly maintained Saishindō now stands masterless; the begonias transplanted last year from your honored residence to that slope with excellent drainage have this year bloomed with such vigor in watermelon hues—though having recently lost three hundred sen in actuality, I find myself considering it rather more regrettable—perhaps you might deem it equivalent to one kan and three hundred monme.
Let this first serve as your comic diversion—particulars being as above.

Month Day
Saishindō's Former Master

Professor Kinfu

The rain finally cleared.
Once it cleared, this became that most unforgettable time of year—the autumnal equinox.
The lingering heat had completely departed; the hem of my unlined kimono layered refreshingly beneath the sleeves of my gauze haori, no longer oppressive.
The wind rattling the blinds swelled with tragic grandeur; the sky stretched clear in uncanny azure. Though no recluse, even I found myself gazing at drifting cloud-shadows with boundless fascination—such was this season.
When the skies cleared and winds calmed, the flowers in the grass and butterflies' wings emerged all the more vividly hued; the moat's water held the city's sunken shadow motionless; every pool in ditches and rainwater puddles became a mirror reflecting objects' forms—such was this season.

Recent storms had sealed the study tower.

With this newfound clarity came reason to draw the blinds.

Hedge chrysanthemums remained unopened; mountain cassia already lay fallen.

Amaranth alone claimed the garden's autumn.

Muttering these quatrains of old masters as they came to mind, I stepped outside.
My wandering feet brought me to Saishindō's gate where unfinished hinoki posts still bore the □□ Residence plaque unchanged at their knotted joints, sesame bamboo lining the side gate whose door—true to a kept woman's abode—stood fast shut against prying eyes.
The long absence bred an urge to enter without pretext.
Being one who appreciates craftsmanship, I imagined patina must have graced the raw wood of corridors and verandas.
Surely this year's rains had settled the garden soil and cloaked stones in moss.
Remembering the letter's claim that begonias transplanted from my home now bloomed watermelon-bright made resistance futile; my hand on the side gate found it sliding open effortlessly, and within—what marvel—from beyond the bush clover fence echoed a shamisen in the great hall.
Just then came the tautening twang of a second string raised and plucked twice.
No woman's hand.
If not woman, then none but Master Sensai himself.
Leaning unconsciously to discern what piece those tightened strings might play, I drifted inward while—

"Cast aside your pretenses and make me weep already――――――"

...the master interjected in measured tones.

"So then, Ukihashi Nuinosuke and his counterpart, having locked gazes, burst forth—"

Knowing they would rush through concluding the "Toribeyama" segment once lamentations ended, I unceremoniously slid open the lattice door to interrupt—a thoughtless act—and stood transfixed, watching an autumn spider busily spinning its web on the entrance canopy that had caught my eye.

“Well now—this is truly an absurdly preposterous matter.”
“That she would fixate on a movie narrator defies all rational discourse.”
“That was entirely my miscalculation.”
“Even disregarding the movie narrator incident, that woman appears devoid of future prospects.”
“When she worked as a geisha, her artistic potential seemed promising—which stemmed from her intensely competitive nature; she detested being outdone in any matter, hence naturally applied herself diligently to practice.”
“Thus when she abandoned her profession, all competitive impetus vanished.”
“Within a month or two, her shamisen practice became mere obligation toward me.”
“Initially I too voiced various admonishments.”
“As she isn’t inherently deficient in quality, I urged her to devote herself fully while still able—yet she comprehends neither her own aptitude nor consequently finds any enjoyment in artistic pursuits.”
“For instance, when idle with nothing to occupy her, she shows no inclination to take up the nearby shamisen and attempt recalling forgotten techniques.”
“If asked what does please her—apparently nothing holds particular appeal.”
“Needlework she naturally disdains; reading and writing hold no interest either.”
“Her sole diversions appear to be attending plays while idling about playgrounds with friends, or visiting Mitsukoshi and Shiraki department stores to dine in their cafeterias and tour Asakusa’s moving pictures.”
“Offer reproof and she ultimately rebels.”
“Having gone through the trouble of becoming something akin to a shamisen instructor, she began exhibiting attitudes that all but declared ‘What enjoyment lies in this?’”
“Seeing no hope in this situation, I dismissed her—though this matter isn’t unique to that woman alone.”
“Modern young women—whether from respectable households or geisha quarters—all share this same disposition.”
“Observe even the female clerks employed at companies—for all their impertinent chatter, they possess not the slightest inclination to endure hardships through diligent study.”
“In retrospect, attempting to train modern young geisha in Enbai could indeed be termed my error.”
“My daughter presently attends girls’ higher school—merely observing her makes evident that today’s young women cannot read anything beyond printed typefaces.”

