Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“The vestiges of Musashino now remain only in Iruma District” was what I had seen written on a map from the Bunsei era.
And on that map of Iruma District, I once read an annotation stating: “Kotesashi-hara and Kume River constitute an ancient battlefield. As recorded in the Taiheiki, on May 11 of Genkō 3 [1333], the Genji and Heike clans clashed at Kotesashi-hara over thirty times in a single day. At dusk, the Heike retreated three ri to establish camp at Kume River; come dawn, the Genji pressed their assault upon this position—these events likely occurred in this vicinity.”
I had long supposed that what little remained of Musashino must lie near this ancient battlefield—though I intended to visit, I never managed to do so—but now found myself doubting whether reality still matched such assumptions.
At any rate, this desire to glimpse even a vestige of Musashino—so often imagined through paintings and poems—could not be mine alone.
As for what had become of such a Musashino now—this wish to thoroughly answer that question and satisfy myself first arose a full year ago, and now that longing had only grown stronger.

Now, can this wish truly be achieved through my own power?
I do not say I cannot do it.
I believe it to be no easy task; that is precisely why I find such poetic charm in present-day Musashino.
I imagine there must be no inconsiderable number who share this sentiment.

And so now, I shall begin to lay out the groundwork here by writing of what I have seen and felt from autumn through winter, thereby fulfilling a small portion of my wish.
The answer I must give to that question is simply this: the beauty of Musashino today is in no way inferior to that of old.
How surpassingly beautiful the Musashino of old must have been when seen firsthand—it surely defies all imagination. Yet the beauty of Musashino that I now behold moves me to render such an extravagant verdict.
I spoke of Musashino's beauty—though rather than "beauty," I wish to say "poetic sentiment," for that seems more apt.

II

Therefore, finding myself short on material, I decided to take my diary as a seed. From the early autumn of Meiji 29 to the following early spring, I resided in a small thatched cottage in Shibuya Village. It was during that time that I conceived this wish of mine, and that very reason why I now write solely of matters from autumn through winter.

September 7th—"Yesterday and today alike, the south wind blew fiercely, driving clouds onward and scattering them apart; rain teased at falling yet held back; when sunlight pierced through gaps in the clouds, the forest shadows flared into momentary brilliance—"

This was the beginning of autumn in present-day Musashino.
The forests still retained their summer verdure unchanged, yet the skies had transformed completely from their summer aspect; rainclouds borne on southerly winds swept low across Musashino's skies, sending down incessant showers—in those fleeting clearings between storms, sunlight laden with moisture fell upon distant groves and glistened on nearby woodlands.
I had often thought—how beautiful it would be if one could survey Musashino in its entirety on such a day.
After an interval of two days, the diary entry for the 9th also stated: "Winds raged as autumn's voice filled the fields; drifting clouds shifted and transformed."
Around this time, such weather persisted—the scenery of sky and fields ceaselessly transformed, the sunlight retaining summer's character while cloud hues and wind tones bore autumn's essence—I found it profoundly evocative.

First, taking this as the inception of autumn in present-day Musashino, I intended to set forth diary entries from here until winter’s end below, thereby outlining the general progression of seasonal changes and the essential components of its scenery.

September 19th—"Morning: the sky hangs overcast; the wind lies dead. Cold mist and chill dew; the clamor of insects grows thick—as if the heart of heaven and earth still slumbers."

September 21st—"The autumn sky appears swept clean; leaves blaze like fire."

October 19th—"The moon shines clear; the forest shadows stand black."

October 25th—"Morning: deep fog; afternoon clears; as night falls, the moon shines cold through gaps in the clouds."
"In the early morning while the fog had yet to clear, I left home to walk through the fields and visit the forest."

October 26th—"In the afternoon, I visit the forest.
Sitting deep in the forest, I survey my surroundings, attune my ears, fix my gaze, and sink into silent meditation."

November 4th—"The sky stood high, the air crystalline; when I stood alone in a windswept field at dusk, Fuji beyond heaven's reach drew near, the mountain chain encircling provincial borders appearing black upon the horizon. A single star glimmered; twilight finally descended; the forest shadows grew ever more distant."

November 18th—"Treading on moonlight, I took a walk; blue mist crept across the ground, shattering into fragments of lunar radiance within the forest."

November 19th—"The sky cleared; the wind turned pure; the dew chilled. Amidst a full view of yellow leaves, green trees mingled. Birds sang in the treetops. Not a soul walked the path. Walking alone in silent contemplation, murmuring to myself, I let my feet guide me through the outskirts."

November 22nd—"The night had not yet deepened; outside, wind sweeping through the forest howled fiercely.
Though dripping sounds persisted incessantly, I perceived that rain had already ceased."

November 23rd—"Due to last night’s wind and rain, nearly all leaves were shaken down.
Rice fields too were almost entirely harvested.
The landscape took on winter’s desolate aspect."

