Pathway to Japanese Literature

The lattice door clattered open. The wife, who had been in the living room, appeared to wonder who it might be; she sprang up and peered through a gap between furnishings, but upon realizing it was her husband—who always returned around this hour—she hurried out exactly as she was,

“Welcome home.”

With that, she greeted him offhandedly. To call it “offhand” might sound reproachful, but it was not so—this wife was utterly inept at starching her posture into propriety, moistening her speech with courtesy, or affecting ladylike airs when greeting others. To praise her, she was simply sincere. And this made perfect sense: though now addressed as “Mr. Wakasaki,” the husband was at heart a craftsman—one who had wrestled with extraordinary poverty during his years as an artisan, battling life’s harsh realities while his so-called *okami-san* wife steadfastly guarded their flank. Moreover, being inherently old-fashioned and unconcerned with appearances—his clothing, hairstyle—he, though not yet advanced in years, already gave the impression of a man edging into middle age, while she too appeared nearly a matron herself.

“Ah, I’m back.”

That her husband had answered gently was not entirely unprecedented, yet even so—he being keen-nerved, attentive in his responses, naturally affable to all—whenever he returned home daily to her standing welcome, she would look this way, he would look that way; no, not that they deliberately gazed at one another, but in that moment of natural mutual regard, there appeared in his eyes a gentle sentiment—“You at peace, I at peace—how fortunate we are together”—not that there lay any intricate reasoning behind it, but something suggesting harmonious satisfaction nonetheless. Gazing into those eyes that held nothing particularly worth remarking upon, she finally felt as though her husband had truly returned home. At the same time, unconsciously sensing herself both this man’s wife and his other half, her body began moving around his form—helping him change clothes, settling him into place—her heart aligning itself to his through every small service. This had been their established routine for several years now.

But today—what had come over him? That single glance was not granted to her at all. The husband seemed to have utterly forgotten his own existence; he was he, and I was I—it appeared as though we inhabited separate worlds. The true value of things becomes known only after they are lost. Only now had she realized how precious those daily glances—once thought insignificant—had truly been. Not that anything was clearly ordered or naturally felt in such a way, but the wife sensed some oppressive, lonely anxiety bearing down upon her. It was during this routine—removing his ancient-style hat (or rather, crown) and changing into garments resembling those of a deity—that she had come to feel this way: her husband’s demeanor, though serious, was sullen and devoid of vigor, sunken and sinking deeper still.

In the long years of marriage, no household sees only clear skies and gentle winds between husband and wife. There were times when the husband harbored considerable dissatisfaction toward his wife, and times when the wife felt resentful, unpleasant thoughts toward her husband. During those most intense moments—owing to her bad habit, perhaps a somewhat brusque disposition unbecoming of a woman—she would occasionally speak harshly. But when her husband grew truly angry, he would cease making those sharp-voiced remarks that pierced one’s heart, falling silent instead, his eyes open yet seemingly blind to her presence. That was today’s present state of affairs. The husband settled himself in an odd spot. The workshop—connected to both the earthen-floored area and the living room—was situated at the edge of the living room, a step lower. He sat sideways, facing it. There was no helping it; she brought tea there. He drank it without seeming to notice whether it was hot or lukewarm. His complexion was dull; his mind clung stubbornly to something. For a moment, she wondered if he harbored some intense hatred toward her, but she could think of nothing she had done to warrant it. And,

“Is something wrong?” she asked. He did not respond. “It’s not that you’re feeling unwell...”

When she pressed again—stopping just short of calling her a nuisance— “Nothing’s wrong.” It was a reply devoid of elaboration. Even though he said nothing was wrong, there must be something. As her husband’s status improved and his social circles rose, she couldn’t help but harbor a womanly concern—that others might think her lacking, unfit to match him—and so she briefly suspected it might be about herself, but that didn’t seem to be the case either.

He was not one to regularly take evening drinks—by nature a frugal and upright husband—and though she herself disliked the idea of him drinking alcohol, even so, when he did drink a little, he would become lively and cheerful, innocently enjoying himself. So,

“Why don’t we get something for dinner and have a drink together? It’s been ages.” she said. Having grown more assertive of late, the wife had made this proposal. However,

“Why?” And through the subtext of this counterquestion, the kind husband had clearly negated her proposal with an unspoken “Such a thing were better left undone.”

