Pathway to Japanese Literature

It is said that my husband, who specialized in the history of customs, first embarked on his explorations of the Tōkaidō during his student days at First Higher School in the early Taishō period, when his interests were particularly drawn to the customs and habits of travel in bygone eras.
I don’t know about that time, but I certainly saw that during his university days my husband often went there, and once I was even taken along.
To clarify the relationship between my husband and myself, my father—an amateur scholar of ancient court customs who had lived through the turmoil of the Meiji Restoration in his youth—was deeply devoted to this path and had me, his only daughter, study painting to assist in his research.
I was already able to make trace copies of picture scroll fragments using thin Mino paper coated thickly with alum solution when I was around sixteen or seventeen, and I could accurately sketch surviving helmet neck guards without errors in proportion.
But when it came to trying to create an original painting of my own, I couldn’t do it.

My husband could well be called the only young man who frequented my father’s residence.
There were indeed others with whom Father associated，but they were all middle-aged or elderly.
At that time，“success”
—such terms were being singled out and popularized；it was an era when young women wore Western-inspired updo hairstyles，and for a young man to be scouring moth-eaten literary relics was indeed most peculiar.
However，Father
“He’s quite an admirable young man these days，” he praised.

My husband was the third son of a provincial old family that had fallen into decline; though he had embarked on an academic path, he had to manage more than half of his tuition himself.
My husband made use of his beloved field by becoming a consultant to Kabuki prop masters and authenticating costumes for department store window display dolls, supplementing his tuition with the modest income from these endeavors.
Though his circumstances seemed quite strained, he maintained a neat appearance.

“Don’t let your hard-earned academic talents go to waste by scattering them piecemeal—”

It was only natural that Father, who had constantly advised him in this manner out of genuine intent, adopted my husband shortly before his death and entrusted to him both his lifelong collection of painstakingly gathered artifacts and me, his assistant.

The first time I was taken by my husband to begin exploring the Tōkaidō was shortly after our marriage plans had been settled.

Looking at the young man who had until then been just a friend and suddenly seeing him as my husband felt somewhat constraining and ticklish, but I hadn’t been entirely without some premonition of this from the start.
That young men and women who had breathed the same air within narrow professional duties and social circles would inevitably end up as a pair was something instinctively sensed, like fish in a pond.
Without feeling embarrassed or altering my speech much, even on this trip I merely attended to his daily needs with slightly less reserve than before.

We alighted from the night train at Shizuoka Station.
As soon as we hired a rickshaw at the station and were pulled through the town, large signboards for wasabi pickles and sea bream tempura flakes slowly loomed into view from within the hazy dawn mist.
Unaccustomed to travel, my heart leapt with anticipation.

Passing two closed Abe River mochi shops, we immediately encountered the Abe River flowing with a hazy mist churned up by the sound of its rapids.
As we were pulled across bridge planks leaping under wagon-rutted tracks, my eyelids—weary from the overnight journey—felt cooled as if gently wiped.

There was a row of rustic houses that could be called neither town nor village. This was said to be Tego no Sato—where Chigusa no Mae, the courtesan loved by Shigehira in Kamakura during his eastern journey, had been born. After Shigehira was executed, Chigusa became a nun and entered Zenkōji Temple, passing away at twenty-four years of age. This history my husband briefly told me from the rickshaw ahead. Now that he mentioned it, I began to feel that temples facing each other across their sanmon gates, with signs proclaiming them as famous moxibustion clinics, somehow appeared antiquely elegant; from the rickshaw that had considerately closed the distance and was now moving at a leisurely pace, I asked:

“In the old days, courtesans often had chaste love affairs, didn’t they?”

“Not all of them were like that, but—those courtesans who appeared before dignitaries in those days could maintain considerable independence in their lives, and there was a tendency for such romances to be more common among younger courtesans.”

“So Chigusa no Mae was still at that tender age when one’s emotions remain fresh enough to sympathize with Shigehira’s ill-fated destiny, I suppose.”

“Moreover, Kamakura at that time was indeed a newly emerging city, but being provincial after all—when it came to culture, they were always longing for Kyoto in one way or another.”
“Even by the time of the third shogun Sanetomo’s reign, it was still like that, so Chigusa no Mae of Kamakura in this era must have been impressed when meeting urbane, sophisticated young nobles from the capital, and perhaps felt some pride in setting such nobles as objects of her romantic affections.”

I turned to look back at Tego no Sato once more, somehow.

