Pathway to Japanese Literature

To Aunt from Kumano.

For forty-five years now, I had been writing to you often. But writing such fatefully dreary characters on this bleak paper was a first for me. I had always written on Shinshu paper or colored art paper—sometimes in faded brushstrokes, other times in more amusing and elegant characters—or rather—no, that might have been presumptuous of me. But you had always liked my handwriting. —and so, this was what I had written. Did you understand why I chose this paper? In truth, it was with this reliance on you that I found myself earnestly endeavoring to write what would likely be my true final work at last. This would probably pass into Mr. Fuji Masaharu's hands. And through either his will or mercy, it would probably be printed in the coterie magazine VILLON or VIKING. I thought that printed text would probably be delivered to your hands. Because Mr. Uno, a member of VIKING, knew you. I intended to make this—the stage piece titled Scissors, Cloth, and Patterns that I wrote on the 22nd, just six days ago—my final work once again. This had nothing to do with you, Aunt, but if that play were ever performed, I wanted it staged at the Modern Theater Institute—where I had been briefly affiliated and had already grown attached—even if only for a short while. For the mannequin role—Kawamoto-san, as she possessed musical sensibility and could dance. By the way, if you could also add my request—I would like some comical action added. For the designer Suwako—I wanted Maeda-san, who did Kyuragu for my first play Women’s…, and for the music, Tokunaga-san. And then, regarding the direction—if Mr. Kitamura of the Kurumiza troupe would do it, I absolutely wanted him to. I had been the one who intended to do it. He would probably do it for me. This manuscript (the play’s) too—Mr. Fuji would probably publish it in VILLON or VIKING.

Aunt. All of these manuscripts may hold no interest for you, but please read them for now.

It was probably around 9:20 then. Today was December 28th. After visiting your house, I returned to Kobe, ate one cup of sake and four chicken skin skewers at a stall called Meko-chan’s yakitori place, then went home for seventy yen. At Meko-chan’s place, I had this conversation with some customers I didn’t know. There were three customers there who gave me a cup of sake and two Peace cigarettes.

“Do you know somewhere nearby where the snow’s piled up deep?” “Kaminabe.” “You’re not going skiing, are you? We’re going snow-viewing—somewhere without people.” As I said this, I imagined the sound of a train roaring through the pure white heaps of snow.

One of the men drew me a simple map. It was near Kaminabe. But since I found that region unappealing, I asked if there was a quiet snowy place near Lake Biwa. Another one of them,

“Takeo’s good.” Takeo was apparently written as Takeo [武生], located on the Hokuriku Line beyond Maibara. I decided to go there.

I had caught a cold, and my throat was parched. My uncles had come and were playing mahjong in the eight-tatami room. In my room, I built a fire in the hearth, placed a hot water bottle at my feet, and was now writing.

Aunt, we promised to meet again on January 4th, didn't we. I'm sorry. Today was a good day. While the little disciple was playing a sonatina, I recalled the past. After all, they played a sonatina. They were all songs everyone knows. But I was just a little better back then. Now at the end, I played Albénis. Having only just obtained the sheet music at Sasaya in Osaka recently, I was under-rehearsed—playing on an unfamiliar piano whose soft pedal responded too sensitively left me flustered; I think it turned out rather poorly. All three pieces are songs I dearly love. The tango holds a few memories for me. After that meal they treated me to and some entertainment, But I was completely obsessing over other things.

Aunt.

The last time I visited you, I had actually intended never to see you again. At the gate, you shook hands with me, didn’t you. “Suffer intensely—and that suffering will sustain you.” At that time, we sat around the gas stove smoking cigarettes with your words between us, I recall. I remember those words.

I had resolved to go to Kurobe on the 22nd (or perhaps three days after that day?) and commit suicide. Ah, the fire is burning so well.

Aunt. Aunt, your words are cruel to the point of being merciless. To suffer—I’d had more than enough of that myself. I hate suffering. I said it, didn’t I. About the three men. While feeling each of those three different loves—I was tormented by guilt. In March, I took pills, failed, and came back alive. I’d loved a married man. I believe I’ve told you this before. After reviving, I developed tuberculosis—during those six months bedridden, I tormented myself terribly with love and hatred toward him. And I hated him. Tremendously. I told people about him. Every time I spoke of him—telling myself my love was fading further—oh how I kept telling myself that. When I recovered and met him again—he’d say nothing but sarcastic things with that cold expression. I’d already put an end to my own feelings. Then around November—yes, the 20th—on that day I met him to collect the 4,000 yen I’d lent. He silently took out the bills—4,000 yen—and said “Hurry up and put it away.” Until then—I’d spouted so much nonsense.

"I'm getting married. Next year. Such things—I found myself impulsively blurting out. He kept staring at my face. Then came that following Thursday when he proposed meeting again. When we parted before the movie theater. When our hands touched. All while ordering myself to despise him—scorn him!—I gradually came to acknowledge my own growing affection. Aunt—that very night I went to Kyoto and let another man caress me. Let me tell you about him. The one I love so desperately now. During my convalescence, when he visited bearing lemons time after time, what began wasn't love but some vague, indefinable warmth. Nothing like that man from before—different in every aspect: temperament, bearing, mannerisms. This wasn't some attempt to resurrect shattered dreams of past love. Interest perhaps sparked it initially. But then came this overwhelming pull. No purity dwells within him. His existence feels... stagnant. Forgive the odd metaphor—not driftwood in some pristine mountain stream, but debris adrift where river meets sea: oil-slicked waters carrying urban flotsam wherever currents will. With each meeting, that current dragged me deeper."

He likely only held interest or mischievous intentions toward me at first but came to love me deeply. Was it around October? No—perhaps late September? There was once when I utterly detested him. It happened when he drank with composer Mr.T and his wife then harassed an unknown woman on Toh Road afterward. He had subjected her to a tremendous insult. Being a woman myself I simply couldn't bear to witness it calmly. In the end being lectured by a patrolman from that despised profession—no matter how much he'd been drinking I couldn't forgive such behavior. That night I felt like weeping. Then I caught myself thinking perhaps I still loved the person from my past after all. But each subsequent meeting and every letter received left me powerless to restrain my emotions. That person had already begun occupying most of my heart.

In Kyoto at night, receiving an embrace and a kiss, I was so very happy. I thought I should forget the person from the past. I almost managed to forget. How naive. I.

Aunt.

But I’m no good. After a week had passed, I met the person from the past. At the station, I waited for a little under an hour. I’ll turn cold now. I thought I should part with him with just a passing greeting. But what a terrible woman I am. There had never been a night as filled with self-loathing as that one. While drinking with him and chatting, I ended up acknowledging my love for him once again. I felt his true affection. I had misunderstood him. He had truly loved me after all. We agreed we would love each other apart from reality and society. When his child was born—the one with whom I felt some invisible connection—I began maintaining a love that stepped back from his wife. I spoke ill of him and felt ashamed of myself for having thought that way. The guilt was tremendous. But he did not blame me. He forgave me. I don’t regret it. I am happy now. At those words of mine, he was pleased.

We walked together.

Aunt.

We entered a room along a dimly lit side street. I want your child. I screamed.

Aunt.

I sincerely wished for that.

But Aunt, I noticed the presence of the person I had newly loved lying right beside me. I didn't mention breaking up. After saying "Until we meet again," I watched the retreating figure of that person from the past step out of the car, and when I found myself alone, terror filled me completely. I returned home, hastily took stationery and a pen, and wrote a letter to the person I had newly loved. (No—it might have been the next day.) What a sinful woman. I had met someone I once loved. And though I love that person from the past, that past remains unsevered. It's a past connected to the present. Whether it was the day after the letter reached him or that very day, he came to Kobe late at night. Then he asked me—had I loved him in the past, or did I still love him now? I said it was the past. The past is certain. But the past connects to the present. "I still love him even now"—I couldn't say it. To love two people with different emotions—that's truly a despicable excuse. But in reality, that's how it was. A desire for love brilliant and fierce as summer sunlight, and a desire for love quiet and deep as tranquil indigo. Therefore, I resolved to take no further action regarding that person from the past.

Aunt. I can't sort out my thoughts. No—I can't sort out my heart. So as I slowly recall and set down the facts while writing, I think there may be gaps. But I'm not writing a novel. I'm writing an honest confession, setting down the truth. Therefore, everything written here is undoubtedly true. It is my true suffering and my true self-reproach.

Aunt. I couldn’t write coherently anymore—my handwriting had grown jagged. But I kept writing anyway.

Aunt.

