Pathway to Japanese Literature

(First, I shall recount the tale of how Mr. Kōmura became obsessed with salamanders and suffered a great loss. Since he is a man of many anecdotes, I intend to continue introducing them periodically in this manner. As I introduce three or four [anecdotes], I believe readers will naturally come to grasp the full scope of Mr. Kōmura’s character; therefore, I wish to refrain from offering abstract explanations about the Professor at this time.)

As for Mr. Kōmura’s having become obsessed with something as peculiar as salamanders, I cannot deny bearing some degree of responsibility. One early spring day, Mr. Kōmura wore his usual hunting cap—an absurdly gaudy plaid-patterned hunting cap that suited him not at all; I had once tactlessly suggested he stop wearing it, to which he gravely agreed he’d long thought the same, yet still persisted—cocked youthfully askew as he came to visit my home; afterward, we set out together to nearby Inokashira Park. At such times I always find it regrettable—Mr. Kōmura is not the least bit refined in these matters. I had discerned this truth long before;

“Professor, the plum blossoms.”
I pointed at the flowers.

“Ah, plum blossoms.”
He gave an absentminded reply without so much as a glance.

“After all, white plum blossoms like these seem preferable to red ones, don’t they?”

“They are splendid.”
He made to briskly walk past.
I chased after him,

“Professor, do you dislike flowers?”

“I like them very much.”

However, I had discerned the truth.
The Professor possessed not the slightest aesthetic sensibility.
Even when strolling through the park, he merely strode briskly along without so much as glancing at plum blossoms or willow branches—and then occasionally whispered outrageous remarks to me like, “She’s a beauty, eh?”
The only thing he was quick to notice were the women passing by.
I was unbearably disgusted.

“She’s not a beauty.”

“Is that so? She looked sixteen to me.”

I could only stare in disbelief.

“Tired, aren’t we? Let’s take a break.”

“I suppose so. I think the teahouse over there probably has a nice view.”

“It’s all the same.”
“The closer one is better.”

They unceremoniously filed into the nearest dingy teahouse and sat down.

“I want to eat something.”

“I suppose so. Sweet rice drink or red bean soup?”

“I want to eat something.”

“Well, there’s nothing else tasty here, is there?”

“Don’t they have something like oyakodon?” Despite being an old man, he was gluttonous.

I could only blush in embarrassment. Mr. Kōmura ordered the oyakodon. I had the oshiruko. After we finished eating,

“The bowl was large and the rice portion generous.”

“But it tasted awful, didn’t it?”

“It was awful.”

They stood up again and walked briskly.
Mr. Kōmura showed not the slightest composure.
They entered Nakanoshima Aquarium.

“Professor, aren’t these scarlet carp splendid?”

“They are splendid.”
They immediately moved on to the next one.

“Professor, this is a sweetfish.
Its figure really is splendid, isn’t it?”

“Ah, they’re swimming.”
He moved on to the next one.
He wasn’t looking at them at all.

“This time it’s eels.”
“Interesting, isn’t it?”
“They’re all just lazing about sprawled on the sand.”
“Professor, where are you looking?”

“Yeah, eels.
They’re alive, huh?”
He kept spouting nonsense as he strode ahead.

Suddenly, Mr. Kōmura let out a shrill scream.

“Ah! You—it’s a salamander!”
“A salamander!”
“It’s definitely a salamander!”
“It’s alive, isn’t it? You—it’s a fearsome thing!”
One might call it a karmic bond from a past life—the moment Mr. Kōmura laid eyes on that aquarium salamander, he became utterly infatuated.

“This is the first!”
Mr. Kōmura growled out the words.
“My first time seeing it!”
“No—I feel I’ve glimpsed it before, but never so near and undisguised.”
“You—can’t you smell the ancient miasma?”
“As if primordial mountain vapors were coiling forth!”
“The ‘ran’ in ‘ranki’ combines ‘say’ with twin threads and a mountain.”
“One might name it the vital essence of deep ranges.”
“Astonishing!”
“Hmm.”
He growled without cease.
I burned with humiliation.

“It’s surprising that you’ve taken a liking to salamanders.”
“What’s so good about them anyway?”
“Though I should mention—there are indeed seniors among us who’ve written novels about salamanders.”