My husband and I had never spoken of matters touching on romantic affection between us—naturally—nor had we ever broached such subjects even when discussing contemporary events.
For those like us who had breathed the air of antiquarian households steeped in classical traditions, addressing such matters felt raw and uncomfortably vivid, carrying even a hint of distaste.
Yet through historical subjects, we would sometimes converse in this way.
It fostered a certain warmth between us.

Ancient pine tree avenues that truly felt like the highway continued.
When they ended, the world suddenly brightened, and the rickshaw accelerated along a path through open fields amidst several rounded hills.
At the right base of a bridge spanning a small stream—a plank laid across flowing water—before a thatched hut styled like a tea shop, the rickshaw lowered its shafts.

“Yes.”
“We’ve arrived at Mariko.”

Sure enough，written on the shoji screen were the words “Famous Tororo Soup”.

“You must be hungry.”
“Wait here for a moment.”

With that，my husband slid open the shoji and went inside.

I recalled it was probably late April, or if May had already begun, still early in the month when little time had passed.

Given that the Shizuoka area was warm, I wore a lightly padded kimono and carried my sketchbook and coat in hand.
Yashio flowers bloomed vividly across the area, rounded hills adorned entirely with tea plants bearing fresh yellow-green buds arranged like uguisu mochi cakes, while a faint, warm fragrance permeated even the very air.

Though it was called an inner guest room, we were made to wait a long time for the tororo soup to be prepared in a space with tatami the color of Nara pickles and rattling shoji screens haphazardly fitted into their frames.
Through the narrow gap of the slightly opened shoji, an ordinary hill behind could be seen over the fields.
An aged bush warbler sang.
Though renowned as Mariko's post town specialty tororo soup shop, few came to eat it anymore; the establishment had seemingly become a simple roadside eatery where three or four members of what appeared to be a land survey team carrying instruments and a groom who had tied his horse outside were taking their meal under morning lights left burning, their voices rising in boisterous laughter.

My husband, so as not to let me grow bored, took out the *Tōkaidō Bunkan Zue* from his pocket and explained it by flipping through the pages.
It was something like a cross between a map and a bird’s-eye view. While keeping in mind the flatly inscribed mileages and distances, mountains, shrines, temples, and castles were rendered in simplified side sketches roughly corresponding to their visible forms from one’s standing position—to the right and left.
Of course, it was a reprinted copy on improved Mino paper, but here and there one could glimpse that lush vibrancy and simple elegance characteristic of Hishikawa Moronobu’s original illustrations.
However, there was no genuine sense of nature’s presence whatsoever.

“People in the past invented things directly out of necessity, which is why such convenient and interesting objects came into being.”
“In other words, they didn’t feel compelled to adhere to abstract reasoning—even now, I think making such things would still be useful.”

At first, he had likely intended to speak with careful consideration for me, but before long, it had turned into a solitary monologue where he alone became immersed in nostalgic reveries for classical antiquity.
Having constantly witnessed this tendency—common among antiquarian scholars—in my father, I didn’t find it particularly strange; yet there was something lonely about his manner during our first journey together, especially as we waited in such a place.
I slid the shoji open wider to distract myself.

The morning sun was indeed dazzlingly beautiful.
The old maidservant brought in the tororo soup, announcing, “It’s ready.”
It wasn’t prepared in any particularly unusual way, but the wild yam—with its earthy aroma reminiscent of celestial soil mingling with the fragrant steam of freshly cooked barley rice—had a grounded deliciousness.
I stacked the bowls without sprinkling the aonori seasoning so as not to dissipate the aroma.

My husband asked the old maidservant serving us, “Old Man Minakawa…?” “The Fujinoya group…?”
“The toothbrush vendor…?”
“What about Hikoshichi?” he inquired peculiarly.
To this, the old maidservant knew some of their whereabouts and didn’t know others.
From how they spoke, they seemed to be regular travelers of various professions along this highway.
When my husband asked, “And Mr. Sakurai?”

“Oh, just now—a short while ago—Mr. Sakurai came through here.”
“If you’re going over the pass, you might meet him somewhere along the way.”

“Oh, just now—a short while ago—Mr. Sakurai passed through here,” she answered. “If you are going to cross the mountain pass, you may encounter him somewhere.”

My husband cut her off: “We will cross the pass—though we’re taking a detour—so… Well, it’s not like we particularly want to meet him anyway.”

As we left the shop, he added for my benefit: “The Tōkaidō has many fascinating people you might call Tōkaidō-jinshu—a breed of Tōkaidō people, so to speak.”