And then, there was still one man in my vicinity. Let me call him the Pale Colonel. I shall save that explanation for later. With him, I had a strange arranged meeting after summer. After recovering from illness but finding no hope left for me, I let slip words about marrying anyone at all—the Pale Colonel's older brother heard this and made us meet in my room. Yet since we couldn't grow to like each other, we ended up speaking bluntly without reserve. Hearing he had composed music, I talked about musical matters with complete lack of charm. Afterward, we came to listen to records at my home and went out for tea, but though astonished by his talent, I felt not even goodwill. Now when the businessman Pale Colonel spoke of music, I smirked and watched with half-hearted interest those emotional stirrings that couldn't be dismissed as mere nostalgia. Seeing the score of the composer's quartet I had arranged for him to see, he likely felt emotionally unsettled. Whenever encountering pleasant tones in cafés, he'd grow unbearably restless pursuing the flow of sounds entering his ears. I spitefully observed that expression of his.

Aunt.

The Pale Colonel disliked me. He said he disliked me. But he visited me frequently. Eventually, I began to feel that if I married the Pale Colonel, I might find happiness. Because he was so mature, no matter what I said or did, he would simply observe. I thought I wouldn't have to be on edge and that it would be carefree. And finally, the Pale Colonel and I got engaged. That's what made it retrograde. We exchanged contract documents. We affixed our thumbprints. But in truth, I had never seriously considered marriage. So the buyer was the Colonel; the seller was me. The item for sale was identical to the seller—however, as if new—with performance set for Showa 29. It was the year after next. While deciding on such terms together, we concluded the contract with utmost ease. As for his feelings—or anything like that—I never considered them, nor did I even imagine them. That was around November 17th or 18th. We had even drafted conditions stating that should one speak of this to others, the contract would be nullified. However, because I was half-joking, I told four or five people that I was getting married. Moreover, I even said something like, "We'll do it next year." As for why the Colonel set our marriage for Showa 29, I will defer that explanation to later.

Therefore—when I met someone from my past—I was going to get married. That person had indeed once been a composer, so saying such things wasn’t entirely a fabrication. The Colonel knew that I was newly in love, that I still loved someone from my past, and that I was suffering because of it. During that night in Kyoto as well, the Colonel had been by my side. But I was unfazed. Because there had been a condition between the Colonel and me that we would not fall in love with each other. Moreover, I was opposed to taking romance all the way to marriage. A woman like me—radical, a veritable mass of passion—cannot possibly fall in love and then simply marry. I cannot connect romance to daily life, you see.

Aunt.

Moreover, I have my third-generation family by my side. I am one of the third-generation family. I have famous parents, a famous grandfather and great-grandfather, and a mother of noble birth. As for that tragedy—I will write about it in the continuation anyway—so I will omit it for now. Because it will likely become one of the causes that drive me to death. If I were to name the biggest cause—of course—it’s not misanthropy but a romantic collapse.

Aunt.

Just now, I recalled that atmosphere we shared together, Aunt. There were always, always flowers. Aunt loves flowers. They say flowers appear without fail in the works of playwright Ms. Tanaka Sumie. But I think your connection with flowers goes much deeper still.

Now，back to where we were.

Aunt. I was not calmly watching as three people whirled around me like a merry-go-round within my heart. But that did not last long. I found my heart becoming completely drawn to the person I had newly fallen in love with. I often met with the Pale Colonel. But it seemed I was always thinking of other things. While joking that if a child were born I'd make them a pianist, I knew there was no way I could bear his child. "I don't want to bear it." The thought crossed my mind. But there was one thing that weighed on me. Why he had set our marriage for Showa 29 instead of immediately—that was what troubled me. Ah, when I heard that confession, I shuddered to my core. This is something only the Colonel and I know in all the world. So I cannot write it here after all. Only this much shall I state: a single woman is involved—one unknown to me. Hearing that story, I thought him unfortunate. And as for a sinful woman like me—already then tormented by guilt toward both my past lover and the new object of my affections—to have pledged eternal love to that past someone only to betray him through new passion... To feel that by turning toward this new person, I was betraying even the faintest lingering affection for the past one stored in my heart's corners... I even reconsidered whether joining together to console each other might not be better. A little before that—just as I'd begun loving intensely—let us call that person "Beside the Railway."

Because he liked the damp air beneath the elevated tracks—there was this matter of the heart between me and that person, Beside the Railway. We walked through the streets of the foreign district, and at our parting moment, I learned of his past. Of course, he already knew my past. Even who it was. Beside the Railway and someone from my past—let me call him Green Island. Because he often played Okinawan folk songs for me—we were acquainted. Setting that aside, his confession stabbed painfully through my chest. That is—when I asked why the catastrophe had come—he answered they'd grown to dislike each other. Was such a thing even possible? Did such love truly exist? And that woman—I'd seen her before—yet she and Beside the Railway met face-to-face nearly every day. They probably even conversed without hesitation. What manner of affair was this? Utterly opaque. Exactly like some complacent arrangement. Though jealousy runs deep in me, I felt no envy. I simply thought I'd heard something vile. In truth, my affection for him seemed to have shriveled somewhat. When we met the next day, I could no longer recognize you. I said.

“Love should be something more serious.”

Because of these movements in my heart, I came to harbor a certain feeling toward the Pale Colonel—that is to say, "It would be fine to be together"—.

Aunt. “Bored?” “But please bear with me.” I continued writing.

It seemed the mahjong game had ended, and my family members were loudly calling out their tallies of points.

My heart was not calm. Restless, with nerves frayed, always seeming empty—or rather—a heart overstuffed to bursting. Apart from matters of love, I could not work. I could not write. Family matters. Such things may have been an additional cause for fraying my nerves, but in any case, there was not a moment of calm, and daily life overflowed with obligatory tasks. The reason was that my play had been scheduled for performance. It was drawing near. Composing its music, having my brother play trumpet parts, arranging percussion. Handling ticket distributions, fielding complaints from tax officials. From morning onward came five or six phone calls. I was asked to write a newspaper comedy sketch. The pottery I painted during February in Karatsu had been shipped off; when mailing payment by registered post, a postal error forced me to make multiple verification trips—I was truly overworked. Because I was exhausted, my nerves grew ever more acute until irritation prickled through me.

Well,the day of the stage rehearsal arrived. December 12th. I went to an acquaintance’s place to borrow a drum and did so. I think I also stopped by Aunt’s place. That time when I wore the kasuri-patterned kimono. I fastened the obi I had painted myself. At Mikage Station,I wrapped the drum in a large cotton furoshiki and—though important work lay piled like mountains—carried it with me to Osaka,filled with longing to see Beside the Railway. I went to our usual café. I felt he might be there. I pushed open the door. Beside the Railway was talking with a woman. I flared up instantly. Now looking back,I realize how rash I was. Yet this always happens immediately. Even were she his sister. I barely managed a nod. When the café girl I knew asked about my bundle,I heard my own voice grow hoarse answering “A drum.” Settling in a distant booth,I lit a cigarette,trying to calm the rattling thing in my chest. After some time—throughout which I never once glanced his way—Beside the Railway came beside me. “Wait here till five,” he said.

I nodded. But I had no intention of waiting. The door creaked; the two people’s footsteps tangled together as they left.

I drank coffee and calmed my feelings. The next act—I telephoned Green Island. It was completely impulsive—I picked up the receiver. Green Island was there. I asked, “Are you busy?” “I’m free,” he said. “And I’ll come out,” he added. I told him my whereabouts. Coincidentally, I had a pretext to ask my composer friend—this person who has appeared many times—for work, and Green Island brought one such job for me. We met for the first time in half a month since the day we had parted by car. We conversed calmly. The main topic was music. Then came talk of Green Island’s work. One topic after another kept arising without end. But Aunt—we were talking calmly, you know. We did not want each other’s hearts. That was, after all, a love that had already passed.

Aunt. After all, it was a love that had ended. That was for the best. I felt relieved. So I hoped he would return by five o'clock. After all, I resolved to wait for Beside the Railway. However. Five minutes to five. I asked the time. The café girl informed me it was five minutes to five. At that moment, Green Island said, “Let’s go drinking.” What an ugly woman I am. Without harboring any emotions toward Green Island, I went out with him. I wrote a message to Beside the Railway on a business card, making sure Green Island wouldn’t notice.

What an ugly figure I was. I wrote that unpleasant phrase—"I'm leaving because I want to leave"—on a business card. Filthy and foul—that's what I was. Green Island and I went drinking. There too, we spoke calmly. A piano stood in the place, and we listened with bitter smiles as a woman—a part-timer who claimed music school training—played Chopin. Because it was wretched Chopin. Then we talked about children. Both the Pale Colonel and I had been saying we'd make the child a pianist. With feigned innocence. As if discussing some problem that didn't exist in my own heart. Coolly unaffected. I decided I should make myself thoroughly repulsive and suffer alone. The rift between my heart's emotions and my outward actions only grew wider. There I was—throwing myself into this unbalanced, unstable, vile state of mind—spitting on myself, kicking myself—what a way to torment oneself.

