The Dilemma of Faith in Modern Japanese Literature: Metaphors of Christianity 9780815378761, 9781351228060

Table of contents :
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
General editors’ preface
Acknowledgments
PART I Introduction
1 Christianity and modern Japanese literature
The conflict between religion and literature
The question of sexuality
The construction of the self
Mutual intersections between literature, Christianity, and politics
A Christian-inspired concept of romantic love and the emergence of a modern sensuality
The awareness of sin and the limits of Meiji Protestantism
The dilemma of faith and the literary appropriation of Christianity
PART II Narratives of conversion
2 Kitamura Tōkoku and the celebration of the “inner life”
The growth of Protestantism in late nineteenth century Japan
Tōkoku’s conversion
The concepts of kokoro and naibu seimei
The belief in the latent divinity of man and the conflict with Calvinism
3 Shimazaki Tōson and the discovery of the self
Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki as a narrative of faith
Hakai: a new covenant of the “inner life”
4 Kunikida Doppo: the rejection of self-deception and the paradox of contrition
Parallels with Tōson and Tōkoku
Azamukazaru no ki: “sincerity,” nature, and the immortality of the soul
The loss of faith and the desire to be moved
5 Masamune Hakuchō: the fear of death and the cruelty of the Christian God
Hakuchō’s conversion
Hakuchō’s disparagement of Christianity
6 Arishima Takeo: the problem of sin and of the inevitability of fate
Arishima’s conversion
The question of free will and the influence of Quakerism
Arishima’s apostasy: the reunification of the divided self and the condemnation of predestination
7 The salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke
Early exposure to Christianity
The past as a mirror of the self: the topos of the “holy fool” and the question of faith in Akutagawa’s kirishitan mono
Kappa and Haguruma: escape from Protestantism
Seihō no hito and a new dialectics of faith
PART III Metaphors of Christianity
8 A Christology of the self: the case of Mushanokōji Saneatsu
Kōfukumono: the deification of man and the construction of the messianic sage
9 The appropriation of Christianity in narrative: Kinoshita Naoe’s Hi no hashira and Nagayo Yoshirō’s Seidō no kirisuto
Hi no hashira: Christian socialism and the building of an earthly kingdom of God
Seidō no kirisuto and the conflict between art and faith
Epilogue: “a poetic religion, rife with paradoxes”
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

The Dilemma of Faith in Modern Japanese Literature

The first book-length study to explore the links between Christianity and modern Japanese literature, this book analyzes the process of conversion of nine canonical authors, unveiling the influence that Christianity had on their self-construction, their oeuvre and, ultimately, the trajectory of modern Japanese literature. Building significantly on previous research, which has treated the intersections of Christianity with the Japanese literary world in only a cursory fashion, this book emphasizes the need to make a clear distinction between the different roles played by Catholicism and Protestantism. In particular, it argues that most Meiji and Taishō intellectuals were exposed to an exclusively Protestant and mainly Calvinist derivation of Christianity and so it is against this worldview that the connections between the two ought to be assessed. Examining the work of authors such as Kitamura Tōkoku, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke and Nagayo Yoshirō, this book also contextualizes the spread of Christianity in Japan and challenges the notion that Christian thought was in conflict with mainstream literary schools. As such, this book explains how the dualities experienced by many modern writers were in fact the manifestation of manifold developments that placed Christianity at the center, rather than at the periphery, of their process of self-construction. The Dilemma of Faith in Modern Japanese Literature will be of great interest to students and scholars of Japanese modern literature, as well as those interested in Religious Studies and Japanese Studies more generally. Massimiliano Tomasi is Professor of Japanese and Director of the Center for East Asian Studies at Western Washington University. His publications include Rhetoric in Modern Japan: Western Influences on the Development of Narrative and Oratorical Style (2004).

The Nissan Institute/Routledge Japanese Studies Series Series Editors: Roger Goodman

Nissan Professor of Modern Japanese Studies, University of Oxford, Fellow, St Antony’s College

J.A.A. Stockwin

Formerly Nissan Professor of Modern Japanese Studies and former Director of the Nissan Institute of Japanese Studies, University of Oxford, Emeritus Fellow, St Antony’s College Femininity, Self-harm and Eating Disorders in Japan Navigating contradiction in narrative and visual culture Gitte Marianne Hansen Reconstructing Adult Masculinities Part-time work in contemporary Japan Emma E. Cook The Democratic Party of Japan in Power Challenges and Failures Edited by Yoichi Funabashi and Koichi Nakano Translated by Kate Dunlop Life Course, Happiness and Well-being in Japan Edited by Barbara Holthus and Wolfram Manzenreiter Japan’s World Power Assessment, Outlook and Vision Edited by Guibourg Delamotte Friendship and Work Culture of Women Managers in Japan Tokyo After Ten Swee-Lin Ho The Dilemma of Faith in Modern Japanese Literature Metaphors of Christianity Massimiliano Tomasi For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/asianstudies/ series/SE0022

The Dilemma of Faith in Modern Japanese Literature Metaphors of Christianity

Massimiliano Tomasi

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 Massimiliano Tomasi The right of Massimiliano Tomasi to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-0-8153-7876-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-351-22806-0 (ebk) Typeset in Times by Apex CoVantage, LLC

A Rika e Alessandro

Contents

General editors’ preface Acknowledgments PART I

x xii

Introduction

1

1

3

Christianity and modern Japanese literature The conflict between religion and literature  5 The question of sexuality  6 The construction of the self  10 Mutual intersections between literature, Christianity, and politics  14 A Christian-inspired concept of romantic love and the emergence of a modern sensuality  19 The awareness of sin and the limits of Meiji Protestantism  24 The dilemma of faith and the literary appropriation of Christianity 29

PART II

Narratives of conversion

39

2

41

Kitamura Tōkoku and the celebration of the “inner life” The growth of Protestantism in late nineteenth century Japan 42 Tōkoku’s conversion  48 The concepts of kokoro and naibu seimei 51 The belief in the latent divinity of man and the conflict with Calvinism 55

viii Contents 3

Shimazaki Tōson and the discovery of the self

61

Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki as a narrative of faith  63 Hakai: a new covenant of the “inner life”  69 4

Kunikida Doppo: the rejection of self-deception and the paradox of contrition

79

Parallels with Tōson and Tōkoku  80 Azamukazaru no ki: “sincerity,” nature, and the immortality of the soul  82 The loss of faith and the desire to be moved  88 5

Masamune Hakuchō: the fear of death and the cruelty of the Christian God

94

Hakuchō’s conversion  97 Hakuchō’s disparagement of Christianity  102 6

Arishima Takeo: the problem of sin and of the inevitability of fate

107

Arishima’s conversion  109 The question of free will and the influence of Quakerism  112 Arishima’s apostasy: the reunification of the divided self and the condemnation of predestination  116 7

The salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke

128

Early exposure to Christianity  129 The past as a mirror of the self: the topos of the “holy fool” and the question of faith in Akutagawa’s kirishitan mono 133 Kappa and Haguruma: escape from Protestantism  140 Seihō no hito and a new dialectics of faith  145 PART III

Metaphors of Christianity

153

8

155

A Christology of the self: the case of Mushanokōji Saneatsu Kōfukumono: the deification of man and the construction of the messianic sage  160

Contents  ix 9

The appropriation of Christianity in narrative: Kinoshita Naoe’s Hi no hashira and Nagayo Yoshirō’s Seidō no kirisuto

170

Hi no hashira: Christian socialism and the building of an earthly kingdom of God  170 Seidō no kirisuto and the conflict between art and faith  179

Epilogue: “a poetic religion, rife with paradoxes”

187

Bibliography Index

191 197

General editors’ preface

Those professing Christianity in Japan today amount to a little over 1 percent of the total population of around 126 million, and their numbers are stagnant or even slowly declining. Whereas there was a boom in religion generally in Japan in the 1980s, the activities of a terrorist sect in the 1990s gave religion a bad name, leading (along with other reasons) to a general decline in religious observance. To some extent this mirrors trends in other parts of the modern world, where in the United Kingdom, for instance, a recent survey indicated that for the first time those having no religion in the broadest sense were larger in number (53%) than those having religious belief. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, however, the impact of Christianity on the Japanese literary world was profound. Many writers in the turbulent social and political atmosphere following the Meiji Restoration of 1868 and as late as the 1920s found in the Christian religion sources of inspiration, challenge and complexity. An important difference between the first Japanese encounter with that religion in the seventeenth century (Japan’s “Christian century”) and the second encounter during and after the Meiji period was that in the former the impact came from Roman Catholic missionaries from Spain and Portugal, and in the second period the influence was largely Protestant, with missionaries arriving from North America and Europe. As Massimiliano Tomasi explains in this study of nine leading writers of the period, the kind of Christianity that influenced them frequently came laced with Calvinist doctrines of predestination and took a particularly dim view of sexuality – a word closely aligned with notions of sin and damnation. Similar concepts were to be found in the extensive writings and sermons of Uchimura Kanzō, founder of the “non-denominational church” movement, who was arguably the leading Japanese theological writer of the time. For enthusiastic and sensitive young writers engrossed in the intellectual and social ferment of the Meiji period (1868–1912), the Christianity they encountered was both inspirational and repellent. Many embraced Christianity and were inspired by it, but at the same time found that it clashed with literary and personal notions of the free individual, able to seek truth and pursue art wherever it might lead. The Christianity that they discovered was both new and exciting but also impossibly constraining, particularly in matters of sexuality. Tomasi concludes

General editors’ preface  xi that the tendency to equate sexuality with sin was not necessarily the principal reason for the apostasy that nearly all of them eventually went through, although for several of them, sexuality represented an affirmation of the self and was thus a central aspect of their literary concerns. It should be noted, perhaps that none of the writers selected were women. Among Tomasi’s concluding words are the suggestion that an examination of critical essays and literary works that drew inspiration from [Christianity’s] rich rhetorical repertoire shows that it was ultimately the self, its construction, and the rejection of self-deception in the name of authority that were at the very center of these writers’ expectations. Some of the writers discussed in this book were tempted to enter politics, but those who tried found it distressingly corrupt. One or two of them became Socialists as well as Christians, finding these two sets of ideas mutually reinforcing. Others, being of samurai stock, found Christianity compatible with familiar Confucian disciplinary tenets. But with growing nationalist sentiment in the early twentieth century, it was easy to portray Christianity as a potential handmaiden of Western imperialist ambitions directed against Japan, and some novelists were affected by this. The anti-war theme inspired by the Sermon on the Mount and other biblical writings led some of the writers discussed to protest against the wars in which Japan was engaged against first China, then Russia, between 1894 and 1905. Although today defenders of the “Peace Clause” of the 1947 Constitution are not primarily inspired by Christianity, they carry on a traditional distaste for war from their forbears in the literary world over a century earlier. We are delighted to include this book in the Nissan Institution/Routledge Japanese Studies Series, which recently published its one hundredth volume. Arthur Stockwin Roger Goodman Oxford December 2017

Acknowledgments

I would like to express my gratitude to friends and colleagues for their help. At my home institution, Joan Hoffman and Sean Murphy read the manuscript and made numerous important suggestions. Elsewhere, I am especially indebted to Van Gessel and Mark Williams, whose insightful comments were critical to the project. I am also very thankful to Fukuda Mahito and Tsuboi Hideto for the time they took out of their busy schedules to talk about my research; to Suzuki Sadami for his guidance and assistance at the early stages of this investigation; to Sekine Eiji and the Association for Japanese Literary Studies for the opportunity to host the Twenty-Third meeting at Western Washington University; to Teresa Ciapparoni La Rocca and Miyasaka Satoru, President of the International Society for Akutagawa Ryūnosuke Studies, for their support and the opportunity to become closely involved with the scholarly activities of the Society and its members; and to Sagiyama Ikuko, for our continued collaboration on mutual research interests throughout the years. I would also like to thank the University of Florence Press for granting permission to reprint part of my article “Spirit, Body, and the Construction of the Self: Some Preliminary Considerations on the Question of Christianity in Modern Japanese Literature,” which appeared in the volume Perspectives on East Asia, edited by Ikuko Sagiyama and Valentina Pedone, in 2014. Parts of this manuscript have also previously appeared in Rhetoric and Region: The Local Determinants of Literary Expression, PAJLS 14 (2013), and Religion and Spirituality in Japanese Literature, PAJLS 16 (2015). Lastly, I would like to thank the editors of Monumenta Nipponica and authors Kevin Doak and J. Scott Matthews for permission to quote freely from their English translation of Akutagawa’s Seihō no hito and Zoku seihō no hito, which appeared in Monumenta Nipponica 66:2 (2011), 257–280.

Part I

Introduction

1

Christianity and modern Japanese literature

The reopening to the Western world that followed the Meiji Restoration (1868) ignited a process of Westernization in all sectors of Japan’s culture, economy, and society, leading to the influx of new technology, the birth of new ideas, and the proliferation of new schools of thought. In the field of the humanities, this exposure to the West and its philosophical and intellectual legacy led to vibrant debates that fostered new notions of literature and the arts, spurring a critical discourse that sought in many instances to either disparage or recapture the essence of traditional Japanese ethics and literary heritage. Exposure to the Western world also led to a renewal of contact with Christianity. Christianity thrived among the younger generations of intellectuals who viewed it as the true repository of the Western cultural tradition and an as effective tool for the understanding of Western thought and civilization. Its rapid spread was facilitated by a major political development: in 1873, the government began to ease its prohibitionist policies against the religion, and the missionary force more than doubled that year, leading to an exponential growth in the number of churches and believers around the country. The socio-political dynamics of the 1870s also added significantly to this development: the “new” religion – as it was perceived by many – soon became associated with social protest and political reform. Christianity, in fact, found important common ground with the Meiji Freedom and People’s Rights Movement, sharing with it the notion that all men are born free and equal. This movement, with its emphasis on people’s rights and their aspirations, and its commitment to social issues and women’s emancipation, characterized the religion as a source of moral values that superseded power, hierarchy, gender, and the State. It was of course not the first time the Japanese had encountered the Western religious tradition. The arrival of the Jesuits and Roman Catholicism in the midsixteenth century had already provided such an opportunity. Their missionary work had met with considerable success during the so-called “Christian Century” (1549–1639), resulting in a significant number of converts (about 300,000, amounting to approximately 2 percent of the entire population), but at the same time, causing the bakufu or Shogunate to consider taking drastic measures against what was deemed an imminent threat. Government decrees issued in the early seventeenth century mandating the banning of Christianity, the persecution of

4 Introduction Christians, and the expulsion of all foreign priests were the response to concerns that further evangelization might alter the social stability and the delicate balance of power in the nation.1 These events would leave an indelible imprint not only on the cultural and political landscape of the Tokugawa years (1603–1868), but also on the literature of the modern period, inspiring, for example, the verses of such poets as Kitahara Hakushū (1885–1942) as well as the narrative, in particular, of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke (1892–1927), whose literary accomplishments in the exploration of Christian motifs, as analyzed in this book, cannot be overstated.2 Christianity’s return to Japan in the late nineteenth century was marked by one significant difference: this time, it was not Catholicism but Protestantism that led the evangelization. Few scholars have captured the importance and implications of this distinction: the type of Christianity to which most Meiji (1868–1912) and Taishō (1912–26) intellectuals were exposed was almost exclusively Protestant and mainly of Calvinist derivation, and it is against this eschatology and worldview that the intersections between Christianity and modern Japanese literature ought to be assessed. The acknowledgment of the centrality of Protestantism in the literary developments of the modern period does not imply, however, that the dialectics of its relationship with Catholicism should be ignored. On the contrary, the relationship between the two religious systems continued to inform the reception and the metaphorical appropriation of Christianity by the literary world for decades to come, defining the interactions between the realm of faith and literature in Japan across the threshold of modern times in ways that have yet to be thoroughly analyzed. Akutagawa’s kirishitan mono or Christian stories, which, as noted earlier, drew inspiration from the religious experience of the pre-modern period, sat squarely within that complex discourse, exemplifying the complexity of these negotiations in the evolving literary landscape of the modern years. The rise of Protestantism generated excitement among intellectuals, and a considerable number of writers converted during their youth: Wakamatsu Shizuko (1864–96), Tokutomi Roka (1868–1927), Kitamura Tōkoku (1868–94), Kinoshita Naoe (1869–1937), Kunikida Doppo (1871–1908), Shimazaki Tōson (1872– 1943), Arishima Takeo (1878–1923), Masamune Hakuchō (1879–1962), Shiga Naoya (1883–1971), Mushanokōji Saneatsu (1885–1976), Miki Rofū (1889– 1964), Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, and Nagayo Yoshirō (1888–1961) are only some of the notable young intellectuals who were either baptized or were deeply influenced by the teachings of the faith throughout their lives. The ideas of an absolute God and an independent and free self promoted by Christianity often overlapped with these writers’ search for answers to the meaning of human existence and the purpose of life, prompting them to probe meaningfully into the possibilities of the Christian doctrine and its beliefs. Virtually all of these writers, however, eventually relinquished their faith, thus casting doubt on the possible impact that such religious experience had on the development of their narrative. The irreconcilability of religion and literature became a truism of Meiji intellectual discourse, and critics have seen in the personal tragedies of some of these authors – who actually took their own lives after

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  5 years of intense engagement with the Christian religion – the epitome of a shallow and paradoxical journey of faith that defied conventional wisdom.3

The conflict between religion and literature The notion that there may be a real danger in overestimating Christianity’s role in the development of modern Japanese literature is a theoretically legitimate concern.4 That modern literature, largely identified with Naturalism and its literary tenets, aimed at portraying truth and reality, while rejecting conventional morality and the authority of any creed or religion, seemed in itself to imply its impracticable coexistence with any idealized view of art that might put the Christian faith at the center of its practice. The conflict between sexuality and Christian morality that surfaced during the naturalist years further exacerbated this tension, because while emphasizing individuality and equality, the teachings of Christianity stressed the sinful nature of sexual desire, deepening the conflict between the spirit and the flesh, and rendering many of these young authors unable to delve effectively into such themes as sexuality within the framework of Christian discourse. This inability to reconcile the dictates of Christian morality with the artist’s desire to explore all aspects of human existence – including sexuality – ultimately translated into a mutually exclusive relationship between literature and religion that became a truism of early twentieth-century literary discourse. Many autobiographical writings attest to the reality of this conflict. In “Meiji Gakuin no gakusō” (Recalling the Years at Meiji Gakuin) of 1909, for example, Shimazaki Tōson wrote about the tension between religious rigor and free artistic thought that he experienced during his college days, and in his short piece “Ware wa ika ni shite shōsetsuka ni narishi ka” (How I Became a Writer) of 1907, Kunikida Doppo similarly described the sense of uncertainty that afflicted him in his younger years as he pondered whether to devote his life to religion or literature.5 Mushanokōji Saneatsu recalled the existence of similar dualities within himself, as did poet Yamamura Bochō (1884–1924), who experienced this conflict in especially ambivalent terms, “always carrying the Bible in one hand and a work of literature in the other.”6 The semantics of this tension between the realms of art and religion would be brilliantly exploited later by Nagayo Yoshirō in his 1923 novel Seidō no kirisuto (The Bronze Christ); set at the time of the Christian persecution, this story narrated the fate of Hagiwara Yūsa, an artist who is ironically sentenced to death not because of his faith – he is seemingly a detractor of Christianity – but because his artistic reproduction of Christ, which was supposed to expose hidden Christians through the practice of fumie (stepping on a sacred image), is so vividly beautiful and realistic that, according to prosecutors, “a non-Christian could have never achieved such perfection.” There is a logic reversal in this work that cleverly drew from the dichotomy of art and faith; at a historical juncture when faith in God and failure to apostatize signified almost certain death, it is art, and not religion, that becomes the paradoxical cause of the protagonist’s demise. For many modern writers, the debate over the irreconcilable nature of these two apparent opposites was more than a mere sophistic exercise; it was a fundamental

6 Introduction dilemma of their existence. Even in the case of Iwano Hōmei (1873–1920), a baptized Christian whose works are not typically associated with Christianity, this conflict was at the foundation of his self-construction. As he once wrote in a letter to critic Yoshino Gajō (1867–1926): It was a time when I suffered from unhappy love affairs and agony of the soul; it was a time when I had freed myself of the Christian understanding of God, which I had had since childhood, but I had not yet found out what course to take on the great sea of literature.7 Masamune Hakuchō is another author who continued to profess the impossible coexistence of the two domains throughout his life; as the last survivor of a generation of Meiji writers who were influenced by the encounter with Christianity and as one of the few true apostates among them, Hakuchō personified his era’s inability to reconcile the practice of religion with the impulse of artistic pursuit.8 The opposition between literature and religion was therefore a major topic of contention in the literary debates of the time and was, of course, hardly a controversy about matters of sexuality alone. In a broader sense, it was a dispute about the autonomy of art and the place of literature in society. The heated exchange that unfolded between critic Yamaji Aizan (1865–1917) – himself a Christian Methodist – and poet and literary critic Kitamura Tōkoku in the early 1890s is but one example of the complexity of the debate. Aizan maintained that writing was a practical enterprise that ought to have at the root of its reason for being the specific goal of contributing to society. Literary embellishments were meaningless, he argued, unless they benefited humankind. Tōkoku, however, rejected this utilitarian view of literature. In his famous essay “Jinsei ni aiwataru to wa nan no ii zo” (What Does It Mean “To Benefit Mankind”?) he maintained that the poet’s mission by far surpassed the need to respond to such practical purposes. For Tōkoku, the dignity of literature was such that it could not be measured in practical terms.9 On the other hand, the conflict with literature was not the only challenge faced by Christianity during the mid-Meiji years. The fierce debates that took place within the intellectual and political circles of the time often pitted Christian advocates against different sets of foes, be it nationalism, rationalism, social Darwinism, or even the internal feuds that splintered the Japanese Christian Church within its own ranks. Despite the importance of those debates, it is nevertheless a fact that the controversy between art and religion remained the most relevant to the literary developments of the modern period, and that such controversy was almost exclusively perceived as a clash between the moral dictates of Christianity and the exploration, artistic or otherwise, of sexuality.

The question of sexuality Responsibility for the exacerbation of this tension between the two domains has been attributed in part to Christian leader Uchimura Kanzō (1861–1930) and his

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  7 teachings. Many mid-Meiji and Taishō young intellectuals were under his mentorship and attended his lectures frequently, and it is widely thought that they eventually grew apart from him and the Christian religion because of his strictness with regard to sex. Author Shiga Naoya once stated that the path of morality and purity walked by Uchimura had become so narrow that it was hardly possible to tell whether there really was a path or not.10 Nagayo Yoshirō also cited this issue as one of the main reasons why he quit attending Uchimura’s meetings.11 Uchimura had been first exposed to Christianity while a student at the Sapporo Agricultural College, where he had been baptized shortly after his arrival by an American missionary by the name of M. C. Harris.12 In the following years he had grown weary of denominationalism and had resolved to found the Mukyōkai or Nonchurch movement. His teachings were generally characterized by a distinctly puritanical worldview, and his theological background drew deeply upon the Calvinist tradition. With respect to literature, he was, in principle, against a vision of art that was self-serving and that portrayed even the most dissolute aspects of human existence without any regard to morality and God.13 In a piece titled “Mooze no jūkai” (Moses’ Ten Commandments) that appeared in 1920, he even stated that a good Christian family should avoid going to the theater and reading fiction, since these activities could be sources of immoral behavior and, as such, would lead to sin and eternal damnation.14 The majority of his students were therefore faced with the challenge of reconciling Uchimura’s doctrine with their own artistic aspirations at a point in Japanese literary history when the discovery of interiority came to be equated by many members of the bundan (literary world) with the exploration of all that concerned the inner self, particularly sexual desire. The reconciliation of these polarities was not an easy task, in large part because Uchimura was truly an iconic figure in the collective imagination of the younger generations. In 1891 he had refused to bow during a school function in front of the “Rescript on Education” signed by the Emperor, and as one of the strongest advocates for social justice and a vocal opponent of war, his writings had left an indelible mark on the spiritual and intellectual development of many young readers.15 Of course, he was not the only voice of Meiji Protestantism, but he was highly revered and extensively published. As Masamune Hakuchō once wrote, his interest in the works of Uchimura Kanzō lay in the fact that he “wanted to learn [from him] how to live [his] life.”16 Considering the unquestionable influence that this religious leader had on these intellectuals, their ultimate decision to renounce the faith has been viewed by some scholars as an unequivocal rejection of Christianity and an embrace of a philosophy of life that, on many levels, was ethically opposite to Uchimura’s ascetic teachings, particularly on matters of sexuality. Religious leader and literary critic Uemura Masahisa’s statement that any Waseda University student orbiting the office of Tsubouchi Shōyō – who taught in the Department of Literature – would inevitably abandon the faith is symbolic of the type of strain that affected the relationship between the two domains.17 Uchimura was known to be very outspoken about this conflict, and upon the publication of dramatist Osanai Kaoru’s novel Haikyōsha (The Apostate) in 1923, he

8 Introduction lamented that so many of his former disciples were “dogs, that is, apostates.”18 Similarly, following Arishima Takeo’s double suicide in the same year, he wrote a piece that unequivocally characterized the writer as a betrayer of God, his friends, and his country.19 Two months earlier, on May 2, he had come to the realization that “all our writers, philosophers and young politicians are apostates. All the men of letters . . . who have studied with me have, apart from a few exceptions, all become apostates.”20 It is not surprising that some literary critics have seen in this conflict between sexuality and Christian morality a major interpretive paradigm of twentiethcentury Japanese literature. Karatani Kōjin, who acknowledged an important link between Christianity and Naturalism, stated that “the body laid bare by the naturalist writers was a body subjected to repression. All the efforts of the naturalist writers to liberate the body and sexuality from Christianity took place within the framework of this prior repression.”21 Karatani suggested that it was because of the very influence of Christianity, and the repression it exerted on the body as the locus of sexual desires, that modern authors were able to discover their sexuality and inner self. The institutionalized form of literary confession did not necessarily reveal what was hidden, Karatani claimed, but rather led to a discovery of what was yet to be known. In a sense, as Karatani would put it, modern Japanese literature could be said to have originated not from the encounter with Christianity but rather from its rejection.22 To the extent that the term “Christianity” is employed in this context as a synecdoche for the religion’s own teachings on matters of sexuality, the claim that its rejection may have been a sine qua non condition for the establishment of the “modern self” is legitimate and can be corroborated by different sources. In “Yo wa ika ni shite kirisutokyō o shinzuru ni itarishi ka” (How I Came to Believe in Christianity) of 1891, author and social activist Kinoshita Naoe clearly identified the issue of sexuality as the major obstacle to his acceptance of the Christian religion, and Arishima Takeo wrote at length over the course of his life about his inability to reconcile faith with his sexual urge. In a 1916 piece titled “Seisho no ken’i” (The Authority of the Bible), Arishima wrote: I believe the time when the Bible most inspired me was when I was a young man. There is a period in human life when young men are burdened with a longing for sex and oppressed with doubts about life. In my mind the Bible and sexual desires were in bitter conflict. My artistic impulse supported my sexual desires, and my moral impulse the Bible. I did not know how to harmonise my enthusiasm for the two. So I suffered.23 Shiga Naoya similarly described in his 1912 novel Ōtsu Junkichi the anguish and resentment he experienced as a youngster when he was taught by “U-sensei” that fornication was equivalent to murder, and Mushanokōji Saneatsu also wrote about how, deeply influenced by Tolstoian Christianity, he had struggled to reconcile, during his adolescent years, his initial puritanical worldview with an evergrowing sexual awareness.24

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  9 Naturalism, a movement that swept the literary world during the very first years of the twentieth century and that had supposedly set off on a mission to liberate the body from this oppression, actually failed to conquer the separation between body and mind within its own ranks. Naturalist novels were well received, but the literary movement as such was often criticized for dealing with topics like sexuality that were thought to be injurious to public decency and morality. Shimamura Hōgetsu (1871–1918), arguably the leading theoretician of the literary school, rejected the allegations that naturalist literature caused people to commit indecent acts, maintaining the separation of art and life, and dismissing the actualization of unethical behavior as something outside the realm of literature.25 In so doing, however, he eventually reinforced the paradigm that saw body and mind as mutually exclusive. The heated exchanges that Hōgetsu had with another proponent of Naturalism, Iwano Hōmei, confirmed the existence of a latent contradiction within the literary school. Hōmei believed in fact that there was no art outside the activities, the desires, and feelings of the self, and he maintained the necessity of a fusion of the spirit with the flesh.26 The self-affirming posture of the Shirakaba (White Birch) literary coterie, which began to gain prominence in the early 1910s and which counted Mushanokōji Saneatsu, Shiga Naoya, and Arishima Takeo among its most representative members, changed the dynamics of this discourse. In 1912, Mushanokōji came to reject the view of sexuality as something immoral and sinful, affirming the authority of the self and the priority of one’s hopes and desires.27 Nine years later, writing about love, he stated that the flesh was a reality that could not be denied, that one’s life had to be fully affirmed, and it was only by affirming one’s life that could one truly love.28 For Mushanokōji, the religious men of the past had chosen a spiritual path that included fasting and asceticism, i.e., a life of self-denial. The religious men of the future, he argued, would have to focus instead on the self, to improve it and extend its potential to the fullest. In his view, the center of the religious experience was no longer a negation of the self but rather an affirmation of it.29 A similar evolution can be traced in Shiga Naoya’s thought. While the young protagonist of his 1911 novel Nigotta atama (Muddy Mind) struggles with his newly acquired sexual awareness – he is so determined to avoid sinning that he even tries to apply lighted matches to his crotch in an effort to curb his sexual urge – in An’ya Kōro (A Dark Night’s Passing), whose first installment was published in 1921, the main character Tokitō Kensaku experiences his sexual encounters with a local prostitute as a self-liberating act. When he reached and held her round, heavy breast he was filled with an indefinable sense of comfort and satisfaction. It was as though he had touched something very precious. He let it rest on the palm of his hand, then shook it a little so that he could feel the full weight of it. There were no words to express the pleasure he experienced then. He continued to shake it gently, saying merely, “What riches!” It was for him somehow a symbol of all that was precious to him, of whatever it was that promised to fill the emptiness inside him.30

10 Introduction Placing the reconciliation of the physical and spiritual realms at the core of their literary quest, Mushanokōji, Shiga, and their colleagues often affirmed sexuality in terms that defied the teachings of their Christian education. Therefore, the claim that their narrative may have originated from the rejection of Christianity does appear to be justified. It should be pointed out, however, that despite a relationship of apparently mutual exclusion, the connection between the realms of faith and art in modern Japanese literary discourse was much more complex and multifaceted. The centrality of the concept of seimei (life) in the literary developments of the Meiji and Taishō eras, for example, provides an interpretive key to those years that defies the mainstream view of religion and literature as clashing opposites, showing, on the contrary, the existence of important intersections between the two realms.

The construction of the self Kitamura Tōkoku was one of the very first intellectuals to recognize the importance of Christianity. He praised Protestantism, and Puritanism in particular, because it “had brought forth the ideal of freedom, an ideal that is the basis of the modern age both in the West and in Japan.”31 Tōkoku argued that Christianity was a religion about life. As he wrote in a following piece titled “Naibu seimeiron” (A Theory of the Inner Life), I believe that there is life in man. Instead of saying that today’s thinkers are engaged in a struggle between Buddhist thought and Christian, it would be truer to say that they are engaged in a struggle between a thought which fosters life and one which does not.32 The greatest accomplishment of those who spread the Christian religion in Japan, Tōkoku claimed, was that they had planted the tree of life in people’s hearts. This tree of life was a direct connection to God and the universe. Tōkoku’s deliberations, which were deeply influenced by Ralph Waldo Emerson’s transcendentalism and the Quaker belief in the Inner Light, gave impetus to the interiorization of individualism. His concept of naibu seimei (inner life), in particular, critically linked the self to the “Spirit of the universe.” Tōkoku believed that it was through “inspiration” that this connection between human beings and God became possible. Francis Mathy summarized Tōkoku’s theory as follows: The hope of man lies in joining his spirit entirely to the Spirit of the universe. The two spirits are joined when the inner life, the spirit of man, is stirred by an impulse from the Spirit of the universe. Like the impulse of electricity it streams into man and revitalizes his inner life, as well as his internal experience and self-awareness. With this impulse man’s gaze departs momentarily from the world of sense: he leaves behind flash and forgets reality. With the recharged eyes of life he gazes into the supernatural. It is the union of the spirit of man and the Spirit of the universe that Tōkoku calls inspiration.33

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  11 The concept of naibu seimei articulated by Tōkoku had a significant influence on his contemporaries. On June 3, 1894, for example, Kunikida Doppo stated in his diary that “the Spirit of the universe is the life of man, and the life of man is the Spirit of the universe,” and the use of the expression “inner life” occurred repeatedly in Shimazaki Tōson’s 1906 novel Hakai (The Broken Commandment), in connection with the protagonist Ushimatsu’s awakening to self-awareness.34 Tōkoku’s reflections were, in essence, a celebration of life and the interiority of the individual. In an interesting development, almost a decade later, critic Takayama Chogyū (1871–1902), who was not a Christian and who had actually attacked Christianity in several of his writings, would make similarly important statements in praise of the sacredness of life and the independence of one’s interiority, but he would do so stating that the goal of one’s existence was to satisfy the natural human instincts of the self. This proclamation was equivalent to postulating that a similar principle of an independent self could be found not only in the domain of the inner life, but also in that of sexual gratification.35 Chogyū’s position was not very different from that of Christian socialist Kinoshita Naoe, who also advocated the importance of instinct gratification. Certainly, the premises of Kinoshita’s arguments were different; his thought was in fact inspired by a strong religious sentiment and a philanthropic desire to help the suffering and the poor. He was strongly committed to social issues such as the abolition of prostitution, and he also vehemently criticized dissolute behaviors and decadent lifestyles. However, his celebration of the sexual act was similarly unequivocal; in his 1906 work Zange (Confession), Kinoshita stated that sexual reproduction was equivalent to eternal life and that as such it was sacred. He maintained that the Spirit of the universe dwelt within man through the sanctity of sexual reproduction and love, thus sanctioning a view of sexuality as something that was not to be shunned but rather embraced as part of the course of life. This belief helped compensate for the rejection of conventional morality, while it also suggested the possibility that one’s interiority could best be revealed through the affirmation of the strictly biological aspect of life, i.e., sexuality.36 The domain of instinctivism and sexual desire became the domain of the inner self, a metaphor for that interiority that was the expression of life. The first years of the twentieth century also witnessed the spread of Zolaism and the publication of an increasing number of literary works that, drawing from these developments, highlighted the necessity of exploring even the darkest and most mysterious sides of human existence. In the postface to his 1902 novel Jigoku no hana (Flowers of Hell), author Nagai Kafū (1879–1959) wrote that one aspect of man could not but be animalistic, and that this dark side now ought to become the object of serious investigation. In Tayama Katai’s 1907 novel Futon (The Quilt), sexual desire is described as a dark force dwelling in one’s interiority, and in the early stories of Shiga Naoya, a growing sexual awareness clearly lies at the center of the protagonist’s self-construction. But it is ultimately in the famous opening line of Mushanokōji Saneatsu’s 1911 novel Omedetaki hito (A GoodNatured Person), “I am starved for women,” that the confession of one’s sexual desires came to be no longer perceived as sinful but rather as a direct expression

12 Introduction of the sacredness of life (i.e., seimei). Since, until then, the realm of the flesh had mostly been considered inferior to that of the spirit, this was the first time that sexuality was positively conceived as the expression of one’s interiority and the affirmation of the will of the universe.37 As is clear, it is possible to identify a trajectory in modern Japanese literary discourse where Christianity and literature do not necessarily figure as clashing opposites, but rather almost as partners in the development of a common platform that could sustain the quest toward the discovery of interiority and the resulting establishment of the self. The idea of seimei as something sacred and directly linked to one’s interiority was, after all, a concept that owed much to Christian spiritualism. Although the term itself was used in a variety of contexts and as such encompassed a wide range of semantic connotations, the idea originally articulated by Tōkoku fed into the development of a highly charged concept that superseded even the cycle of life and death, and so obviously also incorporated elements that defied an orthodox Christian view of human existence. It was nonetheless a concept that provided the theoretical framework for the discovery of the self, revealing the presence of a spiritual continuum that, though not exempt from contradictions and idiosyncrasies, would have a significant role in the literary developments of those years. Thus, while on the surface naturalist critics and writers seemed to be merely rejecting Christianity and its restrictive worldview on matters of sexuality, their use of this concept and its implications posited the possibility of a solution to the dualism of flesh and spirit that stood between them and the birth of their self-construction. For this reason, one can clearly discern a continuity between Tōkoku’s early deliberations on the discovery of interiority and later developments in which that interiority came to be linked, as in the case of writers like Arishima and Mushanokōji, to the free exercise of one’s sexual impulse.38 This consideration leads in turn to the ironic realization that modern Japanese literature strove to portray truth and the hidden self, in part, as a rejection of the moral influence of twenty years of Christian indoctrination, even though it was Christianity itself that had to a large degree inspired that search for truth and individuality in the first place. Such realization should not be seen necessarily as a contradiction in terms. Despite the existence of a latent conflict on matters of sexuality that defined the process through which many young intellectuals experienced the Christian faith, Meiji and Taishō writers continued in fact to hold the question of God and their relationship to the divine as a primary concern of their existence, often relying on Christianity as a framework of reference for the construction of their own selves. As one scholar recently pointed out, “Mushanokōji’s early contact with Tolstoian Christianity is crucial to his intellectual development and without it the Shirakaba concept of selfhood would be inconceivable.”39 Nor would it be possible to conceive Arishima’s artistic evolution without considering the role of the Christian faith in his life. Even in Shiga Naoya’s case, one has to acknowledge “the diffuse and only implicit kind of ‘Christian’ influence which we may discern in the background of his entire oeuvre.”40 As Shiga himself wrote, Had I not come in contact with the religion of Jesus I could have led a more carefree life and would no doubt have written in a broader vein. Although I

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  13 have regretted this experience in the past, I think now that it has been in my best interest. Without it I would perhaps have become a more slovenly sort of man.41 Thus, when one considers that the question of selfhood and its relationship to God and the universe remained at the center of these writers’ concerns, and that their ultimate disavowal of Christianity was often the outcome of a complex and at times painful spiritual journey, it becomes clear that such renouncement can hardly be reduced to a flat rejection of the Christian theology. Such rejection was never a final act: In the Japanese literary world . . . Christianity seems to have come and gone without leaving a trace . . . A lukewarm humanism with a vaguely Christian hue appears in the works of various writers . . . or so I thought in the past. Recently, as words like “doubt,” “remorse,” and “penance” have begun to issue from the mouths and even preoccupy the minds of writers of the era of Naturalism, such as Tōkoku, Doppo, and Roka, I have begun to reconsider and to wonder whether this is due to the impact of Western religions. It is my opinion that the psychological phenomena of doubt and remorse would not arise in men who were liberated from religion.42 As the following chapters will illustrate, conversion to the Christian faith was for many of these writers an earnest attempt to live a life of moral rectitude. In Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki (When the Cherries Ripen, 1919), a partially fictionalized account of Shimazaki Tōson’s adolescent years through the eyes of the young Kishimoto Sutekichi, for example, the protagonist seriously reflects upon the nature of his Christian experience and the future of his faith: “Are you a Christian? Had he been asked this question now, Sutekichi could not have answered that he was the same person who had been baptized by Reverend Asami.”43 Similarly, Kunikida Doppo questioned the depth of his own faith in a short piece that was published posthumously: When I left Waseda University, I was already a Christian. But have I behaved like a true Christian? Have I professed my faith . . . has my life been a true Christian life? . . . Have I read the Bible? . . . What kind of a Christian am I? Without Christ, without the Bible, without prayer, I am only weak, arrogant, and lazy.44 Poet Yagi Jūkichi (1898–1927), who became a Christian in 1919, also sought to express his strong desire to know God in an untitled poem that consisted of a single line: “God, I miss you.”45 On the other hand, Yamamura Bochō, who converted in 1902, unleashed the anger and frustration that accompanied his journey of faith in an extremely long poem of 1920 titled “Sōgen naru kunōsha no shōhei” (Praise of a Grave Sufferer) that portrayed the poet’s personal fierce confrontation with God: Praise of a Grave Sufferer Are you the God of love?

14 Introduction You have never been the God of love You are the God of pain You are a scary God You are a violent God You are a ruthless God You are an egotistic God. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .46 Despite their conflicted relationship with Christian morality, these writers’ religious and spiritual discourse – their diaries and memoirs – provide evidence that the question of selfhood and its relationship to God remained at the center of their concerns, actually informing their narrative and likely dictating how they would rationalize the internal conflicts surrounding the construction of the modern self and its relationship to nature and the universe. Their ultimate decision to distance themselves from the Church was not necessarily driven by a superficial understanding of the Christian faith but was rather the outcome of a complex process of self-introspection that was intrinsically tied to the Meiji pursuit of a spiritualized dimension of life. In fact, these writers not only continued to draw from the idea of a universal life and its sacredness – a Christian-inspired concept – but they also relied on Christianity as a framework of reference for the discovery of the inner self. Christianity was therefore not necessarily antithetical to the establishment of modern narrative but was possibly instrumental to it, laying the premises for the definition and construction of the “modern self” upon Christian-inspired concepts and beliefs. The dualities experienced by many modern writers were the manifestation of complex and multifaceted developments that placed Christianity at the center rather than at the periphery of that process of self-definition.

Mutual intersections between literature, Christianity, and politics As noted earlier, Kitamura Tōkoku’s concept of naibu seimei critically linked the self to God and the universe, becoming the lasting expression of the interiority affirmed by the poet in his writings, and ultimately informing much of midto late-Meiji and Taishō literary discourse. This should not come as a surprise, since the Meiji years were truly a time of deep spiritual quest. Religious leaders like Uemura Masahisa (1857–1925) and Uchimura Kanzō, for example, were extremely popular and widely read, and as philosopher Tanabe Hajime (1885– 1962) once recalled, whether you were a believer or not, the Christian religion was a serious matter in those days for any young student or intellectual.47 This increased religious awareness, which was by no means limited to Christianity, became manifest not only within Tōkoku’s essays but also in the writings of other individuals who were closely associated with him and the journal Bungakkai (The Literary World). For example, writer Togawa Shūkotsu (1870–1939), who on the eve of the Sino-Japanese war had defined the current age as a “time of revolutionary chaos when a new spirit should arise,” had also affirmed that such

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  15 revolution should come from the spiritual sphere of religion and art.48 Over the next decade the rise of nationalism that preceded the two wars with China and Russia deepened this sense of anxiety and skepticism within the intellectual community, exacerbating the conflicted relationship between the individual and the State and prompting the search for a solution to this quandary within the realm of religion and spirituality. Tsunashima Ryōsen’s account of his beatific vision, which shook the souls of many young intellectuals, was the clear expression of an incipient religious sentiment and spiritual longing that was crucially linked – and not antithetical – to the exploration of interiority. Ryōsen (1873–1907), a philosopher, literary critic and a baptized Christian, wrote: Verily have I seen God. Verily have I seen Him face to face. . . . My religious beliefs had been mainly formed by putting my trust in the person of Christ and the prophets, or again, by accepting the validity of their powerful spiritual awareness. . . . As I immersed myself more deeply in the life of the spirit, I resolved to cast aside all past testimony and rely on myself to hear the voice of God. My earnest quest to find Him was not in vain. Not once, but many times over, I felt His radiant presence in the deepest chambers of my soul.49 Author and political activist Hiratsuka Raichō (1886–1971) who, in seeking to answer such questions as “What is God? What am I? What is truth? How should one live?” had herself been drawn to Christianity during her college years, was stricken by Ryōsen’s words and later realized the futility of “trying to find the true God, the authentic self, in a world of abstraction that lacked any personal experience.”50 Meanwhile, the publication of works like Nakazato Kaizan’s Waga zange (My Confessions) and Kinoshita Naoe’s Zange, respectively in 1905 and 1906, put unequivocal emphasis on the act of confession as a means to overcome the impasse brought about by these internal conflicts, signaling a religious posture within the literary world that would become a major trait of mid- to late-Meiji and Taishō intellectual discourse. In 1906, Masamune Hakuchō, who had by now completely repudiated his faith, took notice of this trend in an editorial that appeared in the Yomiuri shinbun. Hakuchō argued that the younger generations were faced with a type of spiritual anguish and pain that no one had ever experienced before. The suicides of the young intellectuals Kitamura Tōkoku, Fujino Kohaku (1871–95), and Fujimura Misao (1886–1903) epitomized this generational predicament during a time of internal turmoil that, some argued, was to be attributed to the negative influence exerted by literature and philosophy. Religion seemed to be the only outlet for the hopes and aspirations of these young individuals, who struggled to find their own sense of self at this time of great uncertainty and social changes.51 The rise of Naturalism gave further momentum to this spiritual quest. Although some Christian scholars have viewed the negation of God as a precondition for the establishment of modern literature, few literary schools actually placed so much emphasis on the search for the divine as Japanese Naturalism did.52 The deep

16 Introduction religious awareness that permeated the literary world at this time found one of its most effective voices within the very tenets of this school of thought. Shimamura Hōgetsu, who played an instrumental role in the theoretical legitimization of Naturalism, attested to the centrality of religion in the movement. In “Nyoze bungei” (Thus is Literature), a piece he published in 1905 soon after his three-year sojourn in Europe, Hōgetsu affirmed that literature aimed at the attainment of an absolute and transcendental dimension, which was, in his view, the domain of the religious.53 The experience of the divine was for him an essential part of the aesthetic experience inherent to art and literature. His 1906 essay “Torawaretaru bungei” (Literature in Shackles) essentially ratified this view, placing the spiritual experience at the center of the process of artistic creation and postulating a partnership between literature and religious symbolism that would become the trademark of Japanese Naturalism. Later developments confirmed the critical intersection between religion and Naturalism. The confessional posture that had already become manifest at the turn of the century came to epitomize the philosophical confines of the naturalist school. Hōgetsu himself published two essays in 1909 in which he stated that skepticism and confession were the only frameworks within which one could discuss a philosophy of life, and others echoed this view, providing evidence that the very last years of the Meiji period had witnessed the birth of a trajectory in literature that held confession as a central element of its inquiry.54 Three decades later Masamune Hakuchō essentially endorsed this interpretation. Naturalist writers, he wrote, had one common predicament, and that was how to express the pain of their own existence. For Hakuchō, however, the bewilderment and disorientation suffered by the literary world during these final Meiji years was not a phenomenon limited to the Naturalists. Even literary giant Natsume Sōseki showed distinctive signs of skepticism in his late works, Hakuchō claimed. The disconnection with the surrounding reality experienced by the artist at this juncture of Meiji intellectual and literary history was thus a product, if not a pathology, of that very age.55 The mid-to late Meiji years were thus a time of spiritual and existential unrest. In his famous 1910 piece “Jidai heisoku no genjō” (The Impasse of Our Age), posthumously published, critic and poet Ishikawa Takuboku (1886–1912) referred to these years as a period of deep religious introspection, and although Takuboku believed that the answers to this unrest were not necessarily to be found within Christianity, it is a fact that the Christian religion sat squarely within the existential quest of the time, inextricably linked, as it was, to ideals of freedom, independence, and self-determination. The self, it has been already noted, was at the very center of this quest. In “Ware wa ika ni shite shōsetsuka ni narishi ka,” Kunikida Doppo wrote: In other words, I was not really planning on becoming a writer or a novelist. However, I did experience some sort of revolution on a spiritual level. I began to think about life and began to wonder “Where did I come from?” “Where am I going? Who am I?”56

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  17 Similarly, in 1912 Mushanokōji Saneatsu published a piece titled “Jiko no tame” (In Defense of the Self) in which he asserted his unconditional reliance on the authority of the self, and exactly ten years later a young Kajii Motojirō (1901–32) wrote: “My faith is predicated upon this awareness of the self.”57 Japanese Christian leader and author Takakura Tokutarō (1885–1934) once stated: My mind had long been preoccupied with the question of the self. . . . What is this thing called the self? How can we have an emancipated, fulfilling self? In those days I thought with great enthusiasm that I would readily sacrifice anything to solve the question of the self.58 Of course, the embrace of Christianity by a significant section of the bundan was by no means motivated only by a determination to pursue and understand the self. There was an underlying will to gain power, an ambitious plan to have a voice in the political arena of the time that was not necessarily tied to the pursuit of a spiritualized dimension of life. Yamaji Aizan’s widely accepted assertion that “samurai from the losing side in the Restoration turned to Christianity largely in an effort to regain lost status” already indicated that there was more than simply an interest in the faith behind the acceptance of the Christian religion.59 For many converts, embracing Christianity signified the ability to transcend certain social and historical constraints and thus strategically reposition oneself in the face of the impending political, cultural, and economic changes. It is therefore hardly surprising that even in the very process of confession, a literary form that unquestionably marked the mid- to late-Meiji and Taishō years, Karatani Kōjin saw not only remorse but also “a manifestation in twisted form of a will to power.”60 The connection between the spiritual and political realms was indeed an important trait of Christianity’s interactions with Meiji society. Several members of the journal Bungakkai, who were Christian, displayed political concerns at the outset of their literary careers. In Tōkoku’s case, his own conversion resulted in “a dramatic fusion of the sphere of politics and religion.”61 His religious discourse unfolded, in fact, against a tumultuous social and political context in which the new faith was charged with the mission of reconciling the factions at war, saving the oppressed, restoring social justice, and sanctioning the superiority of the spiritual over the material world. In “Saigo no shōrisha wa dare zo” (Who Will Be The Final Victor?) of 1892, for example, Tōkoku described the history of humanity as one of war and social injustice, upholding Jesus Christ as the only hope for a possible reconciliation: “What shall we call this reconciliation? It is that which Mohammed and Buddha preached and praised as truth, that which philosophers of East and West have never stopped trying to explain. We call this Christ.”62 Tōkoku’s early letters to his then fiancée Mina are among the earliest evidence of this intriguing connection between religion and political ambition. In one of these letters, describing his adolescent years and his passion for politics, he stated: “The following year, Meiji 17, I overcame for a time my faintheartedness and burned once again with the fire of ambition .  .  . Like another Christ, I would consecrate all my energies to politics.”63 In yet another letter written to Mina, he

18 Introduction decried the corruptions of society and stated that “unless the followers of Christ set limits to selfishness and determine the boundaries of greed, foul corruption will with awesome power destroy the world of Japan.”64 This intersection between spiritual pursuit and political aspiration became a topos in the narratives of conversion of several Meiji and Taishō writers. In 1909, Shimazaki Tōson confirmed the existence of such a path in his own personal development: I was a very ambitious young man at the time I entered Meiji Gakuin. It was a time when it was trendy to talk about politics among young men, and so for me it was only natural to want to become a politician.65 Around the same time, recalling the days of his conversion, Kunikida Doppo told of his parallel desire to pursue a political career, and in his “Kami, ningen, jiyū” (God, Man, and Freedom) of 1935, Kinoshita Naoe confirmed the existence of these very same links in his own journey of faith.66 Iwano Hōmei wrote: Neither the people at church nor my friends were as devout as I had expected. That was when it occurred to me that Christianity did not have any real influence on ordinary people. I lost interest in becoming a missionary and instead developed the desire to become a politician.67 The convergence of Christianity and the socialist ideas that gained currency at the turn of the century is also well-known. Kinoshita Naoe was one of the most representative members of the bundan to be actively engaged with social issues; a member of the Shakai minshutō (Socialist Democratic Party), which was comprised of mostly Christian members – one notable exception was anarchist Kōtoku Shūsui (1871–1911) – Kinoshita worked as a journalist for the Mainichi shinbun and fought for the abolition of prostitution, the emancipation of women, and the improvement of the living conditions of the poor. The very words of Shinoda, the political activist who is the protagonist of his 1904 novel Hi no hashira (Pillar of Fire), exemplified the nature of the relationship between socialism and Christianity as it was perceived by many social advocates in those days: “There’s no greater immorality than the rich getting richer and the poor poorer year after year. . . . Socialism, in a word, is God’s will, as Christ revealed it.”68 Other writers similarly found the existence of common ground between their Christian education and the pressing social challenges of the time. Arishima Takeo, who strongly resented his upper class upbringing, first attended a socialist meeting in 1903 and wrote at length about class struggle, poverty, and the emancipation of women. Mushanokōji Saneatsu likewise championed socialist ideas and attended such meetings during his youth; he was accordingly very fond of the speeches of Kinoshita Naoe.69 Several women writers who drew inspiration from the Christian faith similarly saw important links between religion and social activism. Prominent feminist advocate Fukuda Hideko (1865–1927), for example, who had been attending Uchimura Kanzō’s Bible study group but had been expelled

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  19 because of her socialist ideas, wrote a piece titled “Uchimura sensei ni tatematsuru sho” (A Letter to Uchimura Sensei, respectfully Submitted, 1907), in which she rhetorically asked whether the Christian God and socialism did not have the common goal of helping the weak and the poor. Kishida Toshiko (1864–1901, also known as Nakajima Shōen), a baptized Christian and one of Japan’s most celebrated female orators who marked her debut with a speech titled “Fujo no michi” (The Way for Women) in 1882, delivered her famous “Hakoiri musume” (Daughters in Boxes) speech later that year, in which, attacking the old practice of confining daughters to the household and to an existence tied exclusively to marriage, she maintained the inalienability of their God-given right to liberty and independence. Finally, Kanno Suga (1881–1911), also a baptized Christian, who is usually remembered for the allegation of treason that led to her death sentence, also made extremely significant contributions to the advancement of the women’s cause, fighting against social inequalities and in particular for the abolishment of legal brothels. Despite the existence of these crucial connections between the Christian faith on the one hand and political and social engagement on the other, most of these converts and Christian sympathizers eventually experienced various degrees of disillusionment and personal defeat in their public lives, retreating to a private realm that became their true locus of spiritual introspection and self-scrutiny. It is within this realm that literature and Christianity engaged most effectively; at a historical juncture of deep uncertainty, the creation of a literary space that promoted a free interaction between literature and faith afforded the opportunity for a renewed examination of one’s conscience and the existing polarities within the self. Literature played a critical therapeutic role in this respect, because it allowed these intellectuals to address and discover their own interiority via the Christianinspired concepts to which they had been exposed during their formative years.

A Christian-inspired concept of romantic love and the emergence of a modern sensuality The literary appropriation of a modern concept of love was another key element in this process. As Rebecca Copeland states, love “was the single most discussed subject among the young male poets and female students in the 1880s and 1890s and largely the catalyst for the romantic movement in Japanese letters.”70 Already in the late 1880s the journal Jogaku zasshi (Woman’s Education Journal), headed by Christian educator Iwamoto Yoshiharu (1863–1942), had devoted many of its pages to the spreading and fostering of a Christian-inspired ideology of love that emphasized spirituality over carnality. Some of the stories that appeared in this journal, including Iwamoto’s own exchange of poems with his future wife, Wakamatsu Shizuko, spoke of the purity of romantic love. Shizuko herself had published pieces like “Sumire” (1889), a story in which the female protagonist by the same name rejected a marriage proposal by a seemingly ideally sophisticated and sensitive man. Crafting a scenario “of a man and woman speaking intelligently and as equals about such ethereal subjects as friendship and platonic

20 Introduction love,”71 Shizuko was able to outline her idealized view of womanhood and matrimony as a union that is based on pure love and a spiritual covenant rather than on personal gain or social pressure. In November 1890 Jogaku zasshi published an article by religious leader Yamaji Aizan titled “Ren’ai no tetsugaku” (The Philosophy of Love) that celebrated love as something that “revolutionized man’s spirit and body,” thus setting the stage for the appearance of yet another essay by Kitamura Tōkoku that would reverberate across the literary world for decades. In the opening lines of that piece, which was titled “Ensei shika to josei” (Disillusioned Poets and Women, 1892), Tōkoku argued that “love is the key to life’s secrets.” He therefore placed love at the center of human existence, adding that it was the way to the achievement of self-awareness: love was, in his own words, “the real mirror . . . that reveals the ‘I’.” This declaration shook the souls of his contemporaries. In Shimazaki Tōson’s Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, the protagonist Sutekichi states that upon reading this piece he had felt a spasm throughout his body as if he had been touched by electricity, whereas in a piece he wrote in 1933 Kinoshita Naoe recalled feeling as if he had been shot with a cannon; it was the first time, Kinoshita thought, that love had been discussed with such seriousness in Japan.72 Of course, this is not to say that love had never been a topic of literary discourse in the years preceding the modern period. But as many scholars have already pointed out in the past, the focus of such discourse had mostly been the licensed quarters, and “the object of the hero’s desire was typically a courtesan, geisha, or mistress.” Love, therefore, “was conflated with sexuality, with the flesh, with the licentiousness of an earlier age.”73 It is only with the arrival of Christianity that the notion of romantic love came to be accepted and further developed by mid-Meiji writers.74 Tōkoku’s idea of romantic love as key to the discovery of the self essentially shifted the earlier paradigm, signaling a radical departure from Confucian worldviews of restraint, self-effacement, and filial duty, and practically inspiring the Romantic movement that was to follow after him. This new concept of romantic love would also prove to be especially important for new generations of women. As Michiko Suzuki states in her recent book, For women, love was particularly important, not only because it allowed them to express agency separate from the dictates of the family system (ie seido) and social convention, but also because it enabled them to visualize a new process of becoming female.75 The discourse on love that stemmed from journals like Jogaku zasshi contributed then to the construction of a literary space where love itself, literature, and Christianity all coalesced into a single form of coherent discourse that, while promoting a new self-awareness and a modern sensibility, also advanced the case of women, their rights, and emancipation, thus reclaiming their potential as fully engaged members of society and the intellectual community. In 1891, a yet unknown Shimizu Shikin (1868–1933), whose life would also be influenced by Christianity, published a short piece in the same journal titled

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  21 “Koware yubiwa” (The Broken Ring) that seemed to reflect these very developments. In this story, the protagonist, a young woman who has been forced by her father into an arranged marriage, displays a newly acquired self-awareness regarding the condition of women and their aspirations, and states that “what I read about Western views on women’s rights impressed me deeply, and I began to understand that Japanese women also had the right to seek the fulfillment and happiness that are their due.”76 The existence of a thematic partnership between literature, love, and Christianity is confirmed by a number of other Meiji and Taishō texts. Shimazaki Tōson’s Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, for example, described the romantic and joyful atmosphere that surrounded the young Sutekichi’s life at the time he attended Meiji Gakuin. The Sunday service, the prayers, the beautiful church with its high ceilings, large windows, and cross-shaped altar were the new (Christian) symbols that now mediated his perception of reality. These symbols spoke not only of a new God, but also of an exotic new world where young men and women mingled together to discuss and enjoy literature. Love, literature, and religion co-existed in one: it was a dream-like existence that filled Sutekichi’s heart with a sense of freedom and romantic excitement. In the same way, in Tayama Katai’s Futon, “The omniscient narrator reveals a larger context in which Christianity, love, literature, and the ‘new woman’ are intimately interrelated.”77 Indeed, “Futon reveals how the ideology of ‘love,’ together with that of ‘literature,’ exercised its authority on Meiji intellectuals” and how for Futon’s protagonist, Tokio, “love and literature are two complementary aspects of the same order, which he considers essential to a ‘true modern individual.’ ”78 One can detect in Kitamura Tōkoku’s thought the celebration of an idealized platonic form of love that, like the thirteenth-century Italian dolce stilnovo poets, placed romantic worship at the center of human experience, superimposing the object of one’s adoration over God’s own love for man. In Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, the encounter with the journal Jogaku zasshi and Tōkoku’s revolutionary statement about love, which, in Sutekichi’s own words, “no one had ever pronounced before,” marked a crucial turning point in the protagonist’s life. Sutekichi, who, after graduating, is now teaching at Meiji Jogakkō, falls in love with one of his students, and it is at this point that the domain of spiritual pursuit and that of love become completely blurred: Sutekichi kneeled before that God who could see into the most hidden places. In place of that majestic Jehovah his own student appeared before his closed eyes. Those cheeks with their youthful flush. Those sparkling eyes. Those white, maidenly hands. “Oh, God! Here is your little servant . . .” He tried to pray but found himself unable to do so.79 Similar traces of a superimposition of romance over faith can be found in Kunikida Doppo’s Azamukazaru no ki (An Honest Record of the Soul, 1908). In this work – a chronicle of the young writer’s spiritual journey between 1893 and 1897 – the figure of Nobuko, his future wife, gradually gains center stage in the

22 Introduction narrative, taking over the religious motifs that were originally at the center of the diary. Clearly, both Tōson’s and Doppo’s narratives of conversion revealed a mixture of romanticism and lyrical religiosity that drew significantly from Tōkoku’s experience and deliberations. By the time Tōson’s poetry collection Wakanashū (Collection of Young Herbs) appeared in 1897, however, the concept of romantic and spiritual love elaborated by Tōkoku had already begun to face a critical metamorphosis. “Hatsukoi” (First Love), one of the most renowned poems included in that collection, was emblematic of that transformation. Set against a seemingly biblical background (“When I saw you by the apple tree . . . you gently extended your white hand /and gave me an apple”), the poem presented a stark contrast between a lingering puritanical worldview and the affirmation of a modern sensuality. “Nigemizu” (Moving Water), another work included in the collection that also drew deeply from the Bible, confirmed such shift from current paradigms: in its most famous line, “koi koso tsumi nare tsumi koso koi” (love is sin, sin is love), love, originally characterized by Tōkoku as a “pure” emotion, now came to be equated with sin and its awareness.80 It was an awareness of sin, though that seemed to anticipate a long-awaited liberation of the senses. Tōson’s poetry set in motion a process of self-discovery and re-elaboration of the concept of romantic love in all of its nuances, unveiling a world of sensuality that would reach a first significant climax in the audacious verses of Yosano Akiko (1878–1942), herself a baptized Catholic whose personal relationship with the Christian faith has yet to be closely analyzed. Meanwhile, among literary critics, Iwano Hōmei’s 1906 piece “Shinpiteki hanjūshugi” (Mystic Semi-Animalism) signaled a parallel significant break from the concept of pure and romantic love that had gained currency during the previous two decades. Hōmei flatly rejected the distinction between spiritual and carnal love. For him, the culmination of love was what he called “the embrace” (hōyō), and if religious men believed that love was sacred, then carnal desire ought to be deemed as such as well. Love was, he maintained, an ephemeral experience that transcended dualities like sin versus purity and the sacred versus the non-sacred.81 A few years later, Mushanokōji Saneatsu would state that love was predicated upon one’s self-affirmation, that the flesh was a reality that could not be denied and that only by affirming one’s life could one truly love.82 This was consistent with yet another proclamation the author made in his well-known essay “Jiko no tame.” Recalling the importance played by playwright Maeterlinck’s words in his departure from a Tolstoian worldview of asceticism and self-suppression, he stated: “We cannot ever attempt to love our neighbor as ourselves if we do not love ourselves first. Still, to love our neighbors as ourselves is not enough. We should first love ourselves in our neighbor.” This sentence, which I read some five or six years ago, echoed in me like a divine revelation.83 Interestingly, poet and literary critic Ishikawa Takuboku had already posited, albeit in slightly different terms, a similar relationship of necessity between self-love

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  23 and love for others, providing further evidence that the discourse on love was seen as central to the establishment of the self; Takuboku was not a Christian, but he had several friends who were, and his poetry was replete with biblical references that betrayed, according to one scholar, the presence of a strong fascination with the mystical aspects of the Christian faith.84 In a letter written to Nomura Kodō on September 17, 1903, Takuboku stated: When, after painstaking inner struggle day and night, I finally began to grasp what the self is and what composes man, the degree of my indifference to the world increased. When we can manifest the component of the self with farreaching compassion and love, the praises and reproaches of the world cease to be our concern. He who is most faithful to the self – is he not also truthful to others? There exists a drastic difference between egoism and individualism (so called). He who has a genuine love for himself ought to love others universally.85 In the mid-1910s Arishima Takeo formulated a theory of love that rejected any duality preventing the full affirmation of the individual, whereas poet Hagiwara Sakutarō (1886–1942), who had himself experienced and interpreted such dualities as the apparent manifestation of his own sinfulness, published a poem titled “Airen” (Love-Pity) in which, enticing his lover “to secretly have fun [with him] in the lush grass .  .  . to push down [his] body with all her strength” and then “indulge [together] in a serpentine play,” he reaffirmed the coming of a modern sensuality free from the constrictions of conventional morality.86 Much in the same way that political ambition and social engagement had constituted common components in the process of conversion of many intellectuals, the intersection of a Christian-inspired concept of love with the literary discourse of the time represented yet another key development of the Meiji and Taishō years. It is important to note that Mushanokōji and Arishima’s deliberations, even Hagiwara’s own poetry, were still the product of a sustained discourse on love that, standing in stark contrast with earlier notions of sacrifice and self-restraint – clearly discernable, for example, throughout many of Kunikida Doppo’s writings – continued to draw deeply, at times in antagonistic terms, from Christian ideas and current debates on interiority, individuality, and modernity. Tōson’s poetry, in particular, represented a crucial turning point in this context, not because, by emphasizing the sensual aspect of love, he had broken with the rigor of his Christian education, but because, in spite of that rupture, he had actually acknowledged an awareness of sin that was perhaps unprecedented. This awareness, which Tōson acquired during his adolescent years at Meiji Gakuin, informed all of his literary production, to such an extent that “by the time Tōson wrote Shinsei [New Life] the pattern of sin followed by moral suffering and culminating in rebirth, had evolved into a world view.”87 Tōson was not, however, the only author whose literary production was affected, if not defined, by the Christian awareness of sin.