Dense bamboo thickets multiplied along both sides of the narrow path until two small peaks rose into close view. My husband explained this outcrop on Mount Tenchūzan was called Togetsuhō Peak.

My father had been a fastidious man. Every morning when making me clean his tobacco ash container, he would have me pour water over a whetstone’s back and scrub the tube’s mouth until fresh grain showed through the base material. My early-rising father would sit waiting in the tatami room, pipe resting on his knees, silent as I struggled against sleepiness to bring him the polished container. When I hurried over in anxious haste, he would frown and hand it back. I would polish it anew.

At such times, I always noticed the faded Togetsuhō seal stamped near the mouth of the inverted container where my fingers touched it. Irritable, I detested this unintelligible script—nonchalantly placed on bamboo skin colored like a sky suffused with spring sunlight—whose meaning eluded me.

When the mouth of the tobacco ash container had been polished cleanly to Father’s satisfaction, he would say “Thank you,” insert it into the tobacco tray, and speak while lighting his pipe.

“Thanks to this, I can enjoy a fine morning smoke.”

Father would then direct a rare smile toward me.

After Mother’s death, Father—who had raised me single-handedly with maids, elderly maids, and student lodgers—appeared to find his sole purpose in life in the pleasures of academic inquiry, yet he still seemed lonely.
But for people of old who knew no way to express affection, there was seemingly no help for it.
In the swept-clean morning room, he immersed himself in a tranquil and refined mood.
That was the sole path through which he could open his heart, and only on such occasions would he allow a smile of genuine affection toward his daughter to escape.
Since becoming old enough to understand, I had come to regard my father as a pitiable figure and strove to clean the tobacco ash container as thoroughly as possible for him.
And I came to think that even the characters ‘Togetsuhō’ stamped on the tobacco ash container might contain some meaning akin to that pitiable person’s respite.

When Father finalized the marriage arrangement between me and my husband, from that very day he had the student take over cleaning the tobacco ash container.
I felt unsatisfied and said, "I’ll do it for you," but he would insist, "That’s quite all right," and never let me.
He also stopped letting me make reference sketches or copies.
It was likely out of a sense that his daughter now belonged to the adopted son.
I felt quiet tears welling up at my old-fashioned father’s excessively scrupulous obstinacy.

Against the rounded, ordinary terrain surrounding them, Mount Tenchūzan and Togetsuhō Peak stood out abruptly and prominently.
Yet their form showed neither steepness nor jaggedness, tracing instead soft, sloping lines like gently rounded shoulders.
This unnaturalness made the twin peaks resemble hills from an artificial garden, and together with the thatched cottage below, they gradually drew nearer like a painting being unfurled.

Upon passing through the brushwood gate, we found a refined garden, where at the entrance of a structure blending temple and tea room elements hung a rusted couplet plaque.
The verses read:

Countless young leaves rustle—the garden’s first bamboo.

Mountain cherries imbue the mist with hues of longing—ah.

My husband, seeming familiar with the place, opened the brushwood door and guided me into the inner garden, then entered the cottage while calling out from there.
In one room, only tools for crafting tobacco ash containers and bamboo materials lay scattered about; there was no one there.

My husband passed straight through without stopping, faced the treasures arranged on the shelves, and commanded me to sketch them.
It was an iron bowl said to have been held by Ikkyū and a wooden statue of Hitomaro said to have been made by Tonna.

As I moved the brush of my portable writing set, my husband brought over a new, defective tobacco ash container that had been lying about, lit a rolled cigarette, and began speaking intermittently.

"The founder of this hermitage, Sōchō, was said to be a disciple of Sōgi in renga and studied Zen under Ikkyū, though he's more renowned as a renga master. Originally born in Shimada—three stations ahead along the route—he spent his later years under the patronage of Saitō Kaganokami and moved east from Kyoto. Then he settled here. They say the garden was modeled after Ginkaku-ji's, albeit on a smaller scale."

“It’s intriguing that by the late Muromachi period, amid civil strife, people engaged in frivolous literary pursuits like renga poetry—yet it’s curious how this spread among samurai of the eastern provinces. When renga masters descended from the capital, castles in every vicinity would invite them—requesting an entire renga session or insisting on at least an opening verse—and there are travel accounts written by these masters describing how they were even summoned within castle walls on the eve of battles set for the morrow. I wonder if the Japanese people possess some unique soul for poetic refinement.”

