Pathway to Japanese Literature

At the office of Gessekai Corporation, which managed two or three entertainment ventures in Asakusa Park, the Managing Director arrived as usual at ten minutes before 10:15 AM with a cheerful face. It was a beautifully clear autumn morning, and peering through the window revealed nearly twenty spectators already waiting in front of the neighboring Mikado Theater for its doors to open. The Managing Director surveyed them all with a satisfied look before looking up at the sky. Directly in front, the white walls of Kinema Hall towered up, so that only a narrow strip of the sky—scrubbed clean by the previous night’s rain—remained visible. However, the Managing Director gazed intently at the sapphire-blue rays streaming down from there and blinked repeatedly.

“What fine weather we’re having. With this weather, we’ll probably be packed today.” The nearby office worker spoke up. “When you’re in the weather-dependent business, you finally come to appreciate His Majesty the Sun’s blessings.” The Managing Director answered while withdrawing from the window. Then, looking at the young in-house playwright who had just bowed to him, he said, “You probably don’t understand yet, but in Asakusa, a hundred or two hundred people can make all the difference depending on the weather.” “After all, today being Sunday, we’ll surely have a full house,” the playwright said lightly, his intonation still carrying the lingering cadence of his student days.

“Ah yes, yes—I had been meaning to praise you,” said the Managing Director with the expression everyone adopts when encouraging a young person. “This morning in the bath, I heard about our theater’s reputation. From what I gather, your current chain drama seems to be quite the hit.”

“A fortunate turn of events,” said the playwright with an oddly wry smile. “I shall strive to procure even better material from now on.”

This playwright had only just graduated from university that year. And out of sheer necessity to eat, he had joined this place and was writing chain dramas anonymously. He lacked the confidence to produce serious literary works on his own, and moreover, ever since his school days, he had been in circumstances that forced him to consider the problem of occupation. He had no choice but to make a living. He had abandoned all artistic integrity and embraced the "craftsman’s path." Of course, the playwright’s trade wasn’t without its appeal. Seeing his own writings projected onto white sheets or illuminated by footlights, stirring the audience's emotions in all sorts of ways, was no small pleasure for him as he secretly watched. On the 1st and 15th days—factory workers' days off—the theaters were always packed, but when the spectators' cheers filling up to the third floor reached his ears behind the backdrop, he would involuntarily smile and glance around his surroundings as was his habit. At times, he even saw beautiful geishas in the special seats weeping in stifled tones at his tragedy. At times, he even saw boisterous-looking students getting unintentionally excited by his action-packed dramas.

When he first joined, there was not a single day when he did not think of quitting this detestable trade as soon as possible. The troupe leader made peculiar demands. The large props became overly elaborate. Requests for scene removals came from the cinematographers. Complaints arose from the office. He was thoroughly perplexed. And he longed for the day when he could gain his freedom as soon as possible and create exactly as he wished. However, as he grew accustomed to it—once he swallowed his pride—everything became easier to manage. The audience that had terrified him at first now felt endearing. He found it increasingly pleasurable to manipulate their emotions at will. The trade he once found unbearable gradually became interesting. Lately, he even began forgetting his lifelong purpose in fleeting moments. And when he noticed this, he would startle and berate himself. To remain trapped as a mediocre author would be too great a waste—he must possess considerable artistic talent within him. But when would the day arrive when he could create exactly as he wished? Would this trade poison him before that day came? He contemplated deeply the nature of occupation. How wretched that people must prioritize survival above all else. Yet in this world existed those who made their living through beloved work. There were also those who walked their chosen path and earned rewards through it.

He thought of the world's free literary figures. He thought of scholars. He then thought about every occupation. Occupations came in all varieties. And each of those people envied other occupations. But what agony it must be to be unable to make one's true calling into an occupation...

The playwright paced back and forth in a corner of the office, pondering this and that problem that came to mind.

The bell announcing the theater’s opening had long since finished resounding, and by now about half the seats in the hall were filled with spectators. A band’s music could be heard. The sound of wooden clappers resounded. A shrill cry to draw in customers rose up. The sound of spectators’ footsteps could be heard. The world outside was now filled with bustle and uproar. However, this office remained hushed, with weariness and idleness lingering in the air. The Managing Director had already returned to his desk and was likely devising some novel promotional ideas for the upcoming Chaplin Hall performance. Two or three office workers who had remained behind after others left for the theater were listlessly perusing the entertainment section of Asakusa News. Another sat silently staring blankly at a flyer printed with this month’s performance titles...