24 Introduction

The awareness of sin and the limits of Meiji Protestantism The Christian concept of sin was an integral part of the literary deliberations surrounding the discovery of interiority and the construction of the self in Meiji and Taishō intellectual discourse. The very act of literary confession, a trademark of modern Japanese narrative, inevitably implied a consciousness of sin at its onset that cannot be overlooked. No matter how much modern writers seemed to reject Christian teachings on issues of morality or sexuality, this awareness continued to inform their narrative and their process of self-construction for decades to come. Masamune Hakuchō was obsessed by it: his diary reveals, for example, the intense fear and emotional discomfort he suffered after attending one of Uemura Masahisa’s lectures on this topic.88 Arishima Takeo had a comparable experience, and his diary Kansōroku (A Record of My Thoughts) is replete with comments that unveil the agony of his internal struggle as he became increasingly aware of his moral transgressions. As briefly mentioned earlier, Hagiwara Sakutarō was similarly troubled by his consciousness of sin, especially between 1914 and 1916, a time when he was deeply absorbed in the Christian faith; in letters he exchanged with fellow poet Kitahara Hakushū, whom he admired, and his friend Takahashi Motokichi (1893– 1965), also a poet, he often discussed religion, his concern with sin, and his urge to confess. In a missive he sent to Hakushū on November 25, 1914, he wrote that he had been punished by God for committing a terrible act of moral and spiritual transgression. In yet another letter that he wrote around the same time to his cousin Eiji, a fervent believer, he stated: Since I became ill, I have been feeling the urge to confess my past sins. I secretly cry and pray. . . . All the sins and the immoral transgressions I have committed since I was a child afflict my conscience to the point that I can no longer bear it. I always do the sign of the cross before I go to sleep. Somehow I feel I am an extremely sinful person.89 Lines in his poems “Fuyu” (Winter) – “omens of sins appear in heaven . . . omens of sins committed appear everywhere” – and “Tenjō ishi” (Hanged in Heaven) – “tears of confession drip, he hangs his neck from a pine in heaven” – spoke eloquently of his preoccupation with sin and divine punishment.90 Among the members of the Shirakaba group, Mushanokōji Saneatsu was at first “so grounded in Tolstoy’s Christianity that he actually looked at people as living proof of their parents’ sin.”91 Similarly, Shiga Naoya wrote in his 1912 novel Ōtsu Junkichi: In those days I was a lukewarm Christian. Being far removed from various temptations, I almost made Paul’s phrase “Avoid fornication” my motto. . . . I became a Christian in the summer of my seventeenth year, and from the time I reached twenty my desire for women intensified. I became somewhat obstinate. I was disgusted by my own obstinacy and periodically felt the impulse to become a free individual.92

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  25 In spite of his desire and determination to do away with the oppression of Christian teachings, Shiga’s words betrayed the presence of an awareness of sin from which he could not be easily liberated. He understood very well, however, that the problem lay not in sin per se but rather in its awareness: We had a Christmas meeting that evening and each of us had been asked to give a three-minute speech. I did not know what to talk about and I had been worrying about it since I had left the house. Finally, just when I was riding the train (this is the time that Sensei had moved to Kashiwagi, and trains were running all across the city), the sun came through from one direction and in that sunlight floated countless particles of dust. People were bothered by that dust, so much so that some of them even covered their mouths with handkerchiefs. However, those who were sitting at the opposite side of the carriage were breathing in that same dust seemingly without any problem, only because they were sitting in the shaded area of the train. I thought that the awareness of sin in Christianity must have been something similar. The important thing is to become free from it.93 In Natsume Sōseki’s Kokoro (1914), a troubled “Sensei” displays a similar strong awareness when he states “I felt very strongly the sinfulness of man,” and in Akutagawa’s story “Samayoeru yudayajin” (The Wandering Jew, 1917), Yosehu, the protagonist, says: Jerusalem is a very big city, yet among all those people, I was the only one to understand the extent of my sin. It is because I was aware of it that the curse had an effect on me. For those who do not realize they are sinners, the punishment of God cannot descend on them. So I alone had to be punished for nailing our Lord to the Cross.94 The basic tenet of Calvinism, according to which man is in a perennial state of depravity, likely disproportionally fueled these writers’ puritanical outlook, increasing their sense of iniquity and prompting a rationalization of sin along strictly Calvinist lines. The particularly ascetic nature of Meiji Protestantism, whose leadership consisted largely of members of samurai ancestry who, like Uchimura Kanzō, found familiar ground in an austere interpretation of the Scriptures, added to this state of affairs. After all, a number of religious leaders like Uemura Masahisa and Uchimura himself had established an important link between warrior ethic (bushidō) and Christianity. Uchimura, in particular, once wrote that “Christianity grafted upon Bushidō will be the finest product of the world.”95 The problem of sin thus became the catalyst for skepticism and frustration among intellectuals, and it seems likely that their decision to part from the Christian faith was in part a rebellion against a religious system that placed excessive emphasis on the evil nature of mankind. No matter how convincingly Christian leaders preached the reality of the Cross and the importance of atonement in the forgiveness of sins, the notion that man was completely depraved without any

26 Introduction hope for redemption was unacceptable to many. Hiratsuka Raichō’s reflections on her interactions with Christianity when she was still a student are emblematic of how the religion was viewed by some intellectuals in those days. I had another objection to the idea of God as defined by Christianity, that is, its positing of a transcendent being high above the heavens in opposition to lowly man, a creature conceived in sin and the embodiment of sin. If God were truly God, supreme and absolute, there should be nothing to oppose him. I preferred to think that God was not transcendent but immanent in the universe, that he was the ground of being for all of nature, including humankind, and that we all resided within God, the Absolute Being.96 The issue of sin was of course not the only point of contention among Japanese intellectuals. Other aspects of the Protestant doctrine were being questioned, such as whether man had the free will to choose his own destiny, or whether salvation could be earned through faith alone and not also through good works. As early as 1903, for example, Arishima was already questioning whether the responsibility for sinning stayed with man or God, and in 1919 he actually declared his inability to accept Christianity, because, in his view, “If man does not have free will, then, he should not be responsible for sinning.”97 The doctrine of predestination – the belief that God has already chosen those who will be saved and those who will not – was also a main point of contention for many intellectuals. This is not surprising: conversion to Christianity had been driven in part by the need to fill the vacuum left by the collapse of traditional ethics and Confucian morality. The implicit expectations among many of these converts was that adherence to the teachings of the faith would de facto provide a practical guide on how to live a life of moral rectitude, and therefore the notion that the embrace of the faith may not lead to salvation after all was a concern shared by many. Thus, Hakuchō once wrote: “I have been reading the Gospel of John every day, but I just read it mechanically and get nothing from it. I still do not understand the meaning of life and the universe.”98 And, in a similar way, Doppo stated that “several years have passed since I have received the truth and life of Christianity . . . spiritually and mentally, I have not benefited at all from it.”99 The theory of predestination seemed to invalidate any such attempts to earn the right to salvation by means of a just life. This was likely perceived as a contradiction in terms since, at its early stage, the essence of the Meiji Christian experience lay more in the espousal of a new ethics of life rather than an eschatology of the afterlife. In a religious milieu where the reality of atonement and the divinity of Jesus Christ were not necessarily accepted truths, and with skepticism constantly lurking in the background of any unfolding debate on the existence of God, the idea that an individual’s destiny had already been decided at birth was difficult to accept. It implied that regardless of one’s total and unconditional adherence to the teachings of the faith, salvation remained elusive and only for the chosen. Uchimura Kanzō espoused and actually found comfort in this theory; in his autobiographical work How I became a Christian: Out of my Diary, he recorded:

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  27 I studied the doctrine of predestination, and was strongly impressed with its importance . . . where is fear, where is the power of temptation, if I am one of God’s chosen elects, predestinated for his heirship before the foundation of the world.100 Arishima Takeo, however, was among those who could not hide his doubts and frustration concerning the freedom of man to choose his own destiny. On April 20, 1903, for example, only a few months before traveling to the United States and therefore at the peak of his religious fervor and orthodoxy, he read Romans 9, an important part of Paul’s theory of predestination, and found it “extremely partial and totally unfair.”101 Masamune Hakuchō similarly questioned the idea that man could not alter his destiny, which he saw as evidence that the Christian God was irate and unmerciful. Such a view was not limited to Hakuchō’s experience; Meiji Protestantism was after all Old Testament-centered and espoused in many cases a grave and ascetic interpretation of the faith that often was, according to Catholic author Endō Shūsaku (1923–96), very distant from the loving and forgiving God about whom one reads in the Gospel.102 Christianity was thus not perceived as “a religion of love and harmony, but as an oppressive trend that remained so prevalent in literary circles in Japan throughout the first half of the twentieth century.”103 This is one of the reasons why, for example, one can easily discern Shiga Naoya’s “lifelong ambivalence toward the stern precepts of Uchimura’s puritanical faith – in which, contrary to Shiga’s designation of it as ‘Yasokyō,’ a merciful savior appears less important than a strict Old Testament God.”104 Meiji Protestantism thus shared some responsibility for the fate of Christianity among modern Japanese writers. An overtly strong emphasis on the sinful nature of humankind and a concurrent ascetic interpretation of the faith were likely among the reasons why the vast majority of converts in the bundan struggled to maintain a balance between spiritual inquiry and artistic pursuit. These challenges were then further amplified by other factors of a less dogmatic nature. Despite its early ecumenical and non-denominational character, the Japanese Protestant Church soon developed into denominationalism. According to one scholar, by 1883 there already existed ninety-one congregations, each representing a distinct denomination.105 The arrival of the so-called liberal theology in the mid-to-late 1880s did nothing but make things more unstable. Questions regarding the reality of atonement and the cross, as well as the authority of the Bible, shook the already unstable foundations of the Japanese Christian experience. The increasingly fiery debate regarding the theory of evolution and a new wave of skepticism, which also arrived from Europe in those years, further shaped the intellectual environment, prompting some leaders of the Japanese Church to search for an autonomous theology that could incorporate indigenous elements of religious life. These attempts, some going so far as to deny the divinity of Christ, led to sharp internal confrontations and a further splitting of the Church. The lack of structure and tradition and the existence of multiple voices on matters relevant to the faith, i.e., the very pluralism that had enabled Protestantism to prosper among the upper-level classes of Japanese society and the bundan, later

28 Introduction became an impediment to its future. Uchimura Kanzō himself expressed his dissent and pessimism with respect to Protestantism’s plurality of cultures when he asked “which of the nineteen different Christian denominations which are now engaged in evangelizing Japan is to gain the strongest foothold there.”106 Natsume Sōseki was also quick to recognize Christianity’s most apparent contradiction – denominationalism and factionalism – in a piece he wrote in English as he was sailing to England in 1900: We have on board quite a large number of missionaries, leaving China for England. . . . They never fail to make the most of every opportunity that is offered to make converts of us whom they innocently set down as idolaters. . . . They insist on the idea of one supreme God. Very well. But then does not this idea vary according to different denominations? They say Christianity is the only true religion in the world, but when each denomination holds up its own idea of the Supreme God as true, it tantamounts to saying that those of other denominations are false and Christianity is the true religion only so far as each denomination is concerned.107 In this passage, Sōseki criticized not only the existence of an inflation of churches and doctrinal interpretations, but also a type of attitude, an excessive zeal, among missionaries, that was the cause of some distrust toward the religion. There was, as Mark Mullins explained in a recent study, “a widespread conviction among evangelizers that they had the ‘truth of the Gospel,’ and that the Japanese were totally lost in sin.”108 It is the same type of excessive zeal that in Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki caused Sutekichi to hold a grudge against Mr. and Mrs. Tamaki, the Christian couple who lived under his roof and who always sought to proselytize and convert others. It is the same type of self-righteousness that drove Hakuchō further from Uchimura as can be surmised from a letter the young author sent to his brother in May 1900.109 And it is also that same widespread conviction about having sole possession of the truth that displeased Hiratsuka Raichō at the time of her brief association with the Hongo Church in Tokyo: A quite elderly woman, of a sort often seen among Christians, came up to me one day and urged me to be baptized. “Be baptized first, and I assure you, faith will follow.” I could not bring myself to do this. The mere thought was horrifying: I would be deceiving myself, Christ, and God. I dodged her request: “Please let me think this over for a while. I’d like to go over things more carefully in my mind. Once I see that there’s no other path to spiritual peace, I promise you that I’ll ask to be baptized.”110 Protestantism was able to sustain a discourse of social improvement, innovation, and spiritual renewal until the time when, by the early Taishō years, it reached an impasse, showing itself unable to provide adequate answers to the social and epistemological challenges of that age. As a number of scholars have already pointed out, by the second decade of the twentieth century, Christianity

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  29 had evolved into a type of lukewarm humanism that, while still deeply inspired by ideals of social justice, equality, and love of your neighbor, was profoundly at odds with the strictly dogmatic aspects of the faith.111 The rising interest in Catholicism seen in the literary world beginning in the early Shōwa (1926–89) years was perhaps a response to such conflict.

The dilemma of faith and the literary appropriation of Christianity As Masamune Hakuchō stated in one of his later essays, the spread of Christianity among the writers of his generations had not been accidental; mid-to-late Meiji and Taishō intellectuals shared a dream, a romantic vision of a self-inspired human existence and afterlife that found fertile ground in the beliefs and worldview of the Christian religion.112 The embrace of Christianity by a significant membership of the bundan resulting from this common vision eventually promoted the creation of a shared religious space and a spiritual continuum, where the domains of art and religion certainly clashed, but also forged new alliances. It is within this dialectical process of acceptance and rejection that the two realms of faith and literary expression coalesced into a single form of coherent discourse. The religious conversion of many Meiji and Taishō writers was thus not merely a private affair, but rather the manifestation of a common desire to answer quintessential questions about the existence of God and the place of man in the universe at a juncture in Japanese intellectual history when the private and public domains began to intersect like never before. Such personal pursuits unfolded along the spatial and temporal determinants that marked the spread of Christianity in Japan; the shared evangelical setting and artistic representation of faith, and the intersection between literature, politics, religion, and love, are evidence of an unequivocally linked narrative space that was sustained by the arrival of Christianity – and that was central to Meiji and Taishō literary developments. The “return” of the Christian religion provided the temporal coordinates for the pursuit of a spiritualized dimension of life, giving voice to an incipient religious sense and critically shaping future deliberations on the construction of the modern self and its role in literature. Perhaps no one better than Dazai Osamu (1909–48) exemplified the impact the religion had when he wrote: “By one book, the Bible, the history of Japanese literature has been divided into two parts, with a clarity and distinction that are almost unprecedented.”113 More than three decades ago, Van C. Gessel, one of the first to call for the need for a balance “between the Christian critics who laud these writers to an embarrassing degree and the conventional literary analysts who pass over them as fleeing aberrations,” summarized the essence of the Meiji Christian experience as follows: Meiji writers likely saw Christianity as a mirror of their own egos: once that mirror stopped offering them mute images of their own individuality upon which to rhapsodize, and began spewing back ‘thou shalt nots’ as if to mock

30 Introduction the independence of the reflected self, Meiji intellectuals either turned their back to that mirror or smashed it to pieces.114 There are elements of truth in this assessment. However, it is also a fact that, as yet another scholar has pointed out, Christianity not only enhanced the validity and authority of literature by providing a firm belief in a universal truth . . . it also shaped the perception of reality, particularly the value of the inner self and spiritual freedom, thus enabling [poets and writers] to transcend social and historical constraints.115 The object of this investigation should therefore not be to ask “whether these authors were truly Christians or not, but rather what Christianity meant for them and their lives.”116 This book explores the complexity of these dynamics. Chapters 2 through 7 examine in detail the narratives of conversion, as seen in both diaries and memoirs, of Kitamura Tōkoku, Shimazaki Tōson, Kunikida Doppo, Masamune Hakuchō, Arishima Takeo, and Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, analyzing their journey of faith and how that journey informed both their literary production and their critical deliberations. The resulting analysis shows that, despite their ultimate disavowal of Christianity and their conflicted relationship with Christian morality, the question of selfhood and its relationship to God remained at the center of these writers’ concerns throughout their lives. Their decision to distance themselves from the Church was not necessarily driven by a superficial understanding of the Christian faith, as prior critics have claimed, but was rather the outcome of a complex process of introspection that was intrinsically tied to the Meiji pursuit of a spiritualized dimension of life. Christianity was not, however, only an outlet for spiritual introspection, nor was it a belief system that was exclusively confined to the realms of the religious and the spiritual; within the larger scheme of an evolving social and political context, it also represented a complex system of meaning, replete with a vast array of topoi – both of Catholic and Protestant derivation – that could be effectively used and even manipulated. The awareness of sin, which, as has been mentioned, was a critical component of the religious experience of many modern writers, was one of those topoi inspired by Christianity that featured often in the narrative of those years. Sin informed, for example, much of Shimazaki Tōson’s oeuvre. The story of Ushimatsu, the protagonist of his novel Hakai, who seeks a new life by confessing to society his “original sin” of being of burakumin (outcast) ancestry is a theme that would later be thoroughly reexplored in the characterization of Kishimoto – the protagonist of his 1919 novel Shinsei (New Life) – who sought regeneration and rebirth after confessing to the world his incestuous relationship with his niece. The same can be said for Shiga Naoya’s narrative. When in An’ya Kōro, Kensaku receives a letter from his brother from which he learns that he is “the child of our mother and the man you knew as your grandfather,” the thought that he was born under a curse, as a product of sin, becomes the leit motif of his

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  31 entire existence. It is not a coincidence that later, recalling the time when as a four-year old he had once crawled under the bed, attempting to reach out to his mother’s intimate parts, unable to explain the reasons for such an act, “he began to wonder whether it was because he was indeed the child of sin that he could have done what he did in her bed.”117 Kensaku’s journey to Mount Daisen is the manifestation of a desire to be purged and to be able to reconcile with his own self. The device of literary confession was similarly a mechanism that owed much to Christianity. Confession was one of the most effective rhetorical strategies of the turn of the century; a narrative device that was not confined to the I-novel – a genre especially popular among the naturalists – the urge to confess became a widespread technique of argumentation that found much success in many areas of literary practice. In his 1908 piece “Ruusoo no Zangechū ni miidashitaru jiko” (The Self I Found in Rousseau’s Confessions), Shimazaki Tōson acknowledged Rousseau’s work as one of the most influential books in his life, a text that, accordingly, made him aware of the existence of the self, and it is therefore not surprising that in his novel Hakai the book that inspires the protagonist Ushimatsu to disclose to the world his burakumin lineage is Inoko Rentarō’s Zangeroku (A Record of My Confessions). Confession was also the chief narrative mechanism behind most diaries of conversion: Kinoshita Naoe’s Zange, Kunikida Doppo’s Azamukazaru no ki, and Arishima Takeo’s Kansōroku, just to name a few, were all personal chronicles clearly predicated upon an urge to acknowledge one’s transgressions in front of God or society, in search of that purging effect that would lead to regeneration and rebirth. But this literary practice was not necessarily confined to instances of overtly religious content. Natsume Sōseki’s novel Kokoro was essentially a confessional chronicle, too, and social activist Fukuda Hideko characterized her autobiographical work Warawa no hanshōgai (Half of My Life, 1904) as an act of painful confession. This confessional posture was so engrained in the literary milieu of the time that, in some cases, the act of revealing even transcended the content that it purported to convey, becoming itself the main locus of literary signification. Thus, Hagiwara Sakutarō stated: “Poetry is a consolation for my life and at the same time my confession to God.”118 In this case it is not through the device of confession that literary meaning was created, but it was rather through literature that “the revealing” took place. It is, however, the widespread literary exploration of the persona of Jesus Christ in the intellectual discourse of those years that is especially intriguing. Tōkoku saw in Christ the champion of justice and love he wished to imitate to bring social justice and equality; whereas for Arishima, Jesus was the ultimate Whitmanian “loafer,” the unconventional hero who, like himself, defied the social and cultural restraints of his own times. For other authors, most of whom kept distant from organized Christianity, Christ represented a focal point, providing a spiritual inspiration that often found expression in narrative. The centrality of his figure in the deliberations of many Meiji and Taishō authors is beyond question, so much so that it is possible to postulate the existence of a “Christology” of the self – a concerted effort to construct the self by drawing parallels with the persona of Christ – that reached a high point in the writings of Mushanokōji Saneatsu. Indeed,

32 Introduction Chapter 8 discusses exactly how Mushanokōji and other authors borrowed from Christ and his story to define the borders of their own selves against the literary and intellectual landscape of the period in which they lived. The literary appropriation of Christianity and its rhetorical repertoire was thus an aspect of the Meiji Christian experience whose importance can hardly be minimized. Although on the one hand the convictions that stood at the core of the Christian faith were polarizing, if not radical, in content, to many in the public arena, on the other, those very convictions helped those who embraced them successfully transcend current ideological constructs and the historicity of their condition. For the editors and contributors of Jogaku zasshi, for example, the Christian home ideology supported by the Western lofty ideals of equality and self-determination afforded a framework within which to defy the predominant Neo-Confucian ethics. This literary appropriation of Christian motifs began to take form as early as the mid-Meiji years. Sasabuchi Tomoichi illustrates how, for example, the translation of the Bible and the compilations of sacred hymns that appeared in the 1880s had lasting effects on the development of free verse poetry and the styles of such poets as Shimazaki Tōson, Kanbara Ariake (1876–1952), Susukida Kyūkin (1877–1945), and Iwano Hōmei. Sasabuchi maintains in particular that Puritanism played a significant role in the poetry of those years because it fostered an idealized view of literature that placed the spiritual and moral stature of the poet above all else, effectively counteracting, in his own words, the downsides of Tsubouchi Shōyō’s plain realism.119 Tōkoku’s own concept of love was strongly indebted to Protestantism, and not a few scholars believe that many of Tōson’s early love poems would be unthinkable without the sentimental revolution inspired by the religious literature that appeared during the early Meiji years. Indeed, it is thanks to this sentimental revolution and Tōkoku’s own validation of love as a necessary step toward self-awareness that “these poets of the nineteenth century were able to speak of love in poetry in a context of high seriousness.”120 The influence of the Christian religion, however, extended beyond these deliberations on the centrality of love in human existence. Analyzing two important but rarely discussed novels of the period – Kinoshita Naoe’s Hi no hashira (Pillar of Fire) and Nagayo Yoshirō’s Seidō no kirisuto (The Bronze Christ) – Chapter 9 provides clear evidence of the central role played by Christianity in the narrative structures of works that explored other similarly significant areas of contemporary political and intellectual discourse. Thus, to Shinoda, the social activist who is the protagonist of Kinoshita’s novel, Christianity offers a platform to effectively argue against the war with Russia; his dissent is carefully crafted within the borders of Christian discourse – inspired by ideals of brotherhood, peace, and social justice – without which the entire edifice of the novel would likely collapse. Similarly, for Yūsa, the seventeenth-century artist in Nagayo’s work who is ironically sentenced to death by the Tokugawa authorities not because of his faith but because of his art, Christianity provides a unique narrative setting, dense with secrecy and exoticism, within which to explore, in absolute terms, the intersections between art, religion, and aesthetic representation at a time when the relationship between these realms were a topic of concern for many members of

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  33 the literary world. Both works noticeably capitalized on Christianity’s system of meaning, drawing deeply from its vast repertoire of symbolic imagery. Despite the complexity of these intricate connections and their ramifications, it is first and foremost the dilemma of faith that lays at the center of these writers’ concerns. The painful realization of one’s inability to fully believe the teachings of the faith is what paradoxically drove their quest, rendering their religious experience in many respects elusive, itself a trope for modern Japan’s conflictive relationship with Christianity.

Notes 1 On the Christian experience of the pre-modern period, see, for example, Stephen R. Turnbull, The Kakure Kirishitan of Japan: A Study of their Development, Beliefs and Rituals to the Present Day (Richmond, Surrey: Japan Library, 1998); Ikuko Higashibaba, Christianity in Early Modern Japan: Kirishitan Belief and Practice (Leiden: Brill, 2001); Kiri Paramore, Ideology and Christianity in Japan (New York and London: Routledge, 2009); and Jan C. Leucthenbeger, Conquering Demons: The “Kirishitan,” Japan, and the World in Early Modern Japanese Literature (Ann Arbor: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan, 2013). 2 Kitahara Hakushū, one of the major poets of the time, made extensive use of Christian imagery in his works. His interest in the early Christians was stirred by a trip to Kyushu in 1907. On July 28 of that year, in fact, he and several other fellow poets – including Kinoshita Mokutarō (1885–1945), who also incorporated Christian themes in his writings during his brief literary career – traveled to the Amakusa islands, an area that had close historical ties to Christianity. After he returned to Tokyo, Hakushū first published “Amakusatō” (Amakusa Islands), a series of poems that drew inspiration from that visit, and later went on to compose verses that relied heavily on Christian symbolism. Jashūmon (Heretical Faith), a collection that appeared in 1909, became the foremost expression of his fascination with the exoticism of the Christian religion. For a comprehensive study of his work, see Margaret Benton Fukusawa, Kitahara Hakushū: His Life and Poetry (Ithaca, NY: East Asia Program, Cornell University, 1993). 3 Sako Jun’ichirō, who has written extensively on the subject, is among the scholars who have been most skeptical about the true place of faith in the lives of these authors. See, for example, his “Meiji bungaku to kirisutokyō,” Bungaku 30:6 (1962), 10–15, and Kindai nihon bungaku no rinriteki tankyū (Shinbisha, 1966). 4 On this point, see William F. Sibley, “Review Article: Tatsuo Arima, The Failure of Freedom: A Portrait of Modern Japanese Intellectuals,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 28 (1968), 260; and Mark B. Williams, Endō Shūsaku: A Literature of Reconciliation (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), 7. 5 See Shimazaki Tōson, “Meiji Gakuin no gakusō” (1909), in vol. 6 of Tōson zenshū (Chikuma shobō, 1981), 56–8; and Kunikida Doppo, “Ware wa ika ni shite shōsetsuka ni narishi ka” (1907), in vol. 1 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū (Gakushū kenkyūsha, 1965), 495–9. 6 See Mushanokōji Saneatsu’s novel Aru otoko (A Certain Man, 1923), in vol. 5 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū (Shōgakkan, 1988), 164; and Matsumoto Tsuruo, “Kaisetsu,” in Iwano Hōmei and Yamamura Bochō, Kindai nihon kirisutokyō bungaku zenshū, vol. 4 (Kyōbunkan, 1976), 351. 7 Quoted and translated in Nagashima Yōichi, Objective Description of the Self: The Literary Theory of Iwano Hōmei (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1997), 25. 8 See, for example, Masamune Hakuchō, “Shūkyō to bungaku” (Religion and Literature, 1952), in vol. 25 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū (Fukutake shoten, 1986), 359.

34 Introduction 9 For a discussion of their exchange, see Francis Mathy, “Kitamura Tōkoku: Essays on the Inner Life,” Monumenta Nipponica 19:1 (1964), 99. 10 Quoted in Nagayo Yoshirō, Waga kokoro no henreki (Chikuma shobō, 1963), 111. 11 Ibid. 12 On the circumstances leading to his baptism, see John F. Howes, Japan’s Modern Prophet: Uchimura Kanzō, 1861–1930 (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2005), 28–37. 13 See, for examples, his 1895 essays “Naniyue ni daibungaku wa dezaru ka” (Why Aren’t There Any Literary Masterpieces?) and “Ika ni shite daibungaku o en ka” (How Can Literary Masterpieces Come to Life?); both reprinted in Uchimura Kanzō et al., Kindai nihon kirisutokyō bungaku zenshū, vol. 10 (Kyōbunkan, 1978). 14 Quoted in Kuyama Yasushi, Kindai nihon no bungaku to shūkyō (Sōbunsha, 1966), 366. 15 Among his most important works, see, for example, Kirisuto shinto no nagusame (Consolations of a Christian), Kyūanroku (Search after Peace) and Yo wa ika ni shite kirisutokyō shinja ni narishi ya (How I Became a Christian), which were all published in 1893. 16 See his piece “Uchimura Kanzō: ika ni iku beki ka” (Uchimura Kanzō: How To Live One’s Life, 1949), in vol. 25 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 214. 17 Quoted in Masamune Hakuchō, “Waga shōgai to bungaku” (My Life and Literature, 1946), in vol. 28 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 173. 18 Quoted in John F. Howes, Japan’s Modern Prophet, 346. 19 See his essay “Haikyōsha to shite no Arishima Takeo shi” (The Apostate Arishima Takeo, 1923), in vol. 27 of Uchimura Kanzō zenshū (Iwanami shoten, 1983), 526–31. 20 Quoted in Takizawa Taketo, “Kindai nihon bungaku to kirisutokyō,” Momoyama Gakuin Daigaku kirisutokyō ronshū 17 (1981), 79. 21 Karatani Kōjin, Origins of Modern Japanese Literature, English translation by Brett de Bary (Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 1993), 79. 22 On this point, see also Irmela Hijiya-Kirschnereit, Rituals of Self-Revelation: Shishōsetsu as Literary Genre and Socio-Cultural Phenomenon (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996), 111. 23 Quoted and translated in Leith Morton, Divided Self: A Biography of Arishima Takeo (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1988), 88. 24 See Ōtsu Junkichi, in vol. 2 of Shiga Naoya zenshū (Iwanami shoten, 1973), 244, and Mushanokōji Saneatsu, “Kare no seinen no jidai” (His Younger Years, 1923), in vol. 1 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 226. 25 Shimamura Hōgetsu, “Geijutsu to jisseikatsu no kai ni yokotawaru issen” (The Dividing Line Between Art and Life, 1908), in vol. 2 of Hōgetsu zenshū (Nihon tosho sentaa, 1994), 145–62. 26 Iwano Hōmei, Shinshizenshugi (Neo-Naturalism, 1908), reprinted in vol. 4 of Kindai bungei hyōron sōshu (Nihon tosho sentaa, 1990). 27 See his piece “ ‘Jiko no tame’ oyobi sono ta ni tsuite” (On ‘For the Self’ and Other Writings, 1912), in vol. 1 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 427–30. 28 See “Ai ni tsuite” (On Love, 1921), in vol. 1 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 149–62. 29 See his essay “Jiko o ikashita mono” (The Fulfilment of the Self, 1922), ibid., 216–17. 30 Shiga Naoya, A Dark Night’s Passing, English translation by Edwin McClellan (Tokyo: Kōdansha International, 1976), 197. Arishima Takeo also repeatedly rejected any type of dualism that prevented the self from experiencing life to the fullest. For Arishima, there was “no difference between the flesh and the spirit. The I is the only thing that exists.” See “Ribingusuton den jo” (Preface to A Biography of Livingstone, 1919), in vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū (Chikuma shobō, 1975), 380. 31 See his essay “Kakujin shinkyūnai no hikyū” (The Heart, a Holy of Holies, 1892); quoted and translated in Janet Walker, The Japanese Novel of the Meiji Period and the Ideal of Individualism (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1979), 72.

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  35 32 English translation in Francis Mathy, “Kitamura Tōkoku: Essays on the Inner Life,” 102. 33 Ibid., 103. 34 See Kunikida Doppo, Azamukazaru no ki (1908), in vol. 7 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 129. 35 Takayama Chogyū, “Biteki seikatsu o ronzu” (Discussing the Aesthetic Life, 1901). On this point, see Suzuki Sadami,“Seimei” de yomu nihon kindai: taishō seimeishugi no tanjō to tenkai (Nippon hōsō shuppan kyōkai, 1996), 64. 36 See Suzuki Sadami, “Seimei” de yomu nihon kindai: taishō seimeishugi no tanjō to tenkai, 117–20. 37 On this point, see Suzuki Sadami, Kajii Motojirō no sekai (Sakuhinsha, 2011), 271–7. 38 On this point, see, for example, Onishi Yasumitsu, “Kitamura Tōkoku ‘naibu seimeiron’ kara Arishima Takeo ‘honnōteki seikatsuron’ e,” Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kanshō 72:6 (2007), 45–53. 39 Maya Mortimer, Meeting the Sensei: The Role of the Master in Shirakaba Writers (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 90. 40 William F. Sibley, The Shiga Hero (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979), 28. 41 Ibid. 42 Masamune Hakuchō, Meiji bundan sōhyō (An Outline of the Meiji Literary World, 1931); quoted and translated in Karatani Kōjin, Origins of Modern Japanese Literature, 81. 43 Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki appeared in different installments in the journal Bunshō sekai (The World of Writing) between May 1914 and April 1915 and between November 1917 and June 1918. It finally appeared in book form in 1919. See Shimazaki Tōson, Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, in vol. 5 of Tōson zenshū, 469. 44 Kunikida Doppo, “Waga kako” (My Past, 1896), in vol. 9 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 342–7. 45 Yagi Jūkichi, “Mudai” (Untitled); quoted in Yuasa Hangetsu et al., Kindai nihon kirisutokyō bungaku zenshū, vol. 13 (Kyōbunkan, 1977), 218. 46 Ibid., 174. 47 Quoted in Kuyama Yasushi, Kindai nihon no bungaku to shūkyō (Kokusai nihon kenkyūjo, 1966), 353. 48 On this point, see Tomi Suzuki, Narrating the Self: Fictions of Japanese Modernity (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), 37. 49 Tsunashima Ryōsen, “Yo no kenshin no jikken” (My Encounter with God, 1905); quoted and translated in Teruko Craig, In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun: The Autobiography of a Japanese Feminist (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 82–3. 50 Ibid., 76, 83. 51 See his piece “Shūkyō mondai” (The Problem of Religion, 1906), in vol. 25 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 44–7. 52 See, for example, Sako Jun’ichirō, “Bungaku no rinri to shinkō” (Faith and the Ethics of Literature), in vol. 6 of Gendai kirisutokyō kōza, edited by Kega Shigemi et al. (Shūdōsha, 1956), 224. 53 “Nyoze bungei” (1905), in vol. 1 of Hōgetsu zenshū, 160–5. 54 See “Jo ni kaete: jinseikanjō no shizenshugi o ronzu” (Preface: A Discussion of Naturalism from the Viewpoint of Life, 1909) and “Kaigi to kokuhaku” (Skepticism and Confession, 1909), both in vol. 2 of Hōgetsu zenshū, 167–74 and 183–94. See also Hasegawa Tenkei, “Jiko bunretsu to seikan” (Self-Disintegration and Serene Contemplation, 1910), and Katakami Tengen, “Kokuhaku to hihyō to sōzō to” (Confession, Criticism and Creativity, 1912); both in Shimamura Hōgetsu et al., Meiji bungaku zenshū, vol. 43 (Chikuma shobō, 1967), 207–9 and 279–82. 55 “Shizenshugi seisuishi” (A History of the Rise and Fall of Naturalism, 1948), in vol. 21 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 287–400.

36 Introduction 56 Kunikida Doppo, “Ware wa ika ni shite shōsetsuka ni narishi ka” (1907), in vol. 1 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 496. 57 Quoted in Suzuki Sadami, Kajii Motojirō no sekai, 229. 58 Quoted and translated in Tomi Suzuki, Narrating the Self, 201. 59 A. Hamish Ion, “Essays and Meiji Protestant Christian History,” in Yamaji Aizan, Essays on the Modern Japanese Church: Christianity in Meiji Japan. English translation by Grahan Squires. (Ann Arbor, MI: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan Press, 1999), 33. 60 Karatani Kōjin, Origins of Modern Japanese Literature, 86. 61 Tomi Suzuki, Narrating the Self, 34. 62 English translation in Francis Mathy, “Kitamura Tōkoku: Essays on the Inner Life,” 72. 63 English translation in Francis Mathy, “Kitamura Tōkoku: The Early Years,” Monumenta Nipponica 18:1 (1963), 9. 64 Ibid., 16. 65 Shimazaki Tōson, “Meiji Gakuin no gakusō,” in vol. 6 of Tōson zenshū, 56–8. 66 Kunikida Doppo, “Ware wa ika ni shite shōsetsuka to narishi ka” (1907), in vol. 1 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 495–9; and Kinoshita Naoe, “Kami, ningen, jiyū” (1935), in Kinoshita Naoe et al., Gendai nihon bungaku zenshū, vol. 53 (Chikuma shobō, 1967), 307–21. 67 Iwano Hōmei, “Boku no jūdai no me ni eijita shojinbutsu” (On Various People, as I Saw Them With My Teenage Eyes, 1910); quoted and translated in Yōichi Nagashima, Objective Description of the Self, 23–4. 68 Kinoshita Naoe, Pillar of Fire, English translation by Kenneth Strong (London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1972), 196. On the link between Christianity and socialism, see Dohi Akio, “Kirisutokyō to shakaishugi: Kinoshita Naoe o chūshin to shite,” Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kanshō 32:7 (1967), 43–9. 69 See Mushanokōji Saneatsu, “Jibun no aruita michi” (The Path I Have Walked, 1956), in vol. 15 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 537–94. 70 Rebecca Copeland, Lost Leaves: Women Writers of Meiji Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2000), 183. 71 Ibid., 114. 72 See Kinoshita Naoe, “Fukuzawa Yukichi to Kitamura Tōkoku: shisōjō no ni daion’nin” (Fukuzawa Yukichi and Kitamura Tōkoku: My Two Great Intellectual Mentors), reprinted in Kitamura Tōkoku, edited by Nihon bungaku kenkyū shiryō kankōkai (Yūseidō, 1972), 283–5. 73 Rebecca Copeland, Lost Leaves, 187. 74 On this point, see Leith Morton’s interesting study “The Concept of Romantic Love in the Taiyō Magazine 1895–1905,” Japan Review 8 (1997), 82. 75 Michiko Suzuki, Becoming Modern Women: Love and Female Identity in Prewar Japanese Literature and Culture (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010), 8. 76 English translation by Rebecca Jennison: see Rebecca Copeland and Melek Ortabasi, eds., The Modern Murasaki (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 238. 77 Tomi Suzuki, Narrating the Self, 74. 78 Ibid., 75, 76. 79 Quoted and translated in William Naff, The Kiso Road: The Life and Times of Shimazaki Tōson (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2011), 98. 80 For an English translation of these poems, see, respectively, J. Thomas Rimer and Van C. Gessel, eds., The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature, vol. 1 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), 50, and Yamamoto Kenkichi, The Singing Heart: An Anthology of Japanese Poems, 1900–1960 (Santa Fe: Katydid Books, 2001), 5–6. 81 Iwano Hōmei, “Shinpiteki hanjūshugi” (1906), in vol. 4 of Kindai bungei hyōron sōshu. 82 See “Ai ni tsuite,” in vol. 1 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 149–62. 83 Quoted and translated in Maya Mortimer, Meeting the Sensei, 234.

Christianity and modern Japanese literature  37 84 See Ueda Tetsu, “Takuboku no kirisutokyō juyō to shakaishugi e no ikō,” in vol. 2 of Kirisutokyō to bungaku, edited by Sasabuchi Tomoichi (Kasama shoin, 1975), 21–38. 85 Quoted and translated in Yukihito Hijiya, Ishikawa Takuboku (Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1979), 39. 86 Censored at first, the poem appeared in the second edition of his groundbreaking collection Tsuki ni hoeru of 1922; see vol. 1 of Hagiwara Sakutarō zenshū (Chikuma shobō, 1975), 64–5. For an English translation, see Hagiwara Sakutarō, Howling at the Moon, English translation by Hiroaki Sato (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1978), 48. 87 Janet Walker, The Japanese Novel of the Meiji Period and the Ideal of Individualism, 257. 88 Masamune Hakuchō, “Hatachi no nikki” (Diary of a Twenty-Year Old), in vol. 30 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 177–85. 89 Quoted in Kakuta Toshirō, Kenkyū to kanshō: nihon kindaishi (Wasen shoin, 1989), 194. 90 Both poems appeared in his collection Tsuki ni hoeru; see vol. 1 of Hagiwara Sakutarō zenshū, 26, 27. For an English translation, see Hagiwara Sakutarō, Howling at the Moon, 11, 12. 91 Maya Mortimer, Meeting the Sensei, 136. 92 Quoted and translated in Tomi Suzuki, Narrating the Self, 103. 93 Shiga Naoya, “Uchimura Kanzō sensei no omoide” (1941), in vol. 7 of Shiga Naoya zenshū (Iwanami shoten, 1974), 299. 94 See Natsume Sōseki, Kokoro: A Novel, English translation by Edwin McClellan (Chicago: Regnery Gateway, 1957), 242; and Rebecca Suter, “Grand Demons and Little Devils: Akutagawa’s Kirishitan mono as a Mirror of Modernity,” Journal of Japanese Studies 39:1 (2013), 56. 95 See Uchimura Kanzō, “Bushidō to kirisutokyō” (Buddhism and Christianity, 1916); quoted in John F. Howes, Japan’s Modern Prophet, 236. Leith Morton has characterized Uchimura’s 1893 work Kyūanroku (Search after Peace) as “the most telling statement Uchimura ever made on the subject of sin” and “a description of man frustrated by sin, in all his agony,” and other scholars have similarly stressed the stern nature of Uchimura’s vision of God. See Leith Morton, Divided Self, 40; Tsujihashi Saburō, “Yameru tamashi no hito: Masamune Hakuchō,” Bungaku 47:3 (1979), 131; and Miura Hiroshi, “The Biblical Research Method of Uchimura Kanzō,” in Living for Jesus and Japan: The Social and Theological Thought of Uchimura Kanzō, edited by Shibuya Hiroshi and Chiba Shin (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2013), 125. 96 See Hiratsuka Raichō, Genshi josei wa taiyō de atta; English translation in Teruko Craig, In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun, 77. 97 See Kansōroku and “Ribingusuton den jo,” in respectively vol. 10 and vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 89–91 and 371. 98 Entry of July 29, 1898, in “Hatachi no nikki,” 184. 99 Kunikida Doppo, “Waga kako,” 342. 100 Uchimura Kanzō, How I became a Christian: Out of My Diary (Keiseisha, 1895), 141. 101 Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 336. 102 See, for example, Endō Shūsaku, “Chichi no shūkyō, haha no shūkyō” (Paternal Religion and Maternal Religion, 1967), in vol. 10 of Endō Shūsaku bungaku zenshū (Shinchōsha, 1975), 180. 103 Mark Williams, “From Out of the Depths: The Japanese Literary Response to Christianity,” in Japan and Christianity: Impacts and Responses, edited by John Breen and Mark Williams (Houndmills, UK: Macmillan Press, 1996), 162. 104 William Sibley, The Shiga Hero, 28–9. 105 Carlo Caldarola, Christianity: The Japanese Way (Leiden: Brill, 1979), 33. 106 Quoted in Mark R. Mullins, Christianity Made in Japan: A Study of Indigenous Movement (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1998), 37.

38 Introduction 107 Quoted in Takizawa Katsumi, Sōseki no “Kokoro” to fukuinsho (Yōyōsha, 1956), 4. 108 Mark R. Mullins, Christianity Made in Japan, 34. 109 Quoted in Suzuki Norihisa, Uchimura Kanzō o meguru sakka tachi (Machida: Tamagawa Daigaku shuppanbu, 1980), 46–7. 110 English translation in Teresa Craig, In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun, 77. 111 On this point, see, for example, Tsujihashi Saburō, Kindai nihon bunka to kirisutokyō (Kyōbunkan, 1967), 123–32. 112 Masamune Hakuchō, “Uchimura Kanzō zakkan” (Miscellaneous Thoughts on Uchimura Kanzō, 1949), in vol. 25 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 273. 113 Dazai Osamu, “Human Lost” (1937), in Kindai nihon kirisutokyō bungaku zenshū, vol. 9, edited by Serizawa Kōjirō et al. (Kyōbunkan, 1976), 75. 114 Van C. Gessel, “Voices in the Wilderness: Japanese Christian Authors,” Monumenta Nipponica 37:4 (1982), 456. 115 Tomi Suzuki, Narrating the Self, 37. 116 Matsumoto Tsuruo, “Kaisetsu,” in Iwano Hōmei and Yamamura Bochō, Kindai nihon kirisutokyō bungaku zenshū, vol. 4, 329. 117 Shiga Naoya, A Dark Night’s Passing, 143, 150. 118 Hagiwara Sakutarō, “Mihappyō nōto hen” (Unpublished Writings), in vol. 12 of Hagiwara Sakutarō zenshū (Chikuma shobō, 1976), 93. 119 Sasabuchi Tomoichi, “Meiji zenki no kirisutokyō to bungaku,” Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kyōzai no kenkyū 6:11 (1961), 80–1. 120 Janet Walker, The Japanese Novel of the Meiji Period and the Ideal of Individualism, 89.

Part II

Narratives of conversion

2

Kitamura Tōkoku and the celebration of the “inner life”

Kitamura Tōkoku was among the first rising literary figures of the modern period to convert to Christianity. Although Sakamoto Hiroshi once stated that the young Tōkoku merely adapted the Christian religion to his literary theory, so that the fundamentals of his thought were never truly altered by Christianity, it is hardly possible to conceive a theory of the “inner life” – one of this intellectual’s most important contributions to modern Japanese literature – not mediated by the Christian ideas of God, life, and self-awareness.1 A number of researchers have espoused this latter view over the years, stressing the manifest role of Christianinspired concepts in Tōkoku’s formulation of his theory. Sasabuchi Tomoichi, for example, argued that conversion was for him a response to a fundamental existential quandary as well as a conscious attempt to symbolically gain new life after a past of personal loss and failure, so much so that to put it in Sasabuchi’s own words, “in order to fully understand Tōkoku’s thought, one must first understand his faith and the reasons for his conversion.”2 Before Sasabuchi, Katsumoto Seiichirō, one of the earliest and foremost experts in Kitamura Tōkoku studies, had similarly seen conversion to Christianity as a pivotal moment in Tōkoku’s life. Katsumoto maintained that not only was the question of faith intrinsically connected to his entire existence, but also that his spiritual beliefs came to constitute the very foundation of his literary theory. He also noted that any skepticism over the authenticity of Tōkoku’s faith has likely had to do more with the logistics of his legacy than his religious convictions. According to Katsumoto, when, upon his tragic death, friends Shimazaki Tōson and Hoshino Tenchi (1862–1950) gathered Tōkoku’s writings for the first edition of his collected works, they, perhaps unintentionally, failed to include all the essays related to Christianity that the young critic had published in such journals as Heiwa (Peace) and Seisho no tomo (Friends of the Bible). Because the original copy of Tōkoku’s diary went lost and only some of his personal writings remained, and because virtually all of his closest associates had themselves already grown apart from the faith by then, the importance of religion in Tōkoku’s thought came to be overlooked. Furthermore, the fact that he committed suicide, an act that went against the most basic Christian teachings, caused the majority of Christian publications of the time to simply ignore the details of his death, thus adding to the marginalization of the question of faith in the development of his thought.3

42  Narratives of conversion As his close associate Togawa Shūkotsu’s recollections indicated, however, the place of Christianity in the formation and subsequent evolution of Tōkoku’s philosophy can hardly be questioned: Kitamura Tōkoku was older than I. Most of his ideas were borrowed from Christianity. Of course, it was far from being orthodox Christianity. In addition, his thought was also imbued with poetic ideals, mostly from Byron. Byron was in a way an enemy of Christianity, and for this reason Tōkoku’s own Christianity could not be mainstream. . . . Christianity was part of us, something from which we could not separate. The vast majority of those who gathered around the journal Bungakkai were influenced by it. . . . Kitamura, Shimazaki and I all came to a point when we had to distance ourselves [from the Christian religion], but at the time, thanks to Christianity, we were able to gain a different and valuable viewpoint on many different issues.4 With the passing of time, Tōkoku’s writings began to display an increasingly strong influence from Quakerism, to which he was exposed soon after marriage, providing evidence that his literary theory and religious thought were intrinsically tied and that one can hardly deny the existence of a relationship of causality between the two. Tōkoku’s involvement with the Society of Friends was indeed critical to the development of his ideas and the direction of his faith. As Francis Mathy explained in his seminal work on this young intellectual, although he never formally entered their group, Tōkoku was very familiar with their ideas and found their religious practices, their commitment to social issues, and their belief in the Inner Light extremely congenial. He was also one of the few established literary critics to write copiously about religion outside a strictly literary context. His editorship of the journal Seisho no tomo, to which he contributed several articles during the last year of his life, stands out as clear indication of his personal commitment to Biblical hermeneutics and evangelization. Needless to say, Tōkoku’s embrace of the Christian religion did not take place in a vacuum but rather at a time of significant social and political changes that increasingly placed Christianity at the center of public and intellectual discourse.

The growth of Protestantism in late nineteenth century Japan In 1859 Japan signed treaties with the United States and several European nations that reopened some of its ports to the Western world. Although the treaties allowed for the practice of Christianity, such practice was limited to foreign nationals, and evangelization among Japanese was prohibited. The opening of these ports constituted a significant easing of previous policies and a valuable opportunity for those organizations that, drawing inspiration from the so-called Second Awakening – a revival movement that started in the United States and that was especially concerned with the spread of the Gospel to non-Christian countries – were committed to evangelizing in this part of East Asia. Among the missionaries who arrived in Japan at this time were John Liggins (1829–1912) of the Episcopal Church,

Kitamura Tōkoku and the “inner life”  43 James Curtis Hepburn (1815–1911) of the Presbyterian Church, and Guido Verbeck (1830–98), James Ballagh (1832–1920), and Samuel Brown (1810–80) of the Dutch Reformed Church. The Meiji Restoration of 1868 did not technically change the conditions under which these individuals operated, since Christianity continued to be proscribed, and proselytizing was still considered illegal. However, the restrictions in place did not prevent missionaries from founding schools of Western learning that had a great appeal among the upper strata of Japanese society. These schools attracted students who were deeply interested in Western civilization and who in the process came to be exposed to the teachings of the Christian faith. The prayer meetings held in Yokohama by James Ballagh, Samuel Brown, and James Hepburn are one example of how close relationships developed in a classroom setting could lead to opportunities for evangelization. The meetings gradually began to include Japanese students, and, on March 10, 1872, the first Protestant church was eventually founded. The church was named Nippon kirisuto kōkai (General Church of Christ in Japan), and its members approved the general rule that it not be “partial to any sect, believing only in the name of Christ in whom all are one.”5 The argument that evangelization had to be kept supra-denominational in character in order to avoid internal divisions and barriers was considered by many missionaries an essential premise of a successful dissemination of the Christian faith. Although some scholars have recently pointed out the extremely rich and varied nature of the Christian experience in late nineteenth-century Japan, Yamaji Aizan’s assertion that the vast majority of such students were not only of samurai origins, but also came largely from the losing side in the Restoration, has been widely accepted by the academic community.6 Aizan stated that “most of those who threw themselves into evangelical work were the children of those who suffered adversity.”7 He then continued: Was not Uemura Masahisa the son of a shogunate retainer? He experienced the bitterness of defeat common to all retainers of the shogunate. Honda Yōichi was the child of a Tsugaru man. A person who knows the position of Tsugaru at the time of the Restoration and the hardship there could not doubt that he was a person whose circumstances had been unfavorable. Ibuka Kajinosuke was the son of a person from Aizu. He suffered adversity in which ‘the country was destroyed, leaving only the mountains and rivers.’ Oshikawa Masayoshi was the child of a person from Matsuyama, Iyo. Matsuyama also belonged to the shogunate party and was then in a state of despair.8 The acceptance of Christianity among samurai families was in part motivated by a strong desire to find opportunities for career advancement within the newly established government. For this reason, as one scholar pointed out, “Several decaying domains with national leadership ambitions requested that the missionaries educate the sons of the elite in Western knowledge in order to further their ambitions.”9 The positive reception of the Western religion was also facilitated by the admiration and respect these students had for their teachers and the

44  Narratives of conversion egalitarianism they advocated. Evangelist Kanamori Tsūrin (1857–1945), who converted in 1875, wrote of his teacher Leroy Lansing Janes (1838–1909) that “even if he was a foreigner, he was like a teacher and parent who loved us. Without a word our hearts responded to his, we loved him, and he taught us with an increasing affection.” In the same way, Uemura Masahisa stated that Guido Verbeck’s life “was spent for the development of Japan,” and others said of Ballagh that he treated them with respect, as bushi, i.e. warriors10 As already mentioned in Chapter 1, in 1873 the government removed the ban against Christianity, ushering the country into a new era of Christian evangelization. The new policy of tolerance was an attempt to appease Western powers following reports from the 1871 Iwakura mission to Europe and the United States that religious freedom was deemed by those nations a prerequisite for mutual engagement. An increasing number of prominent intellectual figures began to make a case for the importance of Christianity. Converted Confucian scholar Nakamura Masanao (1832–91) went as far as suggesting that the Imperial Court consider adopting the new religion: So long as Your Majesty does not repeal the prohibitory laws against Christianity, however assiduously the nation may endeavor to acquire the arts and civil reforms of Europe, it can never attain to the true European civilization; and Japan may be likened to a manikin with face and eyes, and hands and feet, but without a soul. . . . If Your Majesty should at last desire to establish Christianity in Japan, he should first of all be baptized himself, and become the chief of the church, and be called the leader of millions.11 Following these developments, the 1870s were a time of considerable growth, culminating in the formation of the so-called Yokohama, Kumamoto, and Sapporo bands, three religious organizations that would play a critical role in the spreading of Christian thought in the country. The Yokohama band grew out of the previously mentioned evangelical efforts of James Ballagh, Samuel Brown, and James Hepburn; built on Presbyterian principles, the band included members like Uemura Masahisa and Honda Yōichi (1848–1912), who would become two of the most charismatic religious leaders of their time. The Kumamoto band was in turn an offspring of the Kumamoto Yōgakkō (Kumamoto School of Western Science). Led by Captain Leroy Lansing Janes, who had been hired by the domain to teach English, the members of this group, which included future prominent evangelists like Kozaki Hiromichi (1856–1938), Ebina Danjō (1856–1937), and Kanamori Tsūrin, are said to have gathered together on Mount Hanaoka in 1876 to pledge their faith and commitment to a spiritual revolution. Soon after, facing local opposition, the group moved to Kyoto where some of its members attended the Dōshisha School newly founded by missionary and educator Niijima Jō (1843– 90). Another pledge was signed the following year in Sapporo, where William Clark, then President of Massachusetts Agricultural College, had been invited to establish a similar school. During his short tenure, Clark converted approximately fifteen of his students who signed the “Covenant of Believers in Jesus,” declaring

Kitamura Tōkoku and the “inner life”  45 their desire to follow the word of God and live in strict compliance with Christ’s teachings. Among those who signed this document were future educators Nitobe Inazō (1862–1933) and Uchimura Kanzō.12 Although each band displayed its own religious traits and organizational character, all of them shared teachings that emphasized such qualities as temperance, loyalty, self-restraint, and puritanical strictness. Many of these qualities were already part of the samurai moral code, which is why, scholars agree, Christianity was largely seen as an extension of the Confucian principles that regulated a samurai upbringing. In fact, “From an ethical point of view the collapse of the feudal relationship also meant the collapse of the system of morality based upon it . . . those who encountered Christianity were struck at once by the concept of a personal God, ruling over the individual and his actions – a concept that could again pride their personalities with a familiar integrative principle.”13 Kozaki Hiromichi’s statement that he and his friends accepted Christianity because it was the manifestation of the real spirit and significance of Confucianism is indicative of the existence of an important perceived link between samurai ethics and the Western religion.14 Similarly, Uemura Masahisa’s argument that “the way of the samurai is a type of religion. The life of society is sustained by this religion . . . society should return to the old way of the samurai, or rather, a baptized old way of the samurai” is also evidence that the two realms were thought to be complementary.15 The existence of this symbiotic connection is further confirmed by the recollections of Ebina Danjō, whose process of conversion was marked by the realization that “because the young lord was dead, there was no one to whom I could offer my life.”16 Ebina noted that the missionaries who had come to Japan at that time did not only exhibit firmly puritanical traits, they also showed a bushi-like strength of character that made them revered by their students.17 Ebina also added valuable insights into why Christianity was easily accepted by the warrior class: it was because of its similarities to yōmeigaku, the Neo-Confucianist school of thought based on the teachings of sixteenth-century Chinese philosopher Wang YangMing, that, placing emphasis on individual conscience rather than reason and knowledge, stressed the importance of action, or “deeds,” as evidence of one’s moral conduct. This strain of Neo-Confucianism, which found a key interpreter in the thought of Nakae Tōju (1608–48), also combined an anthropomorphic element with the school’s general concept of “Heaven” (jōtei) that eventually rendered the acceptance of a personal God theoretically easier to its followers. Thus, Ebina wrote: “When I learned Christianity I thought that the jōtei taught in Confucianism and the God taught in Christianity were the same thing.”18 Religious leader Matsumura Kaiseki (1859–1939) also stated: “Isn’t the so-called God of Christianity called tentei or jōtei? Therefore I must have believed in the existence of God since childhood.”19 The second decade of the Meiji period witnessed a remarkable growth of Protestantism, albeit not without setbacks and significant obstacles: “By 1883, there were 91 local congregations in Japan, each bearing the denominational stamp in creed and polity of their western prototypes.”20 Clearly, the original plan to keep

46  Narratives of conversion the movement supra-denominational in character had not succeeded. Furthermore, prominent scholars and intellectuals like Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901), Katō Hiroyuki (1836–1916), and Toyama Masakazu (1848–1900) had not hesitated to attack the Christian faith, labeling it as a threat to national security and as something completely detached from the national identity of the Japanese people. A second wave of Westernization that swept the country in the mid-1880s, however, changed these dynamics. The government began to reach out to Western missions, and the three individuals mentioned above all became supportive of the Christian cause. Fukuzawa Yukichi wrote: The civilized nations of Europe and America have always held that nonChristian countries could not be treated as enlightened nations. Such being the case, if we desire to maintain our intercourse with Western nations on the basis of international law, it is first of all absolutely necessary that we remove completely the stigma from our land of being an anti-Christian country, and obtain the recognition of fellowship by the adoption of their social color.21 Likewise, in a rare display of support, Katō Hiroyuki began to have his family members attend service, whereas Toyama Masakazu now maintained that the adoption of Christianity and church life would improve music, the conditions of women, and social interactions in general.22 Another significant development at this time was the so-called ribaibaru (revival), a renewed atmosphere of elation and religious fervor that led to an exponential increase in the number of believers and congregations. Although, as discussed earlier, the acceptance of Christianity during the first decade of the Meiji era had been largely driven by the desire to acquire a new ethical system rather than by a sincere interest in its theology, the fervor that accompanied this new surge of excitement signaled for some scholars a new awareness regarding the principles and the dogmas of the faith.23 By 1888 there were about 250 churches and approximately 25,000 church members; there were 40 Christian boarding schools for girls and 15 for boys, totaling some 6,000 students, and there were close to 500 missionaries spread throughout the country.24 The social and political relevance of Christianity became increasingly apparent. The Western religion, in fact, shared much of its base with the Freedom and Popular Rights movement. Yamaji Aizan was among the first to point out the depth of this relationship between the two: Christians became involved in these intellectual debates and had various experiences. At the time they were treated in a way similar to Popular Rights activists .  .  . Christianity was close to the Western intellectual world, and reason and democracy were the products of that world. This is the first reason they were close. . . . Among the influential people in the church, people like Niijima Jō had breathed the air of freedom and in his heart he believed in democracy. Most of the foreign missionaries, too, had been raised in the midst of political freedom. This is the second reason why they were close. . . .

Kitamura Tōkoku and the “inner life”  47 The majority of the people who advocated reason and democracy tended to come from the dissatisfied element in society. There was a natural tendency for people from this kind of environment to feel sympathy for one another. This was the third reason they were close.25 Itagaki Taisuke (1837–1919), founder of the Jiyūtō (Liberal Party) and one of the leaders of the movement likely saw the strategic merits of an alliance with the Christian constituency, and, although he himself never became a Christian, he was very vocal in his support for the religion. Political activists like Ozaki Yukio (1858–1954), Baba Tatsui (1850–88), and Yano Fumio (1851–1931) were all sympathetic towards Christianity, and some prominent political figures like Shimada Saburō (1852–1923), Nakajima Nobuyuki (1846–1899), and Kataoka Kenkichi (1844–1903) were all baptized Christians.26 In 1887, writing in Kokumin no tomo (The Nation’s Friend), Tokutomi Sohō (1863–1957), himself a converted Christian from the Kumamoto band and therefore very sympathetic to Christianity during this early phase of his life, acknowledged the increased political relevance of Christian converts in the social and political life of the nation, and in the following year Niijima Jō and several others presented a petition to the government requesting a formal public acknowledgment of the religion. The proliferation of journals and magazines like Rikugō zasshi (The Cosmos Magazine), Jogaku zasshi, and Kokumin no tomo itself that further advocated the Christian worldview among intellectuals added significantly to the already astonishing results accomplished on the ground. With the newly drafted Meiji Constitution now stipulating the right to freedom of religion – albeit with the significant provision that it not lead to “disorderly conduct” – the momentum seemed to be clearly on the side of Christian advocates, and it was predicted by some that by the opening of the National Diet in 1890, more than half of the representatives might be Christian.27 The mid-to-late 1880s were therefore a time of consequential events for the spread of Christianity in Japan, as well as the beginning of a more introspective phase in which adherence to the faith was no longer motivated solely by the search for an ethical system that would fill the void left by the collapse of traditional morality. In his 1884 work Shinri ippan (Common Truth), Uemura Masahisa debunked the prevalent utilitarian and positivist ideology that had been at the core of the nation’s rush toward modernization. He maintained the existence of a spiritual side in man that could not be stopped, and that prompted him to inquire about such things as the self and its purpose.28 Two years later, in his work Seikyō shinron (A New Theory of Politics and Religion), Kozaki Hiromichi criticized Confucianism, because it implied an allegiance to the State or to one’s lord that deprived an individual of his basic rights, most notably freedom. Christianity, he stated, placed on the contrary the utmost emphasis on the value of the individual, and that should be the driving principle for the creation of a new society.29 Meanwhile, the translation of the Bible represented another cornerstone for the growth of Protestantism in Meiji Japan. A Japanese rendering of the Holy Scriptures had been a priority of the missionary community since the first years of its work. As a result of both individual and common efforts, by 1873 Hepburn,

48  Narratives of conversion Brown, and Jonathan Goble (1827–1926) had completed Japanese translations of the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and John, while a translation of the entire New Testament appeared in 1880.30 Seven years later, after a long project that had begun in 1876 with the help of several members from the Protestant community, both Japanese and non-Japanese, Hepburn and his colleagues finally succeeded in the challenging task of completing a translation of the Old Testament, which critic and poet Ueda Bin (1874–1913) would later call one of the greatest accomplishments of Meiji literature.

