Pathway to Japanese Literature

Not limited to Hiroshige and Bunchō, most painted Fujis were acute-angled. The summit appeared slender, tall, and delicate. As for Hokusai, he had even depicted Fuji with its apex angle at nearly thirty degrees—an Eiffel Tower-like Fuji. However, the actual Mount Fuji was obtuse through and through—sprawling with sluggishness, 124 degrees east-west and 117 degrees north-south—by no means an outstandingly tall mountain. For instance, even if I had been suddenly snatched up by an eagle from India or some such country, plopped down on the coast near Numazu in Japan, and happened upon this mountain, I probably would not have been all that amazed. It was precisely because one already admired Nippon’s Fujiyama that it appeared wonderful; if not—if one knew nothing of such vulgar propaganda and approached it with a naive, pure, empty heart—then how much could it truly appeal? When it came to that, it was a somewhat unimpressive mountain. It was low. Considering how widely its base spread, it was low. If a mountain had a base that wide, it should have been at least 1.5 times taller.

The only Mount Fuji that appeared tall was the one viewed from Jukkoku Pass. That was good.

Initially, due to the clouds obscuring the summit, I judged from the slope of its base that the peak must lie approximately where I marked a point on the cloud layer. But when the clouds eventually parted and I looked again, it differed completely. The blue summit appeared fully twice as high as where I had marked it. Rather than astonishment, what escaped me was an oddly ticklish guffaw. "You're putting on airs," I thought. When encountering absolute reliability, people first seem to laugh uncontrollably—this appears to be a law of human nature. Every muscle slackens carelessly—an awkward expression perhaps—but it resembles laughing while loosening one's obi sash. If you meet your lover and they burst into laughter upon seeing you, consider this cause for celebration. You must never censure such discourtesy. For your lover stands drenched in your complete reliability from head to toe.

The Fuji seen from a Tokyo apartment window is wrenching. In winter, it stands clearly visible. A small, pure white triangle perches on the horizon—that is Mount Fuji. Nothing more than a Christmas decoration. Moreover, its left shoulder tilts forlornly, resembling a warship sinking stern-first. Three winters prior, someone confided an unexpected truth to me, leaving me adrift. That night, alone in my apartment room, I gulped sake. Drank without sleeping a wink. At dawn I rose to relieve myself and saw Fuji through the toilet's wire-meshed square window. Small, pure white, tilted slightly left—I cannot forget that Fuji. As the fishmonger's bicycle raced down the asphalt road below—"Whoa, Fuji's clear as hell today! Freezin' cold!"—his muttered words lingering behind, I stood frozen in the dark toilet, stroking the wire mesh while sniveling wetly, swearing never to revisit such feelings again.

In the early autumn of Showa 13 (1938), resolved to renew myself, I departed on a journey slinging a single bag.

Kōshū. The distinguishing feature of the mountains here lay in the oddly hollow gentleness of their undulating lines. In Koizumi Kansui’s *Japanese Landscape Theory*, it was written: “There are many stubborn mountains here, as if they wander immortally through this land.” The mountains of Kōshū might perhaps be the freaks among mountains.

I was jostled by the bus for an hour from Kofu City. I arrived at Misaka Pass.

Misaka Pass, 1,300 meters above sea level.

At the summit of this pass stood a small teahouse called Tenka Chaya, where Mr. Ibuse Masuji had been sequestered working on the second floor since early summer. I had known this and come here. If it wouldn’t interfere with Mr. Ibuse’s work, I thought I might rent the neighboring room and dwell there in leisurely seclusion awhile.

Mr. Ibuse was working. With Mr. Ibuse’s permission, I settled down at that teahouse for the time being, and from then on, every day—whether I liked it or not—I had to face Mount Fuji head-on. This pass stood at the strategic junction of the Kamakura Highway connecting Kōfu to the Tōkaidō, said to be the premier viewing platform for Fuji’s northern face. The view from here was supposedly counted among the Three Famous Views of Fuji since ancient times—yet I never particularly cared for it. Not only did I dislike it—I despised it. It was far too tailor-made a Mount Fuji. In the center stood Mount Fuji, with Lake Kawaguchi spreading out white and desolate below, while the nearby mountains huddled quietly at its flanks as if cradling the lake. At first glance, I was flustered and blushed. This was exactly like a bathhouse mural. It was a stage set. The scenery followed orders so precisely that I couldn’t help feeling ashamed.