"They too must not be pleased with their own occupations," thought the young playwright.

At that moment, the receptionist entered holding a business card and placed it on the Managing Director's desk. When the Managing Director picked it up and examined it, the card read: "Newly Returned-from-Overseas Magician - Jungle Jap (Emoto Shin'ichi)." A peculiar wrinkle of anticipation momentarily creased the Managing Director's face, and from beneath it emerged a deep, resonant voice.

“Very well. Show him in here,” he answered the woman, then added to the office workers: “Another magician has come to get himself hired. As usual, I’ll put him through a test.” “If he’s good, will you book him at Chaplin Hall?” asked an office worker. “That’s right. Having one more magician with different tricks would probably be fine.”

The playwright's silent contemplation was momentarily shattered. However, in that instant, he thought—Ah, so there exists an occupation called magician in this world.

The magician entered the office, accompanied by the receptionist. He was wearing a blue-striped Western suit. He was holding his bowler hat in his hand, having taken it off. And he entered with an exceedingly composed gait. He looked around in all directions and, while bowing slightly to everyone, approached the Managing Director. The Managing Director stood up. The two men exchanged customary greetings. “So where have you been all this time?” The Managing Director asked magnanimously.

“I was in Shanghai. “Before that, I was in America for a long time. “I trained in magic there. “Though mine is called magic, it differs from others’, so I refer to it as hypnotic art.” “Hmm. “So you’re a hypnotist then.” “Yes, that’s correct. “With nothing but mental focus, I can make birds and beasts fall asleep, identify objects inside boxes, slice daikon radishes placed on my arm with a sword, or smash beer bottles against my forehead.”

“Hmm, that’s different,” said the Managing Director. “Actually, right now at Chaplin Hall there’s a magician named Haguro Tenkai—I’m sure you know him.” “Ah! Those card tricks and red balls he does are masterful,” replied the magician, satisfaction coloring his voice at the Director’s tone. “That must be it. His magic is ordinary.” “Well then, could I have you show me one of your tricks as a test? We do have to conduct at least a preliminary assessment everywhere...” “Yes, let’s proceed,” said Emoto with the self-assured pride common to all performers of his ilk. “I must demonstrate it properly for you to grasp my skill.”

The office workers pulled the desks slightly closer, creating space in the center of the not-so-spacious office. The playwright, who had remained silent, also helped with a smile. And they, along with the Managing Director, leaned against the nearby wall and watched as this magician performed. The magician smoothly slipped off his jacket and tossed it aside. He cheerfully surveyed his surroundings, then declared in an increasingly animated voice:

“Then shall I begin by making birds and beasts fall asleep for your viewing?” “I call this the Hypnotic Invocation of Birds and Beasts.” “But unfortunately, we don’t have any birds or beasts here, do we?” said the Managing Director. “I’ve taken care of that,” he said, glancing at the receptionist. “Miss.” “Could you bring the box by the entrance, please?”

A small cage was brought in. Inside it were a rabbit and a chicken. “Everyone, as you can see, this is a genuine rabbit I borrowed today from a bird shop I happened to pass by,” he declared with his customary spiel, sweeping his gaze across the surrounding people. At the entrance leading to the Mikado Theater behind him, two or three usherettes in blue uniforms stood watching with smiles, having found some free time. The magician occasionally cast fleeting glances in their direction.

“Now then, allow me to demonstrate putting this one to sleep.” He repeated this and placed the rabbit on the desk there. The white rabbit shook its ears—which had been held down until now—once, twice, its red eyes darting about as if still unaware of its current position.

The magician watched it with satisfaction for a while, but when he thought the rabbit was looking his way, he suddenly splayed his fingers before its face and—snap! Snap! "Snap!" he shouted four or five times. Then, wondrous to behold, the rabbit suddenly laid its ears flat and sank into sleep.

“It’s absolutely not dead. “As you can see, its heart’s still beating.” Having said this, he again cast a fleeting glance toward the usherettes. “A form of hypnotism, then,” the Managing Director remarked with some satisfaction. “And when exactly will it wake up?” “If I want to wake it, it’ll rise right away. Leave it be, and it’ll keep sleeping till it’s a hundred twenty-five.” He continued speaking, clearly relishing his own quip. “Left like this, it’ll sleep three, four days without eating. Makes for quieter handling this way, I’d say.”

