This article appeared in two parts the journal Setsugekka on December 15, 1892, and January 15, 1893.
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In February 1889, I first arrived in Tokyo with the intention of engaging in missionary work. In July 1890 I travelled to Fukuroi in Tōtōmi, coinciding precisely with the time of the parliamentary elections. I remained there for a year, yet things did not unfold as I had hoped. Now, however, my circumstances have finally settled. As I sifted through my old belongings today, I rediscovered this account; the emotions it stirred within me are beyond expression. I submit it now to your publication, though I ask that you refrain from focusing on the personal affairs of my own family.
The month of June has brought me two great sorrows. The person I cherished most passed away in Shizuoka, my ‘second home’, in the month of June, one year prior. Then, in the June of 1890, my grandmother, my greatest source of love and my sole pillar of support, who bore the heavy cross of hardship for my sake, departed this life. She left behind many hopes and a few final words of counsel, and now, in the southern part of the capital, she has returned to the earth. Both of them possessed a faith sufficient to be called ‘Christian’, so there is no doubt that when the heavenly ‘trumpet’ sounds, they shall immediately pass into the kingdom of eternal glory. Yet, I have now lost those faithful comforters and advisors with whom I could share the arduous journey of my own life.
June 24th is a date deeply etched in my heart as the anniversary of my grandmother’s passing. Prior to this, the annual conference had appointed me as an evangelist for the Mitsuke and Fukuroi regions in Tōtōmi Province. However, upon learning that my grandmother had fallen gravely ill, the district superintendent, who oversaw that area, instructed me to delay my departure for my post so that I might provide her with full care. Consequently, I, along with my aunt, who had travelled day and night from over a hundred miles away, did my utmost to attend to her needs; yet, it was not God’s will that my grandmother should remain in this world any longer. I have now become a complete orphan. Even birds have a forest to return to, and even wolves have a den; yet I alone have lost my grandmother, my only source of solace. Though my heart be as unyielding as iron, how could I possibly suppress the tears that well up in the dead of night at this loss?
Having spent days and nights in a state of constant, sleepless anxiety, I found that after laying my grandmother to rest, I was like a defeated warrior retreating from the field, burdened solely by exhaustion and deep regret, with a sense of desolation growing within me day by day. Fortunately, my aunt was there with her adorable infant, and the child’s charming smile would occasionally help me regain some composure. But when she and her child moved away to stay with other acquaintances, my state of mind came to resemble that of an old poem: ‘Lost in the mountains, not knowing which way to turn, a lone bird cries out in uncertainty.’ From then on, my mind was filled entirely with an eternal, unanswerable question, a haunting, persistent inquiry that echoed clearly through my thoughts. My aunt left many children behind at her husband’s home, and thus she could not find peace even in her dreams of Kyoto; she spoke constantly of wanting to return home quickly.
As for me, my destination, the battlefield, was already set. To be praised for exceptional performance in one’s first engagement would, in fact, be a source of shame for a true warrior. Though my heart was heavy with a dark, lingering gloom, on the second of July, I assisted my aunt and my young cousin, and together we boarded a train at Shimbashi. As the train travelled along, I looked to the left and to the right; to my eyes, the landscape appeared ripe and mature. Rather than casting my melancholy out the window, I turned my attention to the child, observing his expressions with wonder. Seeing his soft, languid eyes, his flushed, glowing cheeks, his plump limbs, and his artless, innocent smile, I found myself imagining how joyful humanity must have been before the Fall. Ah, little child, your face knows nothing yet of the world’s sorrows.
Even with your grandmother laid to rest in a distant land, you do not grasp the meaning of death. Truly, you are a creature of pure paradise, the most wonderful sight to behold in this world. O God, bless the future of this dear child. Though the world, once one leaves the cradle, is fraught with divine curses such as jealousy, resentment, rivalry, sorrow, toil, oppressive taxation, and war, I pray that this child may retain the very expression I see today, all the way to the grave. It has been raining intermittently since yesterday; the sky is a pallid grey, and the surrounding mountains, draped in robes of cloud, reveal the true essence of the early rainy season. In the countryside, the rice-planting season is in full swing, and the farmsteads appear bustling with activity.
As I pass Kamakura on my left, I cannot help but feel a stirring of nostalgia. Having spent an entire night exploring Enoshima and Kamakura with school friends on the second of April this year, this is a place I have visited before. I recalled the comical, Hizakurige-like escapades of that earlier journey and shared the stories with my aunt. In the capital, there is much to be dissatisfied with, and the thick, swirling dust of the city weighed heavily upon my head. Yet, the ‘god’ of the railway whisked me away in an instant from this detestable Babylon, guiding me toward the ancient Ashigara Road and into deep, wooded valleys where the mountains rise in layered splendour. It felt as though the dreams of the capital and the dreams of my journey had merged upon a single pillow, a state so surreal that I could scarcely tell if I were awake or dreaming. Yet, it became clear that the sorrows of human existence persist even here; looking at the face of an old villager, I could discern the etched ripples of a life of hardship. If those who forsake the world to retreat into the mountains still find moments of bitterness, where else might they turn? My own reverie was merely a reflection of the eternal rest attained by my grandmother, who has long since passed into an endless slumber.