Two or three days after I arrived at that pass teahouse, when Mr. Ibuse’s work had reached a stopping point, we climbed Mitsutoge Pass one clear afternoon. Mitsutoge Pass, 1,700 meters above sea level. Slightly higher than Misaka Pass. We clambered up the steep slope as if crawling and in about an hour reached the summit of Mitsutoge Pass. Pushing through vines and ivy, my figure scrambling up the narrow mountain path was by no means a pleasant sight. Mr. Ibuse wore proper climbing attire and cut a spry figure, but having no mountaineering gear of my own, I was dressed in makeshift mountain clothing. The teahouse’s borrowed work clothes were too short, leaving my hairy legs exposed over thirty centimeters—made worse by the rubber-soled tabi borrowed from the old teahouse keeper. Though I tried improving matters by fastening a stiff obi sash and donning an old straw hat from the teahouse wall, this only heightened my dishevelment. Mr. Ibuse never scorns appearances, yet even he couldn’t help a pained expression before muttering consolingly that men shouldn’t fuss over their looks—a kindness I’ll never forget. We reached the summit regardless, only for thick fog to come sweeping in—even standing at the cliff’s edge called Panorama Platform yielded no view. Nothing could be seen. Mr. Ibuse sat on a rock in the fog’s depths, slowly smoking while passing gas. He looked thoroughly bored. Three teahouses stood lined up on the Panorama Platform. We chose a plain one run solely by an old couple and drank hot tea there. The old woman apologized for the ill-timed fog—“It’ll clear soon, Fuji’s right there plain as day”—then brought out a large photograph from the back. Standing at the cliff’s edge, she held it aloft with both hands: “Right here—exactly like this—so big and clear—just as you see it now!” she earnestly explained. We sipped coarse tea while gazing at that Fuji and laughed. We saw a fine Fuji. We didn’t mind the dense fog at all.

Two days later perhaps, Mr. Ibuse was to withdraw from Misaka Pass, and I accompanied him as far as Kofu. In Kofu, I was to meet with a certain young woman for a marriage meeting. Accompanied by Mr. Ibuse, I paid a visit to the young woman's home on Kofu's outskirts. Mr. Ibuse wore unceremonious mountaineering clothes. I had on a summer haori with a stiff obi sash. The young woman's house garden contained many planted roses. Having been welcomed by the mother and shown to the parlor, I exchanged greetings until eventually the young woman emerged too—though I did not look at her face. Mr. Ibuse and the mother were engaged in grown-up small talk when abruptly Mr. Ibuse—

“Oh, Mount Fuji,” he muttered, looking up at the decorative beam behind me. I contorted my body to look up at the beam behind me. An aerial photograph of Mount Fuji’s summit crater sat framed there. It resembled a pure white water lily. Having taken it in, I slowly untwisted myself and glanced at the young woman. I decided. Even with difficulties ahead, I resolved to marry her. That Mount Fuji had been sublime.

Mr. Ibuse returned to the capital that day, and I went back to Misaka. From then until November 15th, I worked bit by bit on the second floor of the Misaka teahouse, all while holding dialogues with this "One of the Three Famous Views of Fuji"—which I never much cared for—until I was ready to collapse.

Once, I burst out laughing. A friend from the Romantic School—a university lecturer or something of the sort—stopped by my lodgings during a hike, and then the two of us went out to the second-floor corridor and gazed at Mount Fuji while...

“It’s so vulgar, isn’t it?” “Doesn’t it feel like ‘Mr. Fuji’ or something?” “When you’re the one looking, you end up being the embarrassed one.” Saying such cheeky things and puffing tobacco, then my friend suddenly—

“Oh, what’s that monk-like figure over there?” he jerked his chin.

Clad in ink-stained tattered robes, dragging a long staff while repeatedly craning his neck to gaze up at Mount Fuji, a small man of about fifty came climbing up the pass. “You might call him Saigyō contemplating Fuji,” I said. “His bearing is perfectly composed.” A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I looked at the monk. “He may well be some celebrated saintly monk.” “Don’t talk nonsense—he’s nothing but a beggar.” My friend remained cold.

