Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was a certain morning in September of the second year of Tenpō.

At Matsu-no-Yu, the public bathhouse in Kanda Dōbōchō, there were as many customers as ever from early morning.
The scene described in Shikitei Sanba’s comic novel published several years prior—“Shinto deities, Buddhist teachings, love affairs, impermanence—all mingling in the floating-world bathhouse”—remained unchanged from that time to this day.
In the baths—a snuffling woman singing Katsurabushi ballads; at the washing area—a man with a chonmage topknot wringing out his towel; a round-faced patron with a ginkgo-leaf hairstyle having his tattooed back scrubbed; the Yoshibei fellow who’d been obsessively washing only his face since earlier; a bald-headed man planted before the water trough, ceaselessly dousing himself; children engrossed in play with bamboo buckets and ceramic goldfish—within the narrow washing area, all manner of these diverse humans moved hazily through billowing steam and morning light from the windows, their wet bodies glistening sleekly as they went about their motions.
And this commotion was no ordinary affair.
First came the sounds of water being used and buckets being moved.
Then came voices conversing and songs being sung.
Finally, there were occasionally the sounds of wooden clappers being struck at the bathhouse counter.
Thus, both inside and outside the pomegranate-shaped entrance, everything was as clamorous as a battlefield.
Through the noren came a merchant.
A beggar came.
Of course, customers came and went.
Amidst the bustle——

Humbly keeping to a corner, amidst that bustle, quietly scrubbing away grime—there was a man over sixty. He must have been past sixty. His sideburns were unsightly yellowed, and his eyes seemed slightly impaired as well. Yet though lean, he possessed a sturdy, almost rugged frame, and in his sagging-skinned hands and feet lingered some latent strength still resisting old age. This was equally true of his face—around the strong jawline of his cheeks and the slightly large mouth, a vigorous animal vitality flashed with terrifying intensity, nearly unchanged from his prime.

The old man finished meticulously scrubbing the grime from his upper body, then without rinsing with water from the rinse bucket, began washing his lower half. But though the black scrubbing cloth of Kai silk passed over it time and again, from that oil-deprived, finely wrinkled skin emerged nothing one could truly call grime. That must have suddenly evoked an autumn-like loneliness within him. The old man had just finished washing each of his feet when he suddenly stopped moving the towel as if his strength had drained away. And then, he lowered his gaze to the sky outside the window, vividly reflected in the murky water of the rinse bucket. There, red persimmon fruits hung from sparsely spaced, translucent branches, looking down upon a corner of the tiled roof below.

At this moment, the shadow of death cast itself over the old man’s heart.
But this "death," unlike the one that had once threatened him, contained nothing loathsome.
It was a consciousness of serene extinction—quiet yet longed-for—like the sky within this bucket.
If one could shed all worldly cares and sleep within that "death"—if one could slumber without dreams, like an innocent child—how blissful that would be.
I am not only weary of life.
For decades now, I have been wearied by the ceaseless torments of creation.…

The old man raised his eyes with a look of displeasure.
Amidst the lively chatter around him, a great many naked bodies darted frantically through the steam.
To the katsurabushi ballads within the pomegranate-shaped entrance were added plaintive laments and boisterous folk songs.
Of course, there was not a trace there of that eternal presence whose shadow had now fallen upon his heart.

“Why, Master Kyokutei! To encounter you in such an unexpected place! I never even dreamed that Master Kyokutei would ever deign to visit the morning baths.”

The old man was startled by this sudden voice addressing him. When he looked, beside him stood a ruddy-complexioned, medium-built man with thin ginkgo-leaf hair—the rinse bucket positioned before him, a wet towel draped over his shoulder—laughing heartily. He appeared to have just emerged from the bath and been about to use the rinse water.

“How fortunate you remain so cheerful.”

Kyokutei Bakin answered thus with a smile—somewhat sarcastically.

II

“Not at all—I’m hardly in good spirits myself."
“Speaking of splendid works—Master, *The Eight Dog Chronicles* continues to be published and grows ever more marvelous! Truly a splendid achievement!”

The Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man, while placing the towel from his shoulder into the bucket, launched into his argument without pause.

“Funamushi disguises herself as a blind woman and attempts to kill Kobungo.”
“Once captured and tortured, she is ultimately rescued by Shōsuke.”
“That narrative sequence—I simply cannot find adequate words to describe it.”
“And that in turn becomes the very circumstance that brings Shōsuke and Kobungo together again.”
“Though unworthy, this Omiya Heikichi may be but a small goods merchant, but when it comes to didactic novels, I consider myself something of a connoisseur.”
“Even someone as unworthy as myself can find no fault whatsoever with Master’s *Eight Dog Chronicles*.”
“Truly, I am utterly in awe.”

Bakin silently began washing his feet again.
He of course had always held a certain goodwill toward the devoted readers of his works.
Yet this goodwill did nothing to alter his estimation of the person in question.
To Bakin, with his keen discernment, this was only natural—indeed, so natural as to be self-evident. Yet curiously enough, it was almost equally rare for his estimation to influence his goodwill in turn.
Therefore, depending on the circumstance, he could simultaneously feel both contempt and goodwill toward the very same person.
As for someone like Omiya Heikichi, he was precisely one such reader.

“After all, to produce such a vast work cannot have been an ordinary labor.”
“First of all, in today’s age, Master Kyokutei is, if I may say so, Japan’s Luo Guanzhong—no, that was terribly rude of me to say.”

Heikichi once again let out a loud laugh.
Someone must have been startled by that voice.
The small-statured, dark-complexioned Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man who had been bathing nearby turned around to look back at Heikichi and Bakin, made a strange face, and spat phlegm into the drain.

“You remain as fixated on haiku as ever.”

Bakin adroitly shifted the topic of conversation.
But this was by no means because he had been concerned about the Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man’s expression.
His eyesight had weakened—fortunately(?)—to the point where he could no longer see it clearly.

