Pathway to Japanese Literature

The lattice door creaked open. The wife, who had been in the parlor—seeming to wonder who it might be—quickly stood up and peered through a gap in the furnishings. Upon realizing it was her husband (who normally returned around this time), she promptly went out as she was. “Welcome back.” She greeted him curtly. To call her greeting “curt” might sound critical, but it was not meant so—this wife was utterly inept at stiffening her posture with formal decorum, infusing her voice with polite flourishes, or putting on airs like a proper lady. To praise her, one would say she was guilelessly sincere. This too made sense, for though her husband was now called “Wakizaki-sensei” and such titles, he was at heart an artisan. During his years as such, he had battled no ordinary poverty while grappling with the world’s hardships—years during which his so-called mistress of the household had steadfastly guarded their rear. Moreover, being inherently old-fashioned and practical by nature, he paid little heed to attire or hairstyle; thus, though not yet advanced in years, his wife already verged on appearing a middle-aged woman.

“Ah, I’m home.” That her husband had answered gently was something unprecedented in their daily life. Yet he remained sharp-witted as ever—prompt in response, naturally gracious to all. Each day when he returned home and she rose to greet him, their eyes would meet in an unforced moment: she glancing here, he there—not deliberately seeking each other’s gaze, but when their eyes naturally aligned, she would perceive in his a gentle assurance—*You are well, I am well; how fortunate we are together*. No elaborate philosophy underlay this exchange, yet it radiated a quiet harmony. Meeting those eyes that held nothing particularly remarkable, she at last felt her husband had truly returned. Simultaneously—almost unconsciously—sensing herself as his spouse and other half, her body began orbiting his form: assisting with his coat, guiding him to sit, applying her whole being to serve him through these ministrations. This had been their established custom through recent years.

However, what could be the matter today? That single glance was not granted to her at all. Her husband seemed to have utterly forgotten her very presence; he was he, she was she—it appeared as though they inhabited separate worlds. Things reveal their true worth only once lost. Only now had she come to realize how precious that single glance—once an ordinary part of their daily routine—truly was. Not that she could articulate it in any clear, logical sequence, but the wife felt something oppressive, lonely, and anxious closing in on her. Even as she helped him remove his ancient-style hat—or rather, crown—and change into Tenjin-like robes, as was their daily custom, her husband’s demeanor struck her as unmistakably sullen: serious yet devoid of vigor, sinking—or rather, sinking deeper—into gloom. This was how the wife felt it keenly.

In the long years a couple spends together, no household has only clear skies and gentle winds between husband and wife. There were times when the husband harbored strong dissatisfaction toward his wife, and times when the wife felt bitter resentment toward her husband. During their most intense conflicts, I—whether due to some brusque trait unbecoming a woman in my nature—would let slip harsh words; but when he grew truly angry, he would abandon that piercing tone that stabbed through one’s chest and fall silent until his open eyes seemed to look through me without seeing. That was today’s state of affairs. Her husband had settled himself in an odd spot. The workshop—connecting the earthen-floored area to the parlor—lay at the room’s edge one step lower; he sat sideways gazing toward it. There was nothing to be done—she brought tea there. He drank mechanically. His complexion was dull; his mind clung stubbornly to something. She briefly wondered if he harbored intense hatred toward her but could think of no reason for it. And,

“Is something wrong?” she asked. He gave no reply. “It’s not that you’re looking unwell.”

When she pressed again, he all but snapped that she was being a nuisance.

“There’s nothing wrong.” It was a reply devoid of elaboration. Even though he said there was nothing wrong, there must be something. As my husband’s standing improved and his social circles grew more elevated, I could not entirely dismiss a feminine worry—that others might think me inadequate, an ill match for him—so I briefly suspected this might concern me, but it seemed not to be the case after all. He was not one to regularly take evening drinks; being inherently prudent and frugal, and while I myself disliked the idea of him drinking, even so, when he did partake a little, he would grow lively and good-humored, enjoying himself without any ill effects. So,

“In the evening, I’ll get something ready, and perhaps we could have a drink—it’s been a while.”

she said. Having made great strides of late, the wife had proposed this. However,

“Why?”

With his rhetorical question, the kind husband clearly rejected the idea, implying through its unspoken meaning that it would be better not to do such a thing. There was nothing to be done; the simple evening meal was finished as usual, but her husband’s demeanor was not as usual. He did not seem to be enraged, nor did he appear to be fearful. Yet no matter how she tried to engage him in conversation to draw out an opening, her husband only grew more annoyed. Well, the wife—a true spouse who had shared his hardships, ever devoted to her husband—could endure no longer and confronted him directly,

“What has come over you today?” she pressed. “It’s nothing.” “But... is it me?” “What’s that?” “Then is it something at your workplace?”