“No—no.” “There’s something transcendent about him.” “His way of walking is rather accomplished, don’t you think?” “Long ago, Nōin Hōshi composed a poem praising Fuji at this pass—” While I was speaking, my friend burst out laughing. “Hey, look. It’s not working.”

Nōin Hōshi was barked at by Hachi, the teahouse dog, and was thrown into utter panic. The sight was disgustingly unsightly.

“No good.” “Just as I thought.” I was disappointed. The beggar’s panic only made him dart frantically back and forth in such disgraceful confusion that he finally flung down his staff, became utterly flustered, and retreated in defeat. Truly, it was not well done. If Mount Fuji was vulgar, then so was the monk—that’s how it came to be seen—and even now, recalling it all feels absurd.

Nitta, a mild-mannered twenty-five-year-old man, worked at the post office in Yoshida—a narrow town at the base of the mountain where the pass descended—and having learned through the mail that I was here, came to visit the teahouse on the pass. In my second-floor room, after we had talked for a while and finally grown somewhat acquainted, Nitta said with a laugh, “To tell the truth, there were two or three others in my group who’d planned to visit you together. But when it came down to it, everyone got cold feet—Mr. Satō Haruo wrote in his novel that you’re a terrible decadent and morally bankrupt, you see. We never imagined you’d turn out to be such a serious, proper gentleman. So I couldn’t very well force them all to come along.” “This time, I’ll bring everyone.” “Would that be all right?”

“I don’t mind that, though.” I gave a wry smile. “So then, you mustered desperate courage and came to scout me out on behalf of your comrades, I take it.” “It was a suicide mission.”

Nitta was straightforward. “Last night, I read Mr. Satō’s novel again and came here resolved on various things.”

I was looking at Mount Fuji through my room’s glass door. Mount Fuji stood silent and unmoving. How magnificent it was, I thought. Lovely indeed. Mount Fuji truly had its merits after all. Holding up splendidly—the thought came unbidden. There could be no rivaling it. Ashamed of my own ceaselessly churning passions—love here one moment, loathing there—I found myself thinking again how truly grand Mount Fuji remained. Holding up splendidly indeed. “Are you managing all right?” Nitta seemed amused by my words; he laughed with bright comprehension.

After that, Nitta brought various young men. They were all quiet people. Everyone called me Sensei. I accepted it with sincerity. I had nothing to be proud of. No academic knowledge either. No talent either. My body was soiled; my heart was impoverished. But as for anguish alone—the anguish that had been called "Sensei" by those youths and silently accepted to such an extent—it had been endured. That’s all there was. A single straw of pride. But I want to hold onto this one pride with clarity. How many people could know of the hidden anguish within me—me who had been called a selfish, spoiled child all this time?

Nitta and Tanabe—the latter being a skilled tanka poet—were both readers of Mr. Ibuse, and with that common ground, I grew closest to these two. Once, I had them take me to Yoshida. It was an astonishingly narrow, elongated town. It carried the air of a mountain’s foothills. A town where Mount Fuji blocked both sunlight and wind, leaving it stretched thin like a spindly stem—dim and faintly chilly in atmosphere. Clear water flowed along the road. This seemed characteristic of towns at mountain bases; even in Mishima, clear water coursed through the streets in much the same way. The locals earnestly believed this water came from Mount Fuji’s melting snow. Compared to Mishima’s water, Yoshida’s was both scantier and dirtier. As I gazed at the water, I spoke.

“In one of Maupassant’s novels, there’s a story about some young lady who swam across a river every night to meet her nobleman—but what did she do with her kimono? Surely she wasn’t naked.” “That’s true.” The youths pondered. “Maybe she wore a swimsuit?” “Do you think she tied her kimono on her head and swam across like that?” The youths laughed. “Or perhaps she waded in wearing her kimono, met the nobleman soaking wet, and they dried it by the stove together? But then what would she do when returning? After finally drying it, she’d have to get it drenched again swimming back. Quite a predicament.” “The nobleman should’ve swum to her instead.” “A man could swim in just a loincloth without looking indecent.” “Was the nobleman some sort of tyrant?”