“I am most profoundly honored by your inquiry.”
“Though I’m but a talentless dilettante—today a poetry gathering here, tomorrow another there—I brazenly thrust myself into these circles everywhere. Yet for some reason, my verses stubbornly refuse to improve.”
“Might I ask, Master—do you harbor no particular affection for forms like poetry or haiku?”

“Well, when it comes to such things, I’m completely inept.”
“Though there was a time I dabbled in them.”

“That’s quite the jest!”

“No—it seems entirely unsuited to my nature. To this day, I remain like a blind man peering over a fence.”

Bakin stressed the phrase “unsuited” as he spoke.
He did not consider himself incapable of composing poetry or haiku.
Naturally, he felt confident his understanding of that field was far from lacking.
Yet he had long held contempt for that variety of art.
The reason was simple: whether poetry or haiku, their forms proved too constrained to contain the whole of his being.
No matter how skillfully crafted, what these verses expressed—be it lyricism or scenery—merely sufficed to fill a few lines within his works.
Such art was, to him, second-rate.

III

Behind his emphatic use of the phrase "ill-suited" lurked this very contempt.
But unfortunately, to Omiya Heikichi, none of that implied meaning had apparently gotten through.

“Ah, so that’s how it is after all.”
“From my limited perspective, I had assumed that a master artist such as yourself could create anything with complete freedom—no—indeed, as they say, ‘Heaven does not bestow two gifts.’”

Heikichi, vigorously scrubbing his body with a wrung-out towel until his skin turned red, spoke thus in a somewhat hesitant tone.
But for Bakin, with his strong self-esteem, nothing was more galling than the fact that Heikichi’s humble words were being taken exactly as spoken.
On top of that, Heikichi’s hesitant tone grated on him all the more.
Thereupon, he flung his towel and scrubber into the drain and, half-rising with a bitter expression, launched into such a tirade.

“Though I do intend to reach the level of today’s poets and masters.”

Yet even as he spoke these words, he was suddenly overcome with shame at his own childish pride. He had not felt particularly gratified when Heikichi earlier praised *The Eight Dog Chronicles* using superlative terms. Given that, to now feel displeasure at being perceived as incapable of composing poetry or haiku would clearly be contradictory. Stirred by this self-reproach, he hurriedly poured water from the rinsing bucket over his shoulders as if to wash away the inner blush of humiliation.

“That must be the case.”
“If that weren’t so, you could never produce such a masterpiece.”
“When I consider that you compose both poetry and haiku, Master, even someone as lowly as myself must possess remarkable insight to discern this.”
“Well now, this has become quite the display of self-praise.”

Heikichi once again erupted in loud laughter.
The Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man was no longer nearby.
The phlegm too had been swept away by the water Bakin had poured.
Yet Bakin’s discomfort had only deepened—this much was inevitable.

"Ah, I’ve let myself get carried away in conversation."
"Well then, perhaps I should take a bath as well."

Feeling strangely awkward, he muttered this excuse while irritated with himself, finally rising slowly to retreat from his well-meaning admirer.
Heikichi, however, seemed to feel that Bakin’s bluster had somehow elevated his own standing as an admirer.

“Master, I would be most grateful if you could compose a poem or haiku for us sometime soon.”
“Would that be most agreeable?”
“You mustn’t forget about it now.”
“Well then, I shall take my leave as well.”
“I may have been a bother, but when you happen to pass by, please do drop in.”
“I too shall humbly pay a visit.”

Heikichi called out as if chasing after him.
Then, as he began washing his towel once more, he watched Bakin’s retreating figure walk toward the pomegranate-shaped entrance and pondered how he would recount his encounter with Master Kyokutei to his wife upon returning home.

IV

Inside the pomegranate-shaped entrance was dim as twilight. The steam hung denser than fog. Bakin—his vision failing—pushed unsteadily through the steam-shrouded crowd until he found a corner of the bath, then lowered his wrinkled body into the water.

The temperature bordered on uncomfortably hot. Feeling the heat seep into his fingertips, he drew a long breath and slowly scanned the bath. Seven or eight shadowy heads floated in the gloom. Around their chatter and song swirled water slick with human oils, its surface reflecting murky light from the entrance as it sloshed with languid indifference. Then came the assault—a thick wave of nauseating bathhouse stench clogging every nose.

Bakin’s imagination had always harbored a romantic proclivity.
In the steam-filled bathhouse, he found himself envisioning almost unconsciously one of the scenes from the novel he labored to compose.
There was a heavy boat awning.
Beyond the awning, the sea seemed to have grown restless as dusk approached.
The sound of waves striking the hull resonated dully oppressive, like thick oil being stirred.
Alongside this sound came what must have been the fluttering of bat wings against the awning.
One of the boatmen, as if unsettled, peered cautiously over the gunwale.
Above the fog-shrouded sea hung a faint red crescent moon.
Then...

His fantasy, having reached this point, was abruptly shattered. For in that same pomegranate-shaped entrance, someone’s critique of his didactic novels had suddenly reached his ears. Moreover, both in voice and manner of speech, it seemed deliberately calculated for him to hear—they were chattering away. Bakin started to leave the bath but stopped himself, listening intently to the criticism.

“All this grand talk of Master Kyokutei and Master Chosakudo—but everything Bakin writes is just reheated leftovers.”
“To put it plain, *The Eight Dog Chronicles* ain’t nothing but a carbon copy of *Water Margin*, now is it?”
“But hell, even if you squint real hard, there’s some decent plotting there.”
“After all, the whole mess is set in China.”
“Just getting through that brick of a book’s an accomplishment in itself.”
“But then to slap on another half-baked imitation of Kyōden’s work—enough to make a man’s stomach turn.”

Bakin gazed through his clouded eyes at the man spouting these insults.
Blocked by the steam, he could not see clearly, but it seemed likely to be the Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man who had been beside him earlier.
If that were the case, then this man, having lost patience with Heikichi’s earlier praise of *The Eight Dog Chronicles*, was deliberately lashing out at Bakin.