There was no alternative; the simple evening meal proceeded as usual, but the husband’s demeanor was anything but usual. He appeared neither agitated nor afraid. But no matter how she tried to engage him in conversation to draw out an opening, her husband only grew more irritated. Well, the wife—a true spouse through thick and thin, ever mindful of her husband—could endure no longer and, facing him directly,

“What has come over you today?”

she pressed and asked. “It’s nothing.” “But… Is it about me?” “Nah.” “Then is it about your work?” “Uhh, well, sort of.”

“Well, ‘sort of’? That’s a strange way to put it. What do you mean?”

“...” “Resignation?” The reason she asked was that her husband and Nakamura were entirely different from the other instructors in their origins; their craftsman-like disposition would inevitably show through no matter how they tried to conceal it—a quality that clashed ill with an institution like a school. For she knew there had been times when the two of them, being on such good terms, had laughed and discussed such matters. “Nah.” “Dismissal? There’s such a thing as honorable dismissal, you know.” “If you’re talking about dismissal, I won’t hear of it.” “You’re like a proper young lady from a respectable family who was earnestly courted—to speak of dismissal now would be akin to a forced divorce, you know.”

“No one’s said anything about dismissal or anything else! Jumping the gun!” “You’re being a bother, you know.” “Then what is it?” “Did you get into a fight with some stuck-up jerk or something?” “No.” “Then…” “Quit nagging.” “But…” “Shut it!” “Oh my, how stubborn—here I am asking with all my heart.” “Why are you so downcast?”

“I’m not despondent.” “No, you are despondent.” “You poor thing.” “Why are you so...” “You poor thing—that was rich, huh? Ha ha ha ha.” “You shouldn’t try to dodge me like that.” “I’m being serious here.” “So, why are you so…?” “Why is that?” “It just happens on its own.” “Oh! “There’s no need to hide anything!” “What’s the matter? Please tell me.” “Actually, it’s about… well, you know.” “Even a woman—I am your loyal retainer, aren’t I?”

The term “loyal retainer” was used somewhat oddly, yet for her, it was entirely fitting. Indeed, there was no doubt she was her husband’s loyal retainer. However, even to the husband’s ears, the term “loyal retainer” might have been linked to its associations from Jōruri and such, “Even if you tell me to talk, I’m not hiding anything—it’s just not something a mere woman would understand.” Because he was from western Japan, where Jōruri was performed, the husband had inadvertently used a term from that narrative tradition; but his wife—also from western Japan and familiar with it, being sincere, kind, and loyal—flared up in anger. But immediately her face contorted in anguish, tears welling in her eyes as she struggled to hold them back. More than feeling slighted herself, what made her heartache unbearable was the realization that whatever lay in her husband’s heart truly surpassed what any mere woman could comprehend.

The lattice door was but a single lattice door. Yet the sound of its opening differed among people. The sound of her husband opening it always registered in the wife’s ears as precisely that—the sound of her husband opening it—and never once in a hundred times would she mistake it. Today, however, it did not sound to her like her husband opening it, but rather as if she were wondering who had come. Now, as she opened that lattice door, the wife stepped outside once more, pondering things anew. The early summer wind in Yanaka, still fresh after sunset, was cool and refreshing, particularly as it came through the area adjacent to Ueno. She visited the home of Nakamura, her husband’s colleague in the same Yanaka neighborhood with whom they were on intimate terms and who lived very nearby, had a brief conversation with his wife, and requested that Nakamura come visit their house. Nakamura’s wife assured her: “Oh, there’s surely nothing for you to worry about—in fact, I happened to hear something that should rather bring you joy—but rest assured, we’ll have him call on your house without fail.” Those in the same position harbor similar sentiments and understand one another well—which likely explains why Nakamura’s wife readily complied with Wakasaki’s wife’s request without hesitation. For one, both households felt perfectly at ease with each other due to sharing comparable social origins in ordinary times; for another, there was also the natural bond forged through Wakasaki’s artistic practice of often casting works based on Nakamura’s prototypes—a relationship akin to that of artistic brethren—making their connection difficult to sever. Wakasaki’s wife returned home briskly.

○ Nakamura—with a broad face and imposing physique that carried itself with ease, further accentuated by the luxuriant beard he unabashedly grew (unbecoming of one with craftsman origins)—sat imposingly in the guest seat. With magnanimity, he languidly swatted at the still-scarce mosquitoes using a large, elegant fan brought from his home. Though wrinkles gathered untroubled around his eyes, whenever he spoke, he did so with such dignified composure that he undeniably commanded the air of a senior mentor. Moreover, this composed and assured attitude—approaching the master of the house with a senior’s affection and dignity—truly justified the wife’s having sought his visit. The husband seated across from him was neither particularly gaunt nor slight of build, yet against such an imposing counterpart, he still appeared diminished in stature. However, though not endowed with profound wisdom, his keen intellect—backed by fearsome tenacity—worked diligently, conveying an unyielding core that no force could ever crush.