“Of course there are.”
Mr. Kōmura nodded with scholarly affectation. “Those works must undoubtedly be masterpieces. But you lot could never grasp this mystical... beast—no—fish—no—” He began panicking terribly.
Face reddening and rubbing his beard, he said, “What should we call this thing?"
“It’s an aquatic creature—no, an otter’s kin! Otters—”
He completely fell apart.

It seemed Mr. Kōmura found this deeply regrettable.
He appeared unable to endure the indignity of having his shallow expertise in zoology so thoroughly exposed, for when I stopped by his Asagaya residence about a month later, the Professor had already begun masquerading as a full-fledged zoologist.
Given that Mr. Kōmura was not one to accept defeat in anything, it seemed he had tried to cleanse himself of that aquarium humiliation by secretly studying zoology texts late into the night.
The moment he saw my face,

“What’s this? That creature from the other day—that’s a caudate among amphibians.”
He stated this utterly obvious fact with an air of triumph.
“Don’t you understand?
“It’s exactly as the characters suggest!”
“Because it has a tail—it’s a caudate, you know.”
“Ha ha ha!”
Even he seemed to have grown embarrassed at last.
He laughed.
I laughed too.

“However,” Mr. Kōmura said, growing serious, “that creature is an animal of profound interest—indeed, it ought to be called a rare beast.”
He was growing increasingly pretentious.
I sat down on the veranda and reluctantly took out my notebook from my pocket.
When Mr. Kōmura began speaking in such a pretentious air, it had become customary for me to immediately take out my notebook and transcribe his words.
Once, though I should have known better, I tried to humor Mr. Kōmura by saying, “Your conversational lectures are so fascinating—please let me take notes,” and took out my notebook. This pleased him immensely, and from then on, he would often straighten his posture and adopt a deliberate tone when speaking. If I failed to produce the notebook, he would make an indescribably sour face and begin needling me with strange, sarcastic remarks, leaving me no choice but to take it out again.
As for this habit, I must confess I find it quite unbearable in my heart of hearts. Yet since this too must be the retribution for my own foolish flattery, I cannot resent anyone.

What follows is the full text of the discussion recorded that day.
The text within parentheses contains my private reflections as the stenographer.

“Now then, what shall I talk about today?
While there’s nothing particularly novel worth recounting—(if only he’d stay this unaffected, he’d be a decent professor)—truly, you all must be thoroughly weary of these perpetually similar tales (not that anyone actually is). Therefore today, I shall humbly present a fragment of my meager knowledge concerning that rare creature: the salamander.
The other day, having been invited by an obliging student—(what an unpleasant way to put it)—to partake in the refined plum-blossom viewing at Inokashira Park, where red plums and white plums bloomed delicately in scattered splendor—(the red plums hadn’t even bloomed)—modestly vying in their elegance, creating such serene tranquility that one might deem it a veritable fairyland, I wandered about in dreamlike fascination, you see, nearly forgetting my earthly existence—(oyakodon, oyakodon)—when suddenly there appeared before my eyes the venerable form of an arcane primordial creature, its august figure undulating with mountain mists—(the character for ‘say’ with two threads)—squirming and writhing about.
No need to be alarmed.
This, then, was none other than the aforementioned salamander.
We, intoxicated by the fragrance of plum blossoms, wandered aimlessly and, unbeknownst to ourselves, had entered Inokashira Park’s aquarium.
Salamander.
The moment I beheld its form, I knew instinctively.
This is it!
This is indeed the lover I have long sought after!
It exudes the very essence of antiquity.
Purity. Yamato.
(A bit of a stretch.) This is entirely Japanese.
Just as I was about to solemnly expound upon the profound significance of this salamander to my student companion, said student abruptly burst into maniacal laughter. Finding this most disagreeable, I promptly terminated my explanation and made haste to return home.
Today, I shall first present to you all a brief academic explanation of this salamander.
Japan’s giant salamander is said to be extraordinarily renowned worldwide, and according to my recent studies in the works of Dr. Chiyomatsu Ishikawa, about two hundred years ago in southern Germany, there emerged a fossil of unprecedented peculiar form—whereupon a certain hasty scholar declared, ‘This is none other than human bone! Humans once crawled about in such hideous forms! Know your shame!’—thus alarming academic gentlemen. The stone became immensely famous: noblewomen reviled it, ugly men applauded, religious figures panicked, Ushitarō affirmed it, nearly escalating into an unavoidable social crisis—until authorities of the academic world convened their research and concluded: ‘Rest assured, this is not human bone. Yet we know not what it is. Its shape closely resembles a small creature called “salamander” inhabiting American mountain streams—though those American salamanders are nowhere near this size. Between them lies a difference in magnitude akin to horse versus rabbit.’
In the end, though they couldn’t make heads or tails of it, they resorted to some artful evasion by dubbing it a ‘giant salamander’ or what have you—and now this so-called giant salamander has gone extinct, vanished from every corner of the world! Not a trace remains!
With that loud declaration, they silenced all dissent and brought temporary calm—but then along came a man named Siebold to Japan, who one day chanced upon the aforementioned creature sluggishly dragging itself along, nearly startling him out of his wits.”

