The Tower of London E-Book

Natsume Sōseki

• Herausgeber: Peter Owen Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

'The curtain veiling the mysterious things called the past rending itself in two and reflecting ghostly light over the twentieth century is The Tower of London.' In October 1900, a brilliant but largely unknown Japanese scholar arrived in London to commence two years of intense study. The scholar would later become the most celebrated Japanese writer of all time, Natsume Soseki, and produce a dazzling collection of novels, memoirs, criticism and short stories that form the bedrock of modern Japanese literature. The spectacle of a Japanese visitor to Victorian London was a rare one, and Soseki's acute observations contain unique snapshots of London life. Against the backdrop of these images, Soseki develops profound reflections on universal themes. The river Thames is transformed into the river Styx; The Tower of London becomes a gateway to the Underworld; mysterious boarding houses and the spirits of the dead are encountered through relics and memoir; time itself is regained and explored. This new translation provides the perfect introduction to the work of one of the world's greatest authors, accompanied for the first time with a comprehensive critical introduction, and a wry fictional account of a meeting between Soseki and Sherlock Holmes.

Leseprobe

Contents

List of Illustrations

Introduction

A Brief Biography of Soseki Natsume

Soseki in London

Map of Soseki’s London

From The Cuckoo (1901–3)

Letter from London

Bicycle Diary

From Drifting in Space (1906)

The Tower of London

The Carlyle Museum

From Short Pieces for Long Days (1909)

Lodgings

The Smell of the Past

A Warm Dream

Impression

Fog

Long Ago

Professor Craig

Appendix: ‘The Yellow Lodger’ by Yamada Futaro

Notes

Translator’s Afterword

The ‘Soseki Series’ of Kosaka Misuzu by Damian Flanagan

These translations are dedicated to my mother, with love and gratitude

– Damian Flanagan

Illustrations

Map of Soseki’s London

Map of the Tower of London, 1885; LP Pictures Ltd

Edward V and the Duke of York in the Tower by Paul Delaroche (1831); courtesy of the Wallace Collection, London

Sketches of inscriptions from the walls of the Beauchamp Tower; courtesy of Manchester City Libraries

The Execution of Lady Jane Grey by Paul Delaroche (1833); courtesy of the National Gallery, London

Thomas Carlyle standing outside 24 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, drawing by Henry and Walter Greaves (1865); courtesy of the National Trust

Thomas Carlyle, carbon photograph by Elliot and Fry (1865); courtesy of the National Trust

Sketches of items within Carlyle’s House from the original catalogue; courtesy of the National Trust

Thomas Carlyle in his garden, 1857, photograph by Robert Tait; courtesy of the National Trust

Photograph of William Craig; courtesy of Manchester City Libraries

From The Cuckoo (1901–3)

Letter from London (1901)1

So I think I will devote the whole evening of today, 9 April, to telling you about various things here. There are actually many things to tell you about. For some reason I have become terribly serious since arriving here. Looking and listening to everything around me, the problem of ‘Japan’s future’ incessantly springs to mind. Do not tease me by telling me I am acting out of character. That someone like me is thinking about such problems cannot be entirely due to the weather and the beefsteak but must, I suppose, be providence. Many things have caught my attention: how literature and the arts are flourishing in this country and how the flourishing of literature and the arts is influencing the national character; to what extent this country’s development has advanced materially and what trends lie behind that advance; that there is in England no word for samurai but the word ‘gentleman’ and what meaning the word ‘gentleman’ has; how the ordinary person is generous and hard working … Yet, at the same time, many irritating things crop up. Sometimes I find myself hating England and desiring quickly to return to Japan. But then again, when I reflect on the state of Japanese society, I feel it to be pitifully unpromising. Japanese gentlemen are, I fear, extremely lacking when it comes to their moral, physical and artistic education. How nonchalant and self-satisfied our gentlemen are!2 How foppish they are! How inane they are! How satisfied they are with modern Japan, and how they continue to lead the ordinary populace to the brink of degeneracy! They are so shortsighted as not to even know that they are doing these things. Many such grievances occur to me. The other day I wrote a long letter about Japan’s upper classes and sent it to my relatives. However, these are merely superfluous things that I have come to feel since coming to England, and as such talk is not remotely connected to England and something that there is no need for me to relate to you nor something you are likely to want to hear about, I will straight away skip over it and talk about something else.