Aunt. Why must I torment myself to this extent? "Don't make me miserable," I told Beside the Railway repeatedly. But when I think about it, I'm the one making myself miserable.

“Seems we had something of a ruinous love between us, didn’t we—”

Green Island and I shook hands and parted near the station.

I returned to Kobe. I went home to change into a kimono and decided to attend tonight's all-night stage rehearsal before eleven. Just before leaving, I received a call from the Pale Colonel; we talked briefly at a café before going together to the venue. Since I tell the Pale Colonel everything, I reported today's events too. But even he likely didn't fully grasp my self-destructive, wretched, filthy behavior. He seemed to understand me well enough, yet I believe he never truly comprehended me to my core. At the venue, I learned from the director that Beside the Railway had come to Kobe. I wanted desperately to see him immediately. I resolved to confess my ugliness at once and beg forgiveness. Beside the Railway appeared to have gone out drinking; they said he'd return later. Meanwhile, I busied myself with work matters. Yet my heart held no space left for work concerns. Entering the dressing room, I tried numbing my agitation with medicine and checked the drum's condition—the Pale Colonel was supposed to play it—then ascended to the stage thinking he must have returned by now. He was there. He'd been helping with stage equipment. When I approached, he tapped my head once and resumed working without pause. Then at last came the stage rehearsal. Beside the Railway and I sat side by side. He already seemed wholly consumed by matters of the play. For this too I felt ashamed of myself.

Now, he paid considerable attention on my behalf.

As a result, a minor conflict arose among the trainees, but setting that aside, just as the rehearsal for my play was ending—it was already morning—another rehearsal began. He was lying asleep in the audience seats. As I spread the blanket over him, I felt tormented by how utterly my ugliness made me unworthy of his love for me.

The Pale Colonel went out to attend to business.

An opportunity arrived for just the two of us—me and Beside the Railway—to be alone. The two of us went out to drink coffee around noon. In a café with a stove near the venue, Beside the Railway was extremely displeased. But I couldn’t bear it anymore and told him about yesterday—about meeting Green Island. He remained silent. He kept silent all along. I had heard that he had come all the way to Kobe because he wanted to see me. “Well, fine—as long as I helped with the play, that’s enough,” he said to me abruptly. It had been a long time since the two of us had met. That is why I had sent him an express letter the previous day. An intensely anxious feeling—that I wanted to meet as soon as possible. And at that moment when we met—how we became entangled with each other. He said he would go home. I tried to stop him while sobbing uncontrollably. I followed him all the way to the station—still I tried holding back. Just then, I encountered a composer friend, and he also helped stop him. We entered a café. I had completely lost my mind and don’t know what I said.

I ended up talking to myself.

Because he said, “There’s no connection anymore.” I was stunned. Now that matters with Green Island had truly been resolved—now that I wanted him to take everything from me—it was precisely because this feeling overwhelmed me that his words shocked me into desperately trying to reclaim his affection. He said, “There’s no truth in your eyes.” That might have been true. In some corner of my heart, I still loved Green Island—and then there was the armchair I’d been properly crafting—so that must mean the Pale Colonel. It was agonizing. To my frantic words, he retorted, “Planning to lecture me now?” And he sneered. With little time left before the play’s performance, the composer friend departed first, leaving him and I locked in mutual hostility. There was no time left. I went to see him off at the station. I wished he would marry me— even while clutching that contract document with the Pale Colonel. Of course, I’d meant to return it first. But now I think I should have told him only after returning it. He left wearing a scowl. I rushed back to the venue by car—then came the performance. That my own play was being staged wasn’t something I could simply rejoice over. To the performers and director I’m truly grateful—yet I couldn’t bring myself to watch it calmly.

After the first performance ended and night fell, I was consumed not by thoughts of the play, but by thoughts of Beside the Railway.

The Pale Colonel said to me, “If you’re truly in love, you should go to Kyoto once the second performance ends. And you should just abandon your work and everything else.”

I thought about it a great deal. But I gave up. When parting ways with Beside the Railway, I was told: “Don’t abandon the play.” I decided not to go. After that day’s performance, I drank glass after glass of alcohol while sobbing uncontrollably. I said so many things. But my true feelings were filled with self-loathing. A clumsy script and dirty deeds. And being unable to write novels. Those things had driven me to utter disarray. Yet amidst it all, I recognized that my love for Beside the Railway was growing ever deeper. I kept crying until morning came. The Pale Colonel comforted me in the cold dressing room. While feeling grateful to him—who understood this feeling I couldn’t handle alone even slightly—I also tormented myself over how repulsive it was to depend on him.

The next morning, I sent a telegram to Beside the Railway saying, "I'm sorry." Perhaps he might come see my play's performance—I even found myself scanning the audience seats. I kept drinking. I watched the final performance with an oddly sorrowful feeling. Though my nervous agitation had subsided, I even calmly dissected that peculiar sensation—thinking this might be my final work, finding it strange how my own written lines echoed back to me (though I don't know what playwrights feel about such things). The play ended and we took photos and such. I had already resolved to die by then. This was no mere sentimentality. I could no longer shoulder the sins I'd committed alone—I simply didn't want to suffer anymore. That moment.

I went with the Pale Colonel for a small drink. I ate fugu and such, and by then I was already in a calm state of mind.

The next morning, I spent a hectic day wrapping up matters related to the play, and the following day, late at night, I received a call from my composer friend. I have received a letter from Beside the Railway. I requested that it be delivered the next day. But I had no expectations for that letter. Due to various circumstances, I still felt it was only natural that I should end my own life, so... But even so, I still wanted to see the letter quickly. I tidied up around the desk, accounted for my debts, and gathered items to be burned. It was on that day that a certain young lady among my friends came to visit. She must have gathered something from my expression. Though I would usually greet her with a smile, I was sullen and distracted during her talk. She seemed to say something like, "You've changed," or such. I did something quite terrible—terrible not in the sense that I failed to sense her feelings. But I told her the truth bluntly. She seemed to be crying. That night, at the research institute, I received a letter from Beside the Railway. I can no longer write it.

Dear Aunt, it was an utterly sorrowful letter for me. I crumpled it up. But that night, I reread it. I discovered that even joy existed within my own heart. He loves me. It was because I could feel that. I truly could feel it. Aunt.

Now, a fire engine passed by. A dog barked, the wind howled, the blotting paper was already thoroughly soiled. My heart is calm. I am at peace. As I kept writing, I grew calm. I wonder if it’s already around three o’clock.

Aunt, it still continues. Yes, Aunt.

The following day. I wonder if I visited Aunt’s house that day. And I think I probably asked about the twentieth person. "You said I should play Albénis, didn’t you?" As for that sheet music—I went to meet the Pale Colonel, and he wrote "Avec un pâle Colonel" alongside "Pale Colonel" on the first page of that score. That comes from a passage in one of Milo’s song poems. However, the song from this poem has been omitted from the record. (This record will come up again later.)

Aunt.

The things we talked about that day, just the two of us, Aunt—I briefly touched upon them earlier. My suffering—at least that—I let it out, you see. And then family matters. And the feeling of not being able to go on living.

That day, after that, I went to Osaka. To meet Beside the Railway, I called him.

No—wait, perhaps it was the day after that when I went to your house, Aunt. I’d become confused. That is—though I seemed to recall being with both the Pale Colonel and Mr. Fuji Masaharu—in any case, I discovered Beside the Railway’s whereabouts, and he said he had work until about eight. I simply told him I wanted to meet because I longed to see him. I resolved to wait until eight at that café I frequent—the one that plays records—and if it grew later than that, decided I would go elsewhere. I had prepared paper, envelopes, and pens. I wrote a letter to Beside the Railway. I want you to feel what’s true. But even if we meet, you won’t feel it. So I won’t see you again. I will take an action that should make clear what is true. I am happy. That I feel your love—that my own feelings loving you are something I could declare to anyone—yet your inability to feel this may be my unhappiness—such was the letter’s substance. They were playing Debussy’s La Mer.

I wrote a contract termination document to the Pale Colonel. I was prepared to return home without pasting it and place the contract document. And then, I wrote to Mr. Fuji Masaharu. Regarding my two manuscripts that were in his possession—the request that they not be published. And then, I wrote a gentle letter to my friend’s daughter. When I finished writing all that, the café owner brought me a sketchbook. “Please draw something.”