November 24th―"The tree leaves still have not completely fallen.
When I gaze upon the distant mountains, my heart grows so nostalgic it nearly fades away."

November 26th―Night, 10 o’clock―“Outside, the voice of wind and rain howled fiercely.
Dripping sounds joined in chorus.
Today, fog had hung thick over fields and forests all day long, as though they’d slipped into an eternal dream.
In the afternoon, I took a walk accompanied by a dog.
I entered the forest and sat in silence.
The dog slept.
A water flow emerged from one part of the forest and entered another, carrying fallen leaves as it flowed.
From time to time a drizzle passed softly through the forest; the sound of it crossing over fallen leaves lay quiet.”

November 27th―“Last night’s storm had cleared without trace this morning; the sun rose serenely.
When I stood on the hill behind the house and gazed out, Mount Fuji rose pure white above the mountain range.
The wind was clear; the air was pure.

Truly, it was a morning of early winter.
The rice field surfaces overflowed with water; forest shadows reflected inverted upon them.”

Ah, truly it was an early winter morning.

Water overflowed the rice field surfaces; the forest shadows were reflected upside down.

December 2nd—"This morning’s frost had glittered like snow in the rising sun, splendid to behold.
After a while, thin clouds spread across the sky; the sunlight turned cold."

December 22nd—"Snow falls for the first time."

Meiji 30, January 13th―"The night had not yet deepened.
The wind died; the forest fell silent.
Snow fell fiercely.
I held up a lamp and peered outside; the falling snow sparkled in the firelight and danced.
Ah, Musashino fell silent.
And yet, if one listened intently, there existed the sound of wind passing through distant forests—was it truly the voice of the wind?"

January 14th—"This morning brought heavy snow; the grape trellis collapsed.

The night had not yet deepened.
The sound of wind passing through treetops was heard in the distance—ah, this must be winter night's cold wind sweeping from forest to forest across Musashino!
The dripping sounds of melting snow encircled the eaves."

January 20th—"A beautiful morning.
The sky held not a single cloud; the ground glittered like silver frost columns.
Birds sang in the treetops.
The treetops resembled needles."

February 8th—"The plum blossoms bloomed.
The moon finally became beautiful."

March 13th—"Midnight: the moon tilted; the wind rose suddenly; clouds seethed; the forest roared."

March 21st―“11 PM.
I listened to the wind outside―now distant, now near.
‘Spring assailed; winter fled.’”

III

It was said that Musashino of old had proclaimed its unparalleled beauty through endless expanses of miscanthus grass, but the Musashino of today was forests.
The forest might indeed be called the defining feature of present-day Musashino.
For these trees—chiefly oak varieties—shed every leaf in winter, then in spring sprouted forth dripping with fresh verdure; this transformation occurred simultaneously across over ten leagues of plains east of the Chichibu Mountains. The subtle beauty with which they presented varied scenes through spring haze, summer rains, autumn moons, winter winds, mist-laden air, drizzling showers, snow-clad silence, green shade and crimson foliage—this proved rather difficult for those from western provinces or Tohoku regions to fully comprehend.
It seemed Japanese people had not traditionally been much aware of the beauty of deciduous forests composed chiefly of oak varieties.
When speaking of forests, it had been chiefly pine groves alone that found recognition in Japanese literature and art; one found no examples in poetry of listening to drizzles deep within oak woods.
Though it had been ten years since I first came up to Tokyo as a student in my youth, having been born in western Japan, it was only recently that I had come to understand the beauty of such deciduous forests—and even this had been greatly taught to me by the passage below.

Around mid-September in autumn, there came a day when I sat within a birch forest. A light rain had been falling since morning, and in those clear intervals, faintly warm sunlight occasionally broke through—the sky wore truly capricious moods. No sooner did billowing white clouds blanket the entire expanse than suddenly—here and there in blinking instants—clouds would tear asunder; through those forcibly rent gaps peered patches of clear blue sky, bright and keen as discerning human eyes. I sat looking about, listening intently. Leaves rustled faintly overhead—yet that sound alone betrayed the season's identity. This was neither spring's first mirthful chatter nor summer's languid whispers; neither endless conversational murmurs nor late autumn's timorous, desolate prattle—but rather a hushed susurration scarcely audible as sound at all. The breeze crept furtively through treetops; beneath alternating sun and cloud, the rain-drenched forest shifted ceaselessly. All things there seemed to smile as one—bathed in pervasive radiance, the slender birch trunks—never particularly dense—unexpectedly took on silken luster; tiny fallen leaves scattered across earth blazed sudden gold until they dazzled; while magnificent stems of Paaporotoniku (a type of fern), their crowns disheveled and tinged with overripe grape-like hues, endlessly tangled and intertwined before my eyes when glimpsed through gaps.

