Pathway to Japanese Literature

1 Yasokichi

I withdrew from the classroom in Vienna, shouldered my traveling pack, and set out once more for Munich, Bavaria's capital.
It was amidst these persistent hardships that my father died back home in Kanekame Village, Yamagata Prefecture.
He had been weeding fields in midsummer's sweltering heat when fever took him.
This occurred in late July 1923 - barely a month before Japan's Kantō region would be shaken by its great earthquake.

I learned of my father’s death and felt profoundly desolate.
And during daylight hours, when I would lie supine on the floor, memories of Father from my boyhood would rise to consciousness one after another, each imbued with a mournful tone.
There were moments when I wished to preserve these recollections, and this account of Yasokichi set down here stands as one such memory concerning Father.
Might not these remembrances become like beads upon a rosary—each distinct yet threaded together?

Yasokichi was the grandson of Father’s revered mentor and a boy one year older than me, but whenever Yasokichi came to play at my place, Father would dote on him immensely.
He was good at reading and excelled at stump-hitting during play.
That Yasokichi drowned in the abyss of the river flowing west of the village on the early afternoon of the twenty-sixth day of the sixth month in the old lunar calendar, Meiji 25 (1892).

I can still visualize that moment.
That day was what the villagers called the "Vinegar River Overflow," and the water level had risen considerably.
The water forming rapids as it flowed downstream struck a stratum of rock and clay, creating there a deep pool that villagers called *Ashidani*—a name that had endured through generations.
Closing my eyes to imagine, even in this northeastern mountain village of Japan, one might traverse beyond the Tokugawa era back through Toyotomi, Oda, Ashikaga times to the distant Kamakura period.
From its name *Ashidani*, one could picture reeds and rushes growing thick across that expanse, all manner of beasts freely leading their young through the undergrowth.
By Meiji 25, erosion from the mountain stream's fierce currents had likely stripped the reed bed of its former visage, though in one corner tall reeds still thrived—and now I could conjure back the clamor of reed warblers shrilling there.
That broad pool ever held waters of darkened blue, keeping an inscrutable mien whose depth defied reckoning.

When I fixed my gaze and looked closely, deep within there was a slowly swirling whirlpool, over which ceaseless white bubbles streamed.
The children’s talk of how the whirlpool’s deepest depths reached all the way to the Dragon Palace stemmed from having been told so by their parents, and thus even adults—when crossing the bridge considerably downstream from there—would always press their palms together toward this pool if they were pious.
Where this pool transitioned into rapids, it grew shallow, its bottom consisting of clear sand, so children playing in the water would throw white pebbles and such into it and compete to retrieve them underwater with their eyes open.

Although the twenty-sixth day of the sixth month in the old lunar calendar was the day of the "Vinegar River Overflow," it was already past noon, so most people had dispersed, leaving a stillness akin to the aftermath of a festival reigning over the entire stretch of the river.
The weak, small fish became corpses that sank to the riverbed while some floated adrift.
The relatively larger fish that had retained their lives swam downstream as far as they could manage; others clustered where freshwater welled up and gasped for breath.

In such an afternoon, children ranging from about fourteen down to ten, nine, or eight years old were playing in the relatively shallow area at the edge of the deep pool.
Though it was called water play, this differed from their usual games—part of the fun lay in diving to the bottom to retrieve dead minnows.
If they timed it right, they could even catch large fish left weakened and gasping, so the children showed no intention of ever returning to shore.

Those who could swim would venture out to the eeriest depths, circling the whirlpool two or three times before returning—this they declared their proudest feat.
Then on the opposite bank of the pool, Yasokichi could be seen all alone in the shallows, doing something.
As for the opposite bank, from where the children were, there lay a considerable distance across the flat, glistening water surface.
Yasokichi might have been finding small fish all alone—it was likely about five minutes since that thought had occurred.
In the mirror-like water surface slightly into the pool from shore, both hands of a person were seen suddenly emerging about five sun (15 cm).
Before the children could even react, both hands of a person emerged from the water's surface about five sun (15 cm) for the second time.
It was merely an instant.

At that moment, the fourteen-year-old boy leapt into the water and began swimming.
He swam for a short while, but upon reaching the area where the person’s hands had emerged from the surface, he dove headfirst deep into the water.
When even the vigorous movement of his legs vanished from sight and they grasped he had truly descended into the depths, everyone held their breath this time, small hearts pounding wildly as they stared at that stretch of water.
The surface showed not the slightest ripple that might hint at this incident.
After a brief interval, the boy finally surfaced empty-handed and began desperately wiping his face with his palms.
At that moment—for the first time—a kind of dread pressed upon our hearts, this sense that matters had grown grave beyond measure, making it unbearable to remain.
The boy flipped himself upside down and dove into the water once more.
Yet when he surfaced again after some time with nothing to show, there upon the water he raised his voice and shouted for help.
Then the children raced off to summon the adults working in the fields.

It was perhaps about thirty minutes after the hands had been seen that dozens of villagers gathered and took turns diving into the abyss.
The adults took deep breaths and dove into the water, but Yasokichi was nowhere to be found.
Taking turns diving into the water, perhaps another thirty minutes had passed.
A young man finally surfaced, carrying Yasokichi on his shoulder.
The young man shouted something sharply, and on his shoulder hung a pallid human body—its neck limp, its arms like the blanched parts of scallions withered in the sun—a scene that flashed before my eyes like lightning.

“It’s Ozeki’s son-in-law.”
“There he is!”

“Ozeki’s son-in-law found Yasokichi!”

I heard such exclamations.
Ozeki ran a small shop at the village outskirts selling fried foods and konjac stew.
The Ozeki’s son-in-law who had pulled Yasokichi from the water was a young man who had married into her family from another village.
Years later, when this same man rushed to fight a fire in a neighboring village and threw himself into the effort, a warehouse headband fell and killed him.
After Yasokichi finally emerged from the water, sharp human wails heavy with grief echoed through the area for a time before silence reclaimed its dominion.

At the base of Mount Zaō, the sulfur spring’s outflow gushed forth, forming a single large cascade as it flowed.
It flowed westward from village to village, and upon reaching the eastern border of Kanakamemura, it suddenly bent and flowed northward.
The stones in this river’s dry bed always bore a whitish hue, and not a single water moss grew there.
It was a clear, pure stream, but its waters were so acidic that no fish inhabited it, nor did any insects lay even a single egg there.
Moreover, diverting this water into rice paddies harmed rice cultivation, so for the farmers, this river might well be called a poison river.
They came to call this Vinegar River at some point in time.
Then, the river flowing west of Kanakamemura originated from the watershed at the Yonezawa border; after emerging onto the Yamagata plain, it ultimately joined the Mogami River. This one, however, was freshwater and teemed with numerous fish species.
Long ago, when a flood occurred after rainfall, the Vinegar River—which had flowed westward as far as the village’s eastern border—breached through the point where it should have turned northward. Consequently, its waters mixed with those of the freshwater river flowing north through the village’s western lands.
In other words, it had taken on a shape resembling the Western letter H.
Then, a phenomenon occurred where the fish population dwelling in that river swarmed together to die all at once.
Since such harmful water mixing into the freshwater river would cause problems, the village built an embankment at the breached section to prevent its influx.