"First off, everything Bakin writes is nothing but superficial brushwork."
"It’s completely hollow at its core."
"If there's any substance at all, it's just the kind of lectures on the Four Books and Five Classics that a temple school instructor might spout—ain't nothin' but that."
“And so he doesn’t deign to know a thing about the world today.”
“That’s proof enough—if it weren’t about olden times, there ain’t a single instance of him writin’ anything.”
“Since he can’t write Osome and Hisamatsu as Osome and Hisamatsu, he churns out stuff like *Matsusome Love Story* and *Autumn Seven Grasses*.”
“If one were to mimic Lord Bakin’s manner of speech, there’d be no shortage of examples.”

Feelings of hatred cannot be stirred—even if one wished to stir them—so long as either side maintained a sense of superiority. Though Bakin found the man’s manner of speech grating, he strangely felt no hatred toward him. Instead burned a desire to openly express his contempt. That this impulse went unacted upon was likely restrained by his advancing years.

“Now when it comes to Ikkū and Sanba—those two are truly something.”
“Their works brim with humans of natural authenticity.”
“Not a shred of superficial trickery or half-digested scholarship cobbled together.”
“That’s where they differ mightily from pretentious recluses like Minosaku Kenshi.”

According to Bakin's experience, hearing criticism of his didactic novels was not merely unpleasant—it carried no small danger. This did not mean courage would be sapped into approving such critiques, but rather that a reactive element would seep into his subsequent creative motivations through the act of refutation. From such impure motives arose the peril of birthing malformed art. While writers who pandered solely to popular tastes might escape this trap, any author possessing even a shred of artistic spirit found himself surprisingly vulnerable to this hazard. Thus Bakin had taken care until now to avoid reading disparagements of his didactic works whenever possible. Yet even as he maintained this resolve, he could not entirely suppress the temptation to glimpse those very criticisms. That he had come to hear this Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man’s diatribe in the bathhouse stemmed partly from having yielded to that temptation.

Having realized this, he immediately reproached his own folly of still soaking in the bath. Then, letting the shrill voice of the Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man wash over him, he vigorously stepped out over the pomegranate-shaped entrance. Outside, through gaps in the steam, a window revealed a blue sky where sun-warmed persimmons hung visible. Bakin came before the water tank and rinsed himself with calm deliberation.

“Anyway, Bakin ain’t nothin’ but a fraud.”
“Japan’s Luo Guanzhong has done quite well indeed.”

Yet within the bathhouse, the man from earlier—perhaps still under the impression that Bakin remained—continued unleashing his fierce philippics.
Perhaps this was because, hindered by his squint, he had failed to see Bakin’s figure stepping over the pomegranate-shaped entrance.

V

However, when Bakin left the bathhouse, his spirits sank low.
The Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man’s venomous tongue had indeed achieved its anticipated success—at least to this extent.
As he walked through the autumn-clear streets of Edo, he meticulously scrutinized each malicious criticism he had heard in the bathhouse, subjecting them one by one to his critical eye.
And thus, he immediately proved that they were worthless drivel not meriting a second glance, no matter from what angle one considered them.
Yet despite this, his once-disrupted mood showed no signs of easily settling back to its former state.

He raised his unsettled gaze and looked at the townhouses lining both sides of the street.
The townspeople, indifferent to his mood, were all diligently pursuing their daily livelihoods.
Thus, the persimmon-colored curtains of “Shokoku Meiyō,” the yellow comb-shaped signboard of “Hon Tsuge,” the hanging lanterns of “Kago,” the counting rod flags of “Bokusei”—these things formed a meaningless procession passing chaotically through his field of vision.

Why am I tormented by this malicious criticism I so despise?

Bakin continued to ponder.

"The primary source of my discomfort lies in the fact that the Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man harbors malice toward me."
"The fact that someone harbors malice toward me—regardless of the reason—is in itself unpleasant. There’s no helping it."

He felt ashamed of this weakness in himself. Just as there were few who displayed such brazen disregard for others as he did, equally few were as acutely sensitive to others' malice as he proved to be. Moreover, he had long recognized this truth: that two behavioral outcomes which appeared diametrically opposed in manifestation actually sprang from the same root—identical neural processes.

"Yet other factors contribute to my discomfort," he continued. "Being positioned in opposition to that squinting wretch. I have never favored placing myself in such confrontational stances. This very disposition explains why I abstain from competitions altogether."

Having analyzed this far, his mind advanced yet another step, simultaneously triggering an unexpected shift in his mood. That his tightly pursed lips suddenly relaxed at this moment could be seen as evidence of this.

Finally, the fact that it was that Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man who had placed me in such a position also undeniably made me uncomfortable. If that one had been a slightly more worthy opponent, I would undoubtedly have mustered the defiance to rebel against this discomfort. In any case, with that Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man as my opponent, even I would be at a loss.

Bakin forced a bitter smile and looked up at the lofty sky. From that sky, the cheerful cries of kites fell like rain alongside the sunlight. He became aware that his previously sinking mood was gradually lightening.

"However, no matter what slander that Squinting Ginkgo-Haired Man spews, it can at most make me uncomfortable. No matter how much the kites may cry out, the heavenly sun’s path will not halt. My *Eight Dog Chronicles* will surely be completed. And when that time comes, Japan will possess a great epic unrivaled in past or present."

He, while tending to his restored confidence, quietly turned into a narrow alley toward home.

VI

When he returned home, a pair of familiar scattered-cord geta sat atop the shoe-removal step in the dimly lit entrance. When Bakin saw this, the guest’s flat, expressionless face floated before his eyes. And then, he bitterly recalled the nuisance of having his time wasted.

"Looks like my morning’s going to be wasted again today."

With this thought, he stepped up to the entrance platform, where the maid Sugi—who had hurried out to greet him—remained in her bow and looked up at his face from below.

“Mr. Izumiya is waiting for your return in the parlor,” she said.

He nodded and handed the damp hand towel to Sugi. But he somehow did not want to proceed straight to his study.

“What about Ohyaku?”

“She has gone to visit the temple.”

“Is Oji with her as well?”

“Yes, together with Master Taro.”

“And my son?”

