Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

My friendship with Akutagawa began with Eguchi Kan acting as an intermediary. Akutagawa was just then ascending to the grand stage of the literary world as a rising star. Five or six years prior, I had already had several embarrassing poetic and prose exercises—the kind that now make me cringe to recall—printed in coterie magazines, and it seems Akutagawa had at least come to know my name by then. At that time, I had lost all confidence in literature and direction. As often happens in such states, I had developed a habit of viewing everything in the world—myself included—with contemptuous disdain. Akutagawa’s literature was not uninteresting to me. After reading a few of his works in Shinshichō, I rejoiced at discovering an artistic kindred spirit here, though I could not help feeling some dissatisfaction. While his style struck the Japanese literary world as remarkably novel, having encountered Anatole France and others myself, I was not particularly astonished. I wanted to read all of Akutagawa’s works and critique them while expounding my own literary theories. When I mentioned this to my friend Eguchi at the time, he lent me his complete set of Shinshichō magazines. Upon reading them through, I shared part of my opinions with Eguchi. Since Eguchi had already been friends with Akutagawa beforehand, it appears he relayed my thoughts to him. One day, I received a letter from Akutagawa. The letter had indeed been sent care of Eguchi’s address; it was then enclosed within another letter from Eguchi and delivered to me in a fresh envelope from him. This letter from Akutagawa was written on Matsuya manuscript paper—the kind he would use throughout his life—and I believe it ran about a thousand characters long. Though I kept this letter preserved, my brother in Hokkaido took it away—perhaps misplacing it—and despite repeated requests for its return, it still has not reached my hands, much to my regret. While I cannot reproduce the full text here, I seem to recall phrases he wrote on the train to Yokosuka. The letter’s gist included statements like: "Through Eguchi, I learned of your intention to critique me, but as my art remains immature, I would prefer not to receive criticism for now," and "Your earlier short story 'Enko' suggested to me that if this is how novels are written, even I might manage something similar"—which I remember spanning about three lines. He also wrote: "Were there no dog at your place, I would wish to visit you myself," while inviting me to call on him instead—this may have been from a second letter. The so-called second letter was his reply to my response regarding his first letter, but this too was taken by my Hokkaido brother and remains beyond my reach.

I cannot recall what I wrote in the letters I had sent.
I recall it was January or February of Taishō 6 (1917).

He had graduated from university the previous year, and it is well known that his graduation thesis was titled “A Study of William Morris.” According to him, he had no time to delve into Morris as a socialist or the ideal-driven entrepreneur, so ultimately, William Morris as a poet became the focal point.
I recall his jesting tone, but since even Morris as a poet proved difficult to fully analyze, when I suggested shifting focus to his boyhood, someone apparently laughed and said, “Why not go all the way back to his infancy?”

I believe it was early March, shortly after we began corresponding, when I first met him.
I made up my mind and went alone.
The maid announced my arrival with ambiguous hesitation, but immediately he himself descended from the second floor and escorted me back up to his study there. No sooner had we sat down than—

“Thank you for this morning.”

Having been told this, I found myself somewhat at a loss to grasp his meaning.
When I realized, it turned out that a short piece titled "Pheasant Yakitori"—which I had contributed to the Yomiuri's literary column about a month prior—had coincidentally been published that very morning, dedicated to Akutagawa.
Since the Monday supplement would have been issued then, it appears that day was indeed a Monday.
We had been conversing for perhaps ten minutes when I noticed Akutagawa seemed peculiarly ill at ease.
At last he explained his circumstances—the submission deadline for *Chūōkōron*’s literary piece (a handkerchief?) was fast approaching, with urgent demands awaiting his attention belowstairs.

“That being the case, I can’t settle my mind. Even if I were to delay my writing by a day or so, meeting for the first time in such a restless state would be unpleasant for both of us—and if this agitation were to spread to you, that would be quite troublesome,” he said apologetically. I promised to return on another day and left.

Around that time, Akutagawa was writing with a chair and table on the tatami mats of his Japanese-style room. The area next to the tokonoma had been recessed just enough to accommodate a desk. I thought it characteristic of Akutagawa to fit his body precisely into that cramped space while writing. Later, when Tanizaki Jun’ichirō saw this setup, he remarked, “It’s impressive he can write in such cramped conditions.” But since I too preferred small studies where only my body could fit, in this regard I resembled Akutagawa.

Speaking of similarities, there seemed to be quite a few others—I had heard that around that time, when I had begun translating Human Tragedy, Akutagawa too had planned to translate it. No—apparently this matter was mentioned in that first letter from him. There were indeed phrases stating that the aspects he admired in Saitō Mokichi’s poetry aligned with mine. A little later, when Beardsley’s Under the Hill came up in conversation and I mentioned wanting to try translating that idiosyncratic prose of his, he said he had once thought the same. When he said “before,” he likely meant around the time he graduated from university.

Such coincidences occurred periodically. Later, when he visited my lodgings in Yotsuya Shinano-cho regarding the compilation of a literary reader—I believe it was indeed late September—the summer cushion I had recommended turned out to be identical to the one used in his household, and he...

“I feel something uncanny,” he said.
It was made of Chinese linen, with a dark buff 'longevity' character dyed at the center and bats patterned around the four sides.
According to Akutagawa, Chinese merchants had exported these under the Japanese consulate’s recommendation in Shanghai, but they were seething as the items refused to sell.
In other words, Akutagawa and I had both purchased these utterly unsellable goods.
But that day held more surprises yet.
When we eventually decided to take a walk together, I changed clothes and retrieved my watch from the desk drawer—at which point Akutagawa—

“Hey, wait a second!” he said with a somewhat exaggerated, shrill laugh as he extended his hand. I handed over my watch while eyeing it warily, and he— “Hey, this one’s the same too!” With that, he pulled a chainless watch from his sleeve and thrust it before me. It was nickel-plated, costing about twenty yen, its dial crisply encircled by oversized Arabic numerals. At this serendipitous match between our possessions, I too felt a flicker of astonishment, and we laughed together, declaring, “Another marvel!”

II

The circumstances through which I came to know Tanizaki Jun’ichirō were also connected to Akutagawa.

Regarding the publication of *Rashōmon*, it seems I was indeed the first to conceive the idea of holding a "Rashōmon Gathering." Prior to that, there had been the precedent of the "Reminiscence Gathering" for Kitahara Hakushū’s poetry collection, but at the time, such events had not yet become a customary trend as they are today. Today, whenever I see these commemorative banquets held for famous and obscure works alike, I often find them somewhat tiresome; yet upon reflection, I may bear some responsibility for having initiated this habit of trivial time-wasting gatherings. Be that as it may, since having only the *Shinshichō* members, Eguchi, and our own coterie magazine *Seiza*’s contributors as initiators of this “Rashōmon Gathering” lacked sufficient momentum, it was decided to have Mr. Suzuki Miekichi, Mr. Komiya Toyotaka, and Tanizaki Jun’ichirō join as well. And so it was that Eguchi and I visited Tanizaki—who was then residing in Haramachi—around four in the afternoon during the rainy season. Tanizaki had been taking an afternoon nap but got up and agreed to our proposal. The Rashōmon Gathering was held at the newly built Kō no Su on Nihonbashi Street. Because I had no kimono, I borrowed a hakama from someone to wear over my worn-out Kurume kasuri. It was a muggy evening at the end of the rainy season; climbing up to the rooftop of this house, the tepid wind felt harsh. And in the distance, the lights sparkled with the essence of early summer.