Or again—the surroundings suddenly began to grow dim all at once; in the blink of an eye, even the colors of objects vanished, and the birch grove too, remaining as if layered with snow that never meets daylight, hazed white and indistinct—when a drizzle fell stealthily, eerie and whispering-like in its pattering passage.
The birch leaves had lost much of their luster yet still retained a faded greenness; only the saplings scattered here and there had turned crimson or gold, and whenever sunlight slipped through the dense tangle of slender branches still wet from recent rain—filtering down as if sliding between gaps—they glittered and sparkled.

This is a passage from the opening of Turgenev's work translated by Futabatei under the title "Aibiki," and it was largely through the power of this delicate descriptive writing that I came to understand the charm of such deciduous forests.
This depicts a Russian scene where the forests consist of birch trees, while Musashino's forests are of oak—vastly different in terms of botanical zones, yet the charm of their deciduous woods remains alike.
I often thought: if Musashino's forests consisted not of oak varieties but of pines or similar trees, they would become something utterly commonplace—a monotonous uniformity lacking variation in color—hardly worth valuing at all.

Because they are oak varieties, their leaves turn yellow. Because they turn yellow, they shed their leaves. The autumn drizzle whispers. The winter wind howls. When a gust strikes a small hill, countless leaves dance high into the vast sky and fly away like a flock of birds. When the leaves finish falling, forests spanning dozens of leagues are stripped bare all at once; the winter sky hangs blue-tinged above, and Musashino enters a kind of stillness. The air grows clearer still. Distant sounds ring distinct. In my October 26th entry, I wrote of sitting deep in the forest, looking around, listening intently, gazing fixedly, and meditating. "Aibiki" too states how I sat there looking around and listening intently. How perfectly this act of attentive listening suits present-day Musashino's spirit from late autumn through winter. In autumn, sounds arise within the forests; in winter, they resound far beyond their reaches.

The rustle of birds’ wings, their singing voices.
The wind’s rustling sound, roaring sound, moaning sound, howling sound.
The chirring of insects in the shade of thickets, in the depths of the forest.
The sound of an empty cart circling through the forest, descending a slope, crossing a field path.
The sound of hooves scattering fallen leaves—was this cavalry scouts on maneuvers, or perhaps foreigners out for a long ride as husband and wife?
The boisterous voices of villagers talking loudly about something as they went—they too eventually faded into the distance.
The lonely-sounding footsteps of a woman hurrying along the path.
The distant report of cannon fire.
A gunshot erupted abruptly in the neighboring forest.
Once when I took a dog to a nearby forest, sat on a stump reading a book, there suddenly came from deep within the woods a sound like something falling.
The dog that had been lying at my feet pricked up its ears and stared intently in that direction.
That was all.
It was probably a chestnut falling—Musashino has no shortage of chestnut trees.

But when it comes to the sound of autumn drizzle—nothing equals its profound serenity. The mountain village drizzle has even become a subject for waka poetry in our land, but what truly distinguishes Musashino's drizzle is this—its sound passes stealthily through vast expanses, crossing forests from one field's edge to another, passing through groves, traversing rice fields, and crossing forests again; a sound so subtle yet magnanimous in character, tenderly nostalgic in its essence. I once encountered drizzle in Hokkaido’s deep forests—being vast primeval woods utterly devoid of human traces, their atmosphere held even deeper resonance—but by contrast, Musashino’s drizzle lacks that profoundly companionable, whispering-like quality.

From mid-autumn to early winter, try visiting the forests around Nakano—perhaps Shibuya, Setagaya, or deep within Koganei—and sit awhile to rest from your walk's fatigue.
These sounds—suddenly arising, suddenly ceasing, gradually approaching, gradually receding—leaves overhead falling without wind to make faint rustlings; when even those stilled, you would feel nature's profound silence pressing upon you like eternity's breath.
In Musashino's deep winter nights when stars hung scattered across the sky, I often recorded in my diary the fearsome sound of gales sweeping through forests—winds so violent they seemed capable of blowing down even the stars.
The wind's sound leads human thoughts to distant realms.
Hearing this terrible wind's voice—now near, now far—I would find myself dwelling on Musashino's life extending back through ancient times.

In Kumagai Naoyoshi’s waka poem,

When through the night you hear leaves gather to one side,

Stealthily the wind makes its way through—ah, I perceive.

Though I had known mountain village life, it was truly during winter days spent in Musashino’s rural dwellings that I came to feel the heart of this poem.

When sitting in the forest and perceiving sunlight at its most beautiful—from late spring to early summer—that was not what I should write of here now.
Next came the season of yellow leaves.
Walking through a forest half-yellow and half-green, the clear sky peeking through gaps in the treetops as sunlight shattered upon wind-stirred leaf tips—its beauty lay beyond description.
Setting aside renowned sites like Nikko and Usui, could there be any more singularly striking spectacle than when Musashino’s forests—those vast plains—became suffused without shadow, and as the sun dipped westward, cast forth a field of sparks?
If one could have ascended to some height and taken in this grand view at a glance, there would have been nothing more sublime—yet even should that have proved unattainable, the very monotony of the plains’ scenery compelled those who beheld but a fragment to envision its full expanse: that vast, nearly boundless vista.
How delightful it would have been—moved by such imaginings—to walk through the yellow leaves toward the evening glow as far as one’s feet could carry.
When the forest ended, you emerged into the fields.