Unfortunately, when I try to come up with something better to talk about, nothing comes to mind. That being the case, I thought I might present to you today’s events from my getting up until writing this letter now, written in the style of the diaries solicited by The Cuckoo3. I say ‘events’, but in a loafer’s life like mine there is nothing interesting or amusing, only extremely ordinary things to report. It might be interesting to say I lost Ann on Oxford Street4 or saw a fight at Charing Cross, but really my life is pitifully dull. However, I can tell you what I have been doing since coming to London. And, as you both know me, you might be a little interested in that.

Last Friday was ‘Good Friday’, the first day of the ‘Easter’ holiday. All the shops in town take a holiday, and shopping is completely forbidden. The following Saturday is the same as ever, but the following day is ‘Easter Sunday’ and shopping is again forbidden. The next day one imagines it’s all over, but this day is called ‘Easter Monday’ and the shops are again closed. Only on the Tuesday do things finally revert to normal. The husband and wife here5 have gone over the holiday to the wife’s family in the countryside. Tanaka6 said he would search for Shakespeare’s old haunts and went off to a place with the long name of ‘Stratford-upon-Avon’. Left behind were the wife’s younger sister, the maid, Penn7, and my good self.

When I open my eyes, the morning sun streams brilliantly through the gaps in the shutters. Thinking I have overslept, I drag out the nickel watch from under the pillow and see that it is still 7.20. It is not yet time for the first gong of the day8. There is no point in getting up, yet I do not feel particularly sleepy. So, turning away from the wall in bed, I look at the window. Some nondescript, calico or hemp curtains are perfunctorily drawn back on both sides of the windows, and behind them the shutters have been pulled down. The sun shines through the gaps between each one. Ha-hah, the weather has thankfully finally become worthy of spring. I had been thinking I would never witness such weather in London but have discovered that, as one would expect of a place where people live, they do occasionally get some sunshine. I look at the ceiling. It is, as ever, cracked and in poor condition, and above it I could hear a kind of thudding sound. The maid probably has her shoes on in the third-floor room. My room becomes increasingly bright. There is still no sign of the gong ringing.

I drop my eyes from the ceiling and look around the room, but there is nothing worth looking at. I am actually quite ashamed of this room. In front of the window there is a chest of drawers. They are really just painted boxes hardly worthy of being called a chest of drawers. In the upper drawers are my underpants, collars and cuffs and below them my tailcoat. The tailcoat was cheap, but I have never worn it, thinking what a worthless thing it was. Above the boxes is a mirror about one foot square and to the left of that my bottle of Carlsbad salts9. At its side my dirty brown-leather gloves are half visible. Below the left-hand side of the boxes are two pairs of shoes, one red and one black. The shoes I wear every day are polished by the maid and left in front of my door. Apart from these I have some sparkling shoes for formal wear kept in the wardrobe. At least as far as shoes are concerned, I feel like I could be a wealthy man and am mightily pleased with myself. I start to think how I might take these four pairs of shoes with me if I moved house. I would probably wear one pair and stuff two pairs into my suitcase, but the final pair, would I throw them into the carriage or carry them? One pair will certainly wear out before I move anyway.

Still, it doesn’t matter about the shoes, but my precious books are going to be a major problem. These will take some moving. I look around at the books lined up on the floor, the books over the fireplace, the books on the desk, the books on the bookshelves. There was a Dodsley10 collection in the second-hand book catalogue sent from Roche’s11 the other day. At seventy yen it was expensive, probably because it was leather-bound, but I would love to have it. Warton’s12History of English Poetry, which I bought previously, is an antique set bound by Kalthoeber13 and a really cheap find. But there is no point fretting that I cannot buy books, since my money order has not come anyway, although I am sure the money will eventually arrive … bong, bong, bong, the gong sounds. This is the first gong. By the time I have got up and got myself ready the second gong will sound. Then I will amble downstairs for breakfast.