The guest casually,

“Madam.” “That’s all there is to it—there’s nothing else going on—so you needn’t trouble yourself with needless worries.” “Isn’t this something to celebrate? Ha ha ha.” Nakamura laughed heartily. The wife here was now swept clean of dark clouds, and being a woman, she had simply replaced her worries with joy and relief, her spirits like those after a great storm had passed. As she adjusted the position of the tea tray between host and guest, she bowed slightly,

“Well, once I realized he was simply engrossed in devising techniques for his craft, there wasn’t anything to worry about.” “Truly, this person has had quite a number of such episodes up until now.” she said. Through the conversation between guest and husband, it became clear that today at school, the husband had been ordered by the principal that upon His Majesty the Emperor’s gracious visit to the school in about a week’s time, he was to create a work before His Majesty for presentation—after which the piece would be offered directly from the school and taken back by His Majesty. Thus it had naturally become clear that her husband’s solemn expression stemmed from being deeply engrossed in this matter—there being nothing else amiss—and so the wife had turned her sorrow into joy; moreover, her cheerful mood arose from having understood this through Mr. Nakamura’s timely visit.

When women are in high spirits, they often start chattering away about trivial and unnecessary things, acting as though it were a talent of theirs—but whether due to her husband’s strict education or her own nature, this wife was fortunately free of such tendencies. She retreated after offering a single, deep bow filled with pure gratitude.

The husband seemed to have thought leaving earlier would have been permissible, and perhaps the guest felt similarly too, for once the wife had withdrawn, both men appeared visibly relieved. "She didn’t go **to your place** **to summon me**, did she now? "If that’s what happened, I must beg your pardon."

“Hmm. Ha ha ha.” “No, I was just thinking of coming to talk to you.” Such greetings had been exchanged between host and guest. While Nakamura was leisurely draining a large bowl of coarse tea, he kept his gaze fixed on the husband throughout. When he set the bowl down, “You refused at first today, didn’t you?” he began lightly. “Yes.” the husband answered. “Why did you refuse?” “Why? Well...” “Because I didn’t like it.” “You couldn’t possibly dislike appearing before His Majesty.”

It was merely a light, conversational reproach, but his response came abruptly. "The notion of disliking an audience with His Majesty—I wouldn't dream of such presumptuousness." "So I yielded to the principal." "Ah! So it was distaste for the principal's orders then?"

“That’s right. But since I’ve already conceded immediately, there’s no room for argument.” “This ‘lost, lost’ refrain of yours rings odd.” “I don’t follow.” “I don’t find anything particularly unreasonable in what the principal said.” “You must know I too have executed imperial commissions at the principal’s directive and brought honor upon myself.”

With that, he raised his face slightly and stroked his beard. He also carried himself with something of a senior’s bearing. However, since this attitude accompanied words born of a sincere resolve to enlighten Wakasaki’s apparent misguided notions, he did indeed appear teacher-like, yet he did not come across as domineering. Wakasaki felt that somehow, carried by the momentum of the conversation’s flow, he had ended up needing to defend himself. But this was a man who had tasted life’s bitter acids to such a degree that he fancied himself first hounded by the god of poverty’s tenacity, then even possessed by the god of death. Thus, the moment such feelings arose, he knew to plant his feet firmly and stop himself—on the very brink of uttering some retaliatory remark, he checked himself at that penultimate step before futility and folly.

“Well, that chicken was exquisitely crafted, wasn’t it.” “If I could have created a work like your chicken with certainty, there would have been no need for refusal or objection, you know.” With that, he began to adopt an attitude of casting everything into a sack of humility.

If all one wished for was a world that stayed peaceful, then this would have sufficed. Yet one couldn’t help sensing that Wakasaki’s answer was intent on hiding something.

“You’ll definitely succeed. With that skill of yours, I tell you.”

It was a light remark. It was encouragement born of goodwill. To strip away all pretense and speak plainly, there was nothing more false in this world than encouragement born of goodwill. If malicious criticism was false, then well-meaning encouragement was equally false. Truth resides where intention is absent. Wakasaki had always been thoroughly resolved not to ride upon pretext or contrivance. When he heard the guest’s words, he found it so detestable it made him shudder. For he believed there was nothing more paltry than art being manhandled by lies. And before he knew it, his voice took on a tone as though laughing through his nose—

“What can you achieve with mere skill?” “Even those far greater than us—their skill can’t be relied upon either.” he said.