“Hmm, well… suppose so.” “Well, ‘suppose so’? That’s such a strange way to put it. What do you mean?”

“…………”

“Resignation?” She had asked because my husband and this man Nakamura differed entirely from the other instructors in their origins; their artisan-like disposition would inevitably show through despite attempts to conceal it, making them ill-suited to an institution like a school. She knew this because there had been times when the two of them, being on good terms, had discussed such matters with laughter. “Huh?” “Dismissal? There’s such a thing as honorable dismissal, you know.” “If it’s something like dismissal, I won’t hear of it.” “You’re like a proper young lady who was pressed into marrying someone—so calling this dismissal would be like a forced divorce, you know.”

“No one’s talking about dismissal or anything of the sort! Quit jumping ahead!” “Quit nagging.”

“Then what’s wrong? Did you have a quarrel with some high-and-mighty bully?”

“No.”

“Then…” “You’re being annoying.” “But...” “Shut up!” “Oh my, you’re being impossible! Here I am asking so earnestly.” “Why are you so despondent?”

“I’m not particularly down.” “No, you are down.” “You poor thing.” “Why are you so…?” “‘You poor thing’—that’s rich. Ha ha ha ha.” “You shouldn’t evade people like this.” “I’m genuinely concerned here.” “Oh, why are you so…?” “Why is that?” “It doesn’t just happen on its own.” “Oh! “There’s no need to hide anything, is there?” “What kind of explanation is this? Let me hear it.” “The truth is, it’s like this and that, you see.” “Even a woman—am I not your loyal subject?”

The term 'loyal subject' had been used somewhat oddly, but coming from her, it was entirely fitting. There could be no doubt she was indeed her husband's loyal subject. Yet even to her husband's ears, the term 'loyal subject' might have carried echoes from *Jōruri* ballads and such,

“Even if you tell me to talk, I’m not hiding anything—it’s just not something a mere woman would understand.” Since her husband was from western Japan where *Jōruri* was performed, he had inadvertently used a term from the narrative ballads; but his wife—equally from the west, sincere, kind, and loyal—who recognized it, flared up in anger. But immediately her face twisted in anguish again, moistened with tears she struggled to hold back. More than feeling slighted herself, she sensed that what lay in her husband’s heart truly exceeded what a mere woman could comprehend, and this made her anxiety all the more unbearable.

A lattice door is but a lattice door. Yet the sound of opening differs by who performs it. To the wife's ears, the sound of her husband opening it had always been unmistakably his—she never once erred in a hundred instances. But today, it didn't sound like his opening at all, making her wonder who had come. Now as she opened that very lattice door herself, lost in renewed contemplation, she stepped outside.

The wind of early summer in Yanaka, which had just darkened, was cool and pleasant precisely because it came from Ueno. She visited the home of her husband’s colleague Nakamura—a man with whom they were both closely acquainted and who lived nearby in Yanaka—spoke briefly with his wife at the doorstep, and requested that Nakamura come visit their house. Nakamura’s wife reassured her: “Oh no, there’s nothing for you to worry about—in fact, I’ve heard whispers of something that should bring you joy instead. But rest assured, I’ll have my husband pay a visit without fail.” Those who shared the same position in life often harbored similar sentiments and understood one another well—which likely explained why Nakamura’s wife readily complied with Wakizaki’s wife’s request. This was partly because the two households, having comparable social standing from the outset, had always felt perfectly at ease with each other, and also partly because Wakizaki, who frequently cast artworks based on Nakamura’s prototypes, shared with him a bond akin to artistic brothers, making their relationship naturally inseparable.

Wakizaki’s wife hurried home in high spirits.

○

Nakamura—with a large face and an even larger, leisurely frame, sporting a luxuriant beard (chin whiskers, mustache, and sideburns grown without restraint that defied expectations for a craftsman-turned-artisan)—cut an imposing figure as he sat majestically in the guest seat. With a grand, elegant fan brought from his own home, he leisurely swatted at the still-scarce mosquitoes. Though wrinkles gathered around his eyes without strain, his speech carried such dignified composure that he undeniably embodied the role of senior. Moreover, his assured and composed demeanor—approaching the master of this house with both the affection and authority befitting a senior—indeed justified why the wife here had sought his visit. The master seated across from him was neither particularly slim nor compactly built, but given the stature of his counterpart, he still seemed to lack presence. Yet even if he did not possess profound wisdom, his appropriately sharp intellectual acumen—backed by a fearsome determination—worked diligently, giving the impression of an unyielding core within that could never be crushed by others.