However, when did it begin?
The era must stretch back far into antiquity.
Under cover of midnight’s emptiness, someone breached that embankment and deliberately released acidic water into the freshwater river.
When that sour water mixed in, fish would swarm so densely they turned pitch black, surging endlessly downstream.
They would catch all they could trap with weirs before dawn broke—returning home empty-handed yet feigning ignorance—and dubbed this phenomenon “Vinegar River Overflow.”

Before first light each time it occurred, one or two farmers heading out to cut grass would discover it and report to the village office.
The office would dispatch laborers for repairs while villagers—old and young alike—raced each other upstream to snatch up weakened fish for unexpected bounty.
“This ‘Overflow’ never happened too often,” they said—the villagers considering it harmless amusement while officials turned blind eyes toward culprits who should’ve faced charges for breaching embankments illegally—yet what began as crime had transformed through generations into indispensable ritual resembling annual festival rites passed down since ancient times until Yasokichi—who couldn’t swim nor ever played by rivers—came alone that fateful Overflow day.

The servant came and told us Yasokichi had ultimately not revived.
When this incident with Yasokichi occurred, Father had gone to another village on an errand and only returned at duskfall.
The moment I saw Father's face, I rushed to his side and breathlessly recounted everything—how Yasokichi had drowned, how they pulled him from the water, how they built roaring straw fires to warm him until his skin nearly blistered, how they shoved pipes into his backside and desperately blew tobacco smoke inside—all tumbling out in one frantic torrent.

“They went and shoved five or six tobacco pipes deep into Yasokichi’s backside.”
“And they blew tobacco smoke ’til thick clouds billowed from his mouth.”

Father, who had been listening to my account like this, suddenly glared at me without uttering a single word. Before I could even process my shock at this unexpected behavior, he hurriedly changed his clothes and rushed out.
It was a time when Grandmother, Mother, and everyone were all gathered at Yasokichi’s house.

At the time of my father's death, while staying at Minken's temporary lodgings, I recalled this incident and strove to reconstruct his countenance from that moment as vividly as possible.
Since returning home, I have carried wounds in my heart and still have not visited my father's grave.
According to letters from my elder brother, Yasokichi died at twelve years old, meaning I must have been eleven at the time.
Yasokichi lies buried at Hōsenji Temple in Kanakamemura Village, bearing the posthumous Buddhist name En’a Kōsai Dōji.

(Taishō 14 [1925], September Note)

2 Phlegm

Father suffered from phlegm for a long time.
When my small, emaciated father would start coughing, he would lean slightly forward, hacking in a way that seemed as though the skin of his stomach were twisting—it looked truly agonizing.
Yet when that agonizing cough subsided after one full bout, a series of hacking coughs—hack, hack, hack, hack—would follow, then transition into wheezing ones—wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, wheeze.
Because the manner of it was so amusingly strange, I, as a young child, would imitate it.
When Father would start coughing with those peculiar wheezes before finishing his duties at the Buddhist altar, I—while clinging to Mother as she worked in the kitchen—would mimic him with a chorus of “Wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, wheeze.” Though Mother would glare at me, she too would finally burst into laughter.

Once a year, mostly in winter, a puppet theater would come to the village.
After finishing dinner, old men and women, mothers and grandchildren alike would all tread through paths of deeply piled snow frozen hard to see the puppet theater.
There were nights when terrible blizzards raged.
These puppet shows staged scenes where a samurai defeated a giant ape abducting a beautiful maiden, where Matsumae-ya Gorobei was beaten until he coughed up blood, and where a young wife climbing a mountain pass with one companion found bandits lying in wait.
Beyond the cedar grove, darkness had been arranged as though stars were glittering.
I remember one evening when Father carried me on his back to that puppet show—how he coughed violently with such evident distress, yet I imitated him again, feeling in my childish heart that I had done something wicked.

Father’s phlegm condition had existed since before I was born.
After Grandfather retired, the carp he kept as a pastime multiplied abundantly due to the favorable water, with large ones always swimming about in great numbers.
It was said this occurred after the snow had fallen two or three more times.
Before heavy snow could set in, Father had urged young men to work on dredging the carp pond during a day of bitter cold—this being what led him to develop phlegm in the end.
Even after developing phlegm, Father still worked.
I was born after Father had developed phlegm.
I was sickly and frail and spindly as a child.
I have heard Grandmother say it was because I was a child born when Father was suffering from phlegm, or so.

Because Father suffered from phlegm, he bought and kept things like syrups and sugar-pickled ginger.
The syrup was often received from the neighboring Hōsenji Temple.
At Hōsenji Temple, whenever villagers pounded mochi they would bring it there; when leftover mochi piled up, the temple would make it into syrup.
I remember one time Hōsenji Temple brought over a jar filled with amber-colored translucent syrup and shared it with us.
When Father was away, my brother and I occasionally stole and tasted that syrup.

Once I stole some sugar-pickled ginger too. Then I licked off just the sugar and threw the ginger outside. Outside lay a world blanketed in snow. I remember how three or four sparrows would come swooping down with fierce energy to fight over the ginger when it fell onto the snow. Though I sensed some connection between phlegm and ginger, as a child I couldn't grasp what it might be.

Some considerable time later, I came to move up to Tokyo and took to listening to rokyoku ballads with fondness. The rokyoku chanters would sing of “at least a single sliver of ginger.” Each time they did so, I found myself recalling Father’s phlegm. After studying medicine, I even developed an interest in traditional Chinese remedies and folk treatments. Now concerning ginger—Sun Simiao states: “Should one consume it excessively in August and September, by spring it will afflict the eyes. It shortens one’s lifespan and diminishes muscular strength.” I was startled by explanations claiming “should a pregnant woman eat this, it will cause her child to be born with six fingers,” yet many Chinese medical texts expound on ginger’s phlegm-dispersing properties. In entries on phlegm-fire one finds ginger juice employed; there exists the phrase “treats cold phlegm cough,” along with prescriptions like Daitan Pills and Daitan Decoction—all of which made Father’s act of storing sugar-pickled ginger sometimes rise in my heart with a peculiar sort of poignant melancholy.