Tōkoku’s conversion Tōkoku converted to Christianity amid these critically important developments. His process of conversion reflected a typical script during the Meiji years; born in 1868, at the dawn of the Restoration, the son of a former samurai, his story is about the intricate connection of an early passion for historical novels and their heroes, a gradual infatuation with politics accompanied by an ambitious desire to uphold the ideals of freedom and self-determination, the subsequent disillusionment with the hypocrisy and selfishness that pervaded the world of political affairs, and finally the first experience of love, which, following a pattern common to several Meiji writers, became the catalyst for either conversion or the gradual separation from the faith. The encounter with love also sanctioned his renewed determination to devote his life to literature. In a letter to his future wife Ishizaka Mina, dated August 18, 1887, Tōkoku depicted his own childhood as a deeply melancholic period; left behind by his family to live with his grandparents for five years, he had grown particularly weary of the world around him, until the time when in 1881, now reunited with his parents in Tokyo, he entered Taimei Elementary School, where he found unexpected personal inspiration from teachers and friends, as well as the political climate surrounding him: That was the year in which political thought was at high tide throughout the country. I also jumped aboard the bandwagon and decided to enter politics. I resolved to sacrifice my life to freedom. All my ambition became centered now upon this great ideal, which began to command my heart with fearful energy.31 Graduation in December of that year, however, meant separation from those favorite friends and teachers, a separation that brought him to the brink of a depression that lasted for months. In 1883, he entered Tōkyō senmon gakkō (later Waseda University) and worked temporarily as a secretary for the Kanagawa Prefecture Assembly and as a bellboy at the Grand Hotel in Yokohama. It was probably during this time that he became close friends with Ōya Masao, who was the leader of a local youth organization. Tōkoku likely found in this friendship a renewed motivation to pursue a career in politics: The following year, Meiji 17, I overcame for a time my faintheartedness and burned once again with the fire of ambition. This ambition, however, was

Kitamura Tōkoku and the “inner life”  49 completely different from that of the previous period. The wish for fame and wealth had completely disappeared, and I desired instead to become a great statesman and recoup the failing fortunes of the Orient. I conceived the ardent desire of sacrificing myself entirely for the benefit of the people.32 In 1885, Tōkoku once again entered Tōkyō Senmon Gakkō from which he had been earlier dismissed and made the conscious decision to become a novelist. It was, however, another challenging year for him; his friend Ōya had urged him to take part in a series of thefts in order to finance a plot to liberate Korea from China. Tōkoku refused, and this cost him the friendship and further emotional distress (Ōya and his associates went through with their plan and were eventually arrested in November of that year). In the early summer of 1887, Tōkoku met his future wife Mina. He had actually already met her two years earlier during a visit to her father, Ishizaka Masataka, who was a political activist and a supporter of local youth organizations, but he had not had the chance to talk to her then. This time the two had the opportunity to interact and fell in love immediately. Mina was a devout Christian and a member of the Yokohama Kaigan Church, which was, in turn, part of the Presbyterian Nihon itchi kyōkai (United Church of Christ). Tōkoku was so struck by her purity of heart, her great discernment and lofty ideals, and her commitment to the greater good of society that he soon became convinced of his unworthiness of her love. In a note he wrote during that summer, he described the agony of his decision to part from her, as he pondered how to end their platonic relationship: she was, after all, “a beautiful fruit of the vine that grows in God’s vineyard,” whereas he was just a “foot soldier in defeat.” It is in this very piece that he also for the first time acknowledged a transformation that had very recently taken place within him: “Until August 21, 1887, I was a non-believer.”33 Recognizing the importance of this spiritual revolution and recalling a past of immorality during which he had scorned society and ridiculed love and women, Tōkoku now resolved to change his behavior and the course of his life. Although Tōkoku had possibly been already exposed to Christianity in earlier years, either through friends or teachers who had converted to the faith, there seems to be no doubt that Mina was ultimately the one mainly responsible for his sudden decision to pursue a life of religious devotion.34 In a missive he wrote to his father during the same month of August, he confirmed his resolve to follow a new spiritual path, and regretting the arrogant and disobedient attitude of the past, he claimed his lack of faith in God to be the main reason why he had never fully understood the true value of life. He now believed that not knowing God and love could cause an individual to fall prey to hideous habits like arrogance, lust, disrespect, and gluttony. Fortunately, he thought, Mina had now showed him the truth: As if overcome by the power of a flood, I now thank God. I have now come to realize that I depend on God. . . . I want to become a soldier of God, show him my loyalty. . . . I want to give myself to God, I want to obey and respect

50  Narratives of conversion God . . . from now on I will leave the world of passion and greed and wait for the time I can play in the garden of God.35 In a subsequent letter to Mina written on January 21, 1888, while in Tokyo, Tōkoku reiterated this new worldview and growing sense of urgency, stating that, unless the followers of Christ put some limits to its decay, the whole nation of Japan would soon be overcome by greed and selfishness.36 He clearly saw a relationship of necessity between the ideals of Christianity and the improvement of society. He was determined to fight against social injustice but realized that this could not be accomplished without the help of God. His resolve was “not to fight with the sword but with truth.” He explained: My desire is to fulfill the will of God. . . . to spread His holiness across Japan. The angel came, she encouraged me and gave me new life. The angel came and taught me the word of God without a single word. My resolve is to live my life according to the will of God, to purify my heart and accept his commands. I now really believe that I am a child of God, and know that albeit now in the dark, Japanese society will receive the light.37 Tōkoku was finally baptized by pastor Tamura Naoomi on March 3, 1888, at the Sukiyabashi Church, a member of the predominantly Calvinist Nihon itchi kyōkai, which was known for its rigor and strict adherence to the tenets of the faith.38 Exactly eight months later, on November 3, 1888, Tōkoku and Mina were married. After his marriage, Tōkoku made a living as an interpreter and translator within the larger religious community. He worked, for example, for C. S. Eby, a missionary of the Canadian Methodist Church, and came to be closely connected with Quakerism in 1889 when he was hired to assist George Braithwaite and Joseph Cosand, the latter being the first missionary of the Society of Friends to Japan. Tōkoku grew very close to the Quakers; he taught English at their school and became very involved with their youth groups. This diversion from mainstream Protestantism should not come as a surprise; at the time of his conversion the Japanese Church witnessed a significant influx of the so-called new theology, among them the Unitarians and the Universalists, which went as far as to deny the doctrines of the Trinity and atonement. The Christian world in Japan was shaken by these developments, to which Tōkoku was likely exposed. Marrying Mina had, however, brought a new resolve to Tōkoku’s life. On April 1, 1889, the young critic began a new diary stating that after three dark years, he now felt the energy and the courage to resume his work. The publication of his poem Soshū no shi (The Prisoner’s Tale) during that month marked his debut in the literary world. Comprised of sixteen stanzas, it told the anguish and agony suffered by a man who is imprisoned for political reasons with his bride and a few others, following a plot that was very similar to Byron’s The Prisoner of Chillon. The happy ending – the two lovers are freed and reunited at the end of the story – was a major difference from Byron’s work, in which, by contrast, the main character dies.39

Kitamura Tōkoku and the “inner life”  51 He then published Hōraikyoku (A Tale of Mount Hōrai), a work that resembled the content of Byron’s Manfred. Appearing in 1890, the poem tells the story of a man by the name of Yanagida Motoo who has been leading the life of a Buddhist monk in search of truth. The man sets off on a journey to climb Mt. Hōrai, during which he encounters various spirits, including the devil, whose temptations he rejects before deciding to end his life by jumping off a cliff. In a brief sequel the protagonist is later joined by the nymph he had met on his mountain climb who accompanies him to the Buddhist paradise. After these two poems, in February 1892, Tōkoku published his famous piece “Ensei shika to josei” (Disillusioned Poets and Women), whose statements about love would reverberate across the literary world for decades, but it is his essays on the inner life that became most consequential for the establishment of an important link between religion and literature. Already in November 1891 Tōkoku had published a piece titled “Ninomiya Sontoku Ō” (Ninomiya Sontoku) in which, celebrating the life and achievements of the eponymous eighteenth-century agricultural reformer and economist, he had already signaled his transition to a Quaker worldview, both through statements of admiration for George Fox – the founder of the Quaker movement – and through references to Thomas Carlyle’s work, Sartor Resartus, in which the figure of George Fox appears prominently. In describing Sontoku’s character, he had attributed his life achievements to his “God-given inner life,” employing a concept that was reminiscent of the belief of the Quakers in the existence of an Inner Light within each individual. Now at the helm of the Quaker journal Heiwa, in May 1892 he published an article in that venue that finally clarified the relationship between his literary theory and his evolving religious beliefs.

The concepts of kokoro and naibu seimei In this new Heiwa piece, titled “Saigo no shōrisha wa dare zo” (Who Will Be the Ultimate Winner?), Tōkoku described the history of humanity as one of wars and social injustice, where the strong killed the weak, the knowledgeable killed the ignorant, and the privileged killed the under-privileged. Many, he stated, interpreted this state of affairs as the result of a process of natural selection. He, however, rejected the idea that the administration of the world should be decided by the survival of the fittest. There was another overriding principle, he believed, which led to life (seimei) and in which all hopes had to be placed. Tōkoku called this principle “consistency,” a state beyond injustice and sorrow to which Mohammed, Buddha, and other great philosophers of East and West had already referred in the past. He then called this consistency Christ. Tōkoku also explained that the way of Christ had nothing to do with the economic and political policies that were currently regulating society, because such policies were merely temporary measures. Christ was eternal and transcended the value system of humankind in the administration of the world. He was the one, he stated, who would reconcile the warring factions, bring peace, and ultimately

52  Narratives of conversion triumph. The importance of Christ in the shaping of Tōkoku’s worldview was thus unequivocal, and the statements that followed in this essay could likely be read as personal confession of faith: We heard that Christ is love. We heard that Christ even now has life. We heard that Christ is with all humanity. If it is true that Christ is with all humanity and that he possesses infinite love and life, shouldn’t all the things in this world be administered with such love?40 It is, however, in “Kakujin shinkyūnai no hikyū” (The Heart, a Holy of Holies), which appeared in the same journal four months later, that Tōkoku now described in detail the concepts of inner and outer kokoro that would become the centerpiece of his religious interpretation and literary theory. He explained that the inner kokoro was the realm of spiritual freedom where the individual entered life and transcending all dualities, was able to join the Spirit of the universe. It was a place of harmony, beauty, and truth, and its attainment was “a mystical process whereby material man is transformed into spiritual man.”41 In this essay, he also provided further insights on his current interpretation of Christianity and how this was affecting the course of his spiritual journey. He identified Protestantism, and Puritanism in particular, as an innovative, modern current of thought that, stemming from the ruins of a ritualistic and dogmatic Roman Catholic Church, had liberated the individual from the despotism of the past, thus laying the foundation for the construction of a system of faith that was based on that very modern idea of individual freedom. Christianity was necessary to attain the inner kokoro, he stated; when John the Baptist paved the way for Christ by urging men to repent, he essentially sought to redirect their kokoro away from the domain of evil, toward the achievement of that emptiness without which truth could not be achieved. Christianity, he added, emphasized the importance of kokoro in a way that neither the teachings of the Yōmeiha school or Zen ever did. His deliberations thus clearly sanctioned an alliance of necessity between Christianity, his ensuing theory of the inner life, and the notion of a “new” faith that was built in accordance with the spirit of freedom. In a number of essays that appeared over the following months, Tōkoku continued to employ Christianity as a frame of reference for his deliberations, borrowing from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s philosophical thought and the Quaker belief in the existence of an Inner Light within each individual, but also betraying at times a strong influence from the very Buddhism he often criticized. It is not a coincidence that in one of his pieces Tokutomi Sohō had once labeled him a “baptized Zen monk.” Thus, in “Shinki myōhen o ronzu” (On Mystical Metamorphosis) of September 1892, Tōkoku spoke of the mystical transformation that took place when an individual was able to conquer the conflict that arose from his competing identities – one human, the other divine – and, as a result of this process, entered the inner kokoro and united with the Spirit of the universe; in another article,

Kitamura Tōkoku and the “inner life”  53 “Takai ni taisuru kannen” (The Idea of Another World) that appeared the following month, he attempted to attribute the misfortunes of Japanese literature to the lack of a Christian-like concept of the afterlife in Japanese religious and philosophical tradition. Finally, in May 1893, he published “Naibu seimeiron,” which, appearing in the newly founded journal Bungakkai, reaffirmed the critical impact of Protestantism on the intellectual developments that took place at the threshold of the modern era. Tōkoku explained: I believe that there is life in man. Instead of saying that today’s thinkers are engaged in a struggle between Buddhist thought and Christian, it would be truer to say that they are engaged in a struggle between a thought which fosters life and one which does not. . . . The conflict between a philosophy of life and one of nonlife. . . . The great difference between the cultures of East and West is that in one there is a religion which preaches life and in the other there is not.42 For the young critic, the greatest accomplishment of those who had spread the Christian religion in Japan was that they had planted the tree of life in people’s hearts. This tree of life was a direct link to God. It was through “inspiration” that this connection between human beings and God became possible, and it was the poet who, in Tōkoku’s view, by means of a transcendental experience that detached him from the sensual world, was charged with giving a form, through his art, to his observations of the Spirit of the universe. By positioning the poet at the center of this process, literature and art became inextricably connected to the concept of inner life. A few months before “Naibu seimeiron” appeared, Tōkoku had become the editor of the journal Seisho no tomo. The appointment had earned him yet a new platform; the journal was, according to Katsumoto Seiichirō, essentially supradenominational in character, with a readership that comprised the larger community of Christian believers. Tōkoku contributed several pieces to this journal, and although scholars like Sasabuchi Tomoichi and Satō Yasumasa have rightfully pointed out that his religious beliefs were removed from an eschatology of the Cross and that in none of his writings can one find any significant reference to the crucifixion, many of these essays centered on the figure of Christ and his message of love.43 In “Atarashiki imashime” (A New Precept) of May 1893, for example, Tōkoku reflected upon the words uttered by Jesus following the prediction that he would soon be betrayed – “I give you a new commandment: love one another. As I have loved you, so you should also love one another.”44 He explained that although the concept of love for your neighbor could already be found in the Old Testament, in the New Testament this had been transformed to include the love for one’s enemy. It was a new concept of love that did not apply only to one people, the Jews, but to all humankind. Through Jesus, he noted, one could experience the glory of God’s love in one’s heart.45 Similarly, in a following article titled “Kirisuto wa warera no seimei nari” (Christ Is Our Life) of June 1893, he stated that Christ was the true life of each Christian, and that every Christian that had the true life in

54  Narratives of conversion him should welcome the living Christ in his heart. “In the same way that there is blood in our body,” he continued, “there ought to be the blood of life that is Christ in our spirit.” Christians should be loyal to Christ, they should free their heart from evil, and they should listen to his voice.46 Elsewhere, he reiterated that the love of Christ had brought life and that God had sent his only son to free humankind from sin, that God had a plan for each Christian, and that, in pursuing that plan, one should follow Christ as an example. Employing a metaphor he had already used for himself in the past, he affirmed that Christians were like soldiers of God and that faith was the weapon they should use to fight the injustice of the world.47 Tōkoku also wrote another critically important piece at this time titled “Shinchiren” (The Lotus Pond of My Heart).48 In this essay he spoke about repentance and its connection to sin. John the Baptist had called for repentance, he stated, but too many believers took his admonishment lightly. Some believed that by leaving Buddhism and converting to Christianity one could automatically repent. Repentance was not, however, a temporary emotional state; it was more about comprehending one’s evil. The understanding of one’s flaws was a necessary aspect in the fight against sin, which was to be followed by appropriate action or deeds. Sin, he maintained, could not be fought by awareness alone. There had been the hope to conquer it, and that hope resided in one’s trust in God. Although it was true, he maintained, that by repenting, one’s sin would be forgiven, there still existed within one’s heart a relationship of continuity between the sins one had already committed and those one was about to commit. It was only by not sinning again that one’s previous sins could be totally forgiven. “The flower of lotus that bloomed in the pond of one’s heart,” he concluded, was the outcome of this type of repentance and purification. As he put it in yet another piece that had appeared only one month earlier, “repentance was a type of faith,” and as Thomas Carlyle had once said, “the deadliest sin was the consciousness of no sin.”49 Tōkoku also did not miss the opportunity to express his views on the impact of Christian writers on the literary stage of the time. In “Konnichi no kirisutokyō bungaku” (Christian Literature of This Age) of April 1893 he praised Tokutomi Sohō for his Christian ideas, commended Uemura Masahisa for his leadership and achievements both as a man of faith and as a poet, and acknowledged the impact of Uchimura Kanzō and his recent writings. He had words of praise for poet and friend Miyazaki Koshoshi (1864–1922) but also for critic Yamaji Aizan, whose only major weakness was, he believed, his excessive reliance on the tenets of the Methodist Church.50 As is clear, Tōkoku wrote copiously about Christianity, and the intersection between religion and his thought cannot be limited to his essays on the inner life. Christianity sat squarely within his interpretation of human existence, and his continued strong conviction about the positive impact of Protestantism on the spread of the ideas of freedom, individualism, and the value of life in Meiji Japan is corroborated not only by the prominence he gave the religion in his literary discourse but also by a history of personal contributions to Christian causes, whether in the realm of evangelization, social awareness, or youth education. Accordingly, “when he defined the ideal of freedom as the attainment of the Christian ideal of

Kitamura Tōkoku and the “inner life”  55 seimei (life, eternal life as opposed to materialistic freedom), Tōkoku was describing the process of achieving the inner life (naibu seimei) in Christian terms,”51 and his involvement with the pacifist movement that developed from the ministries of the Society of Friends should be taken as an expression of a commitment to improve the world and act on his religious beliefs in a larger social context. Tōkoku was, nevertheless, very disapproving of certain aspects of Christianity, and an analysis of his criticism sheds light on the evolution of his religious beliefs over time.

The belief in the latent divinity of man and the conflict with Calvinism One of Tōkoku’s most vehement attacks on Christianity appeared in his aforementioned essay “Kakujin shinkyūnai no hikyū.” In this work he condemned the church community for the hypocrisy that thrived within its walls and openly criticized those pastors and evangelizers that claimed salvation resided only in the word of the Gospel. They spoke falsehood, he believed, seeking to appeal to the uneducated, to whom they also preached the evil of art and literature. Rituals, he claimed, were also not that important. Administering baptism, for example, was not wrong, but the notion that one had to be baptized to be a child of God was flawed. Nor should one believe that being baptized immediately rendered one a disciple of Christ. Even prayer, he maintained, was not absolutely necessary; it was only when our kokoro was plunged in the saving waters of Christ that one could come close to him. He also did not hesitate to offer his critique on issues related to religion, faith, and the Bible. In “Tanjun naru shūkyō” (A Simple Religion) of March 1893, for example, he implicitly argued against the theological wars that were unfolding among different denominations.52 He affirmed that simplicity was absolutely necessary for a religion to be considered as such. He stated that teaching about faith was not equal to blindly reading the Bible and revering the Holy Scriptures without any regard for one’s personal views. Being skeptical was permissible, he said, because it was in skepticism that one could learn to think critically. And yet, was it not in simplicity that skepticism ceased to exist; was it not in simplicity that faith was the strongest, he asked. Similarly, in a piece titled “Seisho o ran’yō suru nakare” (Do not Misuse the Bible) appearing in September 1893, he affirmed that the Bible was the expression of God’s love but lamented that too many people still misused it. Some read it in ways that encouraged superstition, others in ways that caused theological wars between different denominations, and there were yet others who opted for a free interpretation that merely fit their selfish needs. Man must set the tenets of his faith in his heart first, he warned, and then ask what the word of God may mean.53 He therefore echoed the statement he had made a year earlier in “Kakujin shinkyūnai no hikyū” in which he had urged readers to break away from superficial beliefs to embrace a faith based on kokoro. Tōkoku was very adamant about the need to reject a faith based on rituals and formalism and believed that true faith stood “deeply rooted between God and man.”54

56  Narratives of conversion Accusations against the church community can be found in several other writings; Tōkoku believed that the Church was an institution that, neglecting the Bible, prioritized its own prosperity.55 His rejection of ritualism on the other hand likely reflected his association with the Quakers first and the Unitarians later. In April 1893, in fact, both he and his wife joined the Azabu Christian Church, a religious community that, contrary to their previous church, was rather tolerant and did not have a defined set of tenets. Mina’s recollections confirmed Tōkoku’s general aversion to formalized religion and his frustrations with conforming to the life of the religious community, and scholar Fukuda Kōji’s assertion that his construction of a system of the inner life may have been an attempt to counterbalance such frustration with an idealized realm of internal freedom is convincing.56 Tōkoku had stated in “Shinchiren” that the source of religion was in seimei and that without seimei there was no teaching, path, or law; this deliberation implied that as long as one reasoned about seimei, one was able to reason about faith, even if this went beyond the canons of conventional Christianity. It is therefore not surprising that some scholars have seen in the transition from a faith in the Gospel to one in the inner life the core of the young critic’s religious creed.57 Francis Mathy has observed that, with the passing of time, Tōkoku’s faith became more and more subjective, gradually distancing itself from the notion of a personal God, until it merged with Emerson’s understanding of the theology of the Oversoul; God became more and more impersonal and was finally transformed into a mere principle of life. Mathy’s is probably an accurate characterization of the evolution of Tōkoku’s beliefs, but it does not take into account that such evolution was also the outcome of a complex set of factors, including his basic dissent from the accumulation of power and wealth that, in his view, led to inequality, injustice, and class warfare. Tōkoku despised the ideology of earthly success professed by Calvinism and abhorred self-interest and materialism. According to Katsumoto Seiichirō, he essentially saw this wing of Protestantism as the epitome of human oppression.58 For Katsumoto, it was this position against Calvinism that likely cost him the job as editor of Seisho no tomo; after his dismissal in October 1893, in fact, the mysticism and celebration of interiority that were typical of Tōkoku’s writings were soon replaced by an emphasis on the importance of hard work and professional accomplishment that were inherent to the Calvinist worldview. Katsumoto believes that Tōkoku’s resentment of the principle of earthly success was such that his debates with Yamaji Aizan were essentially an argument against Calvinism itself. Certainly, Tōkoku’s establishment of the concept of kokoro as the only way to know Christ and reunite with the Spirit of the universe, which is God, implied a fundamental breakaway from the tenets of orthodox Protestantism. As mentioned earlier, in “Kakujin shinkyūnai no hikyū” he had stated the necessity of repudiating a merely superficial belief in God that was based on ritualism and had urged readers to champion, instead, a true faith that was based on the deep experiences of the kokoro. The argument he made in “Tanjun naru shūkyō” that only through the Spirit could one read and understand the Bible, and the statement made elsewhere that God was uninterested in formalism and demanded only

Kitamura Tōkoku and the “inner life”  57 “purity of kokoro,” without which there was not access to Him, essentially posited a critical precondition to salvation that defied the basic precepts of Calvinist Protestantism.59 In 1973, Kasahara Yoshimitsu essentially espoused this view when he suggested that Tōkoku’s celebration of Spirit and kokoro as essential elements for experiencing God was practically in conflict with mainstream Protestantism’s belief in the principle of sola fide, according to which salvation is granted only through faith.60 Seimei was thus the only way to God, regardless of what established dogmas or rituals might contend, and truth was “believing that there was a sacred temple within human beings,” an immortal spirit, that is, that rendered man potentially capable of regenerating himself to a new life. The assertion made in yet another piece titled “Kokoro no keiken” (The Experience of the Heart) of October 1893 – one of his very last essays – that the kokoro was sacred and that it was “the most sublime storehouse bestowed to man in order to experience God” was critically antithetical to the Calvinist belief in the fundamental sinfulness and depravity of man. Man’s whole life was an experience of his kokoro, Tōkoku stated; life was the negotiation between spirit and flesh, both of which were the manifestation of God, but only the kokoro, which was the expression of the divinity intrinsic to man, was capable of expressing the beauty of the Creator. The words of God could only be read through the kokoro, without which the Bible was merely “cold literature:” Do we believe in Christ? We believe in his teachings and dogmas, but when it comes to the problem of spirit, we merely have a superficial understanding of it. Before we know Christ, we need to be aware of the existence of the kokoro, and with that we need to be aware of the experiences of the kokoro. Kokoro is truly the sacred Privy Council of man, and its experiences are the knowledge of all knowledge. Without the knowledge of the kokoro, there can be no knowledge of God.61 On September 4, 1893, one month before the end of his editorship of Seisho no tomo and three months before his first attempt at killing himself, Tōkoku wrote in his diary of his deep internal crisis and his loss of hope in people and life itself. It was a dark prelude to several months of emotional suffering that would culminate in his May 1894 suicide, at the age of twenty-five: I hereby resolve to break with my endurance, towards my wife, her family, my family, my work. From now on I will relinquish my spirit of endurance and won’t do anything unless I like it or I think it is important to me. For the sake of my independence I will sacrifice love.62 There are conflicting reports as to the state of Tōkoku’s faith in Christianity during the very last period of his life. Toward the end of 1893, he had begun to work on a long essay on Emerson that eventually appeared a month before his death, in which celebrating the achievements of the American philosopher and

58  Narratives of conversion paraphrasing from the content of his thought, he reaffirmed his belief in the inner life from which all hope and power originated. He reasserted the principle of the oneness of God, nature, and man, as well as man’s latent divinity and his potential to be united with the Spirit of the universe. His quote from one of Emerson’s wellknown passages – “I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God” – which may have been a reflection of his current state of mind, indicated a rather optimistic and hopeful outlook on the purpose of human existence. Iwamoto Yoshiharu’s account of his last days seems to be consistent with this view. When he and Reverend Oshikawa Masayoshi (1849–1928) paid him a visit, Tōkoku had supposedly expressed his determination to help out with the Church and evangelization, but to his friend Shimazaki Tōson, who visited him later, he accordingly said: “Iwamoto and others came and talked to me about religion, but I cannot bring myself to believing.”63 Tōson was very close to Tōkoku; the two had first met at the headquarters of the journal Jogaku zasshi in the spring of 1892.

Notes 1 On this point see Sasabuchi Tomoichi, “Bungakkai” to sono jidai: “Bungakkai” o shōten to suru romanshugi bungaku no kenkyū (Meiji shoin, 1963), 41. 2 Sasabuchi Tomoichi, Meiji Taishō bungaku no bunseki (Meiji shoin, 1970), 277. 3 Katsumoto Seiichirō, “Kitamura Tōkoku no shōgai,” in Kitamura Tōkoku, edited by Nihon bungaku kenkyū shiryō kankōkai, 11. 4 Quoted in Ishimaru Hisashi, “Bungakkai undō no seikaku: toku ni seiritsu shoki, Kitamura Tōkoku o chūshin ni,” in Kitamura Tōkoku, edited by Nihon bungaku kenkyū shiryō kankōkai, 255–6. 5 Otis Cary, A History of Christianity in Japan (Rutland, Vermont and Tokyo: Tuttle, 1976), vol. 2, 77. 6 On this point, see A. Hamish Ion, “Essays and Meiji Protestant Christian History,” 33–4. 7 Ibid., 69. 8 Ibid., 67. 9 Carlo Caldarola, Christianity: The Japanese Way, 27. 10 All quoted in Irwin Scheiner, Christian Converts and Social Protest in Meiji Japan (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1970), 26–7. 11 English translation from Japan Weekly Mail, May 25, 1872; quoted in Otis Cary, A History of Christianity in Japan, vol. 2, 76. 12 See John F. Howes, Japan’s Modern Prophet, 35–8. 13 Carlo Caldarola, Christianity: The Japanese Way, 31. 14 Kozaki Hiromichi, “Nanajūnen no kaiko” (Recollections of Seventy Years); quoted in Carlo Caldarola, Christianity: The Japanese Way, 32. 15 Quoted in Sekioka Kazushige, Kindai nihon no kirisutokyō juyō (Shōwadō, 1985), 74. 16 Quoted in Irwin Scheiner, Christian Converts and Social Protest in Meiji Japan, 59. 17 Quoted in Kuyama Yasushi, Kindai nihon no bungaku to shūkyō, 58. 18 See Irwin Scheiner, Christian Converts and Social Protest in Meiji Japan, 90, 19 See Sekioka Kazushige, Kindai nihon no kirisutokyō juyō, 35. 20 Carlo Caldarola, Christianity: The Japanese Way, 33. 21 English translation in Japan Weekly Mail, July 12, 1884; quoted in Otis Cary, A History of Christianity in Japan, vol. 2, 173. 22 Quoted in Sekioka Kazushige, Kindai nihon no kirisutokyō juyō, 40. 23 On this point, see Kuyama Yasushi, Kindai nihon no bungaku to shūkyō, 126.

Kitamura Tōkoku and the “inner life”  59 Otis Cary, A History of Christianity in Japan, vol. 2, 209. Yamaji Aizan, Essays on the Modern Japanese Church, 123. Sekioka Kazushige, Kindai nihon no kirisutokyō juyō, 36. Kozaki Hiromichi, “Nanajūnen no kaiko;” quoted in Sekioka Kazushige, Kindai nihon no kirisutokyō juyō, 6. 28 For a discussion of this work, see Tsujihashi Saburō, Kindai nihon bunka to kirisutokyō, 25. 29 On this work, see Kuyama Yasushi, Kindai nihon no bungaku to shūkyō, 349–50. 30 For a discussion of the Japanese translation of the Bible and its influence, see Sasabuchi Tomoichi, Romanshugi bungaku no tanjō: “Bungakkai” o shōten to suru romanshugi bungaku no kenkyū (Meiji shoin, 1968), 365–98. 31 Letter to Mina of August 18, 1887, in vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū (Iwanami shoten, 1956), 165; English translation in Francis Mathy, “Kitamura Tōkoku: The Early Years,” 5. 32 In vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū, 167; English translation in Francis Mathy, “Kitamura Tōkoku: The Early Years,” 9–10. 33 See “Kitamura Montarō no isshōchū mottomo santan taru isshūkan” (The Most Tragic Week in the Life of Kitamura Montarō), in vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū, 170, 172. 34 On this point, see Sasabuchi Tomoichi, Meiji Taishō bungaku no bunseki, 48. 35 Letter to his father dated end of August 1887, in vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū, 180. 36 Ibid., 198. 37 Ibid., 202. 38 In 1890 the Nihon itchi kyōkai changed its name to Nihon kirisuto kyōkai. 39 For a summary of the content of this work, see Francis Mathy, “Kitamura Tōkoku: The Early Years,” 25. 40 See vol. 1 of Tōkoku zenshū, 316–20. 41 Janet Walker, The Japanese Novel of the Meiji Period and the Ideal of Individualism, 73. 42 In vol. 2 of Tōkoku zenshū, 238–49; English translation in Francis Mathy, “Kitamura Tōkoku: Essays on the Inner Life,” 102. 43 On this point, see Satō Yasumasa, “Tōkoku to kirisutokyō: hyōron to kirisutokyō ni kansuru ichi shiron,” in Kitamura Tōkoku, edited by Nihon bungaku kenkyū shiryō kankōkai, 156. 44 See the Gospel of John 13:34. 45 “Atarashiki imashime,” in vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū, 292–5. 46 Ibid., 300, 301. 47 See “Shu no tsutome” (Servant of God, 1893) and “Hito ni taisuru kami no mune” (God’s Purpose for Mankind, 1893); ibid., 303–6 and 309–11. 48 “Shinchiren” (March 1893), in vol. 2 of Tōkoku zenshū, 138–44. 49 See “San’an zakki” (San’an’s Miscellanous Writings, 1893), ibid., 129–30. 50 “Konnichi no kirisutokyō bungaku,” ibid., 182–6. 51 Janet Walker, The Japanese Novel of the Meiji Period and the Ideal of Individualism, 73. 52 “Tanjun naru shūkyō,” in vol. 2 of Tōkoku zenshū, 136–7. 53 “Seisho o ran’yō suru nakare,” in vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū, 316–18. 54 See “Fukushū, sensō, jisatsu” (Revenge, War and Suicide, 1893), in vol. 2 of Tōkoku zenshū, 206. 55 See, for example, “Seisho o yomu koto ni tsuite” (On Reading the Bible, 1893), in vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū, 508–9. Friend Miyazaki Koshoshi recalled a conversation in which Tōkoku had expressed his strong disapproval over the falsity and deceit he saw within the religious community; see vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū, 513. 56 Fukuda Kōji, “Kitamura Tōkoku to kirisutokyō,” Hon no techō 63 (1967), 223. 57 On this point see Satō Yasumasa, “Tōkoku to kirisutokyō: hyōron to kirisutokyō ni kansuru ichi shiron,” 156. 58 Letter to Mina of December 14, 1887. See Katsumoto Seiichirō, “Tōkoku no shūkyō shisō,” in Kitamura Tōkoku, edited by Nihon bungaku kenkyū shiryō kankōkai, 50; and Katsumoto Seiichirō, “Kaidai,” in vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū, 680.

2 4 25 26 27

60  Narratives of conversion 5 9 See, in particular, Tōkoku’s essay “Hito ni taisuru kami no mune.” 60 On this point, see Takizawa Tamio, “Kitamura Tōkoku to Mashino Yoshioki no kirisutokyō ninshiki: naibu seimeiron to shinkōteki jikken (1),” Dōshisha dansō 33 (2003), 45. 61 In vol. 2 of Tōkoku zenshū, 322–3. 62 See vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū, 270. 63 See Iwamoto Yoshiharu, “Tōkoku Kitamura kun o tomurau” (Mourning Kitamura Tōkoku) and Shimazaki Tōson, “Kitamura Tōkoku no mijikaki isshō” (The Short life of Kitamura Tōkoku), both in vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū, 512, 521.

3

Shimazaki Tōson and the discovery of the self

The affection and admiration that Tōson felt for his friend Tōkoku are well-known. The reason why I cannot possibly forget Tōkoku is that we became friends when I was young and impressionable. Secondly, I was so close to him as a friend that I felt compelled to gather together the writings he had left behind. But most of all, it is because I was so deeply influenced by him. I believe that he deserved to be called a true genius.1 Tōson repeatedly stressed how the memory of that friendship stayed with him for the rest of his life, so much so that he had decided to write a novel about it.2 First serialized in the Asahi shinbun in 1908, that novel – Haru (Spring) – covered the period between 1892 and 1896 and thus many of the circumstances that led to Tōkoku’s suicide. Tōkoku’s death was indeed a defining moment for the intellectuals of his generation; in Haru, Kishimoto, the protagonist, refers to the tragic event as something that had inspired him and his friends to push forward and pursue their own respective aspirations, and in a later piece, Tōson himself added that “what gave me courage was . . . the death of Tōkoku, who self-consciously became a springboard to the age that was to come.”3 Tōkoku “never stopped pursuing the freedom of the spirit” and “had foreseen in a prophetic fashion the conflicts arising from the coming of the modern age.”4 Tōkoku’s influence on Tōson was multidimensional. His deliberations on love, for example, had an especially lasting effect on Sutekichi, the protagonist of Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki. When he first read the opening lines of “Ensei shika to josei” – “Love is the key to life’s secrets. There is love first, and then comes life. What is the meaning of life without love” – Sutekichi, in fact, “immediately tried to imagine the person that could have uttered those words.” “Until that very day,” he thought, “had any youngster ever said anything so bold, had there ever been anyone capable of saying the very things that Sutekichi himself had been wanting to say but had never been able to?” Sutekichi “felt the power of those words . . . and a spasm throughout his body as if he had been touched by electricity.”5 Tōkoku’s idea of the inner life also had a substantial impact on Tōson’s literary endeavors. Itō Kazuo noted that traces of this concept can be found throughout his

62  Narratives of conversion narrative; in Hakai, for example, the protagonist Ushimatsu “yearned for spring, yet the life within him, walled in by suspicion and fear, could not expand and grow”; and “Gin’nosuke stared at his friend, sensing as he had not done for a long while Ushimatsu’s inner life, young and strong and vital still.”6 Similar references can be found in Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, when, for example, Sutekichi becomes aware of “an indecent passion that had just awakened within him” or when the narrator states that “something strange happened inside Sutekichi.”7 The major difference, Itō pointed out, is that in Tōson’s case the “inner life” was no longer a dimension that pertained only to the realm of the religious, or the ideal, but it also extended to the domain of nature, i.e., the sensual dimension of human existence, vividly expressed by Tōson in such early poems as “Hatsukoi,” that Tōkoku had firmly denied in his affirmation of the superiority of the spiritual over the physical world.8 The concurrent existence of these two domains in Tōson’s self-construction is one of the reasons why he eventually developed an awareness of sin that was much more severe and intense than Tōkoku’s, for whom sin, although a reality, was overshadowed by the belief in the divine potential of man. Tōson, who once wrote, “In everything I do, what I want to achieve is ‘freedom.’ The freedom to go or to stop whenever I want. The freedom of the spirit and the freedom of the flesh,”9 never truly resolved this conflicting relationship between his spiritual and carnal sides, and it is the existence of these two competing identities that, according to Sasabuchi Tomoichi, prompted him to seek a solution within the realm of traditional pantheism where the symbiosis of God, nature, and man remained intact mainly due to the lack of an awareness of sin. It is not surprising that during these years Tōson “began to speak of nature with an attitude of reverence that a Christian . . . would have reserved for God alone.”10 Of course, Tōson’s discovery of Rousseau’s Confessions during this same period should also be added to this equation; the encounter with this work provided him with a way out from his personal quandary. It is, in fact, by reading Confessions that “for the first time, [he] became aware of the self,” and likely of the purging effect of literary confession, a rhetorical strategy that is central to both of his novels Hakai and Shinsei.11 There are also critical similarities between Tōkoku’s and Tōson’s experiences with Christianity. Both of them were baptized at the end of the 1880s by Presbyterian ministers – Tōson was baptized by his former teacher Kimura Kumaji on June 17, 1888, at the Takanawa Church, an affiliate of Meiji Gakuin. Both of them left their church after only a few years; whereas Tōkoku moved his membership, Tōson relinquished his altogether in December 1892 after a brief two-month spell as a member of Uemura Masahisa’s Ichibanchō Church in Kōjimachi, a ward of Tokyo. Both of them struggled to adhere to the tenets of the Calvinist faith that was at the core of their first church communities, and although Tōkoku was especially critical of the ideology of earthly success that he saw flourish within his congregations, for Tōson the main challenge lay in the reconciliation of Calvinist morality with sexuality, to the extent that for some scholars his spiritual journey was in essence a rebellion against Calvinism. According to Janet Walker, “the encounter with Christian morality, in the form in which it existed at the Meiji

Shimazaki Tōson and the self  63 Gakuin, was responsible for forcing Tōson to define himself”; “it became clear to Tōson that the Calvinist morality of the school was hostile not only to his sexuality but also to his basic desire for self-expression;” and he “slowly gained distance from the harsh, dualistic Calvinist morality that had oppressed him.”12 Tōson himself confirmed the existence of these internal conflicts: Since there were a lot of missionaries at our school I naturally had many opportunities to hear about religion. Because of this I was tormented by the Christian view of the world and the cosmos. From that time on, grave and puritanical religious thoughts and wild, artistic ideas often fought with one another in my childish head.13 Like Tōkoku, Tōson also disapproved of the excessive zeal displayed by some preachers and evangelizers, as well as the culture of success that seemed to dominate their lives. The critical portrayal of the Tamagis, the Baptist couple that lives with Sutekichi and his benefactor Tanabe, epitomizes Tōson’s own condemnation of their ostentatious faith. In an essay collection entitled “Shinkatamachi yori” (From Shinkatamachi) of 1909, praising the simplicity of heart of Father Jacquet, a French Catholic priest he met while living in Sendai, Tōson disparaged the Protestant missionaries for their arrogance and overriding interest in doing business. He also made similar comments about the Reverends Oshikawa Masayoshi and Iwamoto Yoshiharu, who, he regretted to say, seemed to be more concerned with the affairs of the world than with spirituality.14 Tōson’s first significant encounter with Christianity occurred in 1887 upon his enrollment at Meiji Gakuin, a school founded by American and Scottish Presbyterians that was affiliated with the Nihon itchi kyōkai, and Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, the partially fictionalized account of his adolescent years through the eyes of Kishimoto Sutekichi, is the most valuable source of information on the journey of faith that he traveled during his student years at that institution.

Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki as a narrative of faith The novel begins toward the end of Sutekichi’s third year; the young protagonist has enjoyed every minute of his academic life thus far, “like a bird flying out of his cage free to explore as he pleased. Like a bird standing on a tall branch, he looked at this vast world and felt as if there was nothing he could not achieve.”15 The literary meetings and the social interaction between young men and women, typical of Christian institutions of higher learning in Meiji Japan, have been the highlight of a fulfilling personal experience that has rendered him almost oblivious to the impending challenges of life. Sutekichi’s dreamlike reality is, however, about to vanish. He is now secretly in love with Shigeko, one of his teachers, for whom he feels a mixture of respect, admiration, and platonic infatuation, but after hearing rumors regarding their relationship and being reprimanded by a fellow student, Sutekichi is confronted with not only the true nature of his feelings, which are hardly merely platonic,

64  Narratives of conversion but also with how those feelings relate to the puritanical teachings he has received at Meiji Gakuin. Although he believes he “has always behaved like a true Christian,” he has now become aware of his innermost desires vis-à-vis his faith. Shaken more by the realization of his physiological awakening than by the fear of being criticized for something he has not done, Sutekichi is pushed to reconsider his entire worldview, his relationship with the surrounding environment, and especially, his relationship with his own self. Christianity sits squarely within this process of self-definition, and it is not surprising that soon after his realization, early in the novel, Sutekichi finds himself reminiscing about the day of his conversion. One day on a Sunday morning he witnesses the baptismal ceremony of a young woman; as the pastor recites the tenets of the faith, which the candidate is about to accept, he is brought back to his own baptismal vows. Everything is exactly the same: Reverend Asami administering the ritual, his teacher Shigeko playing the organ, the same church with the same ceilings, windows, even the same pulpit and gold-rimmed Bible. It is the same idyllic atmosphere he had experienced at the time of his own pledge to the Christian faith, and yet, for Sutekichi, these once exotic and enthralling symbols now suddenly appear to be empty and meaningless. What had once raised his spirit to unattainable heights has now turned into an illusion, and Sutekichi is left thinking, in distress and disillusionment, about the futility of his conversion. It is this experience that marks the beginning of the protagonist’s most introspective phase, a phase of self-inquiry that takes place at the same time when “the buds of his young life that were rooted within him lifted up their heads as fast bamboo shoots.”16 Soon thereafter, following the end of the term, Sutekichi returns home to his benefactor Tanabe and is intrigued to find out that Mr. Mase, a distant relative of the Tanabes who is now living with the family, is also a Christian. His attitude, however, is different from other fellow Christians; he lives his religious convictions very privately and hardly ever tries to persuade others to convert. In addition, Mr. Mase is “very busy” and “unable to observe the Sabbath,” and yet, while himself aware of these misgivings, he is determined, in his own words, “to at least not lose sight of Christ.”17 Sutekichi, who has by now totally lost interest in the Church, finds Mase’s story “nostalgic,” betraying a longing for a spiritualized dimension of life that will be a recurring trait of his character throughout the novel. The events that follow the encounter with Mr. Mase reinforce the impression that the young protagonist of Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki is far from relinquishing his Christian beliefs; he is in fact in the process of forging a new course of personal faith. During the school summer’s session, Sutekichi has the opportunity to attend a number of special lectures that feature some of the most prominent scholars and personalities of the Christian community. Sutekichi “never forgot the inspiration he received during summer school”; even though life as a member of the church community had disappointed him, even though he had already lost interest in the prayers that took place before class every day, somehow these experienced speakers from the Christian world had inspired in him a sort of “ascetic

Shimazaki Tōson and the self  65 mood.”18 Summer session was, however, important not only for sparking this renewed religious sentiment; it is also in conjunction with this event that Sutekichi makes a new stunning discovery, one that will affect Tōson’s literary career as well as the dynamics of his relationship with the Christian faith: Suddenly, an unexpectedly beautiful scene opened up in front of Sutekichi’s very eyes. The color of the sky was changing, and for the first time in his life he witnessed the beauty of the setting sun. Sutekichi wanted to share this emotion with his friend and so he ran to call Suge. Then, the two went and stood somewhere on top of the hill as the color of the sky continued to change. The sky was as red as a sea of flames. That world that somehow he had managed to live without knowing opened up in front of him, and was talking to him about its existence. Walking back with his friend to his lodging on that lonely evening, Sutekichi felt his heart filled with a happiness that is hard to describe.19 The pantheon of nature reveals itself with all its might, and Sutekichi now begins to become more aware of the mysterious and enticing power of the natural world. Back home from summer school, Sutekichi is presented with the opportunity to define the type of believer he wishes to be. When he is introduced to the Tamagis, a Baptist couple now also living with his adoptive family, he takes note of an excessive religious zeal in their attitude – in many ways antithetical to Mr. Mase’s – that makes him uncomfortable. Sutekichi’s examination of conscience takes place exactly at this time, as if to exemplify his disapproval of the overbearing and at times hypocritical behavior of the couple he has just met: Are you a Christian? Had he been asked this question now, Sutekichi could not have answered that he was the same person who had been baptized by Reverend Asami. He no longer was the type of believer that every Sunday felt the need to go to the same church, listen to same sermon and sing the same hymns. He had even quit praying before meals. If anyone were to ask him now “don’t you believe in God?” he would answer that in his own immature way, he was a person that was searching for God. He would answer that it was a mistake that he had received baptism, and that if he were to be receive baptism, this would be the time to start preparing for it.20 As he explores the true depth of his faith and begins to seriously consider the boundaries between religious beliefs, sexuality, and self-awareness, Sutekichi comes to question the meaning of creation: Why did God create such a strange world? Why did he make some things beautiful and some ugly? Why did he place a hawk next to a sparrow, or a wolf next to a lamb, or a snake next to a frog? Why did the God of peace bring endless fights even within the Church, between the affluent elders and the destitute deacons?21

66  Narratives of conversion Sutekichi’s questions about creation are, in essence, questions about the dualities present in him. The conflict between faith and art is one aspect of his selfdefinition that is of special concern. God, he thinks, warned man not to commit adultery, not to steal the wife of his elder brother, not to commit immoral acts; why, then, did Byron, whose dissolute life certainly did not exemplify those commandments, hold such profound fascination for Sutekichi? Why was he so attracted to Byron’s poetry, and how could his poetry not be deemed beautiful? Pondering the ramifications of this dilemma, Sutekichi realizes that there are now two paths in front of him. One is the conventional model, the one where you need to be careful not to step on the footprints left by the person in front of you; the other, a path to be explored by relying entirely on one’s own strength.22 Sutekichi decides to opt for the latter: A new world is waiting for him. Almost like in a dream, Sutekichi who had not yet experienced such feelings of hope and expectations was about to go far away from the church in Takanawa where he had received his baptism, from the old house of Reverend Asami where he had met Shigeko and Tamako, and from the memory of four years of failures, regrets and many embarrassing moments.23 Graduation comes, and Sutekichi begins to work for Yoshimoto sensei and his journal. It is through this connection that he first hears about Aoki (who is the fictional representation of Tōkoku). As he reads the opening lines of Aoki’s essay – “Love is the key to life’s secrets. There is love first, and then comes life. What is the meaning of life without love?” Sutekichi “immediately sought to imagine the person that could have uttered those words.” The more he read what Aoki wrote, the more “he felt moved by a strange passion . . . and by reading his writings, Sutekichi sought to imagine the looks, the age, and the background of that person.”24 Sutekichi is finally able to meet the object of his curiosity at Yoshimoto sensei’s residence: Sutekichi observed Aoki, who was four or five years his senior, as he was sitting and talking in front of him. There was an adult-like personality in between those masculine eyebrows that betrayed the intricate background of someone who had already experienced many challenges in life. But what attracted Sutekichi’s heart the most was Aoki’s eyes. There was a light in his eyes that seemed to suggest something was burning at the bottom of those deep pupils.25 Meanwhile, although now no longer part of Meiji Gakuin campus community, the place of faith in his life continues to be a matter of concern for the young

Shimazaki Tōson and the self  67 Sutekichi. Now employed as a teacher at Yoshimoto’s school, one weekend, toward the end of the first term, instead of returning home to pay a visit to his adoptive family, he decides to walk around his new surroundings in Kōjimachi where the school is located. As he enters the church he has only recently joined, he once again comes face to face with those objects – the high ceilings, the wooden pulpit with its engraved crucifix, the gold-rimmed Bible – that are by now merely empty symbols in his life. Sutekichi begins to recall in his heart the moments of his baptismal vows, when standing in front of Reverend Asami he had listened carefully to the tenets of the faith. His thoughts are then interrupted by the arrival of the pastor and the beginning of service. Sutekichi sees Katsuko, one of his students, for whom he has romantic feelings. Perhaps led to do so by the sight of the young woman he loves, as the sermon approaches its climax, Sutekichi suddenly realizes that “his faith was a juvenile sentiment of poetry mixed with religion that could hardly be considered a mature faith. His Christ was merely the illusionary manifestation of a poetic persona, and this left him deeply unhappy.”26 And yet, as the Lord’s Last Supper is celebrated, Sutekichi feels the same kind of ecstasy and excitement that he experienced during his early days as a Christian. It is a sort of mystical experience that seems to transcend everything, except – as is revealed in this moment – the disruptive interference of love. One day after returning home from work, Sutekichi finds himself once again reflecting upon the nature of his faith: The God that was at the bottom of Sutekichi’s heart was not the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the Trinity that had been preached to him by many pastors. The notion of an omniscient and omnipotent God as the creator of all things was merely a preconceived notion that came from his learning, but the object of his faith was not Christ and his person.27 As he is kneeling down in front of the solemn and grave God “who is able to see what is hidden,” Sutekichi realizes that it is actually the image of his student Katsuko that suddenly appears in front of his eyes, and not that of God. Sutekichi’s cry – “Lord, here is your humble servant” – is in vain, and as he walks around his room calling Katsuko’s name, he realizes that “an indecent passion had just awakened inside of him and was going to take him away. He even felt an indescribable fear.”28 Totally convinced that “the secret he harbored at the very bottom of his heart was unknown to anyone other than God,” Sutekichi later realizes that others have noticed his feelings for Katsuko. Caught between the spiritual longing for an ascetic life and the physiological awakening of his innermost desires, he capitulates. Toward the end of the second term, unable to cope with an inner emotional turmoil that has now become unbearable, he decides to resign his teaching position, and the novel ends with Sutekichi relinquishing his church membership and departing on a solo journey in the footsteps of poets like Matsuo Bashō, a metaphor also for the beginning of his life’s journey. Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki contains important information regarding Tōson’s years at Meiji Gakuin, his sexual awakening, his first discovery of the

68  Narratives of conversion beauty of nature, and his initial hesitant steps in the world of literature. The fact that Sutekichi leaves his church on the eve of his trip, a fictional development that is supported by factual evidence, has prompted some critics to identify December 1892 as the time when Tōson also relinquished the Christian faith. Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki is not, however, a history of his rejection of Christianity; on the contrary, it should be considered a narrative of his conversion in the true sense of the word. There are at least four instances in the novel in which Sutekichi reflects upon his baptism – too many for someone who is only superficially concerned about the place of faith in his life. Sutekichi’s acknowledgment that his conversion had been rushed but that now is the right time for him to think seriously about it, his statement that he does believe in God, albeit perhaps in his own immature way, and his recognition of the limitations of his understanding of Christ, which is deeply disappointing to him, are all clear indicators that his religious quest is real and internally driven. It is a religious sentiment that, much in Tōkoku’s vein, detracts from the rituals and formalism of organized Christianity, but still upholds the Christian worldview as the focus of his personal existence. The figure of Mr. Mase is in this respect emblematic; he does not attend Sunday service, nor is he engaged in proselytizing, and yet his faith is authentic and represents a viable version of the type of Christian that Sutekichi might wish to be. The particular gestation process of Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki also adds to the already extraordinary character of this work. This novel, it will be recalled, was published in book form in 1919, after appearing in different installments in the journal Bunshō sekai between May 1914 and April 1915 and between November 1917 and June 1918 – two decades, that is, after the events it narrated. It was in this respect very different from other texts that will be examined in this book – Kunikida Doppo’s Azamukazaru no ki and Arishima Takeo’s Kansōroku, for example – which were diaries written at the time the events in question took place. From this point of view, the novel may have been less factually reliable, and the fictional element certainly played an important role in the fabrics of the story, yet, as a text, it afforded a diachronic perspective that the protagonists of those diaries could not possibly attain. Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki was in fact inevitably mediated by Tōson’s later experiences in life, both in the private and professional realms, whether it be the scandalous relationship with his niece that led to the publication of his confessional novel Shinsei, or his encounter with Catholicism through his relationship with Father Jacquet while working in Sendai, or his self-imposed exile in France. Even the writing of Haru, which preceded the publication of the final version of Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki by almost a decade, constituted, with its close examination of Sutekichi’s relationship to Aoki, an essential intermediate step in the reconstruction of Tōson’s own journey of faith. Indeed, Haru provided Tōson with a critical vantage point from which to start reevaluating the details of his Christian experience vis-à-vis Aoki’s own religiosity, in a complex and painstaking, self-reflective process that would come to full fruition only with the completion of Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki. Thus at the beginning of the novel, the mention of Aoki’s belief in the existence of a

Shimazaki Tōson and the self  69 strong religious sentiment in all poets, a sentiment that is said to be free from the constrictions of organized religion and at the foundation of the symbiotic relationship between religion and literature, clearly reflected one of the important lessons learned by the young Tōson through his association with his friend. Aoki’s later decision to leave his church and his concurrent desire “to break away from the religious life of the last two to three years,” may suggest Tōson’s disillusionment with Christianity, but if there is one element transpiring in Haru that should not be minimized, it is the dilemma of faith that is at the foundation of Aoki’s predicament. Thus, even during his final agonizing months, “According to Kishimoto, Aoki was thinking of [once again] devoting himself to a religious life,” although “he then said that ‘there are some things I just cannot bring myself to believe.’ ”29 The description of Aoki’s funeral, with its detailed account of the pastor’s sermon on the inscrutable will of God and the nature of death – a merely temporary physical separation from the deceased – are also clear indicators that the question of the afterlife was a chief concern for the thirty-six-year-old Tōson, who in Haru likely sought to reconsider the place of his religious convictions, following Aoki’s most serious warning: that “this era is experiencing a materialistic revolution, and its spirit is being taken away; it is a civilization that is driven by external stimuli.”30 Therefore, just as the literary developments and life experiences that took place between 1893 and 1919 should be considered an integral part of Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, the same work should also be seen as the vivid expression of the religious sentiment experienced by Tōson in “his present,” as he is seeking to project that sentiment over “Sutekichi’s past.” The narrator’s very statement at the end of the novel that “because of a painful love he decided to leave even the church,” seems to reflect a value judgment that is actually current in Tōson’s mind.31 Further evidence supports the view that Sutekichi’s cancellation of his church membership should not be equated with his (and Tōson’s) decision to distance himself from Christianity. According to his friend Hoshino Tenchi’s diary, one of the two books Tōson had packed for his journey was the Bible itself, and letters Tōson sent Tenchi during his trip clearly showed that he still considered himself a Christian.32 As briefly discussed in Chapter 1, compelling evidence of Christianity’s lingering influence on the young Tōson can be found in his poetry. But it is in one of his most important prose works – Hakai – that the critical influence of his Christian education became most evident.

Hakai: a new covenant of the “inner life” Published in 1906 and considered by many scholars the first naturalist novel in Japan, Hakai is the story of Segawa Ushimatsu, a well-liked and accomplished young school teacher of burakumin ancestry who has managed thus far to conceal his lineage from society following his father’s admonishment that he reveal it to no one. The novel depicts the psychological suffering experienced by the protagonist as he considers revealing his true identity and thereby facing persecution and social retaliation. His struggle of conscience is triggered by a deeply disturbing

70  Narratives of conversion event at his present lodging in Iiyama: Ōhinata, a rich man himself of burakumin origin, who is temporarily staying at the same inn waiting to be admitted into the town hospital, is asked in a rather brutal manner to leave because of his uncleanness. Outraged by such a display of contempt and prejudice, but fearing that he, too, might be discovered, Ushimatsu decides to move to a nearby Buddhist temple. Ushimatsu is a secret admirer of Inoko Rentarō, a burakumin writer and public speaker who has recently gained public recognition through a number of books that vividly describe the squalor and precarious social conditions affecting the burakumin class. He is so fond of Inoko’s ideas and so impressed by his courage that, early in the novel, he decides to purchase his latest book, Zangeroku (Confessions), even if this means being left penniless. This new book begins with the words “I am an outcast,” and it is an account of the frustration and persecutions Inoko has had to endure until he found “new life.” Ushimatsu’s admiration for Inoko, whom he has actually met once, slowly becomes public, and his fellow teachers, including his longtime friend Gin’nosuke, begin to wonder why their colleague is so adamant about Inoko’s ideas, raising suspicions that he might be hiding something. As the Ōhinata incident stirs his existence, Ushimatsu begins to realize “how dramatically his life had changed . . . loneliness, despair, the absurdity of all; an indescribable welter of sensations assailed him, and with them a flood of memories, stirring unfathomable depths.”33 Soon after the incident, Ushimatsu finds out that his father has been gored by a bull and has died. He requests a leave of absence from work and departs for his home village of Nezu to attend the funeral. During his journey he first sees Takayanagi, an untrustworthy local politician who has given a speech at the Imperial birthday celebration the previous day, and then unexpectedly meets Inoko, who, together with his wife, is accompanying his lawyer friend Ichimura on a speaking tour in the region to support his candidacy to the Diet. Having read in the newspaper that his hero’s physical condition had worsened because of tuberculosis, Ushimatsu is excited to find out on this occasion that he is doing well, and that he might actually be able to meet with him again later in the trip. Once in Nezu, Ushimatsu reunites with his uncle and aunt. The funeral is carefully planned and carried out so as not to disclose the deceased’s true ancestry. Ushimatsu then receives a visit from Inoko, who has in the meantime stopped by the village as promised. The two enjoy their time together, and it is during this meeting that Ushimatsu learns about Takayanagi’s marriage with a rich young outcast woman and his attempt to win the election by buying votes with his fatherin-law’s substantial financial resources. At the same time, during his stay, Ushimatsu is reminded by his uncle of the admonishment he had received from his father as a child: that he should continue to hide his true identity, because revealing it to the world would lead to his destruction. Burdened by the constant memory of his father’s words but also deeply troubled by his own self-deception, Ushimatsu resolves to share his secret with Inoko. Meanwhile, the time comes for the bull that has gored his father to be put down. Ushimatsu and his uncle, who witness the cathartic scene at the local slaughterhouse,

Shimazaki Tōson and the self  71 are deeply moved by the bull, as it bravely walks to its death, seemingly aware of the punishment that is awaiting him. Then the end of the mourning period approaches, and Ushimatsu promptly heads back to Iiyama. On his way, he once again bumps into Takayanagi and his wife and becomes extremely concerned that, being from his same region, she might know his true identity. His worries are not unfounded. The morning after his return home, Ushimatsu receives a visit at his lodging from the politician himself who threatens to divulge their “common secret.” As the purpose of Takayanagi’s visit becomes clearer and Ushimatsu’s anxiety grows in intensity, his friend Gin’nosuke also stops by, and the topic of the conversation suddenly changes to Inoko’s recent visit to the area. Takayanagi repeatedly questions Ushimatsu about his relationship to the famous burakumin author who is, incidentally, a supporter of Ichimura, his political rival. Ushimatsu, however, denies having any connection with him in a scene that is overtly reminiscent of Peter’s denial of Jesus. Back at work, Katsuno Bunpei, a mischievous junior colleague who is plotting with the school’s principal to oust Ushimatsu in order to replace him, finds out, likely from Takayanagi, that the long-time admirer of Inoko Rentarō’s writings is himself a burakumin. The officials of the school district begin to collude and discuss the best way to have him expelled. Meanwhile, Ushimatsu continues to be torn by his predicament – on the one hand he is ashamed of his inability to tell his secret to anyone, not even the person he admires the most – Inoko – and on the other, he is fearful of the consequences he would have to face were his secret to be revealed. Fear mounts, and he decides to get rid of all of Inoko’s books. Carefully erasing his name from them, he sells them to a second-hand bookstore for a merely nominal fee. The novel then takes a little detour as Ushimatsu explores his feelings for O-Shio, the daughter of one of his senior colleagues who has been given out in adoption to the Buddhist couple who runs the temple where Ushimatsu is lodging. Meanwhile, the news spreads that Inoko and his lawyer friend are in town for a speech, and the battle for political votes enters the final stage. Still horrified by the idea of being rejected and even dismissed from school, Ushimatsu nonetheless decides to tell Inoko his secret, but by the time he arrives at the place where the meeting is being held, he hears rumors that Inoko has been attacked and beaten up by some thugs. His worst fears become reality: Inoko is dead. Experiencing a self-awakening, he now realizes more than ever the magnitude of Inoko’s actions: “Openly proclaiming his origin wherever he went, he had nevertheless won acceptance and recognition. I hold it no shame to be of eta birth. With what power those words were charged!”34 It is following Inoko’s death that Ushimatsu makes the irrevocable decision to confess his lineage in front of his students. Reminding them of the division of their society into different classes and of the existence of a lower class known as the eta, of which he confesses to being a member, he states: “You will feel disgust and loathing for me now that I have told you what I am. But though I was born so low myself, I have done my best each day to teach

72  Narratives of conversion you only what is right and true. Please remember this, and forgive me if you can for having kept the truth from you till today.”35 He even denigrates himself to an extent that seems unnecessary: “When you get home, tell your parents what I have said. Tell them that I confessed today, asking your forgiveness . . . I am an eta, an outcast, an unclean being!” Feeling somehow that he still had not humbled himself enough, Ushimatsu stepped back from the desk and knelt on the wooden floor. “Forgive me! Forgive me!”36 “Up to this point,” Edwin McClellan noted in an article that appeared more than five decades ago, the novel is on the whole intelligent and when judged historically, perhaps even brilliant. But suddenly, Tōson seems to lose control, and the carefully constructed edifice begins to topple over. What has been a very respectable work of modern realism quickly becomes embarrassingly trite melodrama.37 Takayanagi and his accomplices are arrested, and after his confession and consequent expulsion from school, in fact, Ushimatsu is offered the opportunity to move to Texas, where Ōhinata, the rich burakumin who has been expelled from his previous lodging, is preparing to start a farming venture. Meanwhile, his friend Gin’nosuke makes sure that O-Shio is aware of Ushimatsu’s feelings for her, and the novel ends on a happy note with the two momentarily separating and dreaming of a brighter future together. Retold in this fashion, Hakai’s dependence on Christianity may appear inconclusive, with Ushimatsu’s denial of Inoko, reminiscent of Peter’s denial of Christ, as the only apparent element of similarity. A closer examination of the novel, however, shows a depth of intertextuality and an apparent reliance on Christian motifs and symbolism that leave no doubt about Tōson’s intention to exploit Christianity’s rich rhetorical repertoire. Inoko is a Christ-like figure; he is so committed to the poor, the oppressed, and the underrepresented that he is willing to give his own life for their sake. The depth of his character is unquestioned, even by his enemies, who often marvel at how the eta class could have possibly produced such as a remarkable individual. Thus, even the mischievous Bunpei concedes that “he is an amazing man,” and during an exchange following Inoko’s death, the school inspector and two other councilors all agree that Inoko was, after all, special.38 Late in the novel, on the eve of Inoko’s last speech and during an argument with Bunpei, Ushimatsu describes his hero as someone who has devoted his existence to society despite being ostracized and persecuted by it. Inoko’s humble demeanor and his passive acceptance of mockery and scorn is especially evocative of the persona of Christ, and Tōson’s own words seem to be echoing in

Shimazaki Tōson and the self  73 Ushimatsu’s description: “When I think of Christ, what I immediately feel in my heart is the depth of his character. His words that one should turn the other cheek when stricken by another are sufficient to understand.”39 Interestingly, the region where the story unfolds – Shinshū, present-day Nagano prefecture – is portrayed by Tōson not only as a place of unrivaled natural beauty – with its mountains, rivers, and rugged scenery – but also as a “chosen space,” a sacred region, so to speak, where the good news of a new, spiritualized dimension of life can be shared more effectively. Inoko states that “Shinshū is a remarkable place,” that “no other part of the country treats us eta like they do here” and that “there’s nowhere like Shinshū for practicing speech making. . . . Maybe the people who live up here in these mountain provinces have a special thirst for knowledge.”40 His speech tour in the area becomes then evocative of Jesus’s ministry: thus, during his own “preaching,” Inoko Rentarō “had coughed blood”; and “when he came down off the platform at the end, the handkerchief in his hand was crimson.”41 Ushimatsu’s three-time denial of Inoko confirms Tōson’s intention to mold his burakumin hero after the story of Christ: “This Inoko he was speaking of,” said Takayanagi, tapping the ash off his cigarette, “he’s a friend of yours?” “No.” Ushimatsu hesitated. “No, not a friend.” “But you are connected with him in some way?” “No.” “I see.” “How could I have any connection with him, when I’ve told you already the man is not a friend of mine?” “I suppose not, if you put it that way. He spends so much time with Ichimura, I thought I’d ask you if you knew what there is between those two.” “I haven’t any idea.”42 Tōson is careful to emphasize the importance of this exchange. Soon after, he has Ushimatsu go over the conversation, not only once, but twice, obviously seeking to remind the reader of the important biblical connection, just in case it has been missed: Not once but three times he had lied about his association with Rentaro and Rentaro’s relationship with Ichimura . . . three times denied the man to whom he owed so much, whom he revered as his teacher and guide, as if he were no more to him than any stranger. “Sensei! Forgive me” he murmured as he took up the paper again.43 And later, “Sensei, Sensei – forgive me!” he mumbled repeatedly. He remembered his denial when Takayanagi had suggested he was a friend of Rentaro. Conscience, unblunted, struggled with excuses – surely, if he was to protect

74  Narratives of conversion himself at all, he had no alternative? The agony struck deeper. In shame and in fear, not knowing where he was going. Ushimatsu walked on.44 Ushimatsu immediately repents of his action, but he is unable to conquer his fears. Still dreading the repercussions he might have to face were his secret revealed, in a last desperate attempt to get rid of anything around him that might suggest a link to his hero, he tries to sell all of Inoko’s and other books at the local second-hand bookstore. There, he is offered a merely nominal price of fifty sen, a price he is nonetheless willing to accept. The fifty sen, however, are actually in exchange for the other books, since the ones by Inoko, the bookseller states, are worth nothing to him. In fact, the bookseller even suggests to Ushimatsu that he take them back, unknowingly providing the young teacher with an opportunity to essentially redeem himself. But Ushimatsu once again capitulates to his own fears, and rejecting the offer, before leaving, he checks the places where he has erased his name. He finds that he has missed one: “borrowing a writing brush, he drew thick black strokes over the red characters of his name. This done, he would be safe. So he told himself. But in his mind there was only darkness and confusion.”45 Once outside the bookstore, Ushimatsu realizes he has betrayed his mentor again and finds himself mumbling “Sensei, Sensei – forgive me!” This time he has not only denied him; figuratively speaking, he has also sold him for less than nothing. Ushimatsu’s denial is the prelude to Inoko’s death. Inoko, who, it will be recalled, is consumptive, downplays his wife’s concerns for his health and decides to join his lawyer friend on a long political campaign across the area. The passage of his last speech, with him approaching the limits of physical resistance is highly symbolic, as it seems to evoke, albeit perhaps only vaguely, scenes from the Passion of Christ: “Several times during his speech . . . Rentaro had coughed blood; when he came down off the platform at the end, the handkerchief in his hand was crimson.”46 Soon after his speech, in which he exposes Takayanagi’s plot to buy his election, thus essentially sanctioning his political defeat, Inoko is attacked and killed. The inevitability of Inoko’s demise, which must be accomplished in order for Ushimatsu to become fully self-awake, is suggested by the young teacher’s own reflections, immediately following the murder: “He looked back over the dead man’s life. Perhaps, now he thought of it, his friend had foreseen disaster.  .  .  . Ushimatsu was sure Rentaro must have come to Iiyama secretly expecting danger, even death itself.”47 Inoko’s death becomes then not only the catalyst for Ushimatsu’s full self-awakening, but also, metaphorically speaking, an atonement for Ushimatsu’s past transgressions. Ushimatsu who is now more than ever aware of his “sin,” is ready to confess and embrace a new life: “It became clearer to Ushimatsu that in death his friend was taking him by the hand to lead him to a new world.”48 Ushimatsu’s confession takes place in front of his students. It is clearly not a confession to God, but rather to the community: by sharing with others the secret of his “unclean birth,” he metaphorically cleanses himself, becoming spiritually

Shimazaki Tōson and the self  75 free. Thus, after his public revelation, “he was free, free at last of his burden, free as a bird . . . this world of snow, whispering beneath each step he took – at long last it was his.”49 His confession and subsequent apologies, however, are only to a limited extent about his lineage, and only partially directed at society. His greatest sin, of which he has become fully aware thanks to Inoko’s death, is not in fact the concealment of his ancestry, nor has this sin been an offense only to the school and the children’s families. It is instead the prolonged self-deception that he has perpetrated at the expense of his own self that Ushimatsu is regretting. Soon after finding out about Inoko’s death and helping carry his body back to the inn where the burakumin activist had been lodging, he compares Inoko’s character to his own: “a life of deception, his had been up till now, of self-deception.”50 The importance of Inoko’s character is even more profound, when considering that Inoko is not just a reflection of the life of Ōe Isokichi (1868–1902) – the Meiji educator who is said to have been the model for the novel – but that, as Itō Kazuo and other scholars convincingly argued decades ago, he is first and foremost a projection of Kitamura Tōkoku’s image. The impact of Tōkoku’s death on Tōson has already been discussed: When I think of my beginnings, there are many events that are hard to forget, but the one that for me had the biggest impact of all is the death of my beloved friend, the death of my twenty-seven year old friend Kitamura Tōkoku.51 Tōkoku had argued the importance of cultivating one’s inner life as a precondition to the achievement of spiritual freedom. Itō Kazuo saw then in Inoko’s very eyes, which “burning with a fierce, nervous light, reflected the heroic spirit within,” as well as in his struggle, “from the frustration of his early search for spiritual liberation, and tortured doubts in the face of society’s contradictions, to his finding at last new life, like a long night giving way to the dawn sky,” the obvious manifestation of Tōkoku’s spiritual and intellectual legacy.52 For this reason, “The more he saw of him, the more he heard him speak, the more deeply [Ushimatsu] was influenced and the more desirable became the inner freedom Rentarō embodied.”53 The “inner freedom” embodied by Inoko, Itō noted, was the same inner freedom that, Tōkoku regretted, had yet to be achieved in Japan.54 From the outset of the novel, Ushimatsu is described as an avid reader of Inoko’s books and as a fundamentally spiritually hungry young man, the epitome, so to speak, of the Meiji intellectual. His process of self-awakening is gradual and comes to full realization as a mature manifestation of that inner life whose importance Tōkoku had advocated. It is a process that is inevitably marked by violent and deep changes. At first “the energies of youth were powerfully at work within him, like the stirrings of the new grass beneath the snow. He yearned for spring, yet the life within him, walled in by suspicion and fear, could not expand and grow.”55 Soon, however, “Gin’nosuke stared at his friend, sensing as he had not done for a long while Ushimatsu’s inner life, young and strong and vital still.”56 It is here that Ushimatsu’s self-awakening and the necessity, for him, to break

76  Narratives of conversion his father’s “commandment” intersect. Broadly speaking, his father’s admonishment not to reveal his lineage can be seen as a symbolic representation of an old covenant, a covenant that while meant to preserve Ushimatsu’s life, forces him to a marginalized existence of self-deception that defies the very essence of his being. Inoko is on the other hand the repository and messenger of a new covenant, one by which man is spiritually set free and in harmony with his inner self. The figure of a stern and authoritative but caring father, rendered even more conspicuous by the fact that Ushimatsu’s mother died when he was still a small child, vaguely evokes the laws of an atavic world, perhaps that of the Old Testament. It is a world where the law of retaliation effectively symbolized by the sacrificial slaughter of the bull, produces a cathartic effect that only partially mitigates the pain experienced by Ushimatsu because of his loss. It is a primordial world up in the mountains against which Tōson juxtaposes, back in the town of Iiyama, the good news of a new spiritual life. Inoko, and Tōkoku with him, becomes then the main interpreter of a new contract, one that leading to freedom of the spirit still requires a heroic and undoubtedly painful separation from the past. The liberating power of this new contract, an expression of Tōkoku’s concept of the inner life, is masterfully engrained in the protagonist’s ardent desire to transcend his condition, or better, his destiny. At the beginning of the novel following the violent incident of discrimination he has just witnessed, Ushimatsu is overwhelmed by feelings of pity for Ōhinata’s destiny, “that which all eta had to face sooner or later,” and then soon finds himself “brooding sadly on the destiny he had inherited.”57 It is the same destiny that had forced his father to hide in the mountains for the sake of his children. Tōson’s Hakai is then the celebration of that Christian-inspired Meiji romantic desire to overcome socially and historically imposed boundaries and to establish a new covenant of freedom and self-determination. In 1919 Tōson published Shinsei, an account of the incestuous relationship with his niece that had prompted him to flee to France in 1913. He attempted to explain his behavior by means of a confessional narrative of his sin that would lead him to regeneration and rebirth. He was not entirely successful, since in his Aru ahō no isshō (The Life of A Stupid Man) of 1927, for example, Akutagawa would refer to the protagonist of Tōson’s novel as the most cunning hypocrite he had ever met.58 Tōson then spent most of his later years working on yet another work, Yoake mae (Before the Dawn, 1927–35), a historical novel largely modeled after the figure of his father, Shimazaki Masaki. He continued to display an ambivalent posture toward Christianity, although Itō Kazuo has argued, quite convincingly, that the close friendships he developed with a French Catholic priest in Sendai and a devout Catholic by the name of Miyashiro while living in France, and the fact that his second wife Shizuko, whom he married in 1928, eventually also converted to the Catholic faith, all indicate a longstanding exposure and perhaps even hidden longing for Catholicism that should not be dismissed.59 Despite such ambivalence, the encounter with Christianity while a student at Meiji Gakuin proved to be instrumental for his spiritual and personal growth, and the narrative fabrics of many of his works provide evidence of how love and religion competed for space in his process of self-discovery during his formative years.