“He has gone to Mr. Yamamoto’s.”

The entire household was out.
He felt a slight pang akin to disappointment.
With no other choice, he opened the sliding door to the study adjacent to the entrance.

When he opened it, there sat a pale-complexioned man with a gleaming face—oddly primly composed—clenching a slender silver pipe between his teeth, solemnly waiting in the center of the room. In his study, aside from a stone-rubbed folding screen and paired scrolls of red maple and yellow chrysanthemum hung in the alcove, there was not a single decorative object to be seen. Along the walls, over fifty bookcases stood forlornly in rows, their faded paulownia wood surfaces casting a uniformly drab hue across the room. The paper on the shoji screens had likely seen one full winter since being replaced. Upon the white surface dotted with patches of pasted paper, the large shadow of a tattered banana plant, illuminated by the autumn sun, swayed diagonally. Precisely for this reason, the guest’s immaculately tailored attire clashed all the more starkly with its surroundings.

“Ah, Master, welcome back.”

As the sliding door opened, the guest said this in a smooth tone and bowed respectfully. This was Izumiya Ichibei—the bookseller who at the time had taken on publishing *The Plum in the Golden Vase*, a work second only in public acclaim to *The Eight Dog Chronicles*.

"You must have been waiting quite some time. Unusually, I went to the morning bath today."

Bakin, instinctively grimacing slightly, took his seat with proper decorum as was his custom.

"Heh heh. A morning bath, eh? I see."

Ichibei exclaimed in a tone of great admiration.

Rare indeed were those who, like this man, could be so readily impressed by even the most trivial of matters. No—those who even put on such an admiring face were rarer still. Bakin slowly took a puff and, as was his custom, promptly steered the conversation toward business matters. He particularly disliked this admiration from Izumiya.

"So, what business brings you here today?"

"Well, it's nothing much—I've come to request another manuscript."

Ichibei twirled a pipe around his fingertip and spoke in a womanly gentle voice.
This man possessed a peculiar character.
This was because, in most cases, his external actions did not align with his internal intentions.
Not only do they fail to align—they always manifest as exact opposites.
Therefore, whenever he harbored an unyielding will, he would invariably produce a conspicuously gentle voice in inverse proportion to it.

When Bakin heard this voice, he instinctively grimaced again.

“Even if you call it a manuscript, that’s out of the question.”

“Heh heh. Is there some inconvenience, perhaps?”

“That’s not just an inconvenience. This year I’ve already taken on quite a few didactic novels, so I can’t possibly take on bound books as well.”

“I see. You must be quite occupied indeed.”

No sooner had he spoken than Ichibei tapped the ash tray with his pipe as if signaling, his face now showing he had completely forgotten their prior discussion, and abruptly launched into a story about Nezumi Kozo Jirotayu.

Seven

Nezumi Kozo Jirotayu was a notorious thief of high repute who was captured in early May this year and executed and displayed publicly in mid-August.
Since he would break into nothing but daimyo mansions and distributed his stolen gold to the destitute, the epithet "righteous thief" became this robber’s common moniker at the time, and he was fervently celebrated everywhere.

“After all, Master—seventy-six daimyo mansions broken into! Three thousand one hundred eighty-three ryō and two bu stolen! It’s astonishing!”
“He may be a thief, but such deeds lie far beyond any ordinary man’s capabilities.”

Bakin felt his curiosity stir despite himself.
Behind Izumiya Ichibei’s recounting of such tales always lurked the self-importance of one believing he bestowed material upon an author.
This self-importance naturally grated on Bakin’s nerves.
Yet even as it irritated him, curiosity compelled him nonetheless.
This susceptibility likely stemmed from his abundant artistic gifts—in such matters, he proved especially vulnerable to temptation.

“Hmm, that is indeed remarkable. I too had heard various rumors, but never imagined it was to such an extent.”

“In short, he stands preeminent among thieves—a veritable paragon of their ilk. They say he once served as an attendant to Lord Arayo Tajimanokami or some such duty, hence his familiarity with mansion layouts. From accounts of those who witnessed the public procession—a portly, amiable man wearing an indigo Echigo linen robe over white silk underthings—why, he might have stepped straight from the pages of your own works, Master.”

Bakin gave a perfunctory reply while taking another puff.
But Ichibei, of course, was not the sort of man to be fazed by a perfunctory reply.

“Might I inquire as to your thoughts? Might I then inquire if we could bring this Jirotayu into *The Plum in the Golden Vase* and request your esteemed pen? I am already fully aware of how busy you are. But if you could bend your principles there and grant your consent this once.”

Nezumi Kozo having been broached at this juncture, he immediately swung back to renewing demands for the manuscript. However, Bakin, long accustomed to this customary tactic, remained unyielding. Not only that, but his mood had soured even further than before. This was because he himself had found it utterly absurd that he had momentarily fallen for Ichibei’s ploy and allowed a flicker of curiosity to stir within him. He puffed on his tobacco with evident distaste and finally came out with this line of reasoning.

“First of all, even if I force myself to write, nothing decent will come of it anyway. Then it goes without saying that sales would suffer, so you would find that unsatisfactory as well. Therefore, I believe that having me persist in my obstinacy would ultimately serve both our interests.”

“That may be so, but I must ask for your esteemed exertion just this once.”
“How does that strike you?”

Ichibei, while saying this, “stroked” his face with his gaze.
(This was Bakin’s term to describe a certain look in Izumiya’s eyes.) Then, he exhaled tobacco smoke in intermittent puffs through his nose.

“I simply can’t write it.”
“Even if I wanted to—I have no time—there’s nothing to be done.”

“That puts me in quite a predicament.”

he said, but this time abruptly began speaking of fellow authors from that era.
Still holding the thin silver pipe between his thin lips.

Eight

“I hear Tanehiko has another new edition coming out.”
“It will no doubt be a work of foremost elegance tinged with pathos.”
“That man’s writings seem to possess a quality that only Tanehiko could produce.”