I was drinking hot whiskey, and since my death had become somewhat intertwined with my thoughts, I did some doodling. In my usual plate-drawing style—with swift strokes—I sketched seabeds and flocks of birds and flowers. Around 8:15, I left there, sped by car to the café where the Pale Colonel would be waiting at nine, left a note saying I wouldn’t meet him that night, and went to meet Beside the Railway. That place was Green Island’s workplace. Moreover, it was the day when the composer I had commissioned completed his work—both Green Island and the composer were present. I exchanged glances with Green Island and exchanged a few words. As always, I sensed Green Island’s affection for me in his eyes. But whose eyes had mine become aligned with? Then, hearing what seemed like Beside the Railway’s voice in the hallway, I believe that was when my eyes truly shone. I met him. As if melting away, I cast aside all stubbornness and smiled—a natural smile. After Green Island left the room, Beside the Railway entered. I handed him the letter. Just then, since the composer needed to meet with the Pale Colonel, I called the Pale Colonel’s café again and asked them to tell him to stay put. Beside the Railway and I did not speak. He began reading my letter immediately. With the composer’s friend, the three of us crossed the road and went to where the Pale Colonel waited. On the way, I said to Beside the Railway: “Please don’t say anything more.”

He nodded. After nearly an hour passed, we were driven out by closing time and went for a quick drink. And we stayed until the last train. At the government railway station, I, the Pale Colonel, and the composer tried to stop Beside the Railway and invite him to go to Kobe, but in the end, he headed up toward a different platform. Tonight, I would try reading this letter again carefully.

He said to me in a low voice. “But I felt like we would never meet again.” So I followed him up to the platform. He asked me if I would come to Kyoto. He said it gently. I said I would go immediately. However, the one who fiercely stopped me was none other than the Pale Colonel.

Dear Aunt. I shook hands with Beside the Railway. Tears were about to spill. He went up to a different platform, and I stared as the Kyoto-bound train departed. I even wondered if perhaps he hadn’t gotten on the train. He had returned. The train’s taillights disappeared into the distance. Such things are so trite, like something out of a cheap novel. But I truly wouldn’t be able to meet anymore. Because I had already resolved this in my own heart, it became utterly unbearable. That night, after returning home and getting into bed, I received a call from Beside the Railway. “Is it happening tonight?” he asked. My mother was awake, and the phone was in the center of the house. I said no. “Right, then goodnight,” he said. “Goodnight,” I also said. Having said that—or rather, it seems we exchanged a few more words—I hung up the receiver. I had already made up my mind completely. On the 22nd, I decided to go to Kurobe. As for why I chose the 22nd, it was because I wanted to finish dealing with my remaining work.

Because I had to collect ticket fees and also attend the play’s critique session.

Dear Aunt. The next day, something further solidified my resolve. Having long promised to take the composer’s little boy to the park, I told him in Osaka’s last train that we would keep our promise with the boy the following morning.

Dear Aunt, I'll write about today's events tomorrow after I sleep. Why? Because my arms have gone all heavy. Today I practiced piano quite a bit in the morning, and with few cigarettes left—I can't work without them—I can't manage to finish writing tonight. It's gotten cold. Well then, good night for now.

Dear Aunt.

Did I sleep for five hours? In the morning, I woke up because of a loud rattling noise inside the house. Because it was an old house, sounds really carried. I was recalling a dream while in bed—something that had been struck full of record needles (though I’ve forgotten what exactly it was). I covered it with a cloth, and after some time removed the cloth, brought my lips close, and smoothly sucked in the air. If you did that, a child would be born. It was a dream where Ms. N from S Newspaper Company was earnestly teaching me such things. What a strange dream, I thought with a wry smile as I drifted in and out of sleep. Then, the telephone rang. I thought it must be Beside the Railway. However, it was from my brother, who had gone to work past nine o’clock.

Aunt.

It seems I must set aside describing the park events I had left unfinished last night and instead explain my family circumstances here in detail. As I wrote before in passing, these family circumstances—they remain one of the crucial causes that drive me toward death.

Dear Aunt. My family was indeed one envied by many. Yet we siblings living there could scarcely fathom what exactly deserved such envy. To be sure, not being poor might count as one enviable trait—but let me continue with more concrete matters. The call from my brother had been a request for me to come to his company that evening. I answered that I would go if possible. When the call ended, my parents intercepted me. There's so much—so much—to write that I can't organize my thoughts.

I put down my pen and gazed at the sun for a while.

No good. I have to write it down. I will continue. Aunt.

My brother had been in a very bad mood for about two months. He would come home late at night and go straight to bed without saying a word. That sort of existence had persisted day after day.

As you know, my brother had been afflicted with tuberculosis and spent a long time in the hospital, so my mother was deeply concerned about his health. Brother’s attitude made everyone in the house irritable. Because he would sit there making an angry face without saying a word. As for what the cause might be, both Father and Mother kept trying to investigate. One factor involved company matters where Father had connections—the steward’s son from our household acting senior and occupying a higher position had overwhelmed my weak-willed brother. Everyone seemed to gang up and make a laughingstock of him, and my introverted yet honest and overly trusting brother immediately developed an inferiority complex. A servile person might have endured it unaffected, while an arrogant one could have used Father as a shield to act superior—but Brother happened to possess just the right personality to be bullied by everyone, and found himself in just the right position for it. Father himself wasn’t well-regarded at the company either—his reinstatement after the purge had earned resentment from many people. I learned this from Brother. Yet from Brother’s perspective, there were indeed reasons why he had to feel grateful for his parents’ reflected glory—like entering the company without exams due to his frail health, or receiving special treatment from superiors—while conversely finding that same reflected glory burdensome in countless ways. Brother would return home each day trying to drown out his dreary company life by drinking on the way back. But what was weakening Brother wasn’t just his work situation. According to Mother, one cause she cited was a certain bar madam seducing Brother—my good-natured brother getting dragged into it until he couldn’t manage anymore. Though no doubt that too was an extremely minor cause compared to our family circumstances being the greater one. Now we come to a problem I’m directly involved in and feel myself. We children were raised peacefully when young. I alone occasionally rebelled against the family, though it was nothing serious. The reason for that peace—though this is purely my own opinion—I believe was because we misunderstood Father. When I was in sixth grade, Father had one of my essays selected for an award. I used to love Father dearly.

Father also seemed to dote on me more than most. This was probably because I alone had inherited Father's interests. My interests in painting, pottery, and even literature all stemmed from Father's influence. I used to think Father was an extraordinary man. Yet as I grew older, I realized my previous understanding of him had been a grand delusion. My father appeared determined to shape me into his own likeness. He tried forcing his daughter into measurements of his own design. Though Father had apparently been a top student who often boastfully recounted his academic achievements to us children—something that deepened my childhood reverence—this gradually changed. After the war ended and I started working as an office attendant—that is, from a position slightly removed from our household—I finally gained perspective on Father. He was a man who tenaciously guarded his narrow world with the conviction that being right in his own eyes sufficed. He didn't drink alcohol or smoke tobacco. He constantly read books. Father always took pride in the path he himself had walked. Therefore, he judged people simplistically by his own standards and would abruptly despise those fundamentally different from himself. Father had no merchant friends—because he despised merchants. Instead, he associated with scholars and artists, having decided they alone were worthy. When I began writing novels, Father vehemently opposed it. He maintained that poetry and essays were acceptable.

He encourages it. However, he remains convinced novels are disreputable. Of course, Father reads novels too. Being fiercely competitive, he voraciously buys and devours new releases. Yet whether translated works or Japanese ones, he’d pull a sour face at radical novels or those depicting human nature too blatantly—dismissing them as trash—while lavishing praise on anything resembling his own worldview. Father adores Rohan. And he’s determined to mold me into another Kōda Aya. He’d press Aya’s books upon me, forcing me to slog through essays about floor scrubbing and shoji papering. “How was it?” Father asked. “The binding was splendid,” I replied. Father grew furious. He’d always been so confident in his methods of educating us children. No wonder our current states infuriate him—me writing novels, Brother getting crushed at his company, Younger Brother morphing into some jazz-obsessed modern boy. From Brother he demands unyielding grit, from me docility, from Younger Brother academic rigor. I’ve come to loathe Father—this man who barricades himself in his narrow world while forcing its confines upon us. We used to argue constantly. He never budged an inch. That sardonic laugh would escape him, fingertips trembling as he endlessly insisted on his own righteousness. For over half a year now, I’ve stopped discussing anything real with him. It all felt so utterly pointless.

Father had the sensibility of nothing more than a middle school student. That is to say,

Having written this far, there came a call at the entrance. I went out.

Could it be an express letter from Beside the Railway? It wasn’t. From him—nothing. That is to say—for instance, even with questionnaires from newspapers—when they didn’t come to me but came to Father—Father’s manner of rejoicing was tremendous. I found such aspects of Father not hateful but comical. And so I came to think that I should simply keep deceiving Father. Therefore, before I knew it, I stopped showing anything but smiles at home. I laughed off Father’s childish sarcasm and jabs, chattered amusingly about jokes and incidents seen around town, praised his paintings—in short, once I stepped through the entrance, I completely wrapped myself in a mask. That way Father was pleased, and since it was something I could manage easily enough—things were simple. Father was exactly as I had imagined. “You can say anything to me—it’s fine because I won’t get angry.”