“Maybe I should have you hypnotize me too so I can sleep without eating,” one of the office workers remarked. “Indeed, how convenient—no noise at all,” the playwright teased. The magician had been silently listening to this exchange but, upon noticing especially the Managing Director’s visibly intrigued expression, grew increasingly animated. “Then let me wake it up again and show you!” He snapped again—snap! snap!—repeating the gesture. Then he casually dropped the revived rabbit from the desk onto the floor. The rabbit—the same one that had lain limp until now—adjusted its posture slightly and attempted two or three weak but unmistakable jumps.

The playwright suddenly recalled the popular phrase "leap of life" and chuckled softly to himself.

“Will the chicken go to sleep as well?” The Managing Director asked. “Certainly, allow me to demonstrate putting it to sleep.” “They all lie down.” “Those creatures regard every place as a waiting room.” The magician wore a servile smile as he spoke. “Only pigeons don’t sleep.” “Pigeons are clever, you see.” “As you sirs must know, even the Bible speaks of pigeons’ wisdom.” “Not pigeons. It’s snakes.” “Snakes, most likely.” The playwright interjected while privately marveling at this man’s knowledge.

“To tell the truth, I don’t actually know which it is. I just heard it from someone in America, so…” The magician said while scratching his head in an exaggerated manner, then immediately began putting the next chicken to sleep. When the magician restrained its wings with his hand, the chicken let out only a sharp “keke” cry; by the time he placed it from his hand onto the desk, it already lay sprawled with its neck limply extended. Then he brought out a case—a small one-shaku-square box of unpainted paulownia wood bearing an intimidating silver lock. He knocked it briskly several times and demonstrated,

“Now, as you can see, this case has no hidden tricks or devices. Would someone kindly place something inside? I’ll use my clairvoyance to reveal it to you.”

One of the office workers, amused, brought it to the corner of the room. And from his pocket, he took out a measuring tape he had brought along precisely for that day’s use and placed it inside.

The magician took it and placed it on a stand with legs about five feet long, lit a candle himself, illuminated the box from all sides, and then closed his eyes tightly for a moment. The office workers, seeing the magician’s apparently perplexed state, grew somewhat pleased and began whispering among themselves.

“This isn’t an ordinary object, is it?” After a brief pause, the magician said. “Speaking of its length—four or five feet of slender cord-like material. And coiled up like a snake somehow. There’s also a small metal fitting attached. You’ve really gone and put something mean-spirited and complicated in here—quite troublesome indeed. Well? Did I get any of that right?”

He turned toward the office workers in an ingratiating manner and, while saying this, broke the seal. From inside emerged the measuring tape, completely unchanged. “Indeed.” The Managing Director was impressed.

“Ah—a measuring tape. I couldn’t quite measure it with logic,” said the magician so fluidly that one might think he’d intentionally missed the guess just to make that pun. Everyone burst into laughter once more. He grew ever more pleased with himself and continued speaking. “Now then, allow me to present what I believe you’ll all consider my inaugural trick. So-called clairvoyance is really just listening for sounds or sneaking a peek when receiving the box—this here is the true skill. Isn’t there somewhere around here that sells daikon?”

“Ohisa-chan, you go buy it,” commanded an office worker to the receptionist. “But walking around with a daikon in broad daylight would look ridiculous.” The woman laughed cheerfully. “It’s not entirely without merit, you know. You’d better start practicing being that kind of dutiful wife now.” “A wife doesn’t need to put on such acts.” “Well then, shall I go?” The magician interjected. The woman gave a slight shrug.

“Couldn’t you just go and get it already?” the Managing Director finally said. The woman left to procure the daikon with a laugh, showing none of the distaste she’d voiced. “Ah—wait! Wait!” The magician called out to stop her. “A withered one won’t do. “Not like you people—watery and ready to slice through in one go…” Having said this, he turned toward the receptionist and laughed. “Now then, in the meantime, allow me to demonstrate my audacity—or rather, the hardness of my forehead bone. “Please bring one beer bottle.”

The beer bottle was brought. Then he picked up that reddish-black bottle and, with practiced ease, briskly tapped his forehead twice. On the third swing of his arm—Wham! With a shout, he struck straight for his forehead like a loosed arrow. At that instant, ochre glass fragments flashed from his forehead and scattered. When the astonished crowd looked around for the source of the face, there he was—unexpectedly laughing as he gently stroked his slightly reddened forehead....