The guest acted without ceremony, “Madam.” “It’s simply that reason alone—nothing more—so there’s no need for you to trouble yourself over peripheral worries.” “Isn’t this an auspicious occasion? Ha ha ha!”

He laughed cheerfully. The wife here, now that the dark clouds had been swept away—being a woman, she had simply exchanged her worries for joy and relief, feeling as though a great storm had passed—adjusted the position of the tea tray between host and guest and gave a light bow, “Oh no, once I realized he was simply engrossed in devising improvements for his craft, there was nothing more to it.” “Truly, this person has had quite a few such episodes before.” she said. From the conversation between the guest and the master, it became clear that today at school, the master had been ordered by the principal that in about a week’s time, when His Majesty the Emperor would graciously visit the school, the master was to engage in live production before His Majesty for viewing, and that the product would be directly donated from the school and taken home by His Majesty. Thus, the reason the master had been wearing such a solemn expression was simply that he had immersed himself deeply in this matter—there being no other cause—and once this became naturally clear, the wife found herself able to transform her anxiety into joy; though this too was because Mr. Nakamura had happened to come by for a visit, which allowed her to understand, and so she now found herself in high spirits.

When women are in high spirits, they tend to prattle on about trivial, unnecessary things as though showcasing some innate talent of theirs. But this wife—whether due to her husband’s strict tutelage or her own inherent disposition—was fortunately free of such tendencies. With a bow steeped in pure gratitude, she withdrew with a single deliberate motion. The master seemed to have thought he could have withdrawn much sooner, and perhaps the guest felt similarly—for once the wife had left, both men appeared liberated.

“She didn’t go out of her way to fetch me from your place now did she.” “If that’s the case, then please forgive me.” “Hmm. Ha ha ha.” “Well, I was just thinkin’ of comin’ over to talk to you.” Such greetings were exchanged between host and guest—but the guest, with great deliberation, drained a large bowl of coarse tea; all the while, he kept his gaze fixed on his host. When he finally set the bowl down— “You refused at first today, didn’t you?” Nakamura began casually. “Yeah.” The master answered.

“Why didn’t you?” “Why, you ask?” “Because I didn’t want to.”

“There’s no reason for you to feel reluctant about appearing before His Majesty.” Though the reproach had been merely conversational—light—the answer came abruptly. “To feel reluctance or anything like that about appearing before His Majesty—I would never even dream of such an impertinent thought.” “So I ended up losing to the principal.” “Ha ha, so it was the principal’s orders you disliked, right?” “Yes.” “But since I’ve already lost so quickly, there’s nothing more to discuss.” “It sounds odd hearing you keep saying you lost.” “I don’t quite follow.” “I don’t think the principal said anything particularly unreasonable.” “I too have followed the principal’s orders to produce works before His Majesty and brought honor to myself—surely you’re aware of that.”

With that, he slightly raised his face and stroked his beard. He also appeared to carry himself with a faint air of seniority. However, Nakamura’s demeanor—accompanying words born of a resolve to enlighten Wakizaki’s seemingly misguided notions—appeared unmistakably pedagogical, yet carried no air of arrogance. Wakizaki felt compelled by the conversation’s momentum to defend himself—but being a man who had tasted life’s bitter acids so deeply that he believed himself first possessed by a poverty god’s tenacity and then a death god’s grip, he knew to plant his feet firmly the moment such an urge arose. Thus, on the very brink of uttering retaliatory words—that futile folly—he checked himself.

“Ah, that chicken truly was splendid.” “Well now, if I could’ve been certain of creating a piece like that chicken, there’d have been no refusal or resistance from me.” He began adopting an attitude of tossing everything into humility’s burlap sack. If mere worldly tranquility sufficed, this would have done. Yet one couldn’t escape sensing that Wakizaki’s answer was determined to conceal something.