Something ruptured. The guest seemed startled, but being a seasoned veteran, he assumed the posture of a Zen Buddhist miso-grinding monk with an erect spine, “If you go spouting such nonsense, you’ll only lead people astray.” “If not through skill, how can art be made?” “Especially since you’ve already cultivated such fine technique, you must strive to refine it all the more, I tell you.”

It was as though battle had been joined. “Honing one’s skill goes without saying—but art cannot be wrought through skill alone.” “Art comes into being; it does not appear to be something fabricated.” “You may fabricate works your way, but we who engage in fire arts—those in my field of metal casting—naturally incline to believe art emerges of itself.” “Fire’s workings are mysteriously divine.” “Our art comes into being by passing through that fire’s workings.” “What manner of reasoning calls for this?” “To have His Majesty personally observe the metal casting process, then present the finished piece as fine art from the School—" “Who can say whether such plans will proceed smoothly?” “There has always existed impromptu painting—both past and present—and all now acknowledge the folly of demanding true art from such performances.” “I never took our principal for one so dense as to demand art from impromptu casting—though he must have his reasons. Even with wax models, metalwork can scarcely be called pure art. Yet having received every manner of grace from him—guidance, instruction, enlightenment, promotion—I twisted my will and obeyed, though in truth I found it repugnant.” “I wished at least you might understand this feeling...”

And here, realizing he had spoken too bluntly midway through, he ended up obscuring his intent by the end. Even if he were to say it now, nothing would change—there was no doubt he’d gotten carried away and spoken too volubly. Though Nakamura had been somewhat discomfited, this man—possessing the virtue of a physique where brawn outpaces the blade, and having accumulated no small measure of practical merit—disregarded the core of Wakasaki’s words and maintained his senior’s bearing unbroken,

“If going home sulky over that means anything, you’re still too green.” “Such theoretical debates—leave those to the newspaper hacks and magazine scribblers, I tell you.” “Since we dwell directly within art itself, we’ve no business meddling with wall scribbles.” “You may call it the art of fire, but in your case it’s only the final casting that looms large.” “Hardly worth presenting.”

He had thawed into sympathy, appearing ready to offer counsel or even step in with assistance should circumstances demand it.

“No—it’s far from being a bad deal! The outcome rests on that very moment when I pour in the molten metal.” “The reason I seemed so foul-tempered was—well, on my way home, when my house came into view, I was suddenly struck by a premonition that this imperial commission would fail spectacularly. That’s why I grew doubly despondent.” “Premonitions are such bothersome things, aren’t they?” “I too had such premonitions from time to time in my youth.” “Nah—premonitions aren’t always right, you know.” “Even when I had a premonition that this Buddha statue’s head would be botched and was utterly dejected, it wasn’t just completed without a single flaw—it even got praised in the end.” “There’s no need to fret over it, I tell you.”

He started to say—then paused to think,

“In truth, have you not yet decided what you intend to create?” Nakamura asked solemnly. “That was strange—as soon as I left the school gate, the subject floated into my mind, and by the time I’d walked but a short way, its form had fully taken shape.” “What… what sort of thing?” “A goose.” “Two geese.” “On a thin, somewhat flat earthen slope—the male with his neck raised high, the female about to approach him.” “Naturally small, in a sketch-like manner, its cast surface richly textured—the neck stretched to its utmost limit and rendered quite slender to make that fully extended posture visible.”

As he listened to him speak—he being an artist himself—meditating with eyes closed, the form appeared vividly before him. And even the female goose not yet described appeared floating before him, “The female’s neck has a slight curve, and there’s a particular detail in the hind legs’ claws and heels.” When he said this, it had struck true so uncannily that “Ha ha ha! Precisely! Precisely!”

The husband laughed brightly. But even before that hearty laughter had faded, the guest was suddenly struck by a premonition and imagined the scenario where the goose had been miscast. He had already been about to say, “Why, that’s an excellent design!” but swallowed the words. The husband...

“Whether I have a premonition or not doesn’t matter—it’s His Majesty I’m worried about. It would be unbearable to fail now that we’re having the honor of His Majesty’s viewing.” “That said, since it’s the art of fire, I take every logical precaution to avoid failure—but until we break open the mold at that critical moment, there’s simply no telling.” “Somehow I feel I’ll fail before His Majesty—I can’t sit still for a moment.”

