I stood there vacantly for a while. Then, by the light of an oil lamp, I noticed a name painted on the door in lacquer: “Ernst Weigert,” and below, “Tailor.” I presumed it was the name of the girl’s dead father. Inside I heard voices raised as if in argument, then all was quiet again. The door was reopened, and the old woman, apologizing profusely for such impolite behavior, invited me in.
The door opened into the kitchen. On the right was a low window with spotlessly clean linen curtains. On the left was a roughly built brick stove. The door of the room facing me was half open, and I saw inside a bed covered with a white sheet. The dead man must have been lying there. She opened a door next to the stove and led me to an attic; it faced onto the street and had no real ceiling. The beams sloping down from the corners of the roof to the window were covered with paper, and below that, where there was only room enough to stoop, was a bed. On the table in the middle of the room was spread a beautiful woolen cloth on which were arranged two books, a photograph album, and a vase with a bunch of flowers. They seemed somehow too expensive for the place. Standing shyly beside the table was the girl.
She was exceedingly attractive. In the lamplight her pallid face had a faint blush, and the slender beauty of her hands and feet seemed hardly to belong to the daughter of a poor family. She waited until the old woman had left the room and then spoke. She had a slight accent.
“It was thoughtless of me to lead you here. Please forgive me. But you looked so very kind. You won’t despise me, will you? I suppose you don’t know Schaumberg, the man we were relying on for my father’s funeral tomorrow. He’s the manager at the Viktoria Theater. I have been working for him for two years so I thought he was bound to help us; but he took advantage of our misfortune and tried to force me to do what he wished. You must help. I promise to pay you back from the little I earn, even if I have to go hungry. If not, then my mother says . . .”
She burst into tears and stood there trembling. There was an irresistible appeal in her eyes as she gazed up at me. Did she know the effect her eyes had on me, or was it unintentional?
I had two or three silver marks in my pocket, but that would probably not have been enough. So I took off my watch and laid it on the table.
“This will help you for the time being,” I said. “Tell the pawnbroker’s man if he calls on Ōta at 3 Monbijoustrasse, I’ll redeem it.”
The girl looked startled but grateful. As I put out my hand to say good-bye, she raised it to her lips and covered it with tears.
Alas, what evil fate brought her to my lodgings to thank me? She looked so beautiful there standing by the window where I used to sit reading all day long surrounded by the works of Schopenhauer and Schiller. From that time on our relationship gradually deepened. When my countrymen got to know, they immediately assumed that I was seeking my pleasures in the company of dancing gifts. But it was as yet nothing more than a foolish trifling affair.
One of my fellow countrymen—I will not give his name, but he was known as a mischief maker—reported to my department head that I was frequenting theaters and seeking the company of actresses. My superior was in any case resentful that I was neglecting my proper studies, and so he eventually told the legation to abolish my post and terminate my employment. The minister at the legation passed this order on, advising me that they would pay the fare if I returned home immediately but that I could expect no official help if I decided to stay on. I asked for one week’s grace, and it was while I was thus worrying what to do that I received two letters which brought me the most intense pain I think I have ever suffered. They had both been sent at almost the same time, but one was written by my mother and the other by a friend telling me of her death, the death of the mother who was so dear to me. I cannot bear to repeat here what she wrote. Tears prevent my pen from writing more.
The relationship between Elise and myself had in fact been more innocent than had appeared to others. Her father had been poor and her education had been meager. At the age of fifteen she had answered an advertisement by a dancing master and had learned that disreputable trade. When she had finished the course, she went to the Viktoria Theater and was now the second dancer of the group. But the life of a dancer is precarious. As the writer Hackländer has said, they are today’s slaves, tied by a poor wage and driven hard with rehearsals in the daytime and performances at night.
In the theater dressing room they can make up and dress themselves in beautiful clothes; but outside they often do not have enough clothes or food for themselves, and life is very hard for those who have to support their parents or families. It was said that as a result, it was rare for them not to fall into the lowest of all professions.
That Elise had escaped this fate was due partly to her modest nature and partly to her father’s careful protection. Ever since a child, she had in fact liked reading, but all she could lay her hands on were poor novels of the type lent by the circulating libraries, known by their cry of “Colportage.” After meeting me, she began to read the books I lent her, and gradually her tastes improved and she lost her accent. Soon the mistakes in her letters to me became fewer. And so there had grown up between us a kind of pupil–teacher relationship. When she heard of my untimely dismissal, she went pale. I concealed the fact that it was connected with her, but she asked me not to tell her mother. She was afraid that if her mother knew I had lost financial support for my studies, she would want nothing more to do with me.
There is no need to describe it in detail here, but it was about this time that my feeling for her suddenly changed to one of love and the bond between us deepened. The most important decision of my life lay before me. It was a time of real crisis. Some perhaps may wonder and criticize my behavior, but my affection for Elise had been strong ever since our first meeting, and now I could read in her expression sympathy for my misfortune and sadness at the prospect of parting. The way she stood there, a picture of loveliness, her hair hanging loose—I was distraught by so much suffering and powerless in the face of such enchantment.