When the gathering began and an opening address from the organizers was required, we asked Mr. Komiya and others, but they all found it too troublesome to oblige.
Since they said the de facto organizer should do it, I ended up being made to stand and speak—though I should have refused—and despite it being a simple matter, I rambled on.
I believe Akutagawa attended wearing a morning coat.
The master of this house was fond of literary figures, and as it was a season abundant with flowers, the tables were lavishly adorned with sweet peas and roses.
While contemplating my utterly hopeless literary career, I thought Akutagawa—sitting smartly at the gathering's center—seemed fortunate.
At the end of the gathering, this house's master brought out a rather large sketchbook and requested Akutagawa to provide a commemorative inscription.
Akutagawa wrote five characters meaning "Originally a man of the mountains" in an unpolished Six Dynasties-style hand.
Four or five days prior when discussing those times with Tanizaki, he claimed no memory of attending this gathering—likely having been traveling—yet now as I recollect details, I distinctly remember not only Akutagawa in Western clothes kneeling on a felt rug over the Western-style floor in an adjacent room as he wrote characters, but also Tanizaki standing behind him peering over his shoulder.
Then Tanizaki called out loudly to stop Gotō Sueo descending the stairs after the gathering's conclusion, and when Gotō—his large frame laboring—climbed back up to the landing—

“Since you’re skilled at calligraphy, how about writing an inscription as well?”

Gotō dismissed this as trivial or something of the sort and resumed descending the stairs, while Tanizaki laughed like a mischievous child.
This scene is no trick of faulty memory; if it were not the Rashōmon Gathering, it might have been some other occasion—yet I cannot help but believe it was indeed that very event.

I believe it was shortly after this gathering that Akutagawa invited everyone.

"Tanizaki too is all alone like that without any friends—someone should go barging in from time to time and befriend him. Otherwise, even someone like Tanizaki must feel lonely."

Akutagawa said something to that effect.

It was a day in early July after the rain had cleared, and I remember taking off mud-stained tabi in Tanizaki's entryway.

Those who went together numbered at least five people—Akutagawa, Akagi Kōhei, Eguchi, myself, and others I’ve since forgotten.
Everyone first gathered at some unspecified location before descending upon Tanizaki’s residence in full force.
It appears Akutagawa or someone else had prearranged the day for this visit.
What makes Akagi stand out most clearly in my memory is how he dominated the conversation with impassioned discourse even at this gathering.
This crusader against decadent literature—the same man who had denounced works by Chikamatsu Shūkō and Nagata Mikihiko—maintained a critically favorable view of the Shirakaba group, and on that day too recommended Nagayo Yoshirō’s play to everyone with measured enthusiasm.
Incidentally, it was likely Akagi who coined that labored pun—“The mustard river’s knowledge” (*Akutagawa no chishiki nari keri*).
I’ve completely forgotten what topics Akutagawa discussed during our visit to Tanizaki.
What remains clear is how Takebayashi Mugian happened to bring along Kato Ken by chance, causing Tanizaki’s eight-tatami study to overflow with people.
Kato—then a junior reporter for Yomiuri—sat hunched deferentially in a corner of the room.

“It’s just like a family council where the wayward son Kato-kun is being scolded, isn’t it?”

Tanizaki said such a thing. Everyone stayed at Tanizaki's house for about four hours.

It was twelve years ago.

III

In the meantime, I separated from the woman I had first lived with and came to set up a home with a second woman.
First I lived in Dōzaka, then in Komagome Shinmeichō.
Tanizaki moved to Akebono-chō.
My house was situated almost midway between Akutagawa’s home in Tabata and Tanizaki’s new residence.
I imagine they were likely aligned almost perfectly along the same straight line.
Relatively speaking, Tanizaki’s house was closer.
Given this geographical proximity, Tanizaki and I found ourselves surprisingly compatible, and within less than half a year, we began visiting each other day and night.
There were times when the two of us visited Akutagawa together.
Tanizaki and I developed a bad habit of conversing by imitating others’ speech, always abandoning our own stylistic phrasing to mimic various mutual friends.
The phrasing and tone of Uemoya Sōjin formed the foundation, but in between, we would imitate Kume Masao, Akutagawa, or Takebayashi, among others.
For Kume Masao’s part, we would adopt his so-called wry smile and say, “How awkward of me,” while for Akutagawa’s, it was “For example?”
At that time, whenever we engaged in debates and such, Akutagawa would frequently repeat this “For example?” in a tone that seemed to organize the tangled threads of his opponent’s arguments, and so we imitated him.
Merely saying things behind their backs lost its amusement, and eventually this joke escalated to the point where we would imitate Kume to Kume’s face and Akutagawa to Akutagawa’s face.
Kume, let alone Akutagawa, tolerated this rudeness with a wry smile. However, according to recent accounts, while there must have been various reasons why a certain gentleman—who was once extremely close to Akutagawa—later grew somewhat distant, it seems that on one occasion when this gentleman was cornered by Akutagawa during an argument, he resorted to a desperate joke by mimicking this "For example?" mannerism, whereupon Akutagawa deemed it impudent and reportedly spoke of the matter even to outsiders.
Now that you mention it, I recall that I too once went to visit Tanizaki—who was summering in Kugenuma at the time—and there, carried away by my own antics, I imitated Kume so excessively that even the mild-mannered Kume’s expression seemed to darken slightly.

Having recalled this, I took the opportunity to note it here and expressed my apology.
It was during this time in Kugenuma that we all went to the coast.
It was decided that everyone would enter the sea, but Akutagawa did not agree.
At that time, I had a habit—strange as it may sound—of not wearing an undershirt when dressed in Western clothes. When I mentioned this as the reason I couldn’t enter the sea, Akutagawa promptly took off his own and lent it to me right there.
The reason Akutagawa would occasionally remark afterward that Sato had a physique quite impressive for a poet was that he had seen me naked on this occasion.

Through Tanizaki’s friendship, I had somehow managed to become able to write and even had my works introduced to the world; in any case, I followed Akutagawa’s lead, engaging in discussions and conversations as one of the same group.
Of course, I paid attention to what Akutagawa wrote beyond merely liking or disliking it or deeming it good or bad.
Due to my own habit—though I consider it far from commendable—when someone was said to be bad, I could not help but discover the good within them; conversely, when someone was said to be good, I could not help but enumerate the flaws within them.
Now, at that time, Akutagawa’s works were receiving acclaim everywhere.
I would naturally pick out flaws from his works and often directly inform the author of them or else indirectly point out the artistic defects.
I did so only after fully acknowledging Akutagawa’s strengths, and since I believed that friends in art should speak their minds without reservation to hone each other’s craft, I had developed a tendency to voice everything bluntly and without restraint.
In this regard, both then and now, I remain a mere savage.
And thus I often made enemies.
However, I believed that rather than stifling myself to avoid making enemies, there was more worth in living by expressing myself uninhibitedly, even if it meant creating enemies.
Setting logic aside, I made it my practice to always say exactly what I wanted to say.
Instead, I strove to say things as openly and directly as possible in a place where the person could hear, rather than speaking behind their back.
As for my disposition of this sort, speaking openly was a form of affection.

The difference in character between Akutagawa and myself, I think, lay primarily in this one point. Akutagawa was a man of little compromise, quite faithful to himself, but on the other hand, he seemed unable to behave with such brashness toward others. For example, Akutagawa once said to Tanizaki,

“Sato’s art is good enough as far as it goes, but ultimately, it’s like a one-hole flute—rather unreliable.”

I, having heard that he had said this, later agreed with Akutagawa’s argument on subsequent occasions,

“It’s no good as things are now—I must do something about it.
“—with your one-hole flute.”

When I said this, Akutagawa—

“But if you are a one-hole flute, then who in today’s literary world could claim not to be one?” he said.

But as someone who had even borrowed his undershirt, I found Akutagawa’s sociable reply rather disagreeable.
Because such things happened from time to time, I often felt there was a hidden side to Akutagawa’s words and would voice my dissatisfaction to Tanizaki.
Tanizaki would then calm me down,

“You have that stubborn streak—a country bumpkin’s way of thinking—but Akutagawa’s an Edo-born man with social graces. That’s just how he speaks naturally. Really, the fault lies with you.”

When told this, I could only fall silent.
Yet despite myself, I still found myself disliking what Tanizaki called “the urbanite Akutagawa’s” social polish.