“An ancient monster thought to have vanished from the earth millennia ago was alive and sluggishly dragging itself along—ah! ‘Giant salamander survives in Nippon!’—thus did he send telegrams to academic circles worldwide.”
“Scholars worldwide were thrown into disarray.”
“Some dismissed it as lies—‘Siebold was always a charlatan!’—with an air of sober discernment, but when Nippon’s giant salamander skeletons proved identical to European fossils, they could no longer feign ignorance. Thus Japan’s salamander became a vital global research subject—even casual students of ancient fauna now declare one must behold Nippon’s specimen to be taken seriously! A development so gratifying, so profoundly celebratory, I can scarcely contain my delight!”
“Consider! (There he goes again) That primordial creatures still inhabit Japan’s streams in their ancient forms—propagating, contemplating—this embodies our eternal Luxuriant Reed Plains! Was it not these salamanders that manifested as Koshi’s eight-headed Yamata no Orochi? Or as the Wani who flayed Inaba’s Hare? (Digressing) Thus I humbly opine—though contrary scholars may persist.”
“Not that I dwell on this, but nine ri beyond Tsuyama in Sakushū lies Mukuyubara Village, home to a shrine honoring Hanzaki Daimyōjin.”
“‘Hanzaki’ appears dialect for ‘salamander’—implying tenacious vitality even when torn asunder. The enshrined salamander was fearsomely savage, devouring humans per oral traditions recorded in Sakuyōshi.”
“Having gorged on humans, a warrior subdued it—enshrining it as Daimyōjin to prevent hauntings, as Sakuyōshi meticulously details.”
“Though now modest, this was once a grand shrine—doesn’t this echo Yamata no Orochi’s tale?”
“I don’t obsess, but Sakuyōshi claims this hanzaki measured three jō—scholars doubt this, but I detest doubters! If they say three jō, believe three jō!”
“(No need to berate the stenographer.) Regardless, I choose to believe salamanders once teemed everywhere—some colossal.”
“The creature’s flat body develops an abnormally large head with age.”
“Its expanding mouth assumes a grotesque visage youths shun—easy to imagine ancients fearing it supernatural.”
“Even today’s two-shaku stream-dwellers become dreadful when latched on.”
“Though lacking sharp teeth, their strength lets them snap fingers effortlessly—most disagreeable.”
“(Gaffe) Thus I vow constant respect toward salamanders.”
“Relatively docile yet fearsome when provoked—I suspect even Inaba’s Hare fell victim! Though this warrants further study.”
“Curiously sluggish yet swift feeders—meditating calmly until prey nears their head, then snapping with disenchanting speed before resuming contemplation.”