“You manage to avoid injury every time.” The Managing Director asked after being momentarily stunned. “Well. “If you pull back while striking out of fear of getting hurt—it can cut. “But if you keep striking and slide toward your head—only one injury per ten thousand strikes.”

After a while, the receptionist returned there carrying the daikon.

“Oh, this one’s top-notch, top-notch!” “You have an excellent eye for choosing.” The magician delivered even this flattery with the characteristic familiarity of an itinerant performer. Then he abruptly began rolling up his left sleeve. A rather brawny reddish-black arm emerged from the rolled-up sleeve of his striped shirt as if tightly bound. The people wondered what he would do next, their eyes darting between the ruddy arm and the white daikon resting atop it.

“I will now cut this daikon cleanly in two right here on my hand for you to see.” “As you can see, this hand is no counterfeit.” “If I say things like that, my old mother would get angry.” The receptionists giggled. Encouraged by this, he said.

“I might end up cutting halfway through this hand. When that happens, I suppose one of you ladies will suck away the blood or kindly wipe it with a white handkerchief.” “Then let’s proceed right away.” The magician’s face returned to complete seriousness as he picked up a slightly long sword in his right hand. Tension swelled across his face for a moment......the area around his forehead paled slightly, his eyes fiercely focused on his left arm. He was clearly measuring the thickness of the daikon. Then, after taking the rhythm by swinging his sword down once or twice and shouting “Wham!” just as before—in the blink of an eye, the daikon was severed into two pieces that scattered across the floor.

“Well, that’s more or less how it goes.” He looked around in all directions with a face intoxicated by his own trickery. And those eyes—with their unnatural stare—lingered upon the Managing Director for a while. “You’ve put in good work. “That was entertaining.” “We’ll formalize the contract properly in due course, but for now I’ll have you perform at Charline Hall.” “And do you have any sort of title that could serve as a marquee name?” “Other than ‘Newly Returned from Abroad’—" “Something like... ‘Viewed by American royalty’ or...”

“Does America even have royalty?” The playwright said with a laugh.

“Oh, I was just making a comparison,” “It makes no difference whether it’s royalty or president.” “Then shall we put ‘Viewed by former President Roosevelt’s wife’?” the magician tossed out casually.

"That's good." "If it's Roosevelt going lion hunting, his wife would likely do something like watch sleeping rabbits." The playwright interjected sarcastically. "Then let's use that as our bluff." "Now please come to that reception room." "We'll discuss your payment."

While saying this, the Managing Director invited the magician with a candid attitude unlike that of ordinary showmen. The magician tidied up his props nearby, then glanced once more toward the women and—snickering—attempted to follow along behind while wagging his hips in American fashion. At that moment, the playwright suddenly called out, “You!” The question from earlier suddenly resurfaced in his mind. The profession of a magician. He found himself wanting to ask about that sentiment. “Did you go to America intending to become a magician from the very start?”

“No, when I first set out, I intended to find honest work. But just when I couldn’t eat anymore, I joined a magician’s troupe and ended up handling clerical duties.” “Then, by watching and imitating others, this sort of thing gradually grew more interesting until it finally became a proper trade.”

“Hmm.” “That daikon-cutting trick must’ve taken considerable practice.” “How many years did it take to perfect?”

“Let me see...” “At first I’d put on the metal hoop to practice, but before I knew it, I’ve been doing it every day for six years now.” “Heh, if you’d poured that much passion into something else, you could’ve made quite a name for yourself by now.” “I often think that myself.” “But boss, it’s just a bit entertaining, you see.” “Once you take that first step down this path, there’s no returning to ordinary society.” “Is that how it is...” “Once anyone gets into this line of work, I wonder if they can ever get out.” The playwright said with deep self-conviction, as though steeling himself.

“That’s how it is. Once the crowd comes swarming in like that, I just can’t help finding it fascinating, no matter how old I get. Well, I keep at it for the sake of that thrill. Even someone like me would jump at honest work if it existed. Oh dear, I’ve gone and talked your ear off. Excuse me...” he said and went off toward the reception room.

A band's clamorous sound erupted all at once. Then, threading through it, the sound of wooden clappers rang out. At the theater, the first chain drama performance was likely about to begin. The usherettes also left. The office workers returned to their desks.

However, this young playwright alone stood motionless, gazing at where the magician had departed, lost in silent contemplation. Ah, occupation, occupation. He first had to remain exactly as he was for even just today. When he heard "Second act!", he hurried to the dim backstage. (April 1916)