Father devoted himself to the Three Mountains and Mount Zaō area, abstaining from eating four-legged creatures his entire life.
Because my bedwetting showed no signs of improving, there were those who would tell me things like cows were good, horses were good, dogs were good—but I remember Father going all the way to town to buy two or three stalks of Korean ginseng for me.
Therefore, shortly after my elder brother turned fifteen and joined the youth group, on a certain evening after heavy snow had hardened, they set explosive devices on salmon heads and killed six foxes.
The six foxes had each gone to their own places and died there, it is said.
If they followed the dripping blood, they would find a fox dead there; one of them had apparently made its way all the way to the spring in the woods.
After completing their nighttime straw work, the five or six young men—including my elder brother—boiled and ate them.
While boasting about how well the explosive devices had worked, my elder brother remarked, “It’s no good—smells a bit off.”
“Not as good as beef.”
He talked about such things.
The next day, Father heard about it and became extremely angry; I remember how he deplored everything about the foxes as a terrible waste.

After Father fell ill with phlegm, he gradually made a vow to some deity to abstain from his favorite things.
Though Father neither drank alcohol nor smoked tobacco, he ultimately gave up eating natto.
Having abstained from natto for decades, he tried eating it again one day in his old age, but it didn't sit well with his phlegm.
He would sometimes say things like, "This might bring the phlegm back."
I believe Father abstained from eating natto from that time until his dying day.
Father also observed dietary restrictions.
But beyond ordinary vegetarian practices of avoiding fish and meat, he practiced abstaining from grains and salt.
While everyone else ate daikon boiled in miso or prepared salmon roe broth, Father would sometimes just pour white sugar over his rice and eat it.
Yet I couldn't understand why Father behaved this way.

3 New Road

Carrying six-year-old me on his back, Father walked across Hayasaka New Road toward Ueyama.
The rain-hardened road was well compacted, and even when the sky cleared completely, no dust rose.
On both sides, densely clustered pine forests stretched endlessly for some time, creating an air of solitude.
In those sparsely populated morning hours, the highway had been laid out with minimal bends so that anyone approaching from afar became visible long before an actual encounter.
It likewise took considerable time until such figures disappeared around the forest's distant corner.
Father strode down this highway in high spirits.
The season likely had not yet reached early summer—or so one might surmise.
These memories remain hazy yet carry an impression of pine cicadas singing.

Ueyama was a hot spring resort where the Matsudaira clan lords had maintained their castle.
After the Meiji Restoration, they demolished that castle, and now it stood as the sacred grounds of Tsukioka Shrine.
In later years, the haiku poet Hekigodō traveled here and left this verse: "In Dewa's Ueyama heights—the night chill".
From my village, traversing this broad new road to Ueyama measured just under one ri.
There was where villagers typically went for their shopping.

Father walked down the very center of such highways as though claiming exclusive right of way.
Yet before long, from behind me came the grinding sound of rickshaw wheels.
Then shouts of "Heh! Heh!" followed.
Since this was unmistakably a signal to clear the path, I assumed Father would naturally step aside—but still he did not yield.
In that instant came a heavy thud—the rickshaw's crossbar struck squarely against my buttocks.
Father lurched forward as if about to pitch headlong.

Then Father suddenly turned around and grabbed the rickshaw puller by the nape, yanking him sideways until the rickshaw nearly overturned.
The rickshaw puller hurriedly tried to lower the crossbar, but Father did not relent in his assault.
The rickshaw puller finally fell to the left side.
Father thumped the rickshaw puller two or three times around the throat and nape, but even so, the rickshaw puller tried to rise and confront him.
At that moment, the old man who had been riding [the rickshaw] persistently tried to stop it and apologized to Father.

Father walked down the center of the highway once more in a haughty manner, his buttocks held high.
The rickshaw carrying that old man, which had approached from behind, now swerved to avoid us as it passed.
While overtaking us, the rickshaw puller muttered something under his breath, but Father paid him no heed.
I remember crying aloud on Father’s back when the incident happened.

In Meiji 42, when I fell ill with fever and lay in the branch ward of the Red Cross Hospital, there were days I spent entirely immersed in recollections of my boyhood. And there were times I wondered why that rickshaw puller had thrust his crossbar against us so violently back then. I, now writing these words, still find myself pondering that incident in exactly the same way.

Before this highway opened, one had to cross several small hills before finally reaching Ueyama. That mountain path stood truly desolate—there were nights when young men bound for Ueyama's revelries would lose their way and wander those slopes until dawn. They said anyone buying fish in Ueyama and traveling home by night would inevitably lose their bearings. Late into those darkened hours, it was not uncommon to hear faint cries of "Hoi! Hoi!" echoing through the mountain pass.

At the mid-slope of a small mountain, there remains a large rock to this day.
They called it Wolf Stone because wolves lived there and bore young—whenever this happened, the villagers would bring food for them.
There were times when wolf cubs would come out to play, and at midnight one could often hear their piercing howls, or so it was said.
The mountain path leading to Ueyama passed near that stone.
This trail saw no shortage of incidents involving foxes and raccoon dogs transforming through supernatural means, stories Mother would often recount.

Then came the Meiji Restoration, and the voice of civilization began to penetrate even into these mountains.
When Governor Mishima took office, they finally carved through the midslope of a small mountain and completed the great highway connecting Yamagata through Ueyama toward Yonezawa.
What the villagers called Hayasaka New Road was this new road.
This new road had been opened long before I was born, but with the consecutive days of forced labor, discontent among the villagers grew.
There was even an anecdote passed down that once, when an official reprimanded a laborer who had lain sprawled out during Governor Mishima’s on-site inspection, the man offered a poem: “As humans, we all grow weary—yet only I must beg forgiveness from Governor Mishima.”
That man had aged and was still alive even after I came to Tokyo, but he had died long ago.

When the new road was completed, rickshaws began passing through.
Carts loaded with dried fish and such came traveling through.
Postal couriers went running.
Later stagecoaches rolled by, and Shibata’s 16th Regiment marched through.
Occasionally two-horse carriages would pass through, and riders on horseback came by.
Whenever something unusual came through, people would run all the way to Hōsenji Temple to view it through a telescope.

When rickshaw pullers raced vigorously down this great highway, they must have carried a certain pride in their hearts.
It resembled how one might feel their chest opening wide when walking through the Vatican Palace.
The same held true for my father.
When Father strode down this grand avenue as though he owned it, there must have been an unconscious dignity at work within him too.
Because Father’s obstinate manner obstructed the rickshaw puller’s own sense of pride, he thrust that crossbar into my backside with a thud.
Might it not have been that Father abruptly launched his counterattack because this ambush had grievously wounded his own process of maintaining dignity?