IV

In my October 25th entry, I wrote of walking through fields and visiting forests; and in my November 4th entry, there is a passage about standing alone in windswept fields at dusk. Therefore, I will once again quote Turgenev.

"I stop, pick up the bouquet, and leave the forest to emerge into the fields. The sun drifts low in a deep blue sky, its cast shadows turning pale and cool—without blazing, it fills all directions like a muted aquamarine blur. Though there remains half an hour until sunset, the evening glow already begins faintly reddening the sky's edge. Driven by the gale fiercely blowing across yellowed withered stubble, curled-up fallen leaves rise in flurries, scurry past me as they cross the forest-bordering path, while the entire wall-like forest face confronting the fields rustles and quivers—not glittering but shimmering like scattered powdered bead fragments. Moreover, spiderwebs that cling indiscriminately to every withered grass, weed, and straw ripple in waves under the wind's assault."

I came to a halt... A sense of forlornness welled up; though every obstruction to my vision had utterly vanished, there lingered neither amusement nor strangeness—even amid this desolation, I somehow felt I could discern winter's dread drawing near.
A timorous crow beat its wings heavily, slicing through the gale as it passed high overhead; twisting its neck to glare sidelong at me, it abruptly surged upward, screeching raucously as though rending its own voice, then disappeared beyond the forest's edge.
Pigeons beyond numbering came flocking energetically from the granary's direction; they whirled upward like a spiraling column before scattering all at once across the fields—Ah, autumn!
"It seemed someone passed beyond the bald mountain—the sound of an empty cart reverberated through the hollow sky……"

Though this described Russian fields, the scenery of Musashino's fields from autumn into winter was much the same. In Musashino there were absolutely no bald mountains. Yet it undulated like ocean swells. Moreover, while appearing as an unbroken plain to the eye, it would be more accurate to say the elevated areas dipped here and there into depressions that formed small, shallow valleys. The bottom of these valleys was mostly rice paddies. The fields were mainly on high ground; this high ground became divided into various sections by forests and fields. Fields were what constituted the plains. Therefore there were no forests spanning several ri—no, likely not even one ri across; nor fields stretching several ri at a glance; instead it became such that a single grove stood surrounded by fields while three sides of any field stretch were bordered by woods, with farmhouses scattered throughout to further divide the landscape. That is to say, fields and forests became jumbled together in disarray—no sooner would one enter a forest than one would emerge into a field. This very intermingling imparted a distinctive character to Musashino where nature and human life coexisted—setting it apart from Hokkaido's vast primeval plains and forests where nature remained untamed—its essence being truly singular.

When the rice ripened, the paddies in every valley turned golden.
When harvest left forest shadows inverted upon flooded fields, when daikon radishes reached their prime to be uprooted and washed at water's edge—here in puddles, there along streams—the plains turned verdant with new wheat shoots.
Sometimes a stretch of wheat field remained meadow-like, where silvergrass and wild chrysanthemums swayed beneath the wind.
Where the pampas grass plain began its gradual ascent to meet the skyline—tiptoeing up that slope—one saw through forest gaps the Chichibu ranges lying black along the border, appearing to race along the horizon before plunging beneath it.

Now, should I descend once more toward the fields from here? Or should I lie down in the grassy field beyond the plots, sheltering from the strong north wind with piled-up dead grass while exposing my face to the lukewarm sunlight circling the southern sky, and gaze at the forest beside the fields as it rustles and glitters in the wind? Or should I immediately proceed along the path leading to that forest? I had often hesitated in this way. Was I troubled? Not in the least. For I had long known through experience that whichever path I chose among those crisscrossing Musashino, none would disappoint me.

V

In a letter my friend once sent from his hometown, there was this passage: "Just the other evening, walking alone through the grassy field at dusk, I thought to myself—upon these dozens of paths crisscrossing these plains since centuries past, how many hundreds have ventured forth at dawn when the dew lay clear, or yearned when evening clouds bloomed fair? Those who found each other repellant would keep apart on separate ways, while kindred souls would join hands and return together down the same path."
When walking paths in open fields, one might well be moved to such profound thoughts; but the paths of Musashino differ—though you go seeking to meet, you may miss your chance, and though you walk hoping to avoid, you might suddenly encounter someone around a forest bend.
Thus every path—curving right then veering left, piercing through forests and traversing fields—might at times run straight as railway tracks, yet others wind so eastward they loop back east again; hiding in woods and valleys, emerging into open land only to vanish once more among trees. Unlike field paths where distant figures on diverging trails are easily spotted, here such sightings prove rare.
However, surpassing even the sentiments stirred by field paths, Musashino’s paths hold profound substance.