Ichibei had an inexplicable habit of referring to all authors by their bare surnames without honorifics.
Each time Bakin heard this, he imagined himself being called “Bakin” behind his back.
What need could there be to write manuscripts for this frivolous man who treated authors as his personal craftsmen—even enduring such disrespectful address?
In moments of heightened irritation, it was not uncommon for him to seethe with such thoughts.
Today too, upon hearing Tanehiko’s name, he found his bitter expression growing ever more bitter.
Yet Ichibei appeared entirely unperturbed by such matters.

“And we are considering publishing Shunsui as well.”
“You may dislike it, Master, but such matters do suit the tastes of the common folk.”

“Hmm, is that so?”

In Bakin’s memory rose the vulgar, exaggerated visage of Shunsui—a face he had once glimpsed.
“I am no author. Merely a craftsman who writes erotic tales to please patrons.” Bakin had long been aware of the rumors that Shunsui proclaimed this of himself.
Therefore, he of course despised this author who did not act like an author from the bottom of his heart.
Yet despite this, upon hearing Ichibei refer to him without honorifics now, he still could not suppress a feeling of displeasure.

“Be that as it may, when it comes to matters of sensuality, Shunsui is quite adept, you see.”
“And with his renowned penmanship.”

While saying this, Ichibei glanced briefly at Bakin’s face, then immediately shifted his gaze to the silver pipe clenched between his lips. In that fleeting expression lurked something alarmingly base. At the very least, Bakin felt this to be so.

“Even when writing such volumes, his brush flows smoothly without pause—they say he can complete two or three installments without lifting it from the paper. By the way, would someone such as yourself also be considered quick, Master?”

Bakin felt discomfort and a sense of intimidation. The fact that his writing speed was being compared to that of Shunsui and Tanehiko was naturally disagreeable to him, whose self-esteem burned fiercely. Moreover, he was a slow writer. He had often grown lonely when this seemed to corroborate his own inadequacy. Yet on the other hand, he had frequently wished to treasure it as a yardstick measuring his artistic conscience. However, no matter how he might feel, he absolutely refused to let that be subjected to the vulgar prying of common minds. Thereupon, directing his gaze toward the red maple and yellow chrysanthemums on the floor, he spat out these words.

“It depends on the time and situation.”
“There are times when it’s fast, and times when it’s slow.”

“Ahaha, depends on the time and situation, eh?
“I see.”

Ichibei expressed admiration for a third time.
But needless to say, this was not an admiration that ended with mere admiration itself.
Immediately after this, he cut in again.

“However, regarding the manuscript I have repeatedly requested—would you not grant your consent?
“Even Shunsui…”

“I am different from Mr. Tamenaga.”

When angered, Bakin had a habit of twisting his lower lip to the left.
At this moment, it twisted to the left with terrifying force.

"Well, I must decline.—Sugi! Sugi! Have you prepared Mr. Izumiya's footwear?"

Nine

After driving Izumiya Ichibei away, Kyokutei Bakin leaned against a pillar on the veranda alone and gazed at the narrow garden's scenery while laboring to forcibly subdue his still-unsettled churning anger.

In the garden bathed in full sunlight, tattered plantain leaves and a balding Chinese parasol tree joined with the green of podocarpus and bamboo to warmly govern several square yards of autumn.
The hibiscus by this water basin had already thinned its blooms, but the osmanthus planted beyond the latticed fence still retained its sweet fragrance.
Thereupon, the cry of that kite descended from the distant blue sky now and then, like the sound of a flute being played.

He contrasted this natural scene with the vulgarity of the world he had just recalled anew. The misfortune of humans living in a vulgar world lies in being so troubled by its vulgarity that they are compelled to engage in vulgar speech and actions themselves. Indeed, I had now driven Izumiya Ichibei away. Driving someone away was of course no noble act. But I had been driven by his vulgarity to the point where I too had no choice but to commit that vulgar deed. And thus I did. The meaning of this act was nothing less than debasing myself to Ichibei's level. In other words, I had been degraded to that extent.

When he had thought this far, he discovered a similar event within his recent memories.
That was Nagashima Masahyo from somewhere like Kusakue Shinden in Sagami Province—the man who had sent a letter last spring saying he wanted to become his disciple.
According to the letter, this man—having gone deaf at twenty-one—had resolved to make his name through literary pursuits, and from that time until his present age of twenty-four, had devoted himself exclusively to composing didactic novels.
Needless to say, he was a devoted reader of The Eight Dog Chronicles and Journey Around the Islands.
Therefore, living in such a rural area would hinder his studies in various ways.
Therefore, might I not be taken in as your dependent?
Moreover, I have a six-volume manuscript of didactic novels.
I wish to have this undergo your revisions and publish it through a proper publisher.—He had written something along these lines.
The other party’s demands were, of course, all nothing but excessively self-serving to Bakin.
Yet Nagashima’s deafness—to Bakin, who was troubled by his own failing eyesight—must have served as a tenuous bridge for some measure of sympathy.
His reply—that he regrettably could not comply with the request—was, if anything, exceedingly courteous on his part.
Then, the reply that came back contained nothing but vehement criticisms from beginning to end.

"I painstakingly read your tedious, inept didactic novels like *The Eight Dog Chronicles* and *Journey Around the Islands*, yet you refused to even glance at my mere six-volume work. Does this not reveal the lowness of your character?" The letter began with such phrases and concluded with an attack—that a senior refusing to take in a junior as a dependent was the act of a miser—barely forming a coherent whole. Kyokutei Bakin, angered, immediately wrote a reply. And in it he included the phrase that having his novels read by a frivolous fool like yourself was a lifelong disgrace. There has been no word from him since then, but I wonder—has he been drafting manuscripts for didactic novels all this time? And does he fantasize that someday it will be read by people all across Japan? …………

Within this memory, Bakin could not help but simultaneously feel pity for Nagashima Masahyo and pity for himself.
And this in turn led him to an indescribable loneliness.
But the sun mindlessly suffused the air with osmanthus fragrance.
The plantain and Chinese parasol tree kept their leaves utterly still.
The kite's cry alone rang as clearly as ever.
This nature and that human— For ten minutes afterward, until the maid Sugi came to announce lunch was ready, he continued leaning dazedly against the veranda pillar as if lost in some dream.