Nakamura, now finding himself experiencing this peculiar sensation too, could not help but feel sympathy for the husband. Indeed, the art of fire! The pinnacle of all arts must surely be like this, but clearly, the art of fire cannot be mastered by skill alone. And then the Imperial Viewing—this monumental event—comes looming over him! And then this uncanny thing called a premonition surges up! Ah, it was only natural that Wakasaki suffered, he thought. Yet, while not yet fully an artist, this man had once—entrusting himself to a showman’s ambitions—easily crafted a crude-looking great Buddha. Though this too stemmed from technical craftsmanship, he had once built a sham Buddha in Edo—assembling logs, weaving split bamboo, pasting paper, and applying pigments—so colossal that from its eye holes one could supposedly see all the way to Awa and Kazusa provinces. Being a man endowed with such practical wisdom, he was not the sort to be daunted by being stymied here and now. He offered counsel as a senior colleague.

“You see, the art of fire is indeed troublesome. But there lies a path here. The goose poses difficulties precisely because it’s a goose. How about changing your subject to a toad? Since ancient times, cast toads have adorned old water droppers and such. They may be ugly creatures, yet they hold an understated elegance. With that approach, you’d face no risk of the molten metal snapping.”

There was no mistaking that this was well-intentioned advice, but Wakasaki seemed to feel as though he’d been insulted,

“No—I don’t want a toad.” “No—I’ll endure the hardship with the goose after all.” He replied sorrowfully, with a hint of resentment. “There’s no need to be so fixated on geese.” “No, you must feel the same way—a subject emerges naturally, and once it’s settled, I can’t abandon it.” “Using some toad trick as an escape route—such ninja-like tactics are beyond me.” “Is it not art to press onward, confront that razor-thin boundary between the possible and impossible, success and failure, and strive there?”

“Well, you’re not wrong there—but ninjutsu too has its uses, hence why we have the Iga-ryū and Kōga-ryū schools in this world.” “In this world, there are quite a few ninjutsu-practicing artists among us. Ha ha ha.”

“If it weren’t for this imperial commission, I’d have no worries at all—but… Guusai the potter—a fellow practitioner of the art of fire—takes his works from the kiln; flaws caused by fire inevitably occur, and I’ve heard he would take and discard them one by one, take and discard them, smashing them against the earth until they were dust. Isn’t that a heartening tale?” “Hmm, so they say that’s how the Rokubei family established itself—but isn’t that just a tall tale?”

“But I must not create something that would be shattered before His Majesty—I absolutely must craft something satisfying for His Majesty to behold.” “Whether it will ultimately succeed or fail.” “That’s where the spine-wrenching torment lies…”

“If you insist on that view, then requesting an imperial viewing becomes impossible—but belaboring the obvious now serves no purpose.” “Go on—agonize!” “Go on—suffer!” Having hurled these words like stones torn from a cliff face, Nakamura drew himself up with formidable grandeur.

Wakasaki flared up, “That’s obvious!” he retorted. It was as though every nerve in his body had been pulled taut, his rounded shrill voice seeming to ring with that very tension. Yet again, contrary to his demeanor, he slumped listlessly, “Fire... Ah, fire...”

he muttered to himself.

Then Nakamura rounded his back, lowered his head to face Wakasaki closely, and softened his voice to a gentle whisper, “You keep going on about the art of fire, the art of fire, “Every art has its own troublesome aspects, without exception. “My wood carving too has its difficulties. “After painstakingly carving it up bit by bit, just when you’re on the verge of completion—wood being wood, there’s the grain—and that’s precisely where the chisel’s force strikes. “Depending on the wood grain, there’s no guarantee that the thin parts won’t break away cleanly. “For example, if the tip of a bantam’s tail feather were to break off by three or five bu, what then? If the second or third segment of a cockscomb’s ridge were to chip by one or two bu, what then? “There’s no way to mend it—nothing to be done. It becomes a complete failure. “Even if one scrutinizes materials, considers the wood grain, sharpens chisels to perfection, regulates pressure with care, pays utmost attention to every detail, and exhausts all technical skill in crafting—the nature of wood grain varies unpredictably. There’s no telling where it might cleanly break away beyond expectation. “The way your molten metal behaves—where excess or deficiency arises—is no different. “If the wood grain splinters from an unexpected place and loses balance, the entire piece becomes a failure. “If such a thing were to happen before His Majesty, there would be absolutely no way to handle it. “Not only would your disgrace be inevitable, but incurring His Majesty’s displeasure would be a grave matter indeed, would it not?”