4. Nihee.
Spectrum

Nihee was skilled at noh chanting and moreover was an excellent storyteller.
Nihee would always climb the hills at dusk when day waned and gaze out at villages along the river and those dotting the mountain valleys.
When he determined smoke rose abundantly from a village house, Nihee would promptly head there.
That house would invariably hold a wedding celebration.
Though never invited to join the festivities, Nihee was always lavishly received and considered useful.
He would sing his signature noh chants, conclude the auspicious *medetaya medeta* refrains with jests, then return home bearing fine offerings as souvenirs.
The villagers called that man “Ennihee.”

Father would often tell the story of how that very Nihee, one night while returning home with a fine fish as a souvenir, ended up completely deceived by a fox.
Nihee waded into the thick mud of the deep paddy field, convinced it was a sake bath.
And Father would tell of how he cried out, “Ah, perfectly warmed! Perfectly warmed!”
When it came to that point, Father’s voice would gain a certain vigor, and the children would gaze at his face with wide eyes.
Father believed in miracles and the manifestation of supernatural apparitions, departing this world after passing seventy.

The temple schools disappeared, and elementary schools in name only began to appear in the village as well. The teachers were mostly young men from the former samurai class, though there were some middle-aged individuals among them. The term "natural philosophy" issued from the mouths of those teachers. When Father went to visit the teacher during breaks from winter straw work, he was shown a prism that had just arrived. And sunlight is composed of seven colors of light in this way. The formation of rainbows is precisely that. In Western terms, this is called 'spectra' and refers to seven prismatic lights. "Old-fashioned folks go on about welcoming lights and such, but that’s just them being devoured by puppet priests." The Teacher declared triumphantly before his devout father.

Father kept fiddling with the prism, but there was no particular reason for it, nor could he find any hidden mechanism. However, when he looked through it at the sun, sure enough, seven-prismed light appeared.

Father had been fiddling with the prism for a while when he suddenly peered at the hearth fire through it. To his surprise, the hearth fire too appeared as seven prismatic lights. Father, his heart suddenly racing, thought to resolve this through willpower, believing it to be the handiwork of Kirishitan missionaries.

“Teacher.”
“You’re not being fooled by those Kirishitan missionaries now, are you?”
“Look sharp at this!”
“How can you say both Amaterasu’s light and this hearth fire appear the same?”
“There’s surely some trickery here made to seem mechanism-less.”
“Kirishitan missionaries—begone by my spiritual power!”

With that, Father suddenly threw the prism into the hearth flames.
The Teacher picked it up in surprise and panic, but abandoning his anger, he gazed at the hearth flames through the prism for a while, just as Father had done.
The Teacher could not determine whether sunlight and hearth fire were the same or different.
The Teacher’s natural philosophy was shaken at that moment.
Father proudly left the scene.

In later years, Father often told that story.
He took considerable pride in having defeated the Teacher—a man versed in Western learning.
But it likely wasn’t merely that alone.
A father who had been abstaining from grains and salt while focusing on deities was not one to readily accept the implications of the Spectrum experiment.
To say he came to accept it would be off the mark—it might be more accurate to say he rebelled against it.

And so time passed—Father had passed his sixtieth year, then his seventieth.
Father once listened to Kumoiemon’s naniwabushi ballads emanating from a phonograph’s horn at a certain shopfront in Kamimachi, with an air of being deeply moved.
However, Father made no attempt to investigate the fact that this phonograph was founded upon natural philosophy.
The notion of having defeated the Spectrum, of course, never rose to the surface of his consciousness.

5. Lacquer Rash

The village school was merged with that of the neighboring village, and around a year or two after Minister Mori was assassinated, an ordinary higher elementary school was built there.

The school was nearly four kilometers away.
On mornings when the snow lay deep, where at most one or two charcoal-laden horses would pass, the path had yet to be established.
It was not rare for the snow to reach waist-deep.
The children, forming a group of five or six, would brave the deep snow to make their way, but they had a terribly hard time of it.
There were even children who started crying along the way and didn’t quiet down until they reached school.

But if you endured that hardship, from when the willows bloomed with silver catkins came early spring, and the snowfall gradually diminished.
If another month passed, beautiful weather continued for many days, and the snow naturally began to melt.
The path became a 'snowmelt path'—frozen in the mornings but turning into complete mud after noon, making walking arduous for days on end.
During such times, the straw sandals wore out at a rate of about one pair each day.
When I was eight or nine years old, I commuted to school every day in this manner.

Once past that point, dry patches began appearing here and there along the path's edges.
They grew larger day by day until connecting with the distant dry patches that had been visible.
The children called these parched earth patches "Zori Road," stomping on them and leaping upward in delight.

When the snow vanished from the main road, disappeared from the sunlit groves, and melted away from all nearby mountains save the distant peaks, it felt as though spring had arrived all at once. The sun blazed dazzlingly. The tree buds vigorously began to sprout. Buds that had just barely broken through their husks—whitish sprouts, reddish ones, purplish ones—the children would snap off such tender growths as they dawdled along the path, playing with them in their mouths. A lark would quiver the air as it soared skyward, only for the call of a cuckoo to echo from a distant ravine. When the young leaves of oak and beech trees would turn their undersides to the wind, mountain silkworms would emerge there, scattering the path with countless small black droppings.

A group of five or six children—around ten in total—would dawdle along on such days, traveling back and forth along the same path each day. While up to mischief like peeing into ant holes or killing snakes and stuffing frogs into their mouths, they would all dash off to school once time grew short.

Yet there was one Boy Leader who dominated all those children.
He was about eleven years old at the time.
Being older and possessing a ferocious nature, he subjugated the children of the village school.
He would lead the surrounding children into mountains and valleys, paying no heed to school lessons or anything else—his approach having a certain ferociousness to it.
Once, in a fit of rage, the Teacher suspended that Boy Leader from a school roof beam and subjected him to corporal punishment.
It was the day when Minister Mori, the Minister of Education, was scheduled to pass through Hayasaka New Road from Yamagata to Kamimachi while inspecting schools in Tohoku.
We had spent four or five days practicing to salute the Minister of Education, donning hakama we rarely wore and even shirts we seldom put on as we went to school, but the Boy Leader had somehow led those children off to play in the mountains.
Thus, even as the time to salute the Minister of Education drew steadily nearer, the children had not returned.
However, we somehow managed the salute for the Minister of Education, lining up on Hayasaka New Road and bowing our small heads to Minister Mori Arinori as he passed by in a rickshaw.
The Teacher maintained a calm demeanor that day.
But on the following day, the Teacher suspended the Boy Leader from a school roof beam and proceeded to whip him relentlessly before everyone.
Then, it feels as though shortly thereafter, Minister Mori was assassinated.
All such events occurred before the schools were merged.
After the schools were merged, the Boy Leader still attended school, naturally dominating the surrounding children.