Upon entering Suruga Province, the magnificent Mount Fuji, that grand, lotus-like peak, ought to have been visible, suspended in the mid-air; yet, the fickle weather conspired against us, veiling her beautiful form from the eager eyes of my fellow travellers. Only as we neared Hara Station did she reveal a mere quarter of her face. To me, however, my cousin appeared the most exquisite sight in all the land, and as for Fuji, she has been an old acquaintance since I first came to understand the world; there was no need for me to gaze upon her face now as if she were some novel, unfamiliar wonder. In this region, the mountains and the waters press close together, creating a landscape of exceptional grace, the mountains facing the sea, the sea reaching toward the mountains, as if they were sisters vying for one another’s attention. Compared to the plains of Owari and Mikawa, which are lush and level, this landscape might be likened, in one sense, to the unyielding, prickly integrity of a recluse, and in another, to the magnanimous breadth of a hero. As I pondered this, the train arrived at Shizuoka Station. (December 15)
As I was to spend the night in Shizuoka, I went straight to visit Mr. Kobayashi, a pastor at the Shizuoka church whom I regard as a dear friend and a respected senior, while my aunt, accompanied by her infant, travelled there by rickshaw. The parsonage is a two-story building situated behind the church in the fifth block of Gofuku-cho. When I called out loudly from the entrance, a voice from within exclaimed, “Ah, is that you, Yamaji-kun?” My arrival seemed to possess a magnetic pull, drawing the entire household to me; the pastor himself, his elderly mother, his wife, and even their two young daughters, all of them emerged to welcome me. Once we had taken our seats and exchanged the usual pleasantries about the weather, the conversation turned to matters that brought tears to our eyes. As I had previously mentioned, my grandmother was a close friend of the pastor’s mother, a connection I shall perhaps elaborate upon in a later letter, and both the affectionate elderly mother and the pastor’s wife found their eyes welling up with tears. Two days before my departure, I had visited my friend Sohō, who comforted me by saying, “Though you may find yourself alone and isolated for now, remember that all people across the four seas are brothers; do not let your heart falter.” It seems that Heaven has now granted me these wonderful brothers and sisters, and I feel as though the world has suddenly grown vast and welcoming. I have played with the children of this household, shared meals at their table, and laughed and conversed on the second floor of their home. A stranger, witnessing this, might well mistake me for the master’s younger brother, newly returned from afar. What bond, then, exists between this household and me, what connection makes us so close? I regard the master as an elder brother, the mistress as a sister, the aged mother as my own, and the children as my nieces and nephews.
If I were Napoleon, then Shizuoka would be my Corsica; I was brought here from Edo, much like an exile, long before I had even formed a clear sense of my own identity. Here, I have spent twenty years in quiet seclusion. I attended the local elementary school and completed my studies there. I studied under a Confucian scholar of this town, who helped shape a portion of my mind, a mind, perhaps, still bearing the imprint of my warrior-class heritage. Here, I have laid to rest my great-grandmother, my grandfather, and my father. I have many friends here, friends who love me from the bottom of their hearts. Countless times I have wandered upon Mount Shizuhata, and often I have cast my fishing line into the waters of the Abe River. It was here that I once found the young girl who gave me the ‘inspiration’ for love; it was also here that the evil spirit who tempted me once dwelt. It was here, too, thanking the Heavens, that I confessed my sins before my God and received baptism. I speak with complete sincerity: I take pride in being a man of Shizuoka. Even while in Tokyo, surrounded by many new friends, I have always striven to uphold the honour of my Shizuoka roots. It pains me deeply, as if a needle were piercing my heart, not to be able to visit my many friends here today; yet, what can I do when time simply does not permit it?
Nevertheless, my new post is not far from here, and surely, the opportunity for us to meet again will arise. My brothers, I beg you, forgive what may seem like heartlessness on my part. It rained all day long. I paid a visit to Mr. Cassidy, the missionary who serves as the district superintendent for our area. On the way, I also called upon a brother, a man with a shaved head whom I hold in especially high regard, and his wife. I stopped by the humble, hermitage-like cottage of a young friend of mine, a man of letters who, I am certain, is destined to make his mark in the future. Later, I went to see some relatives with whom my aunt was staying; though the evening meal they provided was rather poor, I nonetheless set off with my aunt and a small child, traveling by carriage through the relentless, pouring rain, to reach Saifuku-ji Temple in Uetera-machi, my family’s ancestral temple.
The burial ground, already a sombre, gloomy place, felt all the more eerie and desolate, accompanied by the sound of rain, which seemed like tears, and the deepening shadows of twilight. My aunt first pressed her palms together in prayer before the grave of her father; then, she did the same before the grave of her eldest brother (the head of our family); and finally, she offered prayers before the grave of her grandmother (my great-grandmother). Standing silently by her side, I reflected on the past, what an unpredictable, uncertain journey life truly is!