Sitting up and putting on my drawers, I think how, instead of getting up at the hour of the tiger, I am getting up at the hour of the gong14. I grin to myself. Then I get out of bed and stand before the dresser to wash my face. I commence my toilet. Unfortunately, in the West one cannot simply scrub one’s face. I empty out the water from a bottle into the jar and wash basin and put my hands in, but then remember I have to drink my Carlsbad salts every morning before I wash my face. I take my hands out of the basin. Being too much bother to wipe my hands, I turn to the wall and shake them two or three times and then prepare my Carlsbad salts and drink them. Then I slightly wet my face, pick up my shaving brush and start liberally applying it to my face. The razor is a safety razor, so it is easy to use. I shave my beard as smoothly as a carpenter with a plane. It feels good. Then I comb my hair, dry my face, put on a white shirt, collar and tie and roll up the shutters. Outside the room the maid plops down my shoes with a thud. Shortly afterwards the second gong sounds. Everything is now ready.

I then descend two sets of stairs and go into the dining-room. As usual the first thing I have is oatmeal. This is the staple diet of Scottish people. But, whereas they eat it by adding salt, we eat it by adding sugar. It is a kind of oat gruel, and I like it a lot. In Johnson’s Dictionary15 he says that oatmeal is something which in England is generally given to horses but in Scotland supports the people. However, it does not seem remotely unusual for the English of today to eat this for breakfast. The English must have become closer to horses. I have either one rasher of bacon and an egg or else two rashers of bacon. I also have two slices of toast and a cup of tea.

When I have finished eating four-fifths of my two rashers of bacon Tanaka descends from the first floor. He returned home late last night from his trip. But he is late every morning and has never once graced us by coming down from the first floor on time. ‘Good morning.’ The landlady’s younger sister answers, ‘Good morning.’ I, too, say in English, ‘Good morning.’ Tanaka munches away. Then saying, ‘Excuse me’, I open a letter on the table. It is an invitation from Mrs Edgehill. She would like the pleasure of my company at 3 p.m. on the 17th. Well, well. I am someone who does not like socializing even when I am in Japan. Coming to the West and attempting to socialize awkwardly in broken English is something I positively loathe. Moreover, London is so vast that once one begins socializing it takes up all one’s time. And one cannot exactly go out wearing a dirty shirt or having the knees of one’s trousers sticking out. And when it is raining the little money I have would have to go towards paying for carriages. All of this is tiresome and a waste of time and money, and I try to avoid it. But, as there are eccentric ladies in the world, circumstances occasionally dictate that I am obliged to go. Dear oh dear. Just as I am thinking this to myself, Tanaka starts to talk about his trip. ‘I’ve bought you a plaster model of Shakespeare and an album,’ he says. ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking them from him. Then he shows me a photograph of a rubbing of Shakespeare’s tombstone. ‘What does this mean? Is it Latin? I can’t read it.’ He finally goes off to the office.

As usual I read the Standard newspaper. Western newspapers are truly voluminous. To read everything from beginning to end would probably take five or six hours. I first read about the China Incident. Today there is a Russian newspaper’s editorial on Japan. If it should come to war, they say, it would not be a good idea to launch an attack on Japan, but better to fight it out in Korea. Fighting it out in Korea sounds bad enough to me. Then there is something about Tolstoy. Tolstoy has been excommunicated because he apparently recently belittled the Russian Church. Excommunicating the great Tolstoy has created an almighty fuss. A mountain of flowers was laid at a picture exhibition before Tolstoy’s portrait, and everyone has been discussing what presents to send to him. The article says that Tolstoy’s supporters are frantically attempting to spite the government. Interesting. Before I know it, it is 10.20.

Today I am going as usual to the professor’s. I first go to the toilet, then dash up to my second-floor room, get myself ready and come down. There are still twenty minutes left before eleven o’clock. I look at the newspaper again. As yesterday was Easter Monday there were a variety of shows in town. There are various bits and pieces about this. At the Aquarium16 a bear trainer has performing bears, one column says. The bears apparently ride on horseback and race around the edge of the rink jumping over poles and through hoops. Sounds interesting. I then look at the adverts. It says that Irving17 is appearing in Shakespeare’s Coriolanus at the Lyceum. Recently I saw Tree’s18Twelfth Night at Her Majesty’s Theatre. It was infinitely more interesting than reading the play. I would also love to see the Irving production. It’s 10.55. I pick up my books and leave the house.