“No—I believe it was because there were many suitors on the young lady’s side.” Nitta remained earnest. “That might be true.” “The young ladies in foreign stories are brave and charming.” “When they fall in love, they’ll even swim across rivers to meet their beloveds.” “In Japan, things never work that way.” “Isn’t there some play about this?” “One where a river flows through the center, with a man and princess lamenting on opposite banks.” “In such situations, there’s no need for the princess to wail.” What if she swam across? In plays, the river always looks so narrow. If she went splashing through it, how would that be? All that weeping means nothing. I feel no sympathy. Take Asagao’s Ōi River—that was a mighty current, and she being blind merits some pity, but even she could have swum it. Clutching that river stake while cursing heaven—utter futility. Ah—but there was one. In Japan too, we had one brave soul! That one was extraordinary. “Do you know?”

“Is there one?” The youths’ eyes lit up.

“Kiyohime.” “She chased after Anchin and swam across the Hidaka River.” “Swam like mad.” “That one’s something else. According to the books, Kiyohime was fourteen at the time, you know.”

Walking along the road while making foolish conversation, we arrived at a quiet old inn at the edge of town that seemed to be an acquaintance of Tanabe’s.

We drank there, and Mount Fuji that night was splendid.

Around ten at night, the youths left me alone at the inn and each returned home. Unable to sleep, I stepped outside in my padded robe. It was a startlingly bright moonlit night. Fuji was splendid. Bathed in moonlight and appearing blue through translucence, I felt as though a fox had bewitched me. Mount Fuji was so blue it seemed to flow. It felt as though phosphorus were burning. Will-o’-the-wisp. Fox fire. Fireflies. Silver grass. Kudzu leaves. I walked straight along the night road with a disembodied feeling. The clogs’ clatter alone rang clear, as if belonging not to me but to some other living thing—clatter-clang, clatter-clang. Quietly, when I glanced back, there was Fuji. Blazing blue, it floated in the sky. I let out a sigh. Meiji Restoration patriot. Kurama Tengu. I thought of myself as that.

I walked with a slight affectation, hands in my pockets. I felt that I was considered quite the handsome man. I walked a great distance. I dropped a wallet. Since there were about twenty fifty-sen silver coins inside, it must have been too heavy and thus slipped smoothly out of the pocket. I was strangely unperturbed. If I had no money, I could just walk back to Misaka. I kept walking.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that if I were to walk back exactly the way I had come, my wallet would be there. With hands still in my pockets, I sauntered back. Mount Fuji. Moonlit night. Meiji Restoration patriot. I had dropped a wallet. I thought it an amusing romance. The wallet was glinting in the middle of the road. It had to be there. I picked it up, returned to the inn, and went to bed. I had been bewitched by Mount Fuji. I was a fool that night. I was completely without will. Even now, when I recall that night, it feels strangely weary.

After staying one night in Yoshida and returning to Misaka the next day, the teahouse proprietress smirked knowingly while the fifteen-year-old daughter remained aloof. Wanting to subtly convey I hadn't done anything unsavory, I launched into a meticulous account of yesterday's activities though nobody asked. The name of the inn where I'd stayed, Yoshida's sake flavor, moonlit Fuji, dropping my wallet—I told them everything. The daughter's mood improved too.

“Customer! Get up and look!” One morning, outside the teahouse, the daughter shrieked in her shrill voice, so I reluctantly rose and went out to the corridor to look. The daughter stood excited, her cheeks flushed crimson. She wordlessly pointed skyward. When I looked—snow. 'The first,' I thought. Snow had fallen on Mount Fuji. The summit gleamed pure white, radiantly bright. I thought that even Misaka's Fuji couldn't be mocked.

“Nice.”

When I praised her, the daughter looked proud, “Isn’t it splendid?” she said with refined phrasing, then squatted down to add, “Even this Fuji of Misaka—still no good?” Since I had long been teaching her that this Fuji was vulgar and no good, the daughter may have been inwardly disheartened.

“After all, Fuji is no good unless it snows.” Putting on a convincing face, I corrected myself like that.