Shimazaki Tōson and the self  77

Notes See “Kitamura Tōkoku nijūshichi kaiki ni” (1921), in vol. 9 of Tōson zenshū, 35–6. “Kitamura Tōkoku no mijikaki isshō” (1912), in vol. 6 of Tōson zenshū, 128. Quoted in Itō Kazuo, Shimazaki Tōson kenkyū (Meii shoin, 1969), 327. “Kitamura Tōkoku nijūshichi kaiki ni,” 37. Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, in vol. 5 of Tōson zenshū, 533. The original Japanese reads as follows: “Haru matsu kokoro wa arinagara mo, utagai to osore to ni tojirarete shimatte, naka no inochi wa nobiru koto ga dekinakatta,” and “Gin’nosuke wa fushigisō ni tomodachi no kao o nagamete, hisashiburi de wakaku tsuyoku katsukatsu to shita Ushimatsu no naka no inochi ni fureru yō na kokoromochi ga shita.” See The Broken Commandment, 104, 200–1. Italics are mine. 7 “Jibun no naibu ni me o samashita yō na ayashii jōnetsu,” and “fushigi na henka ga Sutekichi no naibu ni okotta.” Ibid., 216 and 214. Italics are mine. 8 Itō Kazuo, Shimazaki Tōson kenkyū, 324. 9 See his “Seishin no jiyū to nikutai no jiyū” (Freedom of the Spirit and Freedom of the Flesh, 1909), in vol. 6 of Tōson zenshū, 44. 10 Janet Walker, The Japanese Novel of the Meiji Period and the Ideal of Individualism, 143. 11 See his “Ruusoo no Zangechū ni miidashitaru jiko,” in vol. 6 of Tōson zenshū, 10. 12 Janet Walker, The Japanese Novel of the Meiji Period and the Ideal of Individualism, 130, 134, 142. 13 “Meiji Gakuin no gakusō,” in vol. 6 of Tōson zenshū, 87. 14 See “Shinkatamachi yori,’ in vol. 6 of Tōson zenshū, 7, 65–6. 15 Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, in vol. 5 of Tōson zenshū, 431. 16 Ibid., 440. 17 Ibid., 457. 18 These personalities included religious leader Oshikawa Masayoshi, literary critic Tokutomi Sohō, and philosopher Ōnishi Hajime (1864–1900). 19 Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, in vol. 5 of Tōson zenshū, 464. 20 Ibid., 469. 21 Ibid., 486–7. 22 Ibid., 512. 23 Ibid., 513. 24 Ibid., 532. 25 Ibid., 536. 26 Ibid., 552. 27 Ibid., 558. 28 Ibid., 558–9. 29 See Haru, in vol. 3 of Tōson zenshū, 149, 162. 30 Ibid., 176. 31 Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, in vol. 5 of Tōson zenshū, 571. Italics are mine. 32 On this point, see Sasabuchi Tomoichi, “Bungakkai” to sono jidai, vol. 2, 833–4. 33 The Broken Commandment, 24. 34 Ibid., 217. Italics in original. Eta is another derogatory term meaning “filthy” or “polluted”. 35 Ibid., 229. 36 Ibid., 229–30. 37 Edwin McClellan, “The Novels of Shimazaki Tōson,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 24 (1962–63), 103. 38 The Broken Commandment, 36, 225. 39 Quoted in Itō Kazuo, Shimazaki Tōson kenkyū, 368. 40 The Broken Commandment, 118, 119. 41 Ibid., 214.

1 2 3 4 5 6

78  Narratives of conversion 4 2 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 5 5 56 57 58

59

Ibid.,140. Ibid., 149. Ibid., 169–70. Ibid., 169. Ibid., 214. Ibid., 216. Ibid., 218. Ibid., 244. Italics in original. Ibid., 217. Quoted in Itō Kazuo, Shimazaki Tōson kenkyū, 375. The Broken Commandment, 73, 11. Ibid., 104. See Kitamura Tōkoku, “Meiji bungaku kanken” (My View of Meiji Literature, 1893); quoted in Itō Kazuo, Shimazaki Tōson kenkyū, 372. The Broken Commandment, 104. Ibid., 200. Ibid., 9, 24. Tōson responded to Akutagawa’s charge in an essay titled “Akutagawa Ryūnosuke no koto” (On Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) that appeared in the same year following the latter’s death. For an English translation and a brief discussion of the content of that piece, see William Naff, The Kiso Road: The Life and Times of Shimazaki Tōson, 414–18. See Itō Kazuo, Shimazaki Tōson kenkyū, 288.

4

Kunikida Doppo The rejection of self-deception and the paradox of contrition

Kunikida Doppo’s journey of faith also reflected, in many ways, the typical Meiji Christian experience: his was a conversion that stemmed from political ambition and personal concerns about social inequality that eventually developed into an inquiry into the meaning of existence, the afterlife, and the boundaries of the self. Doppo confirmed this trajectory in his life when he spoke of a spiritual revolution in his younger years that gradually replaced his early interests in politics and social success, pushing him to probe into the nature of God and the place of man in the universe. It was an internal upheaval, he acknowledged, that was strongly mediated by Christianity and that led him to even consider devoting his entire life to evangelization.1 Unlike Masamune Hakuchō and Arishima Takeo, whose experiences culminated in unequivocal forms of public apostasy, Doppo’s own later separation from the Christian religion was not as dramatic and overt, and was constantly overshadowed by continuing negotiations about the self and its place in society, a personal struggle with the irreconcilable polarities of material and spiritual life, and a profound fascination with the inscrutable mysteries of nature and God. In this respect, his experience was similar to that of his fellow writers who, with very few exceptions, all silently retreated to the backstage of their respective religious communities, albeit never ceasing to pursue a dimension of life that could help them transcend the historical constraints of the period in which they lived. In Doppo, however, one can also see a relentless and unyielding desire to define and explore faith that was not only unprecedented but probably also unmatched among his colleagues. Only Akutagawa, two decades later, would be able to attain the intensity of such inquiry in fictional works that cogently addressed the intersections between religion and modernity. Doppo’s internal struggle showed, in particular, that the qualms affecting him and other intellectuals were the product of a generational predicament that was in itself an integral part of the Christian experience of the Meiji and Taishō years. The clash between faith and skepticism seen at the turn of the twentieth century was a quintessential aspect of the process of introspection that was engrained in the collective Meiji-era endeavor to address the meaning of existence. As one author who probed deeply into this conflict, Doppo sat squarely within the developments of those years, exemplifying the multifaceted character of a modern response to impelling questions about God and life.

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Parallels with Tōson and Tōkoku Baptized on January 4, 1891 at the age of twenty, Doppo shared striking similarities with Tōson. Baptized by Uemura Masahisa, he, too, was therefore exposed not only to the orthodoxy of the Presbyterian Church but also to the religious leader’s own inspiring views on literature.2 As had been the case with Tōson, the experience of love became the catalyst for his literary ambitions, and although Doppo’s poetry did not reach the lyrical sensuality that characterized Tōson’s conflicted relationship with his Christian education, he also experienced to some extent the same duality between flesh and spirit in real life. And again, just like Tōson, the separation from the woman he loved – his wife Sasaki Nobuko left him after only four months of married life – coincided with his decision to distance himself from Christianity. Doppo’s spiritual inquiry was arguably less intertwined with the theme of sexuality, as he, unlike Tōson, did not necessarily view that domain as the primary source of human iniquity; he seemingly found arrogance, hypocrisy, and vanity equally worthy of condemnation. The overlapping of romance with the quest for God, however, which began to materialize upon his first encounter with Nobuko in June 1895, did not differ much from that experienced by his colleague, similarly playing a critical role in his conceptualization of love vis-à-vis Christianity and its teachings. Love and faith became mutually connected as they both competed for space during the most critical phase of his individual formation. Thus, in 1896, after being abandoned by his wife, he stated: If I only believed in God half as much as I love her, I would be a free man . . . instead of believing in Christ who gave his life on the Cross for the redemption of sins, I long for the love of she who has left me.3 Doppo’s first encounter with Christianity in the winter of 1889 was likewise characterized by sentiments of elation and wonder. In his piece “Ano jibun” (In Those Days) of 1906, he recalled the winter night he had accepted the invitation of a friend to attend service in Kōjimachi. On the way to the church, the friend had asked him in a serious tone whether he did not believe in the man born in Bethlehem, Jesus Christ, the savior of humanity. The word “Bethlehem” itself had struck a chord within his sensibility, and he had soon felt a fascination that was difficult to resist. Upon entering the building, similar to what happened to Sutekichi in Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, Doppo found himself in a dreamlike atmosphere: the soft and warm air that touched his cheeks, the beautiful young ladies gathered in praying, the high ceilings and white walls, and the fragrance of the flowers that had been placed on the altar all made him feel as if he had been given, in his own words, “wings to fly away toward a place of purity and beauty.” Presently, the congregation began to sing, and he was struck by such expressions as “true power” or “spring of love,” some of which even aroused fear in him. The singing was followed by the pastor’s passionate sermon, after which there were moments of silence. It was a world he had never seen. That night, Doppo wrote, he went

Kunikida Doppo  81 back home almost in a trance. Whether he read the Bible or sang hymns, he did not remember, but this had certainly been an experience he could never forget.4 Finally, Doppo also shared with Tōson a profound captivation with nature, and he, too, developed a similar pantheistic notion of God that was at times indistinguishable from the natural world. Sasabuchi Tomoichi actually pointed out that in Doppo’s case, “between nature and God there is little, if no distinction at all.”5 Doppo himself clarified the extent of that influence: When I think of how infinite nature is and compare it to the brevity of human life, I feel terror, and I cannot withstand the grief. When I think of the essence of nature, of human feelings and then of life, faith comes, and with it hope and courage come, too. You have to think of nature like Wordsworth does!6 Parallels with Tōkoku cannot be denied either. Similarly influenced by Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson, Doppo often pondered a life devoted to evangelization and the betterment of society. He shared a great passion for politics, was an avid reader and admirer of Yoshida Shōin (1830–59), the renowned Tokugawa educator, and in early 1891 he had the opportunity to meet journalist and literary critic Tokutomi Sohō, whose ideas influenced him greatly.7 Despite this early ambition for political success, however, Doppo soon became disillusioned with the world of politics, coming to realize that his interests lay elsewhere, namely the discovery of his true self and the art that allowed him to express it: literature. He also gradually began to experience that same disenchantment with the world that had caused Tōkoku to abandon the public domain in favor of a more private, interiorized existence. As a result, the systemic moral condemnation of fame and ambition became the centerpiece of his discourse, and his rejection of society as something evil, even sinful, that stood between the individual and his spirituality, became the theoretical premise to an increasingly introspective posture that focused entirely on the I, his fate, and his connection to the universe. In an essay titled “Shakai to hito” (Society and the Individual), a piece of 1892, posthumously published, Doppo explained: How do politicians interpret society? How do philosophers and holy men interpret it? What are the rules that govern the relationship between the world and human existence? Jesus said: “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.” Denying oneself is not an easy thing. Why is it so difficult? What is its meaning? It means winning against society. One’s victory against society means to proclaim the way of God. To proclaim the world of God means to eradicate “the social” from human society.8 To follow society thus meant to pursue fame and neglect the needs of the spiritual self. Doppo lived this predicament in first person; between February and March 1893 he repeatedly acknowledged his selfishness, his desire for wealth and notoriety, and his total dependence on the material world.9 On March 1, for

82  Narratives of conversion example, he stated that society had not only poisoned him, but also that it had the power to assimilate the individual and render him egotistic, and three weeks later he wrote about the important decision to pursue a career in literature and thus become a “teacher of men.”10 He was still interested in politics, he noted, but he believed that pursuing a career in that field would inevitably lead to desire for power and vanity. That summer, on July 20, he declared religion to be the only way to reclaim one’s independence from the surrounding social environment. Religion, he argued, was the culmination of an “individual feeling,” and “sincerity,” a concept he borrowed from Thomas Carlyle, was the gate to emotional freedom. Society, by contrast, killed sincerity, and it was from society that all iniquities of humankind came.11 As he put it in his diary the following month, “Society is a world of competition . . . it is war between people.”12 Two years later, on January 14, 1895, the conflict between society and the self still lay at the forefront of his concerns: At times society renders me a slave. My heart hopes for God, to be close to God, but without the love of God I only see the selfishness of society. My weakness makes me falter from within, while I become a slave to the outside world; I feel deep regret towards my internal weakness and cynical resistance towards the world. My soul is about to lose itself in this mysterious universe.13 Like Tōkoku, Doppo, too, became disenchanted with the Church over time and did not, therefore, dismiss any opportunity to criticize it. Already in August 1891, only months after being baptized, he wrote a letter to his friend Tamura Sanji (1873–1939) in which he decried Christians’ understanding of love as hypocritical, and in a later essay written in 1896, he attacked the vanity and deceitfulness that prospered “even within the Church.”14 Yamada Hiromitsu believes that Doppo was generally very concerned with social inequality and that he, too, essentially despised the ideology of earthly success at the foundation of Calvinism.15

Azamukazaru no ki: “sincerity,” nature, and the immortality of the soul Little is known about the events that led to Doppo’s conversion. Although Sakamoto Hiroshi maintains that his decision to convert was internally motivated, most scholars agree that it was likely externally driven, stemming largely from a desire to contribute to the improvement of society. Evidence can be found in articles he published toward the end of 1889 – the time of that special winter night when he attended service in Kōjimachi – in which he clearly decried the wish for social success as egotistic and harmful to society and strongly welcomed the recent rise of social movements that opposed prostitution.16 Although the event of his baptism was barely recorded in his diary, subsequent entries show that during the following months he was actively involved in the activities of his religious

Kunikida Doppo  83 community. He attended service regularly, held prayer meetings with the youth group of Tōkyō Senmon Gakkō where he was enrolled, and attended Uemura’s lectures every Wednesday. His enthusiasm and dedication were such that, Suzuki Hideko noted, during his temporary absence from Tokyo back home in Yamaguchi prefecture between 1891 and 1892, he often worried about the well-being of his church community. Upon his return to the capital he sent a letter to his friend Tamura expressing joy for the renewed opportunity to attend service and listen to Uemura’s sermons.17 It is toward the end of 1892, almost two years after his formal conversion, however, that Doppo is said to have experienced a true spiritual revolution. A record of that transformation can be found in Azamukazaru no ki (An Honest Record of the Soul), a new diary that he began to write in February of 1893.18 Covering a period of over four years, Azamukazaru no ki provides a vivid portrayal of a conscientious Christian, regularly attending service and reading the Bible, and eagerly seeking God against the significant epistemological challenges brought about by the coming of the modern age. Purported to be an authentic and honest record of the soul, and entirely predicated upon the Carlylean concept of “sincerity” – “a necessary personal attribute of all heroes and leaders of men” – the work is an earnest inquiry into the mystery of faith that, replete with insightful reflections on the meaning of existence and the depth of human belief, leads to the protagonist’s ultimate awakening to his vocation as a writer.19 Azamukazaru no ki was therefore not exactly an ordinary diary; the description of everyday happenings was kept to a minimum, with the only major exception being the story of love with Nobuko, an exception that illustrates how deeply important this relationship would be to the establishment of Doppo’s persona, both as an artist and an individual. Life events mentioned in this work included Doppo’s short professional collaboration with Kanamori Tsūrin and his newspaper Jiyū shinbun (The Freedom Newspaper) during the early months of 1893, his one-year assignment as a teacher of English and math in Saiki (Ōita Prefecture) from September of that year through June 1894, his association with Tokutomi Sohō’s Kokumin shinbun and the resulting experience as a reporter of the Sino-Japanese war from October 1894 to March 1895, his encounter with and marriage to Nobuko during the reminder of that year, Nobuko’s disappearance in April 1896, Doppo’s correspondence and visit with Uchimura Kanzō during that summer, and finally his association with author Tayama Katai in Nikkō which preceded his literary debut as a novelist with the publication of the story “Gen oji” (Uncle Gen). Doppo began to show the signs of introspection that became the trademark of his metaphysical inquiry approximately three months into this diary. On June 20, for example, he wrote that he had finally been able to understand and emotionally experience Carlyle’s idea of sincerity. He also wrote that he had read Emerson’s theory of the Oversoul and declared himself now free from all the social constrictions that had oppressed him in the past. It was a critical juncture in the formation of his religious thought; the concept of sincerity became, in fact, indissolubly tied to his spiritual development. Sincerity was, in his words, a religious sentiment that had, within itself, the potential to lead to faith.20

84  Narratives of conversion Doppo believed that sincerity also led to harmony with nature, and as such it was an essential attribute for a poet. As he pondered his future and began to examine the possibilities of devoting his life to literature, he often struggled to construct the self-image of a man of letters endowed with this special trait. Sincerity, he claimed, was not something that could be taught; it was instinctive in principle. Unfortunately, he did not think he had yet achieved it, and he regretted that this inadequacy prevented him from experiencing a feeling of oneness with the universe: “I am unable to experience unity with nature or men: there is no more painful and desperate time than this. I cannot live without sincerity, and I feel as if I cannot breathe.”21 Since only the children of nature were able to achieve sincerity, he stated, his inability to do so worried him, leaving him prey to foolishness and immorality. Whereas on the one hand he did believe that “only Christ’s love and faith in the love of God could save [him],” on the other, he also acknowledged that his faith was merely made of passion and not by strong convictions, and that it was the lack of sincerity within him that lay at the roots of his sufferings: I confess, my will is weak and so are my actions. I do not have sincerity. God, please help me. . . . When I think of the strong faith that Christ, Socrates, Wordsworth, Carlyle and other wise men had, I become aware of my lack of sincerity.22 Sincerity was elusive. But “in light of twenty years of sin and misconduct,” Doppo stated, he still held faith in God to be the supreme goal of his life: “My only hope,” he stated, “is that the faith in God that once burned in me never fade . . . my life is to be serious and so is my heavenly task. I will study life passionately and share that knowledge with my fellow men.”23 Doppo’s belief in the centrality of faith in a person’s life was therefore unequivocal. He preferred “to live a day under the flame of faith to a thousand years of ordinary life,” and stated that, without faith and belief in the existence of God and the immortal and forever lasting soul, he could never hope for a serene existence. His longing was however often accompanied by pain, and he began to think that he should perhaps focus his attention on nature instead: I finally understand. Instead of obstinately seeking the passion of faith, which does not come, causing me pain, I have resolved to relinquish my ardor and instead calmly contemplate nature, life, the independence of man and infinity; and by means of this contemplation, seek God, feel love, experience beauty, and wait for faith to come to me. . . . With tears of passion I pray to God . . . faith is life, faith is everything.24 Faith was thus for Doppo a dimension of peace and tranquility in which to place one’s trust, but as he began to ponder more deeply about life and death, absorbed in existential questions that placed his relationship with nature at the center of his inquiry, he continued to be tormented by the feeling that he lacked sincerity. On October 11, he wrote:

Kunikida Doppo  85 Why is my faith shallow? It is not because I do not believe in God. I truly believe. But I think of him rarely. Why so? It has to do with my lack of sincerity. It is because I lack in meditation and self-reflection. I utterly regret that I do not have sincerity.25 He then seemed to find temporary relief for his emotional pain in Carlyle’s “Great Man theory:” Without great men my life would be hopeless. I now for the first time finally grasp the gist of Carlyle’s adoration of heroes. If there were no Christ, no Milton, no Luther and others standing in front of us and teaching us with sincerity, leading and ruling mankind, I would have no hope in life. I gain hope in life through the spirit of the heroes. Without heroes, the world is empty. It is nothing but a crowd of fools, a herd of animals. Through heroes I know sincerity. With sincerity I hope for God and believe in the holiness of the world . . . being a hero is a duty, this is the gist of my faith.26 As can be evinced from the passages above, for Doppo, faith was not exactly a belief in a transcendental being, nor did his conceptualization of such being necessarily mirror a Christian view of God. For him, the essence of faith was the act of believing. In his work On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History, Carlyle had stated, “The merit of originality is not novelty, it is sincerity. The believing man is the original man; whatsoever he believes, he believes it for itself, not for another.” Therefore, to believe meant to be original and at the same time sincere. That nature might ultimately challenge the supremacy of an anthropomorphic God did not seemingly matter to Doppo: faith, i.e., to believe, was paradoxically more important than the object of one’s belief, it was a principle that tied into the very meaning of existence and that could provide an interpretive key to the mystery of life. Amid these deliberations and following increasing financial pressure, in October 1893, Doppo moved to Saiki where he taught for one year. The time he spent there was, according to his own account, the most joyful of his life. Under the influence of Wordsworth’s writings, he continued to explore the meaning of the self and its relationship to nature and God, and although the shadows of pessimism and skepticism that had accompanied him since his earlier philosophical deliberations never left him, his determination to prioritize faith in his life did not falter. On June 20, at the end of his stay, he wrote: “Faith is believing in the goodness, beauty and truth of God who is the center of the universe.” He also stated that without the presence of faith one could not achieve harmony between thought and emotions.27 Doppo wrote a long essay around this time titled “Shinkō seimei” (The Life of Faith) that mirrored the chief motifs now at the foundation of his philosophical inquiry: the upholding of sincerity as the defining trait of a true human being, the restless negotiations with the shadows of skepticism, the longing for a unity with nature and the questions regarding its relationship to God, and the contemplation

86  Narratives of conversion of eternity and the immortality of the soul. At the center of his concerns was still his failure to experience the transcendental: I confess I am unable to feel the presence of God . . . I must admit that I do not have a strong and true faith. Nature is just cold . . . where is my spirit, where is my soul?28 Frustrated by this inability to feel like he truly was a child of nature, he acknowledged his dependence on materialism and carnality. He believed, however, that these maladies were not afflicting him alone but were rather the product of the age in which he lived: although this should have been an age for the Gospel, he lamented, the only thing that unfortunately seemed to matter these days was the Gospel of materialism and skepticism. These were alarming times, he believed, and it was necessary to transcend history, politics, and the State, if one wished to pursue the unity of the self with the universe. He also understood he was now at a fork in the road: one must either believe that all came from God and thus believe in love, beauty, and goodness, or believe that human beings were just made of flesh, that they were born and that they died. Doppo was also aware that any choice he would make was to an extent a mere compromise of sorts. He realized that he was still prisoner of the historical constraints and prejudices of his time; metaphorically speaking, he said, the sun he saw was not the same that Wordsworth had seen, nor was the world in which he lived the same as Christ’s. And yet, he cried for faith. Why? He wondered. The reason, he concluded, was to be found in one of Emerson’s famous statements: “Our faith comes in a moment; our vice is habitual. Yet there is a depth in those brief moments which constrains us to ascribe more reality to them than to all other experiences.” It was the sublimity of such moments that drove his quest. His wish was to feel his life as part of the universe: this, he believed, was the first step toward faith. He also believed that such awareness rendered his spirit immortal: “I am not like smoke and dust that vanish away. I cannot but feel like I am an immortal spirit that is part of the holiness of heaven.”29 “Shinkō seimei” tackled such themes as eternity and immortality that would emerge often in Doppo’s narrative. One can see glimpses of them in “Takibi” (Bonfire), a short piece from 1896 about a group of boys building a bonfire on a beach that, Jay Rubin noted, “contains the germ of all that ever interested him: the rootless wanderer, the anonymous who come and go through nature, the nostalgia for boyhood, the impossibility of human interchange.”30 In the final scene of this story, the boys’ fire and the old man’s footprints become one with nature as they are all erased by the eternal waves. Traces of the same motifs can also be found in “Wasureenu hitobito” (Unforgettable People), a story of 1898, in which, recalling those men who had made a vivid impression on him in the past, the protagonist Ōtsu Benjirō admits to finding a moment of peace in his otherwise tormented and restless life only when “thinking of those unforgettable people, not as people themselves, but as part of a moment, of a larger scene.” It is only then that, he states, he is able to experience a sense of belonging and oneness, with

Kunikida Doppo  87 “all of us returning hand in hand, along that same eternal track, to that infinite heaven.”31 But it is perhaps “Haru no tori” (Birds of Spring), another short story that appeared in 1904, that best illustrates Doppo’s continuing fascination with the question of eternity and the afterlife. The death of Rokuzō, a mentally challenged boy who is said to have jumped off a wall trying to imitate the birds that he so much loved, provides the catalyst for Doppo’s philosophical inquiry in this work. Two days after the funeral, the teacher and narrator, who had already had in the preceding days the “profound impression . . . that, for all his imbecility, the young boy was after all a child of nature,” finds himself thinking about the strangeness of life, “the difference between men and the other animals, the connection between man and nature; life and death”; and recalling Wordsworth’s poem “There Was a Boy,” in which a child dies and “his spirit returns to the bosom of nature,” he begins to wonder whether the birds flying about as he stood watching from the top of the wall might not be Rokuzō himself.32 The question of the afterlife was thus at the core of Doppo’s concerns, and he reiterated his belief that the spirit survived the decay of the flesh: The great philosophers went somewhere, the philosophers are somewhere. Wordsworth and Carlyle, whom I profoundly respect, went somewhere, their works are without a doubt here on my desk, they wrote them . . . what is that they believed in? What is that they wrote about? Oh, immortality! They wrote about immortality. . . . Their spirit is somewhere. Where is the way in this universe in which they believed? Look, look, the blue sky that they looked up to, is now actually above my head. . . . They did not die. My friend Kogawa did not die. I don’t think that they disappeared to a place other than this mysterious universe. And I don’t believe that as their flesh returned to dust, the life of their soul returned to nothingness. . . . Ah mysterious world! They are hidden within the mysterious. What about me? What about me? As a human being I hold a life within the domain of the mysterious, and within that life I hold a soul that is aware of its mystery within the mysterious. I do not disappear into nothingness. Neither do all the people who live. Humanity does not disappear into nothingness.  .  .  . Is that so? Is it really so? . . . Oh Spirit! God, please show me the light! He thinks he was not made to die: and thou hast made him; thou art just. In memoriam, A.H.H.33 Despite its strong pantheistic overtones, “Shinkō seimei” may have been Doppo’s last genuine attempt to comprehend faith rationally. In the following months his hopeful outlook began to give way to increased uncertainty and hesitation. An entry dated February 5, 1895 exemplified the nature of his predicament: “Two years have passed since I began to write Azamukazaru no ki. Two years is not a short time . . . but, just like back then, I still do not have faith.”34 The rigor and strictness he had imposed on himself in the hope of leading an ethical life and thus achieving peace had not yielded any tangible result. This deepening

88  Narratives of conversion crisis was partially mitigated by his encounter with Nobuko in the summer of that year. On August 1, in fact, Doppo wrote: “My life has entered a new phase. We fell in love,”35 and from that point onward, Azamukazaru no ki became in essence a record of their romance. Shortly after, despite opposition from her family, the two were married. However, after only a few months of marital life, Nobuko suddenly ran away, and the event, including the resulting divorce, left Doppo in despair. During this time of grief, Doppo confided in Uchimura Kanzō, whom he admired; he visited with him in Kyoto during the summer of 1896, seeking advice on a possible trip overseas. In August Doppo wrote: “I am gradually feeling more intimate with nature, whereas I continue to grow apart from men. Nature is beautiful and honest, whereas men are selfish and mendacious beings.”36 Doppo’s plans to travel ultimately did not materialize, but yet another important transformation took place during that summer. He wrote in fact at least four pieces, all posthumously published, that many scholars have seen as his formal separation from the faith. In one of them, “Bungakusha yo no tenshoku” (Being a Writer Is My Vocation), he argued that the man of letters was someone entrusted with the mission of describing beauty, truth, and the mysteries of the universe. Today, such men explained to people the essence of life in the same way that prophets had done with the word of God in the past, and for this reason, Doppo stated, he had decided to follow his vocation to become one. And yet, despite the nobility of such a task and the excitement that lay ahead, he confessed, nothing could ever match the happiness and freedom he would feel, were he able to really believe, a freedom for which he would gladly relinquish his dreams of becoming a great writer. Literature, he declared, was after all “just a hiding place for the skeptics.”37 Put in these terms, Doppo’s choice to pursue a literary career seemed to imply a perceived incompatibility of literature and religion, reinforcing a paradigm already established a few years earlier by Uchimura Kanzō and espoused by critics like Masamune Hakuchō over the following years.

The loss of faith and the desire to be moved It is, however, in the remaining three essays that Doppo made his most consequential statements on the question of faith. Doppo held faith to be central to an individual’s existence. He preferred “to live a day under the flame of faith to a thousand years of ordinary life,” and stated that, without faith and belief in the existence of God and the immortal and everlasting soul, he could never live a life of tranquility.38 Even after fully embracing the concept of nature, he stated that “nature without God is empty . . . a life without faith is an empty life.”39 Yet, his skepticism never abated, and in “Tada yami o miru” (Simply in the Darkness), one of those three essays, he fully acknowledged his inability to believe. Calling himself “the greatest fool among the fools, the greatest ignoramus among the ignorant, and the greatest sinner among sinners,” he stated that if he could believe in God, in Jesus his Son, and in the remission of sins even a fraction as much as he believed in his love for his wife, he would feel a free man. Unable to do so, he

Kunikida Doppo  89 lamented, he envied “those who have the faith to pray.”40 Similarly, in “Mudai: kami to ware” (Untitled: God and I), regretting his past actions, he wrote: Happy are those who believe that Christ is the Son of God! They are able to free themselves of all of these afflictions. . . . How different is our perception of the world, when one believes that Christ is the Son of God. . . . Unfortunately I have doubts, and my faith is weak.41 His most lucid personal assessment of the failures of his spiritual journey appeared however in yet another piece, “Waga kako” (My Past): My past is made of day dreaming, evil, misery, and failure. Several years have passed since I embraced the teachings of Christ, his truth and life. . . . I am now twenty-five, and all this time I have just been living the life of a daydreamer. On a spiritual level the principles of Christianity have not guided me in any way.42 In this third essay, Doppo wondered whether he had truly observed the principles that should be at the foundation of a Christian life, and following a tenquestion format, he began asking whether he had been as humble as a Christian should be. His response was negative: In front of God and my fellow men I have been the most arrogant . . . instead of devoting myself to endeavors that pleased God, I have always rushed to promote myself, seeking to impress the world and to fulfill my desire for gain. I have been arrogant. Next, he asked whether he had shown self-esteem, which he understood to be respect for the bond between God and the individual and a prerequisite for a Christian believer taking a stand in the world, and stated that he had always relied on others, thus bringing ridicule upon himself and the Creator. The third, fourth, and fifth questions regarded his morality, his diligence, and his devotion to prayers. He affirmed himself to be a dissolute person who had often behaved immorally, had often been lazy, and had prayed to God only when in need. Then he asked himself whether he was a free man; he thought so, he responded, but the freedom he experienced was not the type of freedom that resulted from a firm belief in God. To the question of whether he had been perseverant, he answered that he had not endured adversity through prayers and humility like a true Christian should do. Whereas with respect to the question of whether love truly resided in his heart, he acknowledged being compassionate but regretted having been unable to love family, friends, even his wife, as he should have. The last two questions he tried to address in this essay pertained to Christ and the Bible. His answers were blunt: his God was a God without Christ, and the Bible was a book he had never fully read: “[I am] a Christian without Christ, without the Bible, an arrogant, servile, immoral, lazy, weak, selfish believer.

90  Narratives of conversion I  am definitely not a Christian.” All these years, he continued, he had dreamt about freedom, nature, the mysterious, beauty, fame, love, and even of becoming a poet, but in return he had earned only despair. Unfortunately, Christianity and daydreaming were incompatible. The Christian religion taught that life was a serious matter, something that did not go well with laziness and indolence, excess, and frivolity, he thought. He had thus come to the conclusion that he did not have what it took to be a true believer and was therefore parting from Christianity. When it appeared after his death, “Waga kako” was probably seen as a validation of the notion shared by many in the bundan that literature and religion were mutually exclusive and that the demise of the Christian religion was, for historical and cultural reasons, inevitable even among the class of intellectuals who had gladly embraced it after the Restoration. After all, it was common knowledge by then that many prominent writers – Tōkoku, Tōson, and Hakuchō, for example  – had already suffered a similar predicament. “Waga kako,” Doppo’s formal declaration of his separation from Christianity, concealed, however, a surprising element that has not been sufficiently highlighted by scholars thus far. In this consequential essay, Doppo did not exactly state that he could not believe in God or Jesus. That was not the reason why he renounced his faith; on the contrary, it was his sense of iniquity and his conviction of being morally inadequate that appeared to be the cause of his decision. One is faced here with a puzzling logic reversal. That is, in Doppo’s case, awareness of sin led to contrition, which in turn, paradoxically, resulted not in a reconciliation with God but a separation from him. Doppo took his inability to maintain a morally irreprehensible conduct of life as evidence that “the principles of Christianity [had] not guided [him] in any way.” This realization convinced him that he was morally corrupt and that redemption was for him unattainable. Interestingly, this sense of iniquity and the conviction of being morally inadequate in front of God – a reflection of a desire to be authentic and not selfdeceiving – was a trait common to all of the writers discussed in this study. In his 1906 work Zange, Kinoshita Naoe confessed his hypocrisy and falseness as a believer in Christ and wrote: “I have fought for justice, preached God’s love, called for an improvement of society and have proclaimed a spirit of sacrifice, but who am I really?”43 Shimazaki Tōson echoed such sentiment when, it will be recalled, Sutekichi asked himself “Are you a Christian? . . . He no longer was the type of believer that every Sunday felt the need to go to the same church. . . . He had even quit praying before meals.” The protagonists of several of Hakuchō’s stories often believe themselves to be doomed beyond redemption, and so do Arishima’s; constantly regretting the presence of “impure elements within his heart,” Arishima was himself convinced that he was “without doubt, eternally damned.”44 It is important to note, however, that despite his formal surrender, Doppo did not cease to contemplate faith and how this could possibly tie in with his evolving philosophy. The product of those reflections reemerged, for example, in “Gyūniku to bareisho” (Beef and Potatoes), a well-known 1901 story in which a number of friends, gathered at the Meiji Club, argue over the philosophical merits of a

Kunikida Doppo  91 realistic or idealistic approach to life, respectively symbolized by beef and potatoes. Okamoto, one of the men involved in the conversation and by the author’s own admission Doppo’s alter ego, argues that he is neither an idealist or a realist and that the cause of his indecision lies in an unusual personal wish. Prompted by his friends to reveal the content of such wish, Okamoto states that it is the desire to be moved: I don’t want to know the mysteries of the universe; I want to be moved by the mysteries of the universe. . . . I don’t want to know the secrets of death; I want to be moved by the fact of death!45 Next, as if he had been talking about faith all along, Okamoto states that faith in and of itself isn’t what I want, necessarily. But I do want to be plagued by the mysteries of man and his universe, in fact, to a point where without faith there can be no peace for me, even for a moment.46 Doppo’s new philosophical model emerged once again in another piece titled “Okamoto no techō” (Okamoto’s Notebook), which appeared five years later as a fictitious excerpt from the same character’s own diary, in which the protagonist asserts the very same idea; his wish is “to wake up from sleep, to shake off this dream and experience the endless, beautiful, and mysterious universe.” Without awakening, Okamoto believes, religion is meaningless, and so are the premises of faith. Thus, “Before one argues over the existence of God, one must first be ‘awake.’ The fact that you do not have religious faith is proof that your soul is paralyzed.”47 Doppo was thus able to partially solve his paradox – wishing to believe but believing to be spiritually inadequate – by declaring that being awake was more important than believing. Since, according to Yamada Hiromitsu, “Okamoto no techō” was actually written in the summer of 1896, before “Gyūniku to bareisho” and even before the end of Azamukazaru no ki, it is likely during that summer, at the peak of his skepticism, that Doppo formulated these last consequential deliberations.48 Doppo’s separation from Christianity – and the same can be said about most of his fellow writers – signified, first and foremost, the rejection of the belief in the inevitability of one’s damnation. It was a separation that was made possible, in his case, by the elaboration of a new value system that shifted the focus of his inquiry from “believing” to the need “to be moved” in order to believe. Doppo died on June 23, 1908, and it is said that on his deathbed he confessed to his mentor Uemura Masahisa, who urged him to pray, his inability to do so. Two months later Arishima wrote the following passage in English in his diary, likely capturing the essence of Doppo’s philosophical and spiritual legacy: We have in him the first literary man who stood as a man in the world. The thing which makes me admire him is his magnanimous attitude to lead his life entirely according to his own conviction. He disregards every

92  Narratives of conversion conventional and habitual precept of life, and tries to create his own principle. Of course, he is full of errors and mistakes in making his principle, but how nobler he is than those who stick cowardly to the olden principles which are half rotten by the course of time. In the age of chaos like this we ought to take the life view same to him, but with more success and rationality. First we must be courageous. We must not be outdone by the hearsays of other men or opinions.49 Prior to his death, however, during the last years of his life, Doppo, who never truly abandoned his passion for politics, embarked on a number of political and commercial ventures that eventually caused him to go bankrupt and experience, yet again, the hardships of financial distress. But he also launched a productive literary career, publishing a significant number of short stories that gained him the recognition of the literary world. Masamune Hakuchō was one of the emerging young writers who was most directly influenced by these stories.

Notes 1 See his “Ware wa ika ni shite shōsetsuka ni narishi ka,” in vol. 1 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 495–9. 2 Uemura wrote at length about Wordsworth and Carlyle and he likely had an important influence on the developing interests of the young intellectual. See Shiota Ryōhei, “Kaidai,” in vol. 6 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 460–1. 3 “Tada yami o miru” (Simply in the Darkness), in vol. 9 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 187. 4 See “Ano jibun” (1906), in vol. 3 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 451–60. 5 See Sasabuchi Tomoichi, “Bungakkai” to sono jidai, vol. 2, 1401. 6 September 11, 1893; see Azamukazaru no ki, in vol. 6 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 277. 7 Sohō would play an important role at different junctures in Doppo’s life: it is thanks to his mediation and that of journalist and critic Yano Ryūkei that he found a teaching job in Saiki, in Ōita prefecture, at a time of deep financial crisis. Sohō also acted as go-between on the occasion of his marriage and was in general an essential interlocutor for him throughout his younger years. 8 In vol. 6 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 255. 9 See, for example, entry of February 23, 1893; in Azamukazaru no ki, vol. 6 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 40. 10 Entry of March 21, 1893; ibid., 70. 11 Entry of July 20, 1893; ibid., 179. 12 Entry of August 9, 1893; ibid., 216. 13 See Azamukazaru no ki, in vol. 7 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 265. 14 On this point see Sasabuchi Tomoichi, “Bungakkai” to sono jidai, vol. 2, 1374, and Doppo’s own “Tada yami o miru,” 188. 15 Yamada Hiromitsu, “Kunikida Doppo to kirisutokyō,” Bungaku 47:3 (1979), 122. 16 See, for example, his essays “Anbishon (Yabōron)” (Ambition) and “Kanzuru tokoro o shirushite Meiji nijūni nen o okuru” (Some Reflections at the End of the Twentysecond Year of the Meiji Period), which both appeared in the journal Jogaku zasshi at the end of 1889. On this point, see Suzuki Hideko, “Kunikida Doppo to kirisutokyō,” Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kanshō 47:8 (1982), 45–50. 17 Letter dated September 22, 1892; quoted in Suzuki Hideko, “Kunikida Doppo to kirisutokyō,” 48. 18 Azamukazaru no ki would be posthumously published in 1908.

Kunikida Doppo  93 19 Shiota Ryōhei pointed out that this concept of sincerity closely resembled the notion of shisei, or integrity, strongly advocated by Yoshida Shōin in his teachings. See Shiota Ryōhei, “Kaidai,” in vol. 6 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 450. 20 Entry of June 26, 1893; see Azamukazaru no ki, in vol. 6 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 156. 21 Entry of August 7, 1893; ibid., 209. 22 Entry of August 10, 1893; ibid., 217–19. 23 Entries of August 21 and 22, 1893; ibid., 238–9. 24 Entries of August 27 and 28, 1893; ibid., 248–9. 25 Entry of October 11, 1893; ibid., 305. 26 Ibid. 27 Entry of June 20, 1894; see Azamukazaru no ki, in vol. 7 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 151. 28 This essay would also be posthumously published. See “Shinkō seimei” (1894), in vol. 9 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 215. 29 Ibid., 231–2. 30 Jay Rubin, “Takibi: The Bonfire by Kunikida Doppo,” Monumenta Nipponica 25:1 (1970), 197–202. 31 Jay Rubin, “Five Stories by Kunikida Doppo,” Monumenta Nipponica 27:3 (1972), 303. 32 See David G. Chibbett, “Bird of Spring. Haru no Tori,”Monumenta Nipponica 26:1 (1971), 195–203. 33 “Shinkō seimei,” in vol. 9 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 238. 34 See Azamukazaru no ki, in vol. 7 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 198. 35 Ibid., 340. 36 Entry of August 14, 1895; ibid., 380. It is around the time he first met Nobuko that Doppo had begun an epistolary exchange with Uchimura Kanzō; when, after the wedding, Doppo went to Hokkaidō to look for a new home for him and his wife, he visited Nitobe Inazō carrying a letter of introduction from Uchimura. It seems that Uchimura, who had himself experienced a failed marriage in his life, had been quite sympathetic toward Doppo during his stay in Kyoto, but on August 21 the young intellectual had harsh words for him, calling him egotistic and despotic. 37 See “Bungakusha yo no tenshoku,” in vol. 9 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 134. 38 Entry of August 26, 1893; see Azamukazaru no ki, in vol. 6 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 246. 39 Entry of September 12, 1893; ibid., 278. 40 “Tada yami o miru,” in vol. 9 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 185–9. 41 “Mudai: kami to ware,” ibid., 168–71. 42 “Waga kako,” ibid., 342–6. 43 Quoted in vol. 10 of Kindai nihon shisō taikei, edited by Takeda Kiyoko (Chikuma shobō, 1975), 126. 44 Entry of April 21,1903; see Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 338. 45 “Beef and Potatoes.” English translation by Leon Zolbrod, in vol. 1 of The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature, edited by J. Thomas Rimer and Van C. Gessel, 165. 46 Ibid. 47 “Okamoto no techō,” in vol. 1 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 484. 48 Quoted in Satō Masaru, “Shōsetsuka no tanjō: Kunikida Doppo ron no kokoromi (1),” Tōkyō Joshi Daigaku fuzoku hikaku bunka kenkyūjo kiyō 32 (1972), 6. 49 Entry of August 21, 1908; see Kansōroku, in vol. 12 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 15.

5

Masamune Hakuchō The fear of death and the cruelty of the Christian God

Masamune Hakuchō, who converted in 1897 and renounced his faith in 1901, was one of the fiercest detractors from Christianity in the bundan, so much so that Uchimura Kanzō once referred to him as the devil.1 His literary career and Christian experience were in many ways linked to Doppo’s. This is not merely because the two writers shared the same mentor – Hakuchō, too, was baptized by Uemura Masahisa and studied at length under him – or because both of them were affected by Uchimura Kanzō’s teachings – Hakuchō even more profoundly than Doppo. Nor is it because they both belonged at one point to the naturalist school, albeit with remarkably different traits, and as such, shared the movement’s conflicting stance toward Christianity and moral authority. Rather it is because the publication of one of Doppo’s collections came at such a critical juncture in Hakuchō’s development as a writer that its impact cannot be minimized: When a free copy of the new edition of Doppo shū was sent to the newspaper, I took a look at it by chance, and, as I was reading it, somehow I found it very interesting and ended up reading the whole thing. I published my thoughts in the newspaper. I think it was the first review of Doppo shū to appear.2 Over the years, Hakuchō would often praise Doppo’s unadorned style and, in particular, his ability to explore the theme of human existence without ornamentation or exaggeration, thus capturing the essence of his narrative strategy. Doppo’s success, and the fact that he, in Hakuchō’s own words, now stood neck and neck with Tōson in terms of popularity, signaled the dawn of a new phase in Japan’s literary history, a phase that now acknowledged the importance of content over form and that concurrently led to a changed public perception of the social mission, and status, of the writer. Doppo’s death in 1908 received unprecedented attention from the media: Doppo passed away soon thereafter. In those days, the death of a writer was not a big deal. The news of the passing of Takayama Chogyū took only a few lines at the margins of Yorozu chōhō. But when Doppo died, the news took three pages of the Yomiuri. It was something unprecedented for a writer. Because I was in charge of the literary column and was seen together with

Masamune Hakuchō  95 Doppo as a member of the naturalist school, some probably thought that I had given him a special treatment. But that was not the case.3 Doppo’s success convinced Hakuchō that his own literary ambitions were not misplaced and that he, too, could earn himself a reputation as a writer. But the empathy and consideration that Hakuchō felt for his colleague also likely stemmed from the realization that the two of them shared a common predicament: When he was young, Doppo was a Christian believer, and he studied with Uemura Masahisa. When he became seriously ill, he had pastor Uemura come see him. . . . The pastor said: “Believe in Christ the Savior,” and tried to have him pray to God, but it seems that Doppo somehow was unable to and cried. I was very frail at the time; I imagined Doppo’s state of mind and felt very close to him. Uemura sensei was also my pastor; I was baptized by him, and for many years I attended his sermons.4 Hakuchō was aware of Doppo’s past as a Christian and of the spiritual challenges he had faced in his life. Although rather skeptical about the true influence of Christianity in Meiji literature – he believed that only poet Kinoshita Mokutarō and Akutagawa Ryūnosuke had been able to find some place for faith in their works – in an essay titled “Meiji kirisutokyō bungaku” (Christian Literature of the Meiji Period) of 1926 he nevertheless acknowledged that quite a few of Doppo’s works had been written under that influence, clearly setting him apart from the majority of converts in the bundan. The story of Doppo’s last encounter with Uemura Masahisa impressed him deeply, and in a 1954 article, in which he discussed his own fear of death and the problem of human mortality, he stated that, just like Doppo, he, too, would probably be unable to pray on his deathbed.5 The fear of death was, by Hakuchō’s own admission, one of the reasons why he initially embraced the Christian faith, and it is especially with respect to death that his and Doppo’s religious discourse intersected. As if to emphasize his lasting concern about the ephemerality of existence, Hakuchō ironically asked how human beings could ever experience happiness, when they know that they are walking inevitably toward their demise.6 As seen in the previous chapter, Doppo likewise contemplated the question of death and immortality; but whereas his conceptualization of the afterlife was generally removed from a strictly Christian eschatology, drawing deeply from the notion of the existence of a cosmic soul, Hakuchō’s reflections on this topic always took place within the borders of religious orthodoxy. As Doppo tended to transcend the teachings of Christianity in his attempt to attain internal peace and unity with nature, Hakuchō sought to achieve that peace while constantly negotiating with the notion of an omnipotent Christian God and what he viewed as his selfish and capricious will. A short story of 1922 is illustrative of Hakuchō’s preoccupation with death. In this work, titled “Meimō” (Illusion), a hermit is visited by three spirits with whom he engages in conversations about the afterlife. The second of these spirits, it is revealed, has killed himself and has now been turned into a tree as a punishment

96  Narratives of conversion for his suicide. The reason why he took his own life is not, he explains, to escape worldly sufferings but rather because, thinking death to be superior to life, he had thought that with the death of the flesh the spirit would die too. Unfortunately, things had not turned out as expected, and he was now condemned to eternal suffering. Realizing that one cannot kill one’s soul, and that life after death is inescapable, the hermit arrives at the conclusion that, ultimately, surrendering to the will of God is the only course of action possible. His question, “If you can’t destroy your own soul, even if you try, then there is probably no way to obtain peace? Is the wisest course to follow God blindly and beg His mercy?”7 exemplifies the profundity of his realization. Thus, as Robert Rolf has noted in his analysis of this work, it is indeed this second spirit who is the most consequential in the story, because he is the one who informs the hermit of the inevitability of the afterlife, whose alternative, the extinction of the soul, was equally frightening. In this sense, Hakuchō was faced with an unresolvable dilemma: either pursue the irrational, religious faith, which would likely see him perish in hell, or accept the even worse reality of total extinction at death.8 There were, however, also other important similarities between Hakuchō and Doppo. Although one might argue that discipline, spiritual rigor, and authenticity were attributes shared by many Meiji writers interested in Christianity, like Doppo, Hakuchō displayed a depth of self-scrutiny that truly set him apart in the literary landscape of those years. In the 1915 story “Natsu kodachi” (Summer Grove), for example, Moriya, a devout and self-disciplined young man on his way to Tokyo to learn more about Christianity, explains that life is pointless if one does not look into the meaning of existence; and in a letter he sends from Tokyo to the missionary with whom he had first studied the Bible, he explains his hesitation about being immediately baptized, stating that, unlike his friend Yoshida, he is pondering this choice very seriously. Similarly, Sokichi – the protagonist of his 1910 story “Torō” (Wasted Effort) – explains the reason for his conversion to the faith by affirming that an inquiry into what it means to be human is absolutely necessary. Without any doubt, Doppo and Hakuchō were driven by the same keen idealism, an idealism that in the latter’s case, however, took the form of a nihilistic stance toward human existence that became not only a trademark of Hakuchō’s literary production but also of his existentialist discourse in general. The notion that despite such nihilism he was actually a staunch idealist should not be surprising. In 1917, author Hirotsu Kazuo saw in Hakuchō’s works a fundamental dislike for evil: “In other words, at the bottom of his absolute rejection, there is the cry of a soul that is searching for something that is not wicked and ugly.” And in 1949, critic Nakamura Mitsuo added to this characterization, defining him as the ultimate idealist, someone who, vis-à-vis his own idealism, could not help expressing the frustration and anger he harbored toward reality.9 In his analysis of Doko e (Whither?), one of Hakucho’s most celebrated works, Hyōdō Masanosuke similarly argued that despite his cynicism, his dislike for any form of authority, and the fact that he is unable to become passionate about anything, be it “principles, books, liquor, women, or even his own intelligence,” Suganuma Kenji, the

Masamune Hakuchō  97 novel’s protagonist, is actually in search of “that something” that will give him new life. The scene where he stops to listen to a sidewalk preacher of the Salvation Army, the only instance in the whole work in which he shows interest and concern for anything, is evidence that Suganuma is in fact yearning for something greater than himself, and that he is fascinated by those who are able to believe in a higher cause.10 Hakuchō’s longing for an idealized dimension of purity, removed from the egotism and hypocrisy of the world, was not unlike Doppo’s desire to transcend his social and historical context. One could argue that his search for something capable to engage him emotionally was not very different from Okamoto’s desire, in “Gyūniku to bareisho,” “to be moved,” either. But whereas Doppo wished to achieve that transcendental experience while in this world, Hakuchō’s true longing resided in the afterlife. For him, the wretchedness of the human condition defied any idealistic hope of finding peace and harmony within one’s earthly existence, hence his nihilism. Hakuchō’s fascination with the medieval world, clearly outlined in his 1917 essay “Dante ni tsuite” (On Dante), derived in part from his belief that everyday life was just an illusion, and that the real life was in heaven.11

Hakuchō’s conversion As had been the case with Tōkoku, Tōson, and Doppo before him, Hakuchō’s early fascination with Christianity came first of all from its exoticism: There were quite a number of believers in a village that was about five miles from my hometown and so there was also a Christian center. . . . One day I visited the place, met the missionary and talked about Christianity, and that’s when I decided to attend sermons. The foreign religion was strange, mysterious, and fascinating to me as a child.12 He was especially interested in the Bible: After I graduated from elementary school I attended for a few years a number of private schools. One of them was a school run by missionaries called Biyō Gakuin that was located in the outskirts of town. It was likely a school originally opened with the goal of spreading Christianity, but there really were no religion classes or Sunday services. They taught English, math and Chinese classical studies just like any other middle school. However, it is there that I first came in touch with Christianity. . . . For someone like me who really liked to read about tales and stories since my childhood years, reading the Bible was like reading a rare foreign novel.13 Physical frailness added to his curiosity about the exotic world of the Christian religion. Very often in poor health and faced by illness, Hakuchō recalled finding great comfort in the words of the Bible. He found the idea of a compassionate

98  Narratives of conversion Christ caring for human beings in the same way a hen protected her chickens especially endearing: During my illness I instinctively felt like praying to God and ask for help. I felt like keeping at praying. When they are gravely ill, human beings will pray to any God or Buddha. I was close to Christianity at the time and so I felt I ought to pray to the Christian God.14 Although his first exposure to the religion took place in his immediate surroundings, it is through his readings – mainly Tokutomi Sohō’s journal Kokumin no tomo – that he became fully aware of its existence: It is through Kokumin no tomo, rather than my training in Chinese classical studies at my school, that I acquired knowledge, and through this journal that I peeked into the world. It is also through this journal that I came to know about Christianity and the existence of the Christian religion. I thought that the religion of Jesus was more interesting than Mencius or the Analects. It is not that I was advised by anyone, I just acted out of my own impulse. I bought a Bible by placing an order with the clerk that came from the bookstore in Okayama. I read it alone and since the meaning was often vague and unclear to me, I visited a Christian center in the neighboring town and received lessons from the missionary working there. I asked him to explain religion-related topics that sometime appeared in Kokumin no tomo and at times I even surprised him with questions on the Holy Trinity and such. I was very unhappy about my school and its emphasis on Chinese classical studies and after a year and a half I decided to quit. I then entered Biyō Gakuin, a school run by missionaries in Okayama. The head of this school was Abe Isoo, but at the time he was studying in America. During the period I was enrolled there, I was introduced by the missionary in the countryside to the Director of a children’s hospital by the name of Ishii Jūji, and decided to take Bible classes from him. This was for me a memorable event.15 Abe Isoo eventually came back, but since, in the meantime, he had switched to Unitarianism and was now more interested in socialism than theology, Hakuchō recalled, things did not work very well between him and the missionaries, and the school was closed. Hakuchō spent about a year back in his hometown pondering a move to Tokyo. It was then that, once again through Kokumin no tomo, he came to hear about Uchimura Kanzō. He read all of his works, some so many times that the books fell apart: In those days I am sure I believed the Bible completely. And differently from those who just did it as habit, I went to the prayer meetings by myself and out of my own will. I used to listen passionately to Uchimura’s lectures and loved to read his books. There is no doubt that back then I earnestly longed for the realm of faith professed by Uchimura.16

Masamune Hakuchō  99 In 1896, Hakuchō finally moved to Tokyo and entered Tōkyō Senmon Gakkō. That summer he attended the summer school in Kōtsū, Shizuoka Prefecture, hosted by the Christian Youth Association, and two years later he attended the same camp in Hayama, Kanagawa Prefecture. In both cases he had the opportunity to attend many of Uchimura’s lectures, which he considered by far the most inspiring. Hakuchō met the religious leader only once in person, but his opinion of him drastically changed over time. In a letter he sent to his brother in May 11, 1900, he criticized him harshly for his bigotry; Suzuki Norihisa argues that, just like Doppo, he likely came to find him arrogant and despotic.17 Meanwhile, during his stay in Tokyo he gradually grew close to Uemura Masahisa, who eventually baptized him in 1897: I decided to be baptized and reached out to Pastor Uemura. Even if Uchimura had been a pastor at some church back then, I would not have asked him to baptize me. I became a member of Uemura’s Christian center in Ichigaya and attended his sermons regularly. I was not only enlightened by his sermons, I also often visited him at his residence and took classes from him, not only about Christianity, but also about poetry and fiction . . . under his guidance I spent a few years of happy religious life.18 Fond of Uemura and his teachings, Hakuchō held a very strict interpretation of Christian teachings and appeared at times exceedingly critical of himself. According to “Hatachi no nikki” (Diary of a Twenty-Year-Old), an excerpt from his diary that first appeared in 1952, the months that followed his conversion were characterized by a disciplined if not ascetic regimen of life: March 13. . . . Went to church, listened to Uemura’s sermon. . . . I was really impressed. . . . March 23. . . . Went to a prayer meeting straight from night school. . . . Self-admonishment: go to bed at about 9:30 p.m. and get up at 6 a.m., as soon as you wake up, study the Bible for an hour, do some physical exercise for two hours in the morning. . . . Do not talk behind people’s back. Do not lie even if you have to die for it. Do not complain to people about your sufferings. Do not look at women. Do not spend a single cent on useless things. If you cannot keep these promises you are not worthy a human being. Fight! Life is not a place for entertainment; man was born to suffer. . . . March 27. . . . In the afternoon I went for a walk and then went to church. Uemura gave a sermon on John 3:3. . . . April 8. . . . Went to church in the evening and attended a prayer meeting in memory of our Savior’s sufferings. Uemura gave a sermon on sin. I was greatly impressed. He talked about the need to have a simple heart, and how difficult that can be. It fits my case perfectly. . . . April 9 .  .  . in the evening I attended a Bible lecture at the Sekiguchi Church. . . . April 17 .  .  . at church from 2:30 pm. Uemura gave a sermon on Luke 4:8. He explained that many in the world preach well, but do not behave

100  Narratives of conversion accordingly. For them preaching is just a form of entertainment. I felt that this fits my case as well.19 The question of sin, in particular, concerned him greatly. On June 15, he recorded reading the end of Chapter 1 of Paul’s epistle to the Romans and felt “as if I have been pierced in the head with a sharp needle.” Paul’s discussion of the wrath of God as a reaction to human sinfulness struck a chord within Hakuchō’s sensibility, causing him to feel uneasy about a theme that, he possibly thought, regarded him closely. Eleven days later, he read Chapter 5 of the same epistle, which centers on the justification of sin through the grace of God and the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. He also began to exhibit traits of introspection that were reminiscent of Doppo’s self-inquisitive tone. On that same June 15, for example, after lauding the achievements of past literary heroes like Dante, Milton, and Hugo, who had distinguished themselves for their courage and integrity in pursuing their destiny, he stated: Why do I then hesitate? Even if my comprehension of God and the future is limited, even if I do not comprehend the universe, I can still distinguish between good and evil. This is my nature. So why don’t I obey this nature of mine, uphold my ideals and move forward? Life is a serious matter, and this is my motto. Later on June 26, he added: I never think about the true meaning of life and spend my days walking a dangerous line. I hide ugly thoughts inside and preach beautiful words outside. I do not contemplate God, his righteous anger or his blessings. The only things I think about are food, sex, and complaining.20 During the month of July, he attended the previously mentioned summer school in Hayama, where he had the opportunity to attend speeches and lectures by Oshikawa, Uemura, and Uchimura, which he found inspiring, but on July 22, he wrote: “I almost do not understand why I exist. Ah, what is life?” His frustration came from the realization that, despite his religious zeal, he did not feel he had improved either as a Christian or as a human being. A week later he stated: “Every morning I read John, but I just do it mechanically without any result whatsoever. I still do not comprehend the meaning of the universe.” And on the following day: “However, God exists (?) Truth exists (?) Is it worth obeying the voice of one’s conscience (?) . . . I have no will . . . no tenacity, no patience.”21 In 1952, looking back at this period of his life Hakuchō stated that at the time he wrote the diary he had done so “in all sincerity,” thus underscoring that, just as in the case of Doppo’s Azamukazaru no ki, the urge of being true to the self, a common response to the epistemological conditions of that age, had been the driving force behind this confessional piece. But for Tsujihashi Saburō, the most important element emerging from this diary was Uchimura Kanzō’s Calvinist influence on Hakuchō’s vision of sin. Uchimura had covered the question of sin

Masamune Hakuchō  101 at length in his writings, and since Hakuchō was an avid reader of his works, he had likely been exposed to the core of his thought. Tsujihashi pointed out that in his work Kyūanroku (Search after Peace), for example, after a long quote from Galatians 5:19­­–20, which dealt with immorality, impurity, and the licentiousness of the flesh, Uchimura had stated that being aware of the evil of carnal desire within oneself was the best strategy for fighting and destroying it. According to Tsujihashi, these and other deliberations, including the notion of man’s innate depravity that generally surfaced in his works, played a consequential role in the formation of the young Hakuchō, who later often equated Christianity with the suppression of one’s inner desires.22 The theme of sin and eternal damnation came to resonate strongly with Hakuchô’s narrative, and some of his early stories were often “first-person accounts of Japanese Christians who are tormented by an awareness of their own sinfulness and unworthiness.”23 Hakuchō was “constantly preoccupied with the sternness of the Christian God, the special difficulties of public confession for the Japanese, and the darkness of viewing man as sinful.”24 In “Natsu kodachi,” for example, when, invited by his friend Yoshida, Moriya goes to the theater for the first time, his guilt is so intense that he feels as if he has eaten the forbidden fruit. But no work better illustrates Hakuchō’s lasting concern with sin than his 1907 story “Anshin” (Peace of Mind). The story opens with the main character having just completed the last of seven prayer meetings in a week. They have been intense sessions during which he has thought deeply about moral transgression and has joined the other members of the community in public confession. As he vows to his friend Murakami his continued commitment to the faith and to evangelization, he begins to reflect on the anxiety that has troubled him lately. This anxiety comes from his sexual desire. Unable to control his lust for Mrs. Kuroda, the wife of a senior fellow believer, the protagonist is tormented by feelings of guilt and remorse; the burden becomes even heavier whenever he interacts with the pastor of his church, a holy man blessed with unusual integrity and morality, who is actually placing significant expectations on him and his future role in the community. The protagonist soon comes to the realization that, despite his prayers, he is unable to achieve peace. One day, however, the pastor falls ill, and as his condition worsens, the members of the church take turns in assisting him. It is at this time, when at his bedside, that the protagonist overhears the pastor mumbling obscene words, including the name of the same Mrs. Kuroda he had been fancying. He realizes that he is not the only one to have experienced the temptations of the flesh, and feeling liberated from the heavy burden he had been concealing inside his soul, he exclaims: “The delirious talk of Pastor Shibatani was a greater consolation to me than sermons, the lives of the saints, fasting or prayer. . . . I am not going to Hell alone.”25 It is a sense of liberation, however, that also underscores the protagonist’s conviction of inevitable punishment. Over the couple of years that followed the time frame of “Hatachi no nikki,” Hakuchō continued to attend church regularly and read the Bible profusely, so that his understanding of Christian theology accordingly improved. He soon realized, however, that despite his efforts – his self-examination, his readings, and the

102  Narratives of conversion teachings of the Bible in particular – he had not been able to change the way he behaved. He felt, in particular, that he could not bring himself to love his neighbor; if anything, he thought he felt hatred rather than love for humanity.