If one was to describe my lodgings in terms of Tokyo, then Shinagawa first comes to mind. A suburb across the river from the centre of town. The rent is cheap, and, after all I will only be in this gloomy place for a little while … no, actually, I will probably be cooped up here for the whole of my time in England. I rarely go into town. Only once or twice a week. When I do go, it’s bothersome. I first have to walk for about fifteen minutes to a place called Kennington and from there pass under the river Thames by the Underground and then change trains to get to the West End.

Arriving at the station, I pay twopence and get in the lift. There are three or four people inside. The station attendant closes the door and pulls the lift rope, causing the lift to go suddenly down. This is the means by which we pass underground. If going up, I would be like Nikki Danjo19 in a suit. The inside of the cave is brightly lit with electric lights. A train arrives every five minutes. Fortunately the train today is quiet and not too crowded. The people next to me and the people opposite me and the people in the next car have all taken out a newspaper or magazine to read. This is a kind of custom. I simply cannot read books or anything when I am in a cave. First, just the foulness of the air and the train’s swaying makes me feel sick. It is truly unpleasant. After passing through four stations we arrive at the Bank. Here I must change trains and move from one cave to another. Just like being a mole, isn’t it? I walk about a hundred yards inside the cave and arrive at the so-called Tuppenny Tube. This is a new underground line that starts at the Bank in the east and cuts across the whole of London heading west. It is so called because, no matter where one gets on or off, it costs two pence, or ten Japanese sen20. I get on.

Making a rumbling noise, a train moving in the opposite direction to us emerges from another cave, and, taking this as a signal, our train also emits an equally loud rumbling noise and starts to move forward. The conductor says, ‘Next station Post Office’, and slams the car door shut. Telling us the name of the next station when we stop is a feature of this line. Across the way, a young woman and a woman of about forty sit facing one another. About one foot to my right an old woman and a young girl are chattering. The people opposite are nibbling on biscuits or something while reading their magazines. Ordinary passengers. Not at all the stuff of novels.

(I cannot face writing any more so hope you will not mind if I stop. Actually I would like to tell you about my tutor. He is intriguingly eccentric. But I have a bit of a headache so will break off here.)

The Cuckoo has arrived again so I will make a fresh start. As I wrote last time, the condition of my boarding-house is extremely pitiful, but you are doubtless asking how, like some modern sage, I manage to remain unruffled in such circumstances. Even if you are not asking, I will assume that you are since it is inconvenient to my purposes if you are not as I intend to answer you and answer you in all sincerity. So, with that as my intention, please listen.

I might sometimes try to come out with profound statements like some Zen priest or occult philosopher, but, as you know, I am for the most part all too human and have absolutely no right to be praised with lines such as ‘The wise man knows no greater pleasure’21 for living in such uncomfortable confinement. You will probably say, ‘If that’s the case, why don’t you move to somewhere more pleasant?’ Well, there is a very good reason, so do listen. The funding given to scholars overseas is so little as to be hardly worth talking about. When one is in London, it seems even less. Little it may be, but if I was to apportion all this allowance on food, clothing and accommodation, even I could have a slightly better lifestyle. It is doubtful whether I could maintain appearances at home with this (my rank at home22 may immediately be calculated by counting down five ranks from the first rank of the higher civil service. Of course, if you calculate from the bottom, you would only have to come up four ranks so even in Japan I have nothing to brag about …), but in any case I would be in a more pleasing house than this. Yet here I am practising every type of economy and living in such a wretched place. One reason is that I have a strong sense of not being the same person I was in Japan, but merely a student. Another thing is that, since I have gone to all the trouble of coming to the West, I want to buy as many books as possible relating to my speciality to take home. So I have forgotten about having my own house and employing maids. Yet, even when I think about the time when I used to eat beefsteak as tough as the heels on leather shoes at the university dormitory ten years ago, was it not still a little better than this? I think it was. People will perhaps laugh and say here I am cooped up in a slum like Camberwell, but there is no need for me to be bothered about such things. I may be in a dive, but I have never kept company with prostitutes or conversed with streetwalkers. I cannot vouchsafe my inner heart, but at least in my actions what I do is becoming of a virtuous man. Even if I say it myself, my conduct is exemplary.