Ten

Having finished his solitary lunch alone, he finally withdrew to his study and, to calm his somehow restless, unpleasant mood, opened *The Water Margin* after a long interval.
The passage he had chanced upon was the scene where Lin Chong the Leopard Head, on a stormy night at the Mountain Spirit Temple, witnesses the burning of the fodder depot.
He could summon his customary fascination with the dramatic scene.
But when it continued to a certain point, he became strangely uneasy.

The family members who had gone to the Buddhist service had not yet returned.
The interior of the house was as still as a forest.
He set aside his gloomy expression and, with *The Water Margin* before him, smoked his clumsily rolled tobacco.
And within that smoke, a certain question he had long carried in his mind surfaced.

That was the question that always lingered between him as a moralist and him as an artist.
He had never doubted "the Way of the Former Kings" since ancient times.
His novels, as he himself has declared, are precisely the artistic expression of "the Way of the Former Kings."
Therefore, there is no contradiction here.
But between the value that "the Way of the Former Kings" bestows upon art and that which my emotional sensibilities seek to impart to it, there lies an unexpectedly vast chasm.
Therefore, the moralist within him affirmed the former while the artist within him naturally affirmed the latter.
Of course I knew there was no shortage of cheap compromise ideas to escape this contradiction.
In truth he had at times attempted to conceal his ambiguous attitude toward his art behind this half-baked theory of harmony when addressing the public.

However, even if the public were deceived, he himself was not.
While denying gesaku's value by calling it "a tool for moral instruction," whenever he encountered the overwhelming artistic impulses surging within him, he would immediately feel unease.
—That a passage from The Water Margin had unexpectedly affected his mood was in fact due to these very reasons.

At this point, Bakin—ideologically timid—silently puffing on his tobacco, tried to forcibly divert his thoughts toward his absent family.
But before him lay The Water Margin.
Anxiety, centered on it, refused to leave his thoughts.

At that very moment, as if by fortunate timing, Kazan Watanabe Noboru came to visit after a long absence. Given that he had a purple furoshiki bundle tucked under his arm along with his hakama haori, he must have come to return some borrowed books.

Kyokutei Bakin was delighted and went out to the entrance to greet this close friend.

“I have come today both to return the borrowed books and to show you something.”

Kazan, upon being shown into the study, indeed spoke thus.
Looking closer, he saw that besides the furoshiki bundle, Kazan also held what appeared to be a painting silk rolled in paper.

“If you have the time, perhaps you could take a look?”

“Ah, by all means—let me have a look.”

Kazan Watanabe Noboru, as if concealing an emotion akin to excitement, smiled somewhat affectedly and unrolled the painting silk from within the paper. The artwork depicted desolate bare trees sparsely rendered with perspective, within which stood two men clapping their hands in conversation. Yellow leaves scattered through the grove and crows flocking at the treetops—no matter where one looked across the canvas, there was not a spot untouched by autumn’s deceptive chill.

When Bakin’s eyes fell upon this lightly colored portrayal of Hanshan and Shide, they gradually began to shine with a gentle sheen.

“As always, splendid work.”
“It reminds me of Wang Mojie.”
“It brings to mind the lines: ‘Birds descend to their nests following the chime of the temple bell; footsteps tread through the empty forest, accompanied by the sound of fallen leaves.’”

Eleven

“I completed this painting yesterday, and as I’ve grown rather fond of it, I brought it here intending to present it to you if you would accept it.”

Kazan, stroking the bluish jaw where his beard once grew, said with evident satisfaction.

“Of course, when I say I like it, that’s only among what I’ve painted thus far—no matter how much time passes, I can never render things as I truly envision them.”

“That is most generous. I’m always the one receiving things from you—it’s quite embarrassing.”

Kyokutei Bakin murmured his thanks while gazing at the painting. For at that moment, the thought of his unfinished work suddenly flashed through the depths of his mind. But Kazan, for his part, seemed still to be thinking of his painting.

“Whenever I look at the paintings of the ancients, I always wonder how they managed to create such works. Whether trees, stones, or people—each becomes utterly itself as a tree, a stone, or a person, yet within them, the emotions of the ancients who painted them live on in tranquility. That alone is truly remarkable. As for me, when it comes to that, I haven’t even reached the level of a child.”

"The ancients said, 'Posterity is fearsome,' you know."

Kyokutei Bakin gazed at Kazan Watanabe Noboru—who seemed to think of nothing but his own paintings—with an envious air, and for once indulged in such banter.

“That too holds terror for posterity.”
“Thus we find ourselves wedged between the ancients and posterity, unable to budge an inch, driven ever forward by their pressures.”
“Yet this predicament cannot be ours alone.”
“The ancients knew it too—and posterity shall know it no less.”

“If one does not advance, they will immediately be crushed.”
“Then devising ways to advance even a single step seems paramount.”

“Indeed, that is what’s most crucial.”

The host and the guest, moved by their own words, fell silent for a time. And then both of them listened to the quiet sounds of the autumn day.

“Is *The Eight Dog Chronicles* progressing as usual?”

Before long, Kazan opened a new avenue of conversation.

“Ah, it’s not progressing at all—utterly hopeless. It seems I still fall short of the ancients as well.”

“If the respected elder says such things, it’s quite troubling.”

“If you are troubled, then I am more troubled than anyone. But no matter what, I have no choice but to press onward with this as far as I can go. With that thought, I have lately resolved to go down fighting alongside *The Eight Dog Chronicles*.”

Having said this, Bakin forced a wry smile, as if ashamed of himself.

“Even if I dismiss it as mere gesaku, there are often times when that simply won’t do.”

“The same applies to my paintings. Since I’ve started, I too want to see it through as far as I can go.”

“So we’re both resolved to go down fighting—I suppose.”