Hakuchō’s disparagement of Christianity Deeply troubled, in 1901 he moved to renounce his faith.26 He thereafter began to fiercely disparage Christianity, producing a body of writings that became in essence equivalent to a formal apostasy. In a piece he published in 1906, for example, Hakuchō attacked the Church for being more interested in making profits than in saving souls, thus echoing a concern that had been shared by Tōkoku, Tōson, and Doppo before him: Currently, the only thing that the world of religion is looking for is money. No matter how hard pastors try to cover it up, they can’t. If you look at the advertisements in religious journals, they always complain about the lack of funds for the construction of a church or always pray to God that he send them the money necessary for their summer school. Their basic prayer is shedding tears and asking God for money, and the fact that they are hiding it is hideous.27 Such disapproval was also reflected in his narrative. In “Natsu kodachi,” for example, he has Moriya, the self-disciplined and devout protagonist, express his disillusionment with his religious community to Uchimura Kanzō, who in turn acknowledges his concerns and advises him to read and study the Bible on his own. Hakuchō also argued that religion was merely a desperate and pathetic attempt to escape the harsh realities of life. For him, Human beings are weak and can hardly bear disease, solitude, poverty, disillusionment . . . [they] keep looking for something transcendental to overcome their pain. In this respect religion is like a sleeping pill for them . . . those young people who are nowadays devoting themselves to the Church are simply purchasing an insurance for the future.28 Reflecting these views, in his 1906 story “Kyūyū” (Old Friend), O-Sen, the daughter of the devout Christian uncle who has adopted Seiichi and raised him in the faith, reveals that she has never actually believed in the religion; later, however, having fallen ill and in fear for her life, she seems to regain her religious devotion until the time when, once healthy again, she returns to her previous self. Similarly, in “Natsu kodachi,” Moriya confesses to his uncle that he prayed in the past just because he was afraid of dying, and the uncle, who is not even a Christian, confesses to having done exactly the same. Elsewhere, Hakuchō expressed his strong aversion for the false heroes created by religion, maintaining Jesus to be one of them. The deification of Jesus, he argued, was just a coincidental event; had he not been crucified, he would

Masamune Hakuchō  103 not have been considered God by later generations, the crusades would not have happened, the persecution of Protestants would have not taken place, and there would have been no need to be concerned with sin and immorality. Too many people in the history of humankind had forsaken their happiness in the name of the Christian God.29 Thus, he went on for years characterizing the Christian religion as sexually oppressive and cherishing the moment of his disavowal as one of freedom and self-liberation.30 The reasons for his repudiation of Christianity are multiple. In “Futettei naru seikatsu” (An Inconsistent Life), a piece that appeared in 1948, Hakuchō explained that Christianity’s strictness with respect to the simple pleasures of life, including literature, was such that he had eventually become unable to reconcile those teachings with his personal interests.31 In a different venue he stated that he simply did not believe in the Cross and the Resurrection and that he essentially considered Paul’s entire theological framework a castle built of sand.32 He also confessed to being envious of those who were able to believe and thereby achieve peace, since, he, unfortunately, had nothing to believe in.33 But in a very long essay titled “Ikiru to iu koto” (To Live) of 1958, he specifically criticized Christianity for its cruelty and violence: At some point I began to see the Christian religion as a violent religion. I realized that it required believers to die as martyrs. Since Christ bore the Cross, believers have to do the same. If you are a believer worthy of that name you must obey this teaching. You have to relinquish all pleasures. You have to be ready to live your entire life as if you were in one of those monasteries that flourished during the medieval period . . . if you want to gain eternal life, you have to relinquish all worldly happiness. Real happiness comes after death, . . . avoiding dying as a martyr and apostatizing is equivalent to throwing yourself into eternal punishment. Because as a young man I was very absorbed into Christianity, this is what I harbored in my heart. The elaborate sermons of the preachers and the theories of the atonement by scholars of theology began to sound hypocritical. . . . Unlike the young people in the West, I thought about the psychology of dying as a martyr and began to believe that it was not possible to gain eternal life unless one died such a death.34 Hakuchō believed that being a faithful Christian implied dying on the Cross, and once this equation had been established, it became impossible for him to pretend to be a good Christian. He also realized that a paradox was unfolding in front of his very eyes. That is, although he had embraced the religion primarily because of his fear of death, he was now more scared to die than he had ever previously been. Hakuchō had read at length about the persecution and martyrdom of Japanese believers during the Tokugawa period. In his work “Uchimura Kanzō zakkan” (Miscellaneous Thoughts on Uchimura Kanzō), he wrote: The believers of that period suffered a type of cruel persecution that people can hardly conceive now. They did not fear that abnormal persecution

104  Narratives of conversion because they believed that they would go to paradise after death. Why did the holy men come as Christian missionaries to Japan withstanding thousands of miles at sea to inculcate in the minds of simple Japanese believers that they had to endure death?35 Why, he wondered, did these simple people have to endure being burnt at the stake or, even worse, have to watch their own children and wives being tortured, killed, or violated right in front of their eyes? Did eternal life demand such a sacrifice, he asked ironically. If God were really a compassionate God, would he not forgive an apostasy in such cases? I wonder how it would have been, he added, if Christ had uttered words of compassion that allowed people to renounce the faith under such circumstances. Although these reflections referred to the atrocities experienced by Christians during the Catholic period of pre-modern Japan, Hakuchō’s words struck at the core of Meiji Protestantism and the image of God it had created – an irate Creator who did not even have mercy on those devout Japanese Christians who had chosen to trample on Christ’s image in their desperate attempt to avoid death. It was an image that was deeply indebted to the Old Testament, Hakuchō himself declared in his recollections, and that became so engrained within his imagination that at one point he believed God would punish man regardless of whether he was a sinner or not.36 This image of an irate God was a recurrent motif in Hakuchō’s literary production. Akiura, the protagonist of his 1909 story “Jigoku” (Hell), wonders why God unjustly created weak and strong human beings and believes the uncompassionate God to be the cause of all his misfortunes. Similarly, in “Meimō,” the second spirit ironically asks the hermit whether he really believes in the existence of divine mercy, especially from a God who “tortures us without even granting us a second death.”37 Segawa, the protagonist of yet another story, “Aru kokoro no kage” (The Shadow of a Soul) of 1918, describes God as a jealous and constantly enraged being who created humankind simply as a pastime.38 This emphasis on a raging God was dutifully noted by post-war Catholic author Endō Shūsaku in an essay that appeared following his 1966 novel Chinmoku (Silence).39 Discussing the content of some of Hakuchō’s writings, Endō argued that such a stern, severe, and uncompromising view of God was quite common among the young authors and intellectuals of the Meiji era, but that it was extremely distant from the loving and forgiving God of whom one reads in the Gospel. Takeda Tomoju later ratified Endō’s assessment arguing that the type of Christianity to which Hakuchō was exposed placed considerable stress on an Old Testament vision of God, and Uchimura Kanzō, he argued, was among those responsible for the construction of such an image among young intellectuals. Takeda pointed out that Uchimura not only created an indissoluble link between Christianity and the tenets of bushidō, therefore placing unnecessary emphasis on asceticism and disciplinary rigor, but even wrote a piece later in life titled “Danseiteki kirisutokyō: fundo no shinsei” (Masculine Christianity: The Sanctity of

Masamune Hakuchō  105 Rage) in which he rejected the now widespread notion of Christianity as a religion of compassion and love. For Uchimura, that notion was fallacious. Christ is not a “feminine” savior. The reason why he looked weak is that he was in fact strong. His love was the love of God the father. That is to say, it was strong, firm and stern love.40 It is perhaps in Endō’s fictional endeavor to reconcile the Meiji rigid view of an irate God with that of a compassionate Jesus that one can fully grasp the nature of Hakuchō’s predicament. During the latter half of his life, Hakuchō slowly moved away from fiction writing, and except for a few works such as “Kotoshi no aki “(Autumn of This Year), which earned him the Yomiuri literary prize in 1959, the majority of his contributions were in the area of literary criticism. Having lived until the 1960s, as the last survivor of a generation of writers deeply influenced by the return of Christianity, he was afforded the opportunity to reflect repeatedly on the significance of the Meiji Christian experience both in his life and Japan’s cultural history. Interestingly, despite his vehemently anti-Christian discourse and a longstanding belief in the irreconcilable nature of art and religion, he eventually came to show signs of reconciliation with Christianity. His late writings ironically indicated a sense of dissatisfaction in the ability of literature and art to address his most intimate religious questions and longing for God. Acknowledging some nostalgia for the days in which he was a fervent believer, he even dismissed the notion that he had ever rejected religion and later declared his faith in God and the Bible.41 He also acknowledged Uchimura Kanzō’s influence on his spiritual formation and understanding of Christ, ultimately personifying the quintessential Meiji writer and his inability to fully reject the Christian education received during his formative years.42

Notes 1 Quoted in Kuyama Yasushi, ed., Kindai nihon to kirisutokyō: meiji hen (Sōbunsha, 1956), 314. 2 “Waga shōgai to bungaku” (My Life and Literature, 1946), in vol. 28 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 160. 3 Ibid., 164. 4 Ibid. 5 On this point, see Hyōdō Masanosuke, Masamune Hakuchō ron (Keisō shobō, 1968), 212. 6 See, for example, his essay “Jinsei gojū” (Fifty Years of Life, 1923); quoted in Tsujihashi Saburō, Kindai bungakusha to kirisutokyō shisō (Kyōshinsha, 1969), 209. 7 English translation in Robert Rolf, Masamune Hakuchō (Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1979), 98. 8 Ibid., 96–103. 9 Both quoted in Hyōdō Masanosuke, Masamune Hakuchō ron, 260–3. 10 Ibid., 269–70. 11 Ibid., 274. 12 See “Shūkyō to bungaku” (Religion and Literature, 1952), in vol. 25 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 358.

106  Narratives of conversion 1 3 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

2 3 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 3 1 32 33 3 4 35 36 37 38 39 4 0 41 42

See “Ikiru to iu koto,” in vol. 25 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 521. Ibid., 524. “Uchimura Kanzō: ika ni iku beki ka,” in vol. 25 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 210. Ibid., 227. Suzuki Norihisa, Uchimura Kanzō o meguru sakka tachi, 46–8. “Uchimura Kanzō: ika ni iku beki ka,” 217. “Hatachi no nikki,” in vol. 30 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 179–81. Ibid., 182. Ibid., 184. See Tsujihashi Saburō, “Yameru tamashi no hito: Masamune Hakuchō,” Bungaku 47:3 (1979), 123–35. Kyūanroku was the first of Uchimura’s works that Hakuchō ever read; “Before I knew what sin was,” Uchimura had written, “I did not feel pain when I sinned, but after knowing the evilness of sin, its fearfulness and its nature I began to feel a discomfort that cannot be described.” Hakuchō accordingly saw “the shadow of his own sinfulness” throughout the chapters of this work and thought upon reading it “what a dreadful thing for human beings to have been born.” See his “Uchimura Kanzō: ika ni iku beki ka,” 226. Robert Rolf, Masamune Hakuchō, 56. Ibid., 57. Ibid., 58. See his recollections in “Bundanteki jijoden” (My Literary Autobiography, 1938), in vol. 27 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 437. “Shūkyō to seikatsu” (Religion and Life, 1906); quoted in Tsujihashi Saburō, Kindai bungakusha to kirisutokyō shisō, 209. “Shūkyō shōkan” (Reflections on Religion, 1903), in vol. 25 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 17. “Rongo to Baiburu” (The Analects and the Bible, 1904), in vol. 25 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 24–6. See, in particular, his essays “Shūkyō to seikatsu” and “Jinsei gojū;” both quoted in Tsujihashi Saburō, Kindai bungakusha to kirisutokyō shisō, 204, 209. Quoted in Gotō Ryō, Masamune Hakuchō: bungaku to shōgai (Shichōsha, 1966), 45. “Uchimura Kanzō: ika ni iku beki ka,” 261. “Aru yoru no kansō” (One Night’s Reflections, 1924); quoted in Tsujihashi Saburō, Kindai bungakusha to kirisutokyō shisō, 213. “Ikiru to iu koto,” 525–7. “Uchimura Kanzō zakkan,” in vol. 25 of Masamune Hakuchō zenshū, 266. Ibid., 227. Robert Rolf, Masamune Hakuchō, 99. Quoted in Tsujihashi Saburō, Kindai bungakusha to kirisutokyō shisō, 205. Endō Shūsaku, “Chichi no shūkyō, haha no shūkyō: Maria Kannon ni tsuite” (1967); quoted in Takeda Tomoju, “Ikari no kami, jiai no kami: Kanzō, Hakuchō, Shūsaku,” Seisen Joshi Daigaku jinbun kagaku kenkyū kiyō 5 (1983), 2. Quoted in Takeda Tomoju, “Ikari no kami, jiai no kami: Kanzō, Hakuchō, Shūsaku,” 19. See “Shūkyō to bungaku,” 358–60. See also his “Gendai tsurezuregusa” (Modern Essays in Idleness, 1957) and “Bungaku hachijūnen” (Eighty Years of Literature, 1959); both quoted in Hyōdō Masanosuke, Masamune Hakuchō ron, 226, 225. See “Bundan seikatsu no rokujūnen” (Sixty Years of Literary Life, 1961), in vol. 30 of Masamune Hakuchō’ zenshū, 58.

6

Arishima Takeo The problem of sin and of the inevitability of fate

In July 1923 religious leader Uchimura Kanzō wrote in his diary about the news of Arishima Takeo’s death: There was an article in the newspaper about the immoral suicide of Arishima Takeo, one of those apostate writers. . . . All of them have now clearly embarked on a new fight against themselves. These apostate writers do not even fear the judgment of God. Defiance is their life. Their challenge – dying while mocking God and morality – is what brings them honor.1 Arishima, the apostate, betrayer of friends, family, and nation, as Uchimura would define him in an article that he later published in the newspaper Yorozu chōhō (The Complete Morning News), had committed double suicide with Hatano Akiko – a married woman and a reporter for the Fujin kōron (Ladies’ Review) – at his Karuizawa residence earlier that month. Arishima himself had called their act a death “that came at the peak of their love.”2 Arishima’s double suicide caused a sensation in the public opinion of the time. On the one hand, as Leith Morton has noted in his seminal study on this author, the tragic event traumatized Japanese society, because “the suicide of a figure who had seemed such an idealist in his younger days, a typical product of the pure humanism of the White-Birch coterie, shook the intellectual foundations of Taishō Japan.”3 On the other, it also spurred waves of praise and admiration among the younger generations who saw in Arishima’s tragedy a martyr of love defying conventional morality. Uchimura likely realized that the incident was inspiring unexpected sentiments of approval even within his own entourage: All friends of mine who think that what Arishima did was acceptable, I want them to cut their ties with me. All of my students, or all who call themselves such, and all the members of the Bible research group who think that this is acceptable, I want them to cut their mentor and student relationship with me and return their membership.4 That Arishima’s death may have caused a stir within the intellectual circles of the time is not surprising. The author of Aru onna (A Certain Woman), a 1919

108  Narratives of conversion novel that depicted an unconventional female heroine who struggled to affirm her independence and sexuality against a strongly puritanical social background, Arishima was known to have repeatedly espoused feminist issues over the years. He was also largely identified as a writer who wrote about love; a piece by novelist Eguchi Kan appearing in the journal Bunshō sekai in 1918, for example, characterized him as someone whose entire art revolved around this theme, and in an essay that had previously appeared in October 1917 titled “Geijutsu o umu tai” (A Body that Gives Birth to Art), Arishima himself had stated that “what brings art to life is love. There is no other womb capable of giving life to art.”5 In the same year, Arishima had also published an important essay in English titled “Love the Plunderer: The Metaphysics of a Modern Japanese” in which he had declared that love was “an instinct that plunders rather than gives, an energy that absorbs rather than emanates,” arguing that an individual reached his potential to the extent that he was able to assimilate the external world through the act of loving. Defining love as an “instinct” at the foundation of everything in daily life, and the “impulsive life” as the only solution to a dualistic vision of the world, he had caused a significant shift of paradigm compared to traditional notions of love inherited from the past.6 Arishima was therefore a high-profile figure within the intellectual circles of the time, and his act of suicide seemed to feed well into the narrative he had created over the years: that of a staunch, unfaltering hero fully engaged in a crusade against imposed worldviews that restrained the self. He exemplified the desire to break with tradition and to subvert established paradigms that prevented the individual from achieving full expression. Arishima’s whole life, it might be argued, was a struggle to reconcile dualities. Leith Morton saw it as an attempt to “grapple with the problem of how to define modern selfhood: how to establish a sense of individual autonomy and moral worth without recourse to a rigid ideology, religion, or mythology.”7 Whereas for Paul Anderer his fiction was “an attempt . . . to define an ideal human type who can heal the modern division between body and mind.”8 “Futatsu no michi” (Two Paths), an essay that Arishima wrote in 1910, exemplified the nature of this predicament: There are two paths, a red one and a blue one. Everyone walks one of these paths in some way or another.  .  .  . All the hesitation and uncertainty that people experience in this world is caused by the existence of these two paths.9 Other essays, including those celebrating the art of Walt Whitman whose poetics had consequential influence on his thought, revealed Arishima’s heightened awareness of the internal conflicts posed by such dualities. But it is probably in a piece that appeared in 1914 titled “Naibu seikatsu no genshō” (The Phenomena of the Inner Life) that he most forcefully rejected a dualistic interpretation of existence, including the one dichotomy that generations of philosophers and men of faith, he stated, had forcefully expounded over the centuries: the division between flesh and spirit. This conflict, a conflict that lay perhaps latent in Arishima’s personality and that had already surfaced through youthful sexual experiences,

Arishima Takeo  109 generating, it is surmised by scholars, a sense of guilt that would linger within the author for the rest of his life, was further exacerbated by the encounter with the Christian religion. In a piece titled “Seisho no ken’i” (The Authority of the Bible) of October 1916, Arishima himself explained how this internal duality had soon evolved into a clash between artistic impulse and sexual desire on one side and faith and morality on the other. The “Preface” to the fourth edition of his biography of Livingstone (Ribingusuton den) of 1919, which incidentally became Arishima’s declaration of formal apostasy, contained similar references to this dualism: I wrote at the beginning of this confession how I was continually torn between my sexual desire and my faith. This torment, even when it came to marriage, remained within me. From my extreme fastidiousness, my desire not to give my body to a woman I did not love (until I did give myself to my love) and my innermost fear of more or less offering up women as sacrifices to my carnal demands, I, in my carnal relationships to the age of 31, have preserved my virginity intact. However that is not proof of my being sexually pure . . . I must confess that I was always defeated by the desires of the flesh. Though in actuality I did not violate any women, in the depths of my heart I was always violating them. I was continually tormented by this inner struggle.10 The son of a low-ranking samurai who later climbed the ladder of success as a government official in Tokyo, Arishima first came into contact with Christianity while attending Yokohama Eiwa gakkō, a mission school in Yokohama where he was likely first initiated into the study of the Bible and the teachings of the faith. In 1887, upon graduation, he went on to enroll at Gakushūin or the Peers’ School, the prestigious institution whose student body consisted mainly of sons of high aristocracy. He studied nine years at that institution and then left for Sapporo. It is there, while attending the Sapporo Agricultural College, that in 1899 he embraced the Christian faith.

Arishima’s conversion Although Arishima had long fancied the idea of living in an untarnished rural environment like Hokkaidō, the fact that his mother knew Nitobe Inazō, then a teacher at the Sapporo Agricultural College, may have been a factor in his decision to move north. A fervent Christian and a member of the Sapporo band that had signed William Smith Clark’s “Covenant of the Believers of Jesus,” Nitobe had in the meantime studied in the United States where he had embraced Quakerism. Arishima lived with him and his family during the first part of his sojourn in northern Japan – Nitobe left in October 1897 – and was profoundly influenced by his thought. But Arishima’s embrace of Christianity was not immediate; his early religious interests were in fact in Zen Buddhism to which he had been exposed by his grandmother. During his time in Sapporo, however, Arishima became close friends with Morimoto Kōkichi, the young man who would play an instrumental

110  Narratives of conversion role in his conversion. Morimoto had studied at a Christian school in Tokyo and had already been baptized but was still troubled by doubts and uncertainties concerning the faith. According to Kansōroku, the diary that Arishima began to write while in Sapporo that fully chronicles his conversion and spiritual transformation, Morimoto repeatedly acknowledged his iniquity and his inability to avoid sinning.11 The awareness of sin was, indeed, Morimoto’s central concern at the time, and Arishima’s later recollections corroborate this view: Morimoto was most distressed by the concept of sin. The awareness that he was a sinner spoiled his appetite and robbed him of sleep. Death sometimes confronted him as a terrifying temptation. I was quite unable to feel as he did. I was drawn solely to the love of Christ. Morimoto said that I lacked the strength to seek after righteousness, and that I had neglected this vital matter. Only a sharp awareness of sin could open the gates of heaven. Uchimura Kanzō was expounding this view with great vigor at the time and Morimoto was a fervent follower. I yielded to Morimoto’s opinions in all matters of principle but I was utterly unable to grasp the practical implications of this view. I simply hoped with all my heart for contact with God and grieved that not once did I accomplish this.12 At the end of the 1898, the two traveled together to the hot spring resort of Jōzankei. In an entry dated December 27, Arishima noted that although his friend had thought about sin thoroughly, he personally could not fully comprehend it yet, which troubled him deeply. Two days later, on December 29, he read sections of Uchimura Kanzō’s Kyūanroku and was deeply moved.13 It seems that during their stay at the resort Morimoto and Arishima’s relationship took a sudden and unexpected turn. Kansōroku suggests the strong possibility of a homosexual encounter, but not all scholars necessarily agree with this interpretation. The following entry of January 5 shows, however, that regardless of what truly happened that night, Arishima still did not consider himself a believer: I committed a terrible act last night. . . . I am hesitant to blame this sin on Morimoto just because I do not know God as yet or because I do not believe in him.14 Arishima was seemingly shocked by the new turn of events, and in a crescendo of internal turmoil, he even resolved to kill himself. Morimoto expressed his will to do the same, but after more than a month of vacillation, the two finally desisted, pledging instead to devote their life to God and the pursuit of purity, both in body and mind. Arishima’s conversion to Christianity took place exactly at this time. On February 21, 1899 he stated in his diary that he finally understood the difference between God, man, and Satan, and that he and Morimoto were now determined to seek God with all their heart. He then added: There are now two things I must accomplish. First, as evidence of my decision to become a Christian, I must communicate this decision to my parents

Arishima Takeo  111 and earn their permission. Next, I must cut all ties with a few friends of mine. . . . Oh God, I entrust my entire self, body and mind, to you.15 After his conversion, Arishima began a spiritual journey into the Christian faith that was not without obstacles and suffering. As had been the case with Morimoto, the question of sin lay at the center of his concerns. An entry dated April 4, 1899, that began with a quote from Isaiah 59:1–4, betrayed his emotional state; he found that his hands were stained with blood and his fingers with guilt, and he regretted all those times in the past that he had lied or that his eyes had witnessed something immoral. Regretting, in particular, his inability to experience God, due to the presence of “impure elements within his heart,” he wondered whether he could ever be saved. Reading the Sermon on the Mount gave him peace, he wrote, but as he questioned how man could establish his independence, he continued to struggle with the temptations of the flesh.16 At the end of that year, Arishima then looked back at his first ten months as a Christian. His beloved grandmother had died in June, causing him great sadness, and his decision to convert had led to much acrimony between him and his parents. With a tone of self-scrutiny evocative of Doppo’s Azamukazaru no ki, he declared his life to be full of hypocrisy, dishonesty, and laziness. He had been unable to obey God unconditionally and felt that his faith was still lacking.17 Four months later, he continued to look back at his conversion with the same disillusionment and frustration; although more than a year had now passed since his conversion, he stated, he still felt emptiness in his heart. He had no knowledge, no courage, no burning faith, and it would be easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for him to reach Christ, he believed. His main predicament, he stated, was that although on the one hand he had decided to devote himself body and mind to Christ, he still felt plagued by his own egotism, arrogance, and carnality, which made him unable to act on his determination to serve God.18 It is possible to surmise that this oppressive anxiety over his inability to live up to the teachings of the faith may have been a reflection of his readings. On June 12, 1900, for example, Arishima entered a quote from Romans 2:4–5 – a passage that places emphasis on the wrath of God – and in an entry dated December 31, 1900, he wrote at length about man’s depravity and sinful behavior since Adam and Eve, confirming that during the year following his conversion, the question of sin continued to preoccupy him deeply.19 On March 24, 1901, Arishima formally became a member of the Sapporo Independent Church. The Church, which had been founded in 1882, did not belong to any particular denomination and had traditionally accepted new members without the requirement of baptism. In fact, in a meeting that was held on March 7 of that year, it had just been decided, with Uchimura Kanzō’s support, that both this ritual and that of Communion would be abolished.20 As a result, Arishima was never baptized, which has caused some scholars to dispute the depth of his faith and to identify in this development the very reason for his later recantation.21 Meanwhile, in June of the same year, Arishima graduated from the college. He worked with his friend Morimoto on a biography of Livingstone and continued to attend service and read the Bible diligently. There were, however, no significant changes

112  Narratives of conversion to the way he viewed himself with respect to his Christian faith. On March 18, 1901, he wrote “I am utterly sinful,” and on May 26, he still lamented that his impure acts rendered him unable to pray.22 At the end of 1901 he enlisted in the military for about a year, and when his diary Kansōroku resumed in November 1902, his concerns still centered on his sense of depravity. In fact, his anxiety and distress over his sinfulness had intensified further, prompting him to look actively for answers to his emotional distress.

The question of free will and the influence of Quakerism At the core of Arishima’s probe was the question of man’s free will. Arishima wanted to understand whether man was responsible for sinning or whether that responsibility possibly lay with God. It should be remembered that in Kyūanroku, which Arishima read repeatedly, Uchimura Kanzō had stated: Belief in Christ saved me from sin. Yet belief is the gift of God (Ephesians ii.8). Not only do I believe and am saved, but I was caused to believe and am saved. I understand by this I have no power whatever to save myself.23 Uchimura’s words implied that man had no power to alter his destiny and earn salvation through his own merits, and if that was the case, Arishima pondered, then perhaps man was ultimately not responsible for offending God. After beginning the new year with another personal note about his wickedness, he recorded a conversation that he had with his mentor, Nitobe Inazō, on this very topic. To his question about whether man had the freedom to determine his own fate, Nitobe had replied that “he did” and “did not,” – depending on the viewpoint – and that the issue was more a matter of quantity rather than quality. Nitobe had then talked about the concept of self-denial in Christianity, without truly addressing Arishima’s fundamental predicament, and therefore it is not surprising that the latter brought up this question to others repeatedly over time.24 He did so, for example, with Kashiwai En and Hikari Kotarō, two pastors who were traveling on the same ship that was taking him to the United States in September of that year; once again he did not receive a satisfactory explanation and, “disillusioned, burst into tears.”25 One year after that conversation, while reading Dante’s Purgatory, he stumbled across Canto xvi in which the protagonist Marco Lombardo explains to the traveling poet that man has the power, through free will, to avoid sinning. He read the Canto with great interest but regretted being unable to comprehend it fully.26 Arishima’s preoccupation with sin may have been at its peak in 1903. During the month of February, he read Paul’s epistles often, repeatedly bemoaning his sinfulness and his helplessness against the power of the devil.27 However, an important change also took place around this same time, signaling the beginning of an internal transformation that was to follow. His dislike for the apostle began to mount, and on February 5, referring to his epistle to the Romans, he stated:

Arishima Takeo  113 The part that is difficult to comprehend is indeed in this text. There are quite a few places about which I am skeptical. My doubts come from the fact that in this text one can find only Paul’s intuitive conclusions, none of which are backed up by any evidence. There are quite a few points that seem to be Paul’s Christianity rather than Christ’s. Somehow I just want to move away from Paul and read John instead. I can’t but feel that John’s [concept] of love is universal.28 On February 25, his dislike became true indignation. The culprit this time was the apostle’s first letter to the Corinthians, and specifically the section following 9:24. Arishima found Paul’s words arrogant and conceited, and he therefore decided to erase the verses with his pencil. He wondered whether Paul truly understood Christ; although he had respect and admiration for his martyrdom, he could not bring himself to believe his words.29 He then resolved to part from Paul and study instead the Gospel of John: John, John, your thought is so sublime and pure. Your religion is a religion of deep emotion. . . . I come to Christ and God through deep emotions. . . . In front of John I feel like a close friend, and so I feel in front of Christ.30 Despite this apparent desire to move away from a sin-centered understanding of the Christian faith, on March 16 of that year Arishima still found himself asking God to punish his “flesh and exalt his spirit.” He believed that “a world where the flesh existed to the detriment of the spirit would be less valuable than nothing.”31 Three days later he stated: I am a prisoner of the evil that lies at the very bottom of my heart. . . . I know the love of Christ, but I do not love him. This is my true grief. Many times I pray and repent of my sins, but then I repeat them over and over.32 It is around this time, in the spring of 1903, that he began to seriously question the truthfulness of some of the teachings to which he had been exposed. On April 21, he read Uchimura Kanzō’s Kyūanroku and stated: I cannot possibly believe that even one other human being who has the same body and soul as myself should be condemned to eternal damnation and separated from God for all time, for eternity. However when I look at myself, I am without doubt, eternally damned; if I continue to live knowingly in the midst of sin, I fully realize I will be punished. How can I reconcile these seeming contradictions?33 When, that summer, he and his friend Morimoto visited with Uchimura and asked him questions about the Resurrection, the religious leader’s response stressed yet again the importance of an awareness of sin, without which, he argued, any discussion would be meaningless. During that conversation, after affirming the indisputable truth

114  Narratives of conversion of Christ’s ultimate sacrifice, Uchimura also argued against Tolstoy, Emerson, and Carlyle, who, he said, all believed in man’s power to redeem himself. This position was common also among Unitarians, he maintained, but he could not accept it; man had in his view no power, and his only option was to surrender to Christ.34 Although he did not agree with all of Uchimura’s arguments, that day Arishima admitted in his diary that the man’s talent and spiritual strength were out of the ordinary. Arishima truly admired Uchimura’s determination and strength of convictions; years earlier he had called his accomplishments in the United States – working with the less fortunate and the mentally ill – truly moving and admirable, and there is no doubt that he was inspired by him to do the same during his later short affiliation with a mental hospital in Pennsylvania. According to Sasabuchi Tomoichi, however, it would be a mistake to believe that Arishima accepted some of Uchimura’s most extreme positions out of mere admiration. Sasabuchi pointed out, for example, that although Arishima was also an admirer of George Fox, the founder of Quakerism, with respect to the question of sin, he expressed disapproval at the fact that he “frees himself too easily of his own evil. If one looks at his diary, he does not feel pain for his sins a single time.”35 For Sasabuchi, Arishima was completely invested in his belief that sin lay at the center, rather than at the periphery, of a true Christian’s life, and this belief was not merely a reflection of Uchimura’s teachings. By the time he arrived in America, Arishima wrote in his diary that he had no qualms about believing in God or the sanctity of Christ. His anguish came rather from the fact that he could not put his beliefs into practice. Jesus, he noted, had said that one must forgive “not seven times, but seventy times seven,” but he was skeptical that God would apply the same principle to his case too.36 The problem of sin, then, dominated Arishima’s religious experience throughout the years immediately following his conversion. Kawa Shizuo argued that because of his puritanical rigor Arishima believed sexuality to be necessarily sinful and evil. As he tried to fight his carnal desire and failed to do so, he not only perceived himself to be depraved and unworthy of even praying to God but also posited that such failure to overcome the instincts of the flesh was evidence that he was at the mercy of evil. He therefore concluded that he could not be saved. The notion that he was therefore doomed to eternal damnation from the onset, a notion that is corroborated by his diary and that, it should be remembered, was shared by other fellow writers – Masamune Hakuchō and Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, for example – accompanied him over the years, becoming a leit motif of his literary production that will be discussed later in this chapter. According to Kawa Shizuo, Arishima’s conviction that he could not be saved stemmed from his perceived inability “to experience” God.37 Arishima had indeed been waiting for such a liberating experience since at least the time of his conversion. On April 15, 1899, for example, he had openly bemoaned his inability “to see” God: “Tonight as I see with my own eyes this beautiful scenery that resembles God, how painful it is to realize that I cannot experience God in my heart!”38 The longing for a transcendental experience that would help him conquer the torments of carnal desire but also provide proof, in Arishima’s eyes,

Arishima Takeo  115 that he was worthy of salvation, was likely the result of his exposure to Nitobe Inazō’s thought. As a Quaker, Nitobe held a strong belief in the existence of an Inner Light in each individual, and Quakerism’s idea that all men possess the potential to intuitively know God certainly appealed to Arishima, helping to ease the psychological burden of sin and the dangers of eternal damnation stressed by Uchimura’s teachings. It was this very hope of achieving a mystical connection with the Creator, and the fact that the Quakers emphasized simplicity and meditation over ritualism and dogmatism that likely rendered Nitobe’s religious thought more congenial to him. In the “Preface,” Arishima expressed fondness for the free form of worship and strong religious ethos that he had witnessed at Haverford College, the Quaker institution he attended during his stay in the United States, thanks to Nitobe’s mediation. Thus, as much as Uchimura’s influence on Arishima’s spiritual development is beyond dispute, so is Nitobe’s. Nitobe’s teachings on Carlyle and his transcendentalism were especially important for the young Arishima, who found some of his lectures especially inspiring: Recently the Sartor Resartus lectures have become more and more interesting. . . . There are in particular many passages in this book which resemble Buddhism (especially Zen Buddhism) closely. . . . Truth, irrespective of East and West, comes back to the same point .  .  . each of us believes that we too may be able to grasp that great truth, the same as Carlyle, the same as Buddha.39 Arishima’s interest in Carlyle is a point of great significance. Kodama Gyōichi argued that, because of Carlyle’s (and also Wordsworth’s) influence, Arishima saw God in all of nature’s manifestations, so that his religion was essentially mystical, and a number of scholars have essentially agreed with this view.40 There are indeed several instances in Kansōroku where clearly inspired by Carlyle’s philosophy, Arishima’s infatuation with nature is fully apparent. On February 23, 1899, he wrote: Morimoto and I, walking slowly, looking to the right and the left as if enraptured, could not help but experience infinity. Carlyle said: “O nature! – or what is Nature? Ha! Why do I not name thee God? Art not thou the ‘Living Garment of God?’ ”41 One month later, he stated that when in contact with nature, “I feel like even my filthy soul is being purified . . . I feel hit by some strange feeling. And I tremble at seeing how small man is and how grand the universe,” and, that summer, he affirmed that when I am into contact with magnificent sublime nature, my filthy heart is purified. . . . First, I must improve the self. If I improve the self and come into contact with nature, then through nature experience God, my task is complete.42

116  Narratives of conversion Despite the profoundly mystical character of Arishima’s religious beliefs and in light of his later recantation, it would be a mistake to dismiss the centrality of the question of sin in his thought as well as his concerns regarding man’s ability to be redeemed and earn salvation. Just as Doppo did not paradoxically question the existence of God, but rather his own ability to believe, Arishima’s skepticism stemmed not from his lack of faith per se, but rather from the fear, or better yet, conviction, that due to his sinfulness, he could not be saved. The conflict between flesh and spirit was at the very root of this conviction, causing an internal split of the self that could only be reconciled by negating the premises that supported it.

Arishima’s apostasy: the reunification of the divided self and the condemnation of predestination Although 1911 – the year when Arishima recalled leaving the Sapporo Independent Church – has been generally identified as the time of his separation from Christianity, it is only in 1919, with the publication of the “Preface” to the fourth edition of his biography of Livingstone that Arishima formally apostatized.43 Opinions on the reasons for his recantation vary. For some scholars the cause lay in his interest in socialism and the apparent contradictions between a religion that advocated helping the less fortunate and a Christian establishment that instead seemed to be focused exclusively on the accumulation of wealth and the resulting exploitation of the masses; for others, it was caused by a poor understanding of the atonement and the dogma of saving grace; and for yet other scholars, it was because he was never technically baptized in the first place, hence the shallowness of his beliefs.44 Arishima’s disillusionment with Christianity was the outcome of life experiences and philosophical deliberations that critically exposed, in his view, the inconsistencies of the Christian religion. One of those experiences was certainly his encounter with socialism. On February 6, 1903, he recorded attending his first such meeting in Tokyo: famous speakers included social activists Kinoshita Naoe, Katayama Sen (1859–1933), Abe Isoo, and Kōtoku Shūsui. Arishima, who was deeply moved, like other young intellectuals of his generation, by the power and eloquence of Kinoshita’s ideas, came from a wealthy family but was sensitive to the social and financial constraints faced by the working classes. During the course of his life, he witnessed firsthand the economic inequalities that separated the upper and lower strata of society, finding himself at odds with Christianity’s declared mission to help the poor on the one hand, and the ideology of earthly success concurrently advocated by Protestantism, on the other. His encounter with socialist thinker Kaneko Kiichi (1876–1909) during his short stint at Harvard University strengthened his belief that socialism could provide a solution to this injustice, reinforcing his convictions that the inconsistencies displayed by Christianity in the teaching and practice of its faith were unacceptable. Of course, he was not the only one to point at these inconsistencies; Tōkoku, Tōson, Doppo, and Hakuchō, for example, had all already denounced the corruption they had witnessed within

Arishima Takeo  117 the Church, a corruption that was more explicitly and vehemently condemned by Christian socialist Kinoshita Naoe in his novel Hi no hashira. Arishima voiced his frustration in an especially strong and systematic manner. On January 11, 1903, he wrote: On the way back home I listened to the sermon at the Shiba Church. I found prayers of hypocrisy and hymns of vanity; believers who are proud of thinking of themselves as saints and of demonizing those who don’t believe; a pastor whose only worry is to build a new temple or increase the number of church-goers and who pays no attention whatsoever to the cultivation of the soul. What kind of good can come out of such a place?45 Years later, he attacked Protestantism for being unable to address the needs of the working classes; he also disparaged the notion that the accumulation of worldly goods were evidence of God’s benevolence, and that those goods had been entrusted to the wealthy so they could use them in the wisest and most effective way. Christ, he lamented, had preached poverty, but the Protestantism that he had witnessed was doing the very opposite: The fact, for example, that assets and wealth are the property of God, and that the rich are entrusted that wealth from God so that they can utilize it in the best possible way. If the rich really believed that, then wealth would truly serve this ideal purpose. However, in order to produce and increase their wealth, the affluent have to rely on those classes that do not own wealth, i.e. the laborers . . . the gains and losses of the laborers and capitalists ultimately do not match.46 Agreeing with a friend’s suggestion that “the philosophy at the foundation of Protestantism is capitalism,” he also stated: I believe that Christ prohibited accumulation of wealth. I think this is what Saint Francis did in imitation of Christ. If that is the case, here is another reason why . . . I had to remove my name from the register of believers.47 One of his first attempts at fictional writing, “Kankan mushi” (Rust-Chippers), a short piece first written during his sojourn in the United States, later revised and finally published in the journal Shirakaba (White Birch) in 1910, reflected his strong disapproval for this aspect of the religion. The story of a group of laborers working in a harbor on the Black Sea, chipping off rust from the bottom of a ship, “Kankan mushi” is not unrelated to the attack on capitalism unleashed a decade later in the “Preface.”48 Narrated as a conversation between one of the Russian workers and his boss, the story stresses the precarious conditions of the working classes, who are described by the nuns seeking to convert them as essentially non-human, unless they make up their minds to convert. But needless to say, Arishima’s distaste for Christian hypocrisy reached its highest narrative peak in

118  Narratives of conversion his novel Aru onna, in which the existence of collusion between the powerful and the Church is repeatedly suggested. On the eve of Yōko’s departure to America to meet her future husband Kimura, one of the men, a government official who had joined the family gathered to bid her farewell, states: “I know Mr. Kimura myself. He is a good Christian, more industrious than most . . . he’ll make a good business man – men who can be trusted – and money. . . . We government officials have the privilege of serving the country directly, but we need responsible Christians like Kimura to make money, and a lot of money, too, otherwise Christianity won’t make much headway in Japan.”49 Yōko, the protagonist, personifies Arishima’s own rebellion against Christian morality, too. Although she often finds herself thinking with fondness of the times when she was a little girl, “in love with Christ and sewing a beautiful sash for Him, forgetting everything, even lessons, and sewing night and day till her fingers cracked in her eagerness to get it finished,” she also in fact feels strong resentment towards the Christian education she has received at the Akasaka Academy, where she has been treated like a “sexless animal.” When she was twelve or thirteen, gentle, sweet, and modest, and just beginning, in a dreamy, half-conscious way, in response to the natural tenderness and desire a child is born with, to fall in love with the being they called God, the school had done its best to ram into her head its tenets of prayer, chastity, and repression of all emotion. Yoko had suddenly had the idea of making a silk sash, with a pattern of the Christian cross. . . . It never occurred to her to think of how she would “present” it to God when it was ready: her only wish was to give Him pleasure by finishing it as quickly as she could.50 Discovered by one of the teachers sewing away during a Bible lesson, she had been unable to explain for whom the sash was. As a result it was assumed she might already be in a relationship with a man, “indulging a precocious thirst for love,” a false assumption that basically stained her moral reputation. Another scene evocative of Arishima’s bitterness toward Christianity is when, yet again on the eve of her trip, Yōko decides to go see Uchida, an old friend of her mother’s. Uchida, a fictional rendering of Uchimura Kanzō, is “a fervent Christian propagandist,” who “was something of a genius in his way, hated like the plague by those who did not take to him and worshipped as a prophet by those who did.”51 He is described in the story as a rigid and stubborn man who is often comfortable using the expression “it’s the will of God” for his own convenience. Uchida, who had voiced his anger at Yōko following her elopement with her former husband Kibe, refuses to see her because of her past immoral behavior. But as if to remind him of his exceeding self-righteousness and of the duty of a true Christian not to be judgmental of others, Yōko urges Uchida’s wife to tell her

Arishima Takeo  119 husband “to forgive others their sins – three times anyway, if he can’t manage the seventy times seven.”52 Apart from his growing distaste for the hypocrisy he had witnessed within Christian circles, another important factor in Arishima’s repudiation of the faith was likely the elaboration of a philosophy of life that rejected all dualities within the individual. This process, which began to take shape after March 1907 and which has been viewed by scholars as one of the causes for the demise of Christianity in Meiji and Taishō Japan, sanctioned an irreconcilable fracture between him and the religion. Soon after his return to Japan from the United States, Arishima was appointed to a teaching position at his alma mater in Sapporo, where he was welcomed by those who knew him to be a fervent Christian, but his view of Christianity had by then already been compromised. The dynamics of his marital relationship – he got married in 1909 – carefully described in the “Preface,” did nothing but exacerbate his frustration with the Christian interpretation of sexuality as something to be shunned. The idea, as he put it, that sexual relationships were justified only if aimed at procreation was, for example, one aspect of the religion’s teachings that he could not accept. Thus, after a few years of hesitation and anguish, unable to sustain what he deemed to be a life of hypocrisy and selfdeception, he finally renounced his church membership, formally severing his ties to the Church: This is how I parted from the faith. After that I became spiritually isolated. At the age of thirty-four I became a baby again. It is at that moment that, turning my eyes inward, I came to see myself for the first time. It was the first time that I saw myself with my own eyes.53 Following these personal developments, in 1910 Arishima published his essay “Futatsu no michi” (Two Paths), already mentioned earlier in this chapter, in which he discussed the essence of human predicament, namely the existence of dualities within the self. The early 1910s became, then, years of deep personal introspection. Acknowledging the influence of Walt Whitman, to whose poetry he had first been exposed while in Boston, he began to write copiously about the transformation unfolding within him.54 His piece “Naibu seikatsu no genshō” of 1914 contained his most consequential deliberation, that is the categorical rejection of all dualities, including the one that had most tormented him since his younger years – that of flesh versus spirit. Through an imaginary dialogue with his soul or inner self, Arishima moved to retrace his religious past, characterizing it as a period of self-imposed schemes and morality that, however, had not improved him as a person. His soul explained: When you decide to go to the flesh without the seal of my permission – your soul – a devil with previously no substance appears in front you with a seemingly stern presence. Likewise, when you decide to separate from the flesh and run towards the spirit, an angel with no previous substance appears in front of you, yet again with the same seemingly stern presence. When you do

120  Narratives of conversion this, you gradually grow apart from me, taken by the shadows of phantoms with no substance . . . and then painful dualities begin to take shape within your heart. Spirit and flesh. heaven and hell, ideal and reality, angels and the devil. And what is next? You cannot earn peace if you do not come up with some type of dual concepts, and because of this bad habit somehow you are unable to be at peace, unable to choose between alternatives, drifting in emptiness.55 On the one hand, the soul reproached him, he had declared himself to be a fervent Christian, but on the other, he had done the opposite of Christ’s teachings. When his actions were immoral, he claimed that righteousness came from faith and not dogmas, but when his faith faltered, he justified that hesitation by stating that salvation was for those who did the will of the Lord. He had thus created a God out of the teachings of the Bible, without, however, ever experiencing him, which had caused a tension between the inner and the outer selves that could only be relieved, the soul maintained, by the reunification of the split self. The spirit and the flesh did not have to be, as preachers claimed, the expression of polarities, and once the divided self was finally reunited, the soul stated, I come to acquire the full strength of an egg that has just been inseminated. So much strength I do not even know how to deal with it. I am growing steadily . . . only when you melt together with me, only when I, your soul, rule over your entire body, [it concluded], only then is your creation complete.56 Under this new philosophical model that aimed at the full extension of the self, the dichotomy of flesh versus spirit represented a contradiction in terms. Its rejection became by default the rejection of the most basic teachings of his Christian education, sanctioning the irreconcilable gap between the exploration of one’s individuality and the pursuit of faith. When in 1917 Arishima published his piece “Jiko no kōsatsu” (An Observation of the Self), in which he once again equated his relinquishment of the faith with the full realization of the self, arguing, furthermore, that love was not only the instinct at the basis of one’s existence, but that it was also an instinct to absorb rather than give, his philosophical frame had essentially reached its final shape. The opening paragraphs of his essay “Love the Plunderer: The Metaphysics of a Modern Japanese,” which Arishima himself wrote in English in the same year, elucidated the logical process that had led him to the formulation of this new viewpoint: The apostle Paul was right when he said, “he that giveth, let him do it with simplicity.” He illustrates pointedly the impulse of one who loves. Indeed, the outward sign of a lover is to give, to sacrifice his all with simplicity. Starting from this peripheral observation we are wont to assume, wrongly, I think, that the substance of love is an instinct to give, or an energy to emanate, and we stick to this idea without considering the question in its necessary fullness. Morality is based on this conception of Love the giver. Altruism

Arishima Takeo  121 is firmly rooted in it. Egoism is supposed to find its sorest point tricked by it. Hence the loud-voiced summons to the virtue of self-sacrifice, and the time-honored call to disinterested devotion. But here I must stop and think. According to my own experience of Love, pitiably small though it be, the impulse to love always coincides with self-interest and concern. I must own that without these my Love never awakes to its full activity. With me Love is an instinct to plunder, rather than to give: an energy to absorb, rather than to emanate.57 The “Preface” reflected this deep transformation, highlighting the fundamental tension that lay at the root of his conflicted relationship with Christianity. Revisiting his lifelong search for a mediation between morality and sexuality, Arishima wrote about his struggle to preserve himself until marriage, which, however, he had to acknowledge, had not put an end to his anguish. Married life, in fact, did not provide the spiritual purging he had hoped for; on the contrary, his sense of guilt became so unbearable, he stated, that after entering married life, he found it extremely difficult to attend church, hence the resignation of his membership. This conflict between flesh and spirit found further expression in his 1917 novel Meiro (Labyrinth), in which the narrator states: For someone who was once convinced he believed in God but unknowingly strayed from Him by following his own genuine intuition, can there be a lonelier time than when he realizes that, after all, he didn’t really know God? . . . All of it was a trick of youthful passion. Instead of the love of women, I substituted the love of God. . . . The result was that my passions turned inward toward faith. The tears I shed in my prayers before going to sleep should have fallen on the breast of a woman. I went deep into the mountains and stroked the smooth bark of a silver birch tree as if stroking the hand of a lover. Instead of directing this strong urge to love toward a woman, to love with my entire being, I scattered that love blindly in the name of God. . . . I tried to immerse my life into God day and night by following the ascetic life to the point of emaciation. But I found I couldn’t live that life. All kinds of temptation continually arose in me like masses of clouds to build a black wall between God and me. Among these temptations the strongest and most fearful involved carnal desire. At the very moment I was conscious of approaching God and offering an ecstatic prayer in gratitude, the devil of carnal desire pounced on me with sharpened claws as to destroy the faith I had just regained.58 Arishima’s deliberate effort to conquer this duality and thus reunite the divided self that had further disintegrated following his conversion was certainly a significant aspect of the process that led him to distance himself from Christianity. However, it was arguably still the question of free will – and with it the theory of predestination and the question of God’s responsibility for the depravity of humankind – that lay at the core of his recantation. His arguments against Calvinism are of special importance because, transcending the details of his personal

122  Narratives of conversion experience, they actually revealed logical ramifications that were relevant for most of the writers who embraced Christianity during his time. Arishima, it has been mentioned, was especially critical of the view, expounded by Uchimura Kanzō and others, according to which God has already chosen those who will be saved and those who will not. Similarly critical of the belief that faith was the only means to achieve salvation, he could not reconcile the notion that an individual’s destiny be already decided a priori. In the “Preface” he provided four reasons behind his decision to abandon the Christian faith. The second of these reasons, he explained, had to do exactly with the question of free will: If human beings are not granted free will, then they should not be able to be aware of their sins. Since they are still deemed responsible for their sins, there must be another force within them that is totally independent of the power of God. But that should not exist. If it does not exist, then who should be responsible for their sins? Man or God? Because of the very fact that I exist, that responsibility has to lie with God. It that is the case, then, what is the theory of atonement for? I could accept my grandmother’s belief in some absolute power, but I thought that such a Christian teaching is either out of convenience or is simply flawed.59 Being unable to choose whether to sin or not implied man’s inability to determine his own salvation, an argument that Arishima could not accept and that raised, in his view, serious questions about the legitimacy of the Calvinist doctrine of predestination. Kawa Shizuo has seen in these questions the signs of a latent skepticism that caused him to abandon the faith, and Sasabuchi Tomoichi has similarly interpreted these doubts regarding the “future life” – the third reason for his apostasy – as “an obvious reaction against the pessimism of Calvinist eschatology.”60 But further proof that Arishima was deeply preoccupied with the question of predestination can be found, yet again, in the content of his novel Meiro. In this story, the protagonist, a male nurse who works for a mental institution and who is easily identifiable as Arishima himself, is assigned to the care of Dr. Scott, a scholar who is suffering from depression due to overwork. Dr. Scott has a brother who has committed suicide and for this reason he is considered a subject at risk. Dr. Scott and the protagonist have conversations regarding freedom of will and determinism. The former, originally a skeptic, feels responsible for his brother’s death and believes he has been cursed for the sins he has committed; he is convinced that his fate has been determined and that he is therefore unable to change it. The latter, a former Christian who, it is explained at the beginning of the novel, has just renounced his faith, believes, on the other hand, that man has the freedom, through his actions, to alter the course of events. The fact that he has renounced Christianity and has “returned to what [he] regarded as [his] only refuge, the wretched dilapidated house called myself,”61 it must be noted, is a key aspect of the dynamics that govern their exchange; the nurse’s previous renunciation of the faith is the very basis for his later embrace of the theory of free will, without which he would be prisoner of the same beliefs that afflict his patient.

Arishima Takeo  123 One day Dr. Scott tells his nurse of the time when, upon learning of his brother’s death, he realized he was under God’s curse and later felt the compelling urge to enter a church. Dr. Scott states that “the church turned out to be Episcopalian. A young clergyman with sharp eyes was earnestly preaching about predestination, his low impassioned voice strangely persuasive, and it reminded me of Calvin.”62 After the sermon, on his way back, he had happened to come upon a cherry tree: “A, I can say with certainty I heard the devil whispering to me from the top of that tree. . . . That voice said, ‘Along with Cain, you are an eternally cursed soul’. What can my wretched tears do with destiny. . . . A, do you think you can alter destiny through your own power?”63 A few days later, the nurse finds himself reflecting upon Dr. Scott’s words and disparaging not only the notion of predestination itself but also the idea that someone could take one’s salvation for granted: Who was that clergyman who expounded on determination to Dr. Scott? It’s your theology, dragged out of the dust of some library that is driving a man insane, even killing him. With your cold words and calm indifference you commit murder – You expect that you alone will be saved, that you alone will enter the Kingdom of Heaven.64 The theology that is bringing down Dr. Scott is something “dragged out of the dust of some library.” It is, in other words, an artificial creation, the product of an intellectual operation, that is, however, being imposed on others as a law of nature. Dr. Scott warns his nurse friend of the consequences of such a law: “A, you once told me you were a Christian. I want to leave one final word with you as a believer in Christianity. Throughout the remainder of your life, you must never consciously do one evil thing, now matter how trivial it is. If you do, you will never be able to regain peace of mind. You will never be able to atone for it.”65 Dr. Scott was an actual patient of Arishima’s during his employment at the asylum of the Society of Friends in Philadelphia, and his name surfaced in Kansōroku on September 26, 1904, when the young intellectual sadly recorded the news of Scott’s suicide. That day he also recalled the words that Dr. Scott had once shared with him: “You have been truly kind to me. . . . God long ago condemned me to eternal damnation because of my sins. . . . For those who have become Christians there is nothing in this world so dreadful as sin. Because I know you are a Christian I say this especially to you. Never sin!66 Earlier that summer, on August 16, after hearing directly from Dr. Scott of the grief he was experiencing due to his sense of guilt, Arishima had also lashed out at those

124  Narratives of conversion Christian theologians who “treat sin in the same way that scientists deal with experiments. They teach that once one has committed a sin, he can never be saved.”67 There have been a number of interpretations as to whether the nurse’s renunciation of the faith at the beginning of the story is a reflection of his desire to free himself from the dictates of Christian morality, to reject its notion of self-effacement, or yet again to oppose the determinism supporting its views on salvation. It is this latter interpretation that this study espouses, and the fact that Dr. Scott ultimately takes his life seems to suggest that he who believes in the reality of fate is unable to escape his doom.68 Although it is possible, as some scholars have argued, that Arishima’s attack on the theory of predestination stemmed from his misunderstanding of the theology behind it, it is also a fact that very few Meiji and Taishō intellectuals were equipped with the tools necessary to debate an interpretation of the Scriptures that is multifaceted and that to this day is a cause of division within the Christian world in general. As a result, the vast majority of writers who embraced Christianity and who were under the influence of Calvinist doctrines simply understood that you either had been chosen or you had not, and that unconditional faith was the absolute prerequisite for salvation. As one researcher has recently pointed out, the idea that an individual’s salvation was determined at birth, so to speak, was considered a dogma for those who held a firm conviction in their faith, but it generated much anxiety among those who did not have such an absolute belief. It was a deterministic view of salvation that stood in contrast with . . . Catholicism, according to which both grace and good works are necessary to be saved.69 Nin’emon, the protagonist of a 1917 novel by Arishima titled Kain no matsuei (The Descendants of Cain), is another character who, similarly to Dr. Scott, remains prisoner of his destiny. An itinerant farmer who is described as a belligerent and an instinctual individual, Nin’emon’s very existence is the epitome of a curse from which it is not possible to escape. Unable to conform to community life and to overcome his irrational and animalistic sides, just like the biblical Cain, he is condemned to wander in the world shunned by the same humanity of which he is supposed to be a part. He is a man, Arishima himself stated, whose destiny was to compete against mother nature and fight human society at the same time.70 Nin’emon, who loses his child and his horse while he and his wife try to survive the harshness of farming life in the raging winter of Hokkaidō, feels that such tragedies must have been caused by some impersonal agency of misfortune rather than by mere chance. It is as if, as one scholar put it, the force of nature determined his fate, beyond the cause and effect relationship of his choices.71 Yōko, the protagonist of Aru onna, also believes herself to be cursed. In an exchange with Kimura on board the ship anchored in Seattle she exclaims: “Kimura-san! Happiness will come your way in the end, I’m sure. Don’t despair, whatever happens. There’s no reason why a good man like you should

Arishima Takeo  125 be so unlucky all the time. It’s different with me: I have lived under a curse since the day I was born. . . . I’ve more reason to hate God than to have faith in Him. No, listen! But I do have faith, a religion of a kind; because I’m too cowardly to hate Him. I shall watch to the end, with my eyes open – to see what God does with someone like me – .”72 A fatalistic vision of the world where one’s destiny is determined by past actions or some supernatural agency is a theme that recurred often in Meiji and Taishō narrative. It was not a view that stemmed exclusively from environmental and hereditary determinism, an area of literary discourse that was dear to Naturalism. On the contrary, it was a view that also drew deeply from a Christian eschatology that like Calvinism placed a strong emphasis on predestination. Thus, Ushimatsu, the burakumin outcast and protagonist of Shimazaki Tōson’s Hakai, is able to escape the curse of his ancestry only by defying his father’s admonishment not to reveal his identity. It is only through his own agency, by rejecting a preexisting covenant, that he is able to become free. Arishima’s apostasy similarly symbolized the writer’s own rejection of the inevitability of fate and an individual’s inability to alter his destiny. Toward the end of his life, Arishima, who in 1916 had suffered the loss of both his wife and father, shifted his focus from fiction to writings of a social and political nature. Between 1921 and 1922 he published important essays on women’s equality and independence that cemented his image of a staunch supporter of women’s rights and wrote articles on socialism and class warfare that culminated in his decision to relinquish his Hokkaidō estate to tenant farmers. He also met Hatano Akiko, with whom he would commit suicide the following year in his villa in Karuizawa. His premature death left a tremendous void in the collective imagination of the younger generations, reinforcing the perceived irreconcilability of art and faith, and signaling, in the eyes of many, the ipso facto demise of Christianity within Taishō literary circles. After all, too many intellectuals, from Tōkoku to Tōson on to Doppo and Hakuchō, had already failed to reconcile religious practice and artistic experience, and Arishima’s case, which in many respects incarnated the dualities at play in that relationship, seemed to confirm the existence of such paradigm. There was, however, still one author who desperately sought to salvage the salvageable from the ruins of that relationship: Akutagawa Ryūnosuke.

Notes 1 Quoted in Koizumi Ichirō, “Haikyōsha to shite no Arishima Takeo,” Hon no techō 63 (1967), 281. 2 Ibid., 282. 3 Leith Morton, Divided Self, 212. 4 Quoted in Koizumi Ichirō, “Haikyōsha to shite no Arishima Takeo,” 282. 5 On this point, see Yamamoto Yoshiaki, “ ‘Ai’ to manazashi: Meiro ron,” in Arishima Takeo: Aii/Sekushuariti, edited by Arishima Takeo kenkyūkai (Yūbun shoin, 1995), 53–70. 6 See his essay “Jiko no kōsatsu” (An Observation of the Self, 1917), in vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 410.