But, when a whistling wind blows on a winter’s evening and smoke backs up from the stove and turns the whole room completely black with soot, when the cold wind freely penetrates the gaps around the window and door and I am unbearably cold from legs to waist, when sitting on the hard, boarded chair feels as painful as having lumbago in my pelvis, then I have the pitiful feeling that, just as the clothes I am wearing have completely discoloured, so, too, I am gradually degrading myself and wonder why I am living in such reduced circumstances. Oh, I do not care. I decide it does not matter even if I cannot buy books, I will spend all my allowance on rent and live like a proper human being. Then, brandishing my stick, I walk around the neighbourhood.

Once outside, everyone I meet is depressingly tall. Worse, they all have unfriendly faces. If they imposed a tax on height in this country they might come up with a more economically small animal. But these are the words of one who cannot accept defeat gracefully, and, looked at impartially, one would have to say that it was they, not I, who look splendid. In any case, I feel small. An unusually small person approaches. Eureka! I think. But when we brush past one another I see he is about two inches taller than me. A strangely complexioned Tom Thumb approaches, but now I realize this is my own image reflected in a mirror. There is nothing for it but to laugh bitterly, and, naturally, when I do so, the image laughs bitterly, too. When I go to the park, herds of women walk around like horned lionesses with nets on their heads23. Amongst them are some men. And some tradesmen. I am struck by the fact that they are for the most part better dressed than many a high-ranking official in Japan. In this country one cannot work out someone’s status by their dress. A butcher’s boy, when Sunday rolls around, will proudly put on his silk hat and frock-coat.

Yet, generally, people are of a pleasant disposition. Nobody would ever grab me and start insulting and abusing me. They do not take any notice of me. Being magnanimous and composed in all things is in these parts one qualification of being a gentleman. Overly fussing over trifles like some pickpocket or staring at a person’s face with curiosity is considered vulgar. In particular, it is considered undignified for ladies to turn around and look behind them. Pointing at people is the height of rudeness. Such are the customs, but of course London is also the workshop of the world, so they do not laughingly regard foreigners as curiosities. Most people are extremely busy. Their heads seem to be so teeming with thoughts of money that they have no time to jeer at us Japanese as yellow people. (‘Yellow people’ is well chosen. We are indeed yellow. When I was in Japan I knew I was not particularly white but regarded myself as being close to a regular human colour, but in this country I have finally realized that I am three leagues away from a human colour – a yellow person who saunters amongst the crowds going to watch plays and shows.)

But sometimes there are people who surreptitiously comment on my country of origin. The other day I was standing looking around a shop somewhere when two women approached me from behind, remarking, ‘least-poor Chinese’24. ‘Least-poor’ is an extraordinary adjective. In one park I heard a couple arguing whether I was a Chinaman or a Japanese. Two or three days ago I was invited out somewhere and set off in my silk hat and frock-coat only for two men who seemed like workmen to pass by saying, ‘A handsome Jap’. I do not know whether I should be flattered or offended. Recently I went to a play. As the house was full and I could not get in I stood and watched from the gallery. Some people beside me were remarking that the two men over there must be Portuguese.

– I did not intend to talk about these things. I have lost my thread. I will have a short break and start again.