While some renga masters reportedly used their official duties to serve as spies or liaisons from Kyoto to Kantō—undoubtedly involving such purposes to a degree—Ōta Dōkan and other samurai lords of the eastern provinces were ardent patrons of elegance, and thus much of the Tōkaidō’s scenery from that era has been preserved through the writings of renga masters, my husband stated.

I found myself considering instead how Sōchō the renga master, even after descending into the vast wilderness of the eastern provinces, remained unable to relinquish the fading culture of Kyoto—until at last he discovered these two small peaks resembling Kamigata’s nature and made a snail-like existence in their shadow.
I found something poignantly endearing in this—like a young girl’s lingering attachment.
And, just before leaving, I thought to gaze up once more at the twin peaks of Tenchū and Togetsu from the garden said to be modeled after Ginkaku-ji.

My husband placed a monetary offering inside the new tobacco ash container and set it on the threshold of the workshop entrance.

“We’ll make do with tobacco ash containers for everything.”
“Is this what they call Zen or refinement?”

he said and laughed.

“Well, now comes Utsunoya Pass. Narihira’s poem—‘In Suruga, by Utsu’s mountain edge: neither waking nor dreaming do I meet her’—that’s the ancient Utsu Mountain we speak of, isn’t it? The climb may prove somewhat strenuous. Hand your things over here. I’ll carry them for you.”

A railway tunnel ran through the area, and after a passing train had once belched its modern smoke upon us at that moment, this old mountain pass road became completely severed from its time.
The path wound through bases of cliffs thick with tree groves on either side; at times, shrouded by a dense canopy of treetop leaves, the way ahead grew dim.
When we reached such spots, the air turned chilly, and the sound of Sekawa River rushing along the right side rose sharply.
Unidentifiable bird cries pierced through with shrill calls like shards of pottery scraping against each other.

I recalled the Bun'ya murder scene from Mokuami’s play *Tsuma Momiji Utsunoya Tōge* that I had seen performed, and as I followed behind my husband—feeling slightly unnerved—I thought how unexpectedly grim a stage he had chosen for what should have been a sweet first journey as an engaged couple.

My husband would occasionally stop and, flicking his Western umbrella, say, “Look here.”
A large toad, with decayed leaves stuck to its side, crouched right before my eyes.
Even amidst my trepidation, I couldn’t help but notice how my husband had become a different person since setting foot on this old mountain pass—remarkably lively, his face now animated with vitality.
Swinging his Western umbrella and spreading his arms, he plucked at the dwarf bamboo that brushed against his hands as he walked.
It was both the agility of a boy and the carefreeness of a garden owner entering his own property.
And occasionally turning to me,

“Isn’t the Tōkaidō splendid?”

he pressed for agreement.
I

“I could only answer, ‘I suppose.’”

Suddenly I wondered whether those immersed in classical works might harbor some instinct to seek out romantic elements within them.
In this sudden otherworld we had entered, I forgot my weariness and simply kept following my husband’s lead—how much time had passed?—until we emerged onto a level clearing said to be the mountain pass, where two or three houses stood.

“The ten dumplings from Kyoroku’s verse—‘Even ten dumplings grow small in autumn’s wind’—they used to sell those very dumplings around here, but...”

While saying this, my husband had me rest at the front of a shop displaying cheap sweets and hanging straw sandals.

While we were drinking the stiff bitter tea brought by the landlady, a middle-aged man in a crepe haori slid open the old paper-paneled door, stepped out, and addressed us.

“Well now, what an unexpected place to meet!”

“Ah, Mr. Sakurai? Still lingering in these parts?”
“Though I did hear earlier in Maruko that you were bound for the mountain pass.”

my husband replied.

“On the slope halfway up, I remembered some business I’d left behind in Ejiri.”
“Ought to turn back.”
“Just now, I was having a drink out back while mulling it over.”

The middle-aged man stared so intently at me that my husband dutifully explained my circumstances.
The man addressed me courteously,

“I dabble in painting myself—or rather, among other things, I run a greengrocery.”

The man glanced up at the sky from under the eaves.

“How about it? The sun’s still at a good height.”
“Care to join me for a drink in the back?”
“Why not have lunch here before you go?”

He gestured for us to follow him deeper inside. Though still young, my husband had grown accustomed to sharing evening drinks with my father at home, and he glanced at me questioningly. Seeing the wistful look in Mr. Sakurai’s eyes, I felt it would be churlish to refuse.

“I don’t mind at all,” I said.