There had been a time when I translated Poe’s short piece “The Shadow.” Akutagawa apparently discussed this translation with five or six friends and juniors, declaring it so riddled with errors as to be utterly unreadable—or so claimed a gossipy fellow who’d been present at that gathering when he came to tell me about it.
Having no confidence in my language skills whatsoever, I’d shown the draft to Tanizaki and other friends for corrections before publication. In fact, I’d even hoped Akutagawa himself might review it given time.
Hearing this criticism left me deeply anxious, though my own stubborn pride refused to believe it could be truly unreadable.
I frankly shared these feelings with the messenger, adding that I’d soon visit Akutagawa to seek his advice directly.
Later I’d learn this man lacked any real integrity, making his account unreliable—nor could I know how he’d relayed my words—but regardless, within the week Akutagawa appeared at my door one evening.
Seeing him, I immediately mentioned my intention to visit—whereupon he began speaking rapidly—

“No—actually, I came here about that matter. I was terribly rude,” he said. “When read slowly, your translation isn’t bad at all. Let me present this to you.”

As he spoke, he took out Fouqué’s Undine translated by Edmund Gosse from his pocket and placed it on my desk.

Not only on this occasion, but whenever I met Akutagawa, even if there were things that somewhat displeased me, I would immediately forget them, and a surge of affection would well up first. Putting it this way, I might sound servile, but I am not necessarily like that with others. When encountering unpleasant people, I would immediately make a displeased face; even with those I didn’t outright dislike but still felt somewhat averse to, I would promptly let that sentiment show in both expression and words—only to later reconcile and grow closer. Yet with Akutagawa alone, whenever I met him, I could feel nothing but unclouded, unreserved affection throughout our time together.

Now that I reflect upon it, this may have been one of his virtues, but at that time, to me, it was clearly a burden.
Somehow I felt I was being deftly maneuvered.
And after we parted once more, I found myself doubly cursing the urbanite Akutagawa's social grace.

Once again, there was such an incident.
That was around the time Akutagawa wrote "The Witch," and upon checking, it turns out to be the autumn of Taisho 8.
And it was around that time that the incident involving "The Shadow" occurred; I was continuing to write monthly critiques for Shincho at the time.
In that monthly critique, I took up Uno Koji’s "The World of Suffering" and Akutagawa’s "The Witch: Part One" for review.
"The Witch" was clearly a failed work for Akutagawa.
I explained this quite clearly in the critique.

That December—yes, it was New Year’s Eve—Akutagawa invited me out for a walk. One evening, Akutagawa was walking through Hongo streets while introducing works by O. Henry and Ambrose Bierce for my benefit. We went to that house called Hachinoki and had dinner together. At that moment, Akutagawa began to say the following as a preface to the conversation:

“As a friend, won’t you understand this? In other words, in cases where we have written works that anyone would clearly deem failures, shall we not show mutual respect and agree to remain silent in our criticism of them? To avoid public misunderstanding, this is indeed necessary. For example—well, let’s take anyone—suppose Mizumori Kamenosuke writes the masterpiece of his life. In that same month, suppose Tanizaki Jun'ichirō writes this as the disastrous work of his life. If they were to line them up and discuss both in the same manner all at once, readers of such criticism would fall into the illusion that Tanizaki Jun'ichirō is a more tedious writer than Mizumori Kamenosuke. This should clearly not be the true intention of a critic, you know.”

There was a tone to his phrasing that somehow seemed mindful of my own feelings.
I answered.

"You may be right.
In any case, I'll no longer engage in criticism.
It does no good for the writer, nor for myself—and as for the readers, whether it can enlighten them or not is unclear..."

I believe it was indeed that evening; due to some melancholy incident elsewhere, I felt unbearably lonely and did not wish to part from Akutagawa.
When I conveyed these feelings to him, he said, "Then come to my house."
So I followed him.
As we walked, I thought to myself: Here was a man of Akutagawa's caliber, yet instead of resolutely embracing a solitary existence, he gathered numerous peers and juniors around him, seemed to take pleasure in some form of worldly influence, and rather than being content with single-minded dedication to artistic refinement alone, appeared intent on maintaining his market value through social means.
Though our collaborations naturally died out after about four or five instances, there existed at that time what was called the Third Saturday Society—a gathering centered around Akutagawa and others that comprehensively included all prominent new writers of the period, meeting monthly on the third Saturday. Though I too was a member of this group, I could not help feeling it carried an air of cliquish factionalism.
I had made up my mind about all those things and thought it would be alright to speak to him tonight.
When I went to his house, he, as usual, took out various art books and showed them to me.
At that time, he liked Dürer's engravings and was particularly fond of the seamless composition in his Melencolia.
He was also an admirer of Rubens.
He did not speak much of the former in later years, but Rubens remained a frequent topic of conversation long afterward.
That evening, no sooner had we settled into our seats than Mr. Katori Hoshuma—whom Akutagawa referred to as his so-called "teacher from next door"—arrived.
The conversation turned to topics such as early modern Japanese art and craftwork.
When the topic of Natsuo came up, Akutagawa did not know the name of this renowned early Meiji metalworker.
He listened to Mr. Katori's talk with intense earnestness.
I witnessed his voracious intellectual curiosity firsthand and saw that he was broadening his horizons not merely through reading but by associating with numerous seniors from various fields.

I ended up not saying what I had wanted to say due to Mr. Katori’s visit, but my emotions inadvertently spilled out—

“You have a side reminiscent of Bunchō.”

I said.
Akutagawa gazed intently at my face but immediately—

“If only I could become a Java sparrow or a Japanese white-eye.”

he deflected lightly.

At the time, I was suffering from severe neurasthenia, and perhaps because of that, I interpreted things with a warped perspective.
Looking back now, despite Akutagawa’s dashing appearance and despite the brilliance he displayed in discourse, I failed to realize that he actually had a very timid and meticulous nature.
And I had misunderstood him as a sort of people-pleasing tactician.
The greater part of this sin naturally lies with me, but half of it must also be acknowledged by him.

Akutagawa knew that I was criticizing him on such points. And then one time—

“Although people say today’s literary world has become political, that isn’t necessarily limited to today. Even someone like Mori Ōgai wrote letters to friends saying things like, ‘Since the Yomiuri Shimbun had become aligned with the Waseda faction, we must exercise caution.’”

With words such as these, he subtly defended himself.

IV

Whenever I had gotten myself into some trouble and was holed up in my hometown, he would always send me letters filled with kind friendship.
I made little effort to conceal my stubborn pride and defiant posturing in life, and even after my opportunities to meet Akutagawa directly grew fewer, he seemed to understand the state of my life better than anyone.
Even I, who was lazy with correspondence, would occasionally write letters to Akutagawa.
Not only when I was in my hometown but even when I was in Tokyo and completely worn out, he would unexpectedly come to visit me himself or send messages through others.
During the time when I had broken off relations with Tanizaki over some incident and seen my household destroyed—living in a state of semi-wandering through Tokyo’s streets—Akutagawa sent a message through Takiya Cho-in: “Satō seems to misunderstand me on various counts because I have many friends he dislikes, which doesn’t sit well with me either. I’d like you to properly convey this point.”
Takiya conveyed to me the meaning of Akutagawa’s message: “I likely value Satō’s talent more than anyone else.”
Truly, during that time, I had hardly associated with anyone in the literary world for two or three years.
Therefore, though I harbored no particular feelings different from before, naturally there came to be no opportunities to meet Akutagawa, and our communication was temporarily severed.
When I heard Takiya’s words, I felt compelled to write a letter to Akutagawa.

In reality, while he and I shared an extraordinary depth of affection in one aspect, there existed in another aspect something that we simply could not merge.
Perhaps this was because there were too many points of commonality between the two of us.
That Akutagawa too was dissatisfied with this point can be seen from his essay titled "Satō’s Misunderstanding" in Satō Haruo’s impressions in Shinchō, published not long after the earthquake.
That essay, though half-jocular in tone, was something I received as containing a firm protest delivered within its gentle phrasing.
This passage lies buried within the biographical sketches of the essay collection *Ume Uma Uguisu*, but when I read it, the differences between his character and mine become strikingly clear.
In this sense, this short passage is extremely interesting to me.
In response to my having criticized him for not speaking with clear-cut positions, Akutagawa said: —

“I have always maintained clear-cut positions.”
“Not once have I ever said things like ‘how wise’ or ‘how brilliant’ to a gentleman I thought was a fool.”
“I merely refrain from calling them fools.”
“If you think that constitutes being unclear in one’s positions, then it must be called your misunderstanding.”