The day I had arranged to meet the minister approached. Fate was pressing. If I returned home like this, I should have failed in my studies and bear a disgraced name. I would never be able to reestablish myself. But on the other hand, if I stayed, I could not see any way of obtaining funds to support my studies.
At this point, my friend Aizawa Kenkichi, with whom I am now traveling home, came to my aid. He was private secretary to Count Amakata in Tokyo, and he saw the report of my dismissal in the Official Gazette. He persuaded the editor of a certain newspaper to make me their foreign correspondent so I could stay in Berlin and send back reports on various topics such as politics and the arts.
The salary the newspaper offered was a pittance, but by changing my lodgings and eating lunch at a cheaper restaurant, I would just be able to make ends meet. While I was trying to decide, Elise showed her love by throwing me a lifeline. I don’t know how she did it, but she managed to win over her mother, and I was accepted as a lodger in their rooms. It was not long before Elise and I found ourselves pooling our meager resources, and managed, even in the midst of all our troubles, to enjoy life.
After breakfast, Elise either went to rehearsals or, when she was free, would stay at home. I would go to the coffee shop on Königsstrasse with its narrow frontage and its long deep interior. There, in a room lit by an open skylight, I used to read all the newspapers and jot down the odd note or two in pencil. Here would come young men with no regular job, old men who lived quite happily by lending out the little money that they had, and jobbers stealing time off from their work at the Exchange to put their feet up for a while. I wonder what they made of the strange Japanese who sat among them writing busily on the cold stone table, quite oblivious that the cup of coffee the waitress had brought was getting cold, and who was always going back and forth to the wall where the newspapers were hanging open in long wooden frames. When Elise had rehearsals, she would call in about one o’clock on her way home. Some of the people
there must have looked askance when we left together, myself and this girl who seemed as if she could dance in the palm of your hand.
I neglected my studies. When she came home from the theater, Elise would sit in a chair and sew, and I would write my articles on the table by her side, using the faint light of the lamp hanging from the ceiling. These articles were quite unlike my earlier reports when I had raked up onto paper the dead leaves of laws and statutes. Now I wrote about the lively political scene and criticized the latest trends in literature and the arts, carefully composing the articles to the best of my ability, more in the style of Heine than Börne. During this time Wilhelm I and Friedrich III died in quick succession. Writing particularly detailed reports on such subjects as the accession of the new emperor and the fall of Bismarck, I found myself from then on much busier than I had expected, and it was difficult to read the few books I had or return to my studies. I had not canceled my registration at the university, but I could not afford to pay the fees and seldom went to any lectures.
Yes, I neglected my studies. But I did become expert in a different sphere—popular education, for this was more advanced in Germany than in any other European country. No sooner had I become a correspondent than I was constantly reading and writing about the variety of excellent discussions appearing in the newspapers and journals, and I brought to this work the perception gained from my studies as a university student. My knowledge of the world, which up to then had been rather limited, thus became much broader, and I reached a stage undreamed of by most of my compatriots studying there. They could hardly read the editorials in the German newspapers.
Then came the winter of 1888. They spread grit on the pavements of the main streets and shoveled the snow into piles. Although the ground in the Klosterstrasse area was bumpy and uneven, the surface became smooth with ice. It was sad to see the starved sparrows frozen to death on the ground when you opened the door in the mornings. We lit a fire in the stove to warm the room, but it was still unbearably cold. The north European winter penetrated the stone walls and pierced our cotton clothes. A few evenings before, Elise had fainted on stage and had been helped home by some friends. She felt ill from then on and rested. But she brought up whatever she tried to eat, and it was her mother who first suggested that it might be morning sickness. Even without this, my future was uncertain. What could I possibly do if it were true?
It was Sunday morning. I was at home but felt somewhat uneasy. Elise did not feel bad enough to go to bed; she sat on a chair drawn up close to the small fireplace but said little. There was the sound of someone at the door and her mother, who had been in the kitchen, hurried in with a letter for me. I recognized Aizawa’s handwriting immediately, but the stamp was Prussian and it was postmarked Berlin. Feeling puzzled, I opened the letter. The news was totally unexpected: “Arrived yesterday evening as part of Count Amakata’s suite. The count says he wants to see you immediately. If your fortunes are ever to be restored, now is the time. Excuse brevity but sent in great haste.”
I stared at the letter.
“Is it from home?” asked Elise. “It’s not bad news, is it?”
She was probably thinking it was connected with my salary from the newspaper.
“No,” I replied. “There is no need to worry. You’ve heard me mention Aizawa. Well, he’s just arrived in Berlin with his minister. He wants to see me. He says it’s urgent, so I’d better go along without delay.”
Not even a mother seeing off her beloved only child could have been more solicitous. Thinking I was to have an interview with the count, Elise fought back her illness. She chose a clean white shirt and got out my Gehrock, a frock coat with two rows of buttons, which she had carefully stored away. She helped me into it and even tied my cravat for me.
“Now no one will be able to say you look a disgrace. Look in my mirror,” she said. “Why so miserable? I wish I could come too!”
She straightened my suit a little.