In the inner parlor of a country house with rough plaster walls, my husband and the middle-aged man began exchanging cups. Through the opened rear shōji doors lay a vista of overlapping mountain ridges—through their gaps one might have glimpsed the Enshū plain below, though thick haze hung heavy over the view, its faint golden translucence likely filtering through rapeseed fields. The landlady tended to us while scolding curious children who peeked in. I felt uneasy about how deeply I was sinking into this old era’s depths, yet found myself captivated by an inescapable tranquility as I sat peeling boiled eggs nearby.

“The other day in Shimada, I found a house that still keeps the renpalanquin they used for crossing the Ōi River.”
“I thought I’d tell you when we met—”

He continued advising about matters that might serve as research materials for my husband—how one house in Ishibe Post Town still hung old-fashioned cedar balls under its eaves as a tavern signpost, or how Seki Post Town’s elders could be counted on to share knowledge of Ise pilgrimage customs and travel songs if asked—but seemed to have also taken my boredom into account.

“Madam, visiting this Tōkaidō once or twice may feel novel and serve as a feast for the eyes,” he said while drinking, “but get carelessly caught in its spell and you’ll never escape.”
“Do take care.”
“Once you’re caught,” he continued, “you’ll end up like ants stuck to candy.”
“Now don’t take this wrong,” he added with self-deprecation, “but your husband here’s one who’s had his feet rather thoroughly glued down too.”
Though he enjoyed sake but lacked tolerance for it, his voice took on an emotional quality, face flushing reddish.

“This Tōkaidō—with its mountains, rivers, and sea artfully arranged, its post towns spaced at just the right intervals—is a road without equal in scenic beauty or travel charm, or so I believe. But more than that, since the Keichō era when the Fifty-three Stations took form—over these past 270 years—the loneliness tasted by millions of travelers through their journeys, their fleeting respites… such things have soaked into the very soil of the highway, into its pine avenues, into the timbers of every post-town lodging.”
“I think that essence must numb those of us—people with dispositions tender to sentiment’s call.”

Since his tone wasn’t insistent in seeking agreement, I simply let my unanswerable feelings show through a smile and nodded. Then Sakurai shook his head as though sinking into solitary reflection.

“Your husband knows this well, but when I think about it, someone like me—”

Having said this, he began recounting his life story.

“My family ran a grain merchant business in Odawara—I had taken a wife and fathered three or four children—but when I suddenly set foot on the Tōkaidō for business at thirty-four, I became hopelessly enthralled. After that, I could no longer settle down at home. Depart from this post town at dawn, and aim to reach that one by evening. In that interim space, propelled by loneliness—the post towns departed from at dawn would never be revisited in this lifetime, while those yet to be reached appeared as my sole purpose.”

“Such feelings are inherent to all journeys,” he said, “but there exists no path that deepens this sensation as profoundly as the Tōkaidō.”

“No matter how many times I traveled it, it would always immerse me in new sights and fresh emotions.”

“Even if we speak only of the eastern direction from here,”

Between Hodogaya and Totsuka lay Yaki Mochizaka and Gontazaka slopes.

Hakone Old Highway.

Suzukawa, pine tree avenues, Left Fuji.

This Utsunoya Valley.

“Such places are especially poignant,” he said. “There are even more to the west.”

“What remains remarkable about this Tōkaidō is how travelers still feel that purposeful drive toward Kyoto—through nights accumulated at post towns until reaching Ōtsu, they maintain that taut anticipation and constant delight.”
“But their vigor wanes upon reaching Ōtsu.”
“What could people like us—without true business there—possibly gain by going up to Kyoto?”

Thereupon, they would return by steam train to Shinagawa and from there set out step by step toward Kyoto like pieces on a journey-themed board game.
“For what purpose?”
“To have a purpose.”
“What would we call this in modern terms, I wonder?”
“Longing... Ah, yes—to create that very longing.”

“Since I was constantly away from home, it was only natural my wife lost patience.”
“She took the children and returned to her parents’ home.”
“Their house was near Atsuta—not destitute by any means—so while I didn’t worry for their livelihood, I still had to send tuition money for the children now and then.”

Sakurai was a dexterous man who could handle scroll mounting along with simple carpentry and plastering work. He would reline fusuma sliding doors himself and paint calligraphy and images on them. He explained that making this his livelihood—and forming connections at various post towns through such work—had bound him ever more tightly to the highway; for nearly twenty years since his household scattered, he had been traversing the Tōkaidō as if it were his dwelling place.

“People like this aren’t limited to just me.”
“You have no shortage of companions, I see.”