“You can say anything to me—it’s fine because I won’t get angry,” Father said. I gave a wry smile. I found myself hating Father while also pitying him at times. Now as for my mother—she was well-bred, easygoing, truly harmonious, and beloved by many people. But Aunt—my mother might as well have known nothing at all. It was impossible to expect otherwise from her. Just days ago she disparaged some bar madam who fancied Brother—someone she'd never even met. I did lecture her about it. Though from Mother’s perspective none of it likely made sense.

Dear Aunt, I do not love Mother. Yet I do not blame her, nor do I ever look at others and wish she were different. I cannot acknowledge any connection between myself and Mother. With Father, I do acknowledge a bond. Like my brother, I too have been told that I reached my current state as Hisaka Yōko through my parents' prestige—wherever I go, Father's name clings to me. To call it fate—had I been able to accept that, I might have cleanly severed ties with Father. But so long as rebellion lingers in some corner of my heart, that connection remains. True enough. Likely during my lifetime—and that with barely three days left. It does exist. I must write in proper sequence.

Well, the other day I met my brother for the first time in a long while. We drank tea alone together, and I earnestly told him that when at home, we must put on an act—if we don't, showing our hand would be disastrous. And you have to act. "While you're at home, turn yourself into a clown," I said, "make thorough plans before leaving." If you stay steeped in our third-generation family's stagnating blood, you'll become tainted. Father seems to think himself noble, but that's a terrible mistake. Childishness and integrity differ completely. He's actually impure. Using scholarship and intelligence as shields, Father himself became warped beneath it all. I advised my brother to leave home and told him he should quit his company. My brother seemed shocked by my opinion. I too had resolved then to leave—I thought I'd start living alone next year. This refers to after my once-decided trip to Kurobe; there may be overlapping timelines and confused dates. Dear Aunt. Please bear with me and keep reading.

The noon siren had just sounded. I wondered if I'd been writing for nearly ten hours since last night. Now let me return the story to where we left off last night. No—wait. This morning when I called Brother, I wrote that I had been summoned by Father and Mother. At that time Father became furious that I approved of Brother quitting the company and began ranting incessantly about incoherent matters. I found my brother’s inferiority complex utterly pitiful. Why had my brother developed such a personality? I said perhaps we needed to consider it. Mother had said something amusing—that when she was pregnant with Brother, because Father was abroad at the time, that fear must have influenced him. I had wanted Father to reflect on himself. That Father—who firmly believed anyone not from First Middle School, First High School or Tokyo University was human trash—had without realizing it become the cause of Brother’s severe inferiority complex. For instance there was a genius among Brother’s friends who’d graduated from Tokyo University. When that person came over Father showed more joy toward him than Brother himself, happily chattering about Akamon in Tokyo and professor stories Brother didn’t know. I had wanted Father to reflect. But speaking bluntly to Father would have sparked another quarrel and I found it too tiresome to continue. Father said again: "Why doesn’t he come home and show his true colors to Father?" I blurted out:

“I advised Brother not to show his true colors.” “He is showing his true colors.” “If there’s something unpleasant in his heart, he makes an angry face.” “That is showing your true colors.” “Father, you’re contradicting yourself.”

But I immediately recognized Father’s expression growing severe, tacked on some jesting remarks, and succeeded in deceiving him.

Now, I finally returned to the matter at the park. Dear Aunt. I will not say "Please bear with me and read on." If it bores you, feel free to skim through it—you may even stop midway. Simply because I decided to write this for you.

Now, the one who accompanied me to take the young composer to the park was the Pale Colonel. I harbored an intense reluctance to meet him. Even without feeling affection for him, merely being together made me think it wouldn’t suffice for Beside the Railway. With the young composer between us in the car heading toward Oji Park—my trip to Kurobe on the 22nd looming before me—that day was the 19th. My nerves had turned razor-sharp. At that moment, the Pale Colonel told me about an incident. He described what had transpired with Beside the Railway at Osaka Station the previous night. The Pale Colonel had apparently spoken to Beside the Railway during my absence about that play’s stage rehearsal, informed him he’d incurred resentment from the trainees, and declared “I stood in for you.” Beside the Railway’s answer was,

“That must have been quite dramatic, I suppose.” That’s what he said, apparently. The Pale Colonel was extremely angry. I heard about this and became angry at the Pale Colonel. Entering the park, placing the young composer on the wooden horse, and letting him play while—

“The thing I hate most is you saying ‘I did all this for you.’” I said. Then I criticized the Pale Colonel’s conduct as ill-considered. I truly detest lines meant to make me feel indebted. He insisted his actions had been correct. I fell silent.

In any case, everything had become such a bother. Rather than that, I played heartily with the young composer. We also rode the merry-go-round. By then, I had come to feel disgust toward the Pale Colonel. But I did not propose to dissolve the contract. I had put it in the envelope. Along with the letter I wrote yesterday. But since explaining the reasons or anything else was such a bother, I thought it would be simpler to just leave it all somewhere and be done with it. That day ended there.

The next day, I do not remember how I spent that day. In any case, I must have been busy. Oh, perhaps it was that day when I talked with you, Aunt. Wait—perhaps that wasn't it. I went to the young lady's friend's place. And we talked pleasantly; since I had been invited to a cocktail party at Kings Arms Hotel precisely on the 21st, I invited the young lady. Drinking among foreigners is something I find quite disagreeable—but it's something she enjoys. Ah yes—that day after all—I did go to Aunt's place.

That night, the research institute.

I was fixated on death. With the talented people I liked who had performed my play and fellow members, I went to our usual Jyanjyan Alley where I sang quite a lot. And then I returned home. On Monday the 20th, I had completely forgotten what I did during the day, but at night I went out to the promised cocktail party accompanied by the young lady. Then on my way back, I found myself desperately wanting to meet Beside the Railway. I thought about going to Kyoto. However, my handbag contained only two 100-yen bills and a few 10-yen notes. Even if I went to Kyoto then, there were no city trams running, and wearing high-heeled shoes while dressed in silk made walking impossible. I sent a telegram to Beside the Railway. "I want to meet you tomorrow at 3:00 PM at the usual coffee shop in Osaka." At any rate, I absolutely had to meet him one more time. That was all—and after meeting him I intended to depart for Kurobe. After sending the young lady by car, I returned home. I tidied up the desk, took a bath, put on fresh undergarments and went to bed.

Dear Aunt, The 22nd was coming. It had come. I radiated more charm than ever within the household, offering smiles. Around 10:30, after playing with the recently acquired Spitz, I went out. Pants. Then I put on two or three sweaters, wore a tattered topper, and donned gloves with holes. Inside my handbag were the 1,000-yen and 100-yen bills I had saved for that day. And a 1,000-yen postal money order. Then a pearl necklace and rings studded with diamonds and rubies. The furoshiki bundle held a pen and manuscript paper—that morning I’d suddenly felt compelled to write, frantically starting about ten pages for the play. The manuscript I first wrote about scissors, cloth, and patterns. I thought to set it aside midway and finish writing during free time until three at a café. Now inside the furoshiki were two or three architecture books borrowed from the Pale Colonel. Since he was building a house, I had been entrusted with its design. It might have been a house we could have eventually lived in together. And inside the envelope were the contract document and brief annulment statement. This I had written earlier. Those were contained within. I first stopped by the jewelry store.

At the first store, they said both items were worth thirty-five hundred yen. I’d assumed ten thousand yen would be feasible, so this left me crestfallen. The next shop offered three thousand. Then another quoted a mere two thousand. My resolve to sell withered. The objects themselves held no sentimental value. But the sums proved woefully inadequate. The journey to Kurobe demanded travel expenses—and lodging costs too, should train schedules force delays. It struck me then that I’d never collected payment for my Kobe Shimbun manuscript. So I went to my regular record store, called ahead, and announced my intention to retrieve what was owed. There at the shop counter stood its proprietor—my former lover. You knew about him, didn’t you, Aunt? He suggested I buy Milhaud’s mélodies. I’d listened to them there countless times, always vowing to purchase them. It occurred to me they might make a fitting parting gift for the Pale Colonel. After having one record sturdily wrapped—three hundred yen and some odd change paid—an amusing tavern keeper happened by. We wound up sharing coffee. For ten minutes we discussed paintings. This chance encounter with someone from my past lifted my spirits momentarily. Following our farewells, I rode the tram toward the newspaper office but detoured first to a dingy little jeweler’s along the way.

This time, I resolved to finally let go. I offered to sell the ring for four thousand yen. At that store, the pearls proved unacceptable. The shopkeeper inspected them with painstaking care. I pressed him to hurry since time was short. The shopkeeper agreed to purchase it. Had a full fifteen minutes passed? I felt a wave of relief. Yet my disheveled appearance against the ring's evident worth made the shopkeeper regard me with suspicion. "Your occupation. Your name. Identification papers. Bankbook."

