Pathway to Japanese Literature

This is the story of Mr. Homma, who graduated from the university's history department two or three years before me.
That Mr. Homma authored two or three interesting papers on Meiji Restoration history would be known to many.
Exactly one week before I moved to Kamakura last winter, I had gone out for a meal with Mr. Homma and by chance heard this story.

What it was about, even now, I cannot get out of my head.
Therefore, I now intend to fulfill my obligation to contribute to Shinshosetsu's editor by writing this story.
However, I later heard that this story—referred to as "Mr. Homma's Saigo Takamori"—is said to be one of the famous tales among friends.
Considering this, the story might already be unexpectedly known within certain circles of society.

When Mr. Homma told this story, he said, “The judgment of its truth lies with those who hear it.” There was no need for me to assert what even Mr. Homma himself did not claim. As for readers, they needed only to follow along line by line as casually as one might read an old newspaper article—it would suffice if they merely read through it.

―――――――――――――――――――――――――

It must have been about seven or eight years ago now.
It was late March—when Kiyomizu’s single-petaled cherry blossoms were just about to bloom—though on that particular night, sleet-laced rain was falling through the bitter cold.
Mr. Homma, then a university student, sat in the dining car of the Tokyo-bound express train that had departed Kyoto sometime after nine o'clock, absently puffing on his M.C.C. cigarette as he gazed at the glass of white wine before him.
Since they had passed Maibara earlier, they must certainly have been approaching Gifu Prefecture's border by now.
When he looked out through the glass window, everything lay pitch black.
Occasionally small lights streamed past—though whether they were distant house lamps or sparks from the train’s smokestack remained unclear.
Through it all, only the sound of half-frozen rain striking the windows wove its monotonous rhythm into the clamor of train wheels.

Mr. Homma had come to Kyoto alone about a week prior, taking advantage of his spring break to research historical materials from around the Meiji Restoration while also enjoying some leisure time.
But upon arriving, not only had the things he wanted to investigate multiplied, but there were also numerous places he wished to visit.
Amidst being kept busy with various matters there, before he knew it, his vacation had dwindled to almost nothing.
There wasn’t much time left before the new semester’s lectures were to begin.
When he thought this, no matter how much lingering attachment he felt toward the Miyako Odori dances or the Hozugawa River boat rides, his conscience grew troubled at idly gazing upon Higashiyama and passing his days in such a manner.

Mr. Homma finally resolved that despite the rain, once his luggage was ready, he would hail a rickshaw from Tawaya's entrance and have his diligent figure in uniform and cap taken to Shichijo Station.

However, upon boarding, the second-class car proved so crowded one could scarcely move.
Thanks to the porter's assistance, he managed to find a spot to sit, though sleep seemed impossible.
Of course, all sleeping berths had long been sold out.
For some time, Mr. Homma remained wedged between a liquor-reeking army officer whose girth exceeded ten arm spans and a teeth-grinding noblewoman from somewhere who slept beside him, hunching his shoulders while indulging in youthful, aimless reveries.
But even these daydreams gradually dwindled.
Meanwhile, the oppressive presence of his formidable neighbors grew ever more pronounced.
At last, Mr. Homma could bear it no longer—placing his regulation cap in the space he had vacated, he retreated to the dining car linked one carriage ahead.

The dining car was deserted, with only a single customer present. Mr. Homma then went to the farthest table and ordered a glass of white wine. Truth be told, it wasn’t that he wanted to drink wine at all. All he needed was to pass the time until sleepiness set in. Even after the surly waiter had placed an amber-hued wine glass before him, he merely touched his lips to it before promptly lighting an M.C.C. cigarette. The cigarette smoke formed small blue rings that rose leisurely into the bright electric light. Homma stretched his legs out at length under the table and, for the first time, began to feel a sense of relief as if he could finally breathe easily.

Though his body had relaxed, his mood had grown strangely heavy. As he sat there like this, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the gloom outside the glass door might suddenly come rushing in. Or perhaps the plates and cups neatly arranged on the white tablecloth might all slide out at once in the direction of the train’s movement—he couldn’t help but feel that too. As this sensation began to press heavily on his heart along with the fierce sound of rain, Mr. Homma raised his eyes wide with alarm and instinctively looked around the dining car. The mirrored cupboards, several electric lamps flickering as they swayed, a glass vase holding rapeseed flowers—all these things seemed to jostle together in silent uproar, rushing chaotically into his vision. But what drew Mr. Homma’s attention more than all these things was the sole customer leaning on a table across the way, sipping what appeared to be a glass of whiskey.