I walked around the mountains wearing a padded winter kimono, gathered a full handful of evening primrose seeds in both palms, and sowed them at the teahouse's back door,

“Listen, these are my evening primroses. I’ll come back next year to see them, so don’t go dumping laundry water here, all right?” The daughter nodded. The reason I specifically chose evening primroses was that I’d convinced myself they went well with Mount Fuji.

The teahouse at Misaka Pass was, so to speak, a lone house in the mountains; because of this, mail was not delivered. From the pass’s summit, after being jostled by bus for about thirty minutes down to the base of the mountain, I would arrive at Kawaguchi Village—a poor settlement by Lake Kawaguchi that was exactly as its name suggested. At this village’s post office, mail addressed to me was held in custody, requiring me to make the trip to collect it approximately once every three days. I would pick a day with good weather to go. The female bus conductor here did not provide any special scenic explanations for tourists. Even so, occasionally—as if suddenly remembering—she would offer listless explanations in a thoroughly prosaic tone resembling murmurs: "That’s Mitsutoge Pass," "Over there is Lake Kawaguchi," "There’s a fish called wakasagi," and such.

After collecting my mail at Kawaguchi Post Office and being jostled back toward the pass’s teahouse by bus, an elderly woman of about sixty—pale-faced and refined, wearing a dark brown haori coat that made her strikingly resemble my mother—sat rigidly upright right beside me. The female conductor suddenly exclaimed as if remembering something that was neither proper explanation nor personal reflection: “Everyone! Today you can see Fuji clearly!” At this, young salaried men with rucksacks and women in silk garments—one sporting an elaborate traditional hairstyle while fastidiously covering her mouth with a handkerchief—contorted their bodies to thrust their heads out the windows in unison. They gazed belatedly at that unremarkable triangular mountain and emitted foolish exclamations—“Ah!” or “Oh my!”—filling the bus with prolonged commotion. Yet the elderly recluse beside me—perhaps harboring some profound anguish—unlike the other sightseers, didn’t grant Fuji even a glance. Instead, she kept staring fixedly at the cliff along the mountain path opposite Fuji. Her demeanor affected me so intensely it made my body tingle with pleasure. Wanting to show this woman my lofty nihilistic conviction that “Who needs Fuji? Such a vulgar mountain isn’t worth regarding,” I drew near her furtively as if seeking affection. Without invitation, I attempted sympathetic gestures implying “I understand your suffering and loneliness,” then mimicked her posture to gaze vacantly at the cliffside myself.

The elderly woman must have felt some sense of reassurance toward me, for she muttered vaguely,

“Oh, evening primroses.”

Having said that, she pointed to a spot by the roadside with her slender finger. The bus swiftly passed by, and in my eyes remained a single golden evening primrose flower I had caught a fleeting glimpse of, its petals still vividly lingering.

That evening primrose—standing resolute without yielding an inch, magnificently confronting Mount Fuji's 3,778-meter bulk with such valor one might call it an indomitable plant—was splendid. Mount Fuji suits evening primroses well.

Even after mid-October had passed, my work showed no signs of progress. I miss people. The sunset-red clouds beneath wild geese' bellies—on the second-floor corridor, smoking alone while deliberately ignoring Mount Fuji, I stared fixedly at the crimson mountain foliage so vivid it seemed to drip blood. To the teahouse proprietress sweeping up fallen leaves before the establishment, I called out.

“Auntie! The weather will be nice tomorrow.” Even I was startled by how buoyant my voice sounded—nearly a cheer. Auntie paused her sweeping, lifted her face, and knit her brows suspiciously, “Do you have plans tomorrow?”

When asked that, I was at a loss. “Nothing.” Auntie burst out laughing. “You must be lonely. Why don’t you go climb a mountain?” “Mountains—even if you climb them, you just have to come right back down. It’s pointless. No matter which mountain you climb, you only see the same Mount Fuji. When I think of that, my spirits grow heavy.” My words must have been strange. Auntie merely nodded ambiguously and resumed sweeping the dead leaves.