On a beautifully clear morning, the Boy Leader became the center of seven or eight of us he’d assembled, and we set off for school while dawdling as much as we pleased. After throwing stones from the bridge over Sukawa River—whose source was a sulfur spring—and such mischief, when we walked on for a while, there stood five or six lacquer trees by the roadside. These had turned a vivid crimson in autumn, but now small buds were sprouting from the tips of their branches.

When we arrived at the lacquer trees, the Boy Leader instructed everyone to line up. And when he plucked the lacquer buds himself, white sap oozed from the broken tips. The Boy Leader made everyone roll up their sleeves and drew vulvas and phalluses on the inner part of their forearms using lacquer sap. While "vulva" may sound shockingly crude, in reality, it was merely a shape resembling the ancient Chinese seal-script character for "sun" (日). The same applied to the phallus. All were devoid of Präputium and rendered in extreme simplification.

When Nakae Chōmin contracted cancer and had little time left to live, he wrote an essay titled "A Year and a Half." Within it, he had disparaged Japan by going on about the "Two Entities of Yin and Yang" or some such notion—but that was unreasonable. In Rome—naturally—and even if one went to Paris, London, or Berlin, such innocent pictures could be found drawn in many places. This Boy Leader too had merely drawn innocent pictures. Even so, the Boy Leader drew them by exchanging some lacquer buds and such. When he drew for them, everyone burst out laughing. And to hasten the drying of the sap, they blew on it and such.

After drawing various sizes here and there, he drew a small one on my arm.
Looking back now, I suppose you could say it resembled the circumcised penis of Jesus on the eighth day after his birth.
The Boy Leader finished by drawing an especially large one on his own arm.

The next morning everyone gathered and showed each other their arm drawings while laughing uproariously.
Only where they'd been drawn had turned black and dried out compared to yesterday.
Yet mine alone hadn't turned black there but instead reddened slightly with swelling.

The following morning too when everyone compared drawings again theirs had grown even blacker and drier—while mine alone saw intensified itching since last night now joined by pain as fluid started oozing from where he'd drawn it.
During lessons I suffered torment from both itchiness and pain.
Then came word that crushing stream crabs and applying them would cure it.
Right behind our school lay a brook where moving stones aside let you catch several small crabs.
I crushed one and smeared its innards over my rash-covered arm yet where redness swelling and ooze had been scabs now began forming.

Just because only the drawn area formed a black scab didn't mean it was healed. Therefore, when I entered the bath and secretly tried removing that scab, underneath remained festering and formed a deep groove-like wound. By the next day it would form a scab there again—this cycle made it stubbornly refuse to heal. The other children gradually forgot about such things as vulva and phallus drawings. That was only natural, for over a month had already passed since they'd had them drawn, so many had peeled off and fallen away. Even if some remained, such things were no longer rare. Only I alone suffered from it every day. It amounted to nothing more than enduring pain while removing scabs and applying crab innards there. Even when noticing how daily deepened grooves formed where scabs had been removed grew deeper each day, I couldn't bring myself to confess this to Mother or Father. I spent two months in vain.

But one day Mother finally discovered it, and I ended up confessing every detail of how it had transpired. Mother took me to Father. Trembling with fear, I showed Father the already scabbed phallus drawing. Both Father and Mother laughed. Since I'd expected scolding but received none, I too burst into loud laughter. That evening Father concocted a thick oily medicine and applied it for me. Then within two or three days the scab fell away. He applied something like an oily medicine there again. The phallus-shaped lacquer rash that had caused such agony was thus finally cured. The lesion healed in an utterly 'ordinary' manner.

To first declare “like a fleeing hare” and then say “ends like a maiden”—when you savor it, there’s something rather clever about that phrasing. Yet precisely because it had grown too trite, I’d never properly savored it until now. That triteness was akin to Leonardo da Vinci’s painted image of Mona Lisa Gioconda. And it was when the conclusion to my lacquer rash story had all but vanished that I recalled this proverb and aphorism. Recalling and savoring it, there was indeed something clever about the phrasing. I felt a secret satisfaction within myself. It was for this reason that I recalled Leonardo da Vinci.

Regarding the question of 'How do children contemplate their father's capabilities?'—there comes a time when children believe their father to be all-powerful. Yet as time passes, before their eyes, fathers gradually become ordinary. My father too followed this course. As I grew older and my father increasingly became an ordinary man, even when hearing tales of him casting prisms into flames, I felt no secret awe within me. But when I suffered so grievously from the lacquer rash, Father healed it through utterly commonplace means. At that moment, I wondered whether he might not possess some unknown yet special 'power' after all. Therein did his ordinariness transform itself through a different tint. Then emerged the concept of 'Ordinary Healing.' Practicing physicians must surely recognize this truth—that there are illnesses which refuse healing despite utmost effort, yet when cured at last, heal through perfectly ordinary means. To guide an illness toward this mechanism of 'Ordinary Healing' marks a skilled physician.

The picture drawn with lacquer sap by that Boy Leader caused a rash that made me suffer for two months—but it healed.
It healed, but where scabs had formed appeared to be replaced by scar tissue, leaving a mark there.
The scar from that small phallus drawing remained until around the time I graduated elementary school, entered middle school, graduated middle school, and entered high school.
Whenever I entered the bath, I would sometimes find myself staring at the scar and losing myself in reminiscence.
However, that scar gradually faded until now its form could no longer be discerned.
I too am gradually drawing near to middle age.
When I received news of Father’s death at a South German inn, I abruptly recalled the lacquer rash and stared at the inner surface of my forearm in bed—yet the form was already gone.

The existence of lacquer rash remedies—such as applying a raw crab roe mixture, smearing crab foam, or using dried powdered crab shell and talc blended with honey—was rooted in Chinese medicine. The Japanese texts’ mention of healing lacquer rash likewise had such origins. What Father prepared for me was nothing like those remedies. It was a thick, oily substance like liniment, but try as I might, I cannot recall the medicine’s color or other details. I can’t recall Father’s face from that time either. When I try hard to recall, only the face of my elderly father from his later years surfaces.

6 First Shrine Visit

In Meiji 29, exactly when I turned fifteen, Father took me to Yudono Mountain for the first shrine visit.
At that time, Father must have been forty-five or six—around my current age—yet already had a bent back.
This was due to working his body in the fields.
However, until then he had made countless pilgrimages to Mount Yudono and took pride in the journey.