The customer was a salt-and-pepper-haired old gentleman whose ruddy cheeks bore a sparse beard reminiscent of Western styling. This impression intensified through iron-rimmed pince-nez glasses perched on his sharply pointed nose. He wore a black suit that even from afar clearly lacked refinement—the old gentleman raised his eyes in unison with Mr. Homma and cast an unfocused glance in this direction. At that moment, Mr. Homma unconsciously emitted a faint mental exclamation of "Oh!"

The reason for this was that Mr. Homma felt he had seen the old gentleman's face somewhere before.
Though whether he had actually seen the face itself or merely a photograph remained unclear to him.
But there was indeed a memory of having seen it.
Therefore, Mr. Homma hurriedly ran through the names of people he knew in his mind.

Then, while this mental inventory remained incomplete, the old gentleman abruptly stood up and, resisting the train’s swaying, strode with large steps toward Mr. Homma. Then, sitting down casually across the table, he boomed in a voice more vigorous than his years, “Well, hello there!”

Mr. Homma, not quite understanding why but out of deference to his elder, graciously gave a slight bow while forcing a meaningless smile.

“Do you know me?”
“What? You don’t?”
“If you don’t know me, you might as well not be here.”
“You’re a university student, aren’t you?”
“And the College of Humanities at that.”
“You and I are people engaged in similar lines of work.”
“Depending on the circumstances, you might even be a member of the same guild.”
“So, what’s your specialty?”

“History.”

“Ah, History.”
“You too are one of those despised by Dr. Johnson.”
“Johnson said, ‘Historians are mere almanac-makers.’”

The old gentleman, having said this, tilted his head back and burst into loud laughter.
He must have been quite drunk by now.
Mr. Homma did not reply, merely smirking faintly as he carefully observed his companion’s surroundings during that interval.
The old gentleman wore a low folded collar with a black necktie, and across the chest of his threadbare vest here and there, he ostentatiously dangled a thick silver watch chain.
However, the shabbiness of this attire was clearly not due to poverty.
As evidence, both the collars and shirt cuffs retained a stark white freshness, stiffened coldly against the skin.
Probably because he belonged to the class of scholars or some such, he was utterly indifferent to his appearance.

“Almanac-maker.”
“That’s exactly it.”
“No—as I see it, even that remains highly questionable.”
“But that is neither here nor there.”
“But more importantly, what specific aspect are you researching?”

“Meiji Restoration history.”

“So your graduation thesis topic also falls within that scope, I take it.”

Mr. Homma somehow felt as though he were undergoing an oral examination.
In this opponent’s tone there was something oddly pressing that now made him dimly sense this would ultimately lead him into some preposterous predicament.
At this realization he picked up his glass of white wine as if suddenly remembering its existence and answered with deliberate simplicity: “I intend to focus on the Satsuma Rebellion.”

Then the Old Gentleman, apparently feeling suddenly thirsty himself, twisted half his body backward and barked out, "Hey! A whiskey!" Without even waiting for it to arrive, he turned back toward Mr. Homma, a mocking glint visible behind his pince-nez, and began to speak.

“The Satsuma Rebellion?”
“That’s interesting.”
“I too once took some interest in excavating facts about it, since my uncle joined the rebel forces back then and died in battle.”
“I don’t know what historical materials you’re following in your research, but regarding that war there exists an abundance of misinformation—misinformation that nevertheless passes authoritatively as accurate historical records.”
“Therefore, unless one exercises considerable caution in selecting historical materials, one risks falling into unforeseen errors.”
“You too would do well to exercise caution there first and foremost.”

Mr. Homma, judging from the other's attitude and tone of voice, felt uncertain whether this advice was even something he should be grateful for, and so while repeatedly sipping his white wine, he gave an extremely vague response like "Uh-huh" or something of the sort.
But the old gentleman paid no attention whatsoever to this response.
Just then, wetting his throat slightly with the whiskey the waiter had brought, he pulled a ceramic pipe from his pocket and began stuffing tobacco into it while,

“Even if you exercise utmost caution, it may still prove perilous. This may sound impolite, but there are so many questionable elements within those war’s historical materials.”