“They cannot read cursive script or variant kana.”
“They can read newspaper novels but not kana-printed chapbooks.”
“The Enbai-style practice manual’s woodblocks were carved during Bunkyū.”
“Oharu was born after Meiji’s thirtieth year.”
“Their inability to read the manual’s script isn’t their failing.”
“City-bred women today don’t know wells.”
“They’d never recognize a waning moon caught in a well-sweep’s charm.”
“When such women trill ‘sophisticated views from beyond the well-curb,’ it rings hollow.”
“Even singing of ‘the cumbersome welcome palanquin’ means nothing to them.”
“Why would they care for what they can’t comprehend?”
“Our wanting Kikaku’s original *Gogenshū* blocks at any price shows how antiquated we old haiku masters are—new-school poets needing only 6-point type have no use for woodblock books.”
“Modern geisha strum shamisen through mere habit.”
“Just as new haikuists cling to the name while abandoning its essence.”
“I’m past debating rights and wrongs.”
“Better we ponder how long our era’s refined tastes can endure.”
“My company’s strike began last night.”
“Though evening papers would report it, today’s chaos made work impossible—so I seized this godsend to summon Master Sensai and polish two-three segments.”

Master Yō called Mikawa-ya in Tameike and treated me to dinner.
On the train home, I found myself thinking about the Henri de Régnier short story I had been reading for exactly two or three days prior.

MARCELINEOU LA PUNITION FANTASTIQUE

I found myself somehow connecting the story’s underlying theme with Master Yō’s words and reflecting on them.
Régnier’s novel presented a man’s lamentation over his inability to comprehend his bride’s tastes—a tale steeped in sorrow and indignation.
The man, who had long cherished both Italy and Venice’s ancient capital, chose this city for their honeymoon only to find his bride deriving no pleasure from it.
At an antique shop, he discovered an exquisite cut-glass doll once used in Venetian shadow plays and spared no expense to acquire it before returning to his ancestral home in France.
Their marital bond gradually frayed.
Among the bride’s acquaintances appeared a vulgar yet curiously woman-pleasing doctor who diagnosed her husband as mentally ill—thereafter she treated him as a madman.
One day upon returning home, the husband found his family’s generations-old mansion seemingly rebuilt from scratch—its timeworn facade obliterated—and every cherished furnishing down to chairs and tables replaced with garish modern wares like those lining Parisian storefronts; in his rage he smashed his surroundings before collapsing... After parting from Master Yō and returning home, I immediately read this novel’s latter half within my mosquito net.... The treasured doll—procured from that Venetian antique shop and cast into storage during his absence—now stirred to life under the moon’s radiance and began to speak.
The overwrought protagonist grew unable to distinguish dream from reality until at last he himself came to feel like the true madman his surroundings had always claimed—such concluded this novel.

When I reached out beyond the mosquito net to extinguish the lamp, I heard a distant bell toll. Counting the strokes, it seemed to be two o'clock. On those autumn nights deepening past midnight—even when rains had ceased—I lay awake while insects filled the garden with endless clamor, my thoughts wandering from one matter to another. Though desperate to sleep, I found myself sinking into aimless reverie. Come morning, I would awaken unable to recall any of those nocturnal musings—formless contemplations leaving neither beginning nor end.