Before going to bed, I quietly opened the room’s curtain and looked at Mount Fuji through the glass window. On moonlit nights, Mount Fuji stood pale blue like some water nymph. I sighed. Ah—there was Fuji. The stars loomed large. "Tomorrow will bring fair weather," I thought—this faint pulse of life’s joy—then quietly closed the curtain and lay down to sleep. Yet finding it absurd that clear skies promised me nothing particular, I let slip a wry smile beneath the futon’s covers. It hurt.

The work—no, not the pain of purely wielding the brush, or rather, wielding the brush was in fact even my pleasure—but rather my worldview, what constitutes art, tomorrow’s literature, what might be called newness; about these things I still muddled in confusion, agonized without exaggeration, writhed in agony. The simple, natural thing—hence something concise and vivid—to seize it in a single swift motion and transfer it directly to paper: I believed there was no other way. When I thought thus, even the appearance of Mount Fuji before my eyes took on a different meaning. "This form—this expression—might after all embody the beauty of the 'single expression' I had been contemplating," I nearly compromised with Mount Fuji, yet still found myself overwhelmed by its excessively rod-like simplicity. If this were acceptable, then even a statue of the Hotei deity would suffice—but I could never tolerate such a figurine. That sort of thing could never be considered good expression. This form of Fuji too must be somehow mistaken—no, this is different—and so I found myself confused once more.

In the mornings and evenings while gazing at Mount Fuji, I spent my days in gloom. In late October came courtesans from Yoshida town at the mountain's base—divided among five automobiles likely for their annual outing day—arriving at Misaka Pass. From the second floor I watched. Unloaded from vehicles like carrier pigeons spilled from a basket, women in motley hues clustered silently at first—jostling aimlessly—until their strange tension eased and they began wandering apart. Some picked through postcards at teahouse displays; others stood staring at Fuji—a scene too bleakly forlorn to bear watching. Even wholehearted sympathy from an upper-floor man added nothing to these women's happiness. I had no choice but keep watching. Let sufferers suffer. Let fallers fall. None of my concern. Such is the world. Maintaining this forced coldness while looking down upon them left me aching inside.

I'll leave it to Fuji. The thought struck me suddenly. "Hey, take care of these folks," I mentally projected upward at Fuji's blunt form jutting into the cold sky—in that moment resembling some yakuza boss standing hands-in-sleeves with padded hauteur. Having made this entrustment, I felt unburdened enough to grab the teahouse boy and shaggy Hachi, abandoning the courtesans' group to head for the pass tunnel. At the tunnel mouth stood a gaunt courtesan around thirty, silently plucking worthless weeds. She kept gathering even as we passed by her shoulder. "And this one too—while you're at it," I added mentally to Fuji before taking the child's hand and striding briskly into the tunnel. Cold groundwater dripped down my neck and cheeks as I walked purposefully wide-legged—none of my damn business.

Around that time, my marriage negotiations too had reached an impasse. From my hometown, it became clear that absolutely no assistance would be forthcoming, so I found myself at a loss. I had made a self-serving assumption that I could at least receive about one hundred yen in support, thinking with that I might hold a modest yet solemn wedding ceremony while earning through my work what would be needed afterward for establishing a household. But through exchanging two or three letters, it became evident that no assistance whatsoever would come from home, leaving me utterly bewildered. With matters having come to this pass, resigning myself that even rejection of the proposal couldn't be helped, I resolved at least to explain everything fully to them—so descending the pass alone, I called upon the Kofu woman's home. Fortunately, the young lady was present. I was ushered into the parlor where before both mother and daughter I laid bare all circumstances. At times slipping into oratorical tones to my own chagrin. Yet I felt I had managed to speak with relative candor. The young lady remained composed,

“So, would your family be opposed?” she asked me, tilting her head.

“No, it’s not that they’re opposed—” I pressed my right palm gently against the table. “It seems they’re telling me to handle it alone.” “That will be quite acceptable.” With an elegant smile, Mother said, “As you can see, we are not wealthy people ourselves, and extravagant ceremonies would only cause us consternation. If you alone possess even love and passion for your profession, that will be quite acceptable to us.”

I forgot even to bow and stared blankly at the garden for some time. I became aware of the heat in my eyes. I thought of being filial to this mother.

