This article, in which Aizan discusses his connection with the newspaper Kokumin shinbun, appeared in serial form the Kokumin shinbun on February 19, 20, 22, 23, 24, 1915.
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Part 1
My dear Yamakawa, I learned yesterday from my wife that I had received a letter from you asking me to write something to mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding of Kokumin shimbun. I deliberately refer to it as ‘our’ Kokumin shimbun. To me, the company is not something to be treated with the formal distance implied by calling it ‘your company.’ As a scholar of the Chinese classics once said, the word ‘our’ implies a sense of intimacy and personal connection; hence, I call it ‘our Kokumin shimbun’. I ask that you do not find this strange.
When I was a young man living in Shizuoka, working as a minor official and supporting my family on a meager salary, I secretly resolved to make my mark on the world through history and writing. During those times, I devoted every spare moment to reading and writing with single-minded focus, and the works I loved most were those of Taguchi Ukichi. The Taguchi family and my family had maintained some degree of contact since the Edo period. I had heard stories of the hardships he endured during his days of poverty and felt a deep sense of sympathy for him. However, I found much to disagree with in his arguments for free trade given my own understanding at the time; so, one day, I drafted a piece challenging him on the points I questioned. It seemed Taguchi delighted in debating with younger men, and we engaged in a spirited exchange of letters, a major debate, but ultimately, we could not fully resolve the matter through writing. We parted ways on the understanding that if I were ever to visit Tokyo, I should come and debate him in person. From then on, I developed a great fondness for Taguchi’s writings.
Meanwhile, a person called Tokutomi Sohō began contributing to a Christian newspaper of the time. Those writings gave me an indescribable sense of delight. I would not presume to boast of prophetic foresight, yet it was my intuition from the very start that this man’s literary renown would ultimately eclipse all others in the land. Soon, Youth and Education in the Nineteenth Century appeared, followed by The Future Japan. Curiously, however, this young warrior of the new literary scene seemed to share a special bond with Taguchi, a figure I held in high regard, suggesting that Taguchi too, deserved some credit for introducing Sohō to the public. As the saying goes, a burden feels lighter when one claims it as one’s own; to me, a devoted follower of the Taguchi school, Sohō’s writing, which seemed to echo that very style, never felt like the work of a stranger.
I purchased a copy of The Future Japan at a bookstore in Gofuku-machi while on my way back from the Shizuoka Prefectural Office; upon returning home, I immediately began reading it and finished the entire volume by three o’clock that night. My father, concerned, admonished me, saying that while reading was well and good, such behavior was not in my best interest. I responded, “But it is a fascinating book; surely reading a fascinating book won’t do any harm, even if I stay up all night” flatly rejecting my parent’s suggestion. It was the height of unfilial conduct, yet in truth, I was utterly captivated, possessed, one might say, by the work, acting in a state of sheer frenzy. (February 19, 1915)
Part 2
By this time, Sohō’s literary reputation had resounded throughout the nation, culminating in the publication of the Kokumin no tomo. I read the Kokumin no tomo while traveling in the city of Fukui, in the province of Echizen; I climbed Mt. Asuwa and read it beneath the statue of Emperor Keitai. At that time, however, I remained opposed to the theory of free trade and did not necessarily subscribe to the arguments presented in The Future Japan. In a speech delivered to the Shizuoka Youth Association, I criticized the work, arguing that free trade theory amounted to a form of economic fatalism. I contended that while there are indeed natural laws governing the development of productive mechanisms, if human agency is not applied to them, nature becomes everything while humanity is reduced to nothingness; I thus launched a vigorous attack against Sohō’s position, declaring that it was by no means to be accepted.
As my circumstances became somewhat more relaxed around that time, I resolved to go to Edo to further my studies. I wrote to Sohō, explaining my circumstances and expressing my hope that, with his assistance, I might travel to the capital to study English books and perhaps work as his assistant, thereby fulfilling my long-held ambition. I acknowledged that sending such a letter to someone with whom I had no prior acquaintance was highly presumptuous, but I appealed to his chivalrous nature for understanding. Before long, a reply arrived from Sohō. His handwriting at the time featured slender strokes, reminiscent of the legs of the character ‘matsuri’ (festival), with horizontal strokes that swept upward at the end, a style resembling that of Kitamura Tōkoku. It was a lengthy, impassioned letter expressing deep sympathy for my plight, yet it concluded with the words: “Even now, I remain nothing more than an ordinary student; unfortunately, I am unable to do as you propose.” Although I could not help feeling somewhat disappointed, I was deeply impressed by the courtesy with which such a titan of the literary world treated a junior like myself; this only deepened my respect and affection for him.