Both Father and I practiced ascetic purification by bathing every morning for a time; during that period we avoided quarrels and refrained from killing even creatures like fish or insects, while polishing many one-rin coins one by one with salt to prepare them as offerings.
Though called a pilgrimage, we didn't travel part of the way by train as people do today.
We would depart before midnight and walk five or six ri before dawn broke.
On the first day we stayed at a place called Hondō-ji.
From our village to there was fourteen ri.
On the second day we reached Shizu village before dawn and there secured a guide.
From then on the mountain path had frequent crossings through snowmelt streams.
It was still morning when we reached Yudono Mountain's ravines where the wind turned strange until at last the sacred mountain erupted in fury.
The downpour swept over the whole mountain until our sedge hats flew off and straw mats threatened to tear.
Branches of large trees snapped before our eyes.
Still the guide pressed forward chanting *"Purify the six roots! May the sacred mountain prosper!"*
As we advanced, the ravine ahead lay buried under ice polished smooth by rain.
The lower slope dropped into a deep gorge making treacherous footing.
I was cautiously crossing when a gale roared through with unearthly sound.
I nearly fell.
Father coming behind commanded: "Mokichi! Flatten yourself!"
At his sharp order I pressed against the ice.
Or perhaps more truthfully—I barely clung there.
These things I remember.

At that Yudono Mountain where Bashō composed his verse “Sleeves dampened at the unspeakable hot spring shrine,” I made pilgrimage and fulfilled my wish of “first pilgrimage.” I remember things like barely descending toward the valley bottom using an iron chain and places where hot water gushed vigorously from rocks between ravines and flowed onward. On the return trip, I stayed overnight in Shizu and dried sopping wet clothes. This day’s journey was said to be sixteen ri.

On the third day, we set out on our return journey beneath clear skies.
When we came about seven or eight ri, Father stopped at a teahouse and ordered nuta-mochi.
Nuta-mochi refers to edamame ground in a suribachi grinding bowl, seasoned with sugar and salt, and then coated onto mochi.
Father said, “Mokichi, eat as much as you want.”
“Then you must prepare your stomach for the journey.”
“When crossing mountains,” he said cheerfully, “you should eat something at the base, eat again at the summit, and set out carrying a little something.”

When we were nearing the town of Yamagata, I developed a strong desire for the Japanese History textbook compiled by the history instructor at the local middle school and began pestering Father incessantly to get it for me.
That Japanese History textbook was so handsomely bound—the sort that every child from well-off families inevitably owned, the kind teachers would bring to elementary school classrooms—that I wanted it so badly I could hardly stand it.
Yet Father absolutely would not buy it for me.

We entered the town of Yamagata.
I pleaded time and again, but Father would not consent.
Before long, we passed in front of the publisher’s bookstore.
I walked behind Father, wondering why he was so stingy.

7 Russo-Japanese War

By the time of the Russo-Japanese War, I had already become a high school student.
During the Russo-Japanese War, both my eldest brother and second brother were deployed.
My eldest brother enlisted from Akita’s 17th Regiment, fought from Heigoutai toward Hoten, and was wounded there.
At that time in that village people were dying in battle.
In this village there were daily rumors of people being injured.
It must have been when the siege of Hoten was at its height.
After midnight came a telegram from Akita Regiment Headquarters.
At that time the sister-in-law and others were trembling so violently they couldn’t speak.
Father restrained the family’s commotion then put on hakama trousers and donned haori coat.
Then he lit bow-shaped lamp sat before Buddhist altar and reportedly opened telegram.
When I occasionally returned home sister-in-law and others would often tell me about that incident.

Father in his youth learned the rice-planting dance and became a female impersonator; when there was Horita’s encampment, he became a farmer-soldier and studied artillery—my cousin.
*Shyōgai na.*
*Misagari.*
*Obako.*
*Woodcutter's Song.*
He sang all manner of songs; had Monk Rikiō—a Diet member since Grandfather's time in the Progressive Party era—draft political speeches for him; became engrossed in swordsmanship, gardening, Buddhist hymns, and invocations; and even practiced abstaining from grains and salt.

Someone like me—timid with things, fearful of people, lacking in competitive spirit—when I happened to recall my father’s life, I realized there was little resemblance between us; yet I suppose this was simply how I chose to perceive it. I was a child of when my father had been plagued by phlegm. I was a child of when I would lick sugar-preserved ginger and such. I was a child born in such times. Still, I too thought that in either case, it amounted to nothing more than emerging from a horse’s womb to be born into a donkey’s.

8 Aone Hot Springs

Father carried five-year-old me on his back, Mother shouldered the necessary luggage, and we went to take a curative hot spring bath at Aone Hot Springs.
Aone Hot Springs could be reached by crossing over Mount Zaō, but one could also detour by threading through its foothills.

When I leaf through my father’s diary, in the entry for Meiji 19 (1886), there is: 『August 7th.
Rain fell.
Kumajirō, Oiku, Mokichi went to Aone Hot Springs.
August 13th: Heavy rain fell; the big river’s bridge washed away.
August 14th.
Fair weather.
Kumajirō, Oiku, and Mokichi returned from Aone Hot Springs.

August 23rd.
Fair weather.

Denemon, Ohide, and Hirokichi went to Akayu Hot Springs.
September 1st.
Denemon, Ohide, Hirokichi returned from Akayu Hot Springs.’
There, he records how my parents took me to Aone Hot Springs, and then notes how my grandparents took my eldest brother to Akayu Hot Springs.
Father’s diary was primarily an agricultural record, but it also diligently noted such matters in concise terms.
My memories of our visit to Aone Hot Springs remain exceedingly faint.
When I reminisce about Father, those subtle memories naturally surface.

Father would go ahead carrying an Odawara lantern or something of the sort, and Mother would follow behind him.
On the path at the foot of the mountain, stones of various heights protruded from the ground.
Because it was a stone path, each time the swaying lantern light passed by, those stone shadows would shift lightly about.
The shadows of those stones were not one or two but many.
I remember finding this extremely strange while on Father’s back.

We left home before midnight had even come and walked through the night.
At dawn, heavy rain fell, soaking through even our raincoats.
The road entered deep into the mountains—the stream swelled with water as muddy torrents rushed downstream.
The river’s width had grown, and the bridge had already been washed away.
Father once struggled across this mountain torrent.
After turning back and taking Mother’s hand this time, crossing cautiously together—that part I remember.
After arriving at the inn, there was something like a square box embedded in its garden.
Clear water ceaselessly flowed down into it, swarming with eels swimming.
I had never before seen a place with so many eels.

The woman at what seemed to be the front desk was always amiable and smiling gently, but wore finer clothes than Mother or others. When I timidly approached her, she would give me sweets. Mother worked busily all day at home, yet that woman never worked at all. I remember finding this strange as a child.

Even during our hot spring cure, I wet the bed every night. Though this had already become routine for both Father and Mother, they still worried about the futon. On rainy days they left it untouched, but when skies cleared Father would immediately take it up to dry on the roof. I remember him carrying the futon upward in movements resembling calisthenics.