Those who stroll through Musashino should not be troubled by losing their way.
On any path, if you go where your feet lead, there will surely be things there to see, to hear, to feel.
The beauty of Musashino can only be captured by aimlessly wandering its thousands of crisscrossing paths.
In spring, summer, autumn, winter; morning, noon, evening, night; under moonlit skies or amid snowdrifts; through wind-lashed fogs or frost-glazed rains; even amidst autumn’s passing drizzles—if one simply strolls these paths aimlessly, turning right or left as whim dictates—there will always be something at every turn to satisfy us.
This, I profoundly feel, must indeed be Musashino’s foremost characteristic.
Where in Japan outside Musashino can such a place be found?
Not in Hokkaido's wilderness of course, nor in Nasuno either—where else could it exist?
Where else can one find forests and fields so intricately interwoven, life and nature so intimately entwined?
It is precisely for this reason that Musashino possesses its distinctive paths.

Therefore, should you walk down a narrow path and suddenly come upon a place where it splits three ways, do not fret—set your cane upright and proceed in whichever direction it falls.
Or perhaps that path will lead you to a small forest.
If, upon reaching the midst of the forest, the path splits again into two, then try choosing the smaller one.
Or perhaps that path will lead you to some peculiar place.
This is an old cemetery deep in the forest, with four or five moss-covered graves lined up and a small clearing in front of them; off to the side, patrinia flowers might be blooming.
If a small bird sings in the treetops above your head, count yourself fortunate.
Immediately turn back and proceed along the left path.
Suddenly, the forest ends, and a vast field stretching out before you opens up.
From your feet extends a gentle downward slope where pampas grass grows thickly, its silvergrass plumes glowing in the sunlight; beyond this pampas field lies a farm field, past which thrives a low cluster of trees—a forest—above which appears a distant small grove of cedars, while along the horizon gather pale clouds through which mountain ranges resembling their hue become faintly visible.
The light of an October Indian summer day shone serenely, and a refreshing breeze blew softly.
If you descend toward the grassy field, the wide scenery that was visible until now will completely vanish, and you will emerge at the bottom of a small valley.
You unexpectedly discover a slender pond hidden between the grassy field and the forest.
The water lies clear and pure, vividly reflecting fragments of white clouds crossing the vast sky.
By the water's edge grow a few withered reeds.
Walking along the path by this pond for a while, it splits into two again.
If you go right, there’s a forest; if you go left, there’s a slope.
You will surely climb the slope.
When walking through Musashino, people inevitably find themselves constantly seeking out elevated spots in their quest for sweeping vistas—yet this aspiration proves difficult to fulfill.
A commanding view looking down is never possible.
You should abandon that hope from the very beginning.

If you wished to ask directions out of necessity, you were to inquire with a farmer working mid-field.
Should the farmer be over forty years of age, you were to call out loudly; he would turn toward you in surprise and reply in an equally loud voice.
If encountering a girl, you were to approach and pose your query softly.
When addressing a young man, you were to remove your hat and make your request courteously.
He would then graciously provide guidance.
You were not to take offense—such was simply the custom of youths in Tokyo’s outskirts.

When you went along the path you had been shown，the path split into two again．
Even if what had been pointed out seemed too narrow and somewhat odd，you proceeded as instructed—suddenly emerging before a farmhouse’s front yard．
You were not to show surprise at its strangeness．
At that moment，when inquiring at the farmhouse，they would curtly reply，“Step through our gate and there’s your main road．”
Stepping beyond their gate，you indeed found yourself on familiar thoroughfare．“So this was their shortcut，” escaped your lips in an involuntary smile—only then grasping what value lay in having been guided thus．

There are times when you emerge onto a straight path where forests of fully yellowed leaves continue for four or five chō on both sides.
How delightful it must be to walk this path alone in silence.
The treetops of the forest on the right glowed vividly in the evening light.
At intervals, only the sound of fallen leaves could be heard; all around was utterly still and truly lonesome.
Ahead and behind, no figures were visible; you encountered no one.
If this were the time when the leaves had settled, the path would be buried under fallen leaves, rustling with each step; the forest would be laid bare to its depths, the treetops pointing like slender needles toward the blue sky.
You encountered even fewer people.
It grew ever more desolate.
The only loud sound was my own footsteps crushing fallen leaves; at times I was startled by the sudden flapping of a wood pigeon taking flight.

To retrace the same path home would be foolish.
The place where you lose your way is nothing but present-day Musashino; you’re unlikely to find yourself troubled by nightfall.
On your return as well, set a general direction and wander a different path without aim—there lies wonder.
If you do this, you may unexpectedly gain sight of sunset’s splendor.
The sun hung at Mount Fuji’s shoulders not yet fully set while clouds massed about its waist burned gold—shifting shapes even as you watched.
Peaks of distant ranges ran northward like silver chains of snow before dissolving into brooding clouds.