126  Narratives of conversion 7 Leith Morton, Divided Self, 99. 8 Paul Anderer, Other Worlds: Arishima Takeo and the Bounds of Modern Japanese Fiction (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), 39. 9 “Futatsu no michi” (1910), in vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 5. 10 Quoted and translated in Leith Morton, Divided Self, 86–7. 11 See, for example, entries of March 8 and March 13, 1898, in Kansōroku, vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 92–3 and 94–8. 12 “Ribingusuton den jo,” quoted and translated in Leith Morton, Divided Self, 33. 13 See Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 109, 110. 14 Ibid., 117–18. 15 Ibid., 127–8. 16 On his concerns of being impure, see also entries of April 15 and April 17, 1899, both in Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 138–9. 17 Entry of December 30, 1899; ibid., 164. 18 Entry of April 21, 1900; ibid.,166. 19 Ibid., 175,183–6. 20 On this point, see Kasahara Yoshimitsu, “Haikyō no ronri: Arishima Takeo no baai,” Kirisutokyō shakai mondai kenkyū 20 (1972), 85. 21 See, for example, Sako Jun’ichirō, Kindai nihon bungaku no rinriteki tankyū, 259. 22 Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 189, 199. 23 Quoted and translated in Leith Morton, Divided Self, 41. 24 Entry of January 8, 1903; Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 234–6. 25 Entry of September 1, 1903; ibid., 431. 26 Entry of August 5, 1904; ibid., 474. 27 See entries of February 16 and February 19, 1903; ibid., 261, 264. 28 Ibid., 244. 29 Ibid., 271. 30 Ibid. 31 Ibid., 305. 32 Ibid., 309. 33 Quoted and translated in Leith Morton, Divided Self, 92. 34 Entry of July 22, 1903; see Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 404. 35 Sasabuchi Tomoichi, Meiji Taishō bungaku no bunseki, 691. 36 Entry of September 14, 1903; see Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 442. 37 Kawa noted that in his diary Arishima had asked God for a transcendental experience that would finally deliver him from the temptations of the flesh; see Kawa Shizuo, “Arishima Takeo ni okeru ‘shingiron’ teki kaigi no seiritsu,” in Shirakaba bungaku, edited by Nihon bungaku kenkyū shiryō kankōkai (Yūseidō, 1974), 178. One such example can be found in the entry of April 22, 1903; see Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 343. 38 Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 139. 39 Entry of June 1, 1897; quoted and translated in Leith Morton, Divided Self, 26. 40 On this point see Kawa Shizuo, “Arishima Takeo ni okeru ‘shingiron’ teki kaigi no seiritsu,” 179. See also Miyano Mitsuo, “Arishima Takeo kenkyū: shizenkan ni miru kirisutokyō juyō to teichakuka no kōsatsu,” Kokugo kyōiku kenkyū 8 (1963), 219–27. 41 Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 128. 42 See entries of April 15 and August 17, 1899, in Kansōroku, vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 138, 156. Two years later, on April 13, 1901, he continued to celebrate the mystical relationship between God and nature; ibid., 192–3. 43 Uesugi Yoshikazu pointed out that Arishima’s recollection was mistaken and that his church membership was actually canceled in 1910; on this point see Leith Morton, Divided Self, 91. 44 See, respectively, Kuyama Yasushi, Kindai nihon to kirisutokyō: taishō shōwa hen (Sōbunsha, 1956), 54; Kawa Shizuo, “Arishima Takeo ni okeru ‘shingiron’ teki kaigi

Arishima Takeo  127

4 5 46 47 48 49 5 0 51 52 53 54 5 5 56 57 58 59 60 6 1 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 7 1 72

no seiritsu,” 175–85; and Sako Jun’ichirō, “Haikyō bunshi to shite no Arishima Takeo,” Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kanshō 22:8 (1957), 45–8. Quoted in Kasahara Yoshimitsu, “Haikyō no ronri: Arishima Takeo no baai,” 91. “Ribingusuton den jo,” in vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 375. Ibid. On this point, see, for example, Onishi Yasumitsu, “Kitamura Tōkoku to Arishima Takeo: kueekaa ni okeru seimeishugi no kōsatsu,” Mie Daigaku nihongogaku bungaku 14 (2003), 75–83. Arishima Takeo, A Certain Woman, English translation by Kenneth Strong (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1978), 72. Ibid., 93, 74. Ibid., 62. Ibid., 66. “Ribingusuton den jo,” in vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 379. See, for example, his piece “Kusa no ha: Hoittoman ni kansuru kōsatsu” (The Leaves of Grass: A Study of Whitman, 1913), in vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 54–81. “Naibu seikatsu no genshō,” in vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 90–1. Ibid., 101, 102. “Love the Plunderer: The Metaphysics of a Modern Japanese,” in vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 147. See Arishima Takeo, Labyrinth, English translation by Sanford Goldstein and Shinoda Seishi (Lanham, MD: Madison Books, 1992), 3–4. “Ribinguston den jo,” in vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 371. The other three reasons had to do with the lack of any direct contact with the personal God; doubts about the Christian afterlife; and the realization of the moral hypocrisy of Christian nations. See Kawa Shizuo, “Arishima Takeo ni okeru ‘shingiron’teki kaigi no no seiritsu,” in Shirakaba bungaku, 175–85; and Sasabuchi Tomoichi, Meiji Taishō bungaku no bunseki, 688. Arishima Takeo, Labyrinth, 4. Ibid., 20. Ibid. Ibid., 22. Ibid., 33. Ibid. Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 482–3. On the various interpretations of this work, see Hokao Toshimi, “Arishima Takeo Meiro no ronten ni tsuite,” Ōsaka Kyōiku Daigaku kiyō 53:1 (2004), 47–63. See Ōta Masaki, “Arishima Takeo to kirisutokyō: seisei to kokuai no hazama de,” Baika Joshi Daigaku bunka hyōgen gakubu kiyō 2 (2005), 50. See his short piece “Jiko o egakidashita ni hoka naranai Kain no matsuei” (The Descendants of Cain: Nothing but the Portrait of Myself, 1919), in vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 424–5. Uesugi Yoshikazu, “Kain no matsuei ron,” Jinbun ronshū 33 (1982), 156. Arishima Takeo, A Certain Woman, 174.

7

The salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke

In “Aru muchi” (A Whip), published in 1926, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke wrote: As a boy I loved Christianity because of the stained glass windows, the censers, and rosaries. Later, I became fascinated with the saints and the biographies of the Gospels. I felt psychologically and dramatically attracted to their resolve to risk their lives, and for this reason, too, I loved Christianity. In other words, as I loved Christianity, I also completely scorned it. But that was not as bad yet. Around 1922, I began to write short stories and aphorisms that ridiculed Christianity and the Christian faith, and I continued to use the solemn artistic heritage that accompanied the Christian religion as material for my stories. But in the end, as I looked down on it, I actually loved it. This may not be the only reason why I have been punished, but it is certainly one of them.1 The following year, in Seihō no hito (The Man from the West), he once again touched upon his relationship with Christianity in a passage that has often been quoted by literary historians: About ten years ago, I was artistically in love with Christianity, especially Catholicism. Even today, I have a vivid memory of Japan’s Temple of the Blessed Mother in Nagasaki. In a sense, I am no more than a crow picking away at the scattered crumbs left behind by Kitahara Hakushū and Kinoshita Mokutarō. Then, several years ago, I developed a certain fascination with Christians who had been martyred because of their Christianity. I took a pathological interest in the mentality of the martyr, which seemed to me just like the mentality of all fanatics. But then finally, in more recent days, I began to love the Christ as handed down to us in the four Gospels. Christ no longer strikes me as a stranger. For that, I will be ridiculed by today’s youth, not to mention by Westerners. But I, having been born at the end of the nineteenth century, began to direct my eyes to the Cross, which they can no longer bear to look at and even dare to assault. My Christ, having been born in Japan, does not necessarily gaze upon the Sea of Galilee.2

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  129 Although Akutagawa was not baptized and never made a public avowal of faith, the two passages above provide evidence, next to an impressive record of literary works dealing with Christianity – his kirishitan mono, more than twenty stories dealing mostly with the persecution of Christians in pre-modern Japan published between 1916 and 1924 – that the Christian religion held not only a special place in his oeuvre, but that it also likely transcended, in his case, too, the domain of art and literary expression. The passages are all the more important because they provide insight into the details of that relationship, highlighting both the aesthetic motives that stood behind the initial fascination with Catholicism as well as the later existentialist posture that saw him embrace the figure of Christ with an intensity that had perhaps no equal among the literati of the time. In 1956, Sako Jun’ichirō identified three stages in this evolution that have since been largely ratified by the academic community: a first phase in which Akutagawa’s interaction with the religion was mainly driven by an interest in the exotic, a second in which he became profoundly captivated by the theme of martyrdom and its aesthetic ramifications, and a third phase during which Christ became the main focus of his writings.3 Miyasaka Satoru, another leading scholar in the field, added to this analysis, stating that although Akutagawa’s initial attraction to Christianity was rooted in Catholicism, during the latter half of his life his religious views became essentially Protestant in nature.4 Miyasaka was also one of the very first to point out that such later views were profoundly mediated by Muroga Fumitake’s influence and that for this reason the impact of Uchimura Kanzō’s doctrines, of whom Muroga was a follower, should not be minimized. Muroga Fumitake (1869–1949) was a fervent Christian who had worked a few years for Akutagawa’s father as a milk deliveryman at the time Ryūnosuke was still a toddler. He is the individual later identified as “the old man in the attic” whom the protagonist of the novel Haguruma (Spinning Gears) meets one night in a last desperate attempt to regain sanity and, it will be argued in this book, salvation.5 Seihō no hito, its sequel Zoku Seihō no hito – which was completed the day before his death – and his kirishitan mono were not the only works written by Akutagawa that displayed significant connections to Christianity and the problem of faith. Indeed, recent research has shown that despite the lack of a formal profession of faith, his involvement with the Christian religion during his formative years was so significant that in his case, too, the existence of a narrative of conversion cannot be denied.

Early exposure to Christianity Akutagawa, who met Muroga again during his high-school years, wrote letters to friends in the early 1910s that spoke eloquently about his early desire to discover God and probe into the meaning of life.6 In a letter to his friend Yamamoto Kiyoshi (1892–1963) that was written around 1911, for example, he wrote about the split self that existed within him, and about “a second self that always ridicules and causes offense to the first one.” Unable to reconcile these opposites, he wondered

130  Narratives of conversion about the sense of life, whether the ultimate object of existence was merely survival and the reproduction of the species, showing concern that “the presence of God might soon be fading away from him.”7 Likewise, in another letter to friend Tsunetō Kyō (1888–1967), he talked about faith and the importance of believing, in a passage that is intriguingly evocative of Kunikida Doppo’s thought: There is no need to insistently search for faith in God; it is as a result of trying to force faith within the limiting notion of God that the arguments about the existence or non-existence of God come into being; I believe in “this;” and “this” is art. I cannot believe that the enlightenment I can achieve through this faith can possibly be any inferior to that achieved through other faiths. All things are a waste of time without faith; not only within religion, not only within art, only with faith is there life.8 In yet another missive to the same friend, he touched upon the theme of life and the ability to determine one’s fate: I am not quite sure of the power of my own will. . . . Of course it is through my will that I move my arms or legs . . . but my will is so feeble, it does not even deserve to be called as such. I feel as if there is a higher will, a will much stronger than that of the State or society. . . . Perhaps you need to rely on an absolute “other force” in order to become free.9 In 1915, Akutagawa suffered a heartbreak – he fell in love with Yoshida Yayoi but was unable to marry her due to opposition from his family – and this experience led him to reflect deeply on the relationship between love, egotism, and God: Does love without egotism exist? With egotistic love, it is not possible to cross the barrier that stands in between people. . . . If it is indeed the case that love without egotism does not exist, then there must be nothing as painful in a person’s life. All around me is ugly, my own self is ugly, and going on living knowing this is painful. . . . If God is responsible for this, it is a despicable trick.10 It is not only from these letters and other fragmented biographical information that his early interest in Christianity can be inferred, however. A number of manuscripts and unfinished works preceding his 1915 literary debut – the publication of his story “Rashōmon” – show significant ties to the Christian religion. One of these early works is the short story “Rōkyōjin” (A Crazy Old Man).11 Seemingly written around 1910 when Akutagawa was only eighteen, or perhaps even earlier, the story begins with the narrator recalling an episode from his childhood regarding a crazy old man by the name of Hidebaka. Hidebaka is “one of those Christians who had turned against the brutal religious system of ancient Japan.”12 He lives a destitute life; shunned by his community because of his religion and considered to be mentally ill, he is often seen wearing shabby clothes, wandering

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  131 around in solitude, his eyes and body language betraying an anxiety that instills in people a sentiment of grief for the cruelty of his destiny. One summer day during his childhood, it is recalled in the story, the narrator went to play at his friend’s house which happened to be located right next to Hidebaka’s place. That day the friend asked him if he had ever seen the crazy old man weep, because, if he had not, he could watch him do it right now. The two friends decided to spy on Hidebaka and spotted him, leaning against a pillar with his head in between his knees intently praying with a sad and helpless voice that inspired pity and compassion: “Father who art in heaven . . . Holy Mary . . . sinners . . .” Hidebaka’s trembling voice, the narrator states, seemed to symbolically capture the pain and loneliness that a multitude of people experience during their existence; it was a voice that “came from within the true self” and that rendered those who listened unable to stop crying. At the time of this scene, the narrator continues, both friends had laughed hard thinking about what a fool Hidebaka was. But now that time had passed, it was impossible for him to hide his profound admiration for that crazy old man, and for that absolute devotion of a martyr who turned against the teachings of a feudal age where believers were punished at the stake. . . . I still feel great shame from the bottom of my heart for having laughed at that crazy old man.13 Needless to say, Hidebaka represented the prototype of the “holy fool” that would become a leit motif in Akutagawa’s literature. Derided and ridiculed by society, narratively speaking, the crazy old man finds moral redemption through his religious devotion. It is his staunch faith that separates him from the others and elevates him above ordinary men. The scene of his prayer is also emblematic; his words came “from within his true self,” as if to emphasize the authenticity of his contrition, and the importance of the moment when man shows himself to God as he is, without deception or affectation. Another set of works that were written between 1913 and 1914 and that are critical for an understanding of Akutagawa’s early relationship with Christianity is Kirisuto ni kansuru danpen (Fragments on Christ), a collection of four plays – “Akatsuki” (Dawn), “Magudara no Maria” (Mary of Magdala), “PIETA” and “Sauro.”14 “Akatsuki” is a dialogue between two devils sitting on top of a roof watching the Passion of Jesus unfold in front of their eyes. It is a rather unknown, slightly different version of another play by the same title that had been previously included in Akutagawa’s collected works.15 In both versions, the two devils are witnesses to the beating suffered by Jesus as he makes his way to Golgotha, and in both cases they basically betray the realization that the man whose crucifixion they are about to witness is someone extraordinary. In the better known version, the two demons share episodes in which they were “scarred” by Jesus: the time that Jesus had taught “to give to Caesar what belonged to Caesar and to God what belonged to God,” and the time when speaking on behalf of the prostitute that was about to be lynched, he admonished the bystanders to throw the first stone if

132  Narratives of conversion they thought they were without sin. Although the devils believe that, once on the cross, the man they are watching will give in, both of them acknowledge the presence of a dazzling light on his face that they have never experienced before. In the lesser-known manuscript, the emphasis is by contrast on Jesus’s last moments before his arrest at Gethsemane. Although eager to witness the crucifixion after which, they believe, the soul of this man will be theirs, both devils cannot hide their stupor regarding the nature of this man. A dialogue unfolds on whether “the man” is afraid of death or not, and on whether he could actually have avoided it, had he wanted to. Then, recalling the scene where the disciples fell asleep only to wake up at the arrival of Judas with the soldiers, one of the devils admits to also having fallen asleep because of the soothing words of Jesus. As they witness the beating before the crucifixion, one of them states again that nothing like this has ever been seen before. “Magudara no Maria” is also a dialogue between two characters, but the devils are now replaced by two Roman soldiers.16 The play opens with the two soldiers chatting about the imminent arrival of Jesus of Nazareth in the city, which is causing excitement and anticipation among the “Jewish religious fanatics.” The soldiers wonder why a smart woman like Mary would ever become the disciple of the son of a carpenter. They find her devotion to him inexplicable and beyond logical comprehension. As they witness the unfolding of the events, they, too, wonder, just like the devils, if the man about whom everyone is getting excited is truly an ordinary man. Presently, one of the soldiers notes that while the Roman gods all cooperate for the good of the Republic, the Jewish god is an Eastern despotic dictator: There is a huge difference between those who are able to please him and those who are not . . . unless they are able to adapt to God’s selfishness and jealousy, human beings can hardly live a fulfilling life. The Jewish god is vulgar and capricious, and for this reason, the soldiers agree, one is better off being considered “the son of man” rather than “the son of god.” But there is also another reason why the Jewish god deserves criticism, the Roman soldier claims, namely that his religion is full of contradictions. The Jews claim to be monotheists and as such, feel contempt for those who believe in the existence of multiple gods, but in fact their angels and demons are exactly the same thing. The biggest contradiction of all is their belief that, by following the teachings of God, one can earn eternal life, a rule, they claim, that applies however only to them and to no other peoples.17 As this brief excursus has shown, Akutagawa was already interested in Christianity during the years that preceded his literary debut. His works provide the vivid portrait of a young man passionately engaged in reading the Bible, without knowledge of which, scholars agree, such works would not have been possible. Focusing on the Passion of Christ from the viewpoint of different types of observers – the soldiers, the devils, the disciples – these manuscripts reveal a concerted attempt to capture the magnitude of Jesus’s figure through the eyes of

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  133 those who witnessed the events in a manner that transcended a mere aestheticized attempt at reliving the Scriptures. It would be difficult, however, to dispute the centrality of his kirishitan mono in his deliberations on the question of faith. Amounting to a total of approximately 10 percent of his entire oeuvre, these stories constitute an indelible moment in the history of Christianity in Meiji and Taishō literature, because, beyond the obvious relevance of their content (and far from being mere parodies of a cultural conflict between East and West), they addressed themes – the conflict between science and religion, tradition and modernity, as well as questions about love, self, and truth – that were central to the intellectual discourse of the period.

The past as a mirror of the self: the topos of the “holy fool” and the question of faith in Akutagawa’s kirishitan mono Setting these stories three hundred years back in the past had its advantages. Akutagawa once wrote: Suppose I take up a certain theme to use in a story. And suppose I need some extraordinary incident to express that theme in the most artistically effective way possible. It will be extremely difficult to treat this extraordinary incident – simply because it is extraordinary – as happening in contemporary Japan; and if, against my inclination, I do so, then the reader will, in most cases, find it unnatural, and as a result the theme itself will be destroyed. So, in order to avoid this difficulty . . . I have no alternative but to treat it as something that happened in the past, or in some foreign land, or in the past in some foreign land.18 Akutagawa’s kirishitan mono were not always praised. Labeled by some scholars as mere products of a fascination with the exotic, they were at first often criticized not only for their mannerism and the excessive attention paid to plot twists, but also because, despite their subject matter, they allegedly lacked any serious probing into the problem of religion. Some scholars even characterized them as mere caricatures of Christianity that bordered on heresy.19 In a recent important study titled Akutagawa Ryūnosuke no kirisutokyō shisō (The Christian Thought of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) that appeared in 1998, Ha Tae-Hu has shown how the first generation of post-war literary researchers essentially dismissed any notion of a subjective and spiritually profound inquiry hiding behind the multilayered semantic structures of these stories. They argued, instead, that they were essentially aesthetically driven and thus devoid of any concerns about the nature of Christian beliefs.20 Ha also argues that it was not until Satō Yasumasa’s article “Akutagawa ni okeru kami: Haguruma o megutte” (The Place of God in Akutagawa’s Thought: The Case of Haguruma) that the presence of a strong underlying religious sentiment within these works was fully acknowledged. It then took almost two more decades before the first comprehensive analysis of Akutagawa’s kirishitan mono was published.21

134  Narratives of conversion To be fair, in a rarely quoted article titled “Akutagawa to kirishitan bungaku” (Akutagawa and Christian Literature) that appeared in the journal Kokubungaku in 1957, Richard McKinnon had already highlighted some of the merits of these Christian stories. Acknowledging that the exploitation of the kirishitan tradition had afforded the author the opportunity to create an exotic setting in which to explore the unordinary and the mysterious – just as Akutagawa himself had explained – McKinnon argued that “although not a believer himself,” Akutagawa “had a great respect for faith.” McKinnon also underlined not only this writer’s conviction that believing was the essence of life, but also that some of the stories he wrote dealt directly with faith in a manner that was not necessarily specific to Christianity, but rather universal in nature. In 1968, Kasai Akifu essentially ratified McKinnon’s view, further dismissing the notion that Akutagawa saw Christianity as a mere artistic tool for his works.22 “Kamigami no bishō” (The Smiles of the Gods) of 1921 is probably one of the most representative and well-known of these stories, because it touched on a theme – the inability of the Christian God to overcome the Japanese spiritual tradition – that has been debated at length among interested scholars and intellectuals, especially following the publication of Endō Shūsaku’s best-selling novel Chinmoku in which Japan is described as a swamp where the roots of Christianity cannot grow.23 The work opens with Padre Organtino, a Jesuit missionary, mulling over the reasons for his sadness and nostalgia for his native country of Portugal. On the one hand he loves the land where he is now preaching the Gospel; he loves the people, the scenery, and the climate, but on the other, he feels overwhelmed by the difficulty of his task. As he prays and reflects on his condition, he finally understands the cause of his problems: Some mysterious power is lurking in the houses, towns, forests, and mountains of this land. And this invisible power has been interfering with my job in this country. Otherwise, why should I feel so depressed for no reason? I still don’t understand what this power is. It is like an under-current which is spreading everywhere in this land. Without breaking through this power, oh, my God, it will be impossible to send these heretical Japanese to Paradise.24 Padre Organtino’s premonitions reveal themselves to be true. He is suddenly stirred by the cry of a rooster, and he soon witnesses a scene of Japanese bacchanalia in which a “crowd of primitive men and women” perform a ritual to lure the Goddess Amaterasu out of her hiding cave, pledging absolute devotion to her as the most powerful god of the land. After this frightening experience, Organtino later encounters “one of the spirits” who, recounting instances in history in which new knowledge, customs, and traditions had come ashore only to be soon adjusted to the needs of the natives, explains why “[his] God will lose in this country.” The reason is not “the power of destruction,” but rather “the ability of transforming and adapting [what has been imported].” Thus the spirit states at the end of the story: “Even your God may change into a native god of this land, just as those from China and India have changed. We are in the trees, in the shallow streams, in

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  135 the breeze over these roses, and in the evening glow reflected on the temple wall. We are anywhere and anytime. So be careful.”25 As Seiji Lippit has noted in his study Topographies of Japanese Modernism, “A number of critics have read ‘The Smiles of the Gods’ as a reference to the process of modernization in Japan and an appreciation of native culture that is able to assimilate anything from the outside.”26 This established reading and the widespread attention paid to this work may have given the false impression that, in light of the wave of foreign influence sweeping the country at the turn of the twentieth century, most of Akutagawa’s stories were in essence an attempt to represent the archetypal duality of East and West in its many variations and manifestations. Yoshiko and Andrew Dykstra, for example, introduced their translations of some of these stories as follows: Western readers who wonder why the Japanese have never been completely affected by the foreign, Christian religion may find an answer in “Smiles of the Gods” which introduces the traditional myth of the Sun Goddess to describe the Japanese mental framework since ancient times. In “Ogin” and “Oshino,” old Japanese values collide with the newly imported Christianity. . . . A good example of the assimilation or syncretism of Buddhism and Christianity is found in “Black Robed Maria” in which the image of Virgin Mary appears in the form of Kannon, the merciful bodhisattva of Buddhism.27 While the conflict arising from the encounter of different cultures remains an important key to reading many of these kirishitan mono, the operations performed by Akutagawa within them are much more multilayered and complex. In her brilliant analysis of three of his stories, Rebecca Suter has shown how Akutagawa’s choice to look back to the “Christian century,” rather than focus on contemporary mainstream Protestant Christianity, “acquires further relevance as part of his broader use of historiographic metafiction as a hermeneutic tool to reflect on the cultural dynamics of his time from the vantage point of an estranged perspective.”28 His masterful use of the materials he has chosen enables him to conduct “a broader reflection on agency and ideology, and on the dynamics of subject formation and cultural interaction.” Thus in the three works that are the object of her investigation, Suter is able to identify “a straightforward metaphor for the process of ideological formation of the modern subject: ideology/discourse interpellates individuals as subjects, and by responding to that interpellation individuals subject themselves to it and internalize it.” Ultimately, Suter concludes, the narrative structure [of these works], multilayered and Chinese-box-like, highlights the textual nature of reality, while the choice to intertwine authentic historical record and pure fiction underscores the importance of the past as a mirror of the present and a hermeneutic tool for critical reflection on it.29 As Suter’s discussion shows, the content of Akutagawa’s kirishitan mono is varied and polymorphic, and the themes treated therein often transcend the domain

136  Narratives of conversion of religion itself. This is an important realization for this book, in which the focus is not, however, on Akutagawa’s use of “the past as a mirror of the present and a hermeneutic tool for critical reflection on it,” but rather on his use of “the past as a mirror of the self.” It is in particular the topos of the “holy fool,” a reverse projection of that self, that enables Akutagawa to engage in current debates on faith, modernity, and love. Juriano Kichinosuke, Chin-hua, and in slightly different forms Lorenzo and O-Gin, the four protagonists of, respectively, “Juriano Kichinosuke,” “Nankin no kirisuto” (The Christ of Nanking), “Hōkyōnin no shi” (Death of a Martyr), and “O-Gin,” are all individuals that are ridiculed and derided for their faith but that, at the end of the story, display an inner strength, stemming from their religious beliefs, that is redemptive. Miyasaka Satoru has convincingly argued their critical importance, positing their central role in providing a conduit to the confessional posture at the foundation of Akutagawa’s writing act. [These characters] are human beings who, through the act of believing, relinquish any form of wisdom or control, accepting to be “fools” without any hesitation. In other words, they are the very opposite of a sagacious intellectual like Akutagawa [was]. They are a special feature of Akutagawa’s literature, to whom Akutagawa affords a type of “religious salvation.”30 There is no doubt that Akutagawa felt a special attachment to this type of individual. The omniscient narrator of “Juriano Kichinosuke” ends the story stating that This is Juriano Kichinosuke’s life story which appears in the official records and is included in the Collection of Renowned Tales of Nagasaki. Among all the martyrs’ tales in Japan, this one, the life of a holy fool, is my favorite story.31 Miyasaka argued that Akutagawa’s affection for these types of characters came largely from the innocence and simplicity of heart that he found within them. If this assessment is correct, then the preponderance of child protagonists in several of Akutagawa’s Christian stories is well explained. Lorenzo, O-Gin, but also the sons and daughters of the many protagonists of his kirishitan mono who desperately turn to God, the priests, or a doctor in order to save their children from illness or death, are all innocent creatures, and it is not coincidental that it is to these characters that Akutagawa entrusts his deliberations on the question of faith. The writer’s deep affection for Muroga Fumitake and his depiction of him as a naïve, child-like holy fool for whom he could not have but respect is consistent with this view.32 Akutagawa’s reflections on faith reached a first climax in two of his kirishitan mono – “Nankin no kirisuto” and “O-Gin” – that have children protagonists at the center of their narrative plot. The first of these two stories, “Nankin no kirisuto,” is about Sung Chin-hua, a fifteen-year-old Chinese girl who works as a prostitute

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  137 on the Street of Hopes in Nanking to support herself and her old and ailing father. Chin-hua has, according to the narrator, a gentle disposition that is unmatched among the numerous prostitutes working in the area, possibly, it is speculated, because she adheres to the Roman Catholic faith, “as evidenced by the crucifix hung on her wall.”33 “Hanging unpretentiously from a bent nail on that wall,” the cross is described from the onset of the story in all its symbolic power as the most conspicuous element of an otherwise desolate room, and “each time the young woman looked at this carving of Jesus, the tinge of loneliness behind her long eyelashes faded away for a brief moment.”34 On one occasion Chin-hua is visited by a Japanese tourist who asks her about the apparent contradiction of a devoted believer working as a prostitute, but the young Chinese woman shows no hesitation in affirming her trust in the “Lord Jesus in Heaven [who] understands what’s in my heart.” It is thereafter revealed that Chin-hua has contracted syphilis. After protracted abstinence and use of different remedies that did not help, she hears from a friend that passing the disease along to someone else might cure her affliction, but because of her determination never to harm anyone for the sake of her own happiness, even if this means dying by starvation, she vows to Jesus not to share her bed with a customer again. One day, however, she is visited by a foreigner in his mid-thirties whose breath stinks of liquor and whose face she thinks she has already seen before. Despite her refusal to give in, the man offers ten dollars, “an enormous sum for a prostitute,” but this does not sway Chin-hua’s resolve to deny her services. In the midst of this bartering the crucifix falls onto the floor and in her attempt to retrieve it, Chinhua happens to lay her eyes on it. She then realizes that “the face of the suffering Christ carved on the Cross” is “strangely enough, the very image of the foreigner who sat opposite her table.”35 In a rather unexpected plot development, Chin-hua ends up being swept by passion and surrendering herself to the foreigner whom she believes to be Jesus. She then has a dream in which the man, claiming to be indeed Jesus Christ, tells her that she will soon be cured from her affliction. When she awakens and finds herself alone in the room, however, Chin-hua begins to wonder if what she has experienced is merely an illusion, until the moment she realizes that “a miracle that had taken place in her body had completely cured the malignant syphilis from which she had suffered.” She thus has incontrovertible proof that “he was Lord Jesus!”36 A typical kirishitan story by Akutagawa could have ended here. A miracle has taken place in some distant past (or in this specific case, in some distant land), and the reader is left negotiating between the farfetchedness of the event and the available evidence seemingly indicating that the event actually took place. But there is a further twist in “Nankin no kirisuto,” and within the space of only one extra short section Akutagawa succeeds in recasting the problem of faith and salvation within the framework of modernity: “One night in the spring of the following year, the young Japanese traveler who had once visited Sung Chin-hua sat across the table from her beneath the dim lamp.”37 After listening to the young woman’s

138  Narratives of conversion story of how she was healed by Jesus, the traveler realizes that he actually knows that foreigner; that very foreigner had bragged to a friend of his that he’d paid for a night with a Christian whore in Nanking and that he’d slipped away while she was peacefully sleeping . . . maybe it was being infected with this woman’s disease that ultimately made him go mad from a nasty case of syphilis.38 The traveler’s recollections suddenly transform the question of whether a miracle truly happened into a question of whether it is his ethical responsibility to reveal the truth, even if this means to undermine Chin-hua’s happiness and peace of mind. As he reflects on his dilemma and ponders which course of action to follow, the traveler cannot help asking the young Chinese woman “with deliberate zeal” (“waza to nesshin sō ni”) whether she has ever been sick again since then. The expression “deliberate zeal” holds the key to the meaning of this story, because it conceals the arrogance and self-conceit of the traveler, and with it the modern age he represents, as he assumes her answer to be affirmative. But Chin-hua’s reply is negative; she has, that is, never suffered the same affliction again. The paradox of this story lies exactly in this answer. The return of the Japanese traveler who, as a modern individual, ensures the borders of superstition are not violated, actually has the opposite effect; he is not only unable to prove that the young woman was fooled, but he actually also ends up validating “faith” as an alternative and legitimate belief system in an age when logic and science are supposed to reign supreme. The fact that Chin-hua is a Roman Catholic who lives in a part of the world where the likelihood of being Catholic was extremely low adds to the poignancy of this text.39 Chin-hua is an uneducated girl whose faith is essentially instinctive and not analytical. The pillar of her faith is the naivety of her beliefs. She does not necessarily rely on the Bible, and her unconditional trust in Jesus stems from a sentiment that she is said to have inherited from her late mother and that is therefore well rooted in her childhood. Her faith is experiential in nature, and she is very much unlike the typical Meiji and Taishō intellectual. The object and symbol of her devotion is the Cross; the crucifix is the most conspicuous element in her room, and it is the first object the Japanese traveler notices during both of his visits. Her eschatology does not seem to be that of the Old Testament; there is no irate God, no looming eternal punishment, no clear sense of inner depravity in her conscience. There is only compassion, the compassion of the suffering Christ. “Nankin no kirisuto” concealed, therefore, motifs that drastically challenged the Meiji and Taishō prevalent notion of the Christian God and his severity, bearing by contrast significant resemblance to the compassionate mother-like Christianity expounded by Catholic author Endō Shūsaku in his novel Chinmoku. Two years later, Akutagawa published another kirishitan story titled “O-Gin.” Set in the so-called “Christian Century,” “O-Gin” is the story of a girl by the same name that has been adopted by a compassionate Japanese Christian couple following the death of her parents. She has been raised in the faith, and her devotion is unfaltering. She believes that Mary “had come spontaneously with child,” that

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  139 Jesus “died upon the cross” and “came back to life three days later,” and that “the bread and wine, though unchanged in shape and color, became the actual flesh and blood of our Lord.” She and her parents are very devoted believers who never fail to observe fasting and prayer.40 On Christmas Eve, the three are arrested by the authorities. They are brought to the local magistrate to be questioned, but no matter what type of torture is inflicted on them, their resolve to endure the pain in the name of the “Lord in Heaven” only grows stronger, to the extent that the magistrate does not know what to make of it. As they are taken to the execution ground to be burnt at the stake, one of the officials gives them a last opportunity to recant their faith: they are told that if only they were willing to renounce the teaching of the Heavenly Lord they would be freed immediately. None of them, however, accepts the reprieve, and in fact, showing no sign of fear, “all had smiles on their lips.”41 As the story approaches its climax, in which martyrdom is about to take place, O-Gin notices a canopy of pines in the distance and suddenly apostatizes. The reason for her recantation is her realization that asleep under those pines are her biological parents who, completely oblivious to the teaching of the faith, must now be suffering the punishment of eternal damnation. It would be unforgivable, O-Gin declares at the stake, for her to enter paradise as her real parents are perishing in hell. O-Gin’s recantation prompts then a chain reaction, and her adoptive parents decide to follow her decision, presumably for the same reason. The story then concludes with Satan rejoicing at the unexpected turn of events, and the narrator wondering whether his celebration is actually justified. “O-Gin” has prompted a vast range of interpretations. Many scholars have simply seen it as a mockery of Christianity’s failure to take root in Japan. O-Gin’s apostasy, it has been argued, shows how Japanese traditional family ties and ethical values can easily override the belief in an abstract God. Certainly, it is clear from the text that O-Gin did not recant because of fear, since she and her adoptive parents were subjected to many tortures . . . torture by water and torture by fire, however, their resolve remained firm. Even as their torn flesh began to fester, they knew the gates of Haraiso would open to them with but another moment’s endurance.42 Her recantation should therefore be attributed entirely to her consideration for her biological family. Her act, however, transcends any perceived dualism between native and Western values; O-Gin rejects the sublimation of her martyrdom and thus eternal life because she rejects the egotism that might paradoxically lie behind her self-immolation. Her sacrifice thus becomes the ultimate expression of love, a love without egotism, whose existence Akutagawa doubted deeply during his adolescent years. The writer, it will be remembered, had in fact stated: Does love without egotism exist? With egotistic love, it is not possible to cross the barrier that stands in between people. . . . If it is indeed the case that

140  Narratives of conversion love without egotism does not exist, then there must be nothing as painful in a person’s life.43 The main question prompted by this work then lies elsewhere, and it has to do with O-Gin’s salvation. Is O-Gin going to be saved even if she renounced God? Is her act of love acceptable to God even if it implied apostatizing? The narrator’s hesitation regarding Satan’s celebration seems to suggest that in Akutagawa’s eyes O-Gin’s self-effacement is deserving of eternal life. As this analysis has shown, Akutagawa vetted the issue of faith carefully and from different angles in his narrative, and therefore, the religious discourse of salvation he outlined during the last months of his life becomes even more significant. He wrote at the least two novels during those months – Kappa (Kappa: A Novel) and Haguruma (Spinning Gears) – that, read together with his earlier Christian production, show beyond any reasonable doubt that the themes of salvation and the afterlife were at the center of his spiritual concerns throughout his adult life.44

Kappa and Haguruma: escape from Protestantism Kappa, a novel that has been celebrated for the satirical and pungent critique of some aspects of contemporary Japanese society such as capitalism and censorship, contains religious innuendos that are integral parts of Akutagawa’s late spiritual discourse. The work is about a journey to the land of the Kappas, mythical figures of Japanese folklore, as recounted by an individual now hospitalized in a mental institution who is generally identified as “Patient 23.” In this story the protagonist meets several Kappa individuals, among whom are Tok, a poet, and Mag, a philosopher. Tok eventually commits suicide, and when witnessing his lifeless body and contemplating the meaning of his act, Mag, the philosopher, mentions to the protagonist that “to fulfill his life, the Kappa . . . believes somehow or other in the power of some entity outside the Kappa.”45 It is at this point that Akutagawa’s social satire takes on a more distinctly philosophical and spiritual tone; although a self-declared materialist who claims to have no interest in religion, upon hearing Mag’s words, “Patient 23” suddenly begins to wonder about Kappas’ understanding of the afterlife. Lap, a student he has met previously, provides the answer to his questions. That is, there are several religions in the land of the Kappas – Christianity, Buddhism, as well as the Muslim faith – but the most popular is “Modernism – which also goes by the name of Viverism.”46 Lap then takes the protagonist to the Great Tabernacle, the largest building in the whole country and arguably the symbol of Kappas’ religious life, where the two come across an acquaintance of Lap, a Kappa elder who is absorbed in praying. After a brief introduction, the elder explains that the object of worship on the part of our believers is the “Tree of Life” which stands on the altar at the front of the compound. On the “Tree of Life,” as you may have perceived, grow golden and green fruits. The golden fruit we call “The Fruit of Good,” the green fruit we call “The Fruit of Evil.”47

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  141 The elder then goes on to quote from the sacred scriptures, of which the student Lap admits to knowing very little, in a passage that is clearly an overt parody of Genesis: Our deity created this world in a single day. Although we use the word “tree” in our term “Tree of Life,” nothing is beyond its powers. And, of course, he created the female of the Kappa species. Finding existence tedious, the female Kappa began a search for the male Kappa. And our deity, taking pity on her lamentations, took her brain and made of it the male Kappa. Then, giving this Kappa-couple his blessing, he said to them, “Eat. Have union. Live life vigorously.”48 Learning about Viverism and how God created the Kappa world, “Patient 23” is suddenly overcome by sadness, realizing that Tok, who has just taken his own life, must have surely been aware of the teachings of this religion. Tok, however, was unable to believe, and for this reason, the protagonist surmises, he must have been jealous of the elder’s faith, as the protagonist himself, admittedly, also is. The ability to believe and to have faith is here characterized as a condition of the soul that is difficult to attain, a prerogative, or gift, so to speak, afforded only to a few; the fact that the Kappa elder who was worshiping at the temple is, by his later admission, also unable to believe in God, reinforces this notion, as ultimately, none of the individuals involved in this dialogue – “Patient 23,” the Kappa elder, Lap the student, and Tok the poet – is a true believer. All of these characters are unable to believe in a transcendental being, even though all of them seem to agree, as Mag had also put it, on the importance of religion in one’s existence. This is interestingly one of the few instances in this novel where Akutagawa’s argument is linear, and he does not rely on paradox or hyperbole to make his point. The Great Tabernacle is also host to a number of busts in marble, each representing an individual who was deemed to be a saint of Viverism. Among them is, for example, Strindberg, a believer who “by his own confession, attempted – without success – to kill himself.” Then there is Nietzsche who “sought salvation from the superman of his own creation. But, in the end, without being saved, he went insane.” Next to Nietzsche comes Tolstoy, another man who did not take his life, who “strove mightily to believe in Christ, in whom, in fact, there can be no question of believing.” The fourth figure is Kunikida Doppo – the only Japanese to appear among the saints of the Great Tabernacle – who is described as a poet with “a vivid recognition of the humor of the coolie who hurls himself in front of an onrushing train.”49 Doppo’s presence in this pantheon of saints is intriguing, but not necessarily surprising. In his piece “Bungeiteki na, amari ni bungeiteki na” (Literary, Much Too Literary) of 1926, Akutagawa praised Doppo lavishly, calling him a genius. Elsewhere, namely in his autobiographical piece “Daidōji Shinsuke no hansei” (Daidōji Shinsuke: The Early Years) of 1925, Shinsuke, the protagonist, is said to be keeping a diary titled Azamukazaru no ki “in imitation of the writer Kunikida Doppo,” in which he writes that “Doppo . . . was in love with love. I am trying to hate hatred. I am trying to hate my hatred for poverty, for falsehood,

142  Narratives of conversion for everything.”50 These were, according to the narrator, Shinsuke’s innermost feelings, suggesting that Shinsuke’s diary – and likely Akutagawa’s – was, like Doppo’s Azamukazaru no ki, an honest record of the soul and an attempt to represent the self without deception. Akutagawa, who admired Doppo for his narrative ability to deal with tragedy and the inner struggles of the individual, never hid the extreme spiritual and physical exhaustion that he himself experienced throughout much of his life:51 My mother was a madwoman. I never did feel close to her, as a son should feel toward his mother. Hair held in place by a comb, she would sit alone all day puffing on a long, skinny pipe in the house of my birth family in Tokyo’s Shiba Ward. . . . My mother died in the autumn of my eleventh year, not so much from illness, I think, as from simply wasting away.52 Kappa itself became an expression of that overbearing fatigue. Far from being a mere collection of satirical puns and distorted exaggerations, it was the manifestation of the author’s own repulsion for that which surrounded him: “Kappa was born out of my repugnance for many things, especially with myself.”53 The scene of the birth of Bag’s child, who paradoxically rejects being born, is but one symbol of such repulsion: “I do not wish to be born. In the first place, it makes me shudder to think of all the things that I shall inherit from my father – the insanity alone is bad enough. And an additional factor is that I maintain that a Kappa’s existence is evil.”54 “Faith” suddenly takes on a new meaning for “Patient 23,” emerging as a valuable alternative to the materialistic approach he has been embracing thus far. For this reason, although not originally interested in religion, as he walks away from the Great Tabernacle, he finds himself “involuntarily turning round to look back [at it]. The Great Tabernacle was stretching its tall pagodas and domes . . . Somehow, over it there hovered the eerie quality of a mirage floating in a desert sky.”55 The image of the mirage floating in a desert sky is suggestive, a powerful reminder that religion – the road to salvation – might be after all a mere illusion, an illusion that, however, just like a mirage in the desert, paradoxically continues to remain the only hope of being rescued. Approximately one week after this experience, “Patient 23” hears a rumor from Chak, a doctor, that a ghost has appeared at Tok’s place. Chak, another selfprofessed materialist, “did not put any faith in things such as life after death” and in fact joked about the news, making such comments as “It would seem, after all, that the soul does have a material existence, wouldn’t it?”56 Despite his own skepticism, the protagonist cannot help but follow the story. After buying every newspaper available reporting the news of Tok’s appearance, he comes across a piece that describes a dialogue between him, or better his spirit, and members of the Society for Psychic Studies. The dialogue unfolds along a question and answer format, and Tok is asked about life after death, whether the life span of a

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  143 spirit is eternal, whether he has any regret about taking his life, and whether he finally is able to believe. Tok responds that he is still skeptical, that he still craves notoriety, and that he is therefore unable to remove himself from the very life that he abhorred. Tok’s answers are symbolic, in a sense, of Akutagawa’s own stalemate and his personal inability to construct a viable discourse of salvation within the framework of mainstream Meiji and Taishō Protestantism. If, beyond its satirical tone, Kappa provided evidence of Akutagawa’s profound concern with the issue of death and the afterlife in general, it is in Haguruma, a work that Donald Keene has defined as perhaps his masterpiece, that such concerns became, however, specifically Christian. Haguruma is a seemingly disjointed collage of terrifying visions and ominous premonitions that, inducing hallucination of cogwheels, led the protagonist to the brink of collapse. For example, in Section Two, “Vengeance,” the protagonist has just left his room and is walking down the corridor of the hotel where he is staying, when suddenly finding himself in the kitchen, he “sensed the inferno [he] had fallen into.” He then exclaims: “Oh, Lord, I beg thy punishment. Withhold thy wrath from me, for I may soon perish.”57 Soon after he leaves the hotel, and while remembering scenes from Dante’s Inferno – he recalls the souls of those sinners who have been turned into trees – he bumps into a young man who addresses him with the respectful title of “sensei.” Bothered by such a pretentious and affected title, he explains that having committed every sin known to man, he “couldn’t help but feel in this the presence of something mocking [him].”58 And yet, he exclaims, his own materialism prevented him from nurturing any mysticism of this kind. Later at night, after going back to the hotel and spotting a man in a raincoat, one of the menacing omens that reoccur through the entire work, the protagonist decides to go to the Ginza shopping district, and it is there that he feels especially troubled by the way people were nonchalantly strolling along as if they were unaware of the existence of sin. Then, as yet another ominous reminder of the cruel fate that is expecting him, he enters a bookstore and wandering along several shelves of books he picks a volume of Greek myths in which he reads that “even the greatest of gods, Zeus himself, was no match for those gods of vengeance, the Furies.”59 The following fragment titled “Night” is similarly forewarning. The protagonist now finds himself wandering through the second floor of Maruzen’s Western books department. Here he comes across the “religion” section and bumps into a poster of St. George piercing his sword through a winged dragon, whose caption happened to be written with exactly the same “dragon” character used by the protagonist in his name.60 Next, back at the hotel, he meets an old friend who is now a sculptor, and together they go to his room for a drink. Chatting about women, the protagonist experiences an inexplicable sense of repulsion about the content of their conversation and once again becomes deeply worried about his past sins. Later, alone in his room, he begins to read Shiga Naoya’s novel An’ya kōro and discovers that the main character Kensuke’s spiritual struggle was painfully familiar to his. After a few more bizarre encounters, in the section titled “Red Lights,” the protagonist resolves one night to go out in search of a certain old man, the only man, the narrator states, who “knew the answers to these mysteries.” “Why had

144  Narratives of conversion my mother gone mad? Why had my father’s business failed? And why had I been punished?” This man is likely Muroga Fumitake, and it is in the protagonist’s conversation with this man that Akutagawa’s salvific discourse reaches yet another climax.61 It is a final discourse that inevitably draws from contemporary views of the Christian God as being irate, difficult to please, and prone to punishing, and that centers on the issue of man’s innate depravity and inability to alter his destiny. Like the vast majority of his contemporaries who embraced Christianity, Akutagawa was very preoccupied with the question of sin; in his 1916 story “Tabako to akuma” (Tobacco and the Devil), the devil, who has just arrived in Japan, finds himself at a loss because, due to the limited number of converts, he has no one whom he can tempt, clearly suggesting that sin, and metaphorically, any foreign concept or ideology, acquires value only the moment that it is accepted. Yet, at the same time, Akutagawa also seemed to believe that its awareness was a necessary prerequisite for salvation. Thus in his “Samayoeru yudayajin” of 1917, the protagonist states that For those who do not realize they are sinners, the punishment of God cannot descend on them. . . . But only if you are punished can you be forgiven, and only forgiveness brings salvation. And so I will also be the only to be saved.62 If it is true, as some scholars have stated, that the fictionalization of Tōson’s journey of conversion and following separation from his church – Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki – can be considered a metaphor for the relationship between Christianity and modern Japanese literature, then Akutagawa’s Haguruma should be seen as its dramatized epilogue. The encounter between the protagonist of this story and the old man in the attic provides in fact an interpretive key, condensed into one single exchange, of fifty years of Christian influence. The man lives in the attic of a Bible publishing house, where he works as a handyman and spends most of his free time praying and reading. “Beneath the crucifix on his wall,” says the main character, “we warmed our hands over his hibachi and talked of many things.”63 The protagonist admits that he has been very edgy these days, and the old man urges him to consider converting to Christianity: “Drugs are not going to help, you know. Wouldn’t you like to become a believer?” “Can even someone like me become one?”64 Like Doppo, Hakuchō, Arishima, and many of their fictional characters, the protagonist of Haguruma is unsure of whether he meets the standards that are required to be considered a Christian. His sense of iniquity is stronger than his hope to reconcile with God. Yet, his answer is not a rejection of the old man’s offer: indeed, he seems to say that, if it were at all possible, he would like to consider the possibility of converting. It is the possibility of salvation that he is actually probing, and with it the idea of a compassionate and merciful Creator who might be willing to alter the course of his destiny. He is therefore seeking to escape the view of a stern and impassible God – a notion to which he had been

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  145 exposed over the years and that had been perpetuated by religious leaders and colleagues alike – placing the essence of his predicament in the hands of the only man who can understand his plight. Unable to fully grasp the nature of his friend’s struggle, however, the old man merely spells out the prerequisite to becoming a convert: all one has to do, he states, is to believe, believe in God and believe in Christ as the son of God. Sola fide, i.e., justification by faith alone – one of the core teachings of Meiji Protestantism – is once again seen as a precondition for salvation, and there is no alternative, no act of love or self-sacrifice, like the one performed by O-Gin at the stake, that can possibly make up for the lack of belief. The main character’s following statement “I can believe in the devil” underscores his own realization of the irreconcilable fracture that separates him from the old man.65 Although aware of his sins, he is unable to believe, like the old man does, that there can be light in darkness. “Then why not in God? If you truly believe in the shadow, you have to believe in the light as well, don’t you think?” “There’s such a thing as darkness without light, you know.” “Darkness without light?” I could only fall silent. Like me, he too was walking through darkness, but he believed that if there is darkness there must be light. His logic and mine differed on this one point alone. Yet surely for me it would always be an unbridgeable gulf.66 This resignation of the protagonist symbolizes the breakdown of communication between him and his friend, but also the collapse of any possible dialectics between the modern intellectual and Christianity.

Seihō no hito and a new dialectics of faith In Seihō no hito and its sequel Zoku Seihō no hito, the epilogue of this conflictive relationship, Akutagawa would make a last attempt at reconciliation by relying on his long-standing investment in Catholicism. Although only marginally treated by Anglophone scholars thus far, these two works have prompted a wide range of hermeneutical efforts within the Japanese academic community in recent years.67 Comprised of a total of fifty-nine fragments, Seihō no hito and its sequel are a complex textual entity that is revealing not only of Akutagawa’s view of Christianity during the last weeks of his life but also of the evolution and transformation of his beliefs as he transitioned from an allegedly removed and aestheticized posture to a more introspective phase where “Christ no longer [struck him] as a stranger.”68 One of the most debated points among researchers has been whether Seihō no hito and its sequel can be interpreted as a self-portrait of Akutagawa – as maintained by such critics as Yoshida Seiichi – or if they should be read, instead, as the author’s own challenge to modernity, a point argued by Satō Yasumasa and others. Another contentious issue is whether the texts present sufficient evidence of orthodox beliefs and can, as such, be considered Akutagawa’s own confession

146  Narratives of conversion of faith. Other debates have included questions on Akutagawa’s textual reference to “other christs than the Christ” or his famous line “for us to ascend to earth from heaven,” which sparked a controversy over whether Akutagawa truly meant to say “ascend to earth” or whether it was merely a careless mistake due to his frail physical and psychological state.69 Influences from contemporary writings on Christ such as Ernest Renan’s Vie de Jésus of 1863, widely read among Meiji and Taishō intellectuals, Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis of 1905, and Giovanni Papini’s Storia di Cristo (Life of Christ) of 1921 have also been fully explored. There are nonetheless a few aspects that have not received as much attention by scholars. The first of these is the relevance of Mary in Akutagawa’s thought. Mary has such a central place in Seihō no hito and its sequel that her importance can hardly be minimized. She is first mentioned in Section Two, immediately following the famous opening chapter, widely quoted by literary historians, in which describing his initial fascination with Catholicism and his later interest in the four gospels, Akutagawa declares his love for Christ: Mary was just an ordinary woman. But suddenly one night she was filled with the Holy Spirit and gave birth to Christ. We sense a bit of Mary in all women. Perhaps in all men, too. . . . In fact, one could say that we feel a bit of Mary in the fires burning in the hearth, or in the vegetables fresh from the field, or in an unglazed pot or a solidly built chair. Mary is not the one who is eternally feminine. She is the one who eternally protects us. After all, as the mother of Christ, Mary spent her life traversing the “vale of tears.” And yet, she lived with great fortitude. In her life, one finds worldly wisdom, folly, and virtue. Nietzsche’s rebellion was not so much against Christ as it was against Mary.70 It is the beginning of a parallel narrative of Mary’s life that speaks of an ordinary woman and the pain that she had to endure, emphasizing her grief and compassion as she watched, a mere by-stander, the story of her son unfold in front of her very eyes: “Mary’s conceiving by the power of the Holy Spirit was scandalous, as it caused quite a stir among the shepherds. The mother of Christ, beautiful Mary, was ever after on the path of human suffering.”71 On one occasion, Akutagawa writes, when she and Joseph were rebuked by a twelve-year-old Jesus who had stayed behind in Jerusalem to ask and answer questions in the temple, “they did not understand what he said to them,” but, he states, “Beautiful Mary was fully aware of the fact that Christ was the child of the Holy Spirit . . . at that moment, Mary’s state of mind was loving and compassionate,” and she “must have felt ashamed for Joseph on account of Christ’s words.” “Mary, the wife of a carpenter, was forced on this occasion, too, to face the dark ‘vale of tears.’ ” Similarly, when Jesus entered his ministry and began to preach to the multitudes, “one can imagine a crestfallen Mary, standing just outside the door, listening to his Words. . . . We can feel within ourselves Mary’s pain.”72 Despite her first characterization as an ordinary woman who appears to have only a marginal role in the unfolding of the events narrated in the Gospel, Mary

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  147 is later portrayed as someone who is destined to play a more profound role for humanity. Thus, Akutagawa writes, “Mary is not the one who is eternally feminine. She is the one who eternally protects us,” revealing in the process a personal devotion that transcended a merely aesthetic and poetic fascination with Mary’s historicity.73 The importance of Mary in Akutagawa’s salvific discourse becomes even more apparent when he states in the sequel that people have had to take lessons from Mary, more so than Christ, to find the way that leads to peace. Mary was but a woman who walked through this life with fortitude. (Catholicism has always held that the way to reach Christ runs through Mary. This is no mere coincidence. It is always risky in this life to try to reach Christ directly.)74 A second aspect of Seihō no hito and Zoku Seihō no hito that deserves to be noted is the polemic tone against the Christian establishment exuding from both texts. An example of this antagonistic posture can be found in the opening chapter of Seihō no hito, in which, as stated earlier, Akutagawa describes the various steps that have prompted him to write his own life of Christ. His Christ, he states, was born in Japan, and as such, he does not necessarily gaze upon the Sea of Galilee. Therefore, Akutagawa explains, his work is not so concerned with historical and geographical facts for which there are after all plenty of biographies available. His desire is, on the contrary, to record “my Christ as I believe him to be,” hoping that “the strict Japanese Christians will forgive the Christ described by this hack writer.”75 Next, after defining Christ as “the first person to awaken within us a desire for the kingdom of heaven,” he notes that “his paradoxes have given rise in subsequent generations to countless theologians and mystics” whose debates, however, “always fail to grasp the true essence of Christ. And yet some of them are more Christian than Christ himself.”76 Further on, he praises the quality of Christ’s journalism, hailing “The Good Samaritan” and “The Return of the Prodigal Son” as the masterpieces of his poetry, and criticizes the “Protestant ministers – the latter-day Christian journalists who only use abstract language – [who] never once considered the effectiveness of Christ’s kind of journalism.”77 Finally, in the sequel, he does not miss the opportunity to attack the American Bible Society and how it “sanctimoniously takes its profit every year.”78 A third aspect of Seihō no hito that should be carefully examined is its intertexuality, particularly with respect to Akutagawa’s discourse on faith and salvation. In Haguruma, Akutagawa had attempted to escape Protestantism by probing into the possibilities of a spiritual salvation outside the dictates of the then predominant Calvinist eschatology. The failure of that attempt was fictionally rendered by the breakdown of communication that took place between the protagonist and the old man following their short conversation in the latter’s attic. In Seihō no hito, however, this attempt finally comes to fruition. The escape from Meiji Protestantism takes place through the narration of a “novel-like biography” titled “The New Testament” of which, Akutagawa states, Christ is the author and at the same time the protagonist. In this narrative Akutagawa attempts a reconceptualization of

148  Narratives of conversion Christian salvation itself mainly along two axis: an affirmation of the interceding role of Mary, which posits the possibility of a mediation between man and God, and the “humanization” of Jesus, who on the cross . . . became merely “the Son of Man.” His words “My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” The “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” was really no more than Christ’s tortured cry. But through this cry Christ came even closer to us.79 Such a humanizing process did not necessarily preclude Christ’s divine nature. In Akutagawa’s eyes, in fact, Christ was “the child of the Holy Spirit,” and “after three days, he rose from the dead.”80 Interestingly, the above three aspects – the emphasis on Mary’s interceding role, the polemic against the Christian establishment (which ought to be mainly identified with Protestantism), and Seihō no hito’s intertextuality – are all mutually related. These aspects do, in fact, intersect one another as they converge on the work’s most important aspect and also true metatextual legacy: Akutagawa’s attempt to reconfigure the borders of salvific discourse. There is in fact no irate God in Seihō no hito or its sequel, no overemphasized awareness of sin, no discourse of damnation or sophistic theory of salvation, and no significant reference to a fatalistic view of existence, which were by contrast all recurring traits of Meiji Protestantism. God (Jehovah) is simply described as “the Lord God” who, through Christ, “came to live among us.” “He still watches over us with the same power that can make moss grow on a concrete wall.”81 Salvation does not seem to be limited to the chosen; Akutagawa states that “one who repents even one time, one who has had even one beautiful moment, is sure to enter ‘everlasting life.’ ”82 Seihō no hito and its sequel are placed entirely with the confines of the New Testament, relating a message of love, compassion, and mercy, and superseding earlier apocalyptic notions of Christianity that placed excessive emphasis on man’s innate depravity and inability to please God: thus, “Christ knew that even Peter would deny him three times before the cock crowed,” Akutagawa writes. “His words teach us of the many other ways in which we men are weak.”83 It is thus a message that entirely revolves around the figure of Christ and his humility, a message that rips apart the spiritual continuum of Meiji and Taishō intellectual Christian discourse, setting the stage for a new dialectics of faith within the literary developments of the following decades. Akutagawa had a clear vantage point in this endeavor: his Catholicism. Far from being a mere fascination of his younger years, Catholicism remained a significant trait of his Christian thought that allowed him to revisit, with an incisive and effective tone, the truisms of Meiji Protestantism. That Aeba Takao also found in his celebration of the role of Mary the distinctive trait of a new posture at a critical time in Japan’s modern intellectual history is intriguing; tracing the reasons for Protestantism’s shifting fortunes in Meiji Japan, Aeba argued in an article titled “Katorikku to nihon bungaku” (Catholicism and Japanese Literature) that the embrace of Catholicism seen among members of the literary world during

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  149 the second decade of the Shōwa period (1926–89) was a deliberate response to the skepticism and agony brought about by the epistemological challenges of the previous age.84 Akutagawa stood, therefore, at the forefront of a new paradigm in Christian discourse. At the very least, it could be argued, he contributed to the construction of a new view of Jesus, not merely the strong paternalistic figure of the Old Testament, but also the more maternal figure, the “compassionate weakling” that Endō [Shūsaku] strove to highlight in the Christ of the New Testament, the forerunner, that is, of the literary depiction of Christ as dōhansha, the constant companion whose very strength lay paradoxically in his weakness.85 Ultimately, it is in Christ that Akutagawa sought to locate a new dialectics that shifted the focus of his faith from the authority and omniscience of God to the mercy and compassion of Christ. Thus, his very last words in Zoku Seihō no hito: “We are, just like the travelers on the road to Emmaus, unable to live without seeking Christ, who sets our hearts on fire.”86

Notes 1 In vol. 23 of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke zenshū (Iwanami shoten, 1998), 221–2. 2 English translation in Kevin M. Doak and J. Scott Matthews, “ ‘The Man From the West’ and ‘The Man From the West: The Sequel,’ ” Monumenta Nipponica 66:2 (2011), 257. 3 See Sako Jun’ichirō, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke ni okeru geijutsu no unmei (Ikkodō shoten, 1956). 4 Miyasaka Satoru, “Akutagawa Ryūnosuke to Muroga Fumitake: ‘Akutagawa Ryūnosuke to kirisutokyō’ ron e no shiten,” Jōchi Daigaku kobungaku ronshū 5 (1971), 110–11. 5 Muroga had joined the American Bible Society in 1919, and Akutagawa visited with him often during the last period of his life, first once a month, then, two to three times. In March 1927, per his request, Muroga sent him a new copy of the Bible; Akutagawa acknowledged receipt on the fifth of that month and stated: “I just read the Sermon on the Mount. It is a piece I have read often in the past, but this time I think I have found a new meaning to it.” A few months later, Muroga lent him a collection of Uchimura Kanzō’s essays; Akutagawa was seemingly impressed and accordingly stated that he could now believe in miracles and that he wished he had read more of Uchimura’s writings. See Miyasaka Satoru, “Akutagawa Ryūnosuke to Muroga Fumitake: ‘Akutagawa Ryūnosuke to kirisutokyō’ ron e no shiten,” 104–24. 6 Based on circumstantial evidence and Muroga’s own recollections that the meeting took place at the time when Akutagawa was studying under Natsume Sōseki, Miyasaka Satoru surmises that their reunion must have happened around 1912. This is the same time Akutagawa was likely attending church with his friend Nagasaki Tarō (later president of Kyōto Kōgei Sen’i University) and others. See Miyasaka Satoru, “Akutagawa Ryūnosuke to Muroga Fumitake: ‘Akutagawa Ryūnosuke to kirisutokyō’ ron e no shiten,” 110. 7 See vol. 17 of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke zenshū, 67–9. 8 Letter dated January 21, 1914; ibid., 175. 9 Letter of March 19, 1914; ibid., 153. 10 Letter dated March 9, 1915; ibid., 209–10. 11 Reprinted in Kuzumaki Yoshitoshi, ed., Akutagawa Ryūnosuke miteikōshū (Iwanami shoten, 1968), 131–5.

150  Narratives of conversion 1 2 13 14 15

16

17 18 19

20

21

22

23

24 2 5 26 2 7 28 2 9 30 31

Ibid., 132. Ibid., 135. All included in Kuzumaki Yoshitoshi, ed., Akutagawa Ryūnosuke miteikōshū. According to Sekiguchi Yasuyoshi, the version included in the collected works had first appeared in 1916 in a small elementary school journal titled Kyōdai; it was reprinted in 1947 in the journal Nagaoka bungei and was later published again in other venues, including an issue of the journal Shinshichō of the same year. Judging from the fact that the piece published in Nagaoka bungei indicated the date of composition to be October 16, 1915, Sekiguchi surmises that “Akatsuki” “must have been written approximately half a month after the more famous story “Rashōmon.” See Sekiguchi Yasuyoshi, Kono hito o miyo: Akutagawa Ryūnosuke to seisho (Ozawa shoten, 1995), 50–1. In his foreword to this piece, Kuzumaki, who was Akutagawa’s nephew, indicated that the piece originally came with no title and that after reading it, he believed “Magudara no Maria” to be the most appropriate. See Kuzumaki Yoshitoshi, ed., Akutagawa Ryūnosuke miteikōshū, 158–62. The remaining two pieces, “PIETA” and “Sauro,” are respectively a dialogue between four disciples recalling the Passion, and a dialogue in which Saul (or Paul) tells a friend about his conversion on the way to Damascus. “Chōkōdō zakki” (Chōkōdō’s Miscellaneous Notes, 1923); quoted and translated by G. H. Healey, in Kappa: A Novel, English translation by Geoffrey Bownas (London: Peter Owen Publishers, 1970), 26–7. See, for example, Sasabuchi Tomoichi, “Akutagawa Ryūnosuke no kirisutokyō shisō,” Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kanshō 23:8 (1958); and Miyoshi Yukio, “Geijutsu to jinsei: Hōkyōnin no shi Akutagawa Ryūnosuke,” in Sakuhinron no kokoromi, edited by Miyoshi Yukio (Shibundō, 1967). Kamomiya Hisa’s 1966 remarks are probably symbolic of this view: “In his kirishitan mono Ryūnosuke is not questioning the Christian God or Christ. His tender longing and cold skepticism are not directed toward Christ or God, but rather the lyrical, factual and psychological elements that are related to Christianity.” Quoted in Ha Tae-Hu, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke no kirisutokyōteki shisō (Kanrin shobō, 1998), 24. See Satō Yasumasa, “Akutagawa ni okeru kami: Haguruma o megutte,” Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kyōzai no kenkyū 15:15 (1970), 46–51. For one of the very first comprehensive studies of Akutagawa’s kirishitan mono, see Cho Saok, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke to kirisutokyō (Kanrin shobō, 1995). Richard McKinnon, “Akutagawa to kirishitan bungaku,” Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kyōzai no kenkyū 2:3 (1957), 59–65; and Kasai Akifu, “Akutagawa Ryūnosuke no kirishitan mono: ‘Kamigami no bishō’ o chūshin ni,” Nihon bungei ronshū 1 (1968), 60. Among Akutagawa’s most well-known Christian stories are also “Tabako to akuma” (Tobacco and the Devil, 1916), “Samayoeru yudayajin” (The Wandering Jew, 1917), “Hōkyōnin no shi” (Death of a Martyr, 1918), “Rushiheru” (Lucifer, 1918), “Nankin no kirisuto” (The Christ of Nanking, 1920) and “O-Gin” (O-Gin, 1922). English translation in Yoshiko Dykstra and Andrew Dykstra, “Kirishitan Stories by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke,” Japanese Religions 31:1 (2006), 40. Ibid., 44. Seiji Lippit, Topographies of Japanese Modernism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 65. Yoshiko Dykstra and Andrew Dykstra, “Kirishitan Stories by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke,” 24. Rebecca Suter, “Grand Demons and Little Devils: Akutagawa’s Kirishitan mono as a Mirror of Modernity,” 39–66. Ibid., 65. Miyasaka Satoru, “Akutagawa bungaku ni okeru ‘sei naru gujin’ no keifu: sono joshō,” Bungei to shisō 41 (1977), Fukuoka Joshi Daigaku, 2. Yoshiko Dykstra and Andrew Dykstra, “Kirishitan Stories by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke,” 35.