“Is that so?”

The old gentleman nodded silently, struck a match, and lit his pipe.
His Westernized face, illuminated from below by the red flame, became framed by thick smoke that grazed his sparse beard, wafting a distinctly Egyptian odor.
When Mr. Homma saw this, he suddenly found this old gentleman irritatingly smug for some reason.
Of course he was drunk—Homma knew that.
But if I were to listen to his nonsensical lies and remain meekly silent, even the gold buttons on my uniform would lose face.

“However, I don’t believe such particular caution is necessary—but what reasons make you think so?”

“Reasons? There are none—there are facts.”
“I simply examined each historical material about the Satsuma Rebellion with thorough care.”
“And from them, I discovered numerous instances of misinformation.”
“That’s all.”
“But isn’t that alone enough to make such an assertion?”

“Of course one would say that.”
“Then I should like to hear one of these facts you’ve discovered.”
“It would likely be of great reference value even to someone like me.”

The old gentleman kept his pipe clamped between his teeth and remained silent for a time.
Then, while turning his gaze toward the glass window, he made a peculiar slight grimace.
Before his eyes passed a dimly lit station where several passengers stood waiting, fleeting faintly through the darkness and rain.
Homma observed his counterpart's demeanor while suppressing an urge to mutter "serves you right" in his heart.

"If there were no political impediments, I'd gladly share—but imagine if this secret reached Lord Yamagata's ears."
"That would spell trouble extending far beyond myself alone, you understand."

The old gentleman pondered and pondered, then slowly spoke. Then he adjusted his pince-nez and gazed at Homma’s face with probing eyes—the contemptuous expression floating there must have already been caught in those eyes. He gulped down the remaining whiskey in one vigorous swig, then suddenly thrust his bearded face close—bringing whiskey-laden breath to Homma’s ear—and whispered in a biting tone:

"If you simply promise not to speak of this to others, I might let you in on one of them."

This time, Homma grimaced.
For the thought that this guy might be crazy had flashed through his mind at that very moment.
Yet even as he felt this, there simultaneously arose in him a sense that it would be regrettable—having pursued the matter this far—to helplessly let that factual matter slip through his fingers.
Moreover, there likely also came into play a childish determination not to lose—the resolve that he wasn’t someone who would retreat from such a threat.
Homma threw the shortened M.C.C. into the ashtray, straightened his neck, and said clearly:

“Then I won’t speak of it to others—please allow me to hear this fact.”

“Very well.”

The old gentleman sent up thick smoke from his pipe for a while and gazed fixedly at Homma’s face with his small eyes.
Until now I hadn’t noticed, but these were not the eyes of a madman.
That said, they were not ordinary eyes like those of common people either.
Wise yet gentle eyes that seemed perpetually smiling at something—clear and radiant eyes they were.
Mr. Homma, while sitting silently facing his opponent, could not help but feel a strange contradiction between these eyes and the man’s words and actions.
But of course, the old gentleman remained completely unaware of this.

When the blue tobacco smoke wreathed around his pince-nez glasses finally dissipated, he quietly shifted his gaze from Mr. Homma—as if watching the smoke’s departure—let it drift into distant space while tilting his head slightly back, and uttered an outrageous statement as if muttering to himself:

“If we were to list every minor factual discrepancy, there would be no end.”
“Then I’ll tell you the greatest misinformation of all.”
“That Saigo Takamori did not die in the Battle of Shiroyama.”

When he heard this, Mr. Homma suddenly felt laughter welling up. While lighting a new M.C.C. to conceal his laughter, he forced out a serious voice and replied in tune, “Is that so?” There was no longer any need to press further. To casually lump Saigo Takamori’s death at Shiroyama—acknowledged by all accurate historical materials—into the category of misinformation... this alone laid bare the true nature of the old man’s so-called facts. Indeed, this was neither madness nor anything of the sort. He was simply one of those naive country bumpkins who equate Yoshitsune with Temujin or claim Hideyoshi was an imperial descendant. Having thought this, Mr. Homma—while simultaneously feeling amusement, irritation, and a kind of disappointment in his heart—resolved to bring his exchange with the old gentleman to a close as soon as possible.