“You can definitely do it.” “It’s your skill, after all.” It was a casual remark. An encouragement born of goodwill. To strip matters bare—there exists nothing more false in this world than well-meant encouragement. If malicious criticism be falsehood, then kindly encouragement too is falsehood. Truth dwells where intention absents itself. Wakizaki had always maintained an iron resolve against relying on flattery or makeshift props. Hearing these words from his guest filled him with such revulsion it made him shudder—for he held nothing more contemptible than art manipulated by lies. And unwittingly adopting a tone as though scoffing through his nostrils,

“With skill or something like that—what can you do, I tell you? Even people far greater than us—skill isn’t something you can rely on,” he said. Something had burst. The guest seemed to flinch, but indeed, he was an old hand. Nakamura straightened his spine into the posture of a Zen monk grinding miso—a stance said to embody unwavering resolve. “If you go spouting such reckless nonsense, you’ll only confuse people. If not through skill, then how is art made? Moreover, you’ve already attained considerable skill—all the more reason to hone it further, I say.”

It was as if a battle had commenced. “Of course one should hone their skill—but art cannot be created through skill alone.” “Art is something that emerges—not something fabricated.” “You may achieve fabrication in your field, but those of us engaged in metal casting and kiln work—in this art of fire—naturally believe art emerges through its own course.” “The workings of fire hold mystical wonder.” “It is through these fiery workings that our art takes form.” “What absurdity!” “To have them observe the metal casting process firsthand, then present the finished piece as fine art from the school—” “Who can say if this should proceed smoothly?” “There’s always been live painting—both past and present—and now all acknowledge how foolish it is to demand true art from such performances.” “I never thought our principal so dense as to demand artistry from live casting—but he must have his reasons. Even with wax models, casting can scarcely be called pure art. Yet having received every favor from him—guidance, opportunities, advancement—I found it repugnant but bent my head in compliance.” “I wanted at least you to understand this feeling, but…”

But then, realizing he had spoken too bluntly midway through, he ended up obscuring his intended meaning by the end. Since saying it now would change nothing, there was no doubt he had gotten carried away and spoken too volubly. Though Nakamura had been somewhat taken aback, this man—possessing a build whose virtue lay in “flesh yielding to blade before bone,” and having accrued no small measure of experience—disregarded the crux of Wakizaki’s words and maintained his senior’s demeanor unshaken,

“If you went home in a foul mood over that, you’re still too young.” “Matters like theoretical debates—we’ll leave those to newspapermen and magazine writers.” “Since we dwell directly within art itself, we don’t trouble ourselves with wall scribblings.” “Granted you speak of ‘fire’s artistry,’ but only your final casting stage carries real weight.” “It makes for poor showing before imperial eyes.”

He became friendly and sympathetic, appearing ready to offer advice or assistance if needed. “No, it’s not just a poor bargain—the outcome is decided the moment you pour that molten metal.” “As for why I seemed so terribly out of sorts—well, on my way home, when the house came into view, I was suddenly struck by a premonition that this imperial presentation would end in spectacular failure, which only deepened my gloom.” “Premonitions are such bothersome things, huh?” “I’ve had those sorts of premonitions myself when I was younger.” “Nah, they don’t necessarily always come true.” “There was even a time when I felt utterly dejected after having a premonition that I’d botch the head of this Buddha statue, but it ended up being completed without a single flaw and was even praised.” “There’s no need to fret over it, I tell you.”

He began to say but paused to consider, “So you still haven’t decided what you intend to create?” he inquired formally. “It was strange—the moment I stepped out of the school gate, the subject appeared in my mind, and by the time I’d walked a short distance, its form had fully taken shape.”

“What... What sort of thing?” “Geese.” “Two geese.” “On a gently sloping earthen bank—the male with its neck raised high, the female about to approach him.” “Naturally small, rendered in a lifelike style with the casting texture fully showcasing its character—the necks stretched to their limit and made quite slender to make their fully extended postures visible.”

As he listened to this explanation—he too being an artist—with eyes closed in meditation, the figures appeared vividly before him as if they were truly there. And even the female goose, whose description he had not yet heard, materialized so clearly that “The female’s neck has a slight twist to it, see? And there’s some clever detailing on the hind claws and heels.” When he said this, it strangely hit the mark, so...

“Ha ha ha, exactly right, exactly right.” The master laughed brightly. But even before that laughter had faded, the guest was suddenly struck by a premonition and envisioned the goose miscast. He had already been about to say, “Well, it’s a fine design,” but swallowed the words.