Salvific discourse of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke  151 32 In “Sobyō sandai” (Three Sketches, 1927) Akutagawa recounted a story he heard from Muroga himself about that one time when his older friend inadvertently stepped on a toad on his way back home. The incident had saddened him so much that, after arriving home, he had knelt down and prayed to God, asking that the toad be saved. The following day Muroga had been awaken by the milk delivery man who told him he had seen what looked like a smashed toad jump away into the bushes. Muroga thanked God immediately for listening to his prayers and granting him his wish. “I am not trying to say that these kinds of miracles exist,” stated Akutagawa. “I just want to point out that there are people like this in this world.” See Miyasaka Satoru, “Akutagawa bungaku ni okeru ‘sei naru gujin’ no keifu: sono joshō,” 1–18. 33 “The Christ of Nanking,” English translation by Van C. Gessel, in vol. 1 of The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature, edited by J. Thomas Rimer and Van C. Gessel, 347. 34 Ibid., 347. 35 Ibid., 352. 36 Ibid., 355. 37 Ibid. 38 Ibid. 39 According to Adachi Naoko, the fact that Catholics amounted to a mere 0.5 percent of the entire population of the time makes Akutagawa’s choice extremely important. See her article “Nankin no kirisuto ron: Sō Kinka no ‘inori’ ni okeru shūkyōsei,” Nihon bungei kenkyū 55:1 (2003), Kansai Gakuin Daigaku, 59. 40 “O-Gin,” English translation in Jay Rubin, Rashōmon and Seventeen Other Stories (London: Penguin, 2006), 84. 41 Ibid., 87. 42 Ibid., 86. 43 Letter dated March 9, 1915; in vol. 17 of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke zenshū, 252. 44 Kappa first appeared in the journal Kaizō in March 1927; whereas Haguruma, written between March and April, posthumously appeared in its final version in the journal Bungei shunjū during the month of October of that year. 45 Kappa: A Novel, 115. 46 The original Japanese word for “Viverism” is “seikatsukyō,” ibid., 116. 47 Ibid., 119. 48 Ibid., 122. 49 Ibid., 120–1. 50 “Daidōji Shinsuke: The Early Years,” English translation in Jay Rubin, Rashōmon and Seventeen Other Stories, 152, 153. 51 As has already been noted by previous scholarship, in 1907 Doppo wrote a number of short stories that dealt with tragedy and the inner struggles of an individual seeking to overcome adversity. In “Hirō” (Fatigue), for example, Ōmori, the protagonist, is an entrepreneur that, much like Doppo in real life, has come to a point of absolute exhaustion marked by financial failures and ventures. “Kyūshi” (Death in Misery), on the other hand, portrays the tragic fate of a destitute man who out of mental and physical sufferings appears to have committed suicide by throwing himself in front of an onrushing train. Doppo would discuss the circumstances that led him to write this latter story in his 1908 “Byōshōroku” (A Record of My Illness), explaining that he had witnessed such an event in real life and that, deeply moved, he had set out to write the piece unable to stop crying. Akutagawa was deeply impressed by Doppo’s words and hailed the sentiment of compassion exuding from the fabrics of this work. Spiritual and physical breakdown leading to tragedy became therefore a recurring theme in Akutagawa’s late works that was not unrelated to his questions regarding the afterlife. He wrote about it in a well-known letter dated March 28, 1927 to poet Saitō Mokichi in which he confessed having reached a point of collapse: see vol. 20 of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke zenshū, 289–90.

152  Narratives of conversion 52 “Tenkibō” (Death Register, 1926), English translation in Jay Rubin, Rashōmon and Seventeen Other Stories, 180. 53 Letter to critic Yoshida Yasushi, who had written a positive review of the novel, dated April 3, 1927, in vol. 20 of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke zenshū, 291. 54 Kappa: A Novel, 61–2. 55 Ibid., 124. 56 Ibid., 125. 57 “Spinning Gears,” English translation in Jay Rubin, Rashōmon and Seventeen Other Stories, 213. 58 Ibid., 214. 59 Ibid., 217. 60 This is a reference to “ryū” (dragon), the first character in Akutagawa’s own name – Ryūnosuke. 61 Donald Keene, Dawn to the West, 583. 62 Quoted and translated in Rebecca Suter, “Grand Demons and Little Devils: Akutagawa’s Kirishitan mono as a Mirror of Modernity,” 40. 63 See “Spinning Gears,” 226. 64 The English translation and italics are mine. 65 “Spinning Gears,” 227. 66 Ibid. 67 According to recent surveys, there have in fact been at least 132 publications in Japanese between 1985 and 1999, and at least forty between 1955 and 1982. On this point, see Kevin M. Doak, “The Last Word?: Akutagawa Ryūnosuke’s ‘The Man From the West’,” Monumenta Nipponica 66:2 (2011), 248. 68 Kevin M. Doak and J. Scott Matthews, ‘The Man From the West’ and ‘The Man From the West: The Sequel’,” Monumenta Nipponica 66:2 (2011), 257. 69 For a discussion of the latter debate, see Kevin M. Doak and J. Scott Matthews, “ ‘The Man From the West’ and ‘The Man From the West: The Sequel’,” 271. 70 English translation in ibid., 258. 71 Ibid., 259. 72 Ibid., 274, 262. 73 Ibid., 258. Italics in original. 74 Ibid., 275. 75 Ibid., 258. 76 Ibid., 263. 77 Ibid. 78 Ibid., 274. 79 Ibid., 267. 80 Ibid., 274, 269. 81 Ibid., 264. 82 Ibid. 83 Ibid., 275. 84 Aeba Takao, “Katorikku to nihon bungaku,” Kokubungaku: kaishaku to kanshō 32:7 (1967), 24–8. 85 Mark B. Williams, Endō Shūsaku: A Literature of Reconciliation, 132. 86 Kevin M. Doak and J. Scott Matthews, “ ‘The Man From the West’ and ‘The Man From the West: The Sequel’,” 279.

Part III

Metaphors of Christianity

8

A Christology of the self The case of Mushanokōji Saneatsu

The literary appropriation of Christianity and its theology was an important aspect of Meiji and Taishō narrative, and its influence can be detected across much of the modern canon. Christianity offered a rich rhetorical repertoire that afforded writers not only the opportunity to discuss such themes as society and art but also explore notions of self and the possibilities of self-construction from the vantage point of established semantic coordinates. The attempt to define one’s self via a process of self-projection onto the figure of Christ was one of the most intriguing developments in the exploration of such rhetorical potential. Many members of the bundan were fascinated with Christ’s persona. Kitamura Tōkoku, who in his essay “Saigo no shōrisha wa dare zo” had referred to Christ as the one who could ultimately bring peace to the world, even tried to emulate him at one point: The following year, Meiji 17, I overcame for a time my faintheartedness and burned once again with the fire of ambition. . . . I conceived the ardent desire of sacrificing myself entirely for the benefit of the people. Like another Christ, I would consecrate all my energies to politics.1 By contrast, Shimazaki Tōson, for whom faith was “a childish mixed feeling of poetry and religion,” saw Jesus more as “the fantastic vision of a poetic personality.”2 Tōson was likely influenced by Ernest Renan’s Vie de Jésus, a work he loved, and was deeply impressed with Oscar Wilde’s depiction of him as “the precursor of all romantic movement in life” and the epitome of the artist whose place “indeed is with the poets.”3 Tōson seemingly struggled to place Jesus at the center of his faith, at least during his younger years: The God that was at the bottom of Sutekichi’s heart was not the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the Trinity that had been preached to him by many pastors. The notion of an omniscient and omnipotent God as the creator of all things was merely a preconceived notion that came from his learning, but the object of his faith was not Christ and his person. In Sutekichi’s imagination, God was not the thirty-three-year old Christ that died on the Cross, but rather someone older, perhaps an old man in his fifties.4

156  Metaphors of Christianity Some scholars have suggested that for him “Christ was a man of wisdom like Saigyō, Bashō, Dante, and Shakespeare, and [that] the difference between Christ and these figures was merely one of degree.”5 A similar assessment can be made in Doppo’s case; Azamukazaru no ki is replete with instances in which Jesus’s name is mentioned next to such literary figures as Goethe, Carlyle, and Wordsworth. There are also passages in the work, however, that show a different, more orthodox side. On April 17, 1895, for example, Doppo wrote an entry titled “Jesus on the Cross,” in which he stated: Jesus Christ, one thousand eight hundred and ninety years ago you came to this world in my same flesh and breathed this same air. I so much desire to see you on this earth but am unable to. And yet, it is a fact that you were here. It is a fact that you were nailed to the Cross. It is a fact that you gave your life to save man from sin. This is not the work of a poet, or a fruit of my imagination, it is a fact that you came to this world.6 Masamune Hakuchō, who relentlessly decried Christianity during his career, often expressed gratitude later in life for the opportunity to have known Christ: To me, I treat Christ in a special way. It does not matter if my thoughts are bad. Whatever I do, Christ will help me and preserve me. . . . In the final analysis, Christ will welcome us into His heart just as a hen protects her chicks.7 Kinoshita Naoe stated that he was able to find answers to quintessential questions on the purpose of existence in his very words, and Shiga Naoya argued that “had I not come into contact with the religion of Jesus . . . I would have probably become a much more dissolute man now.”8 In his own diary entry titled “Kirisuto no ai” (The Love of Christ), Shirakaba author Nagayo Yoshirō wrote that his fascination with Christ came from the clarity and uncompromising nature of his love. Christ, he maintained, had forgiven adulterous women, thieves, and assassins, but was firm in rejecting the sins of vanity and hypocrisy. His love was true love, and only by understanding its nature could one truly understand and gain from the teachings of Christianity, he claimed.9 He also stated that “Jesus is great, he is infinite, he will forever be my master,” and regretted that many of his contemporaries did not understand the Christian concept of love and focused instead on its idea of sin and punishment. He, for his part, was “not interested in dogmas, but rather in the persona of Christ.”10 Despite the skepticism and questions about the existence of God that characterized the spiritual experience of each of these writers, the influence of Christ’s message of fraternal love on their intellectual and moral formation is beyond dispute.11 Such influence, however, took unexpected turns. Seihō no hito’s narration of Christ’s life, for example, is clearly a projection of Akutagawa’s own tragedy, and the parallels in the climactic events that led to both men’s demise are significant. The scene at Gethsemane, when Christ is waiting to be betrayed and

A Christology of the self  157 arrested is described in this work as one of Christ’s darkest hours: “every christ,” Akutagawa writes, “prays like this at his darkest, most desolate hour.” His disciples – even Peter – could not understand what was in his heart. Christ’s prayer still has the power to move us today: “Abba, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.”12 Interestingly, the scene in which the protagonist of Haguruma visits the old man in the attic can also be seen as Akutagawa’s darkest hour. The protagonist’s response to the old man’s invitation to become a believer – “Can even someone like me become one?” – is the writer’s own last desperate prayer to God, a plead that is strongly reminiscent of Christ’s “Abba, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me.” The old man’s reply – “It’s not hard. All you have to do is believe in God, believe in Christ as the son of God, and believe in the miracles that Christ performed.” – does not, however, take that cup away.13 The reaffirmation that faith and faith only is the way to salvation leaves the protagonist unable to escape his conundrum. Thus, in the same way that “his disciples – even Peter – could not understand what was in his heart,” the old man in the attic is unable to grasp the essence of his friend’s predicament who is thus figuratively left sighing: “ ‘Why do you not understand?’ – This was [in fact] not Christ’s sigh alone. It is also the sigh of all the christs who died wretchedly after him.”14 The protagonists of Haguruma and of the novel-like biography titled “The New Testament,” as Akutagawa referred to Christ’s life, share exactly the same destiny, and in this sense they are metaphorical extensions of one another. Arishima Takeo provides another vivid example of this type of parallelism. Although references to Jesus in his diary are conflicting, Arishima was so inspired by Christ’s persona that, like Tōkoku, he, too, often sought to emulate him.15 On July 20, 1904, for example, during his affiliation with the asylum of the Society of Friends in Pennsylvania, he wrote in his diary: I gave Moore a bath . . . when I took him to the bathtub and saw his frail body I felt sympathy for him, and washed him with the same care that a mother would use with her baby. Christ, my Lord and God, washed the feet of unknown fishermen and tax collectors.16 Approximately one week later, upholding love as the only hope in an otherwise cruel world, he stated: “Christ did not forget to pray even for those who had mocked and scorned him as a traitor and as an offense to God. I . . . shall follow his example.”17 Toward the end of the 1910s, Arishima developed a theory of love that was, in the first place, a rejection of the dualism between flesh and spirit that had afflicted him throughout most of his personal and artistic life. In his piece “Love the Plunderer: The Metaphysics of a Modern Japanese” of 1917, written in English, he maintained that the impulse to love always coincided with self-interest

158  Metaphors of Christianity and concern. Love, he declared, was more an instinct to plunder, rather than to give, and an energy to absorb, rather than to emanate: Do I love me? By all means, yes. Do I love an object outside of me? . . . I find myself incapable of loving the outside object as much as myself . . . exactly speaking, I can love the outside object only because I love myself. More exactly, I can love the outside object inasmuch as it is assimilated into myself. In other words, to love is to extend one’s existence, and vice versa. Thus, to me, the lover, the beloved object loses its independent entity while I gain the dimension of Self. The object loved becomes part of myself. To take all in all, therefore, the object of my Love is nothing but myself; and the fact is that I love Me in the shape of an object outside of me.18 For Arishima, it was in the process of assimilating the outer world into oneself, and in being concurrently assimilated into the outer world, that the two realms – the self and the outer world – weave out a beautiful pattern which is called human sympathy. The better outer world will have a deeper connection with me as my Love deepens and gains in wisdom. In this manner the synthesis of life is brought to completion.19 He then saw in Christ the quintessential manifestation of that process. Christ, he stated, was “the possessor and wielder of deep good Love which finds no parallel in humanity.” He gave and suffered with extreme agony, not only because of the pain inflicted on his flesh, but also because he was aware that his disciples did not fully understand him. He probably also suffered because he was not sure he had accomplished “the undertaking to absorb all that was to be absorbed.” Arishima, who now completely identified with this new and unconventional notion of love, imagined Christ whispering the following words in his ear: My love has absorbed to the uttermost all that is high, all that is pure and all that is beautiful. Open thine eyes and behold the noble unbounded possession I have gathered within me. What appears to have been given by me in truth was not given to others, but to myself. I lost nothing and gained all, whereas they say I lost everything but the name of Saviour. Thou art invited to partake my joy. This is the only duty I demand of thee. Knowest thou what kind of person a hypocrite is? It is he who giveth alms to others without ever giving to himself. It is he who squandereth to the outer world that which does not yet belong to himself.20 The embrace of a view of love where there was no distinction between giving and receiving, where self-sacrifice lost its meaning, and where, to put it in Arishima’s own words, “to die was to gain,” became the centerpiece of the intellectual’s evolving philosophy, in which the plundering nature of love and the

A Christology of the self  159 satisfaction of man’s instinct were considered as essential premises for a fulfilling life. But Arishima found analogies with Christ elsewhere, too. A great admirer of Walt Whitman, he had found in the American poet the unconventional free thinker who rejects order, power, and social expectations in the name of freedom and individualism, the archetypal loafer. This concept of loafer suited Arishima well, as he struggled to move back to the “self,” following his rejection of any established authority or morality, which included, of course, Christianity. A loafer, he believed, was “someone who walks alone,” someone whose destiny was to be persecuted, regardless of the age in which he lived, and it was for these loafers, without whom the world would crumble into pieces, that he had the utmost admiration, he declared.21 There was one loafer, in particular, he truly admired. In his piece “Hoittoman ni tsuite” (On Whitman) of 1920, he stated: There is one man here that I call loafer. He is a man who has always sought to walk alone. He is a man who wanted to live in absolute freedom and who, for that reason, could not help but grant that absolute freedom to others. . . . In my view, Christ, the founder of the Christian Church, is the greatest loafer of all.22 Christ was “someone who walked alone” and “was more of a loafer than Whitman himself,” because, he remarked in yet another essay, “he betrayed the belligerent expectations of those around him, walking instead the path of love until he was crucified.”23 He therefore personified Arishima’s iconoclastic vision of a man who refused to conform to the expectations of his time and as such was a representation of the writer’s ideal self. It is, however, in Mushanokōji Saneatsu’s thought and his writings that this self-identification process became most overt. As he interpreted Jesus and his teachings, in fact, Mushanokōji clearly attempted to create an indissoluble link between himself and Jesus’s persona. But whereas in Akutagawa’s case, for example, that process of self-identification took place during the last period of the writer’s life, almost as a last-ditch effort to find companionship and peace in the face of a looming tragedy, in Mushanokōji’s, this analogical representation of the self through Jesus began at an early stage, a critical moment for his intellectual formation. In a piece titled “Hikari no ko, muyami no ko” (The Son of Light, the Son of Darkness) that he wrote in 1907 when he was only twenty-two years old, Mushanokōji stated: In our view, Christ was not a great scholar, nor was he a great thinker, a great talent, a great orator or a particularly clever man. Indeed, he was only an ordinary human, yet he was pure. He was a human with a pure heart. He was someone whose words and deeds were in perfect (or as I would say, almost perfect) harmony, so that his entire life was a hymn in praise of light. Reading about his life makes one want to become as beautiful as he was. For indeed, he was a man with a pure, pure heart. . . . By deciding to become children of

160  Metaphors of Christianity light, we necessarily imitate Christ. If he could become the son of God, so can we. We can become like Christ.24 In either case, the result was a rhetorical operation – metaphorically speaking a sort of Christology of the self – in which both authors attempted to construct their selves by drawing a parallel with the semantic attributes of Christ. Unlike Akutagawa, who viewed Christ as an analogical representation not only of his suffering but also of the wretchedness of human existence, Mushanokōji saw Christ, in rather opposite fashion, as compelling evidence of the goodness of man and his ability to fulfill the divine potential within himself.

Kōfukumono: the deification of man and the construction of the messianic sage Born in 1885 into an aristocratic family, Mushanokōji, a graduate of the Peers’ School and co-founder with Shiga Naoya, Satomi Ton, and others of the literary journal Shirakaba, had first come into contact with Christianity in the summer of 1903 during a visit to his uncle Kadenokōji Sukekoto. That first encounter is narrated in detail in his 1923 autobiographical novel Aru otoko (A Certain Man): That summer he read the Bible for the first time. At first he hated Jesus. There was a pastor that came often to see his uncle . . . he thought that despising the pastor was an expression of patriotism. He also spoke ill of Jesus to his uncle, who retorted however that it was nonsense to criticize without reading. “Well, I’ll read it and then will speak my mind.” He began to read the first chapter of the Gospel of Matthew. How stupid, he thought after reading two or three chapters. But when he got to the fifth, he became very impressed. He thought that this fellow must have been amazing . . . It is also at this time that he learned about Tolstoy.25 The Tolstoy encountered by Mushanokōji was the one who had already experienced a moral crisis and who advocated the importance of an ascetic life, made of poverty, abstinence, self-discipline, and neighborly love. Tolstoy’s ideas about universal love resonated strongly with the young intellectual, becoming the chief inspiration behind his early philosophical deliberations, but also fostering an ideology of self-denial that eventually caused him to struggle with sexuality during his younger years. The opening chapter of his first notable story, Omedetaki hito (A Good-Natured Person) of 1910, was arguably a reflection of that struggle as the young protagonist affirms several times that he has not talked to a woman in years and that he is literally “starving for women.”26 Mushanokōji’s diary confirms not only the importance of Tolstoy’s thought in his formative years but also the existence of the same tension between sexual desire and the awareness of sin that had afflicted many of his fellow writers. On April 19, 1906, for example, he wrote “Ah, why is carnal desire so strong that a person’s heart can change so easily,” and on June 2 of the same year he regretted

A Christology of the self  161 that his vanity, sexual desire, and anger still prevented him from behaving morally.27 Two weeks later he lamented the existence of competing identities within himself: “I do not even know how often during a day I act as a believer in God and at the same time as a slave of carnal desire.”28 ‘ “Jiko no tame’ oyobi sono ta ni tsuite” (“On the Self” and Other Writings), a piece of 1912 in which he declared that the fulfillment of the self should be the centerpiece of one’s existence, provides further evidence that his embrace of Tolstoian thought led not only to significant intellectual growth, but also to selfrepression and pain: The teachings of Tolstoy taught me the value of logic. Through Tolstoy I became aware of the authority of one’s logic. . . . However, Tolstoy forgets to reflect upon the “power of the self.” . . . At the very least because of Tolstoy’s teachings I came to think that even to reflect upon “the power of the self” was cowardly. I struggled a lot because of that. I thought of myself a sinner and struggled. The one who saved me from this pain was, as I said earlier, Maeterlinck.29 In this very same piece Mushanokōji also stated that nothing had more authority than the self and argued for the existence of different desires within an individual that needed to be harmonized to reach one’s potential: “we can harmonize these desires better than Jesus or Buddha,” he stated. The encounter with playwright Maurice Maeterlinck, whose writings had been introduced to him by poet and literary critic Ueda Bin, played an essential role in Mushanokōji’s later intellectual formation. Kawa Shizuo pointed out that reading Maeterlinck’s La sagesse et la destinée (Wisdom and Destiny), likely between July 1906 and June 1907, led the young Mushanokōji to reject Tolstoy’s ideal of self-denial, particularly with respect to the physical and carnal aspects of existence, and to embrace by contrast a positive and assertive posture aimed at self-realization and the gratification of one’s individuality. Maeterlinck, Kawa noted, had posited the centrality of one’s interiority in the shaping of one’s destiny, the ability that human beings have, that is, to alter the course of their existence through wisdom, love, and justice, and this was a position that Mushanokōji found congenial to his inquiry.30 Early evidence of a drastic change in his thought can be found in “Shūyō no konpon yōken” (The Necessary Conditions for Education) of 1907: in this essay Mushanokōji argued that “to know oneself” was an essential premise to education, as knowing oneself also meant being capable of knowing others, and drawing from one of Jesus’s most famous aphorisms – “why do you see the speck in your brother’s eye but fail to notice the beam in your own eye?” – he decried self-deception and warned against pretense and hypocrisy. Similarly, paraphrasing another of Jesus’s teachings – “whoever does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me” – he argued that taking up one’s cross was indeed obeying the will of heaven.31 Despite the radical departure from the Christian notion of self-effacement that Mushanokōji had inherited from Tolstoy, the influence exerted by Christianity

162  Metaphors of Christianity in the following years cannot be minimized. His colleagues and friends, Shiga Naoya first among them, were disciples of Uchimura Kanzō (Mushanokōji mentioned in his novel Aru otoko that Shiga believed in the Last Judgment), and he himself spent much of his time at the Peers’ School, “fasting and doing penance.”32 Mushanokōji did not attend Uchimura’s lectures; years later, in a conversation with scholar Usui Yoshimi, he stated that he had never met him but that he had read every issue of his journal Seisho no kenkyū.33 In 1918 Mushanokōji founded “Atarashiki mura” (New Village), a commune that incarnated the socialist and humanitarian ideals he had found in Tolstoy’s writings. In a recent article titled “Atarashiki Mura: The Intellectual and Literary Contexts of a Taishō Utopian Village,” Angela Yiu has summarized the goals behind its conception as follows: 1 2 3 4

To create a fair, reasonable society; To address the injustice borne by laborers in modern society (especially the modern system of production and capitalism); To create a communal life, especially communal eating for economic and community reasons; To emphasize self (the ego), mankind (  jinrui), nature (shizen), love (ai), virtue (zen), beauty (bi), happiness (  fukai yorokobi).34

Yiu also emphasized the importance of the intellectual and literary contexts within which such a commune came into existence. In his Aru otoko, she noted, “Mushakōji insisted that the creation of literary art and that of a new world are twin desires that have long been lodged in his mind.” Earlier on, he had written in his 1911 essay “Jiko no tame no geijutsu” (Art for the Self) that he created art for the sake of the self.35 In many ways, Yiu concluded, “Atarashiki mura can be seen as Mushakōji’s most invested work of art, a sakuhin that is created for maximum self-expression.”36 Mushanokōji wrote several important pieces during the “Atarashiki mura” experience (which lasted for him until 1926) that, reflecting the Christian background at the root of his social engagement, also betrayed a significant depth of religious concern. In “Tadashiki shinkō to fusei no shinkō” (Just Faith and Unjust Faith) of 1920, for example, he argued that a just faith is that which is capable of purifying the hearts of those who believe. Any faith, on the contrary, aiming at achieving earthly gain is by definition unjust. For Mushanokōji, true faith transcended egotism, should be founded on the principle of neighborly love, and should not deprive man of his humanity.37 In another piece titled “Kami no kuni” (The Kingdom of God) of 1921, he declared that the kingdom of God could be achieved on earth, and in yet another article titled “Ai ni tsuite” (On Love) of the same year, he maintained that it was not possible to experience the happiness of life without unraveling the problem of love. He cited Jesus and his invitation to forgive others’ misgivings as the centerpiece of an existence that is founded on its principles.38 During this period Mushanokōji also wrote Kōfukumono (A Happy Man), the novel that perhaps more than any of his works showed his deliberate attempt to

A Christology of the self  163 draw from the persona of Jesus to construct an ideal character that was in turn a representation of himself. The novel, which appeared in five installments in the journal Shirakaba between January and June 1919, was immediately followed by yet another work, titled Yesu (Jesus), that was serialized in the journal Atarashiki mura from August of that year to June of the following. A couple of years later, looking back at both works, he wrote: I already revered Jesus in the days I was interested in Tolstoy. . . . I truly loved Jesus and longed for him. . . . The longing for Jesus and the love I felt for him pushed me to write about him.39 Later, in 1928 he would describe Yesu as follows: [This work] is my interpretation of the Gospel and an expression of my love and respect for Jesus. Among human beings Jesus and Buddha are the ones that I respect the most. Jesus is a person who is like God, I think he is even more divine than God himself.  .  .  . I cannot say that this work is without faults. There are also parts that are my own interpretation. But I like it. . . . I tried to be as faithful as possible to the Gospel. There is nothing new that can be taught to those who have read it. I sought to look at it not from the viewpoint of a scholar but from that of an infant.40 Although written after Kōfukumono, Yesu contains elements of great significance for interpreting the earlier work. It is, in essence, an exegesis of the events narrated in the four Gospels as Mushanokōji examined the many parables and aphorisms attributed to Jesus, providing a personal assessment of the authority and veracity of his teachings. Thus, for example, he argued against the idea that he “who even looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart,” asserting that there was a significant difference between thoughts and action; but then stating “this is true, it is true, it is absolutely true!” he emphatically approved of Jesus’s warning that “not everyone who says to Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ shall enter the kingdom of heaven, but he who does the will of my Father in heaven.”41 He especially approved of Jesus’s teachings on forgiveness and embraced the idea that only if one forgave those who had sinned against him would God forgive his sins. Indeed, the theme of forgiveness became one of the pillars of his discourse on fraternal love. For him, Jesus’s teachings reached a climax when he urged anyone who thought himself to be without sin to throw the first stone: No one had the courage to throw the first stone. No one could be that impudent. Old and young people alike, everyone felt as if they were about to be judged. Then one person fled, two fled, and all feeling shame ran away. Only Jesus and the woman remained. Jesus straightened up and asked: “Those who denounced you left. Is there anyone who can condemn you?” “No one.” “I cannot condemn you either. Come with me, and sin no more.”

164  Metaphors of Christianity This judgment is the deepest, most loving, most authoritative judgment ever made in the world of man. I simply want to genuflect in front of Jesus.42 In Yesu, Mushanokōji also sought to interpret some of the most debated aspects of the Gospel. In the opening pages, for example, he argued that Jesus probably had an idea, reading the Scriptures, that he might indeed be the Messiah. Mushanokōji did not believe, however, that John the Baptist had necessarily thought of him as the Messiah at first. Their encounter was nonetheless critical, he stated, because it helped Jesus realize the importance of his mission. Later in the work, Mushanokōji argued that the Gospels hid the true reasons why Judas had betrayed Jesus. Clearly, he noted, Judas believed that the Kingdom to which Jesus was referring was worldly; even Jesus himself, he added, was confused until the time of his crucifixion came – and with it the realization of the necessity of his sacrifice – about whether such a kingdom could be indeed built on earth.43 Mushanokōji also emphasized the importance of repentance. Jesus, he stated, had taught that anyone who repented could enter the kingdom of heaven, thus practically freeing all men from the priests and scholars of the time arrogant enough to claim they held the key to salvation. He thought that Jesus did fear death but that instead of killing the spirit to survive, he preferred to sacrifice his life so that the spirit could live on. Jesus died, he argued, but “he was resurrected in the hearts of those who loved him stronger and more divine than ever.”44 Finally, in the very final chapter he stated: I do not think that Jesus was God. If I had to say, I would say that he was someone who was with God. At times he was God himself. The words of Jesus were the words of God. No words such as his have ever come out of the mouth of any human being. . . . I am astounded by the depth, the truth, and the authority [of these words]. If God did not appear within him, within whom could he appear? He is the son of God. . . . We believe that his teachings are the truth.45 Mushanokōji could not imagine a world without Jesus; he saw his spirit filling every corner of the world and felt it was time for humanity to awake and celebrate his legacy. It was time, he thought, to praise the human being, to praise the accomplishment of his mission, and to praise those who celebrated the self to the fullest. Yesu, Mushanokōji’s hermeneutical effort to secularize Jesus and render him accessible to his own process of self-construction, ended on a happy note, stressing an unconditional confidence in the goodness of human beings and their ability to fulfill their mission. This confidence in humanity is the same trust that had inspired the pages of his earlier novel Kōfukumono, the story of an individual, known as the master, that is narrated through the eyes of one of his disciples. The master lived an extremely modest life, bordering on poverty and asceticism, supported by his disciples who provided for him daily. He came to live in the narrator’s village after helping out an ill young man who later turned out to be the son

A Christology of the self  165 of a very wealthy member of the community. He had then been invited to settle down in the village and had been given a piece of land as a token of gratitude, which, however, he later donated to the poor. The master rarely became angry and made forgiveness the hallmark of his life. As an illegitimate child, he had declared his desire to devote his existence to the happiness of others in order to atone for the sins of his parents. He preached the importance of recognizing one’s transgressions and forgiving others’ accordingly. He believed that all human beings were capable of becoming God. Among the human beings that he respected the most were Jesus, Buddha, Confucius, and Socrates. The master especially held Jesus in high esteem: The Gospel was not written by Jesus, but it does show fragments of words and acts that could only have sprung from the heart of Jesus. This is truly intimidating. One’s heart is immediately purified when coming across such depth and authority. One wants to genuflect in front of them. Even with words one might not agree with, one has to bow in front of such depth. Where does that power come from? That’s interesting. I don’t believe in the afterlife, the resurrection or miracles, but my heart is really moved by the depth of Jesus’s heart. Where does that power come from? I wish to entrust all my life to that power.46 People would come to see the master from every region to ask questions on life, happiness, sexuality, the relationship between truth and the State, and the afterlife. His answers were always full of wisdom and fraternal love. He believed that there existed no hell and that there had been others like Jesus in the history of humankind whose names had remained unknown. To a prostitute who had come to tempt him and had asked why he lived such a life, he had merely replied: “because I am happy.”47 At the age of thirty-five, the master decided to build a temple for those who had no place to stay. One day he opened its doors to a person suffering from leprosy, lending him his bed and bowl. When the news spread of his generosity, the number of his followers even increased, but there were some who disliked him and spoke ill of him, perhaps out of jealousy. Among his detractors was said to be a Buddhist monk; the master had criticized Buddhism as a religion for the dead that provided no real solution for the problems of the living. He had also decried that monastic life was still seen as a hereditary profession that was passed from father to son instead of being the outcome of a conscious choice to devote one’s life to the cultivation of the spirit. A fire broke out at the master’s home. The master was unharmed, and although it appeared to be arson, he was the first to urge all of his followers to avoid retaliation: “I want you to forgive all the sins that have been committed against you,” he stated.48 Meanwhile, allegations of a physical relationship between him and a woman who had visited him recently began to spread in the local newspapers. Then the master disappeared. His followers kept searching for him, and after one

166  Metaphors of Christianity of them revealed having heard a gunshot after the master had left his home, raising the suspicion that his life might be in danger, a letter was found on his desk in which he bade farewell to all of his friends. In personal conversations and brief messages he had left behind before his disappearance, he had urged his community to continue to work for God and one another. In the letter he now spoke of his likely imminent death: “I think of the painful figure of he who went to Golgotha. . . . The will of God cannot be avoided. Those who know God have to entrust their whole self to him. Heart of God, I entrust my life to you. I entrust my death to you. May my death be useful to you. Brothers and sisters, I hope that my death will be helpful for you . . . please forgive my sins. Be happy.”49 The story ends with the narrator wondering if the master truly died: “We have no more hope at this point. However, we feel as if the master is still living within us. I think of the Master often. I feel as if he was a person sent by God. His life was short. He ended his life virtually unknown. And there are no signs about what happened to him. We don’t know whether he was killed because of jealousy, hatred or by mistake. His body was never found. . . . I would be happy to know that this work has been of consolation to many. I apologize in front of my master and my brothers if it has not.”50 Scholars agree that Kōfukumono was largely modeled after the figure of Jesus. For Honda Shūgo, who believes Mushanokōji likely saw himself as a prophet at the time he wrote this work, the fact that the master’s father is unknown, that he is unsuccessfully tempted by a prostitute who later becomes his disciple, and that he is in the end killed by society is clear evidence of a strong influence from the New Testament.51 The fact that the master’s life is narrated by one of his disciples, a direct witness of his teachings and the events that led to his demise, is also a significant element of resemblance to the Gospels. In a later edition of the novel, Mushanokōji himself wrote: The character of the master and his disciples are all fictional characters . . . rather than writing about my ideal person, I wanted to write about that state of mind in which one can go on living happily no matter the challenges he might face in life.52 There is no doubt that Mushanokōji sought to project his ideal self onto the protagonist of Kōfukumono and that, in the process, he borrowed from Jesus to construct that persona. The master’s idea to build a temple is definitely a reflection of Mushanokōji’s own creation of a utopian village in the same way that his words are an echo of Mushanokōji’s beliefs. Both the master and Mushanokōji speak of the depth and authority of Jesus’s teachings, and neither of them believes in

A Christology of the self  167 his miracles or in the resurrection. Both believe that every person can potentially become God, and both see Jesus as the incarnation of that perfect human being; thus, “the whole book is a constant game of allusion and association intended to blur the difference between the master and the messiah.”53 For this reason, Mushanokōji stated that Jesus was not a great scholar, nor was he a great thinker, a great talent, a great orator or a particularly clever man. Indeed, he was only an ordinary human, yet he was pure. . . . If he could become the son of God, so can we. We can become like Christ.54

Notes 1 Letter to Mina of August 18, 1887, in vol. 3 of Tōkoku zenshū, 167. English translation in Francis Mathy, “Kitamura Tōkoku: The Early Years,” 9–10. 2 Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, in vol. 5 of Tōson zenshū, 552. 3 See his piece “Etoranze” (Stranger, 1922); quoted in Itō Kazuo, Shimazaki Tōson kenkyū, 319. 4 Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki, 558. 5 See, for example, Sasabuchi Tomoichi, “Bungakkai” to sono jidai, vol. 2, 835, quoted and translated in Janet Walker, The Japanese Novel of the Meiji Period and the Ideal of Individualism, 131. 6 Azamukazaru no ki, in vol. 7 of Kunikida Doppo zenshū, 286. Even after he had already expressed his disenchantment with his own journey of faith, Doppo acknowledged the mystery of the Cross and thanked God for the peace and courage that he was able to derive from Christ every time he felt challenged by the temptations of the flesh and the secular world. See entry of December 18, 1896; ibid., 394–5. 7 Quoted and translated in Mark Williams, “From Out of the Depths: The Japanese Literary Response to Christianity,” 162–3. 8 See Kinsohita Naoe, “Yo wa ika ni shite shakaishugisha to narishi ka” (1904), in vol. 10 of Kindai nihon shisō taikei, edited by Takeda Kiyoko, 520; and Shiga Naoya, “Waga seikatsu shinjō” (1949), in vol. 7 of Shiga Naoya zenshū, 420. 9 Entry dated May 14, 1911, in vol. 5 of Bungakusha no nikki, edited by Nihon kindai bungakukan, 116. 10 Ibid., 16, 28. 11 The Meiji and Taishō years saw a proliferation of works on Jesus that included, for example, Kozaki Hiromichi’s Kirisuto ron (On Christ, 1893), Ebina Danjō’s Yesu kirisuto den (A Biography of Jesus Christ, 1903), Kagawa Toyohiko’s Kirisuto den ronsōshi (A History of the Debates on Christ’s Life, 1913), and, of course, Kōtoku Shūsui’s famous Kirisuto massatsu ron (The Obliteration of Christ, 1911), a controversial treatise in which the anarchist rejected the historical Jesus and vehemently disparaged Christianity for having essentially created a myth. For a comprehensive list of these works, see Asaka Tadashi, Kindai nihon bungei no kenkyū (Kasama shoin, 1981), 208–9. 12 English translation in Kevin M. Doak and J. Scott Matthews, “ ‘The Man From the West’ and ‘The Man From the West: The Sequel’,” 267. 13 See “Spinning Gears,” in Jay Rubin, Rashōmon and Seventeen Other Stories, 227. 14 Kevin M. Doak and J. Scott Matthews, “ ‘The Man From the West’ and ‘The Man From the West: The Sequel’,” 276. 15 According to Sasabuchi Tomoichi, entries of February 7 and September 13, 1903, provide evidence of orthodox faith in the crucifixion and the atonement of sins: see

168  Metaphors of Christianity

1 6 17 18 1 9 20 21 2 2 23 24 2 5 26 27 28 29 30 3 1 32 33 34 3 5 36 3 7 38 39 4 0 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

Sasabuchi Tomoichi, Meiji Taishō bungaku no bunseki, 716. Miyano Mitsuo, on the other hand, maintains that from the very outset Arishima considered Jesus a man rather than the Son of God. Miyano argues, in particular, that Arishima was extremely fascinated with the historical Jesus, and that he, too, likely derived that fascination from Renan’s work. He points out that on December 28, 1903, Arishima wrote a letter to his parents from the United States in which he mentioned Renan’s book and that on October 15, 1916 he took the book with him on a trip to Hokkaidō: see Miyano Mitsuo, “Arishima Takeo kenkyū: kirisutoron o chūshin ni,” Kokubungaku kenkyū 2 (1966), Baikō Gakuin Daigaku, 69–79. Kansōroku, in vol. 10 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 460. Entry of July 29, 1904; ibid., 467. “Love the Plunderer: The Metaphysics of a Modern Japanese,” in vol. 7 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 149. Ibid., 149. Ibid., 152. “Hitori yuku mono” (He Who Walks Alone, December 1922), in vol. 9 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 308. Quoted in Miyano Mitsuo, “Arishima Takeo kenkyū: kirisutoron o chūshin ni,” 70. “Hitori yuku mono” (He Who Walks Alone, July 1922), in vol. 9 of Arishima Takeo zenshū, 640. This is a different piece from the one by the same title quoted earlier. Mushanokōji Saneatsu, “Hikari no ko, muyami no ko” (The Son of Light, the Son of Darkness, 1907), in “Kōya,” vol. 1 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 59. The English translation is from Maya Mortimer, Meeting the Sensei, 92. Aru otoko, in vol. 5 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 123. Omedetaki hito (1910), in vol. 1 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 79–80. See his diary “Kare no seinen jidai” (His Younger Years, 1923), ibid., 207, 214. Entry of June 16, 1906; ibid., 226. ‘ “Jiko no tame’ oyobi sono ta ni tsuite” (1912), ibid., 428. Kawa Shizuo, “Mushanokōji Saneatsu,” in Mushanokōji Saneatsu et al., Kindai kirisutokyō zenshū, vol. 7, 418. “Shūyō no konpon yōken,” in vol. 1 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 686. See Maya Mortimer, Meeting the Sensei, 136. Quoted in Asaka Tadashi, Kindai nihon bungei no kenkyū, 178. Angela Yiu, “Atarashiki mura: The Intellectual and Literary Contexts of a Taishō Utopian Village,” Japan Review 20 (2008), 207–8. See vol. 1 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 400. Angela Yiu, “Atarashiki mura: The Intellectual and Literary Contexts of a Taishō Utopian Village,” 206. In “Atarashiki mura sōsho,” vol. 4 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 92–5. Ibid., 143–6 and 147–63. See his “Jibun no sanbusaku ni tsuite” (On My Trilogy, 1922), in vol. 4 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 545. Quoted in Ōtsuyama Kunio, “Kaidai,” ibid., 645. See Yesu, in vol. 4 of of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 346. Ibid., 364. Ibid., 376. Ibid., 394. Ibid., 395. Kōfukumono, in vol. 4 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 263. Ibid., 313. Ibid., 316. Ibid., 327. Ibid., 328.

A Christology of the self  169 51 Honda Shūgo, Shirakabaha no sakka to sakuhin (Miraisha, 1986), 73. Other scholars agree with this view; see Ōtsuyama Kunio, “Kaisetsu,” in vol. 4 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 625, and Asaka Tadashi, Kindai bungei no kenkyū, 180–1. 52 Quoted in Asaka Tadashi, Kindai bungei no kenkyū, 181. 53 Maya Mortimer, Meeting the Sensei, 181. 54 English translation in ibid., 92.

9

The appropriation of Christianity in narrative Kinoshita Naoe’s Hi no hashira and Nagayo Yoshirō’s Seidō no kirisuto

As a new system of signification, Christianity provided a rich semiotic landscape, replete with symbolism, that transcended the strictly religious and spiritual domains and that could easily be exploited in a variety of realms. The literary appropriation of the persona of Jesus Christ, analyzed in the previous chapter, is but only one example of how some writers relied on the figurative power of the Christian religion to define the borders of their own self. Such rhetorical operation was, however, not limited to the figure of Christ; in the literary arena many authors explored Christianity’s symbolism and utilized it effectively as a framework for their artistic undertakings. Shimazaki Tōson’s Hakai, discussed in Chapter 3, exemplified this relationship with a narrative fabric that drew deeply from that vast repertoire of Christian imagery. This chapter examines two additional such cases – Hi no hashira by Kinoshita Naoe and Seidō no kirisuto by Nagayo Yoshirō – highlighting, yet again, the important role played by Christianity in providing an established set of rhetorical coordinates that could be used in narrative.

Hi no hashira: Christian socialism and the building of an earthly kingdom of God Kinoshita Naoe, a Christian socialist and the author of Hi no hashira, was one of the most charismatic social activists and gifted orators of his time. A graduate of Tōkyō senmon gakkō where he studied law, he opposed Japan’s military expansionism, called for the abolition of prostitution, and denounced the exploitation of the working classes. He fought against poverty and was involved in a number of high-profile social protests such as the Ashio Copper Mine revolt. He was part of the universal suffrage movement and was a champion of women’s rights. In his Zange (Confession) of 1906 he described how he became attracted to Christianity: one day, at a time of deep personal crisis and strong disillusionment with the political corruption he had witnessed in his hometown of Matsumoto, he came across a copy of the New Testament that belonged to his sister. He happened to read the section of the Sermon on the Mount and found that its words soothed the loneliness and sadness that plagued his heart. He decided to devote himself to the study of the Christian religion and finally came to experience the presence of God,

The appropriation of Christianity  171 which gave him incredible joy. He was especially impressed by the writings of Paul, whom he considered one of his spiritual benefactors.1 Kinoshita’s encounter with the Sermon on the Mount, which was to guide his non-violent form of dissent throughout his public life, had taken place after his return to Matsumoto from Tokyo in 1888. As he wrote in yet another piece titled “Yo wa ika ni shite kirisutokyō o shinzuru ni itarishi ka” (How I Came to Believe in Christianity) that appeared in 1891 and that actually preceded his formal conversion, during his student years he had thought of religion as a remnant of a barbaric age. The widespread practice of embracing Christianity out of interest in Western culture and civilization, and the fact that the religion required abstinence from sex and drinking had been strong deterrents for him in the past that had made him suspicious of its teachings. Back in Matsumoto from Tokyo, he had not been too happy to see his sister attend service every Sunday either, but being interested in cultivating his spirituality, he had tried to find answers to his questions about existence in Zen and meditation. His sister had made fun of him and had suggested that he try to read the Bible instead. He was stunned by what he read. The Bible immediately brought a dramatic change in his life; he began to participate in Christian lay activities, playing a central role in the creation of local associations that advocated moderation and moral reform, and contributed to the movement for the abolition of prostitution. He then decided to convert and was baptized in 1893 by Methodist pastor Nakada Hisakichi.2 Kinoshita experienced another time of deep religious change following his arrest in 1897 on a charge of corruption.3 Sentenced to ten months in prison, it is at this time that he received yet another copy of the Bible from his sister. At first, he had not been too excited about the gift; he had not read the book in a while and felt himself far removed from God. After reading his sister’s dedication “to my beloved brother,” however, he began to wonder whether it was possible that God could love someone like him, too. He had in fact until then been convinced that he was too much of a sinner for God to love him. A voice in his heart seemed to reassure him, and from there on, he rediscovered the meaning of faith and prayer.4 Once out of prison, Kinoshita almost immediately joined the Mainichi shinbun, which provided a congenial outlet for his social concerns, and to which he made important contributions as a reporter of the Ashio mine pollution scandal. In March 1900, he joined the Shakaishugi kyōkai (Socialism Study Group), previously formed by Katayama Sen, Abe Isoo, Kōtoku Shūsui, and others, and in the following year, he helped the same members found the Shakai minshutō (Socialist Democratic Party), which was, however, soon disbanded by the government. The notable members of these associations of which Kinoshita was part, were, with the exception of Kōtoku Shūsui, all Christian. Their group was deeply influenced by the American Social Gospel, a movement that had gained significant ground toward the end of the nineteenth century. The manifesto of the Shakai minshutō itself reflected such influence: it was drafted by Abe Isoo, who in turn had heavily relied on one of the most influential related publications of the time, Richard Ily’s Socialism and Social Reform of 1894. Among the principles advocated by

172  Metaphors of Christianity the Shakai minshutō, which were thoroughly embraced by Kinoshita throughout his public career, were disarmament, the abolition of social class division, equal rights, and fair redistribution of wealth. Kinoshita himself described how socialism and Christianity had merged and informed his philosophy of life in a piece titled “Yo wa ika ni shite shakaishugisha to narishi ka” (How I Became a Socialist) of 1904. Although he had passionately studied law as a student, he had slowly come to have doubts about its true authority. Meanwhile, he had come to know God, which had given him internal peace. As a fervent believer in fraternal love, however, he had also seen the limitations of religion and specifically its inability to address and explain the tragedy of inequality in the world. Socialism had in part mitigated his disillusionment, but it was not until he realized that an answer to his questions could be found in the very words and actions of Jesus that all his doubts had vanished.5 Although in November 1903 he had joined social activists Sakai Toshihiko and Kōtoku Shūsui in the creation of the Heimin shinbun (The Commoner’s News), a newspaper that lasted for only two years, Kinoshita gradually began to distance himself from the atheist and materialistic wing of his socialist group, and in 1905, with the support of such well-known personalities as Uchimura Kanzō and Tokutomi Roka, he founded yet another journal, Shinkigen (New Era), whose aim was “to work for a non-violent revolution in Japanese society according to the principles of the Sermon on the Mount.”6 In its first issue, Kinoshita stated that “his revolution” was “the will to overthrow the power of greed and establish the kingdom of God on earth” and later affirmed that the new gospel of a life revolution is . . . the organization of a fraternal love that has God as its father, the great spirit of Christ; and the kingdom of God on earth must take the form of communal life.7 A year later, in the month of November, he would, however, reach the conclusion that Christianity and socialism were, like the very journal he had founded to advocate them, a two-headed snake that was difficult to control, as it was not possible, he stated, paraphrasing the Bible, to serve two masters. The publication of Shinkigen was soon discontinued, which signaled Kinoshita’s progressive withdrawal from public life and his transition to other forms of spiritual cultivation that were not limited to Christianity but that extended, most notably, to Zen and meditation. Only one month earlier in the October issue of the same journal he had essentially bid farewell to his friends in a piece titled “Kyūyū shokun ni tsugu” (To My Old Friends) in which he reiterated the Christian principles at the foundation of his socialist philosophy: the blood of Christ transcended the “tooth for a tooth” law of the Old Testament, and a true Christian, he stated, could never support any form of violent protest.8 The core of Kinoshita’s Christian beliefs actually can be found in an article titled “Yasei no shinto” (An Undomesticated Believer) that appeared in the journal Rikugō zasshi in March 1902. Calling himself an “unorthodox Christian,” he declared his belief in God and in the destiny of human beings to manage the

The appropriation of Christianity  173 kingdom of God on earth. Kinoshita’s entire social protest was predicated upon the conviction that Jesus’s call for a social revolution was to be achieved in this world. This was not only Kinoshita’s belief. Most members of the Christian socialist groups to which he belonged made this very assumption. Thus essayist and intellectual Yamakawa Hitoshi (1880–1958) declared that he understood the mission of Christ as the savior only in earthly terms, and anarchist Ōsugi Sakae (1885–1923) stated that he believed religion to be a type of communist movement that helped people escape from the anxiety generated by socio-economic differences. Journalist and social activist Arahata Kanson (1887–1981) similarly recalled that he was not attracted to Christianity because of the dogmas of the Holy Trinity or the atonement of sin – of which he was, in fact, skeptical – but rather by the socialist gospel itself.9 First serialized on January 1, 1904 – only one month before the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese war – Hi no hashira was first and foremost Kinoshita’s own manifesto against Japan’s militarism. Scholars have noted how in 1899, years before the war, the social activist had already strongly criticized the development and accumulation of weapons, stressing the responsibility of Japan in keeping the peace among the world’s nations. According to Kinoshita, such a call came from God: It is no accident that we forty million brethren all exist together in this small island country. When we think of the task Providence has set out for us, we are stricken with awe and must stand in fear before the gravity of our calling.10 A few years later, in a piece that appeared in the Mainichi shinbun on September 21, 1903, he similarly disparaged war as a pretext for business and self-interest.11 The process that led to the genesis of this novel is curious. Following concerns that, with the war, the Mainichi shinbun might compromise its pacifist stand and thus become a mere propagandistic tool for the political establishment, it was decided, during an end-of-the year meeting, that serializing a novel could help raise the tone and profile of the newspaper. The lack of funds seemed to make the plan unfeasible at first, until Kinoshita offered to write it himself. If what they were looking for was a novel like those that Hirotsu Ryurō or Kosugi Tengai were writing at the time, then he was confident he could write one, too.12 Hi no hashira narrates the story of thirty-year-old Christian socialist Shinoda Chōji. Shinoda is an anti-war activist, a strong advocate for social justice and better working conditions, a champion of women’s equality and emancipation, and he is especially concerned with helping out women who have been sold into a life of prostitution. He lives in poverty and is committed to helping others. He is an important member of the Nagasaka Church community, where he is wellliked by all with the exception of millionaire Yamaki Gōzō, the owner of a mining company in Kyūshū and major financial contributor to the church, whose imposing residence’s bricks are said to be “dyed red with blood squeezed out of the poor.”13 Yamaki’s daughter, Umeko, a beautiful, educated, and pious young lady, is by contrast the epitome of honesty and moral rectitude. Her devotion to God

174  Metaphors of Christianity is unfaltering, and she dreams of a life in which she can serve the less fortunate. She has been promised in marriage against her will to Matsushima, a captain of the Japanese Navy, who is said to become “an admiral in no time if there’s war with Russia.”14 The novel begins with Yamaki summoning the pastor of the Nagasaka Church. The wealthy businessman is very concerned about the fact that one of the church members, Shinoda, is not only spreading dangerous socialist ideas through his newspaper, arguing, for example, that miners should be treated humanely – even though, Yamaki states, they are merely barbarians – but he is also giving speeches at church contending that every Christian should oppose war. His fierce anti-war rhetoric, Yamaki claims, is utterly unpatriotic and is negatively affecting the minds of the youth, including those of his own daughter Umeko and son Gōichi who are both very fond of his ideas. Shinoda’s presence in the church is destabilizing, Yamaki argues, and therefore he should be expelled as soon as possible. Shinoda is promptly expelled, but the celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the church, which the activist ends up attending despite the expulsion, provides the opportunity for him and Umeko to briefly meet. It becomes apparent during their short encounter that the latter has feelings for the social activist that go beyond admiration and respect; within her heart and in front of God, Umeko has in fact already spiritually given herself in marriage to Shinoda, who, she understands, has vowed to remain single to serve those in need. Shinoda, on the other hand, seems at first clueless about her true feelings, focused as he is on helping out his fellow human beings and preaching the Gospel. He, in fact, often takes the opportunity to talk about the Christian religion; on Christmas day, for example, he invites the neighborhood’s children to his home to celebrate the birth of Jesus and teach them about the Bible. Meanwhile, as rumors of an impending war with Russia become more insistent, during a meeting at a geisha house, Matsushima, the captain of the Japanese Navy who is interested in marrying Umeko, expresses his concerns to Ōhora, Yamaki’s brother-in-law and one of the most influential entrepreneurs in the country, about yet another rumor – that Shinoda, the socialist, is also being promised Umeko in marriage. Ōhora dismisses Matsushima’s concerns as mere fabrication, and during their exchange, details emerge about the sordid collusions between the world of politics and the private sector, with Matsushima playing a critical role in getting government contracts for Yamaki and his business partners. As Umeko continues to conceal her true love for Shinoda, conversations regarding her arranged marriage with Captain Matsushima move forward, with Prince Itō, a former prime minister, now offering to act as go-between. The parties are resolved not only to ensure that the wedding takes place, but also to stop Shinoda from further destabilizing the political situation. As the prince himself puts it, the love duel between Matsushima and Shinoda has now metaphorically escalated into a confrontation between socialism and imperialism.15 Shinoda, on the other hand, helps Hanakichi, a famous young geisha, regain her freedom by allowing her to move in with him, fomenting gossip about his real intentions.

The appropriation of Christianity  175 By the middle of January, as widespread enthusiasm for an early war with Russia mounts, the workers, “ignored for so long by the rest of society as an inferior breed of beings,” become increasingly aware of their common predicament.16 The members of the Socialist Club, of which Shinoda’s newspaper is the main organ, begin a series of meetings in order to discuss a course of action, but it is at one of these meetings that Azuma, one of Shinoda’s closest associates, raises questions about the protagonist’s loyalty and commitment to socialism. Comments are made about his involvement with Yamaki’s daughter, his dissipation and surrender to capitalism, and he is soon called a spy and traitor. At the same time Umeko continues to reject the prospect of marrying Matsushima, and in a climactic scene at the Ōhora’s residence where she is verbally abused and pushed to accept the marriage, she tears one of Matsushima’s eyes out of its socket. Shinoda returns momentarily to his hometown to meet the aunt that cared for him when he was little. Pressed by her questions on whether he will ever leave Tokyo and perhaps find a wife, the activist reiterates that he is already married – to God. One of the prayers he recites during this trip exposes the ideal that lay at the center of his quest – “to proclaim the building on earth of the heavenly kingdom.”17 Meanwhile, during the time Shinoda is away, Azuma, his close associate, walks into the police office to deliver a paper that he believes provides evidence of Shinoda’s plan to conspire against the State. It is revealed here that Azuma is actually a member of the secret police and that his task all along has been to find proof that would lead to Shinoda’s arrest. Azuma later admits that he has partially forged most of the evidence and that Shinoda is actually a man to be admired. The situation precipitates, and Umeko finds out that the man she loves is about to be arrested. She runs to his home, confesses her feelings, which he platonically returns, and urges him to run away to avoid apprehension. But Shinoda does not falter. The two then swear to each other eternal love, and as Shinoda reminds Umeko that “it is not for us to decide how or when to die,” he urges her to stay strong and devote herself to those in need. The novel then ends with Shinoda waiting to be arrested by the police.18 Hi no hashira contains a forceful denunciation of the political repression and economic exploitation that became especially insidious at the turn of the century. Its plot is replete with instances of suppression of free speech and the right of assembly and with references to a deteriorating economic situation; at one point a rickshaw man states that “there is going to be a war, and they’ve got to build battleships, so taxes have to go up and prices have to go up and the likes of us can’t eat.”19 It is important to note, however, that Kinoshita’s opposition is constantly voiced within the framework of Christian discourse. He is careful to argue in the novel that his protest does not stem necessarily from a politically or ideologically motivated agenda, but it is rather a dissent that is inspired by ideals of brotherhood, peace, and justice that are at the foundation of the Christian religion. Kinoshita’s main task is to show that his socialist ideas move within a worldview  – that of Christianity – that transcended the State, partisanship, and self-interest, and that, drawing from the basic ideals of social justice and freedom for all, aimed at “the building of the heavenly kingdom on earth.” The

176  Metaphors of Christianity confrontation taking place in the public discourse of those years is therefore not, as Prince Itō puts it in the novel, one between socialism and imperialism, but rather one between Japan and God: Shinoda pointed to the snowy peak of Mount Fuji. “The Japanese like to boast of Fuji, the ‘pure and peerless mountain,’ the symbol of our nation. But I see no sign of this country of ours doing God’s will. They boast of the strength of their army, when before God they should rather be ashamed of it.”20 Kinoshita knew that denouncing the oppressive policies of the government would not be sufficient to change the status quo; he needed to convince his readers that socialism was nothing to fear. Thus, when urged by Umeko to run away to avoid being arrested, he has Shinoda state that “if anything I have to suffer can help prove to the government and the people and society that socialists are sincere, I shall think it an honor greater than I deserve.”21 Kinoshita also understood the need to reiterate that the link between socialism and Christianity was not merely coincidental but rather one of necessity; toward the end of the novel, once again on the eve of his arrest, Shinoda accordingly explains to Umeko that “in God’s eyes it is our laws themselves that are guilty – our laws and our ‘patriotism,’ that society values so highly. . . . Socialism, in a word, is God’s will, as Christ revealed it.”22 Seeking to create a relationship of solidarity between the movement and the lower strata of society – during the Christmas celebration at his home, for example, he tells the children that Christ and his family were also very poor, and that poverty is not something of which one should be ashamed – Kinoshita also sought to reinforce such an alliance by dissociating himself from formalized religion, stressing that the Church and God were two separate entities. When told by a member of his congregation that he would soon be expelled, the protagonist Shinoda states that if it’s because my Christianity is not the same as theirs, I’m afraid I can’t complain, Mrs. Watanabe: I am unorthodox, compared with what the Church teaches. But as to which is closer to God’s will, their kind of faith or mine, only God can be the judge of that.23 Elsewhere, Shinoda criticizes the church community for being in the hands of the rich and the powerful and affirms that, should Christ come a second time to preach poverty and humility, he would probably be crucified again by those in power. He even urges Umeko to give up church religion, condemning the immorality of wealth and its accumulation, and at one point in the novel Umeko herself states: “I believed the church was truly the light of the world; but now I see it for what it is, the devil’s lair.”24 Another motif in Hi no hashira that drew from the ideals of equality and human dignity advocated by Christian activists was the call for the abolition of prostitution and the emancipation of women. After the life-changing revelation he had experienced upon first reading the Bible, Kinoshita had come across an article that

The appropriation of Christianity  177 had shaken his worldview, namely Kitamura Tōkoku’s 1892 piece “Ensei shika to josei.” The opening line of that piece – “Love is the key to life’s secrets” – stunned him, and in 1895 he fell in love with a geisha he was unable to marry because of stern opposition from his mother.25 The question of love and marriage sat at the forefront of his concerns, and the two issues reemerged with force in this novel in the shape of a generational conflict: while Yamaki is worried that Umeko won’t listen to a word he says, and believes it to be quite normal for a man in Japan to have extra-marital affairs, Ginko, an old friend to whom Umeko confesses she is in love with Shinoda, complains that she can’t understand those wives who don’t mind their husbands spending so much time in the geisha-houses. Umeko, in particular, believes that faithfulness is essential in a woman’s life and that her sacred love for her husband is “a garden to which neither worldly power nor a father’s authority has the key.” “In my heart,” she declares, “I gave myself to him, before God, as the husband I had dreamed of.”26 Although the family wants to keep it a secret that she has seriously injured Captain Matsushima, she yells: “On the contrary, for the sake of all women, for their rights and for their comfort, what I have done must be published, and justice put to the test!”27 The influence of Christianity in this novel becomes even more apparent when examining the character of Shinoda himself. Kinoshita’s stated narrative goal was to portray a Moses-like figure, a view that has been generally accepted by scholars and that is supported by several elements in the work. The title itself, for example, is a reference to the Book of Exodus (14:24), in which Moses leads the Israelites away from slavery to the Promised Land. At the beginning of the story, when Mrs. Watanabe, one of the church ladies, goes to Shinoda’s place to warn him about a plot to expel him from the church, Shinoda’s room is described as full of new and old books piled up all over the floor, “hardly leaving room to sit. A single picture, of God speaking to Moses from the burning bush, hung on one wall.”28 Furthermore, at the very end of the novel, when about to be taken away by the police, Shinoda bids farewell to his friend and disciple Owa exclaiming “Have you forgotten ‘except a grain of wheat fall into the ground and die,’ ” thus echoing Jesus’s prediction of his sacrifice as narrated in John 12:24. Even more significant are, in fact, the protagonist’s similarities to Christ. Shinoda is considered by his community a “saint,” he lives in poverty, and he is devoting his life to the most vulnerable in society. He is described by one of the students as “the sacrificial lamb that is without sin,”29 and on his way back to the capital after his brief journey back home, he himself recalls that “to offer myself as a sacrifice for sinners, my friends, long ago I vowed to God.”30 He also draws an analogy with Christ to emphasize his appreciation for Umeko’s emotional support at the time of his expulsion from his church: When Christ stood alone in the wilderness of persecution, with nowhere to lay his head, do you think he had nothing else at all to comfort him but the knowledge of his Father’s love? I don’t believe it. The pure sympathy of the women that followed him was an earthly blessing, assuredly, that brought him boundless comfort.31

178  Metaphors of Christianity From the onset of the story, Shinoda shows a pattern of non-resistance that is strongly reminiscent of Christ’s Passion. Following the news of his expulsion from the church community, Mrs. Inoue states: I’m so sorry for him, Mrs. Watanabe. . . . Did you see him at the anniversary service yesterday – and at the meeting last night, sitting there and listening quietly when they’d already decided among themselves he was to be got rid of?32 Later, even when he is called a traitor and a spy by his own socialist colleagues and friends, he does nothing to argue to the contrary, as if aware that his sacrifice is necessary and must be accomplished. It is here that Kinoshita’s intention to portray him as a martyr becomes evident; attacked by both sides – the government and its opposition – Shinoda stands out as someone who, transcending the terms of the confrontation, is willing to sacrifice himself for the good of society. The scene in which Azuma, one of his closest associates, is revealed to actually be a member of the secret police, playing, metaphorically speaking, the role of Judas, is yet another element that confirms Kinoshita’s plan to draw a parallel with Christ’s fate. Most important is the section where Azuma reveals that Shinoda is actually aware of his betrayal, yet he does nothing to fight against it.33 Thus, in the final chapter, although previously urged by Umeko to run away to avoid being arrested, Shinoda waits for the police with a resolve of someone who understands his destiny and the importance of his sacrifice. Literary critic Sōma Tsuneo once argued that by creating a character like Shinoda, who differed in so many ways from other Meiji fictional anti-heroes like Bunzō, Toyotarō, Ushimatsu, or Tokio, who in turn shared the inability to act and forge their destiny, Kinoshita already occupied a special position in modern Japanese literary history.34 Indeed, Shinoda stands out as a peculiar character in the narrative landscape of those years; his self-assuredness and his ability to inspire others even in the face of danger are refreshing. In terms of his determination to fight social prejudice he very much resembles Inoko Rentarō, the burakumin hero who prompts Hakai’s central character Ushimatsu to reveal his ancestry. But for his commitment to a spiritual and ascetic life and his vision of a worldly kingdom of God, he is the true forerunner of the protagonist of Mushanokōji’s Kōfukumono. Like the master in Mushanokōji’s novel, in fact, Shinoda lives in poverty, with the members of the church community providing for him as he provides spiritual guidance in return for their labor and generosity. Like the master, he is a pacifist who is against retaliation and who believes in a nonviolent form of dissent. And like the master, or better, like his fictional creator – Mushanokōji – he believes in the possibility of creating heaven on earth. In a conversation with her friend Ginko, Umeko recalls that during his first speech after his return from America, Shinoda spoke of Christ’s vision of a celestial city brought down from heaven to earth. Christianity aims at overthrowing society as we know it, he told us, because

The appropriation of Christianity  179 it is dedicated to greed and selfishness, the opposite of everything Christ stands for. It was, she adds, “as if I had understood for the first time – deep down, not on the surface – the real meaning of Christ’s Cross.”35 For Shinoda, “The nations are racing each other to destruction. Not that we can do much to stop them,” he stated, “better for us to step out of the race and try to lay a firm foundation for the new Kingdom.”36 The similarities between Shinoda and the master are obvious, and it may not be a coincidence that, in his autobiographical novel Aru otoko, Mushanokōji mentioned his passion for Kinoshita Naoe’s speeches and writings. The central character of Kōfukumono, a projection of Mushanokōji himself, champions, in fact, Kinoshita’s idea of a kingdom of God to be built on earth, an idea that Mushanokōji had himself embraced during his formative years.37 Some fifteen years later in a piece titled “Atarashiki mura ni tsuite” (On Atarashiki mura), he also expressed his own commitment “to build the true new village on this earth.”38 Both Kinoshita and Mushanokōji therefore shared the notion that “the kingdom of God is something that can be realized on earth . . . the kingdom of God must be a world where human beings can live.”39Hi no hashira clearly gave an important voice to Kinoshita’s anti-war protest and his calls for the amelioration of society, and Christianity’s critical role in providing a narrative framework within which to convey that protest is apparent.