“Japanese salamanders feed on yamame fish—how they catch such agile prey remains nearly miraculous.”
“Their skin coloration proves most advantageous in this regard.”
“When submerged motionless beneath streambed rocks, he becomes indistinguishable from mud or detritus.”
“Thus positioned at a crevice’s mouth with his massive head, deep in contemplation—should a yamame approach beneath that stone—snap! His jaws flare wide! Though too ponderous for pursuit, anything nearing his snout meets instant capture—a strike of astonishing celerity, they say.”
“By day he typically shelters beneath stones; by night he embarks on lumbering promenades.”
“They reportedly wander far downstream—there exist accounts of specimens caught in nets at great river mouths.”
“Regarding their distribution—beyond Siebold’s studies, Dutchman Handelmann, German Rein, and geographer Bon conducted sporadic surveys. In Japan, field researchers like Sasaki Chūjirō and Dr. Ishikawa trekked through remote ranges. Their findings posit Hachiman in Gujō District, Gifu Prefecture as the eastern boundary—no salamanders dwell beyond it. Westward from Hachiman along the Central Range to Honshū’s tip constitutes their present domain.”
“They inhabit Suō-Nagato and Sekishū regions as well.”
“Another population persists near Lake Biwa through Ise, Iga, and Yamato’s mountain corridors.”
“Shikoku and Kyūshū remain devoid of them. The Hakone salamander of Kantō differs entirely in morphology—a mere newt-sized creature incapable of further growth.”
“Japan’s salamanders derive their significance from matching ancient fossils in scale! Unquestionably preeminent specimens! Here my passion surges unbidden—muscles taut with fervor!”
“The largest recent specimen measures four shaku five sun—approximately one-and-a-half meters—with none exceeding this yet documented.”
“However! In Yodoe Village of Hōki Province dwells an elder who has nurtured one since childhood. Over sixty years it grew into a three-jō colossus—occasionally surfacing a head three shaku wide! Most august! Though this cunning codger muddies his pond excessively, chokes the surface with water lilies—concealing the beast from all eyes while boasting privately of its dimensions. A scholar’s report details his pilgrimage to Yodoe: ‘If authentic,’ he implored, ‘name your price! Let me but glimpse it!’ The elder smirked: ‘Bring a container?’ Infuriating! The scholar’s own record brands him ‘preposterous old fool—utterly insufferable!’—vexation palpable in every glyph.”
“As for that salamander’s fate—I too crave such a titan! Yet confronted with ‘Bring a container?’ I founder.”
“No bucket could suffice.”
“Still I dream—to possess a three-jō salamander! To commune daylong with primordial mists! To breathe deep of mountain vales’ exhalations until senses numb! Having seen a two-shaku specimen at the aquarium, I combed through texts—this obsession now consumes me! Japan’s largest equals Earth’s largest! Though mocked as senile fancy by that impecunious student (how cruel!), O gods—I crave immensity! To desire grandeur is mankind’s birthright—beyond reason’s shackles!”

“(Closer to his true feelings) What a magnificent creature that must be—even if not three jō (~3 meters), six shaku (~1.8 meters) would suffice! Merely imagining it overwhelms my heart.”

"For today, let us conclude here."
(Ridiculous.)

The day’s discourse was, as described above, exceedingly peculiar.
However eccentric Mr. Kōmura might be, there were few precedents for such bizarre discussions from him.
On certain days he might deliver grave commentaries on current affairs that compelled stenographers to sit straighter, life philosophies rich with wisdom to savor, nostalgic anecdotes to elicit chuckles, or satires revealing glimpses of his extraordinary intellect—but today’s lecture proved utterly irredeemable.
Not a single instructive element could be found.
He piled up outlandish fabrications about Red Plum and White Plum Blossoms vying in splendor and dreamlike reveries before shifting to salamanders—their august forms writhing amidst valley mists, ensnared in night nets and snapped up with startling speed—until finally quavering as he declared, “I want to see a three-meter salamander! Even six feet would suffice! How magnificent it must be!” I was thoroughly dispirited.
I began suspecting Mr. Kōmura himself had succumbed to the salamander’s noxious influence at last, resolving inwardly to henceforth categorically refuse transcribing these trivial colloquies.

That day, I too was so appalled by the extremity of it all that even Professor’s face struck me as vaguely sinister, and once I finished transcribing, I took my leave immediately. Four or five days later, I departed on a journey to Kōshū.
Yunomura Hot Spring on the outskirts of Kōfu City—an unremarkable hot spring nestled in rice paddies—was, despite its proximity to Tokyo, rustic and quiet with reasonably priced lodgings. Whenever work piled up, I would make my way there now and then, shutting myself in a room at the old Tenpōkan inn to begin my labors.
However, that trip proved a complete failure.

It was late February. Daily gales raged outside, rattling the storm shutters as torn shoji panels fluttered and whispered. Nights brought little sleep, and I clung to the kotatsu all day in restless agitation, accomplishing no work—rotting away—when suddenly a carnival tent sprang up in the vacant lot before the inn, unleashing a raucous clamor.
I arrived at an inopportune time.
Every year right around that period, Yunomura held its festival for Yakuyoke Jizō.
This was said to be an effigy of great miraculous efficacy, drawing pilgrims from Shinano and Minobu who streamed in ceaselessly day and night.
The sideshow began bellowing its raucous appeals to these devotees.
I stamped my feet in frustration.
I had long known about Yunomura’s late-February Yakuyoke Jizō festival yet carelessly forgotten.
What a preposterous situation this had become.
I abandoned my work.
Slinging my haori over the inn’s formal attire, I resolved that since matters stood thus, I might as well pay respects at that Jizō shrine before making my departure.