Well, after going out for a walk, my mood changes and I feel refreshed. This lifestyle is only for two or three years anyway. When I go home, I will be able to wear ordinary clothes and eat ordinary food and sleep in the same way as everyone else. I go to bed telling myself that it is a matter of persevering, persevering, persevering. That’s fine if I fall asleep, but when I cannot sleep I fall to thinking again. I seem to be telling myself to persevere because I have no peace of mind at present – gradually things start getting complicated – and the reason I sometimes become a little frantic is because my poverty is so hard to bear. What has become of the approach to life I have for the most part followed down the years? Be neither overly attached to the past nor pointlessly placing all one’s hope in the future, but hang the consequences and exercise all one’s energy in working for today is my philosophy. Indeed, it is futile to encourage myself to keep going by telling myself that I can look forward to living more comfortably when I get home. Nobody can guarantee that I will be allowed to take things easy when I do return. It is all up to me. That would be fine if, once I discovered I could not take things easy, I could immediately change tack and forget the delusions of the past; but putting all my trust in the future, as I am at present, and then seeing that future turn into the past without being in the least fulfilled leaves me incapable of easily forgetting the past. Moreover, working with reward as one’s objective is the height of vulgarity. It is an even more ignoble thought than the kind of common wisdom that basely says, ‘In this world let us do good works so that, when we die, we may go to heaven and pass the future with toads on lotus leaves25.’

For five or six years before leaving Japan such lowly thoughts never occurred to me. I acted in the present, fulfilled my responsibilities in the present and felt joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain in the present. Worrying about the future, grumbling and complaining, was not only something that never passed my lips but something I hardly ever felt inside. I felt confident about myself and flattered myself that even if I went abroad, and even if I had little money, with a little something to eat and drink I would be able to live freely and easily in perfect serenity. Vanity, oh vanity! How by such things do we entirely lose our way in life. Well, from tomorrow I must reform myself and concentrate on my study. So resolving I go to sleep.

These are the circumstances in which I have been in this gloomy, squalid neighbourhood of the notorious slum Camberwell since the end of last year until today. Not only have I ‘been’ here but I will perhaps go on to have ‘been’ here from now until my study abroad ends. If, however, I say that there are certain goings-on here causing me to leave no matter how much I wish to stay, it will sound straight out of a novel but, when you hear the reason it is extremely mundane. Most of the goings-on in the world are unfortunately entirely mundane.

This house was originally not a boarding-house. Until last year it was a girls’ school26, but then the landlady and her younger sister began this strangely genteel, strangely lowly enterprise despite having neither experience nor money nor any firm objective for the future apart from a desire to demonstrate a means of self-employment. They are, of course, not dishonest people. They worked because they were capable of working while treading an honest path. Yet even a Christian God is more slipshod than commonly supposed and at such times does not do the slightest thing to help people. Thus the rent falls into arrears – London’s rents are expensive – and loans are incurred. Fever breaks out amongst the boarders. One person leaves the school, two people leave the school and in the end the school closes … This is how it goes when fate spins against one and the pretty women27 – let’s scratch ‘pretty’. Neither of them have any claim to prettiness – er, the pitiful – the piteous women resolved to fight adversity unto the bitter end and finally opened a boarding-house. I barged in just after they had opened. Barging in and hearing their situation I devoted my prayers to hoping that the little women – no, I mean the women three inches taller than me – would be successful this time. If asked to whom did I devote my prayers I would be at a loss to say. Not being on speaking terms with any god worth praying to28 I just prayed aimlessly. And, sure enough, there are no signs of any miracle. Absolutely no guests come.

‘Mr Natsume, do you know of anybody?’

‘Well, I would like to find someone for you, but I’m sorry to say that I actually don’t know anyone whom I would particularly call a friend in London …’ Yet, until recently, there was one Japanese here. He is an extremely jovial person unsuited to this house. He is a man who, seeing me reading The Cuckoo, asked if I was also any good at Japanese poems. That Japanese fellow finally ran off29. The only person left is me. When it gets like this, there would seem to be no alternative but to close down the house. An outskirt of London lying further south of here – I say outskirt, but London is so vast that it is hard to know how far it spreads – so that suburb must be a very out-of-the-way place. A reasonable, snug new house is available there, so the talk is of moving. One day the landlord and his wife went out and I and the younger sister were dining together when in a gloomy voice she said, ‘Would you please move with us?’ This ‘please’ is not the amorous ‘please’ found in novels. It is a dull, domestic ‘please’. When I heard this word I had a feeling of extreme distaste and pity. I am fundamentally an Edokko30. But, perhaps because it is unclear whether the place I was born in belonged to the city of Edo or the suburbs, I have, until now, never done any of the agreeable, charitable works Edokkos tend to do. I certainly do not now recall what reply I made. If I had the slightest trace of chivalry, I would have replied, ‘Yes, so long as you are moving there, I will move anywhere.’ It seems I did not reply like that. There is a reason why I could not reply like that.