The sun set; winds swept fiercely across the plains; the woods resounded; Musashino approached dusk; cold seeped into bones—then hurry along your path. Glancing back, you unexpectedly saw the crescent moon casting chill light beside withered treetops.
The wind seemed poised to blow the moon from the branches at any moment.
Suddenly you emerged into open fields again.
At that moment, you—

Mountains dusk, the plains in twilight’s haze—
you will recall that renowned verse.

VI

It was an event from three summers ago.
I left my urban lodgings with a certain friend, rode from Misakichō Station to Sakai, alighted there and walked straight north four or five chō to find a small bridge called Sakura Bridge; crossing it brought us to a wayside tea house where the old woman once asked me, "What brings you here this time of year?"

When I exchanged glances with my friend and laughed, answering, “We came for a walk—just to enjoy ourselves,” the old woman also laughed, though in a mocking manner, and said, “Don’t you know cherry blossoms bloom in spring?”
So I tried to explain in terms the old woman might understand just how delightful a summer walk in the suburbs could be, but it was all in vain.
It was all dismissed with her single remark: “Tokyoites have such leisurely lives.”
We wiped away our sweat, ate the melon the old woman peeled for us, washed our faces in the narrow ditch about a foot wide flowing beside the tea house, and then departed from there.
The water in this ditch was likely drawn from Koganei’s waterways—clear and pure, flowing contentedly through green grasses, occasionally gurgling as if waiting for small birds to come dip their wings and moisten their throats.
However, the old woman seemed to wash pots morning and evening with this water without giving it any thought.

Exiting the tea house, we gradually began ascending Koganei’s embankment toward the upper reaches of the waterway.
Ah, how delightful that day’s stroll was!
Indeed, Koganei is renowned for its cherry blossoms, so walking along its embankment at summer’s peak might appear foolish to outside eyes—but that speaks only of those unacquainted with Musashino’s summer light.

The sky swelled with sultry clouds concealing further clouds within their depths; between them emerged patches of azure whose edges dissolved into pure white transparency—neither silver nor snow-like—tinged with an ineffably calm hue that made the blue appear all the more profoundly vivid.
This alone would scarce feel like summer—but then a murky-tinged haze stirred between cloud masses, rendering celestial patterns into tremulous disarray while light shafts piercing clouds and shadows from their depths crisscrossed everywhere, their wild energy quivering imperceptibly through air.
Every forest, every treetop, down to each blade’s tip—all melted into light and heat, languidly slumbering in drowsy intoxication.
Where woods parted straight-edged revealed vast fields; across their breadth rose heat haze shimmering—too dazzling for prolonged gaze.

We wiped our sweat while sometimes gazing up at the great sky, sometimes peering into the forest depths, sometimes surveying where sky met woods at the horizon—all while gasping heavily as we trudged along the embankment.
“Too much for you?”
“Not at all!”
“My body overflows with health!”

Along the three-ri stretch of the long embankment, we encountered scarcely another soul.
From farmhouse yards or gaps between thickets, dogs would suddenly appear—eye us suspiciously—yawn—then vanish.
Beyond the woods, a rooster marked time with lofty wingbeats; its bright call enclosed by rice storehouse walls, cedar forests, groves and thickets.
On the embankment too, groups of domestic fowl played here and there beneath cherry tree shade.
Gazing far across the water’s surface, the distant end of the straight-flowing channel vanished into shadows like scattered silver dust; nearing us, it glittered fiercely and raced arrow-like.
We stood on a bridge comparing upstream and downstream flows.
The stream’s character shifted endlessly with changing light.
Just as the water’s surface seemed to darken suddenly, a cloud shadow would dart along with the current—reaching us in an instant—pause abruptly—then veer sideways.
Soon the water would blaze dazzlingly, bankside forests and embankment cherries radiating vivid green light like post-rain spring grass.
Beneath the bridge sounded water’s murmur—indescribably gentle.
This came neither from water striking banks nor shallow riffles.
Abundant flow through clay-lined ditch depths made water tangle-twist-churn against itself—generating sound from within.
What profoundly nostalgic music!

“――Let us match

“Let us match
This water's pleasant tune
With some old Border song, or catch,
‘That suits a summer’s noon.’”

I found myself recalling those verses too, glancing about as if expecting to see a septuagenarian and a youth seated beneath the cherry boughs’ shade somewhere nearby.
I deemed those farmhouse dwellers scattered along both stream banks fortunate souls.
Naturally, this included us too—strolling the embankment with straw hats and a single walking stick.