“Moreover, he didn’t just survive Shiroyama back then. Saigo Takamori has been alive up to this very day.”

Having said this, the old gentleman rather haughtily glanced at Mr. Homma. Of course, Homma responded to this as well with a perfunctory “Hmm.” Then, while briefly allowing a mocking smile to play at the corners of his lips, he posed his question in a calm tone, deliberately affected.

“You cannot believe what I say.”
“No—there’s no need for explanations. I know you can’t believe me.”
“But… but you see.”
“Why do you doubt that Saigo Takamori has been alive up to this very day?”

"You yourself have reportedly taken an interest in the Satsuma Rebellion and conducted thorough investigations into its facts. If that is so, then I likely need not mention such matters myself."
"However, since you inquire so earnestly, I believe I should share everything I know."

Homma, irritated by the other man's infuriatingly composed attitude and desiring to swiftly bring this comedy to a decisive conclusion—though aware it was unbecoming of an adult—made this preface before launching into a rapid exposition of the theory of Saigo’s death at Shiroyama.
I need not write that out in detail here now.
It is sufficient merely to write that Mr. Homma’s argument was, as always, decisively thorough in its logical rigor and precise in its citations.
But the old gentleman, still holding the Seto-ware pipe between his teeth and puffing out smoke as he listened to this argument, showed not the slightest sign of being discomfited.
Behind the iron-rimmed pince-nez remained the same small eyes that, while containing a soft light, bore an ironic smile.
Those eyes, strangely enough, blunted Mr. Homma’s argumentative edge.

“Certainly, if one operates on a particular assumption, your theory might hold water.”

When Mr. Homma’s argument reached its conclusion, the old gentleman said calmly:

“That assumption being your treatment of documents like Kajiki Tsunekata’s Shiroyama Siege Investigation Notes and Ichiki Shiro’s Diary as incontrovertible facts.”
“For someone like me who rejects such historical materials outright, your well-crafted argument remains pure nonsense from start to finish.”
“But wait—”
“You could certainly defend those documents’ accuracy from multiple angles.”
“Yet I hold conclusive proof that transcends all such defenses.”
“What do you imagine that might be?”

Mr. Homma, somewhat engulfed in the smoke, hesitated momentarily in his response.

“That is the fact that Saigo Takamori is currently riding on this train together with me.”

The old gentleman declared with a tone approaching solemnity, his words pressing down with crushing finality.
Even Mr. Homma—not one to be easily rattled—found himself utterly dumbfounded at this moment.
But even when reason has been threatened, it does not lose its authority over something so trivial.
Involuntarily removing his M.C.C. pipe from his mouth, Mr. Homma slowly exhaled the smoke while fixing a suspicious look in his eyes, silently gazing at the area around the other man's sharply prominent nose.

“Compared to such facts as these, what are your historical materials worth?”
“They’d all be reduced to mere scraps of old paper.”
“Saigo Takamori did not die at Shiroyama.”
“As proof, he’s currently riding in this upbound express train’s first-class compartment.”
“Could there be any fact more certain than this?”
“Or do you still place more trust in words scribbled on paper than in a living human being?”

“Well—even if he is alive, unless I see him with my own eyes, I cannot believe it.”

“Unless you see him?”

The old gentleman repeated Mr. Homma’s words in a haughty tone.
And then he slowly tapped out the pipe’s ashes.

"That's right. Unless I see him."
"Unless I see him."

Mr. Homma regained his momentum and deliberately coldly pressed his previous question.
However, for the old gentleman, even this question did not seem to have any particularly significant effect.
When he heard this, while still maintaining his arrogant demeanor, he deliberately shrugged his shoulders.

“Since we’re on the same train, if you wish to see him, you can do so even now."
“Of course, Lord Nanshu may have already fallen asleep, but since it’s just the first-class compartment one car ahead, even if you make a wasted trip, it’s no great loss.”