Before long,

“I’d like to accompany you both to the Ōi River area and show Madam around,” he said, “but what with this wall work I’d forgotten about—and how dry it’s gotten—we ought to head back now.”
“Well, since your husband is with you,” he added, “he’s familiar with most of what there is to see.”

After a simple meal, we parted ways with Sakurai, heading west and east respectively.
I seem to recall a dark tunnel somewhere.

We then descended the mountain pass.
We emerged at Okabe Post Town, where rows of houses with wide eaves and low roofs stood.
It appeared to be tea-processing season—green tea leaves drying here and there, the tea master’s coppery-skinned nude body standing out against the town’s smoky hues.
At Fujieda Post Town, we stopped to see the site where Kumagai Renshōbō had once pledged Buddhist prayers as collateral—now rice paddies with young plants swaying gently in the wind. In Shimada, we visited the house storing the lotus platforms used for river crossings that Sakurai had told us about, sketched them, and finally emerged onto the Ōi River embankment.
An endless vista of stones and sand stretched across the vast riverbed.
The bright early summer sunlight seemed unable to dispel the countless human sorrows.
The embankment appeared like a single hair stretched out.
What stood notable here were the Asagao-meaki pines, growing in a pair.
That night, we returned to Tokyo by train from Shimada.

Even after our marriage, my husband frequently visited the Tōkaidō, and on a couple of those occasions, he took me along.

By then I no longer cared about appearances; my heart raced with the desire to immerse itself in that smoky, chillingly cold air of the highway. Had I too become possessed by this road? Though so desolate, I felt something vibrant lurking beneath that highway's surface.

Once we departed from Fujikawa, viewed Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s Yahagi Bridge in Okazaki, and planned to seek out Yatsuhashi’s ancient site on Chiryu’s outskirts. It was when daikon flowers had formed their seed pods.

The area was a somewhat marshy plain where rice fields and marshlands with slight undulations languidly intermingled. The Azekawa River flowed, and a single plank bridge spanned the muddy water. The surroundings were so open it felt almost sad—nothing to block the view. The river seemed to flow higher than the land, and all that could be seen were pine tree avenues on a slightly elevated embankment, their branches pruned as if dots had been scattered. “Sketch this scene here,” my husband said, so I took out my writing kit. But for someone like me who had only ever drawn specimen-like illustrations, this nature too appeared as nothing more than maki-e patterns, and I gave up halfway.

Crossing Sakaibashi Bridge, said to mark the border between Mikawa and Mino provinces, the road gradually entered between hills, and we passed along a rice field path said to be the site of the ancient Okehazama battlefield.
The battlefield felt surprisingly small.

In Narumi, only one or two shops still sold the famous shibori.
The rows of residential-style houses were ones that had made their fortunes long ago by selling Narumi shibori, the rickshaw man said.
What I noticed beyond Chiryu was that while the houses were built with their gables facing forward, to my Tokyo-bred eyes they appeared to be constructed sideways.
My husband said,

“From this area onward, it becomes Ise-style architecture.”

He said.

That day, we returned to Tokyo from Atsuta.

The winter wind’s essence resembles Takusai.

Since it was late November, my husband recited this verse as we were leaving Tokyo.
"What does that mean?" I asked.

“Among the old Tōkaidō pilgrimage novels, there’s one called Takusai Monogatari.”
“Takusai is the name of the novel’s protagonist—a quack doctor.”
“So Bashō used that in his verse.”
“I’m fairly certain it was Bashō.”

“Then are we the male Takusai and female Takusai?”

“Well, something like that.”

Our marriage had quietly settled into a mundane married life without ever experiencing what one might call an era of exhilaration. Father had already passed away by then.

Our purpose at that time was to attempt crossing Suzuka Pass. We reached Kameyama by train and then boarded a rickshaw as was our custom. Kameyama Castle stood towering over its stone walls amidst withered mulberry trees. When we entered the desolate town of Seki, my husband sought out the elder Sakurai had mentioned the previous year, and while listening to his stories, had me sketch the Ise pilgrimage items stored there—pale yellow gaiters and traveler’s swords among them.

At Fukuzō-ji stood Komann’s grave.
The sound of Komann of Seki pounding rice could be heard for one ri and echoed for two.
It was said that the beautiful Komann, who harbored a desire for vengeance and possessed immense strength, was why such a song remained.
After paying our respects at Seki's Jizō statue, we approached the mountain pass.
Filled with an air of solemn desolation as far as the eye could see, the underlying loneliness of the journey pierced us to the core.

“That’s the sound of wild monkeys.”