When I stepped out of the inn, right before my eyes was the carnival tent.
The tent flapped violently in the gale, and the showman called for customers in a hoarse voice.
When I glanced at the painted signboard, it depicted men and women of all ages hauling a net in a vast marsh—a rather intriguing illustration.
I stopped.

“In Hōki Province’s Yodoe Village, a farmer named Tarōzaemon spent fifty-eight years tenderly raising—”
The showman shouted.

Yodoe Village, Hōki Province.
I thought for a moment—and was aghast.
It was no exaggeration to say all the blood in my body reversed course.

That’s it!
That incident.

“Body length: three meters! Head width: one meter!—”
The showman continued shouting.
My blood surged backward with even greater fury.
That’s it!
Indeed, that’s it.
Yodoe Village, Hōki Province.
No mistake.
The marsh in this painted signboard must be a mystified depiction of that “impossible old man’s” garden pond.
In that case, that must indeed have been what inhabited the “impossible old man’s” pond.
While there may be some exaggeration in claims of a three-meter body length and one-meter head width, regardless—that giant—salamander did exist!
And now—here before my very eyes—within this shabby hut lay that venerable form.
What a chance!
The very creature that had so scorched old Professor Kōmura’s heart with longing—Japan’s greatest, no—the world’s greatest monstrosity (no, not monstrosity—how irreverent!—a sacred being)—to think it now lay displayed in a Yunomura sideshow! Such a tale surpassed even the wildest of dreams.
No one would recognize the true worth of this sacred being.
I absolutely had to inform Professor Kōmura about this—yet when transcribing those discussions, I had sneered at his lectures, felt complete indifference toward his beloved salamander subject, even harbored disrespectful feelings finding his trembling voice and fervent expression vaguely sinister—but now that this three-meter creature from Yodoe Village, Hōki Province had materialized before my eyes, I suddenly plunged into a frenzy.
Indeed, as the Professor had said—when faced with strange creatures of imposing size, humans have no room for reason or shit, utterly incapable of maintaining any semblance of calm.

I paid ten sen for admission and charged into the hut, only to burst through the rough straw mat wall at the back with such force that I tumbled out into the rice paddy behind. I turned back, pushed aside the rough straw mat to re-enter the hut, and saw—at the center lay a water puddle about three square meters in size, reddish and murky, its surface occasionally sloshing. The notion that a three-meter sacred being resided in a mere one-tsubo puddle struck me as somewhat dubious—yet perhaps this spiritual creature had twisted its body to endure the discomforts of life on the road. Even if it wasn’t a full one jō (~3 meters), if this truly was that famed Yodoe Village salamander from Hōki Province, it simply had to measure seven or eight shaku (~2.1–2.4 meters). In any case, that Yodoe Village salamander was renowned even in global academic circles. It was known to those in the know. It had indeed been properly documented in the literature.

The water sloshed.
A dark brown, slimy thing became faintly visible.
It was real.
It was Yodoe Village.
What came into view must have been part of its head—one meter wide.
I grew so excited I could barely breathe.
Bursting out of the carnival tent, buffeted by the icy wind, I staggered my way to the post office on Yunomura's outskirts.
Heaving breaths with my shoulders, I drafted a telegram.

“SALAMANDER FOUND TENPŌKAN YODOE VILLAGE SPECIMEN”
AT YUNOMURA

The telegram had become a jumble of incomprehensible words.
I tore up that telegram form, obtained another sheet, paused to think this time, first clearly stated my current location and full name, then composed simply “LARGE SALAMANDER FOUND” before sending it off.
I reasoned that even without being told “Come immediately,” the Professor would come flying here in a flash.

Sure enough, that night, Mr. Kōmura came clattering up the inn's stairs and slid open the fusuma door to my room with a clatter,

“Where is it? Where’s the salamander?” he said, surveying the room.
He apparently believed I had found it crawling sluggishly about the inn quarters and notified him via telegram.
Indeed, the Professor was an eccentric of an entirely different order from someone like me.

“It’s part of a sideshow.”
I gave him a summary of the situation.