VII

The friend who once strolled Koganei’s embankment with me—now serving as a judge in the provinces—having read my previous essay, sent me the following written response.
I felt compelled to quote this here for convenience—Musashino is not what is commonly called the Kantō Hasshū plains.
Nor is it the historic plain where Dōkan received yamabuki flowers in place of an umbrella.
I possess a Musashino of my own defining—one whose boundaries I have personally set.
Those boundaries were naturally determined—just as national or village borders become established through mountains, rivers, historic sites, and various other elements—and this determination arises from diverse considerations.

Within the bounds of my Musashino lies Tokyo.
However, this must of course be excluded—for through these eight hundred and eight streets where Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce offices tower imposingly or trials like the Iron Pipe Incident are held, we cannot conjure vestiges of antiquity.
Moreover, a German woman I recently became acquainted with remarked that Tokyo is a "new capital"—even were it the Edo of Tokugawa times under today’s vistas, there are those who might deem this epithet apt.
For these reasons, Tokyo must be expunged from Musashino.

However, where that city ends—namely, its urban fringes—must never be expunged. In my view, to capture Musashino’s poetic sentiment, one must take these urban fringes as the primary subject. For instance: the vicinity of Dōgenzaka in Shibuya where you resided; Meguro's Kōjin-zaka slope; the neighborhoods around Waseda's Kishimojin shrine where you and I often strolled; Shinjuku; Shirokane... Moreover, to comprehend the essence of Musashino, one must view it not only through the perspective of gazing upon Mount Fuji, the Chichibu Mountains, Kōnodai and such from its plains, but also through the reflective consideration of the capital city Tokyo enveloped at its heart. Therefore, it became necessary to venture three or five ri beyond and depict the plains. In your essay too there was this close connection between life and nature, and you had depicted the interesting charm of encountering various things from time to time—indeed, precisely so. I once experienced this when taking my younger brother on an outing toward the Tama River—after walking one or two ri, then another half ri, we would encounter clusters of houses, then leave them behind, only to come upon more dwellings; meeting people and animals before again finding ourselves surrounded solely by plants and trees. I recalled speaking of how this very variation created an intriguing charm, with life punctuating the landscape here and there. To depict this charm, it became necessary to describe the stations scattered throughout Musashino—or rather, not quite stations but rows of houses, what drafters technically term connected-eave houses.

Furthermore, the Tama River must by all means be included within Musashino’s boundaries.
Our ancestors named places like Rokutsu Tamagawa, but where else can one find a river like Musashi’s Tama River?
The charm where that river connects flat fields and low woods holds infinite significance, akin to how the capital’s connection with its suburbs does.

Also consider the eastern plains.
Though this area might seem excludable for being too open, having numerous rice fields, and presenting a slightly sunken horizon, it remains undeniably Musashino.
From Kinshibori in Kameido to the Kinoshita River banks, the harmonious composition of rice paddies, standing trees, and thatched huts forms one distinct portion of Musashino.
This becomes particularly evident through Fuji.
Only here does Mount Fuji appear towering, presented as though we viewed it from Zushi's "Abuzuri".
It clarifies again through Tsukuba.
When we observe Mount Tsukuba's shadow lying low and distant, we perceive how Musashino breathes within a corner of Kantō's eight provinces.

However, in the areas north and south of Tokyo, Musashino’s territory becomes exceedingly narrow.
It might as well be said there is almost none.
This stems from topographical constraints and the presence of a railway—namely, because "Tokyo," via these tracks, pierces through Musashino to connect directly with other regions.
I indeed feel that way.

Thus, I draw a line starting from Zōshigaya as Musashino’s origin point; passing westward along Itabashi’s Nakasendō until reaching near Kawagoe; then encircling the Iruma District shown in your essay to curve around and arrive at the Kōbu Line’s Tachikawa Station.
Within this range, how the stations called Tokorozawa, Tanashi, and others abound in charm… especially when summer’s greenery is at its deepest.
Now, from Tachikawa it descends to the vicinity of Kamimaru, taking the Tama River as its boundary.
Hachiōji must never be included in Musashino.
And it returns from Maruko to Shimo-Meguro.
Within this range, how the stations called Fuda, Noborito, Futago, and others abound in charms…
The above concerns the western portion.

The eastern half extends from Kameido to Komatsugawa, enveloping Kinoshita River and Horikiri before reaching and halting near Senju.
This range may be excluded should there be objections.
However, that a certain poetic sentiment undeniably belonging to Musashino exists here—as I previously stated—

VIII

I had no objection to these arguments.
I particularly agreed with his counsel to make Tokyo City's outskirts our principal theme—a notion I myself had long contemplated.
To speak of including urban fringes within Musashino might sound faintly absurd, yet in truth it holds no strangeness—it mirrors how one paints not just open sea but its foaming margins where waves meet land.
Yet I resolved to defer this discussion and, resuming my walk along Koganei Embankment, first set forth an account of Musashino's waterways as they now flow.

First was the Tama River; second was the Sumida River—though I naturally wished to write fully of these two streams, I resolved to set them aside for later and instead seek out those watercourses flowing through Musashino.