My husband smiled and had me listen intently.
Once again coming to such a place and seeing my husband grow animated, I felt like Urashima.

“It’s a loneliness that makes you want to cast away every shred of your soul and beg, ‘Do with me as you will.’”

“There’s something powerful beneath this surface—but well, you’re a woman.”

We abruptly emerged into Tsuchiyama from the folk songs.
Though just a small town with gilded signboards for Yanetsuki Stroke Remedy visible under its eaves, after the barren mountains and withered trees we’d passed until now, we felt the joy of encountering warm-blooded humans.

We drove along the base of Mount Mikami where the wind howled, passing through Mizunokuchi to reach the post town of Ishibe. Indeed, here at this sake shop, there was a house that had put out a sign under the eaves—just as Sakurai had described—with cedar leaves rolled into balls and flags hanging beneath them. My husband looked up and said, “Ah, this must be the sake shop’s sign.”

We passed along the road tunneled beneath where Lake Biwa’s waters flowed as a high river and hurried into Ubaga Mochiya in Kusatsu. Inside the glass doors, warmth came from the stove fire where a teakettle sat. The goldfish in their bowl swam with scales shimmering rainbow hues under the stained glass window’s light. Peering outside, I saw both Hira and Hiei peaks far in the distance crowned with snow clouds.

“Next comes Otsu, then Kyoto—to hear Sakurai tell it, even on the Tōkaidō these are post towns where upward-bound longing’s force has waned.”

My husband said with a laugh while eating mochi.
“Do you think—”
“Do you think Mr. Sakurai might still be walking somewhere these days—even under such wintry skies?”
I murmured while trying to picture what had become of that wanderer.

More than twenty years passed.

I went to Nagoya with my husband.
My husband was there for requested work at the newly established museum, and I was to visit the new household of my husband’s disciple—a young teacher who had been assigned to a school there.

To recount what followed in our lives would be to tell an utterly ordinary tale. After graduating from university, my husband secured positions at the School of Arts and Crafts and two or three other workplaces; moreover, given his uncommon academic specialty, he received numerous consultations from various quarters on this and that matter. Amid his busyness, our Tōkaidō journeys were soon abandoned. He would occasionally mutter like delirious ramblings about wanting to cross Saya no Nakayama to taste Hizaka’s bracken-starch cakes or walk the pine-lined stretches between Goyu and Akasaka, but even these instances gradually grew fewer, until recently his sole remaining connection to the Tōkaidō amounted to this: whenever some intricate research matter arose, he would spend a week or ten days at a Gamagori inn, making hurried trips to Toyohashi during that time to procure necessities.

Once children came into our lives as well, such matters became impossible; the sketching of specimens was delegated to a graduate of Joshibi, and I threw myself completely into the role of housewife, my hair perpetually disheveled.
What I still regret to this day is that with painting, I only ever copied things and couldn’t draw what was in my mind.
Taking advantage of having a music-loving boy among my children, I am striving to mold him into a composer—quality aside—to create at least one person who can freely express what comes from my own heart.

And so it was that both my husband and I had completely forgotten about the Tōkaidō, each engrossed in our own affairs. On the evening when our work in Nagoya was nearly finished, we found ourselves in our hotel room chatting over coarse tea we’d ordered up.
Then suddenly, my husband brought up something like this.

“How about it? We rarely get to travel together.”
“Why don’t we extend our return by a day and walk part of the nearby Tōkaidō for the first time in ages?”

At first, I had intended to dismiss what my husband was saying amidst all this busyness, but upon reflection—realizing that going forward, who knew when we might ever have another chance for such a journey—I found myself swayed by his words.

“That’s true.”
“Well then, shall we truly go for the first time in ages?”

“I answered,” I said.
As I began to speak those words, I felt warmth rising within me as though recounting a first love.
Strange it was—being someone who’d never known a first love—to direct such memories toward a place that held no romantic associations.
We resolved to take the morning train to Kuwana.

In the morning, as we were about to depart from the hotel, there was a visitor for my husband.
Upon seeing the business card that read Komatsu, my husband seemed to have no recollection of the name and had the bellboy ask again about who he was.
Then the bellboy said, “He says, ‘If I mention that I’m the son of Mr. Sakurai, whom you often met along the Tōkaidō in the old days, you’ll surely remember.’”
My husband ordered him to be shown to our room and said to me.

“Hey, you met him back then at Utsu too, didn’t you? That’s apparently Sakurai’s son. The family name’s different though.”