“Yodoe Village!”
“Then it’s genuine!”
“How much?”

“Three meters.”

“What are you talking about?
“I’m asking about the price!”

“It’s ten sen.”

“Cheap. Must be a lie.”

“No, military personnel and children are half-price though.”

“Military personnel and children?”
“That’s the admission fee, isn’t it?”
“I intend to buy that salamander, you know.”
“I’ve even brought the money.”
The Professor took out a large paper wallet from his pocket, placed it on the kotatsu, and grinned slyly.
I looked at that face and once again felt a growing unease come over me.

“Professor, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. At twenty yen per shaku—six shaku would mean a hundred and twenty yen, seven shaku a hundred and forty, one jō two hundred—that’s what I calculated on the train. You there—my apologies, but could you bring the carnival manager here?” Then he ordered the inn staff to bring sake. “Well now, this room is filthy! I can’t believe you live in such a place. Ah well, we’ll endure it. Let’s drink here with that manager and discuss matters properly—hospitality is essential for business negotiations. You there—I’m counting on you.”

I reluctantly stood up, went down to the front desk to order sake, and then,

“Um—this may sound odd—”
It proved excruciatingly difficult to broach.
“About that carnival earlier... Could you bring their manager to my room?”
“Well—you see—regarding that monstrous fish from the exhibit (the placard called it a ‘Naturally Occurring Colossal Freak Fish’), there’s someone determined to purchase it.”
“That would be my professor—he’s perfectly respectable, I assure you—so if you could just relay that and bring the manager here?”
“Please.”
“The Professor has mentioned being prepared to offer quite a substantial sum.”
“In any case—just this once—if you would?”
Never in my life had I made so bizarre a request.
As I spoke, I felt my face burning crimson.
A cold sweat truly drenched me now.
The inn clerk pulled an odd expression without so much as a smile, stomped into his geta, and departed.

In the room, I silently exchanged drinks with the Professor. From sheer tension, we grew sullen with each other; feeling like turning away, we drank in silence, doing nothing but pour sake.

The fusuma door slid open, and a small-statured, honest-looking forty-year-old man entered, stooping at the waist.
He was the man who had been shouting himself hoarse at the entrance.

“Please, you there. Please.”
The Professor stood up, went over to the man, placed a hand on his shoulder, forcibly seated him at the kotatsu, and said, “Now then, have a drink.”
“No need for formalities.”
“Go on.”

“Ah…” The man gave a wry smile. “Please excuse my appearance.”
When I looked, he was dressed just as he had been at the entrance—dark blue work pants and a workman’s jacket.

“Is everything all right?
“Um, what about the shop?”
I grew concerned and asked.

“I just had them take a break for a bit.”

The clamor of Donjan’s bells and drums was nowhere to be heard; only the voices of vendors and the clatter of pilgrims’ geta mingled faintly with the sound of the wind.

“You’re the carnival manager here, I take it?”
“You must indeed be the show’s proprietor?”
With a magnanimous attitude as if nothing mattered, the Professor graciously poured sake for the showman.

“Ah, no—”
The showman brought the cup to his mouth with his left hand and scratched his head with the little finger of his right hand.
“I have been entrusted with that role.”

“Hmm.”
The Professor nodded deeply.

Then a most peculiar negotiation commenced between the Professor and the showman.
I sat listening on tenterhooks.

“You’ll part with it, I trust?”

“Huh?”

“That’s a salamander, isn’t it?”

“You flatter me.”

“The truth is, I have been searching for that salamander for a long time.”
“Hōki Province, Yodoe Village.”
“Hmm.”

“Excuse my asking, but are you affiliated with a school, sir?”

“No, I have no affiliation whatsoever.”
“This student here is a writer.”
“He’s still an unknown writer.”
“I am a failure.”
“I wrote novels, painted pictures, dabbled in politics, even fell in love with women.”
“But they were all failures. Well, think of me as a hermit.”
“The great hermit hides in the morning market, as they say.”
The Professor seemed to be growing slightly drunk.

“Heh heh,”
The showman laughed evasively.
“Well now, Mister Hermit.”

“Too harsh,”
“Have another drink.”

“Had my fill.”
The showman gave a curt nod and began rising.
“Then I’ll take my leave.”

“Wait! Wait!”
The Professor frantically stopped the showman. “What’s the meaning of this?
The discussion is just beginning.”