This quoted passage vividly illustrated Akutagawa’s attitude toward life and clearly revealed to me the differences between him and myself.
Indeed, Akutagawa had likely never once said “how wise” or “how brilliant” to a gentleman he thought was a fool.
Had he said such things, it would not merely have been a lack of clear position but rather the uttering of empty flattery that didn’t come from the heart.
Akutagawa stated that he merely refrained from calling them fools.
His way of explaining this was quintessentially that of an urbanite.
Even if I thought someone a fool, I—for all my rustic bluntness—would refrain from openly declaring them one.
However, in the world of art—particularly in criticism—the necessity of self-expression often compels one to frankly admit when they consider someone a fool.
This truly happens often.
Moreover, even when not amounting to written criticism, I believe that in literary friendships—unlike in general social interactions—more pleasurable results are obtained when all parties frankly express themselves to each other.
I suspect Akutagawa would logically have acknowledged this theory of mine, yet his urbanite sociability and temperamental fragility must have hindered him—not only did he refrain from uttering “how wise” or “how brilliant” to those he privately deemed fools, but far from merely avoiding calling them fools, he undoubtedly felt compelled to display appropriate goodwill in his demeanor, convinced this was a human obligation.
From such a viewpoint as his, my crude attitude—seen as barbaric rudeness—must have somewhat annoyed him.
Moreover, though it was likely almost unconscious on his part, ever since he first heard about me from Eguchi—learning that despite my patronage of his art, I had considerable criticisms—and given that my attitude was, as I’ve said, often brusque, I suspect he came to perceive me as someone to be guarded against.
Moreover, I now reflect that my competitive mentality toward him—who appeared to me during my most unfortunate period as a peer so enviably fortunate—must have manifested all the more blatantly precisely because it was unconscious.

People seemed thoroughly acquainted only with those aspects where Akutagawa and I harbored somewhat incompatible feelings toward each other, yet appeared completely unaware of the friendship that was surprisingly firmly rooted at its foundation.
However, we comrades, being the parties involved, were naturally well aware of both aspects.

Akutagawa once said with a laugh.

“Ah, did you know? You and I were compared by Mr. Takamura Kōtarō to Leonardo and Michelangelo—isn’t that amusing? No—here’s how it went: when a certain man asked Mr. Takamura, ‘Why don’t Satō and Akutagawa get along?’ Mr. Takamura gravely began, ‘Since ancient times, even among artists like Leonardo and Michelangelo…’ so I hear.”
“The part where he invoked Leonardo and Michelangelo—that’s quintessentially Mr. Takamura.”

Another time,

“There’s someone who keeps driving a wedge between our feelings—it’s such a bother.”
“Don’t you think so?”
“It’s something that the likes of ××××× do.”

The term ××××× referred to the title of a certain man’s published work, and this mediocre essayist was the same man who had previously inserted himself between Akutagawa and me during the incident surrounding the translation of *The Shadow*, meddling with his gossip.

Regarding the literary reader that Akutagawa had compiled, a certain senior whose work was included in it seemed to have some dissatisfaction concerning copyright matters related to Akutagawa’s project.
If what that senior said was true, then having heard it myself, I thought it best to inform Akutagawa. Without mentioning who had said it, I simply stated that there was someone expressing certain opinions. Akutagawa immediately nodded and said, “I’ve already heard about that matter, but did that person speak to you directly about it?” When I answered affirmatively, Akutagawa—

“So they really do think you and I are on bad terms—that’s why they went to such lengths to seek your concurrence, huh?”
“Thank you. I’ll devise some way to clear up this misunderstanding.”

he replied.

By way of digression, Akutagawa harbored toward this senior—for reasons unknown—a kind of emotion that could only be described as somewhat paranoid in nature.

It was a relatively recent matter when, on one occasion,

"A certain individual has been spreading rumors that I've become utterly incapable of work due to Chinese syphilis—how pitiful—and in the process, you've been similarly caught up in this mess."

When he said this, I laughed,

“If that certain someone were to contract Chinese syphilis, he might become unable to work—but perhaps he’d produce something of slightly better quality. Shall we send him a joint letter saying just that?”

I had listened without paying it much mind, but Akutagawa appeared deeply distressed at having such rumors spread about him.

The other day, while discussing his collected works with Kojima Seijirō, I spoke at length about him; Kojima remarked that the relationship between Akutagawa and myself might best be described as that of rival friends—and perhaps that assessment was indeed apt.

Be that as it may, this unique friendship had continued in this manner for nearly ten years. As someone who had almost no friends, Akutagawa was a rather important friend to me. Not only did we correspond, but Akutagawa would also—though it may have seemed spur-of-the-moment—make deliberate trips from Tabata to Yotsuya or Koishikawa, sometimes engaging in lengthy conversations and other times inviting me out for walks. He would also invite me to his home. Before returning to my hometown, there had been a promise I couldn’t manage to keep. According to someone who happened to be there that day, Akutagawa had said that Satō was supposed to come that day and had waited restlessly for me. However, I—who had planned to close up my house and live in the countryside for about a year—found myself unable to visit him when the time came due to a succession of tasks that arose. From Osaka, I sent him a letter explaining the circumstances and apologizing for breaking our promise. His reply stated that while he had initially been somewhat angry, seeing my letter had dissolved his irritation—and contained phrases more exceptionally kind than usual, such as offering to work on my behalf should I need to publish any works while in the countryside, since it might prove inconvenient otherwise. Excluding juniors, literary youths, and those with business matters, as someone for whom—apart from Tanizaki—there were no peers visiting each other's homes beyond perhaps Akutagawa and Muroo, I had always counted Akutagawa as a true friend through and through. Yet what I feared was that Akutagawa must have had many older, closer friends than myself; thus, the feeling that while he might be significant to me, I might not be an important friend to him always took precedence. Moreover, while there were aspects where we found it difficult to align perfectly, precisely because we fit together so harmoniously in others, I often felt all the more frustrated.

However, looking back now, despite having given up and no longer making much effort toward this friendship myself, Akutagawa—who in the past had shown a tendency to withdraw when I pressed forward—now exhibited distinct traces of proactively seeking to deepen our friendship.
First, he began sending me letters with remarkable frequency.
With the exception of one or two, all those letters have been preserved and appear in his complete works, so I will omit them here.

Moreover, it was only after his death that I had come to realize this, and every time I thought of it, I was overcome with heartrending sorrow. However, rather than idly dwelling on such sentiment, it seemed better to write down as many facts as possible to at least convey his essence to posterity.

V

Looking back, our friendship from the spring of Taisho 6 to last July—spanning a full ten years—could be divided into three periods.
The first lasted until around the end of Taisho 8—that is, when Akutagawa had lodged a compromising protest against my critique of *The Witch* at Hachinoki—while the second spanned from then until approximately the time of the earthquake.
Though I have written about these periods in general terms before, I must say this second period unfortunately grew more distant than what preceded it.
Even so, reflecting now, that was my own failing and not Akutagawa’s.
During that time when I had lost love, friendship, and confidence in my art, I realize there was a tendency in me to coldly reject even Akutagawa’s friendship from my side—albeit passively.
I feel as though I were a seashell on the shore, clamping shut its shell against Akutagawa’s warmth.
He had never intended such a thing, yet I sensed pity in his approach and could not bring myself to accept it honestly.
That Akutagawa had in fact frequently shown me friendship during these periods—only for me to recognize this clearly much later—fills me with shame at my own obstinacy.
It was also during this time that he relayed encouraging words through Takiida Chōin, sent me a copy upon learning my work *Star* had been translated in an American magazine, and gifted me Judith Gautier’s English translations of Chinese poetry after seeing my own renditions.
Thus while his feelings toward me remained unchanged from earlier times, it was I who had altered.
Yet when I consider that even I was not singularly cold toward Akutagawa alone, some justification emerges that brings me modest comfort.
The third period began in the years following the earthquake.
Our friendship gradually purified thereafter, deepening with each passing year until its abrupt end.
I must declare it truly a cursed chronicle of friendship.
And needless to say, the most precious portion of my recollections concerns that final period of our bond.