It is true that this younger sister is extremely retiring and quiet, and indeed exceptionally devout in her religion, and I would not feel at all unhappy about living with this woman, but the elder sister is somewhat pert. I have also heard the life history of this elder sister, but will not go into it as it would be a long story, but, if I enumerate the things I do not like about her, they would be that, first, she is impudent, second, that she pretends to be knowledgeable and, third, that using trifling English she asks, ‘Do you know this word?’ If I counted these up one by one there would be no end of them. The other day she asked me if I knew the word ‘tunnel’. Then she asked me if I knew the word ‘straw’. There is no point in even a scholar specializing in English literature getting angry about this. Recently she seems to have taken the hint a little and does not say such rude things, and her general behaviour has become much more polite. This is because Soseki, without a word of strife, has subjugated this hussy without her realizing it … such self-flattering talk is all well and good, but when it comes to the women of this country, particularly the old women, perhaps because of what we may call ‘the kindness of old women’, they often add uncalled-for footnotes on the English they use and ask me whether I understand this or that word. The other day I was invited to a certain place and talked with the lady there31. This person is a great believer in Christ and consequently unbearable. She held forth at great length about Divine Virtue. She is a truly refined, graceful old woman. But I was asked whether I knew the word ‘evolution’.

‘It may seem as if all is chaos and there are no laws in the world, but look closely and you will see that everything is governed by the principles of evolution … evolution … do you understand?’ It is just like preaching to a baby. She means to be kind in speaking in this way, so there is nothing for it but for me to say, ‘I see, I see.’ After all, I cannot prattle on like this old woman. For my responses I merely use the words that rise into my throat and then pause for breath in relief, so it is only to be expected that I am looked down upon, but, speaking with regard to numerous different languages, then I feel like saying that it is I who know much more than they.

I often refer to old women, and there is another old woman32. This old woman sent me a letter the other day with the word ‘folk’ inside. If it was just a case of using the word then there would be nothing peculiar, but a footnote is attached to this word. It said, ‘This is an ancient English word.’ Adding footnotes to one’s own letters is in itself interesting, but the wording of these footnotes is even more interesting. When I was a passenger aboard ship with this old woman she told me that if I wrote something she would correct it for me, so I decided to give her a chapter of my diary and asked her to look at it. She handed it back saying she was extremely impressed, having corrected the odd word in two or three places. When I looked at it I saw that she had corrected things which in no way needed correction. And completely nonsensical things had, as usual, been written down as footnotes. This old woman is not at all a vulgar person. She is a middle-class person of respectable station in life.

As I am in England and able to meet people in this way, there is no particular need for me to have anything to do with the wife at my lodging-house and her impudent remarks, but, as I have come all the way to England, I would like to be in the house of someone capable of speaking with a little learning and would not even mind the house being dirty or cramped if I had the pleasure of their constant companionship. This being my desire, I did not answer, ‘Yes, let’s go’, although whether there is a house accepting boarders with a landlord such as I am looking for is highly doubtful. In the wide world there surely is such a place. But coming upon it is extremely difficult. If there was a room free at my tutor’s place, I could be put up there, but it seems I am unable to because there is no room33.

At times like this Western newspapers come in useful. In a world where everything is advertisements, there are countless advertisements for lodgings. When I previously looked for lodgings, I looked at the advertisement column in the Daily Telegraph. I remember that to read it from beginning to end took three hours. Now I do not take the Telegraph but the Standard. This newspaper is a high-class newspaper, and, thinking that the advertisements that appeared there would be just the thing, I began reading the advertisement column for 17 April, but, contrary to expectation, discovered that commercial places were numerous while those saying they put people up in private houses were few. There are, however, a whole variety of them. ‘Low rent, bath, excellent food’, this type of thing is common. ‘Facing Hyde Park, Central Line three minutes, Metropolitan Line five minutes, society with ladies,’ one says. ‘Free billiards, piano, gay society, late dinner’, this, too, is not unusual. ‘Late dinner’ is the recent fashion. To people like me it is extremely inconvenient. Amongst them I spied the following one: ‘A widow-lady living in her well-furnished house wishes a gentleman of homely taste to join her and sister as only boarder. Address XX stationer.’ I thought that I might first try somewhere like this, so immediately wrote a letter asking for information about the rent and other details and took the liberty to tell them that my background is so-and-so, my occupation is so-and-so and that I would like to live somewhere as cheap as possible and as pleasant as possible.