The master, “Whether I have a premonition or not hardly matters—what truly concerns me is the imperial presentation itself. It’d be unbearable to fail right when His Majesty is graciously viewing it.” “But since it’s the Art of Fire, I make every logical preparation to avoid failure—though until you actually break open the mold at that moment, there’s no knowing for certain.” “Somehow I feel I’ll fail during the imperial presentation—I can’t sit still for a moment.” Because Nakamura himself had now actually experienced this strange sensation, he found himself unable to refrain from sympathizing with the master. Indeed, the Art of Fire! The pinnacle of all arts might indeed be like that, but clearly the Art of Fire couldn’t be mastered by skill alone. And then to have the imperial presentation itself descend upon him! And now this eerie thing called a premonition welling up on top of it all! Ah, no wonder Wakizaki suffers, he thought. Yet while this man hadn’t fully become an artist yet, he’d once—indulging showman-like aspirations—easily crafted what appeared a makeshift great Buddha statue. Though born from technical ingenuity, he’d assembled logs, woven split bamboo, pasted paper, and applied pigments to create in Edo a sham Great Buddha whose hollow eyes seemed to gaze clear to Awa and Kazusa provinces. Given he possessed such quality of wisdom, he wasn’t one to be at a loss here. As his senior, he offered advice.

“You see, the Art of Fire is indeed troublesome.” “However, there is a way here.” “How about this—it’s difficult precisely because it’s a Goose.” “How about changing the subject to a toad?” “Since ancient times, there have been cast-metal toads in old water droppers and such.” “They may be ugly, but there’s an elegance to them.” “In that case, there would be no fear whatsoever of the molten metal breaking.”

While it was undoubtedly advice given out of goodwill, Wakizaki seemed to feel as though he had been insulted, “No, I tell you—toads won’t do.” “I’ll suffer through with the goose after all.” He answered sadly and with a hint of resentment. “There’s no need to cling so stubbornly to geese.” “No, you must feel the same way—subjects arise naturally, and once settled upon one, I cannot cast it aside.” “Using some ‘toad technique’ as an escape route—such ninjutsu-like tactics are beyond me.” “Advancing further and further, confronting that perilous brink where success and failure hang by a thread—isn’t that what art truly is?”

“That may be true enough, but ninjutsu too has its uses—hence why we have Iga-ryū and Koga-ryū schools in this world. There are quite a few artists in this world who employ ninjutsu, you know. Ha ha ha!” “If it weren’t for the imperial presentation, I’d have no worries at all, but… Gusai the potter—a fellow practitioner of the Art of Fire—would take his works from the kiln; since failures inherently arise from fire, he would smash them one by one, hurling them against the earth until they were reduced to dust—or so I’ve heard. Isn’t that a heartening story?”

“Hmm… So they say this laid the foundation for the Rokubei family—but perhaps that’s just a tall tale, eh?”

“Yet I must not create something that would be smashed to pieces at the imperial presentation; I must forge something truly satisfying to present for His Majesty’s viewing. Whether it will truly succeed or not—there lies a spine-crushing worry…”

“If you insist this makes imperial presentation impossible, there’s no use raising vulgar objections now.” “Go on—agonize!” “Go on—suffer!” As if wrenching words from a cliff face to hurl them down, Nakamura declared with imposing authority.

Wakizaki flared up, "That’s obvious, I tell you!"

Wakizaki shot back. It seemed as though every nerve in his body had been pulled taut, his rounded voice ringing as if that very tension had become audible. Yet contrary to this abrupt collapse, “Fire is… fire is…” he muttered to himself. Then Nakamura rounded his back, lowered his head, drew close to Wakizaki, and thinned his voice into gentle softness.

“You keep going on about ‘the Art of Fire, the Art of Fire,’ but...” “Every art has its own troublesome aspects.” “Even my wood carvings face challenges.” “When you’ve painstakingly carved something gradually and are nearly finished—since it’s wood, there’s the grain—the chisel’s force meets that very grain.” “Depending on the wood grain, you can never be certain whether thin sections might crumble away.” “For instance—if three or five *bu* chipped off a bantam’s tail feather tip? If one or two *bu* broke from the second or third ‘bee’ of a rooster’s comb?” “There’d be no way to repair it—a complete failure.” “Even if you select materials meticulously, consider the grain, sharpen chisels keenly, adjust your carving force carefully, take every precaution imaginable, and push your technical limits—wood’s nature varies piece by piece; any part might crpple unexpectedly.” “The same applies to where excess or deficiency forms in your molten metal’s flow.” “If by chance the wood grain splinters from an unexpected direction and balance is lost—the whole piece fails.” “Should that happen at an imperial presentation, there’d be no remedy.” “Not only would it mean personal disgrace—incurring a noble’s displeasure would be no trivial matter either.”