At that time, I was a Christian, and Hiraiwa Yoshiyasu, a pastor in Shizuoka, urged me to become an evangelist. While I aspired to pursue history and writing, I felt that a role carrying the responsibility of preaching benevolence and morality to others was beyond my capabilities. I initially declined the offer, but he repeatedly admonished me, pointing out that in my circumstances, lacking both funds for study and time, my aspirations to study history would likely never come to fruition. Eventually, I came around to his way of thinking and began preparing to become an evangelist; I resigned from my government post, traveled to Tokyo, and enrolled at the Tōyō Eiwa Gakkō in Azabu to study English texts, thereby setting aside, for the time being, my hopes of pursuing history and writing.
(February 20, 1915)
Part 3
When I arrived at Tōyō Eiwa Gakkō, the ceremony for the promulgation of the Constitution was taking place. I stood outside Toranomon with the schoolboys to celebrate the grand occasion, then trudged through the lingering snow of the previous storm as we marched through the city. When we shouted ‘Banzai!’ in front of the Min’yūsha offices, Sohō and his colleagues appeared on a balcony-like structure to greet us and distribute printed materials. Naturally, Sohō would not have noticed my presence, but that was the first time I gazed upon his long, striking face; I thought to myself that he was a man who truly resembled his writing, and I mused that he was the sort of figure who embodied the spirit of King Gou of Yue. Later, I sent a letter to him explaining my resolve to become an evangelist and describing the unavoidable circumstances that had led me to change my life’s ambition; he replied with a courteous letter, noting that both Beecher and Abbott were men who were simultaneously ministers and men of letters. He said that one should not abandon the craft of writing simply because one has become a man of religion.
Around this time, I visited Sohō’s home. An elderly woman who answered the door told me in the Higo dialect that if I had business with him, I should go to the Min’yūsha offices instead. It seemed that, given his great renown as a writer, Sohō received so many visitors that he had little time for self-cultivation and thus preferred not to receive guests at his home whenever possible. I replied, “I have not come to see the master on official business, so there is no need for me to go to Min’yūsha; I simply wished to see his face, so please announce me once more.” Sohō then ushered me into his small study, and we conversed for about half an hour. He remarked that although he used to be fond of reading Coleridge, lately he had come to prefer Carlyle and found Emerson interesting. That is why, when I went to Fukuroi in Tōtōmi to become a rural evangelist in the following year, I carried the collected works of Carlyle and Emerson with me.
Though entirely self-taught, I studied in a desolate village and a dilapidated post-station, with the universe itself as my teacher; the joy of it was beyond words. It was then that Sohō gave me Miyazaki Kōshōshi’s Kisei (Homecoming) and asked for my thoughts on it; this marked the first time a piece of my writing was published in the Kokumin Shimbun. Although I had resolved to make missionary work my life’s calling, my natural inclination lay in writing. Perhaps sensing this, senior members of the church decided to put my modest literary skills to use; when the three Methodist denominations launched a weekly newspaper titled Gokyō (Defense of the Faith), they recalled me from Fukuroi to serve as its editor-in-chief. The man who worked alongside me on the editorial staff, handling everything from accounting to general operations, was the late Muneya Okano (Chijū). This marked my debut in the Tokyo literary world. (February 22, 1915)
Part 4
Before long, Sohō sent me a letter asking me to assist with the editorial work at the Kokumin shimbun. The letter conveyed a sentiment along these lines: “I have a reputation within the company for being quite the meddler, but that is not necessarily the case. Should you join the staff, there is no reason for me to stifle your abilities.” Although I had resolved to become a missionary, I felt that the sort of tasks befitting a man of virtue, such as lecturing a wayward son, mediating marital disputes, comforting the elderly in their twilight years, or tempering the impetuous zeal of youth, were simply not suited to my natural temperament; thus, I once visited Pastor Hiraiwa and said I felt that if I trained in public speaking, I could likely become reasonably articulate, and I could probably learn to write as well as the average person; however, I did not consider myself at all suited for the work of a pastor. I proposed an alternative arrangement to Pastor Hiraiwa: could I serve solely as the editor-in-chief of Gokyō and focus on preaching, while being relieved of the responsibility of overseeing the congregation? He replied that such an arrangement was impossible and suggested that resignation would be the best course of action; consequently, I decided to resign and so it came about that I left the ministry.