That evening at around ten o’clock as I was reading in my room, there was a knock on the door. I said, ‘Yes, come in’, and the master of the house entered smiling. ‘Now, you may have heard that we will soon be moving, but what do you think? It’s even prettier over there than it is here and the furnishings and so forth will be excellent, so we were wondering whether you might come with us.’ ‘Well, if you insist on my coming along, then …’ ‘No, I don’t mean you to come involuntarily, only if it suits you – actually we have grown fond of you, and my wife and her sister, too, are extremely desirous that you come along.’ ‘I realize that you wish to have a lodger in your new house, but I was thinking it need not necessarily be me’, and telling him, you see, this and this, the master’s face became a little gloomy. I, too, felt rather awkward. ‘So let’s do this. These people will probably send me a letter and, when it comes, I will first go and see the room, and if I don’t like it I will go with you and stop looking for anywhere else. If I had understood before sending the letter how much you desired me to go with you, I would have never made enquiries but done as you desired, but it’s too late for that now. We’ll just have to wait for their response, won’t we? In return I definitely won’t go looking for anywhere else. If this place is no good, I will definitely go with you.’ Saying, ‘Excuse me for having disturbed you’, the master went downstairs.

In the morning, when I went into the dining-room, there was no one there. Everyone had finished their meals. Thinking, Oh dear, I’ve slept in late again today, I looked on top of the table, and there was a letter, the four corners of its purple envelope tinged a deep violet colour. Undoubtedly the reply had come. From the appearance of the envelope they were using, I thought it must be a high-class boarding-house a little beyond my means and opened the envelope with a knife. ‘With reference to your enquiry, this house belongs to a lady [the word ‘lady’ was underlined], the rooms are naturally well furnished, and each and every room uses electric light. We employ good servants and make all efforts to provide surroundings suitable for refined life. The rent is three pounds six shillings a week. This may not suit your requirements, but if you wish to call we will happily show you the rooms. Yours faithfully.’ While eating my meal, I pressed the bell and called the landlady. ‘I have decided to go with you. It’s completely impossible for me to pay a rent of three pounds six shillings a week, so I shall go with you.’ ‘Oh, is that so? Thank you! We will do everything we can to make it enjoyable for you so do come with us.’ After the wife had gone out, the husband’s head half appeared in the doorway. ‘Thank you, Mr Natsume, thank you,’ he said smiling. I, too, felt a little happy. The wife and her sister are busy all day long with packing for the move. At seven o’clock, when I was drinking tea, I met them in the dining-room. ‘Today I sold our parrot for a pound,’ the younger sister said. Not to be outdone, the elder sister said, ‘I sold our school noticeboard. I got a pound for it.’

The wheels of fate continue mercilessly to revolve. What events still lie in front of me and in front of both of them? Perhaps all three of us are doing a foolish thing. Perhaps foolish and perhaps wise. In any case it is a fact that my fate continues gradually to draw closer to the fate of these two. Looking back and imagining the purple lady and her sister and their splendid house, and looking forward and imagining this poor but honest pair of sisters and the humble abode they still expect to be a future paradise, I feel with keen interest the difference between the two. I also feel how prosaic a thing is the disparity between rich and poor. And I also feel like David Copperfield living with Micawber34. (20 April)

Companion. I spoke a little last time about this companion and my companions, the sisters, with whom I am living, but apart from them there is another companion here whom I most admire and with whom I am most daunted. I somehow will not be satisfied until I have reported a little about this saintly person whose name is Penn and whose nickname is Bedge Pardon, so let me tell you a little about this person and present observations and appraisals of a different direction to last time.