I became completely fed up and left. I was unbearably furious. Then, hurrying my steps, I went to Kobe Shimbun, received eight hundred yen, chatted a bit, and next went to the post office. However, there too I was asked for identification. In my commuter pass holder, there was only one business card—Kusaka’s. I didn’t have a registered seal either, and the postal order was addressed to my real name. I left dejectedly (though I’d persisted quite stubbornly, only to be flatly refused by a high-handed woman with disheveled hair) and went to the next post office. It was the station. There, they wouldn’t accept the small money order, so I went to another place nearby, but it was no use. Since I had a friend in that neighborhood and since it was set up for bearer payment, I thought to have him handle it, but when I went to ask him, he was out. Finally, I went to the Central Post Office. There, I begged again and again, was made to explain various things—namely what the thousand yen was for—and finally managed to receive it. That money was for the ticket fees from the institute’s performance the other day. It was money I had advanced earlier. I boarded the city tram again and headed to Hankyu. And then boarded the express train. I wasn’t particularly looking at the scenery but, as usual, was just absentmindedly staring into space. I like riding vehicles—during that time, I can rest. Now—was it past one o’clock?—I went to visit Mr. Fuji at Mainichi Shimbun, or rather before that, visited Green Island. He was not there.

Why did I visit? It was simply to make a request regarding my composer friend. By now, I had no feelings left for him at all. Then I spoke with Mr. Fuji at a coffee shop. I often blurt out things about dying. So I told him with a smile that I was going to die again. That’s right. Before that, I had bought a map of the Kurobe area and a timetable at Osaka Station. Mr. Fuji and I joked while looking at the map together, and he said “Come again” before leaving. But why hadn’t I bought the ticket beforehand? That wasn’t any conscious decision. When traveling, I’d always developed the habit of buying tickets impulsively. Whether taking the Tokaido Line to Tokyo or heading west via the Sanyo Line, I never purchased tickets in advance—if none were available, I’d just catch the next train. Finding myself alone in the café, I borrowed ink and resumed working on my manuscript. Then came a call from Beside the Railway. “I can’t make it at three.” “He said he’ll come at six.” “I’ll be waiting.” I answered and kept working. His voice had been so gentle.

Now, when about an hour had passed, the person who opened the door and entered was none other than the Pale Colonel. I was startled. He later said my expression at that time had been truly hideous, but added he’d come because of some premonition. It was already palpable. I told him I would go to Kurobe. Then I handed back the contract document. He said going to Kurobe was fine, but that I should return. I don’t remember what I said then. I must have cracked careless jokes. Yet my face twitched and my voice rasped. My mind kept circling one thought—that I was a wicked woman. He told me to call if I went, so he could see me off. I made the promise firmly, and he departed. Taking my contract document with him. At that moment, I oddly felt both an urge to retract everything and something like relief. I resumed writing the manuscript. Another call came from Beside the Railway—he’d be delayed a little longer. From six o’clock onward, free to order any record, I chose Brahms’ Fourth. This symphony had always been my favorite. When the shop girl started playing the lengthy piece, I set down my pen and shut my eyes.

However, the first eight measures of the strings failed to play. The needle must have been poorly positioned. By then, I was already so irritated that I hardly listened through to the end of the entire piece. I even thought it might be an unpleasant composition. Brahms concluded, and my manuscript was completed. Next, The Marriage of Figaro began playing. It was around that time Beside the Railway arrived. I couldn't bring myself to look up calmly at him sitting across from me. My determination to go to Kurobe and my love—no, my attachment—to him spun through my mind at terrifying speed. The driving force behind my Kurobe plans, beyond wanting to confess truth to him, lay in my desire to escape all mundane affairs.

Family matters. That's right. I had already reached the point where maintaining the facade at home had become impossible. I had grown tired. And the fact that I couldn't produce good work—couldn't write at all—had become another cause. If I chose to keep living, they would come crashing down again. Those things. The weight of those things. I said to him: "Please come to Kurobe with me." Ah, dear Aunt... What in the world had I gone and said? I must have let it slip out. To his happiness—to his future—sinful, insignificant me would end up lowering the barrier.

We left the café. My belongings—that is, the manuscript, Milhaud’s record, and the items I had borrowed to hand over to the Pale Colonel. I left them in safekeeping. My steps were heavy. We entered a street stall eatery and drank sake lees soup. Then we came to the vicinity of the station. He said he would send a telegram. I interpreted that he would go to Kurobe with me. However, he did not send it to his home address. It seemed there was some event that evening, and the telegram said he couldn’t go. Even so, I believed he would go to Kurobe with me. There were still over three hours until the 10:30 train.

(Dear Aunt, the nib of my favorite fountain pen has broken.) Beside Railway and I began walking in silence. We headed north. We said nothing. And we came to a large bridge. Below were train tracks. Smoke was rising as an icy wind blew. He broke the silence. "I said something awful—I'm truly sorry." "I said something awful—I'm truly sorry." Those words had never once crossed my mind. I was shocked. Then suddenly— I feared I might lose my resolve to die. We started walking again. How many minutes had passed? It was Beside Railway who spoke abruptly. "Will you marry me?" he asked. This was what I'd longed for yet never dreamed of hearing. I became certain I could cast everything aside and live only for him. There was nothing but pure joy within me.

Neither anxiety nor anguish—yes, Dear Aunt—at that moment I had no guilt nor anything else left; no family matters, no work matters at all. We walked for a long time. Dear Aunt, on that day I truly thought I was happy. Without any doubt or hesitation, I felt and believed his affection exactly as it was. "I'm happy," I said. I was truly happy. We had temporarily forgotten about time passing. Yet eventually I came to imagine myself returning home that day with truly wretched feelings. "I don't want to go back," I told him. But Beside the Railway insisted I return. Before ten-thirty I found myself back at Osaka Station. I could still make the train. But of course I never intended to go to Kurobe. I parted from Beside the Railway and headed toward Kobe. There I met an acquaintance who invited me out drinking at a yakitori place before finally returning home.

Dear Aunt.

But the moment I stepped inside the house, that unpleasant feeling returned—as though a heavy stone had been placed upon my head. I want to be pulled from these stagnant shallows. Someone must rescue me. I was utterly spent. Dear Aunt, I cannot ask Beside the Railway to save me from this predicament. He lacks means, and given our current mutual sentiments, how could he possibly confront practical matters? That night too, my parents whispered about my brother; I retreated straight to bed, suffocating under the weight. Sooner—it must be sooner. I need to reach a state where this burden might lift. That night, I thought endlessly—of him, of family matters. Even that day—though I should have gone home directly—the moment I alighted at Kobe Station, that loathsome feeling resurged. I drank until half past twelve. I must escape this house. The method: sustain myself alone as an individual. Or marriage. Yet with Beside the Railway, I’ve only given consent—when it might happen remains unknown. He may propose dissolution again. With his elderly mother and brothers, death becomes—inescapably—the third option.

Only through that could I free myself from this present agony and the household's constraints. I had thought quite exhaustively about various things. And what finally surfaced in my mind, Dear Aunt, was the Pale Colonel.

It had grown quite cold. It was probably past two o'clock. I tentatively ended there for today. During the daytime, Mr. Fuji Masaharu came by, and then we went out together. I hadn't forgotten my promise with my brother and went to see him, but since he couldn't finish work by five o'clock, I returned home for the time being. In the evening when my brother returned, my friends gathered—among them were two people written about here. They told jokes and drank and ate in my room. After everyone had left and I took a bath, I wrote nearly thirty pages. So it must have been three already. I would do it tomorrow. That day my brother had been very cheerful, which gave me some relief. But even while chatting with everyone or writing my manuscript, I remained completely consumed by thoughts of Beside the Railway. Dear Aunt, there were still events that followed. I had written up until the 22nd. Then there was until the 28th. Six days' worth. Dear Aunt—why must I suffer so terribly? Well then—goodnight until tomorrow.

I washed my hair and felt completely refreshed. It was the morning of the 30th. Today, I believed there would be some communication from Beside the Railway. I had sent an express letter, and by ten o'clock that day, a reply about meeting the next day would arrive.

This matter will complicate the chronology again, so I'll leave it for later.

Continuing from last night.

Dear Aunt, it seems your year-end and New Year’s have both been quiet.

Now then, on the morning of the 23rd, I called the Pale Colonel immediately upon waking up. He was not there. I wrote a letter at once. I asked for the contract document to be returned.

Dear Aunt.