Having been persuaded to this extent，Wakasaki found himself at a loss for words. Every path has its hardships. Indeed，wood grain performs unexpected work. Thus，since ancient times，they have carved using materials with little to no wood grain and high viscosity—sandalwood，red sandalwood，and the like—but they also sometimes use cedar and cypress，woods where the blade moves swiftly. For imperial carvings，they generally use materials where the blade moves easily，aiming to achieve results in a short time. Indeed，he realized how shallow he had been—to speak only of fire，fire，and think the art of fire alone was fraught with hardship.

“I see. Every path has its treacherous straits. I’m grateful. Thanks to your guidance, I’ve broadened my horizons.”

and with heartfelt sincerity expressed his gratitude, pressing his forehead to the tatami. Nakamura also received the gratitude with evident pleasure.

“Now, Mr. Wakasaki, imperial craftsmanship is undoubtedly this arduous, yet in wood carving and other disciplines, there has never been an unsuccessful imperial commission.” “In the Tokugawa period, when presenting crafted works before various feudal lords, I have never heard of even a single instance where any craftsman made an error and incurred displeasure.” “What do you think?” “Do you understand?” At this, Wakasaki was once again astonished.

“There was never a single mistake!”

“Precisely so,” “Accounts of merit-winning praise abound, yet tales of failure are nowhere found.” He himself now agonized over the imperial viewing’s potential failure, tormenting himself as if scraping marrow from bone and wringing entrails dry. And to think not a single error had ever occurred in such circumstances since antiquity! “Hrmm…”

And Wakasaki fell into deep, deep thought. His mind raced through every conceivable truth like a darting light yet could seize upon nothing. He could grasp only this: human sincerity—a force transcending all aspects of sincerity itself, imbued with spiritual power— “Can such wholehearted devotion truly hold such strength…?”

he asked with a serious expression. Nakamura grinned slyly.

“Sincerity is indeed precious,” “But preparation too holds its own worth.”

Wakasaki couldn’t make sense of it. “When carving a dragon, carve a dragon; when carving a tiger, carve a tiger in wood,” Nakamura continued. “You’d appear before His Lordship and gradually shape the form using saws, hatchets, chisels, and carving knives.” “The outline would slowly take shape.” “Throughout this process, there were no failures.” “Even if mishaps occurred, they’d employ clever artifice to erase all traces.” A suitable interval would pass. “However inquisitive the lord might be, prolonged observation would weary him.” “So when engraving scales or fur through repetitive blade work, they’d suggest His Lordship take respite.” “The lord would retire to partake of tea.” “Herein lies preparation’s true value.” “They’d replace the half-carved piece with a fully prepared dragon or tiger concealed beforehand.” “Upon the lord’s return, they’d take up their knives—shaving harmless spots to produce wood shavings—then declare completion before presenting it.” “What room remained for unexpected errors?” “Ha ha ha!” Nakamura’s laughter rumbled. “A substitution stratagem!” “Your casting method breaks clay molds in water buckets to reveal statues.” “Prepare everything within that bucket beforehand, and even impossible works emerge effortlessly.” “Naturally, this isn’t forgery—the same artist creates both pieces.”

Nakamura explained in a low voice, meticulously. Wakasaki stood dumbfounded in astonishment. He realized that indeed all such things had been carried out in this manner during the Tokugawa period, and now, belatedly, his thoughts raced over the world’s purity and corruption as he gained insight. “Thank you very much.”

he expressed his gratitude in a trembling, thin voice.

That night Wakasaki cried out inwardly: “Even if I fail now, I won’t regret it. I am not one of the clever ones of old. I am a man of Meiji. I do not doubt that even if Wakasaki fails this time, Emperor Meiji will ultimately deign to recognize it”—thus he stood in a realm of serene resolve, shouting these words within his heart.

○

The Emperor deigned to visit the school. As planned, the Emperor deigned to view Wakasaki’s art. At last, Wakasaki’s goose emerged from the water in the bucket. Regrettably, the male goose’s neck had broken where the molten metal had flowed poorly around it. Wakasaki prostrated himself and wept. The attending officials and school staff naturally had no way of knowing Wakasaki’s heartfelt cry from that night. However, through His Majesty’s boundless benevolence, it was precisely this that led him to discern within art’s depths an unfathomable mystery. The honest Wakasaki thereafter repeatedly received grand imperial commissions and was able to attain renown in his field.

(December 1939)