Having been persuaded to this extent, Wakizaki was rendered speechless. Every craft has its hardships. Indeed, wood grain performs unexpected feats. Therefore, since ancient times, they had used resilient materials with little to no wood grain—such as white sandalwood and red sandalwood—for carving. But they had also employed woods like cedar and cypress where the blade moved swiftly. For imperial carvings and such, they would typically use materials where the blade moved easily to achieve success in a short time. Indeed, he realized how shallow he had been to speak only of fire, fire, and consider the Art of Fire alone as something arduous.

“Indeed.” “Every path has its treacherous currents.” “I’m grateful.” “You’ve truly expanded my horizons.”

With heartfelt sincerity, he expressed his gratitude and pressed his forehead to the tatami mat. Nakamura received this thanks with evident pleasure.

“Now, Mr. Wakizaki, imperial craftsmanship is undoubtedly such a trying ordeal—yet in wood carving and other disciplines, there has never been an unsuccessful imperial presentation.” “During the Tokugawa period, when craftsmen demonstrated their craft before the daimyos, I have never heard of even a single instance where someone’s error incurred displeasure.” “What do you think?” “Do you see?”

This left Wakizaki astonished once more. “Not a single mistake!” “Precisely, you see.” “There are often stories of meritorious deeds being rewarded with praise, but there have never been tales of failure.”

"I am now tormented by the fear of failure during the imperial presentation, my bones gnawed at and guts wrung with dread. And to think that since ancient times, not a single mistake has ever occurred in such situations!" "Hmmph..." And Wakizaki fell into deep, deep thought. His mind raced through every principle like a darting light, but he could seize upon nothing. Having barely managed to conceive that human sincerity—sincerity itself—transcended all aspects to become something possessing spiritual power,

“Is the sincerity of single-minded devotion truly so strong, I wonder?”

he inquired with a solemn face. Nakamura grinned slyly.

“Sincerity is indeed precious,” Nakamura said. “But preparation holds equal worth.” Wakizaki struggled to grasp his meaning. “When carving dragons, they carved dragons; for tigers, tigers,” Nakamura continued. “They would appear before their lord wielding saws and hatchets, chisels and carving knives, gradually shaping the form. As the contours grew distinct through their labor, no failures occurred during this process. Even should flaws emerge, they employed every artifice to erase all traces of imperfection.”

Time passed suitably. No matter how inquisitive your lordship might be, he would grow bored if made to watch for too long. “So they would carve scales as scales, fur as fur, repeating similar chisel techniques until around the time they would request your lordship to take a rest. “Your lordship would then retire to partake of tea or such. “The true value of preparation lay there. “They would place a pre-made dragon or tiger there—whichever was called for—and conceal the partially carved piece from before. “When your lordship reappeared, they would take up the carving knife, shave at a safe spot as if smoothing it, produce a few wood shavings, then declare completion and present it for viewing shortly thereafter. “How could any unforeseen mistake possibly occur? “Ha ha ha. “It was a substitution scheme. “Your castings, in the end, involve breaking the mold’s clay within a water bucket to extract the statue. “If one simply prepared within the water bucket, even the most difficult works could be presented with ease. “Of course, this wasn’t about presenting the same artisan’s own work as a deception or counterfeit.”

he explained in a low voice, laying out every detail. Wakizaki was dumbfounded and astonished. He realized that indeed all such things had been carried out in this manner during the Tokugawa period, and now belatedly—allowing his thoughts to roam over the world’s purity and corruption—came to an enlightened understanding.

“Thank you very much.” He expressed his gratitude in a trembling, quavering voice.

That night, Wakizaki declared inwardly, “I won’t regret failure anymore. I am not one of those clever schemers of old. I am a Meiji person. Even if I fail this time, I do not doubt that His Majesty the Meiji Emperor will ultimately recognize my work,” he cried out in his heart, having reached a state of serene acceptance.

○

The Emperor graced the school with his presence. As scheduled, He viewed Wakizaki’s artwork. At last, Wakizaki’s goose emerged from the water in the bucket. Unfortunately, the male goose’s neck had broken due to poor flow of the molten metal. Wakizaki prostrated himself and wept. Needless to say, the attending officials and school staff had no way of knowing Wakizaki’s inner cry from that night.

However, through His Majesty’s magnanimous grace, it came to be recognized that within art’s depths lay something profoundly mysterious and unfathomable. The upright Wakizaki thereafter frequently received grand imperial commissions and achieved renown in his field.

(December of Shōwa 14)