What a thing I have done. Yesterday I proposed to Beside the Railway and was accepted. But ah, I possess no clear rationale to justify that act. That night was the institute's members' gathering. I drank my way through three establishments. Wanting to forget everything, I deliberately tried to get drunk. Yes. That afternoon, I got a permanent wave. It was something the Pale Colonel had recommended. This sensation of frivolously lightened hair. Yet inside my heart, something foul had congealed. Making myself uglier; hating myself more; plunging myself deeper into wretchedness. The next morning—the 24th—I called the Pale Colonel again. He was absent. Within my heart lay things antithetical to my actions—Beside the Railway's presence carved deep. Then why don't I go to him this instant? I went to Osaka. And met with Mr. Fuji. But I did not call Beside the Railway. I summoned the Pale Colonel.

That night, Christmas Eve. Mr. Fuji, the Pale Colonel, and I drank a little in Osaka. And I returned to Kobe together with the Pale Colonel, while coldly acknowledging my love for Beside the Railway and my contradictory actions. But after returning to Kobe, I immediately called home, checking whether there was any word from Beside the Railway. There was none. That very day was the institute’s final day. But I did not go. And I drank with the Pale Colonel again. He lectured me harshly: “If you’re going to Kurobe—if you’re truly serious about dying—why not just slip away quietly?” “Was your reason for going something that could be so easily abandoned?” I scarcely listened to his words. My mind overflowed with thoughts of Beside the Railway alone. When we parted, I asked the Pale Colonel not to read the letter I had sent. And I myself felt relieved. After all, I would cast everything aside— I would devote myself solely to loving Beside the Railway. I had asked an acquaintance to secure a room in Sakasegawa.

I thought about leaving home and living alone. I thought that if I could put an end to the anguish of family matters, I might even be able to work. The Pale Colonel promised not to read the letter. Then the next day, on the 25th, we met. He placed my sealed letter before me. I snatched it and tore it up. The Pale Colonel perfectly guessed what was written. The contract document. That's right, I answered. The Pale Colonel did not press for further explanation. I parted with the Pale Colonel around 3:30. I had resolved never to meet again. I resolved to discard my worthless, base disposition that had been seeking comfort zones. Because the Pale Colonel is an adult, I am able to feel at ease. Moreover, since there is neither romantic affection nor love, I can remain calm. However, no matter how anxious I felt, no matter how painful life became, I wanted to spend it with Beside the Railway.

Now, Aunt. Because I had a debt at a drinking establishment and because I had just received my allowance from Father, I went to pay it off. And Aunt, the proprietress there said— “Last night, Beside the Railway came to drink alone,” she said. I was surprised. At home, they did not tell me that he had called. I had no idea he had come last night. I immediately went to the station and sent a telegram. 二四ヒスマヌ　アスアサデ　ンタノム。 I then attended the institute's year-end party. I drank tremendously. Did Beside the Railway catch sight of me walking with the Pale Colonel? I returned home with my spirits terribly darkened by a whim of chance. Because I drank so much homemade rice wine that my head was pounding, I immediately went to sleep.

The next morning, the 26th, I called Kyoto from here. It was after he had left. I was on edge all day, wondering if the phone would ring—if it would ring at any moment. It did not come. I had also sent him mail that morning, explaining that because at home they hadn’t told me about his call, I couldn’t meet him. And that I wanted to meet him as soon as possible. I wanted to be together all day long. I scribbled in pencil. On the 24th, I returned to Kobe and went around drinking alone—I wrote that too. As an act, that must have been a lie. But I could only see myself as alone. That one person should not be a lie. Throughout the entire day of the 26th, there was no contact from Beside the Railway. I knew he was busy. So I tried to reason that he didn’t even have time to send telegrams, make calls, or write letters. Now, that day—with no morning call—I thought of going to Osaka, but when my brother left home that morning, he stormed out declaring he wouldn’t return or that he’d die, throwing the household into an uproar. In the evening, I went to see my brother, having been tasked with persuading him to return. It couldn’t be helped. I had given up on going to Osaka.

That's right. That night was indeed the institute’s year-end party. On the night of the 25th, I played Albénis at home for three hours straight. Now, I summoned my brother from his company and went to a coffee shop. And I suggested to my brother that he either quit his job or leave home. I also said I would leave home next year. My brother said something about feeling sorry for Mother, but wore a deeply gloomy expression. I snapped that he needed to plan and act. And I said that until he took action, he had to keep up appearances. "If you go home and chatter away with a bright smile, our parents will feel at ease," I said. My brother said he couldn't do that. "If you can't," I said, "leave home immediately." Then I asked, "Wouldn't you find it unpleasant yourself—receiving disagreeable misunderstandings at home?" He answered that he would. I grew exasperated with my brother. Yet he seemed partially convinced by my arguments, as if he understood. This must have been completely contrary to what my parents had requested when they asked me to comfort him.

After that, I went to the institute's year-end party. I wrote about that already, didn’t I? That night, I also ended up collapsing into sleep still fully clothed.

The 27th.

I went to Osaka to meet Beside the Railway. There had been a call from the Pale Colonel, and I went to Osaka with him. I couldn't stand being with him anymore. Even on the train, I deliberately pretended to sleep. From a certain café in Osaka, I called a place where Beside the Railway might be. He wasn't there. After parting from the Pale Colonel, I went to another location where Beside the Railway might have gone. He wasn't there either. That was where Green Island stayed. I considered trying to meet him. This emotional impulse defied my own explanation. It defied resolution. Yet Green Island wasn't there. I went to my usual coffee shop and called another place where Beside the Railway might be. He was there. His voice held terrible coldness. I was told to wait. He gave every impression of imminent arrival. Yet I must have waited an hour and half—no, two hours. He never came.

I couldn't stay calm. While listening to my favorite—Francescatti's violin—Paganini and Saint-Saëns, my heart was restless. Finally, he came around five o'clock. He was terribly sullen. As the place was crowded with customers, we left immediately and began walking. When I mentioned the matter of the 24th, he said he hadn't made any phone call. He just went because he wanted to go to Kobe, he said he had simply wandered around. He curtly mentioned having a year-end party to attend. We entered another café and began talking a little, but he responded to everything I said with sarcasm and spiteful remarks. I asked myself whether I was angry. I'm not angry at all. And he remained extremely sullen. I tried convincing myself work fatigue was the cause. At some point, my female friend came up in conversation. He said he had relied on her. I was startled. He hadn't written me a letter in so long. If he had time to write, why hadn't he sent me one?

The content of his letter to that female friend—whatever it was, however brief—the mere fact that he wrote it disturbed my heart. But I remained silent. After a while, he called someone to say he would be late to the year-end party. I forgot all the mental turmoil I had felt until then and thanked him. And we went to a bar near the station.

Aunt. I retain a vivid memory of everything since that moment. But I don’t have the mental composure to write it all down in detail. After all, those events still lie too close to the present. But I will write as faithfully as possible. He drank without showing a smile and talked more to the woman behind the counter than to me. But I was happy simply being together. That alone was enough. Yet after drinking heavily, he began directing sarcastic remarks at me again.

“Among all the women I’ve met in Kobe, you’re the lowest of the low.” Unable to grasp his meaning, I asked him to repeat it. He said I was trash. And he said that while self-deprecation in men is charming, in women it’s ugly. I kept silent and listened. He also told me I’m a woman who revels in being served by men. That interpretation of his was utterly off the mark.

Aunt. Am I really that sort of woman? I’ve never been waited on by anyone. I don’t even consider wanting to be waited on. I’ve always been a woman who loves rather than one who is loved, and I truly don’t understand why he says such things. But I stayed silent. Compared to the 22nd.

At this point—12:30 PM—today’s year-end party was being held at home. First, my composer friend arrived, and the manuscript was abandoned.

The time is now 11 PM.

A crowd came, drank, ate, sang.

Aunt, this may jump around in time again, but today—the 30th at 10 PM—was an excruciating hour for me. Yet even so, my resolve to keep writing this remains unshaken. If I take up the pen after ten o'clock, it remains unchanged from before. Let me continue. ...What a contrast to the 22nd. Beside the Railway's demeanor had transformed completely. We left the bar and entered a coffee shop. True to form, he needled me with provocations. I told him I was too simple-minded to grasp his convoluted remarks. He snorted through his nose and fixed me with a silent stare. "What are you thinking?" I asked. He retorted, "Guess what's on my mind." "I don't know," I answered.

“You don’t look entirely displeased with yourself now, do you?”

He looked at my face and said that. "What do you mean by 'not entirely displeased'?" I asked. Then he grew angry again, dismissing it as trivial. I tried my best to believe his harshness stemmed from alcohol. We left there and began walking unsteadily. He said he would take me by car until thirteen o'clock.

“I don’t want to let you go home today.”