On my way back, the young woman was kind enough to accompany me to the bus terminal. As we walked,

“How about it? How about we try seeing each other a bit longer?” It was a pretentious thing to say.

“No.” “That’s enough.” The young woman was laughing. “Do you have any questions?”

This is utterly foolish. "Yes, I do."

No matter what I was asked, I intended to answer truthfully. “Has snow already fallen on Mount Fuji?”

I was caught off guard by that question. “It has.” “At the summit—” I began, then glancing ahead saw Mount Fuji come into view. I felt strange.

“Oh.” “You can see Fuji even from Kofu, can’t you?” “You’re making a fool of me.” My voice turned harsh. “That was a stupid question.” “You’re making a fool of me.”

The young woman looked down and giggled softly, “But since you’re staying at Misaka Pass, I thought it would be improper not to inquire about Mount Fuji.” I thought her a whimsical young woman.

When I returned from Kofu，I noticed my shoulders were so stiff I could hardly breathe. “It’s nice here，Auntie.” “Misaka really is the best.” “I even feel like I’ve come back to my own home.” After dinner，the proprietress and her daughter took turns working on my shoulders. The proprietress’s fists were hard and sharp. The daughter’s hands were soft and ineffective. Urged by my repeated “Harder，harder，” she brought out firewood and began rhythmically tapping my shoulders with it. My shoulders had stiffened to such an extent—from how intensely I’d strained myself during my earnest efforts in Kofu—that nothing less would relieve them.

After returning from Kofu, even I found myself in a daze for two or three days—no will to work arising, sitting before my desk scribbling meaningless musical notations while smoking seven or eight packs of cigarettes, then lying down to sing that school tune about unpolished diamonds over and over again, all without managing to advance my novel by even a single page.

“Customer. You’ve gotten worse since going to Kofu.” “When you went to Kofu, you got worse, didn’t you?” In the morning, as I sat at my desk with my cheek propped on my hand, eyes closed and pondering various matters, the fifteen-year-old daughter—who was cleaning the alcove behind me—said this in a tone that seemed genuinely vexed and somewhat sharp. I did not even turn around, “Hmm. Have I gotten worse?” “Have I gotten worse?” The daughter continued wiping without stopping her hands, “Ah, you’ve gotten worse.” “These past two or three days, you haven’t made any progress with your work at all, have you?” “Every morning, I find it so enjoyable to arrange the manuscript pages you’ve scattered about, putting them in numerical order.” “If you write a lot, I’m happy.” “Last night I came up to check on you quietly, y’know? Did’ya notice?” “Customer, you had the futon pulled clear over your head and were sleeping, weren’t you?”

I thought this was something to be grateful for. To put it grandiosely, this constituted pure cheering support for humanity's struggle to endure. She wasn't thinking of any reward. I thought the daughter beautiful.

By late October, the mountain's autumn foliage had darkened and grown unattractive, when suddenly an overnight storm arose, transforming the mountains into pitch-black winter-bare trees in the blink of an eye. Sightseers had dwindled to barely a countable few now. The teahouse grew quiet. Occasionally, the proprietress would take her six-year-old son shopping down to Funatsu or Yoshida at the pass's base, leaving just the daughter and me to spend entire days alone atop the pass in hushed stillness. When boredom struck me upstairs, I'd wander outside and approach the daughter doing laundry behind the teahouse,

“I’m bored, aren’t I?” I said loudly, then suddenly started to laugh—the daughter looked down, and when I peered at her face, I had a startling thought. She was making a tearful face. Clearly, it was an expression of fear. “So that’s how it is,” I thought bitterly, turning sharply around and stomping off down the narrow mountain path strewn with fallen leaves, my mood utterly foul.