After saying this while stowing his Seto-ware pipe into his pocket, the old gentleman signaled to Mr. Homma with his eyes—“Come along”—and rose laboriously.
Under these circumstances, Mr. Homma had no choice but to stand up with him.
Still gripping the M.C.C. pipe between his teeth, he thrust both hands into his trouser pockets and reluctantly vacated his seat.
Then, trailing behind the staggering old gentleman, he strode through the two rows of tables toward the door.
Left behind were only the white wine glass and whiskey glass casting faint translucent shadows upon the white tablecloth, their forms quivering lonesomely amid the rain’s assault on the train.

―――――――――――――――――――――――――

It was about ten minutes later.

The white wine glass and whiskey glass were once again filled with amber liquid by the surly waiter’s hand. But that was not all. Gathered around the two glasses, the old gentleman with pince-nez and Mr. Homma in his university uniform were seated as before. At the next table over sat the portly man in informal kimono and the woman who appeared to be a geisha—who had entered earlier just as the two were leaving—now seemingly picking at what might have been fried shrimp or something of the sort. As their smooth Kansai dialect conversation continued lingeringly, the clattering sound of forks incessantly reached their ears.

But fortunately, Mr. Homma was not troubled by any of that.
The reason was that Mr. Homma’s mind was entirely filled with the astonishing scene he had just witnessed.
The greenish-brown seats of the first-class compartment, the window curtains of the same color, and between them the mountainous white-haired giant lost in slumber—ah, could his recognition of Lord Nanshu’s dignified bearing in that imposing countenance truly have been a misperception?
The lights over there were dimmer than here—or was it just his imagination?
Yet those distinctive eyes and mouth were clearly visible even without drawing near.
And that was undeniably the face of Saigo Takamori—the very face he had seen since childhood.…

“Well? Even now, do you still insist on the theory of death at Shiroyama?”

The old gentleman, his face flushed red, urged Mr. Homma’s answer with a refreshed smile.

……

Mr. Homma was perplexed.
Which should I believe?
The countless historical materials recognized as accurate by all, or the imposing old gentleman I had just seen?
If doubting the former meant doubting my mind, then doubting the latter meant doubting my eyes.
That Mr. Homma was perplexed was by no means accidental.

“You are now actually seeing Lord Nanshu before your very eyes, yet you still cling to historical materials.”

The old gentleman picked up his whiskey glass and continued in a lecturing tone.

“However, first consider what these historical materials you’re so eager to believe in actually are.”
“Even if we set aside the Shiroyama death theory for now, there exists nowhere any so-called accurate historical materials sufficient for rendering definitive historical judgments.”
“When anyone records a fact, they naturally make their own selections of details as they write.”
“Even if they don’t intend to do this, they end up doing it as a matter of fact—there’s no helping it. What this means is that they’re moving that much further away from objective facts.”
“You see?”
“So at first glance they seem reliable, but in reality, they’re quite unreliable.”
“The story of Walter Raleigh discarding his manuscript on world history after having written it no less—that perfectly illustrates the point we’ve been discussing.”
“You must know that too.”
“In reality, even things right before our eyes are beyond our understanding.”

To tell the truth, Mr. Homma had not known any of these things.
But while remaining silent, he seemed to have let the old gentleman conclude that he knew.

“Now, regarding the theory of death at Shiroyama—even those records leave ample room for doubt.”
“Admittedly, all historical materials concur that Saigo Takamori died on September 24, 1877, at the Battle of Shiroyama.”
“However, that merely indicates a person believed to be Saigo Takamori perished. Whether that person was truly Saigo Takamori constitutes an entirely separate question.”
“When considering the discovery of the head or headless corpse—as you yourself noted earlier—there are by no means few alternative theories.”
“That too warrants doubt—nay, demands it.”
“Amidst these uncertainties, you have now encountered Saigo Takamori—or if you shrink from such a declaration—at minimum a man bearing an uncanny resemblance to Saigo Takamori within this very train carriage.”
“Even so, do you persist in placing greater faith in so-called historical materials?”

“But you see. Saigo Takamori’s corpse certainly existed. In that case――”
“In that case――”

“There are plenty of people in the world who bear a resemblance.”
“Things like having an old sword wound on one’s right arm aren’t limited to just one person.”
“Do you know the story of Di Qing investigating Nong Zhigao’s corpse?”