The two men laughed aloud.
Yet within that laughter flowed a loneliness known only to them.
At the same moment, both host and guest felt an identical powerful excitement born from this loneliness.

“Still, I must admit envy regarding painting.
That you need never face official censure—this is truly fortunate beyond measure.”

This time, it was Kyokutei Bakin who redirected the conversation.

Twelve

“That may not be so—but surely your writings need not fear such concerns.”

“On the contrary, they face them in abundance.”

Bakin cited how censors had forced revisions to his novel—specifically a passage describing officials taking bribes—as proof of their profound incompetence. To this he appended a scathing critique:

“Is it not laughable how these censors expose their own tails through their nitpicking? They who take bribes themselves cannot abide bribery being written about. They who wallow in lewdness brand any mention of romance as obscenity. Then they presume their moral sense surpasses the author’s—a spectacle as absurd as monkeys grimacing at their own reflections. They rage against the inferiority they see in themselves.”

Kazan, finding Bakin’s metaphor overly impassioned, couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

“There may indeed be some truth to that.”
“However, even if you are forced to revise it, that would not bring disgrace upon you, respected elder.”
“No matter what the censors may say, a splendid work will surely have its due.”

“Even so, their overbearing conduct often goes too far.”
“Why, just once when I wrote about delivering provisions to a prison house, they cut out five or six lines all the same.”

Bakin himself chuckled softly along with Kazan as he said this.

“But fifty or a hundred years hence, these censors will vanish while *The Eight Dog Chronicles* alone remains.”

“Whether *The Eight Dog Chronicles* endures or not, I suspect these censors will linger on unexpectedly long.”

“Is that so? I do not see it that way.”

“Ah, even if the censors vanish, people like them have never ceased to exist through the ages. To think the Burning of Books and Burying of Scholars belonged solely to antiquity would be a grave error.”

“Respected elder, you’ve been voicing such despondent remarks of late.”

“It is not that I am disheartened. It’s this world overrun by censors that disheartens me.”

“Then you should work all the harder.”

“In any case, it seems there’s nothing for it but that.”

“So once again, we’re resolved to go down fighting together?”

This time, neither of them laughed.
Not only did they not laugh.
Bakin slightly hardened his face and looked at Kazan.
So much so that Kazan’s jest-like words carried a peculiar sharpness.

“However, first and foremost, the young must exercise the discernment to survive.”
“One can always die in battle, after all.”

After some time had passed, Bakin spoke thus. For he who knew Kazan's political views, this sudden unease must have arisen at this moment. But Kazan merely smiled and did not attempt to answer that.

Thirteen

After Kazan had left, Kyokutei Bakin turned to his desk as usual, channeling his lingering agitation into resuming work on *The Eight Dog Chronicles* manuscript. Before continuing with new writing, it had long been his habit to first read through what he had written the previous day. So today as well, he carefully and slowly reread several pages of manuscript thickly marked with vermilion between the narrow lines.

Then, for some reason, the content did not align with his own feelings. Between every character lurked an impure dissonance, shattering the work’s harmony throughout. He initially interpreted this as being due to his nerves being on edge.

There’s something wrong with my current state of mind.
What’s written here must have been written as far as I could manage to complete it.

Thinking this, he read through it once more.
But the discordant tone remained unchanged from before.
He began to panic inwardly to an extent that belied his age.

“What about the part before this one?”

He looked through the part he had written before that.
Then this too was merely a jumbled scattering of crude phrases.
He read further back.
Then once more he read the part before that one.

However, as he read on, the clumsy composition and disordered prose gradually unfolded before his eyes.
There were descriptive passages that gave no visual imagery whatsoever.
There were lyrical effusions that contained no emotion whatsoever.
And furthermore, there were arguments that followed no logical path whatsoever.
The several installments' worth of manuscripts he had spent days writing now seemed to him nothing but useless verbosity.
He suddenly felt a pain as if his heart had been pierced.

“This has to be rewritten from the beginning.”

While crying out thus in his heart, he irritably shoved the manuscript aside and lay down on his side, propped up on one elbow. Yet, perhaps still troubled, his eyes remained fixed on the desk. At this desk, he had written *Yumiharizuki*, written *Nanka no Yume*, and now was writing *The Eight Dog Chronicles*. The Duanxi inkstone resting here, the crouching dragon paperweight, the bronze water jar shaped like a toad, the celadon inkstone screen embossed with lions and peonies, then the Moso bamboo root brush holder carved with orchids—all these writing tools had long been intimate witnesses to his creative agonies. Yet even as he gazed upon these objects, he could not suppress a loathsome anxiety—that this present failure cast a dark shadow over his life’s work, that his own abilities were fundamentally suspect.

"Until just now, I had intended to write a masterpiece unparalleled in our land."
"But perhaps even that was merely another instance of common vanity."

This anxiety brought upon him a loneliness more unbearable than anything—a desolate solitude.
He never forgot to remain humble before the Chinese and Japanese geniuses he revered.
Yet precisely because of this, toward his mediocre contemporaries, he was not only arrogant but utterly insolent.
That he—who remained ever humble before the geniuses of China and Japan yet showed nothing but utter insolence toward his mediocre contemporaries—should ultimately prove to possess the same abilities as them, and worse still, that he should be revealed as nothing but a detestable boastful fool—how could he possibly bring himself to readily acknowledge this?
Moreover, his formidable "self" overflowed with too much passion to take refuge in "enlightenment" and "resignation."

He lay before his desk, gazing at the failed manuscript with the eyes of a shipwrecked captain watching his vessel sink, quietly battling despair’s overwhelming force.

Had the sliding door behind him not been flung open with a clamor at that moment—had soft small hands not clung about his neck alongside the cry of "Grandfather, I'm home!"—he would likely have remained shackled within this melancholy mood indefinitely. But Taro, his grandson, no sooner opened the sliding door than he suddenly leapt vigorously onto Bakin’s lap with the boldness and directness unique to children.

“Grandfather, I’m home!”

“Oh, you’ve returned early!”