I recall hearing from my maternal grandmother, Okutome, that when my grandfather moved the entire family from Edo to Suruga, my father had joined the Eastern forces, eventually ending up at Goryokaku in Hakodate, where his fate, whether he lived or died, remained unknown. At that time, I was frail and pale, hardly a child expected to survive for long, yet my grandfather pinned all his hopes upon me, saying that he would henceforth look to his grandson, and he spoke of living out his days at the foot of Mount Fuji. Before I could ever repay the profound kindness I had received, kindness as vast as the mountains and the sea, ten years have already slipped away. When our family first arrived here, there were six of us, including my father; now, half of that number have returned to the earth. Yet, in this world where nothing is permanent, I say to you, Aunt: do not grieve, do not sorrow, for we return to the dust. Yet, might not God, in His power, raise us up from the dust once more?
That night, I enjoyed a peaceful and pleasant sleep at the parsonage, while my aunt and the child stayed with their relatives.
On the third day, the sky was overcast with occasional light rain. At six in the morning, my aunt and the child arrived early at the parsonage, accompanied by the wife of their relative. I, too, prepared for the journey, and together we took our leave of the parsonage. At the railway station, we parted ways with those who had seen us off and boarded the train, just as we had the day before, bound for Tsuruga. As the route was familiar to me, I began to play with the child once again. Observing this, my aunt remarked, “How deeply you love this little one! You are so devoted, perhaps I should just let you keep the child!” The child gazed at my face and smiled the entire time; it was as if a spring of laughter welled up within that little mind, an inexhaustible, flowing source. Zhuangzi once observed that, in the course of a human life, one might truly laugh aloud only once or twice a month. Why, then, is it that in the early stages of life, there is so much laughter, while in maturity, there are so many tears?
My own heart, meanwhile, acted like a photographic plate, capturing and imprinting every scene it encountered. There was a time when certain impressions could not be wiped away; yet now, my mind is like a mirror, it reflects objects but leaves no trace behind. All that remains are the echoes of the great impulses I felt in the past, fleeting as clouds or mist passing before my eyes. Perhaps the acuity of my outward perception has faded, while my capacity for inward reflection has grown; for whether I pass by mountains or cross rivers, a thousand villages and countless hamlets all appear to me as mere variations of a single, uniform pattern. Turning to a fellow traveller, I remarked, “How small Japan truly is! With its green hills and verdant fields, everywhere looks the same, I have grown utterly weary of this tiny world.” As I spoke, he smiled broadly and replied, “I, too, share that sentiment. Yet, just as one cannot truly grasp music without a deep understanding of it, for while to us every piece of music might sound the same, to those who appreciate it, each holds a distinct and unique quality, so too is it here.” His words were well-taken, Japan is by no means small; it is simply that a single string within the instrument of my own heart has snapped.
As I passed the Fukuroi station, I looked up, thinking, “This is to be my battlefield for the next year.” What I saw was a pathetic little hamlet. Is this truly the field for my labours? My friend has remained in the capital to face a multitude of adversaries, yet I have been sent to this place, a spot so insignificant that one might glance at it and immediately forget it ever existed. What, then, is the divine will that brought me here? Perhaps my aunt, sensing the thoughts that crossed my mind, remarked, “I hear this village is your assigned post. It seems remarkably quiet, a fitting place, perhaps, for someone who, like you, generally prefers solitude and tranquillity. Yet, there may be moments when it feels a bit too desolate…” Indeed, my heart feels quite bleak at this moment. And yet, upon reflection, I realize that such remote, rural corners are the very foundation of Japan. It is in these places that one can glimpse the unadorned, natural essence of humanity. Compared to the city of Babylon, the village of Nazareth is far more authentic, more aligned with the divine, more sincere, and more honest in its interpretation of human destiny. I had heard that the scenery around the distant lake is ever-changing; today, the interplay of clouds and mist, revealing the hues of the mountains and the shimmer of the water, along with the sight of fishing boats and passing sails, is truly beautiful. Though I have yet to behold the landscapes of the ‘Five Lakes’, I wonder if they could possibly surpass what I see here.
The sound of the sea at Narumi seems like a dirge for the death of Yoshimoto. It is said that the magnificence of the castle at Nagoya is the finest in the region east of the barrier. Gazing upon the traces of Tokugawa Ieyasu at Sekigahara, I am overcome by an unbearable sense of the passage of time, the contrast between the past and the present. Meanwhile, young farmers go about their work in the fields with a calm, unhurried air.
How extraordinary it is to reflect that this peaceful realm was once a battleground for fierce, dragon-like rivals, a place where heroes perished, leaving behind only the passage of three centuries, during which the land has grown lush and fertile, yet indifferent to the human lives that once vanished here. As the train speeds through this landscape, my own heart feels strangely restless.
I take a brief rest at Maibara, then change trains to reach Tsuruga. My aunt’s husband sent a faithful old man, a long-time associate of their household, all the way to Tsuruga to fetch my aunt and the child. The following day, amidst the throng of iron machinery at the station, I parted ways with them, boarded a train once more, and arrived in Fukuroi around noon. (January 15th)