Thereafter, year after year, with each turn of heat and cold, I became occupied solely with tending to my illness—never again finding the inclination to resume shamisen practice, nor could I bring myself to summon enthusiasm for literary endeavors.
Even those feelings—of being a man devoid of purpose who at times could not withstand grief and indignation—seemed to fade gradually with each passing year.
What occasionally comes to mind is Fernand Gregh’s verse:

J'ai trop pleuré jadis pour des légères!

Mes Douleursaujourd'hui me sont étrangères ……

Elles ont beau parler à mots mysteriéux ……

Et m'appelerdansl'ombre leurs voixlégères;

Pour elles je n'ai plus de larmes dans les yeux.

Mes Douleursaujourd'hui me sont des inconnues;

Passantes du chemin qúoneut peut-être aimées,

Mais qu'on n'attendait plus quandellessont venues,

Et qui s'en va là-bas comme des inconnues,

Parceqúil est trop tard, les âmes sont fermées.

In my youth, even over trifles, I did naught but weep and weep.

That "Grief"
What is this? Now it has grown so strangely distant.

The Princess of Grief calls to me with mysterious words,

In the dim shadow, it beckons me—how vain.

My eyes' tears have withered and dried.

Beloved "Grief"—
I had now become but a fleeting stranger.

Had occasion arisen, Mr. Tsuji might have spoken,

Yet even when visitations drew near, unwelcomed,

After parting's veil fell, all lay beyond knowing.

All things dwell in youth's domain; hearts beat unconnected now.

Truly, passion had dissolved—my heart lay withered beyond doubt.
To these ears attuned to survival's simple rhythm, the intellectual clamor warning of Europe's postwar chaos rang no clearer than an aged sweetseller's bamboo flute; these two or three years of existing solely to eat and sleep made days neither cold in winter nor sweltering in summer most dear.
Nights granting sound digestion and dreamless slumber brought felicity surpassing even the imagined comfort of pillowing one's head upon a beauty's lap.
Yet upon sudden resolve to order my affairs ere death's arrival, I first sold house and library alike—sweeping posthumous cares from life's threshold.
Only during this interlude did idle hours briefly brim with purposeful thought.

When leaving the home I had long inhabited, it was indeed a sorrowful experience.
In the Ming Shi Zong anthology, there is a quatrain by Master Mao that states:

壁有蒼苔甑有塵。

家園一旦属西鄰。

Heartbroken, I dread seeing the willow before my gate.

Tomorrow when we meet again, we shall be strangers.

Within that, I shall write again, tentatively titling it 'Account of Selling My Home.'

Taishō 10, January. Manuscript completed.

Preface to The Sound of Rain

My humble work *The Sound of Rain* was first drafted in the autumn of Taishō 7 for serialization in *Flower and Moon* magazine, which I had previously edited.
Originally titled *Saishindō Kawa*, but with the magazine’s discontinuation that winter and matters like my relocation, I consequently abandoned my brush for a long time.
In summer of Taishō 9, upon moving from Tsukiji to my current residence, I again found inspiration to write and was able to complete the manuscript by December’s end that same year.

It so happened that when a reporter from Shinshōsetsu magazine requested the manuscript, upon making a clean transcription, I changed the title to The Sound of Rain.
In September of Taishō 11, I combined this work with several short stories and essays I had written around that period into a single volume and published it through Shunyōdō.
In September of Taishō 13, upon publishing Azabu Miscellany as one volume, I once again took this short piece The Sound of Rain and placed it at the beginning of the volume.
In September of Shōwa 2, when Kaizōsha Publishing edited Volume 22 of Anthology of Contemporary Japanese Literature, they included the piece *The Sound of Rain* once more at the beginning of said volume.
This time, Mr. Noda the bookseller took this short piece again and intends to publish it.
Therefore, I shall record the circumstances of its publication and let this serve as a preface.

Shōwa 10, Wood-Hog Year, Eighth Month of Autumn at Henkikan; Kafū Sanjin writes.