After he said that. Until nearly thirteen o'clock, we embraced each other. However, unlike on the 22nd, he was cold and cruel. I told him I absolutely refused to go home like this. Then we got out of the car and started walking again. If I spoke even a word, he'd snap at me, so I stayed silent. When I impulsively said I always thought of him, he arrogantly barked, "Stop lying." The truth was—whether alone or surrounded by people—I never stopped thinking about him. He fixated again on my novel, demanding, "Why can't you write the truth?" Crossing that unmanned railroad crossing, I nearly wished to be crushed by a train. He kept muttering nonsense. Back near Station 13, I insisted I couldn't part ways like this. Then we entered another bar.

Aunt. And there, another incident occurred. A young man was drinking heavily. He was standing at a stand-style counter.

Now, he and I sat down on chairs, still seething with our usual contentious feelings. Then, the man began spouting all sorts of things. At first, he started offering topics quite cheerfully, so I wasn’t particularly bothered, but then he began putting his hand on my shoulder. That’s right. I was next to that man—therefore, between him and the man. I really hated being touched by strangers. Even if they weren’t strangers, it still felt the same. So I flared up. The man seemed like a young policeman or a ruffian. I think he was a policeman. He had a bandage on his finger. The young man began spouting all sorts of things, declared “I’m this kind of person,” and asked for my name and his. He very cheerfully became the man’s conversation partner. But for me, that act felt like a lonely thing. Before long, once again, the man came to put his arm around my shoulders. And then he asked, “Who are you?” Before that, when he had asked him who he was, he had written down his real name and address and handed it over. I had come to dislike the man both emotionally and physically. It suddenly occurred to me—under my handbag, there had been an envelope.

That day, I had been asked by a folk craft store to write a manuscript; after writing about two pages, there were one or two sheets of white manuscript paper left inside that envelope, which I had with me. I turned that envelope (what they call a sturdy envelope) inside out and thrust it in front of the man. There was a seal stamped with "Hyogo Prefectural Police Chief." The man’s complexion changed. That envelope was one in which a magazine called Ayumi was included and which was sent to my house every month. Because it was sturdy and convenient, I often used it as a manuscript holder.

Well, then things got intense—the man panicked and in the blink of an eye became servile. I had been coldly observing his attitude at first, but feeling too sorry for him—and finding it too bothersome—I said, “I’m sorry.” I was made to explain what my relationship with the Police Chief was, and in any case, things turned into a huge commotion. He was being very considerate toward the man. For over an hour, the man continued to panic. I grew annoyed and suggested we leave, finally rising from our seats. But he showed a softened expression. The man bought fruit at the neighboring greengrocer’s and had me carry it. I was unbearably uncomfortable. When he and I were finally alone, I was suddenly met with his reprimand. “You’ve done something cruel,” he said. “And he probably has a mother to support and a hard life to live.” I kept silent. But more than that—more than my own actions or that incident—the matter with him was far more significant. We ended up getting into a car and returning to Osaka, but in that car, I said I couldn’t go home feeling like this. He kept spouting all sorts of words in the moment—telling me to go home, not to go home—having drunk a considerable amount of alcohol. Even after getting out of the car, we continued as if we were quarreling. When I said I would send a telegram home saying I wouldn’t return tonight, he said, “Don’t send any telegram. Just stay away without going back.” “And if I stay silent,” he said, “then I guess I’ll just have to take responsibility later.” I had come to deeply dislike this mutual awareness of things like responsibility.

There’s no such thing as obligations or responsibilities in love.

Dear Aunt. I myself possess an intensely strong sense of responsibility regarding formal interpersonal relations and professional matters. But I've never engaged in any mutual exchange of responsibilities through love. To perceive it as responsibility—I cannot regard that as love.

We walked around near the hotel area while continuing to argue all the while. In the end, he urged me to go home. I nodded. We went to the station, and I bought a ticket. Then we went to a café again. He was terribly drunk. And he brought up the incident with the policeman. I was in no state for that. “You’re cruel,” he said to me. “Yes, that’s right,” I answered, “I can’t endure unpleasant feelings for my own sake.”

In truth, I felt no sympathy whatsoever for the man. Even now when I think about it, that’s still how it is. I hate servility. He was deeply sympathetic toward the policeman. And that’s just how the world is. He was saying that even in our world, it’s like that. Ah, I felt a flicker of anger at my own acceptance of this servile existence. But I remained silent. He changed the subject—that one shouldn’t keep saying things like not wanting to go home. "Don't say it!" he roared. The café was packed. Many people were looking our way. But I did not particularly interfere with how he was acting. Anyway, I felt utterly heartless. I crumpled. So I said I wouldn't mention it anymore. He led me along as if dragging me all the way to my platform. And when I was entering the ticket gate, he said again in a loud voice.

“Now, let’s kiss. You won’t, will you?”

And then he left behind a mocking laugh as he walked away. At that moment, Green Island suddenly came to mind. He too had been someone who drank often. We would frequently drink together, just the two of us. Yet we always parted with smiles and handshakes. Of course there were times I sulked and received lectures. There were moments when irritation overwhelmed me and I raged. But our farewells always ended with smiles. I viciously berated myself for remembering Green Island. Heavy-hearted, I boarded the train. Every connection with Beside the Railway seemed completely severed now. Yet still I love him. Even after returning home that day, I waited for a phone call that never came. Then sitting at my desk, I composed an express letter to him.

I could no longer feel your love.

It seems like it’s already over. And since there are things I want to return and things I wish to give you, please contact me by 10 PM on the 30th. Because I had heard that you would be free all day on the 31st. Any time or place would be fine. Five minutes would be enough.

Dear Aunt, I had reached my limit and lost all will to live again. The time I believed I could find happiness had been fleeting. It lasted from the 22nd to the 25th. I love Beside the Railway. But I possess nothing to prove this truth. If we cannot feel each other, it ends. I concluded I could not build a life with him. Our coexistence would become an endless chain of doubts and misunderstandings. Aunt—Aunt—you told me to try living in solitude. You said that, didn’t you? I cannot do it. I had meant to leave home early next year and forge a life, but in that imagined existence, it was never just myself—Beside the Railway too would have been present. And I had believed I could work. Family obligations. Professional duties. But the greatest matter remains Beside the Railway. Having lost him, I now lack both courage and resolve to continue working. Dear Aunt. Though I project strength, in truth I am desperately weak. I do not blame him.

Even if I'm filled with self-reproach. How did things come to this? I suppose it must ultimately be my sin. Yes. That letter—I composed it as a special delivery. What I want to give you is a slap across the face. It would be my ultimate expression of affection. I can no longer say anything. I must abandon all hope for his embrace or kiss. I resolved to slap his cheek with all my strength. Then there's what I need to return—one of the two photographs he gave me. The one where his former lover appears alongside him. I believe I mentioned this briefly earlier. Even glancing at that photo makes me seethe with jealousy.

Dear Aunt.

The next day—that is, the 28th—before going to see you, Aunt, I dropped it into the blue postbox’s express slot. The final letter to him.

Dear Aunt. I don’t need to concern myself with what comes after any longer, right?

Dear Aunt.

It must be around one now. The 30th, you see. No—December 31st at 1 AM. Dear Aunt, there was no contact from him. By 10 PM—no, even after that—up until now. It’s over. Utterly over. I’ve lost all courage to act. Yet this urge to die still stirs within me. Right now I strain to move myself toward action. But what should I do? I who love southern lands... I who try to go where cold snow falls... When will I die? Can I truly act? Though I’ve concluded matters with him are finished, my heart rebels—refusing closure. What if a telegram comes late? Or perhaps work keeps him from seeing my letter? But no—it’s hopeless now. Dear Aunt.

Tomorrow—no—today is New Year’s Eve. This year ends. At this year’s beginning, I was passionately in love with Green Island. And because I misunderstood him, I took action to end my own life—only to survive and contract tuberculosis. What manner of woman am I? Now I am desperately in love with Beside the Railway. Aunt—I want to see you again. But it’s impossible. Should I depart for Takefu tomorrow? The travel expenses for Takefu exist.

Dear Aunt, I will not reread this. I don’t have the courage to reread it. This is my final work. This is not a novel. It’s all true. It’s the genuine confession of my heart. So if you were to read this, Aunt, or if it were published in a magazine, I wouldn’t be able to go on living. Beside the Railway told me to write not with fiction, but only the truth. This is it. I will die to have this published. It’s my final work, after all. And before sending it to Mr. Fuji, let me have Beside the Railway read it first. And I will leave it to his will—whether he tears it up, has it taken to you, Aunt, or has it taken to Mr. Fuji’s place to be published in a magazine.

Dear Aunt. I had attained a quiet state of mind. I wrote it all. Completely. What a sinful woman I am. I'm bound for hell, aren't I?

Dear Aunt, please take very good care of yourself.

A room with flowers arranged. It was a nostalgic room.

December 31st, around 2:00 AM (Written December 31, Showa 27 [1952]; published in the joint issue of “VIKING 47” and “VILLON 4,” March Showa 28 [1953])