One cannot foresee the turns life will take. Although I had hoped to make my mark in the religious sphere, I found myself in an awkward situation that led to my resignation, a regrettable outcome, yet one I accepted as unavoidable. However, as there was no one else to take over as editor-in-chief of Gokyō, I was asked to continue in the role; I served in that capacity for a total of seven years. Having left the ranks of evangelists, I saw no objection to becoming a newspaper employee, so I accepted an invitation from Sohō to join the staff of the Kokumin shimbun. When I first arrived at the newspaper office, the person whose desk was adjacent to mine was none other than you, Mr. Yamakawa. Your gentle demeanor brought great comfort to me as a newcomer.
I recall that the editor was a man named Watanabe Masanori (?). He was a blunt yet interesting character. He had a somewhat scholarly air about him, a look often seen in that era, so I surmised that he was likely the famous ‘Takagoro-san.’ When I first joined the company, I was assigned to edit the front page. Naturally, as this was a task beyond the capabilities of a novice like me, I was soon reassigned. As for my own headstrong nature, I got into an argument with Takekoshi Yosaburo on just my second or third day at the company. At the time, Takekoshi was a renowned figure, spoken of in the same breath as Sohō as one of the nation’s leading intellectuals.
It was an act of sheer recklessness on my part to leave work early so soon after joining the company, and under such a superior, no less. At the time, there was a rule that only the writers of the newspaper’s editorials were exempt from overnight duty. Finding this unfair, I proposed that all editorial staff members, starting with Sohō himself, should share the duty equally; my proposal was adopted. I still remember Abe Mitsuie saying to me, “That seems a bit harsh; perhaps we should make an exception for Sohō and excuse him from overnight duty.” On another occasion, a certain magazine described us as ‘disciples of Sohō,’ which irritated me greatly; I published a statement in the newspaper declaring that I was not a disciple of Sohō and asserting that all editorial matters were decided by the collective consensus of the editorial board. Looking back on it now, I suppose my attitude was quite brash and unruly.
Yet, Sohō was tolerant of this. Even when his own arguments were frequently overruled by the editorial board, he remained patient. He maintained a system where every decision was reached through an editorial board that operated on strictly egalitarian principles. How, then, could I fail to yield to such an approach? (February 23, 2015)
Part 5
Mr. Yamakawa, I need not say much about what has transpired since. The kindness and goodwill I have received from Sohō are beyond compare. If I were to put myself in his shoes, were I to take his place, I do not believe I would do even one-tenth as much for a junior colleague as he has done.
Whenever I reflect on his friendship, I am filled with a deep and profound sense of gratitude. I never made a career of hopping from one newspaper company to another; the only time I served as a newspaper journalist was during my tenure at the Kokumin Shimbun. It was through Sohō’s introduction that I assumed the position of editor-in-chief at the Shinano Mainichi Shimbun, and likewise, it was his recommendation that secured me the title of editor-in-chief, albeit briefly, at the Osaka Nippō. I did this solely because I wished to remain with Sohō throughout my entire career as a journalist.
However, in our debates, I have never been able to fully align my views with his. When he advocated the ‘Big Japan” doctrine, I frequently expressed my dissent within our organization, countering it with the ‘Small Japan’ doctrine; consequently, he came to regard me as a proponent of the latter. Even today, I do not feel that I have fully adopted his line of reasoning. He stands for the ‘big’, while I stand for the ‘small.’ Yet, ‘Aizan’ is not ‘Sohō’; the heart of an Edo native harbors its own distinct world. In this respect, I may well be, in a certain sense, an opponent of his views. I simply remain grateful that he has tolerated me and endured our association to this day.
Time flies like water. If we don’t get motivated and make an effort now, we too will wither and die like the weeds and sedges. I sit upright, read books, and pursue a single small area of study as my own goal. Sohō considers being a newspaper reporter his calling. Though there are big and small, light and heavy, aspirations, my youthful hopes and my desire to make them a reality in old age are one. The fierce determination to not die in vain is one. I humbly request your understanding regarding the circumstances.
On the banks of the Isumi River in early spring, Year of the Rabbit.
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Notes:
This translation was prepared with the assistance of Google Translate and ChatGPT.