One day—probably when it was raining—the hot spring guests all put on a play. Since I recall us watching from Tsuchido, the stage must have been in the storehouse annex. Old women who had come from Sendai for treatment joined in performing too. At that moment, Father became the comic hyottoko figure. After removing that mask, I remember him playing the flute among the musicians.

According to Father’s diary, we had stayed at Aone Hot Springs for seven days. Then came June 2, Meiji 20 (1887). Clear weather.

"Oiku’s safe nighttime delivery." This entry exists in Father’s diary, and since my younger brother was born, I now think Mother must have become pregnant during our curative stay at Aone Hot Springs.

9. Miracle.

Diary Excerpts

Things like mysterious miracles had no place in Nakae Chōmin's world.
This was because importing civilization first required importing the study of material sciences; thus Nakae Chōmin also brought in what was then called "rigaku" philosophy, though his position ultimately sought to counteract 'miracles'.
But for someone as faint-hearted as I, there were any number of 'miracles'.

At the end of Taisho 13, when a fire broke out and even my books were completely burned to ashes, the notebooks of my grandfather and father—which I had brought from my hometown and wrapped in newspaper—remained unburned, though charred by smoke. As I dried each sheet of the notebooks—bound in Japanese paper that had been left sopping wet—over the hibachi’s fire, I felt a truly profound sense of wonder. “Since they’re light, they must’ve been blown away when the second floor burned and collapsed,” my nephew said as he helped dry the papers. He also said, “Maybe a whirlwind like during the Clothing Depot incident arose and blew them away,” and “But being such flimsy paper notebooks, they really should’ve burned up right away.” My nephew tried to explain things through physics as much as possible, yet there remained countless points that defied such reasoning.

Grandfather’s contained entries of haikai linked poetry or suchlike, while Father’s was the *Shinamana Kakitomecho*—created in February of Meiji 7 (Kinoe-Inu), on an auspicious day.
This ledger began with entries of gifts received in celebration when my eldest brother was born, followed by meticulous records of menus for Buddhist memorial services, get-well presents, wedding banquet arrangements, and other such details—so unusual that I took possession of it.
For example: Meiji 23, from the night of February 23rd to the 24th.
Under the "24th Day - Twelve Portions" clause of Seiganji Kiyo Myōjōzen Daishi's Third-Year Memorial Service Menu Record: Flat Dish (dried gourd strips.
Potato.
Fried tofu pouches.
Konnyaku.
Parboiled bamboo shoots).
Seasoning plate (Nara-zuke; chili peppers).
Marinated dish (garlic chives).
Plate (thread konnyaku;
Walnut mixture).
Rolled sushi (black nori, yuba).
Clear soup (wrapped yuba two.
Shiitake mushrooms. Udo).
Fried dish (burdock root.
Potato.
Chinquapin nuts.
Arrowhead. Persimmon).
Simmered dish (arrowhead.

Ice konbu.
Carrot.
Bamboo shoots.
shiitake mushrooms).
Seasoning plate (grilled tofu.
Arrowroot mixture.
Burdock root simmered in dark sauce).
Plate (Japanese spikenard.
bracken fern pickles).
Lower fried dishes (arrowhead.
Burdock root.
Persimmon.
Chinquapin nuts.
Red sweet potato).
Ōhira (arrowhead.
shiitake mushrooms; yuzu).
Soup (tofu; funori).
Tea sweets (senbei).
Hikiwashi (udon: five bundles at forty metaba).
Manjū: seven (four rin each).

Such things were recorded there. What this brought to mind was how by late February in the old calendar, garlic chives would already be sprouting while tree buds grew plump enough for ritual offerings. And seeing entries like "bracken fern pickles"—these too called up memories of his boyhood days.

Since there was a section in my father’s ledger that recorded the gifts I had received at my birth celebration, I thought I should briefly set them down here.
Born on March 27, Meiji 15 (Mizunoe-Uma).
Moriya Mokichi Yoshitoyo.

Safe Delivery Congratulations Gifts Ledger.
Small kingfish: seven fillets, Sugano Yagoemon.
20 sen in cash plus one tier of miso, Kanazawa Jiuemon.
10 sen in cash, Suzuki Shōemon.
10 sen in cash, Suzuki Sakubei.
10 sen in cash, Saitō Saburōemon.
One dried bonito stick plus one tier of miso, Nagasawa Seizaemon.
Three grilled flatfish fillets, Yamamotosenjūrō of Matsubara Village.
5 sen in cash, Saitō Tomiemon.
10 sen in cash, Osawa Sahee.
End of list.
They had received congratulatory gifts from eight households in their own village and one from another.
The entry noting "Matsubara Village, another village" referred to where my mother’s elder sister had married into.
Lastly, Osawa Sahee listed here was my father’s younger brother—father to that Boy Leader who once drew a small penis on my arm with lacquer sap.
This was the scale of things in Tōhoku villages around Meiji 15 (1882).

After returning from studying abroad, I asked my elder brother to make some excerpts from Father’s diary.
Here and there I found entries where he had recorded giving me small sums of money.
October 15, Meiji 19 (1886). Cloudy.
2 sen persimmon money to Tomitaro; sent to Mokichi.
July 15, Meiji 20 (1887).
4 sen sent to Mokichi.
January 7, Meiji 23 (1890).
18 sen, Mokichi’s tuition fee for exactly two months.
3 sen sent to Mokichi.
10th: Holiday.
3 sen sent to Mokichi.
15th: Holiday.
1 sen sent to Mokichi.
July 2.
5 sen book money for Mokichi.
12th.
4 sen sent to Mokichi.
December 24.
22 sen Mokichi medicine cost.

Such was the manner of things.

The entry reading "22 sen Mokichi medicine cost" refers to when I had been poisoned by paints and developed jaundice; Father had procured from somewhere a family folk remedy for me. That is what this denotes.

Meiji 24.
February 15.
1 sen for Chokichi's flute.
5 sen sent to Tomitaro.
3 sen sent to Mokichi.
March 3.
20 sen for Mokichi's books and drawing paper.
15th.
1 sen sent to Mokichi; 28th.
2 sen sent to Mokichi.
August 14.
Weather: Fine.
Mokichi, Chokichi, and Omiwe ascended the mountain.
9 sen for Mokichi's writing brush.
October 21.
Weather: Fine.
7 sen for Mokichi's geta.

22nd.
Weather: Fine.

Hirokichi and Mokichi went to Hanhō School in connection with the delivery of His Majesty the Emperor’s Imperial Portrait.
Kumajirō handled paperwork.
Tomitaro, Kinsaburō, and Fukada cut reeds in the deep fields.
Three maidservants pickled vegetables in the morning.
In the afternoon: weeding in the back field.
Through Dentaro’s mediation: purchased eleven bales.