This time, Mr. Homma honestly admitted he didn’t know.
In truth, tormented by his opponent’s peculiar logic and encyclopedic knowledge for some time now, he had gradually been feeling something akin to respect before these pince-nez.

The old gentleman took out that Seto-ware pipe from his pocket during this time and, slowly savoring Egyptian tobacco smoke,

“When Di Qing pursued them fifty li and entered Dali, he saw among the enemy corpses one wearing a robe with golden dragons.”
“The crowd all declared this to be Zhigao, but Di Qing alone would not hear of it.”
“‘How can we know this isn’t some deception?’”
“‘I would rather lose Zhigao than falsely accuse the imperial court to claim undeserved merit.’ This is not only morally commendable.”
“As an attitude toward truth, these would be desirable words as well.”
“However, regrettably, during the Satsuma Rebellion, the generals commanding the government forces lacked such thorough consideration.”
“Thus they even replaced history’s ‘might be’ with ‘is.’”

Finally rendered speechless, Mr. Homma made a desperate, childlike attempt at a final rebuttal.

"But can there really be someone who looks so similar?"

Then the old gentleman suddenly took the Seto-ware pipe from his mouth and burst into loud laughter while choking on tobacco smoke.
Perhaps because his voice was so booming, the geisha at the far table deliberately turned around and looked their way with a puzzled expression.
Yet the old gentleman showed no sign of ceasing his laughter.
Holding his slipping pince-nez with one hand and clutching a lit pipe in the other, he continued laughing with gurgling rasps in his throat.
Mr. Homma, utterly bewildered, left his glass of white wine untouched on the table and simply stared vacantly at the man's face.

“He does exist.”
After some time had passed, the old gentleman finally caught his breath and spoke these words.

“You did see him dozing over there just now.”
“That man bears such an uncanny resemblance to Saigo Takamori, doesn’t he?”

“Then that is—what is that person?”

“Him? That’s my friend. By profession he’s a doctor—a man who paints Nanga on the side.”

“He isn’t Saigo Takamori, then?”

Mr. Homma said this in a serious voice, then suddenly blushed. Until now, the ridiculous role he had been performing was suddenly illuminated in a new light at this moment.

"If I've offended you, I beg your forgiveness,"
"While talking with you, I found your youthful honesty so striking that I couldn't resist playing a little prank."
"What I did may have been a prank, but what I said was no joke."
"—I am this sort of person."

The old gentleman searched his pocket and took out a business card, showing it before Mr. Homma.
The business card bore no title or anything else.
However, upon seeing this, Mr. Homma finally managed to recall where he had seen this old gentleman’s face before.
—The old gentleman gazed at Mr. Homma’s face and smiled with satisfaction.

“I never would have dreamed you were a professor.”
“I am the one who should apologize for all my impertinent remarks.”

“Ah, that Shiroyama death theory of yours was quite a masterpiece.”
“If your graduation thesis takes that approach, it should make for quite an amusing piece.”
“At my university as well, there’s one student this year specializing in Restoration history.”
“Well, never mind that. Do have a proper drink.”

The sleet-mixed rain seemed to have let up briefly, for the sound against the window had ceased.
After the female-accompanied guest had left, only the rapeseed flowers in the glass vase wafted a faint fragrance through the crisply cold dining car.

Mr. Homma drained his glass of white wine in one vigorous gulp, pressed his flushed cheeks, and suddenly—

“You are a skeptic, Professor,” he said.

The old gentleman nodded slightly from behind his pince-nez.
He nodded with those clear eyes that seemed perpetually to smile at something.

“I am more than content as Pyrrho’s disciple.”
“We know nothing—no, we don’t even know about ourselves in that regard.”
“Let alone presume to know Saigo Takamori’s life and death.”
“Therefore, even were I to write history, I’ve no mind to pen some truth-bound chronicle.”
“Only let me craft a beautiful history—one that feels utterly plausible—and I shall be satisfied.”
“In my youth, I once aspired to become a novelist.”
“Had I done so, I’d have written precisely such fictions.”
“Perhaps that road would have proved better than this present course.”
“At any rate, I remain thoroughly skeptical.”
“Don’t you agree?”

(December 15, Taisho 6)