I had written before about how we delighted in the twofold serendipity of the Chinese hemp zabuton and the nickel one-sided watch, but on that particular day, I found myself being treated by him to a meal at Okitsu-an after he invited me.
The conversation at the table revolved entirely around discussions of Tanizaki Jun'ichirō.
Moreover, we came to share the view that novels could not be written through aesthetic refinement alone.
On our way back, we stopped by Murasaki in Hikagecho.
It was around September of the year following the earthquake, and the townscape of makeshift buildings sweltered under intense heat.
At Murasaki, Akutagawa had been examining Greek and Persian pottery when—while admiring a small green-glazed pot among them—it suddenly crumbled to pieces like an eggshell.
Akutagawa turned pale with genuine shock.
However, the pot had originally been reduced to fragments and reconstructed from the back with paper to preserve its form.
Though the shopkeeper—well-acquainted with Akutagawa’s carelessness—handled the matter graciously, he desperately searched for one or two missing minute shards.
Repeating exclamations of astonishment and likely breaking into cold sweat, Akutagawa kept wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
He paid 150 yen (?) for a Genroku-period antique erotic booklet.
We strolled through Ginza and wandered earthquake-altered streets while searching for Hakuhōsha.
Though we had no business there, we wanted to peek inside.
There we discussed Goya and Rubens.
I had previously mentioned Akutagawa’s love for Rubens, but he also harbored extraordinary affection for Goya.
I never understood Rubens as thoroughly as Akutagawa insisted.
Akutagawa remarked, “Kosugi Misei asserts that those who fail to grasp Rubens—in essence—fail to comprehend oil painting itself.”
To digress briefly on art matters, I recall him writing in *A Fool’s Life* that he developed an appreciation for art after viewing Van Gogh’s works, though he later preferred Cézanne more and claimed Van Gogh’s paintings irritated him.
Much later, having seen Gauguin’s actual works somewhere, he grew intensely enamored with them—declaring they possessed a vivid realism surpassing ordinary paintings—and yearned even for a fleeting glimpse of Gauguin’s collection reportedly housed in Moscow.
“Regarding Gauguin—I believe he appears in *Literary, All Too Literary* too.”

He had respected Rembrandt throughout his life.

As our conversation showed no sign of ending that night, we went up to a certain ryōtei in Shinbashi and remained there until about ten before returning.
The only time we found ourselves alone together in such an establishment was on this single occasion before or since.

During this walk, I mentioned I would soon be residing in my hometown for the foreseeable future and made a promise to visit him before then.
That I returned without fulfilling this promise, along with matters concerning the letter he sent me in response to my apologetic letter from Osaka, were things I had already described previously.
Around this time, his occasional letters mentioned he was ill and secluded in Kugenuma, while visitors from Tokyo reported his neurasthenia appeared particularly severe.
In response to my request, he wrote three modern-style poems of his own composition for me.

"The characters are unimpressive, but since this paper is apparently what they use in Korea for lovers' correspondence, I ask that you at least value this."

A letter containing such phrases was included.
As I mentioned before, all these letters have been preserved, though a single picture postcard he sent from Yugawara has gone missing.
It consisted of him having read my short piece "Kinuta," imagined our rural life as a couple, and declared, "I'm not envious in the slightest—we have works like this here too," while presenting that poem of his: "When Flowers Bloom on the Watery Branches of the Sal Tree."
He had merely presented the aforementioned poem.
In response to my request for him to write it, he produced two additional pages within less than a month.
At that time, when the youth I was caring for died in my hometown and I received utterly unexpected, infuriatingly irresponsible criticism over the matter, Akutagawa showed concern and comforted me regarding this too.
My father developed a desire to have Akutagawa write for him after seeing his calligraphy.

After spending about a year in the countryside, I returned to Tokyo in November of the following year and took up residence in Koishikawa; he promptly came to visit me at the end of that year.
In truth, though I knew of his illness, with many obligations awaiting me upon my return to the capital after so long, I had not yet gone to see him.

He came around four in the afternoon and stayed; we talked until about eleven before he left. When I mentioned that my father wanted his calligraphy, he, unexpectedly delighted, agreed to do it. He said he would write haiga paintings and accompanying haiku in the sketchbook. When I showed him the junk-like items I had brought from the countryside—and these were quite literally junk-like things—he picked up each one and said something about them. Those were items that, when Muroo Saisei came about half a month later, he did not so much as glance at. If Muroo’s attitude could be taken as the honest, unvarnished rusticity of a countryman, then Akutagawa’s was that of an urbanite. Muroo’s strict, connoisseur-like attitude was certainly commendable, but Akutagawa’s reasoning—which seemed to trouble the owner—was not at all unpleasant for me in that situation, given that I myself did not consider my collection so valuable in the first place. In such social situations, Akutagawa’s demeanor indeed struck the right note. That night, Horiguchi Daigaku was also present; though the conversation had no particularly special topics, he spoke animatedly and with a liveliness that belied his illness. Someone has related of Wilde that “he always appeared happy as long as he was talking,” and the same could be said of Akutagawa. And if someone were to see me speaking thus, perhaps they might say the same of me. Akutagawa’s writing, when compared to his richly engaging manner of speech, seemed utterly devoid of brilliance—as if penned in gasps—but when those same things were spoken aloud, his words nearly danced with vitality. There was no trace of a sickly appearance about him anywhere. However, claiming it was due to hyperacidity, he did not touch any citrus fruits after meals.

When it came to conversation, he was of course exceedingly fond of discussions on art theory and derived topics from the books he eagerly read, yet he also engaged in what might be called worldly gossip.
In fact, if anything, he had quite a few such topics to draw from.
At one time, I had thought that Akutagawa took an excessive interest in rather trivial matters; but later—whether because I no longer felt that way or because Akutagawa himself had ceased to find gossip about various people in society so amusing—he no longer engaged in it with such apparent relish.
And in their place, he often turned to anecdotes of ancient figures—this was so characteristic of Akutagawa and utterly fitting.
In my view, even in such trivial aspects, he must have been consciously cultivating his own erudition.

The sketchbook my father had asked Akutagawa for was delivered by Akutagawa himself less than a month after he had agreed to the request, before I could even find time to send it to him. Since he maintained that a painting was out of the question, it became a palm-sized piece bearing New Year’s and seasonal haiku. Not long after, my father fell ill, and I returned home worried about his frail health—yet Akutagawa swiftly sent letters inquiring after his condition, one to my father and another to me. Among what he wrote me were lamentations about his own illness and assertions that he did not have much life left. Sensing the melancholy between his lines, I composed a short letter to bolster his spirits at my father’s bedside. “Your death might mean nothing to you,” I wrote bluntly, “but it would trouble me deeply. You must live as long as possible—I need you to witness even the smallest refinement in my art.”

Fortunately, my father recovered.
My father was delighted with Akutagawa’s sketchbook and wrote a thank-you note while lying down; through such exchanges, Akutagawa and my father corresponded a few times.