From then on, I took care. When the daughter was alone, I made an effort to stay in my second-floor room as much as possible. When customers came to the teahouse—partly to protect the daughter—I would clomp down from upstairs, sit in a corner of the shop, and leisurely drink tea. Once came a customer in bridal attire accompanied by two old men wearing crested kimonos; they arrived by car and took rest at this pass's teahouse. At that time too, only the daughter was present in the shop. Again I came downstairs from the second floor and sat smoking in a corner chair. The bride wore a long kimono with hem patterns, bore a brocade obi across her shoulders, and completed her attire with a bridal headdress—resplendent in full ceremonial dress. Being such extraordinary guests, the daughter didn't know how to receive them; after serving tea to the bride and two elders, she stood silently behind me as if hiding and watched the bride. On this once-in-a-lifetime auspicious day—likely journeying from one side of the pass to marry into Funatsu or Yoshida town on the opposite side—the act of pausing at this pass's summit mid-journey to view Fuji struck even bystanders as embarrassingly romantic. Before long, the bride slipped out of the teahouse and stood at the cliff edge before it, gazing slowly at Fuji. She stood with legs crossed in an X shape—a bold pose. "What a composed person," I thought while admiring both Fuji and the bride—yet soon she turned toward Fuji and let out an enormous yawn.

“Oh!” A small cry rose from behind me. The daughter too seemed to have swiftly detected that yawn. Soon the bridal party boarded their waiting car and descended the pass—though later accounts would paint the bride in rather dire straits.

“She’s gotten too used to this.” “She’s definitely on her second—no, third time around.” “With her groom probably waiting below the pass—if she were a first-time bride, she couldn’t be bold enough to get out of the car and gaze at Fuji like that.” “She yawned.” The daughter also vigorously expressed her agreement. “Opening her mouth so wide to yawn—how shameless!” “Customer, you mustn’t marry a bride like that.”

I reddened in a manner unbecoming of my age. My marriage prospects gradually improved until everything came to be handled by a certain senior. The wedding ceremony too would be held solemnly, if modestly, at this senior’s residence with only two or three close relatives in attendance—and I found myself stirred by human kindness like a boy.

When November arrived, the cold at Misaka Pass had already become unbearable. The teahouse set up a stove.

“Customer, the second floor must be cold. When you’re working, why don’t you stay by the stove?” said the proprietress, but being someone who can’t work with others watching, I declined. The proprietress grew concerned and went down to Yoshida at the base of the pass to buy a kotatsu. I burrowed into it in my second-floor room and wanted to express sincere gratitude for the teahouse family’s kindness, but gazing at Mount Fuji now two-thirds shrouded in snow and facing the desolate winter trees of nearby mountains, enduring this bone-chilling cold any longer at this pass seemed meaningless—I resolved to descend. The day before leaving the mountain, I sat in a teahouse chair wearing two layered cotton kimonos and sipping hot bancha when two intellectual-looking young women in winter coats—perhaps typists—came walking from the tunnel direction, giggling about something. Suddenly spotting snow-white Fuji before them, they halted as if struck, then after whispering conspiratorially, one bespectacled fair-skinned girl approached me smiling.

“Excuse me. Please take the photo.” I was flustered. I knew little about mechanical things and had no interest in photography whatsoever. Moreover, dressed in two layers of padded kimono—an outfit so shabby even the teahouse staff joked I looked like a bandit—I became terribly panicked when these glamorous Tokyo girls made such a frivolous request. Yet reconsidering—that even in this state, to discerning eyes I might still carry some vestige of refinement, perhaps even appear capable of handling something as simple as a camera shutter—a faint giddiness helped me feign composure. Accepting the proffered camera, I casually asked about operating the shutter before peering through the lens with trembling hands. At center loomed Mount Fuji; below it, two small poppies. Both wore matching red coats. Pressing together as if embracing, they abruptly assumed solemn expressions. I found it unbearably comical. My camera-holding hands shook uncontrollably. Stifling laughter while peering through the viewfinder revealed the poppies growing ever more rigidly composed. Unable to focus properly, I banished their figures from the frame and captured only Fuji filling the lens—Fuji, farewell and thank you. Click.

“Yes, it came out.” “Thank you.”

The two thanked me in unison. When they got home and developed it, they would be shocked. Mount Fuji alone was captured large, with the two figures nowhere to be seen.

The next day, I descended the mountain. First, I stayed one night at a cheap inn in Kofu, and the next morning, leaning against the dirty railing in the inn’s corridor to look at Mount Fuji, I saw that the Kofu-view Fuji revealed about one-third of its face from behind the mountains. It resembled a Chinese lantern plant.

(February–March 1939)