The entry describes when the Imperial Portrait was first delivered to the merged school in the neighboring village; this could be understood as occurring on October 22, Meiji 24 (1891), though all dates here follow lunar reckoning.
It paints a scene of winter preparations: cutting reeds in deep fields before heavy snows came, pickling vegetables, weeding fields and sowing necessary crops.
Father’s diary remained fundamentally an agricultural record, though scattered within it were notations about small allowances he had given me.

In the Meiji 22 (1889) entry: At Hōsenji Temple, a burglary occurred; Den’emon’s servant went from the front gate carrying a sword. There were also entries about incidents such as "Kumajirō went from the rear carrying a spear." This recorded how burglars had attempted to break into Hōsenji Temple—while Chief Priest Ryōō Oshō was away in Tokyo—by hacking the door to pieces with a Japanese sword. About two stubborn young men had been lodging there at the time, but they grew terrified and proved utterly useless. Den’emon was my grandfather’s name and still lived then. Kumajirō was my father’s name.

A lingering effect from his temporary obsession with swordsmanship and study of gunnery, he tended to prefer carrying a spear on such occasions. Father often used the phrase “『得手まへ』” in such situations.

10. Rosary Collection Postscript

"The Rosary Collection is, after all, merely a record of personal matters; this should have been made into a 'secret chronicle.'"

Therefore, my friend, I ask that you not be angry.

During my study abroad in Munich, I mainly engaged in experimental neuropathology.
The books I read during my scant leisure, and the thoughts I pondered during those times, also came to center mainly on such matters.
Concepts such as ischämische Zellveränderung, Kolliquations-Nekrose, and koagulierende Nekrose came to dominate my thoughts.
In that spare time, I tried reading psychology books.
Concepts such as Hylopsychismus, Zerlegung der Gignomene, and Unbewusstheit der Reduktionsbestandteile—these were what troubled my mind.

However, Bakin’s things had been placed in my boarding house. Already worn, it bore witness to generations of international students who had used it to ease their loneliness in foreign lands. I, who had never read Bakin’s works before, suddenly decided to open one. It told of a young ascetic monk in ancient Tenjiku who ventured into the fields and, moved by some nameless impulse, spilled his essence upon a blade of grass. Through these words, I found myself unwittingly severed from Western intellectual currents and steeped in Eastern sensibilities. It was amid this mental turbulence that news of Father’s death reached me. Though he had passed seventy—an age I told myself should make his death feel ordained—loneliness welled up daily like springwater through volcanic rock. In those murky hours before dawn, when consciousness floats between realms, I sometimes mistook his passing for a half-remembered dream. Yet in waking hours, memories surfaced relentlessly—all scenes from Tokai, my birthplace by the eastern sea. This Rosary Collection remains but a meager chronicle. Still, know that sorrow forms its very warp and weft. My friend who keeps me in your thoughts—I beg you withhold your displeasure.

In August of Taisho 14 (1925), I attended the Araragi Ango-e retreat at Mount Hiei, then ascended Mount Kōya accompanied by five seniors and friends.
At the terminus of the mountain-climbing motorcar, just as I was about to board a palanquin, a man came and introduced me to a temple lodging called Hokushin-in.
Then, in the midst of a downpour, I ascended by palanquin and arrived at the temple lodging.
There we stayed for two nights and ate simple vegetarian monastic cuisine.
There were even times when we ate rice with broth containing but a single forlorn-looking manju.
And there, following their recommendation, I had them perform a merit transfer for my father’s sake.
At that moment, I suddenly realized it had already been three years since my father’s death.

Originally, the third memorial service was supposed to be held in July; however, it was decided to hold it after completing the rice cultivation work. August, September, and October passed, and it was finally held at the end of October.
Yet being prevented by circumstances in Tokyo from attending, I felt profoundly lonely about this too.
After the memorial service ended, my elder brother delivered Father’s small notebook to me.
This was Father’s diary from his journey to Saigoku in Taisho 4.

May 6.
Third lunar month, 23rd day.
Weather favorable.
From Yoshino Town: 6 AM ascent of Yoshino Mountain; 11 AM departure from Yoshino Station.
Arrived at Kōyaguchi Station at 1:30 PM.
From here ascended fifty chō and three ri [approx. 17.5km] to Mount Kōya, arriving at Hokushin-in around 8:00 PM.
1 yen, Yoshino Town lodging fee paid.
50 sen, Yoshino Mountain sightseeing car fare.
50 sen, Dōsho-ji Temple pilgrimage fee.
30 sen, ticket fare from Yoshinoguchi Station to Kōyaguchi Station.
50 sen, lunch expense.
2 yen 60 sen, palanquin fare paid.
7 yen 50 sen, offered as daily memorial offering fee to Hokushin-in.

May 7.
Third lunar month, 24th day.

Clear weather.
He began his pilgrimage at 8 AM.
It was reported there were over twenty thousand pilgrims per day on average.
From 1 PM he descended Mount Kōya and arrived at Kōyaguchi Station by 4 PM.
From there he reached Kokawa Station.
He lodged at Kanamo Hall Branch.
1 yen for pilgrimage fees.
1 yen 50 sen for Hokushin-in lodging.
50 sen for porterage.
1 yen for incidental travel expenses.
50 sen for lunch.
50 sen for carriage fare.
40 sen for train fare.

Looking at this, my father had climbed Mount Kōya ten years prior and stayed at Hokushin-in by chance—while the lodging cost only 1 yen 50 sen, he offered a full 7 yen 50 sen for daily memorial services. This must have been to conduct rites for my mother’s sake.
Since Mother passed in Taisho 2 (1913), Taisho 4 (1915) would have marked her third memorial year.
According to Father’s diary, he made only a half-day pilgrimage to Mount Kōya before descending that same afternoon.
He neither tried hearing the Buppōsō bird nor viewed any treasures; rising from the Great Gate’s sandy expanse, he didn’t bother glimpsing Awaji Island beyond the layered mountains either. Passing through that jumble of daimyo tombstones, he prayed at Okunoin shrine for half a day before immediately heading down.
My father—once so proud of his travels—was already sixty-four or sixty-five then. With his back bent since forty, he’d walked his Saigoku pilgrimage pressing a paper-covered board against his belly.
Since he claimed this helped straighten his posture somewhat, I imagine even his Mount Kōya journey must have been arduous.
And picturing Father eating those same broth-soaked manju we’d had—each dumpling sitting solitary—I felt overcome by a most peculiar emotion.

This shall serve as the postscript to *Rosary Collection*.

(Taisho 15, February)