The man who entered was a neatly dressed middle-aged gentleman in Western attire.
I had nearly forgotten and couldn’t recall, but I felt this gentleman too carried something of Mr. Sakurai’s approachable eyes.
The gentleman bowed politely and succinctly explained why he had come: that he worked as an engineer for a railway company in the area; how last night at his club, he had learned that the person his late father had constantly spoken of before dying was staying at N Hotel; and how he had promptly come to call.
He explained that Komatsu was his maternal family’s surname.
As he was the second son, he had inherited his maternal household when it remained without children.

“Then, has Mr. Sakurai already passed away?”
“Oh dear...”
“But considering his age, he must have been quite advanced in years.”

“Ah—had he lived, he would be over seventy now—but he passed away two years ago.”
“Until seven or eight years ago, he remained in good health and kept journeying along the Tōkaidō as always. But when neuralgia took hold, even a man like my father had to relent and settle down at my house.”

Engineer Komatsu's house stood near Atsuta.
From there, on days when his back pain eased, he would walk leaning on a cane—starting from Kasadera Kannon through stretches where rows of low houses still remained intermittently between pine stumps—searching for traces of the old highway.
This was why Sakurai had come to depend on his second son's household in Atsuta rather than his eldest son's family, who had moved from Odawara to Yokohama City.

"As I occasionally accompanied my father on these walks, I gradually came to appreciate the Tōkaidō's particular appeal."
"These days I make sure to visit some part of its route during every vacation."

Engineer Komatsu spoke at length about various matters concerning Mr. Sakurai.
Engineer Komatsu recounted how in his later years Mr. Sakurai had become a somewhat renowned painter along the Tōkaidō, abandoning his work as a framer and carpenter; how Mr. Sakurai had kept a notebook of potentially useful things he later found along the highway route to share with my husband, intending to send it to Tokyo someday; and how after his lumbar neuralgia worsened and he took to his bed, while reminiscing about fellow wanderers of the same highway—none of whom had met proper ends—he had remarked with some bitterness that only my husband, cleverly withdrawing from the highway midway, had unusually prospered. This account made my husband smile wryly in earnest.
The conversation dragged on longer than intended, and before we knew it, it was around ten o’clock.

Engineer Komatsu, upon leaving, changed his demeanor slightly,

“Actually, I have come because there is something I wish to ask of you.”

After saying this, he fell silent for a moment; but upon seeing my husband respond with an approachable expression, he continued reassured.

“I too have conducted some research on this Tōkaidō. As you are well aware, I believe there are few other routes where natural transitions, urban and post-town life, and famous sites with historic ruins are so harmoniously blended.”
“Now, if we were to make adjustments to this—preserving what ought to be preserved and adding new conveniences that should be added—then in the future, I believe it could become one of Japan’s magnificent tourist routes.”
“This work has proven rather beyond my capabilities, but once matters are settled with my employer, I intend to devote myself fully to this plan and make it my life’s work.”

At that time, citing both his late father’s connection and his own standing as a Tōkaidō enthusiast, he now requested of my husband that he earnestly lend his assistance.

When my husband accepted with “Though my abilities are limited,” he—his friendly eyes shining—proceeded to express his gratitude profusely.
And then, upon hearing that our destination was now to visit Kuwana,

“Since it’s Kuwana, I happen to know someone there quite well. I’ll telephone immediately to make arrangements for your convenience.”

With that, he left.

After Engineer Komatsu left, my husband, who had been sitting with his arms crossed in thought for a while, said to me:

“The essence of longing remains unchanged, but parents and children come to differ in their methods of seeking it.”
“It’s the times, after all.”

Through my husband’s words, I recalled a story from some twenty-odd years earlier—how Mr. Sakurai would travel up the Tōkaidō to Ōtsu to maintain hope and renew his longing, only to return to the starting point and repeat this journey.
I

“So it’s bloodline after all? Or is that simply how human beings are?” he said.

Through the train window, the mountains along the Iseji route came into view. In fields edged with winter’s approach, radishes lay drying everywhere—around farmhouse eaves and along the ridges of rice paddies. The sky was crystal-clear, and sunlight poured down.

As my body was rocked by the train car, I felt that even in my own ordinary half-lived life—over twenty years—there might be something within it with a discernible pulse that could be perceived. That pulse was interacting somewhere with those of strangers with whom I had little connection. I was heading toward Kuwana without any sense of urgency, thinking about the era of Sakurai and his son, and the era of my father, us, and our son. My husband was dozing contentedly. The slightly visible strands of white hair at his crown bounced and gleamed.