That autumn afternoon of that year, Akutagawa came to visit me. That day, he came and immediately—though I should say he stayed about two hours—left without any particular conversation. I seem to remember him inviting me out for dinner that evening, but I was penniless that day and could not go out. I was almost always being looked after by Akutagawa in various ways, yet he kept his distance. This was true not only of Akutagawa but of most people I interacted with; however, Akutagawa was certainly not the type to fuss over such matters, and since I too was terribly carefree and easygoing, it never troubled me—though it did occur rather too frequently. Moreover, at that time there was discord in my household, and if I were to go on a walk with Akutagawa, we would likely end up talking for three or five hours; yet even that time carried the fear of being misunderstood. I think that had we gone out for a walk together then and talked heart-to-heart, I could have deepened my friendship with him much sooner. The reason being that when I look back now, it seems he was being assailed by an extraordinary loneliness during that period.—That is to say, it was the autumn of the year before last. When winter came, he had me attempt the book design for his essay collection titled *Umebauō*. When I gladly accepted, he entrusted Watanabe, a Shinchosha employee among us who had handled the errand, and at the end of the letter noting these matters,

“I asked Mr. Watanabe to procure a copy of your ‘Boredom Reader’ to alleviate the tedium during my convalescence.”
“I can now read the critique of *The Witch* without any unpleasant feelings.”
“Since I later rewrote that work into a fairy tale titled *Aguni no Kami*, should there be a preface, I would ask you to review it.”

He sent me a letter conveying these sentiments.
Regrettably, this letter became misplaced somewhere and has yet to resurface.
Having made it my principle never to discard correspondence from friends, I trust it shall emerge from some corner eventually.

That he had asked me to handle the book design was precisely the sort of gesture one would expect from his brand of friendship.
Later, when I came to hear of it, he had apparently already made his first suicide attempt around this time.

Six

After the New Year—that is, last year, which would be his final one—in late January of that year, one evening, he came over to my house.
I had already written about that occasion once before, so I will keep my account brief here, but this marked the very climax of the friendship he showed me.
It was a long conversation that lasted from six in the evening until three the following morning.
Had that evening not occurred, I suspect my memories of him would not be half as poignant as they are today.

He said it was in gratitude for the book design of *Umebauō* and gave me Volume 2 of the Ero-book.
When I expressed delight at it,

“I thought you’d be pleased with it because it’s a dear book for us writers of the 1890s,”

he said.
Moreover, one of his close relatives had become a suspect in a criminal case and subsequently committed suicide by train; despite his ailing body, he had been tirelessly dealing with the matter and was utterly exhausted by the incident.
He also looked haggard.
However, as soon as he began discussing the content of his new work—seemingly right after finishing *Kappa*—he gradually grew more animated.
We discussed literary theory.
He recounted a few interesting passages from Mérimée’s correspondence.
Many of the things he said that night are abundantly written in *"Overly Literary"*.
In this regard as well, he was just like me—he would often share what he intended to write.
We despaired of our literary talents.
We confessed to each other that our ambitions from ten years prior had been lost.

“You have such strong self-esteem.”

When I said this, he nodded emphatically,

“That’s right—I’m a poseur through and through.”
“Because I’m a poseur, I’ve made considerable sacrifices for the sake of keeping up appearances.”
“So thanks to that, I don’t even know what I’m capable of anymore.”

He also said such things. And then,

“For appearances’ sake, I shouldn’t say such things, but I regret that we should have embarked on our literary careers together.”
“It was a mistake to have made companions of XX and OO”—here he mentioned one or two names—“and the like.”

“Because it’s certain that you and I are remarkably similar in temperament, constitution, and artistic viewpoint.”
“If we haven’t taken that step together until now, there’s nothing to say it’s too late even starting from here.”

“No—it’s too late.
“It’s already too late.”

He answered with uncharacteristic bluntness.
I stated that the significant reason why I had been unable to become more intimate with him until now was my own fault.
While I strive to live openly, at my core I still find myself unable to reveal one final thing to others.
And for that reason, I am always paying the sacrifice of being lonely.
I am a type who always clings to fig leaves over the privates of my heart; as long as I maintain such an attitude, I should not have been able to demand that others lay bare the entirety of their feelings.
In the sense that Akutagawa was a poseur, I too was indeed one and have been paying the price for it.
Upon reflection, Akutagawa and I were strikingly similar even in this regard.
However, while I—a country bumpkin—had clearly displayed this in my cantankerousness, Akutagawa, being an urbane sophisticate, had skillfully obscured even the quirks of his character.
In other words, whereas I would declare, “I’ll open my heart to a certain extent, but no further,” Akutagawa’s approach was such that even when he prefaced his remarks with “I’ll speak without mincing words,” he often did not say things quite as he truly wished.
I had simplistically attributed his timidity to calculated policy and dismissed his self-concealment as mere clever cunning, remaining truly unaware that he too was a man of solitude.

“I’ve misunderstood you in many ways.”

When I said this, he replied:

“What kept you and me from growing closer was your friendship with Tanizaki. I’d been nursing jealousy all along.”

He added:

“If I should die—please remember—you must be the one to write my elegy.”

To this I responded with utmost honesty: while I could not wholly endorse all his art nor deem it fully sufficient, I fully intended to comprehend the passion he poured into his craft and the intentions behind his endeavors. He said this answer satisfied him.

The winter night deepened, and we grew sentimental to the limits of our capacity.

He smoked with such intensity that cigarette butts stood like a thicket around the large brazier; when I noticed, the room had filled with smoke, and merely leaving the shoji slightly ajar proved inadequate.
The tobacco boxes were emptied again and again in no time.
However conservatively estimated, he smoked at least ninety cigarettes that single night.
I too was a heavy smoker myself, but his habit was excessively extreme; convinced this must be harming his health, I offered a word of caution, but he replied with a hint of recklessness: “That makes no difference either way.”
As the night wore on, our conversation naturally grew more substantive as usual, but on this occasion unlike any other, the more we spoke, the more he gradually sank deeper into unhappiness.
He began complaining querulously about his physical sufferings and psychological torments.
Though brief, he also spoke of his circumstances.
This was unprecedented.

“Rather than brooding over such things, I sometimes feel like just settling everything simply and saying, ‘This too shall be my life.’”

The words he spoke carried an odd weight of reality.
And even his earlier remarks—such as “Lately I’ve been fantasizing about nothing but suicide methods,” or “After hearing about railway suicides, I thought this might be the way to go,” or “If I were to die, the one to write my eulogy would be…”—these seemingly casual words, when connected to his talk of “this too shall be my life,” unsettled me.
I perceived that he seemed to harbor significant anguish in his heart and recommended that he confide it to someone.
Because confiding lightens the heart’s burden.
Moreover, when I think about it now, my words at that time were so irresponsible that they are unbearable to reflect upon.
I said,

“But even if you confide in me now, it would put me in a difficult position.”
“To begin with, I’m too much of a chatterbox to be entrusted with others’ secrets.”
“Moreover, you must certainly have friends closer to you than I am.”

Akutagawa answered that in response to my opinion, he was striving to gradually disclose his anguish to others.
And as if trying to dispel his own anxiety,
“Well, since I’ve somehow already passed the critical point, these feelings will mend in time—they’ll mend in time.”

He began speaking about the romantic lives of several friends and acquaintances around him—most of whom were strangers to me. This was no mere gossip but brimmed with the vivid descriptions one would expect from a novelist. After recounting these tales, he sighed.

“With such formidable figures surrounding me, even if we were momentarily carried away by passion, those of us with timid dispositions could never conduct ourselves like such superhuman beings.”
“Yet unless it’s some commoner’s affair that can be briskly settled with money—and even then—I couldn’t bring myself to adopt such an attitude.”
“In this respect, people like ×× are truly fortunate.”
“Such pragmatists are, in one sense, no different from superhuman beings.”

Indeed, had I dared to press him on it, I felt he might have been ready to confide everything in me.
And yet I did not try to draw it out.
In truth, I believed there were plenty more suitable people than myself—given his wide circle of friends—to hear those confidences from him.
Apparently, this too had been my misunderstanding.
Koana Ryūichi was his good friend and, as is well known, shared his later years; yet considering whether Akutagawa truly relied that much on Koana—a younger man with relatively recent ties—one realizes that despite appearing to have many friends, he in fact verged on loneliness.
I grew furious with myself for that night's overly individualistic insistence.
What angered me was not limited to that alone.
In the end, there remained one more significant matter.

I wrote a short piece of merely five or six pages titled *The Art of Social Navigation*. It was something I had written once for a trivial weekly publication merely to fend off obligations, but Akutagawa seemed to have read it in *A Boring Reader*. And he appeared to have personally concluded that the character who could be called the protagonist was based on himself. In the midst of our conversation that evening, he almost abruptly brought it up.