“But when I see you dressed up like this, you somehow don’t look like my Toyotarō.”
She thought for a moment.
“If you do become rich and famous, you’ll never leave me, will you? Even if my illness does not turn out to be what Mother says it is.”
“What! Rich and famous?” I smiled. “I lost the desire to enter politics years ago. I don’t even want to see the count. I’m just going to meet an old friend whom I have not seen for a very long time.”
The first-class droshky, the carriage that her mother had ordered, drew up under the window, the wheels creaking in the snow. I put on my gloves, slung my slightly soiled overcoat about my shoulders without putting my arms through the sleeves, and picked up my hat. I kissed Elise good-bye and went downstairs. She opened the ice-covered window to see me off, her hair blowing in the north wind.
I got out at the entrance to the Kaiserhof. Inquiring the room number of Private Secretary Aizawa from the doorman, I climbed the marble staircase. It had been a long time since I had last been there. I came to an antechamber where there was a plush sofa by the central pillar and directly ahead a mirror. Here I took off my coat and, passing along the corridor, arrived at Aizawa’s door. I hesitated a little. How would he greet me? When we were at university together, he had been so impressed by my correct behavior. I entered the room, and we met face to face. He seemed stouter and sturdier than of old, but he had the same naturally cheerful disposition and did not appear to be concerned about my misconduct. But we were given no time to discuss in detail what had happened since we last met, for I was called in and interviewed by the count. He entrusted me with the translation of some urgent documents written in German. I accepted them and took my leave. Aizawa followed me out and invited me to lunch.
During the meal it was he who asked all the questions and I who gave the answers, because his career had been in the main uneventful, whereas the story of my life was full of troubles and adversity.
He listened as I told him about my unhappy experiences with complete frankness. He was often surprised but never tried to blame me. On the contrary, he ridiculed my boorish countrymen. But when I had finished my tale, he became serious and remonstrated with me. Things had reached this pass because I was basically weak willed, but there was no point in laboring the fact now, he said. Nevertheless, how long could a man of talent and learning like myself remain emotionally involved with a mere chit of a girl and lead such an aimless life? At this stage Count Amakata merely needed me for my German. Since he knew the reason for my dismissal, Aizawa would make no attempt to make him change his preconception of me—it would do neither of us any good if the count were to think that we were trying to deceive him. But there was no better way to recommend people than by displaying their talents. I should show the count how good I was and thus try to win his confidence. As for the girl, she might be sincerely in love with me and our passions deeply involved, but there was certainly no meeting of minds—I had merely allowed myself to slip into what was an accepted practice. I must decide to give her up, he urged.
When he mapped out my future like this, I felt like a man adrift who spies a mountain in the distance. But the mountain was still covered in cloud. I was not sure whether I would reach it or, even if I did, whether it would bring satisfaction. Life was pleasant even in the midst of poverty, and Elise’s love was hard to reject. Being so weak willed, I could make no decision there and then, so I merely promised to follow my friend’s advice for a while and try and break off the affair. When it came to losing something close to me, I could resist my enemies but never could refuse my friends.
We parted about four o’clock. As I came out of the hotel restaurant, the wind hit me in the face. A fire had been burning in a big tiled stove inside, so when the double glass doors closed behind me and I stood outside in the open, the cold of the afternoon pierced my thin overcoat and seemed all the more intense. I shivered, and there was a strange chill in my heart, too.
I finished the translation in one night. Thereafter I found myse
lf going to the Kaiserhof quite often. At first the count spoke only of business, bur after a while he brought up various things that had happened at home recently and asked my opinion. When the occasion arose, he would tell me about the mistakes people had made on the voyage out and would burst out laughing.
A month went by. Then one day he suddenly turned to me.
“I’m leaving for Russia tomorrow. Will you come with me?” he asked.
I had not seen Aizawa for several days, as he was busy with official business, and the request took me totally by surprise.
“How could I refuse?” I replied.
I must confess that I did not answer as the result of a quick decision. When I am suddenly asked a question by someone whom I trust, I instantly agree without weighing up the consequences. Not only do I agree, but despite knowing how difficult the matter will be, I often hide my initial thoughtlessness by persevering and carrying it out.
That day I was given not only the translation fee but also my travel money. When I got home I gave the fee to Elise. With this she would be able to support herself and her mother until such time as I returned from Russia. She said she had been to see a doctor, who confirmed that she was pregnant. Being anemic, she hadn’t realized her condition for some months. She had also received a message from the theater telling her that she had been dismissed as she had been away for so long. She had been off work for only a month, so there was probably some other reason for such severity. Believing implicitly in my sincerity, she did not seem unduly worried about the impending journey.
The journey was not long by train, and so there was little to prepare. I just packed into a small suitcase a rented black suit, a copy of the Almanach de Gotha, and two or three dictionaries. In view of recent depressing events, I felt it would be miserable for Elise after my departure. I was also anxious lest she should cry at the station, so I took the step of sending her and her mother out early the next morning to visit friends. I collected up my things and locked the door on my way out, leaving the key with the cobbler who lived at the entrance.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 4