Seidō no kirisuto and the conflict between art and faith Like Arishima Takeo, Shiga Naoya and others, Nagayo Yoshirō was also exposed to the tenets of Uchimura Kanzō’s teachings. In his Waga kokoro no henreki (The Pilgrimage of My Soul), a work he completed two years before his death, he recalled the time when he began to attend the religious leader’s Bible group, following an invitation to join from his brother Yūkichi. Unlike the other students, he wrote, his high regard for Uchimura did not stem from the appreciation of his Christian writings but rather from an admiration for the teacher’s profound knowledge of world history and for the remarkable courage he had shown in the famous lese majesté incident. Nagayo was fascinated with Uchimura’s character, and although he did not believe he was personally suited to becoming a good Christian, he was excited about the prospect of meeting him. He thus first joined the group on May 9, 1910. It was, according to a letter he sent to his brother the following day, a memorable experience.40 Nagayo’s own diary confirms the critical importance of the event during this formative period of his life. In an entry dated April 9, 1911, titled “Uchimura Kanzō no koto” (On Uchimura Kanzō), he wrote about his deep respect for the man he considered to be one of the greatest figures in the history of his country. He of course understood that Uchimura was not perfect, that he had his own faults and that he did not, for example, fully comprehend the importance of art. Nagayo, however, also believed that there was a sense of purpose in the man’s words and actions that was unmatched. Uchimura was someone who did not bend

180  Metaphors of Christianity to compromises, someone who had approached Christ without relying on the dogmas of the Church, he noted. A true fighter, an engaging thinker, and an inspiring speaker, he was a figure of the magnitude of Tolstoy and, as such, a true national treasure.41 On that same day, however, Nagayo also added a passage in his diary that was a forewarning of his predicament: “I have been attending sensei’s classes for a year and a half now; why is it that I have not become a true Christian yet,” he asked. Later that summer he recorded that four months had already passed since he had quit attending Uchimura’s Bible group.42 It is difficult to determine a reason for this decision. Certainly, early entries in his diary already concealed seeds of discontent. On January 8, 1911, for example, he wrote at length about his inability to conquer the clash between art and faith that he was experiencing in his heart. His desire to think freely and pursue beauty outside pre-determined mental constructs was in conflict with Uchimura’s doctrine, and he fell prey to competing identities that caused him to stall. His later recollections corroborate the existence of such a disconnection between the rigor of Uchimura’s teachings and his own artistic aspirations. The deep admiration he felt for his mentor, he recalled, had been overridden by the strong temptations of the flesh and an equally compelling attraction to art. His inability to fully believe had further added to his emotional discomfort. Uchimura posited belief in God to be the first condition of a Christian; had he been told, Nagayo regretted, that the first condition of embracing the faith was not actually to believe in God, but rather to acknowledge one’s weakness and dependence on sin, he would have probably been able to fully grasp the meaning of Christ and his love.43 Tanaka Eiichi argues that it was his commitment to the rejection of self-deception, next to a strong desire to express his inner religiosity by means of his artistic creativity, that ultimately pushed Nagayo to severe ties with the Christian leader and concurrently devote his life to literature.44 Despite the skepticism that caused him to distance himself from Uchimura and his group, religion and faith remained a theme of great interest and concern for the young Nagayo. In the summer of 1910, he wrote a letter to one of his brothers in which he talked about the importance of faith in the existence of an individual, expressing in his diary his dissent toward those who shunned morality and spirituality, and stating that art alone was not sufficient for a fulfilling life.45 Seidō no kirisuto came then to provide an important narrative setting for Nagayo’s reflections on faith, and the circumstances leading to the writing of this novel are consistent with his resolute determination to explore within a fictional framework the tensions that had characterized his relationship with religion during his younger years. According to his memoirs, in the summer of 1922, Nagayo set off on a trip to Korea, but on his way, after spending a couple of days at Mushanokōji’s commune, he stopped by in Nagasaki where he heard from friend Nagami Tokutarō an interesting story surrounding the death of a metalsmith by the name of Hagiwara Yūsa at the time of the Christian persecution. Greatly impressed by the story, upon his return from Korea, he did some research on the topic and then decided to write a novel. His decision stemmed from the realization that the writers and poets who had written about the Christian period had done so mainly to exploit its

The appropriation of Christianity  181 exoticism but never to seriously address the tragedy of martyrdom and the problem of religion that hid behind it.46 Seidō no kirisuto, which appeared in 1923, takes place “at the time of the death of Iemitsu, the third Tokugawa Shōgun, when his son, Ietsuna, took up the reins of the Japanese government.” Iemitsu’s mission, it is explained at the beginning of the story, was to eradicate Christianity; he was so convincing with his brutal policy that “even Masamune Date . . . finally changed his lax attitude toward Christians when he went to Edo to visit Iemitsu and saw fifty Christians beheaded in Suzugamori.”47 It is, therefore, against the same historical background largely exploited by Akutagawa in his kirishitan mono that Nagayo portrays the protagonist of his novel, an artist in his twenties by the name of Hagiwara Yūsa who is asked by the authorities to create a bronze cast of Christ that can be used for the detection of hidden Christians. All suspected believers in the foreign religion would be interrogated and asked to step on the sacred image according to the practice known as fumie. Hesitation or refusal to tread on the cast would be proof of allegiance to the faith and reason for punishment by death. Yūsa is a non-believer who does not miss the opportunity to disparage the religion and express his skepticism about its beliefs. For example, during his first visit with Kimika, a prostitute who asks him, drawing the sign of the cross on her knee, whether he is “one of these,” he responds that he is not, that he does not “believe in holy things as they do,” and that he does not like Christianity “because they believe that whoever is not part of their group is not a human being; they think he has no conscience at all. There is nothing more nauseating than false modesty and hypocrisy.”48 Later, following an invitation from Kichizaburō to secretly celebrate Christmas – Kichizaburō is the brother of Monika, the young Christian woman he was not allowed to marry due to the fact that he is not a convert – he reiterates that he is not a believer, that he has no sense of guilt, and that he is not interested in religion at all. Having as a child witnessed the torture of Christians twice, Yūsa had incidentally often wondered why the Christian God had to be so cruel and merciless that these believers had to endure endless pain and agony. Despite the fact that he affirms that he is no sympathizer with Christianity and that he therefore has no vested interest in it, the young artist is at first hesitant to accept the request of the authorities simply because the mere thought that someone would step on his artistic creation causes him distress. When, in his exchange with Kichizaburō, he states that he is a heretic and has no personal desire to convert, he also admits to having his own god, suggesting that this might be art. Kichizaburō’s subsequent comments that, being an artistic genius he should not relinquish his passion but pursue God through his creativity, confirms this hypothesis. Thus, Yūsa later states that “certainly if there were no art, I would be completely broken,” underscoring his innermost desire “to become immortal through his work.”49 Driven by inspiration, Yūsa eventually agrees to casting a holy image but after handing his completed work of art over to the authorities, Kimika, the prostitute, warns him that the high commissioner’s office will soon come to arrest him. The authorities found his work so compelling that he, too, must be a Christian, they

182  Metaphors of Christianity concluded. Yūsa then appears in front of the high commissioner’s court. Although he reminds them that he has created the holy image at their request and that he is willing to step on it and even smash it, the court rejects the offer stating that they will keep using it as an effective tool to detect Christians: The dedication you showed in that statue is far stronger, far deeper and much more awesome than any other believer’s we have seen as yet . . . we believe you are an important figure – as strong as a priest. . . . And, in the coming picture-treading ceremony . . . if your masterpiece does measure up to our expectation, you will lose your life because of your artistic triumph. If we are disappointed, your life will be spared.50 In an intriguing plot twist, Yūsa is eventually sentenced to death, not because he is a Christian, but because the power of his art is such that he is mistaken for a believer. It is this final development – “the irony of a man’s dying for a faith in which he does not believe,” – and the exoticism of its content that allowed this work to stand the test of time, according to Donald Keene, despite “its failings in plot and characterization.”51 The novel’s closing passage that “Yūsa Hagiwara was never a Christian, not even at the last. He was nothing more than a westernstyle caster”52 seems to reaffirm that the protagonist was indeed a non-believer and that the story was more about the paradox of his fate than an exploration of the theme of religion and its place in an individual’s existence. However, a closer examination of the novel reveals otherwise. Not only is the work replete with motifs that echoed earlier deliberations on the question of faith by fellow members of the bundan, thus confirming the existence a spiritual continuum across the Meiji and Taishō literary spectrum, it also unveils Nagayo’s concerted effort to address the problem of salvation within a Christian-inspired framework. Described early in the novel as a pure young man who is yet to be corrupted by the pleasures of the secular world, Yūsa – the protagonist – abhors hypocrisy and to an extent immorality. One day, he visits Kimika, the prostitute. The encounter causes him to feel filthy and hypocritical, but his shame does not necessarily stem only from the fact that he has visited the pleasure quarters. Kimika resembles Monika, the Christian’s daughter he has loved and platonically worshiped in the past. Although with Monika he has kept his chastity, he now realizes that with Kimika he could act out his passion. For the first time, Yūsa is confronted with the reality of his carnal desire and the awareness of sin, realities that Nagayo himself first confronted when studying under Uchimura.53 This awareness of sin haunts the protagonist throughout the story; although he maintains to himself and others that he is not a Christian, he repeatedly worries about being judged as a hypocrite, especially by the morally corrupt Magoshirō, another artist who appears to be quite familiar with the customs of the pleasure quarters. When, later in the novel, he meets the young Kichizaburō, he has cause to think again about his own filthiness vis-à-vis his friend’s pureness of heart: Yūsa was a little surprised and became lost in his own thoughts. “It just happened that Kichizaburō here and I both went to town to sell, and both of us

The appropriation of Christianity  183 now have some money in our pockets. But my money is to buy a prostitute and his is for the celebration of a holy day.”54 Although a non-believer, Yūsa’s thoughts denote a sense of guilt that speaks volumes of his internal struggle. The novel then explores the theme of salvation. When, during their first encounter, Kimika states that he is a good man even if he is not a believer, thus implying that a just person may be deserving of salvation as much as a self-professed Christian, Yūsa declares, referring to her condition as a prostitute, that he curses any religion which does not accept those who have been forced by circumstances to commit a sin. He is manifestly concerned with the question of the afterlife: indeed, after witnessing the torture and execution of Christians as a child, it is revealed, he had already pondered upon the power of faith and of the human spirit, and had begun to have some respect for Christians and their religion. Yūsa’s desire to be saved is only matched by his wish to be authentic and true to the self. When Monika’s father had asked him whether he believed in God and in Christ, his son, he had responded that he did not, and for that reason he had lost his love and had turned to art. His authenticity is the reason why he was not able to marry Monika and at the same time the catalyst for his decision to reject religion in the name of art. Yūsa is, however, prompted to reconsider his position about Christianity during a conversation with Kichizaburō, who explains how he personally came to accept it: “I faltered once myself, when I tried to give up the doctrine and go against the religion of my family. I had a deep skepticism about this religion, especially about its understanding of the needs of the human body, but now I am quite at peace and have no conflicts about thinking I am a Christian. A Christian is a person who can believe in the true God in his mind. So I am a Christian.”55 Asked by Yūsa if he really believes in God, Kichizaburō adds that he does and that for him to believe in God is nothing more than to believe in his own existence. Yūsa objects that he, for his part, is not a believer and that he does not even feel the need to be one. But Kichizaburō disputes his statement. In his view, the existence of a spiritual center of the universe cannot be denied, and human beings would be unable to live without the idea of God, because in that case, he argues, existence would be meaningless. Each individual should be able to search for God according to personal talent and spiritual predisposition. Thus, since Yūsa was an artist, Kichizaburō states, the best way for him is to connect with God through art.56 Kichizaburō seems to posit the possibility of a spiritual dimension where even Yūsa can fulfill the hope of experiencing the presence of God without renouncing his true nature, that of the artist. He posits, that is, the co-existence, if not the symbiosis, of two seemingly opposite domains – art and religion. The actual materialization of such symbiosis occurs soon thereafter, when Yūsa accepts Kichizaburō’s invitation to secretly celebrate Christmas with him and other members of the Christian community. It is incidentally a climactic

184  Metaphors of Christianity scene, as critical to the novel as the eventual plot twist of Yūsa’s demise, because during this celebration, an old man dressed in black – the Elder – gives a sermon that demystifies, perhaps reflecting Nagayo’s own views, the necessity for Christian believers to die as martyrs: “We have to make Christ’s crucifixion count. If our duty is to be crucified, why was Christ crucified? It decreases the meaning of His act if we have to do it all over again.”57 The celebration is then suddenly interrupted by government officials, and in the midst of confusion and fear, Yūsa unexpectedly declares himself to be the leader of the group in order to protect the others. Eventually the raid fails, and half an hour later the young artist finds himself in “an ecstasy of triumphant awareness,” recalling the moments that led him to make such a heroic gesture, as his thoughts go to the hidden Christians and their tragic destiny. It is at this juncture, when looking up in the night sky, that Yūsa’s wondering gaze met a huge crucifix of stars which looked as though they had been artificially placed . . . when he pictured Christ on the crucifix, a revelation suddenly flashed in his head like lightning. In front of his eyes there took shape a combined image of the Elder and Monika . . . when he saw the dual body shining on the huge crucifix, he fell in adoration. . . . “This is it! This is it!”. . . . “Now at last I’ll make a holy statue.”58 In a mix of artistic rapture and mystical ecstasy, Yūsa is able to experience the symbiosis of art and religion within the highly symbolic power of the Cross, ready to embark on the project that will render him immortal. Only later, when his work of art is almost ready, he fully realizes the implications of his decision – that his casting might possibly become the cause of death of the very people for whom he cares. The speech of the Elder reassures him, though. There was no need to die as martyrs, he had stated; therefore, they would not “do such a foolish and insulting thing as to give [their] body to an unholy power. And I will tell them before they go up for the test to step on that mere piece of metal for my sake.”59 Contrary to his hopes, however, at the ceremony of the picture-treading an unprecedented number of believers, including Monika, are unable to step on the holy image he has created. As a result they are arrested. It is an unexpected turn of events in which art has not only subverted logic – Yūsa himself is condemned not because he is a convert but because his art has the power to convert – it has, in fact, also overridden the words of the Elder and his demystification of martyrdom, inspiring believers to relinquish their lives not only because of their faith but also for the sake of an artistic representation of that sentiment. This is perhaps the greatest paradox of the story, a story in which the power of art reinforces that of religion, rendering it though simultaneously elusive. It is a paradox that is even better exemplified by the fate of Kimika who said to the official who came to arrest her: “I am not a believer, I swear, but I can’t step on this statue. As a member of the human race I can’t do it.”60 As Akutagawa had already done before him, Nagayo successfully exploited the historical and cultural legacy of the Christian century, addressing in his novel

The appropriation of Christianity  185 not only the question of salvation – a theme that concerned him deeply – but also the widely debated relationship between art and faith. The ritual of the fumie, the practice of stepping on a holy image enforced by the Tokugawa authorities to reveal hidden Christians, provided him with a unique narrative setting in which to explore the tensions at the foundation of that relationship, allowing him, in an unpredicted twist, to even posit the possibility of a symbiotic relationship between the two realms.

Notes 1 Kinoshita Naoe, Zange, in vol. 10 of Kindai nihon shisō taikei, edited by Takeda Kiyoko, 171–2. 2 “Yo wa ika ni shite kirisutokyō o shinzuru ni itarishi ka;” Quoted in Takeda Kiyoko, “Kaisetsu,” in vol. 10 of Kindai nihon shisō taikei, 514–16. 3 Kinoshita and one of his colleagues had accepted money from a district councilor “in return for abandoning their proposed exposure of his own purchase of votes in a recent election.” See Kenneth Strong’s introduction to Kinoshita Naoe, Pillar of Fire, 23–4. 4 Zange, 186–7. 5 “Yo wa ika ni shite shakaishugisha to narishi ka;” Quoted in Takeda Kiyoko, “Kaisetsu,” 520. 6 See Kenneth Strong’s introduction to Kinoshita Naoe, Pillar of Fire, 36. 7 Quoted in Takeda Kiyoko, “Kaisetsu,” 521. 8 Ibid., 529. 9 On this point see Shimizu Yasuhisa, “Shakaiteki kirisutokyō to Kinoshita Naoe,” Hikaku shakai bunka 7 (2001), 1–2. 10 Quoted and translated in Takeshi Nishida, “Kinoshita Naoe: Pacifism and Religious Withdrawal,” in Pacifism in Japan: The Christian and Socialist Tradition, edited by Nobuya Bamba and John F. Howes (Kyoto: Minerva Press, 1978), 79. 11 See “Kokka saijōken o haisu” (Rejecting the State’s Authority); quoted in Sugahara Takeshi, “Kinoshita Naoe Hi no hashira ron: jikkōsei aru hansen shōsetsu no tame ni,” Nagoya kindai bungaku kenkyū 21 (2004), 4. 12 On this point, see Kenneth Strong’s “Introduction” to Pillar of Fire, 8. 13 Kinoshita Naoe, Pillar of Fire, 53. 14 Ibid., 54. 15 Ibid., 128. 16 Ibid., 140. 17 Ibid., 173. 18 Ibid., 197. 19 Ibid., 84. 20 Ibid., 78. 21 Ibid., 196. 22 Ibid., 196. 23 Ibid., 66. 24 Ibid., 78. 25 Quoted in vol. 10 of Kindai nihon shisō taikei, edited by Takeda Kiyoko, 517. 26 Kinoshita Naoe, Pillar of Fire, 136, 137. 27 Ibid., 159. 28 Ibid., 65. 29 Kenneth Strong’s English translation in the novel is “the innocent victim for the sacrifice.” See Pillar of Fire, 75. 30 Ibid., 184. 31 Ibid., 79.

186  Metaphors of Christianity 3 2 Ibid., 74. 33 Ibid., 186. 34 Respectively, the main characters in Futabatei Shimei’s Ukigumo (Drifting Clouds), Mori Ōgai’s Maihime (The Dancing Girl), Shimazaki Tōson’s Hakai, and Tayama Katai’s Futon; quoted in Hirose Akemi, “Naoe to Hi no hashira,” Bungaku 54:8 (1986), 140. 35 Kinoshita Naoe, Pillar of Fire, 136. 36 Ibid., 79. 37 In 1907, at the age of twenty, for example, he gave a speech at the Peers’ School titled “Ningen no kachi” (The Value of Man) in which, declaring that “the happiest men are not the rich, the religious, the atheists, the scholars, or the uneducated. They are they good people,” he urged all of his fellow students to fully express the value of humanity and “build the kingdom of heaven in this world. See “Kōya,” vol. 1 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 44. 38 “Atarashiki mura ni tsuite” (1921), in vol. 4 of Mushanokōji Saneatsu zenshū, 250–1. 39 “Kami no kuni” (1921), ibid., 143. 40 Suzuki Norihisa cites this letter, which is dated May 10, 1910, as direct evidence that Nagayo had attended the meeting the previous day for the first time. Elsewhere in his diary, Nagayo seems to suggest that he actually began to attend in the fall of 1909. See Suzuki Norihisa, Uchimura Kanzō o meguru sakka tachi, 134–5. 41 See vol. 5 of Bungakusha no nikki, edited by Nihon kindai bungakukan, 77–83. 42 Entry of July 25, 1911, ibid., 137. 43 Waga kokoro no henreki, 80–91. 44 Tanaka Eiichi, “Kaisetsu: Nagayo Yoshirō Kanko dokugoshū dai san satsu (kan),” in vol. 5 of Bungakusha no nikki, edited by Nihon kindai bungakukan, 249–62. 45 Letter dated August 3, 1910; quoted in Tanaka Eiichi, “Kaisetsu: Nagayo Yoshirō Kanko dokugoshū dai san satsu (kan).” See also entry of April 9, 1911, in vol. 5 of Bungakusha no nikki, edited by Nihon kindai bungakukan, 84. 46 Waga kokoro no henreki, 161. 47 Nagayo Yoshirō, The Bronze Christ, English translation by Kenzō Yada and Henry P. Ward (New York: Taplinger, 1959), 14. 48 Ibid., 41. 49 Ibid., 69–70, 104. 50 Ibid., 154. 51 Donald Keene, Dawn to the West, 471. 52 Nagayo Yoshirō, The Bronze Christ, 158. 53 On this point, see Nagayo’s own recollections in “Zange to kokuhaku,” Gunzō 12:7 (1957), 177. 54 Nagayo Yoshirō, The Bronze Christ, 63. 55 Ibid., 65–6. 56 Ibid., 68. 57 Ibid., 119. 58 Ibid., 130. 59 Ibid., 135. 60 Ibid., 158.

Epilogue “A poetic religion, rife with paradoxes”

Virtually all of the Meiji and Taishō writers who embraced the Christian religion eventually surrendered, in different ways, to their skepticism. Although this study demonstrates that Christianity nevertheless continued to inform the literary production of these authors, there is undeniable evidence that their predicament was real and that their experiences affected later critical assessments of Christianity’s place in the development of modern Japanese literature. Certainly, the role played by the religion in the establishment of a self that could transcend community, authority, and the State has been widely debated and acknowledged by generations of scholars; yet, it is the rejection of that very Christianity that seemingly helped propel Japan across the threshold of the modern age. The fact that its demise among modern writers took place in the form of a collective relinquishment is all the more intriguing and reaffirms the centrality of this problem in the vast literary landscape of early twentieth-century Japan. The argument that the problem of sexuality was the main reason behind these intellectuals’ separation from the faith seems reductive. Although it is true, as can be inferred from diaries, memoirs, and fictional and autobiographical writings of the period, that the teachings of Christianity – at least in the Protestant tradition to which these writers were exposed – were at times in sharp conflict with mainstream literary theories that advocated the exploration of the most hidden wanderings of the self, including sexuality, not all writers put as much emphasis on the dualities generated by this conflict as Arishima, for example, did. Tōkoku, Doppo, and Akutagawa did not necessarily see the tensions stemming from carnal desire as the overarching theme of their spiritual quest, and even in Hakuchō’s case, the issue of sexuality became quite marginal in the face of other themes, such as death and the afterlife. The potentially difficult coexistence of literature and religion is also an unlikely explanation. The intersection between the two domains are countless across time and genres: Hakuchō himself, who argued vehemently about the irreconcilability of the two, wrote several stories, especially during the early phase of his career, that proved in fact how the two realms can be closely intertwined. Last, the notion that a poor understanding of the dogmas of the faith may have caused members of the bundan to renounce it is also unconvincing. This is especially so in light of the fact that differences in the interpretation of the Scriptures

188  Metaphors of Christianity continue to this day to be reason of division within Christianity. As Natsume Sōseki once put it, “They insist on the idea of one supreme God. Very well. But then does not this idea vary according to different denominations?”1 To attribute the rejection of a specific dogma or theory to a mere lack of understanding, when those very dogmas continue to be object of debate among experts and believers alike, seems unwarranted. It is probably not possible to isolate a single reason why the vast majority of these authors later distanced themselves from Christianity. Such an effort would deny in the first place the uniqueness of human experience in the conceptualization of God or the transcendental. It would also lose sight of the different circumstances and life experiences that guided each author through his spiritual quest, not to mention the different historical and social settings that materialized over the four decades covered in this book. Yet, one fact cannot be denied: although the spread of Christianity was sparked by an interest in the West as a practical source of knowledge, the religious commitment and depth of self-scrutiny shown by those who converted exceeded contemporary mainstream interpretations of a religious life. All the authors covered in this study interpreted their faith with a strictness and rigor that almost drove them to a point of spiritual starvation, because they believed that the contemplation and understanding of life and the universe were essential for their growth as individuals. As the narrator of Arishima’s novel Meiro states in the opening pages of the novel, “I tried to immerse my life into God day and night by following the ascetic life to the point of emaciation.”2 Hidden behind that rigor, there lay a genuine desire to be authentic and to uphold the new sense of selfhood acquired through a Christian-inspired process of introspection and internal renewal. It is only ironic that it was that very sense of a free and empowered self that led many of these writers to reject not only self-deception but also a view of existence that was in conflict with their romantic dream of individual freedom and self-determination. Nevertheless, beyond the details of each author’s conversion and dilemma of faith, this book has shown that Christianity played a critical role in the literary developments of the mid-Meiji and Taishō years. The Western religion offered a vantage point of established rhetorical coordinates along which to explore new concepts of freedom and individuality, and discover, with a renewed cognizance of selfhood, notions of independence and self-determination in terms that were probably unprecedented in Japan’s cultural past. It was a process that unfolded within an unequivocally linked narrative space – prompted and sustained by the arrival of Christianity – in which discourses on literature, politics, religion, and love intersected freely, engendering a complex response to quintessential questions on the place of man in the universe, while shaping future deliberations on the construction of the modern subject and its role in literature. As an authoritative and intricately developed system of meaning, Christianity provided a theoretical framework for a discovery of interiority and an examination of the competing polarities that lay at the roots of that construction. It was an important process of spiritual introspection occurring at the time of deep epistemological uncertainty that marked the arrival of the modern age in Japan.

Epilogue  189 This study has thus confirmed the existence of a spiritual continuum across the twentieth-century divide that reveals not only the synergies that governed the intellectual developments of the period, but also the true nature of the Meiji and Taishō Christian experience. That is, a shared romantic desire to transcend one’s historicity, fueled by an equally strong determination to make oneself immortal through art, that found inspiration in Protestantism’s heightened sense of self and ethical responsibility. Such a romantic dream of self-transcendence, however, found an ironic foe, not in the dichotomies that seemed to frustrate its aspirations on the surface – the conflicts between spirit and soul, art and faith, nature and society, public and private – but rather in the deterministic view of fate, and by extension salvation, that Meiji Protestantism seemed to propound. Most negotiations between faith and skepticism among the members of the bundan took place within the realities of this confrontation. The notion of man as innately depraved and unable to please God that often accompanied this eschatology added to this friction. As Hiratsuka Raichō emblematically put it, “I had another objection to the idea of God as defined by Christianity, that is, its positing of a transcendent being above the heavens in opposition to lowly man, a creature conceived in sin and the embodiment of sin.”3 The Meiji Christian experience came full circle in the works of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke. The breakdown of communication between the protagonist of Haguruma and the “old man in the attic,” it has been argued in this book, was the writer’s last call for an escape from this type of deterministic worldview, and as such, also a symbolic epilogue to years of intense arbitrations between the realms of religion and literature. Indeed, because they came almost four decades after Tōkoku’s first important deliberations, Akutagawa’s views afforded a diegetic perspective that was revealing both of the type of tensions at the roots of that relationship and of the profound influence the religion had on many of his contemporaries. In a short fragment titled “Christianity” that was included in his Seihō no hito Akutagawa wrote: Christianity is a poetic religion, rife with paradoxes, that not even Christ himself could have fully practiced. Because he was so far above the rest of us, he could throw away even his own life without a second thought. [Oscar] Wilde’s discovery of Christ as the greatest of romantics, then, is no mystery. . . . His teaching was one of pure poetry – as we see in his admonition to live one’s life without worry about tomorrow. But to what end? No doubt in order to enter into the kingdom of heaven that was promised to the Jews. . . . Christ, at any rate, always pointed us toward that which lies beyond this mundane world. We always find in him what we are seeking – perhaps the sound of a trumpet that calls us down an unending road. Yet at the same time, we also cannot but find in Christ something that constantly torments us – the world’s suffering, which modernity has finally brought out into the open.4 Akutagawa’s words mirrored the way Christianity was likely perceived by the nascent literary establishment: a poetic religion, rife with paradoxes, whose

190  Metaphors of Christianity promise of salvation and of transcendence of the secular world surpassed, by far, any ideology or school of thought already known in Japan. It was also this core aspect of the religion, next to an undeniable exoticism, that critically appealed to the intellect and spirituality of a generation in turmoil. The characterization of Christianity as “poetic” and of Christ as “the greatest of romantics” whose teachings were the essence of poetry itself are especially revealing of the intrinsic link between the religion and the literary developments of the period. In fact, there never was a dissolution of continuity between Tōkoku’s desire to become a poet and his longing for the sacred; the same can be said not only for his friend Tōson but also for Doppo, whose ambitious dream of becoming “a teacher of men” through poetry was never completely separate from his spiritual need to feel at one with nature and God. The collective embrace of literature and concurrent separation from the Church seen in the journey of faith of many of these authors signaled their conscious decision to entrust, and not relinquish, one’s spiritual fate to the therapeutic power of literature, through which they were able to give a voice to each and every tension at the foundation of their personal predicament. Hakuchō once stated: When I look at the chronological record that is attached to my works, it says that I relinquished religion at the time I graduated from college. If we just put Christianity aside for a moment, there is simply no way that one can affirm I abandoned religion . . . a religious sentiment is not something that one can easily get rid of, even if you want to . . . even if you relinquish it intellectually or emotionally, there still remains a religious sentiment floating around somewhere inside of you, in your heart . . .5 Whether it be through self-identification, the reverse process of self-projection onto the persona of Christ, or the masterful exploitation of any of Christianity’s paradigms, an examination of critical essays and literary works that drew inspiration from the religion’s rich rhetorical repertoire shows that it was ultimately the self, its construction, and the rejection of self-deception in the name of authenticity that were at the very center of these writers’ explorations. Expressed in these terms, it becomes clear that the encounter of modern literature with Christianity was not a merely marginal event in Japanese literary history. Rather than mutually exclusive, the two domains were closely intertwined, a metaphorical extension of one another, both active and influential interpreters of a coherent intellectual discourse that helped propel Japan through the threshold of modern times.

Notes 1 Quoted in Takizawa Katsumi, Sōseki no “Kokoro” to fukuinsho, 4. 2 Labyrinth, 3. 3 Quoted and translated in Teruko Craig, In the Beginning Woman Was the Sun, 77. 4 English translation in Kevin M. Doak and J. Scott Matthews, “ ‘The Man From the West’ and ‘The Man From the West: The Sequel’,” 263. Italics are mine. 5 “Gendai tsurezuregusa” (1957); quoted in Hyōdō Masanosuke, Masamune Hakuchō ron, 226.

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Index

Abe Isoo 98, 116, 171 Aeba Takao 148 afterlife 26, 29, 53, 69, 79, 87, 95–6, 97, 140, 143, 165, 187 “Airen” (Love-Pity) (Hagiwara Sakutarō) 23 “Akatsuki” (Dawn) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 131–2 “Akutagawa ni okeru kami: Haguruma o megutte” (The Place of God in Akutagawa’s Thought: The Case of Haguruma) (Satō Yasumasa) 133 Akutagawa Ryūnosuke 25, 76, 79, 95, 114, 125, 128– 49, 159, 160, 184–5, 187; “Akatsuki” (Dawn) 131–2; Akutagawa Ryūnosuke no kirisutokyō shisō (The Christian Thought of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) (Ha Tae-Hu) 133; Aru ahō no isshō (The Life of A Stupid Man) 76; “Aru muchi” (A Whip) 128; “Bungeiteki na, amari ni bungeiteki na” (Literary, Much Too Literary) 141; conversion of 30, 31, 128– 49; “Daidōji Shinsuke no hansei” (Daidōji Shinsuke: The Early Years) 141–2; early exposure to Christianity 129–33; Haguruma (Spinning Gears) 133, 140, 143–5; “Hōkyōnin no shi” (Death of a Martyr) 136; “Juriano Kichinosuke” 136; “Kamigami no bishō” (The Smiles of the Gods) 134; Kappa (Kappa: A Novel) 140–3; kirishitan mono (Christian stories) 4, 129, 133– 40, 181; Kirisuto ni kansuru danpen (Fragments on Christ) 131; “Magudara no Maria” (Mary of Magdala) 131, 132; “Nankin no kirisuto” (The Christ of Nanking) 136–7, 138; oeuvre 129, 133; “O-Gin” 136, 138– 40; “PIETA” 131; “Rashōmon” 130; “Rōkyōjin” (A Crazy Old Man) 130–1; salvific discourse of 128– 49; “Samayoeru yudayajin” (The Wandering Jew) 25, 144; “Sauro” 131;

Seihō no hito (The Man from the West) 128, 129, 145–9, 156–7, 189–90; “Tabako to akuma” (Tobacco and the Devil) 144; Zoku Seihō no hito 129, 145, 147, 149 Akutagawa Ryūnosuke no kirisutokyō shisō (The Christian Thought of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) (Ha Tae-Hu) 133 “Akutagawa to kirishitan bungaku” (Akutagawa and Christian Literature) (McKinnon) 134 American Bible Society 147 “Ano jibun” (In Those Days) (Doppo) 80 An’ya Kōro (A Dark Night’s Passing) (Shiga Naoya) 9, 30, 143 appropriation of Christianity in narrative 170–85; Kinoshita Naoe’s Hi no hashira 170–9; Nagayo Yoshirō’s Seidō no kirisuto 5, 32, 170, 179–81 Arahata Kanson 173 Arishima Takeo: apostasy of 116–24; Aru onna (A Certain Woman) 107–8; conversion of 4, 30, 31, 109–12, 114, 121; free will and 112–14, 121, 122; “Futatsu no michi” (Two Paths) 108, 119; “Geijutsu o umu tai” (A Body that Gives Birth to Art) 108; “Jiko no kōsatsu” (An Observation of the Self ) 120; Kain no matsuei (The Descendants of Cain) 124; Kansōroku (A Record of My Thoughts) 24, 31, 68, 110, 112, 115, 123; “Love the Plunderer: The Metaphysics of a Modern Japanese” 108, 120, 157–8; Meiro (Labyrinth) 121, 122; problem of sin and inevitability of fate 107–25; Quakerism and 109, 114–16; Sapporo Independent Church and 111–12, 116 Aru ahō no isshō (The Life of A Stupid Man) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 76 “Aru muchi” (A Whip) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 128

198 Index Aru onna (A Certain Woman) (Arishima Takeo) 107–8 Aru otoko (A Certain Man) (Mushanokōji Saneatsu) 160, 162, 179 Asahi shinbun (newspaper) 61 asceticism 7, 9, 22, 25, 27, 64–5, 67, 99, 104, 121, 160, 164, 178, 188 Ashio Copper Mine revolt 170, 171 “Atarashiki imashime” (A New Precept) (Tōkoku) 53 Atarashiki mura (journal) 163 “Atarashiki mura” (New Village) commune 162 “Atarashiki mura ni tsuite” (On Atarashiki mura) (Mushanokōji Saneatsu) 179 “Atarashiki Mura: The Intellectual and Literary Contexts of a Taishō Utopian Village” (Yiu) 162 Azamukazaru no ki (An Honest Record of the Soul) (Doppo) 21–2, 31, 68, 82–8, 100, 111, 141–2, 156 Baba Tatsui 47 Ballagh, James 43, 44 Biyō Gakuin 97, 98 Book of Exodus 177 Brown, Samuel 43, 44 Buddha 17, 51, 98, 115, 161, 163, 165 Buddhism 10, 51, 52, 53, 54, 70, 71, 109, 115, 135, 140, 165, 171, 172 bundan (literary world) 7, 17, 18, 27–8, 29, 90, 94, 95, 155, 182, 187, 189 Bungakkai (The Literary World) (journal) 14, 17, 42, 53 “Bungakusha yo no tenshoku” (Being a Writer Is My Vocation) (Doppo) 88 “Bungeiteki na, amari ni bungeiteki na” “Bungeiteki na, amari ni bungeiteki na” (Literary, Much Too Literary) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 141 Bunshō sekai (The World of Writing) ( journal) 68, 108 burakumin (outcast) 30, 31, 69–70, 71, 72, 73, 75, 125, 178 bushidō (warrior ethic) 25, 104 Calvinism, latent divinity of man and conflict with 55–8 Carlyle, Thomas 51, 54, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 87, 114, 115, 156 Carlylean concept of “sincerity” 83 Catholicism 3– 4, 29, 68, 76, 124, 128, 129, 145, 146, 147, 148–9 Chinmoku (Silence) (Endō Shūsaku) 104, 134, 138

Christian Century 3, 135, 138, 184–5 Christianity: concept of sin 24; embrace of 17, 22, 26, 29, 148–9, 158–9; faith and, dilemma of 29–33; intersections between literature, politics and 14–19; literary appropriation of 29–33; Meiji Protestantism and, limits of 24–9; modern Japanese literature and 3–33; religion and literature, conflict between 5–6; as religion of compassion and love, notion of 105; romantic love and 19–23; self and, construction of 10–14; sensuality and, emergence of modern 19–23; sexuality and, question of 6–10; sin and, awareness of 24–9; Tolstoian 8, 12; use of term 8 class warfare 56, 125 Confucianism 20, 26, 44, 45, 47, 165 consistency 51 contrition, paradox of, Doppo and 90–2 conversion 13, 23; confession and 31; drivers of 26; Ebina Danjō 44, 45; personal pursuits and 29 conversion, narratives of 41–149; Akutagawa Ryūnosuke: salvific discourse of 128– 49; Arishima Takeo: problem of sin and inevitability of fate 107–25; Kitamura Tōkoku and celebration of the “inner life” 41–58; Kunikida Doppo, rejection of self-deception and paradox of contrition 79–92; Masamune Hakuchō: fear of death and cruelty of Christian God 94–105; Shimazaki Tōson and the discovery of self 61–76 cosmic soul, notion of existence of 95 “Daidōji Shinsuke no hansei” (Daidōji Shinsuke: The Early Years) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 141–2 “Danseiteki kirisutokyō: fundo no shinsei” (Masculine Christianity: The Sanctity of Rage) (Uchimura Kanzō) 104–5 Dante 100, 143, 156 “Dante ni tsuite” (On Dante) (Hakuchō) 97 Dazai Osamu 29 De Profundis (Wilde) 146 Doko e (Whither?) (Hakuchō) 96 Doppo, Kunikida 79–92; “Ano jibun” (In Those Days) 80; Azamukazaru no ki (An Honest Record of the Soul) 21–2, 31, 68, 82–8, 100, 111, 141–2, 156; “Bungakusha yo no tenshoku” (Being a Writer Is My Vocation) 88; contrition and, paradox of 90–2; conversion of 4, 18, 22, 30, 31, 79, 82–8; loss of faith and desire to be moved 88–92; “Okamoto

Index  199 no techō” (Okamoto’s Notebook) 91; self-deception and, rejection of 79–90; “Shinkō seimei” (The Life of Faith) 85–8; Tōson, Tōkoku and, parallels with 80–2; “Ware wa ika ni shite shōsetsuka ni narishi ka” (How I Became a Writer) 5, 16; wife of (Nobuko) 21–2, 80, 83, 88 dualism/dualities 5, 12, 14, 22, 23, 52, 66, 108, 109, 119–20, 125, 139, 157, 187 Dutch Reformed Church 43 Dykstra, Andrew 135 Dykstra, Yoshiko 135 Ebina Danjō 44, 45 egoism 23, 121 embrace of Christianity 17, 22, 26, 29, 148–9, 158–9 Emerson, Ralph Waldo 10, 52, 56, 57–8, 81, 83, 86, 114 Endō Shūsaku 27, 104, 134, 138, 149 “Ensei shika to josei” (Disillusioned Poets and Women) (Tōkoku) 20, 51, 61 Episcopal Church 42 epistemological challenges 28, 83, 100, 149, 188 eta class 71–3, 76 faith: dilemma of 29–33; loss of, Doppo and 88–92; Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki as narrative of 63–9 fate, inevitability of, Arishima and 107–25 freedom: to choose destiny 27, 112; emotional 82; of the flesh 62; ideal of 10, 16, 48, 54–5; and individualism 52, 159, 188; inner 75; materialistic 55; spiritual 30, 52, 61, 62, 75, 76; of will and determinism 122 Freedom and People’s Rights Movement 3 free will 26, 112–14, 121, 122 Fujimura Misao 15 Fujino Kohaku 15 “Fujo no michi” (The Way for Women) (Kishida Toshiko) 19 Fukuda Hideko 18–19, 31 Fukuzawa Yukichi 46 fumie (stepping on a sacred image) 5, 181, 185 “Futatsu no michi” (Two Paths) (Arishima Takeo) 108, 119 Futon (The Quilt) (Tayama Katai) 11, 21 “Geijutsu o umu tai” (A Body that Gives Birth to Art) (Arishima Takeo) 108 Gessel, Van C. 29 Goble, Jonathan 48

God: pantheistic notion of 81; personal, concept of 45, 56 “Great Man theory” 85 Hagiwara Sakutarō 23, 24, 31 Haguruma (Spinning Gears) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 133, 140, 143–5 Haikyōsha (The Apostate) (Osanai) 7–8 Hakai (The Broken Commandment) (Tōson) 11, 30, 31, 62, 69–76, 125, 170, 178 “Hakoiri musume” (Daughters in Boxes) (Kishida Toshiko) 19 Hakuchō, Masamune: conversion of 4, 30, 97–102; “Dante ni tsuite” (On Dante) 97; disparagement of Christianity 102–5; Doko e (Whither?) 96; fear of death and cruelty of Christian God 94–105; “Meiji kirisutokyō bungaku” (Christian Literature of the Meiji Period) 95; “Uchimura Kanzō zakkan” (Miscellaneous Thoughts on Uchimura Kanzō) (Hakuchō) 103– 4 Haru (Spring) (Tōson) 61, 68–9 Ha Tae-Hu 133 Heaven ( jōtei), concept of 45 Heimin shinbun (The Commoner’s News) (newspaper) 172 Heiwa (Peace) (journal) 41, 51 Hepburn, James Curtis 43 Hi no hashira (Pillar of Fire) (Kinoshita Naoe) 18, 32, 117, 170–9 Hiratsuka Raichō 15, 26, 28, 189 Hirotsu Ryurō 173 Hōgetsu, Shimamura 9, 16 “Hōkyōnin no shi” (Death of a Martyr) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 136 Hōmei, Iwano 22 Honda Yōichi 43, 44 Hōraikyoku (A Tale of Mount Hōrai) (Tōkoku) 51 How I became a Christian: Out of my Diary (Uchimura Kanzō) 26–7 human sympathy 158 Hyōdō Masanosuke 96 Ily, Richard 171 individualism/individuality 5, 10, 12, 23, 29–30, 54, 120, 159, 161, 188 Inferno (Dante) 143 inner life: Calvinism and, conflict with 55–8; celebration of, Tōkoku and 41–58; Hakai as new covenant of 69–76; kokoro and 51–5; latent divinity of man and, belief in, Tōson and 55–8; naibu seimei and 51–5; Protestantism in late nineteenth century Japan and, growth of 42–8

200 Index Inoko Rentarō 31, 70–6, 178 I-novel 31 introspection 14, 16, 19, 30, 79, 83, 100, 119, 188 Ishikawa Takuboku 16, 22–3 Itagaki Taisuke 47 Itō Kazuo 61–2, 75, 76 Iwamoto Yoshiharu 19, 58, 63 Iwano Hōmei 6, 9, 18, 22, 32 Janes, Leroy Lansing 44 “Jidai heisoku no genjō” (The Impasse of Our Age) (Takuboku) 16 Jigoku no hana (Flowers of Hell) (Kafū) 11 “Jiko no kōsatsu” (Arishima Takeo) (An Observation of the Self ) 120 “Jiko no tame” (In Defense of the Self ) (Mushanokōji Saneatsu) 17, 22 “Jiko no tame no geijutsu” (Art for the Self ) (Mushanokōji Saneatsu) 162 ‘ “Jiko no tame’ oyobi sono ta ni tsuite” (On ‘For the Self’ and Other Writings) (Mushanokōji Saneatsu) 161 “Jinsei ni aiwataru to wa nan no ii zo” (What Does It Mean “To Benefit Mankind”?) (Tōkoku) 6 Jiyūtō (Liberal Party) 47 Jogaku zasshi (Woman’s Education Journal) 19, 20, 21, 32, 47, 58 jōtei (Heaven), concept of 45 “Juriano Kichinosuke” (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 136 Kafū, Nagai 11 Kain no matsuei (The Descendants of Cain) (Arishima Takeo) 124 Kajii Motojirō 17 “Kami, ningen, jiyū” (God, Man, and Freedom) (Kinoshita Naoe) 18 “Kamigami no bishō” (The Smiles of the Gods) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 134 “Kami no kuni” (The Kingdom of God) (Mushanokōji Saneatsu) 162 Kanamori Tsūrin 44, 83 Kanbara Ariake 32 Kaneko Kiichi 116 Kanno Suga 19 Kansōroku (A Record of My Thoughts) (Arishima Takeo) 24, 31, 68, 110, 112, 115, 123 Kappa (Kappa: A Novel) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 140–3 Karatani Kōjin 8, 17 Kasahara Yoshimitsu 57

Kasai Akifu 134 Kataoka Kenkichi 47 Katayama Sen 116, 171 Katō Hiroyuki 46 Katsumoto Seiichirō 41, 53, 56 Kawa Shizuo 114, 122, 161 Kinoshita Mokutarō 95, 128 Kinoshita Naoe: conversion of 4, 31, 171; Hi no hashira (Pillar of Fire) 18, 32, 117, 170–9; “Yo wa ika ni shite kirisutokyō o shinzuru ni itarishi ka” (How I Came to Believe in Christianity) 8, 172; Zange (Confession) 11, 15, 31, 90, 170 kirishitan mono (Christian stories) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 4, 129, 133– 40, 181 Kirisuto ni kansuru danpen (Fragments on Christ) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 131 “Kirisuto no ai” (The Love of Christ) (Nagayo Yoshirō) 156 Kishida Toshiko (Nakajima Shōen) 19 Kitahara Hakushū 4, 24, 128 Kōfukumono (A Happy Man) (Mushanokōji Saneatsu) 160–7 kokoro 51–5, 56–7 Kokoro (Sōseki) 25, 31 Kokubungaku ( journal) 134 Kokumin no tomo (The Nation’s Friend) ( journal) 47, 98 “Konnichi no kirisutokyō bungaku” (Christian Literature of This Age) (Tōkoku) 54 Kosugi Tengai 173 Kōtoku Shūsui 18, 116, 171, 172 “Koware yubiwa” (The Broken Ring) (Shimizu Shikin) 20–1 Kozaki Hiromichi 44, 45, 47 Kumamoto band 44, 45 Kyūanroku (Search after Peace) (Uchimura Kanzō) 101, 110, 112, 113 La sagesse et la destinée (Wisdom and Destiny) (Maeterlinck) 22, 161 latent divinity of man and conflict with Calvinism, belief in 55–8 lese majesté 179 liberal theology 27 Liggins, John 42 Lippit, Seiji 135 literature: intersections between Christianity, politics and 14–19; religion and, conflict between 5–6 loafer 31, 159

Index  201 love: Christian concept of 14, 19–23, 156; concept of pure and romantic 22; romantic, notion of 20; spiritual, concept of 22; unconventional notion of 158; universal 113; for your neighbor, concept of 53– 4 “Love the Plunderer: The Metaphysics of a Modern Japanese” (Arishima Takeo) 108, 120, 157–8 love vis-à-vis 80 Maeterlinck, Maurice 22, 161 “Magudara no Maria” (Mary of Magdala) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 131, 132 Mainichi shinbun ( journal) 18, 171, 173 man as innately depraved and unable to please God, notion of 101, 144, 148, 189 Mathy, Francis 10, 42, 56 Matsumura Kaiseki 45 McKinnon, Richard 134 meditation 85, 115, 171, 172 “Meiji Gakuin no gakusō” (Recalling the Years at Meiji Gakuin) (Tōson) 5 “Meiji kirisutokyō bungaku” (Christian Literature of the Meiji Period) (Hakuchō) 95 Meiji period 6, 14, 16, 32, 45–6, 48, 95 Meiji Protestantism 7, 24–9, 47, 54, 104, 145, 147–8, 189 Meiji Restoration 3, 43 Meiro (Labyrinth) (Arishima Takeo) 121, 122 metaphors of Christianity 155–85; appropriation of Christianity in narrative 170–85; Christology of self: case of Mushanokōji Saneatsu 155–67 Miki Rofū 4 missionaries 3, 7, 18, 28, 42–8, 50, 63, 96, 97, 98, 104, 134 Miyazaki Koshoshi 54 Morimoto Kōkichi 109–14, 115 Morton, Leith 107, 108 Mullins, Mark M. 28 Muroga Fumitake 129–30, 136, 144 Mushanokōji Saneatsu 4, 5, 8–12, 17, 18, 22, 23, 24, 31–2, 155–67, 179; Aru otoko (A Certain Man) 160, 162, 179; “Atarashiki mura” (New Village) commune founded by 162; “Atarashiki mura ni tsuite” (On Atarashiki mura) 179; “Jiko no tame” (In Defense of the Self ) 17, 22; “Jiko no tame no geijutsu” (Art for the Self ) 162; ‘ “Jiko no tame’ oyobi sono ta ni tsuite” (On ‘For the Self’

and Other Writings) 161; “Kami no kuni” (The Kingdom of God) 162; Kōfukumono (A Happy Man) 160–7; Omedetaki hito (A Good-Natured Person) 11–12, 160 Nagayo Yoshirō: “Kirisuto no ai” (The Love of Christ) 156; Seidō no kirisuto (The Bronze Christ) 5, 32, 170, 179–81; “Uchimura Kanzō no koto” (On Uchimura Kanzō) 179; Waga kokoro no henreki (The Pilgrimage of My Soul) 179 naibu seimei (inner life) 10–11, 51–5 “Naibu seimeiron” (A Theory of the Inner Life) (Tōkoku) 10, 53 Nakae Tōju 45 Nakajima Nobuyuki 47 Nakajima Shōen (Kishida Toshiko) 19 Nakamura Masanao 44 “Nankin no kirisuto” (The Christ of Nanking) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 136–7, 138 Natsume Sōseki 16, 25, 28, 31, 188 Naturalism 5, 8, 9, 13, 15–16, 125 nature, concept of 88 Neo-Confucianism 32, 45 “new” faith, notion of 52 new theology 50 Nigotta atama (Muddy Mind) (Shiga Naoya) 9 Nihon itchi kyōkai 49, 50, 63 Niijima Jō 44, 46, 47 “Ninomiya Sontoku Ō” (Ninomiya Sontoku), Tōkoku 51 Nippon kirisuto kōkai (General Church of Christ in Japan) 43 Nitobe Inazō 45, 109, 112, 115 Nobuko 21–2, 80, 83, 88 “Nyoze bungei” (Thus is Literature) (Shimamura Hōgetsu) 16 Ōe Isokichi 75 oeuvre: Akutagawa’s 129, 133; Shiga Naoya’s 12–13; Tōson’s 30 “O-Gin” (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 136, 138– 40 Ōhinata 70, 72 “Okamoto no techō” (Okamoto’s Notebook) (Doppo) 91 Omedetaki hito (A Good-Natured Person) (Mushanokōji Saneatsu) 11–12, 160 omnipotent Christian God, notion of 67, 95, 155 On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History (Carlyle) 85

202 Index Osanai Kaoru 7–8 Oshikawa Masayoshi 43, 58, 63 Ōsugi Sakae 173 Ōtsu Junkichi (Shiga Naoya) 8, 24 Ozaki Yukio 47 Papini, Giovanni 146 personal God, concept of 45, 56 “PIETA” (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 131 plain realism 32 poetic religion, rife with paradoxes 187–90 politics, intersections between literature, Christianity and 14–19 predestination, condemnation of 116–24 predestination, notion of 123 Presbyterian Church 43, 80 prostitution, abolition of 11, 18, 82, 170, 171, 176 Protestantism in late nineteenth century Japan, growth of 42–8 Quakerism: Arishima and 109, 114–16; Tōkoku and 42, 50 “Rashōmon” (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 130 religion and literature, conflict between 5–6 “Ren’ai no tetsugaku” (The Philosophy of Love) (Yamaji Aizan) 20 Renan, Ernest 146, 155 ribaibaru 46 Rikugō zasshi (The Cosmos Magazine) 47, 172 Roka, Tokutomi 4, 13, 172 “Rōkyōjin” (A Crazy Old Man) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 130–1 romantic and spiritual love, concept of 22 romantic love, Christian-inspired concept of 19–23 Rubin, Jay 86 “Ruusoo no Zange chū ni miidashitaru jiko” (The Self I Found in Rousseau’s Confessions) (Tōson) 31 Ryōsen, Tsunashima 15 “Saigo no shōrisha wa dare zo” (Who Will Be The Final Victor?) (Tōkoku) 17, 51, 155 Sakai Toshihiko 172 Sako Jun’ichirō 129 Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki (When the Cherries Ripen) (Tōson) 13, 20, 21, 28, 61, 62, 63–9, 80, 144 “Samayoeru yudayajin” (The Wandering Jew) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 25, 144

Sapporo Agricultural College 7, 109 Sapporo Independent Church 111–12, 116 Sartor Resartus (Carlyle) 51 Sasabuchi Tomoichi 32, 41, 53, 62, 81, 114, 122 Satō Yasumasa 53, 133, 145 “Sauro” (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 131 Second Awakening 42 Seidō no kirisuto (The Bronze Christ) (Nagayo Yoshirō) 5, 32, 170, 179–81 Seihō no hito (The Man from the West) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 128, 129, 145–9, 156–7, 189–90 Seikyō shinron (A New Theory of Politics and Religion) (Kozaki Hiromichi) 47 seimei (life) 10, 12, 51, 54–5, 56–7 Seisho no kenkyū (Uchimura) 162 Seisho no tomo (Friends of the Bible) ( journal) 41, 42, 53, 56, 57 self: construction of 10–14; discovery of, Tōson and 61–76; divided, reunification of, Arishima and 116–24; Hakai and 69–76; Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki and, as narrative of faith 63–9 self-awareness 10–11, 20–1, 32, 41, 65 self-deception, Doppo on rejection of 79–90 self-denial 9, 112, 160, 161 self-effacement 20, 124, 140, 161–2 selfhood, Shirakaba concept of 12 self-reflection 68, 85 sensuality, emergence of modern 19–23 sexuality: Arishima and 108, 114, 119, 121; Christian morality and 5, 6; Doppo and 80; Mushanokōji and 160, 165; question of 6–10; romantic love and 20; self and, construction of 11, 12; sin and, awareness of 24; Tōson and 62–3, 65, 80 Shakai minshutō (Socialist Democratic Party) 18, 171–2 Shakaishugi kyōkai (Socialism Study Group) 171 Shiga Naoya 4, 7, 8, 9, 11, 24, 156, 160, 162, 179; An’ya Kōro (A Dark Night’s Passing) 9, 30, 143; Nigotta atama (Muddy Mind) 9; oeuvre 12–13; Ōtsu Junkichi 8, 24 Shimada Saburō 47 Shimamura Hōgetsu 9, 16 Shimizu Shikin 20–1 Shinkigen (New Era) (journal) 172 “Shinkō seimei” (The Life of Faith) (Doppo) 85–8 Shinoda Chōji 173

Index  203 “Shinpiteki hanjūshugi” (Mystic SemiAnimalism) (Hōmei) 22 Shinri ippan (Common Truth) (Uemura Masahisa) 47 Shinsei (New Life) (Tōson) 23, 30, 62, 68, 76 Shirakaba ( journal) 156, 160, 163 Shirakaba (White Birch) 9 Shirakaba group 12, 24 Shōgun 181 shogunate 3, 43 Shōwa period 29, 149 sin: Arishima and 24, 26, 27, 107–25, 110, 113–14; awareness of 24–9; Christian concept of 24; Doppo and 26, 90; Masamune and 24, 27; Meiji Protestantism and 24–9; Morimoto and 110, 113–14; Mushanokōji and 24, 160; Nagayo and 182; Tōson and 22, 23, 30, 62 “sincerity,” Carlylean concept of 83 Sino-Japanese war 14, 83 socialism 18–19, 98, 116, 125, 170–9 Socialism and Social Reform (Ily) 171 “Sōgen naru kunōsha no shōhei” (Praise of a Grave Sufferer) (Yagi Jūkichi) 13 Sohō, Tokutomi 47, 52, 54, 81 sola fide 57, 145 Sōseki, Natsume 16, 25, 28, 31, 188 Storia di Cristo (Life of Christ) (Papini) 146 subjective and spiritually profound inquiry, notion of 133 “Sumire” (Shizuko) 19–20 Susukida Kyūkin 32 Suzuki Hideko 83 Suzuki, Michiko 20 Suzuki Norihisa 99 “Tabako to akuma” (Tobacco and the Devil) (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 144 Taishō 4, 7, 10, 12, 14, 15, 17, 18, 21, 23, 24, 28–9, 31, 79, 107, 119, 124, 125, 133, 138, 143, 146, 148, 155, 162, 182, 187, 188, 189 Takahashi Motokichi 24 Takakura Tokutarō 17 Takayama Chogyū 11, 94 Takeda Tomoju 104 Takizawa Katsumi 104 Takuboku, Ishikawa 16, 22–3 Tamura Naoomi 50 Tamura Sanji 82, 83 Tanabe Hajime 14 Tanaka Eiichi 180 “Tanjun naru shūkyō” (A Simple Religion) (Tōkoku) 55, 56–7

Tayama Katai 11, 21 Tenchi, Hoshino 41, 69 “The New Testament” 147, 157 theology 13, 27, 46, 50, 56, 98, 101, 103, 123– 4, 155 “There Was a Boy” (Wordsworth) 87 Togawa Shūkotsu 14–15, 42 Tōkoku, Kitamura 15, 41–58; “Atarashiki imashime” (A New Precept) 53; baptism of 50; concept of love 32; concept of the inner life 76; conversion of 17, 30, 41, 48–51; Doppo,Tōson and, parallels with 80–2; “Ensei shika to josei” (Disillusioned Poets and Women) 20, 51, 61; Hōraikyoku (A Tale of Mount Hōrai) 51; “Jinsei ni aiwataru to wa nan no ii zo” (What Does It Mean “To Benefit Mankind”?) 6; “Konnichi no kirisutokyō bungaku” (Christian Literature of This Age) 54; “Naibu seimeiron” (A Theory of the Inner Life) 10, 53; “Ninomiya Sontoku Ō” (Ninomiya Sontoku) 51; Quakerism and 42, 50; “Saigo no shōrisha wa dare zo” (Who Will Be The Final Victor?) 17, 51, 155; suicide of 57; “Tanjun naru shūkyō” (A Simple Religion) 55, 56–7 Tokugawa years 4, 32, 81, 103, 181, 185 Tokutomi Roka 4, 172 Tokutomi Sohō 47, 52, 54, 83, 98 Tolstoian Christianity 8, 12 Topographies of Japanese Modernism (Lippit) 135 Tōson, Shimazaki 61–76; conversion of 4, 13, 18, 30, 68, 144; Doppo,Tōkoku and, parallels with 80–2; Hakai (The Broken Commandment) 11, 30, 31, 62, 69–76, 125, 170, 178; Haru (Spring) 61, 68–9; “inner life” and, celebration of 41–58; “Meiji Gakuin no gakusō” (Recalling the Years at Meiji Gakuin) 5; oeuvre 30; “Ruusoo no Zange chū ni miidashitaru jiko” (The Self I Found in Rousseau’s Confessions) 31; Sakura no mi no jukusuru toki (When the Cherries Ripen) 13, 20, 21, 28, 61, 62, 63–9, 80, 144; self, discovery of 61–76; Shinsei (New Life) 23, 30, 62, 68, 76 Toyama Masakazu 46 Tsubouchi Shōyō 32 Tsunetō Kyō 130 Uchimura Kanzō 6–7, 6–8, 14, 18–19, 25, 28, 54, 83, 88, 94, 98, 102, 113–14, 118, 122, 129, 162, 172; on Arishima Takeo’s

204 Index death 107; “Danseiteki kirisutokyō: fundo no shinsei” (Masculine Christianity: The Sanctity of Rage) 104–5; How I became a Christian: Out of my Diary 26–7; Kyūanroku (Search after Peace) 101, 110, 112, 113; “Uchimura Kanzō no koto” (On Uchimura Kanzō) (Nagayo Yoshirō) 179; “Uchimura Kanzō zakkan” (Miscellaneous Thoughts on Uchimura Kanzō) (Hakuchō) 103– 4 “Uchimura Kanzō zakkan” (Miscellaneous Thoughts on Uchimura Kanzō) (Hakuchō) 103– 4 Ueda Bin 48, 161 Uemura Masahisa 7, 14, 24, 25, 43, 44, 45, 47, 54, 62, 80, 91, 94, 95, 99 Verbeck, Guido 43 Vie de Jésus (Renan) 146, 155 Viverism 140–1 Waga kokoro no henreki (The Pilgrimage of My Soul) (Nagayo Yoshirō) 179 Wakamatsu Shizuko 4, 19–20 Walker, Janet 62–3 Warawa no hanshōgai (Half of My Life) Fukuda Hideko 31 “Ware wa ika ni shite shōsetsuka ni narishi ka” (How I Became a Writer) (Doppo) 5, 16 warrior class 45 Westernization 3, 46

Wilde, Oscar 146 women’s rights 21, 125, 170, 173 Wordsworth 81, 84, 85, 86, 87, 115, 156 Yagi Jūkichi 13 Yamaji Aizan 6, 17, 20, 43, 46, 54, 56 Yamakawa Hitoshi 173 Yamaki Gōzō 173 Yamamoto Kiyoshi 129 Yamamura Bochō 5, 13 Yano Fumio 47 Yiu, Angela 162 Yokohama, Kumamoto, and Sapporo bands 44 Yorozu chōhō (The Complete Morning News) 94, 107 Yosano Akiko 22 Yoshida Shōin 81 Yoshino Gajō 6 “Yo wa ika ni shite kirisutokyō o shinzuru ni itarishi ka” (How I Came to Believe in Christianity) (Kinoshita Naoe) 8, 172 Yūsa, Hagiwara 5, 32, 180– 4 Zange (Confession) (Kinoshita Naoe) 11, 15, 31, 90, 170 Zangeroku (Confessions) (Inoko Rentarō) 31, 70 Zen Buddhism 52, 109, 115, 171, 172 Zoku Seihō no hito (Akutagawa Ryūnosuke) 129, 145, 147, 149 Zolaism 11