“I don’t know if it’s proper to ask this, but if it’s not too much trouble, could you grant me just one word?”
“Is the character appearing in your *The Art of Social Navigation* meant to be me?”
“Am I mistaken?”

He carried himself with the air of one who had spoken with resolute determination.
He was by no means angry.
Yet there was a resolve about him as keen as a glinting blade.
It should be said this was directed less toward me than toward his own self-respect.
I was utterly overwhelmed.
What I mean is this: naturally, the character caricatured in *The Art of Social Navigation* wasn’t entirely Akutagawa; moreover, the sentiment I held toward that figure—though written earlier—didn’t match my actual feelings toward Akutagawa himself.
Yet within those passages were sections where even I, the author, couldn’t claim to have never pictured Akutagawa while writing.
And undoubtedly Akutagawa had fixated precisely on those points.
I wanted to articulate these tangled feelings as plainly as possible.
Moreover, I found myself rather disconcerted by his excessively earnest demeanor.

“You’re saying such things—that’s all just a fictional story, isn’t it?”
“If you confront me like that and ask…”

When I began to say that, Akutagawa took over my words—
“Would it trouble you—could you not disclose it?”

I said, growing even more flustered.

“It’s a problem if you go deciding everything on your own…”

I stared straight at Akutagawa’s face with an almost servile attitude.
When I looked, tears had welled up in his eyes.
I felt as though I were truly seeing his face for the first time.
I thought his eyes—now filled with tears, those long-lashed, large eyes—were beautiful.
I had been overwhelmed by his spirit.

“Alright, alright.”
“If you don’t wish to tell me, that’s alright.”

He said gently, as if to soothe the other party.
And then he added.

“I may be a kind of mental masochist.
“I want someone to thoroughly tell me off once and for all.”

After a brief silence, he became exceedingly talkative, as if trying to conceal his emotions.
Engrossed in conversation until midnight, I realized the water had boiled away completely—even the pitcher was empty—and as I stood to prepare tea, he noticed my bare feet and marveled at me for not wearing tabi socks in the dead of winter; then he deliberately showed his own feet by removing his tabi.
He was wearing tabi socks lined with fur.

The more time passes, the more fiercely I cannot help condemning my own cowardly attitude—why hadn’t I, back then, clearly enumerated all my past dissatisfactions with him, dissatisfactions that had long since faded?
Yet I find myself making excuses.
That night, he was far too overwrought and yet too pitiful to confront.
Yet again I find myself thinking.
It was precisely because he was in such a painfully earnest state that I should have told him everything then and there.

Alas.
That night, I was distrustful toward my friend and servile toward myself.

About twenty days later, I met Tanizaki.
And then I spoke of Akutagawa’s condition that night and confessed how I had been overwhelmed and intimidated by his spirit.
Tanizaki responded in kind.

“If he were to live with that frame of mind, Akutagawa would become even more eminent.”

VII

Regarding that single night’s affair, he and I acted like comrades who had shared shameful acts in the dark yet pretended not to know each other in public; when we later encountered one another among people, neither showed any sign of it in our demeanor. However, his manner afterward grew remarkably cheerful, and seeing his work progressing more smoothly than ever before, I felt somewhat relieved. Then one day, when I simply mentioned that joy to him,

“Thank you. Just you saying that much to me back then was a great help. I’m grateful.”

He said in a whisper near my ear.
After that, he became more objective.

In the course of conversation, he began saying things like, "That was from when I kept you up very late one time, wasn’t it?"

At the end of February, we went together to Osaka for a lecture meeting hosted by Kaizosha.
We stayed overnight at Tanizaki’s house in Okamoto.
In Okamoto’s plum grove, he—

Plum petals scattering over a leek field

He was troubled over devising the first five syllables of the phrase.
In the bar that Tanizaki had entered to drink, he—a teetotaler—and I were at a loss for what to do.
Akutagawa said he would drink Kümmel.
I, who knew nothing of alcohol, drank it just as he recommended and declared with delight that it tasted like something out of a Märchen.
He vehemently agreed with my criticism.
Tanizaki recommended that we try Anisette.
That it wasn’t as good as Kümmel was the shared opinion of the two of us.

“If one were to describe Kümmel as having a Märchen-like taste, then this is merely lyrical.”

Whether it was Akutagawa or myself who had said that—I had forgotten which—we were in such complete agreement.

Whether this Osaka trip came first or not, in any case, around the same time, on the way back from a theater party hosted by Kaizosha, I was whisked away into Satomi Ton’s automobile and taken to a hikite-jaya—a licensed teahouse—in Yoshiwara.
In another car, Akutagawa too had become entangled with the drunkards’ touts.
He and I sat side by side, biding our time to escape that place.
Nearly all the others had been drinking and were staging quite a drunken spectacle.
Akutagawa whispered to me,

“Do you think drinking could put you in the mood to dance? Well, perhaps you might manage to hum a tune at most.”

“Goodness, dancing is beyond my imagination. As for singing, I might try it when sober, but drunk? Utterly impossible.”

“I see,” he said with a smile. “After all, we’re Qu Yuan.”

Having escaped that place together with Sasaki Shisaku and Akutagawa, I first returned home but soon felt inclined to visit Tanizaki, who was staying at the Imperial Hotel.
When I went there, Tanizaki was out, and Akutagawa had come to the room where Mr. and Mrs. Sasaki had taken lodgings.
Akutagawa came to the room he had rented, and the two of us began chatting, but our voices grew so loud that the neighboring lodger, angered, kicked the wall from their side.
Since it was already one o'clock, it was only natural.
We reluctantly sat down before the stove burning in the lobby.
Before long, Tanizaki—who had been out—returned and likewise sat before the fire, and then Kume, who had also been among the group at the licensed teahouse, abruptly pushed open the front door and immediately spotted the three of us.
This fire was located right by the entrance.
The four of us spent that entire night engaged in a long-awaited artistic discussion before the gradually waning fire.
What we discussed that night was already beyond my recollection by the next morning, as my mind was exhausted; however, Akutagawa and I often found more common ground in our opinions than others did.
For example, Tanizaki did not approve of Wedekind.
I greatly approved of Wedekind, and Akutagawa agreed with me, saying, "His art has elements of eccentric sublimity and solitary nobility"; however, when I did not particularly admire Tolstoy, Tanizaki and Akutagawa shared the same opinion in opposing this.
However, Akutagawa immediately understood why I considered Tolstoy great yet did not particularly like him.
When comparing our artistic views among the four of us—or art itself—I sense that Kume and I stood at the greatest distance from each other, with Tanizaki and Akutagawa occupying two points exactly midway between us.
To elaborate: Kume and Tanizaki were separated by a fixed distance yet adjacent; then Akutagawa positioned beside Tanizaki at nearly the same interval; and finally myself at the opposite end, maintaining that same measure of separation.
In terms of friendship, I was extremely close to Tanizaki; in terms of art, we were no different from blood relatives. Yet when it came purely to proximity in artistic distance, I feel I resembled Akutagawa far more than Tanizaki.
Akutagara was exceedingly pleased with this one-night accidental gathering.
I deeply regretted that those dialogues vanished without being committed to text.
And so, the next morning, we truly tried to recall those discussions from that time—but as I mentioned earlier—we could no longer remember them.
Our minds were that exhausted, and our topics were so abundant.

Around this time, I had been entertaining thoughts of traveling abroad, and when a certain person heard of this, they kindly offered to make material arrangements for me.
I thought it would be preferable to have traveling companions rather than go alone.
When I suggested including Akutagawa as one such companion, my patron proposed that they would cover his travel expenses as well.
When I mentioned this to Akutagawa, he became thoroughly enthused.
Our visions aligned almost perfectly—to journey through Russia to France, then onward through Spain and Italy, from Egypt to the various nations of Turkey and the Near East, and if possible, even as far as Persia.
I later learned he had also cherished hopes of joining an Amazon River basin expedition team dispatched by some industrialist for business reconnaissance.
He might have even harbored romantic notions of vanishing without a trace like Ambrose Bierce, whom he so admired.