With these words, a joy unlike his usual self radiated from the wrinkled face of the author of *The Eight Dog Chronicles*.

Fourteen

From the direction of the tearoom came bustling voices—the shrill tones of his wife Ohyaku mingling with the seemingly timid utterances of his daughter-in-law Oroji. At intervals, a deep male voice joined them, suggesting his son Munemasa too must have returned around this time. Taro sat straddling his grandfather’s lap, gazing up at the ceiling with an exaggeratedly solemn expression as though straining to listen. His cheeks—still flushed from exposure to the cold air—quivered faintly around their small nostrils with each breath.

“You know, Grandfather...”

Taro, wearing a small chestnut-and-plum family crest, suddenly began to speak like this. From the effort to think and the effort to suppress laughter, his dimples repeatedly appeared and disappeared. To Bakin, this naturally seemed to invite a smile.

“Do well every day.”

“Hmm, ‘Do well every day’?”

“You must study.”

Bakin finally burst out laughing.
But even as he laughed, he immediately resumed his words,

“And then?”

“And then—um—you mustn’t throw tantrums, she said.”

“Oh my, is that all?”

“There’s more.”

Having said this, Taro tilted back the thread-whiskered servant’s head and himself burst into laughter.
Seeing him laugh like this—narrowing his eyes, baring his white teeth, gathering his small dimples—one simply couldn’t imagine this face growing into the pitiable visage of an ordinary adult.
Bakin, drowning in awareness of happiness, thought such things.
And that further tickled his heart.

“Is there still something else?”

“There’s more.”
“There are all sorts of things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Um… Grandfather—”
“Because you’re going to become even greater now.”

“Because I’ll become great?”

“So you must do well.”
“You must persevere,” she said.

“I have been persevering.”
Bakin involuntarily spoke in a solemn voice.

“You must persevere even more, and even better.”

“Who said such a thing?”

“Well...”

Taro glanced mischievously at his face for an instant.
And then he laughed.

“Who could it be?”

“Well... Since you went to visit the Buddha today, you probably heard it from the temple priest.”

“No.”

Taro, shaking his head resolutely, half-rose from Bakin’s lap while thrusting his chin slightly forward,

“You know...”

“Yeah.”

“The Kannon-sama of Asakusa said it.”

No sooner had he spoken these words than the child—laughing with evident delight in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the house, as though fearing Bakin might seize him—hastily sprang away from his grandfather's side.
Clapping his small hands in delight at having successfully tricked his grandfather, he went tumbling off toward the tearoom.

It was at this moment that something solemn flashed through Bakin’s heart.
A blissful smile floated upon his lips.
At the same time, before he knew it, his eyes had filled with tears.

Whether this joke was Taro’s own invention or something his mother had taught him was not a question he cared to pursue. At this moment, what struck him as wondrous was hearing such words issue from his grandson’s lips.

“Did Kannon-sama say that? Study.”
“Don’t throw tantrums.”
“Persevere even more thoroughly.”

The sixty-something-year-old artist, laughing through tears, nodded like a child.

Fifteen

That night.

Bakin began to resume work on the manuscript of *The Eight Dog Chronicles* under the dim light of a round paper lantern.
While he wrote, not even members of the household entered this study.
In the silent room, the sound of the lamp wick drawing oil, along with the chirping of crickets, vainly spoke of the loneliness of the long night.

When he first set brush to paper, a faint glimmer stirred within his mind.
As the brush advanced ten, then twenty lines, that glimmer gradually grew in magnitude.
Bakin, knowing from experience what this was, proceeded with his brush with utmost care.
Divine inspiration was no different from fire.
If one does not know how to kindle it, even should it flare up once, it will swiftly die out again....

Don’t rush.
And think as deeply as you can.

Bakin, restraining his brush that threatened to race ahead, whispered these words to himself repeatedly.
Yet within his mind, something resembling shattered stars already coursed swifter than any river.
And as it gathered force with each passing moment, it drove him onward inexorably.

To his ears, the sound of crickets had at some point ceased to be heard.
To his eyes as well, the faint light of the round paper lantern was now not the slightest burden.
The brush gained momentum of its own accord and began to glide across the paper in a single breath.
He continued writing with almost desperate intensity, as though wrestling with a deity.

The currents in his mind surged forth like a galaxy streaking across the heavens, welling up from some unknowable source. He feared the tremendous momentum even as he grew anxious that his physical strength might not withstand it. And while gripping his brush tightly, he called out to himself repeatedly like this:

"Keep writing to the very roots. What I’m writing now—this might be something I can only write at this very moment!"

However, the current resembling a haze of light did not slacken its speed in the slightest. Instead of slackening, it surged upon him with roaring force in its dizzying leaps, drowning all things. He had at last become utterly its captive. And forgetting everything, he drove his brush in the direction of that current with storm-like force.

What now filled his kingly eyes was neither profit nor loss, neither love nor hatred.
As for a mind troubled by reputation—such things had long since been swept from his vision and vanished.
What remained was merely an inscrutable joy.
Or perhaps a profound emotion of ecstatic tragic heroism.
How could those who do not know this emotion ever savor the state of gesaku immersion?
How could the solemn soul of a gesaku writer ever be understood?
Here indeed does Life—having washed away all its dross—shine before the author with beauty, like a new vein of ore.…

× × ×

Meanwhile, around the paper lantern in the tearoom, the mother-in-law Omo and the bride Oji continued sewing face-to-face.
They must have already put Taro to bed.
A little distance away, the frail-looking Sōhaku had been busily rolling pills since some time before.

“Father still isn’t going to bed, hmm?”

Before long, Omo muttered discontentedly while applying hair oil to her needle.

“He must be so absorbed in his writing again.”

Oji replied without taking her eyes off her needle.

“He’s such a handful.”
“It doesn’t even bring in decent money though.”

Omo said this and looked at her son and daughter-in-law.
Sōhaku pretended not to hear and did not answer.
Oji also continued moving the needle in silence.

The crickets chirped away autumn without change, both here and in the study.

(November 1917)