“I’ve already grasped the gist of this tale, so I’ll be taking my leave.”
“Mister, you look positively witless.”

“How merciless.
Now do sit down.”

“I don’t have time for this.”
“Mister, trying to turn a salamander into bar food? That’s just not happening.”

“What a disgusting thing to say.”
“That is a misunderstanding.”
“It’s true that there are records of people roasting and eating salamanders, but I would never partake in such a thing.”
“Even if you told me to eat it, I wouldn’t so much as pick up my chopsticks.”
“The idea of using salamander meat as a drinking snack—I’m no such daredevil.”
“I hold salamanders in reverence.”
“If possible, I would like to welcome it into my garden pond and become intimately acquainted with it morning and evening—that’s what I’ve been thinking, you see.”
He was putting on a show of earnestness.

“That’s precisely why I take issue with this! If it were for medical research or school educational materials or whatnot, I could understand—but an eccentric retiree who’s grown bored of scarlet carp, finds German carp dull, thinks ‘How about a salamander? Let’s get cozy morning and night! How about a drink?’—you expect me to take this ridiculous farce seriously? Enough with this eccentric nonsense! I’ve left my important business unattended to come here! You blockhead! This isn’t just absurd—it’s downright infuriating.”

“This is most inconvenient.”
This was precisely that pent-up resentment toward the leisure class.
Could there truly be no means to resolve this situation amicably?
This was... quite an unforeseen tempest.

“Don’t try to fool me.”
“I can see right through you.”
“Even if you put on a calm front, your knees have been trembling nonstop under the kotatsu this whole time—haven’t they?”

“Outrageous! This has become terribly vulgar.”
“Very well.”
“Then I too shall speak plainly.”
“One shaku for twenty yen. How’s that?”

“One shaku for twenty yen? What nonsense is this.”

“If it truly is a salamander from a peasant’s pond in Yodoe Village, Hōki Province, then its body length should measure one jō.”
"That fact is recorded in texts as well."
“One shaku for twenty yen—if it’s one jō, then two hundred yen.”

“With all due respect, it’s three shaku and five sun.”
“The way you’re convinced a one-jō salamander exists in this world—pathetic yet endearing, isn’t it?”

“Three shaku and five sun!
“It’s small.”
“Too small.”
“Yodoe Village in Hōki Province—”

“Enough of that.
“Every last one of these show salamanders is supposed to have come from Yodoe Village in Hōki Province.”
“It’s been that way since old times.”
“You think it’s too small?”
“My mistake.”
“That thing still manages to support the three of us parent and child quite admirably.”
“I wouldn’t part with it even for ten thousand yen.”
“One shaku for twenty yen? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Mister, you’re looking rather daft there.”

“Everything is hopeless.”

“My sharp tongue’s my way of being kind.”
“Best not go stirring up wild fancies.”
“With that, I’ll bid you good day.”
He delivered this with perfect seriousness and a formal bow.

“I shall see you out.”

Mr. Kōmura staggered to his feet.
He looked at me and smiled sadly,

“You there—have the kindness to record this in your notebook.”
“The dilettante antiquarian finds himself rebuked by those immersed in worldly affairs.”
“When all’s said—does true fortitude lie in Southern ways or Northern?”

His footing appeared unsteady from the drink and his disappointment.
After seeing off the showman and stepping out of the room, he immediately—with a thunderous crash—took a spectacular tumble down the stairs.
He sustained considerable bruising to his lower back.

I departed for a hot spring in Shinshu the following day, but Professor remained alone at Tenpōkan and undertook a three-week cure to recuperate from his injuries.
The funds he had brought appeared to have almost entirely gone toward covering those recuperation expenses.

Such was the full account of Professor’s salamander incident, but even for him, such an absurd failure was quite unprecedented, and I would prefer to simplistically attribute it to his having been addled by the salamander’s noxious influence—yet there remains his cryptic utterance: “The amateur antiquarian is admonished by the busy practical people.”
When I consider the Professor’s cryptic remark about “Southern tenacity vs. Northern tenacity,” it’s true that a strangely ticklish sensation comes over me once again.
As you may know, the expressions “Southern tenacity” and “Northern tenacity” do appear in Chapter 10 of the Doctrine of the Mean, but as far as I can tell, there is no particular profound meaning between them.
In any case, Professor Kōmura seems to be the sort of person who enacts great failures himself and then turns those failures into instructional material for us.