At the end of spring, Arusu Publishing consulted Akutagawa and me about their plan for a children's book series, proposing we compile a Chinese fairy tale collection as one volume. Having tentatively agreed, Akutagawa—partly to coordinate details—asked me to visit his home. He dispatched an Arusu editor to fetch me. Our discussion concluded quickly; Akutagawa suggested arranging the stories chronologically and urged immediate compilation of source materials. In retrospect, he had stressed this urgency repeatedly. He proposed working together for two or three weeks at a hot spring if arrangements permitted. We had previously discussed traveling together before this. About five years earlier, I had contemplated translating Chinese poetry but found myself unable to select suitable works—even when I painstakingly chose pieces, their difficulty often made me abandon them mid-process, and I remained uncertain of their merit when completed. Thus I had indirectly suggested consulting Akutagawa, whose tastes aligned with mine. He remembered this and envisioned that working on a poetry collection at a hot spring inn might fund our stay while letting us enjoy ourselves. He had suggested this to me in recent years, but I never found the opportunity. For the fairy tale project, Akutagawa applied the same approach as with the poetry collection. However, family obligations made travel impossible for me then. The Arusu editor departed early—(writing this now, I strangely recall Akutagawa urging me into the kotatsu that day; unless confusing it with another occasion, this might have been early spring rather than late)—but when we were finally alone, Akutagawa said to me.

“There’s something I’d like you to hear—I want to consult you as a friend.”
“The truth is, Kikuchi is planning to create a series for young readers—similar to Arusu’s, though not exactly the same—and I’ve been listed as an editor.”
“Now regarding this Arusu matter—under normal circumstances, it might not be advisable for me to accept it. But as you know, given that Arusu first published *Rashōmon* for me, I’ve never refused any of their requests until now.”
“Since I find it difficult to decline this time too, please bear this in mind with your understanding.”
“As they’re ultimately not identical projects, I don’t foresee complications—though I can’t be sure you won’t find it strange later.”

After such talk had taken place, he took out many cherished items and showed them to me or explained them.
So it was indeed early spring; he went down from the second floor to the detached study and brought back books.
("I won't show you the detached study yet, but that place gets terribly cold in winter," he said.) He spent about three hours showing me such items and talking, and for me he took down from the pillar an old brass wall clock with weights attached.
He also showed me a large three-color print of Rubens—I believe it was a detail from something—

“I want to demand that Tanizaki Jun'ichirō become Rubens.”

He added other remarks to this effect.
While putting away the spread-out items, he finally said in a quieter tone,

“It’s truly been ages since I last entertained myself with such objects and welcomed cultured guests.”
“I wonder how many years it’s been.”

In the evening, we were treated to a meal at Jishōken, but at that time,

“It may be rash to say so, but Kasai Zenzō’s art does have some commendable aspects.”

Why didn’t I go on that trip with him back then!

VIII

In June, at the Shinchō Discussion Meeting, Akutagawa tapped the chair beside him and had me sit there.
Unusually, he wore a morning coat with a white necktie bearing resplendent butterfly embroidery.
The fabric was antique Chinese.
Though his complexion remained healthy, I now recall him making arguments that seemed oddly out of step with the era.
On our return, he insisted our houses in Tabata and Mejirozaka lay in the same direction and that we must share a carriage home.
In the end, declaring he would see me off, he boarded his own car.

Katagami Noboru’s place in Ōtsuka was in nearly the same direction as mine. The three of us did not talk much in the car, but when I mentioned that I found Mr. Masamune—who had been at the same gathering until just now—difficult to understand, Akutagawa said:

“He’s an exceedingly fragile man who’s so terrified of life that he’s always baring his white fangs at it. I understand it perfectly well.”

I do not know whether that truly interpreted Mr. Masamune well, but at least those words seemed to speak quite aptly of Akutagawa himself.
When my car approached the vicinity of my house, I invited Akutagawa—who appeared to be feeling lonely—to my home.

“Well then, perhaps I’ll take a look at your new house once.”

He stayed precisely one hour at my house, speaking in exhaustive detail about our mutual friend who had developed a mental disorder around that time. He displayed such an oddly intense interest in the topic that he scarcely allowed me to speak a word, nor did he introduce any other subject.
As I was leaving—thinking he must also be troubled by the then-burdensome competition between the *Elementary School Students’ Complete Collection* and the *Children’s Library* that had entangled me—I mentioned it briefly, and he, while stepping out the gate,

“Ah, right—there was something I should have told you about that matter as well.”

With those words, he got into the car.

The following day, President Yamamoto of Kaizōsha hosted an evening banquet for Tian Han—the Shanghai-based writer then staying at my house—and Akutagawa voluntarily requested to attend as an impromptu guest at this gathering.
I recorded all these matters in my documentary novel titled *Ningen-goto*.
Our parting at the entrance of Akasaka's Kitei teahouse would prove final.
That night he wore a summer haori over hakama trousers and carried a white fan.
The elegant countenance still refuses to fade from my vision.
I received half of the kimono he had worn that last evening as a keepsake—Chinese linen with antiquated narrow stripes that once compelled Izumi Kyōka to ask its price per tsubo.
Through laughter that night, Akutagawa claimed it cost six yen per tan.
Come June, Kaizōsha dispatched writers to lecture across various regions.
I had been assigned to Kyushu.
Akutagawa was meant for Hokuriku or Hokkaido.
He insisted on joining my destination and tried making me negotiate this with Kaizōsha, but assignments stood finalized.

In July, I traveled from Shanghai through areas such as Hangzhou, Nanjing, and Yangzhou. These were lands Akutagawa had once visited, and I walked while always thinking of him. On the 28th, when I returned from viewing West Lake, I was suddenly informed of his death by someone from Shanghai. For a while I couldn't believe it, yet through reflection I found myself nodding as if it made sense.

After returning home and visiting his house, while hearing various things from his wife—including how my invitation for him to go abroad was apparently a deliberate contrivance I had devised to rescue him from his stagnant life—I felt a pang in my chest as I realized how much deeper the friendship he had imagined between us was compared to what I had professed.

During one of my visits to the deceased’s home, the youngest child, while looking at me, told her mother that I resembled her late father.
Shortly afterward, I guided my wife to his altar and pressed my forehead to it—that was when tears came.
Some time before that, during a lecture tour for his complete works in Kansai, tears had welled up as I read *Cogwheels* on the train from Osaka to Kyoto—but they only fell freely for the first time before that altar.
Speaking of *Cogwheels*, that work was meant for the Ars Children’s Library—when I visited him once, he took its first chapter from his desk and showed it to me.
At that time, it was titled *Night*.
Noticing traces of two or three erased characters above it, I was examining them when he asked, “Don’t you like the title?”
“What I erased was *Tokyo’s Night*,” he added.
*Tokyo’s Night* felt too pretentious while *Night* lacked distinction—so I proposed *Cogwheels* instead.
He immediately took up his pen and made the change.
Perhaps because of this connection, I consider it his finest work.

As has been known since his suicide note, there is a woman involved in the cause of his death, but regarding such matters, I know nothing. When I told him how, during a walk on the day we went from Okitsu-an to Murasachi, I had written the opening of *The Prostitute Mari* at a small hotel in Yamanote because I couldn’t write at home, he asked detailed questions about the hotel and finally—

“Do you think that place would be suitable for a rendezvous?”

I recall that he had once said—
I do not know when or why he became so gloomy, but in *China Travelogue*—where he states alongside his friend Jones that life is a path strewn with roses, and where upon returning from visiting Gu Hongming he pities the man’s old age while praising his own youth—in that book at least, the shadow of his melancholy had yet to fall.

(On the eve of the first anniversary of his death, June 9th)

Postscript.
I had intended to keep it brief, so from the outset I refrained from writing much about his art.
Even so, it became twice as long as planned, and moreover, while proofreading, I recalled many things I had left out.
There was no helping it.
Now I can only ask you to read this chronicle of our ill-fated friendship.