Such as what they call the Koganei waterway—this being one among them.
This stream reaches Tokyo’s outskirts to flow between villages like Sendagaya, Yoyogi and Tsunohazu before entering Shinjuku and becoming the Yotsuya Waterworks.
Then there were those flowing from Igashira Pond and Zenpuku Pond to form the Kanda Waterworks.
Those coursing through Meguro to empty into Shinai.
Those passing through Shibuya before emerging at Kanasugi.
As for all others—down to nameless rills and ditches—had one seen them elsewhere they might hold little wonder, yet here in present-day Musashino their way of flowing indiscriminately through plain and upland alike—threading woods, crossing fields, vanishing and reappearing while twisting serpentine courses (Koganei excepted)—held charm enough through all four seasons to captivate our hearts.
Having grown up in mountainous country where even great rivers ran clear as glass, I initially found Musashino’s turbid streams—the Tama excepted—profoundly unpleasing. Yet gradually accustoming myself to them came this thought: that these faintly clouded waters suited well this plain’s aspect.

I remember once—it was a summer night four or five years ago now—taking a walk through the suburbs with that friend. Around eight o'clock at night, we passed by one of the upstream bridges of the Kanda Waterworks. That night, the moon shone clear and the wind was pure; fields and woods alike seemed wrapped in white gauze—an indescribably fine night it was. On that bridge, four or five villagers had gathered; leaning against the railing, they talked of this and that, laughed at this and that, and sang of this and that. Among them was an old man mingling, and he kept interrupting the young people’s conversations and songs. The moon shone clearly, casting these scenes within a hazy oval and setting them afloat like a stanza from a pastoral poem. As we too joined these people in the painting, leaning on the railing to gaze at the moon, its reflection lay clear upon the gently flowing water. Whenever winged insects skimmed the water, fine ripples arose, briefly wrinkling the moon’s reflection. The stream would wind its way out from between the woods, then curve in a semicircle to disappear back into them. Moonlight fragmented through the forest canopy fell upon the dim water, glistening. Water vapor skimmed the surface of the stream four or five feet above.

During daikon season, when I took walks through the suburbs, I saw farmers washing soil from daikon radishes along these streams everywhere.

IX

Not limited to Dōgenzaka nor Shirogane—that is to say, those margins of Tokyo's urban sprawl that become the Kōshū Highway, Ōme Road, Nakahara Road, or Setagaya Kaidō before plunging into suburban woodlands and fields; those ambiguous zones neither fully urban nor post towns, blending human life with nature to create singular vistas—was it not wondrous how depicting such places could profoundly awaken my poetic inspiration?
Why did such locales stir our emotions?
I could answer in one phrase:
It was because scenes of these urban fringes somehow made people feel they glimpsed society's microcosm.
To rephrase—because there seemed hidden beneath those eaves two or three tales small enough to interest both country folk and city dwellers; stories steeped in pathos or ripe with laughter.
To elaborate their essence—the lingering vestiges of metropolitan life and rippling echoes of rural existence converged there, slowly eddying like swirling water.

Look—there squatted a one-eyed dog.
The extent to which this dog’s name was known marked precisely the domain of this town’s outskirts.

Look—there stood a small restaurant.
The shadowy figure of a woman—raising a voice caught between sobbing and laughter—was projected on the shoji screen.
Outside, evening darkness deepened as a scent lingered—indistinguishable between smoke and earth.
Two or three large carts passed in succession; the clamor of their empty wheels’ ruts arose noisily only to cease, then ceased only to arise again.

Look—beside the black shadows of two packhorses standing before the blacksmith’s, two or three men were whispering about something. The iron horseshoe that had turned bright red was placed on the anvil, and sparks broke through the evening darkness to fly halfway down the street. The people who had been talking burst into laughter over something. When the moon rose to the top of the tall oak tree behind the houses, the roofs on the opposite side began to gleam white.

Black oily smoke rose from the temple; in between, a dozen villagers and townspeople ran about shouting. Various vegetables were piled and arranged here and there. This was a small vegetable market, a small grain-selling ground.

There were houses where people went to bed as soon as night fell, and houses where lamplight cast shadows on shop screens until around two in the morning.
Behind the barbershop stood a farmer’s house from which the lowing of a cow carried to the street; next to the liquor store lived an old natto seller who each morning left early for the city, calling “Natto! Natto!” in a hoarse voice.
When the brief summer night soon ended, carts began passing through.
The rumbling and clattering never ceased.
When nine or ten o’clock arrived, cicadas started singing in the high branches visible from the road, and gradually the heat intensified.
Dust stirred up by horse hooves and cart wheels swirled into the empty sky.
A swarm of flies crossed the thoroughfare, flitting from house to house and horse to horse.

Even so, the noon bell tolled faintly, and somewhere in the distant city sky, a steam whistle sounded.