Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was during the Bunka era. Korean envoys arrived at court. By decree of Shogun Ienari, leading masters of the age were commissioned to create a screen painting for presentation to the King of Korea. Hōgen Kanō Yūsen—overseer of the shogunate painting bureau—had secluded himself in his estate to execute this work, producing his Ōmi Eight Views. Deeming this undertaking too vital for delegation, he alone had wielded his brush from preliminary sketches through final coloration. Every element—the perspectival depth of trees and dwellings, fishing boats at anchor, figures and horses in motion or repose—conformed perfectly to Kanō principles, flawless in execution.

“Ah, even I must say this is well done.” When he had scattered the final gold dust, Yūsen found himself murmuring—such was his complete satisfaction with those Eight Views. The preliminary review meeting—attended by Elder Councilors, Junior Elders, and Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami—had been convened in December’s year-end days. Yet Kanō Yūsen, whose pride towered so high it verged on arrogance, clashed with Abe Bungo-no-kami at that very gathering.

“So these Eight Views are Yūsen’s creation… Impressive as they are, the gold dust application is too faint.”

It was this casual remark by Abe Bungo-no-kami—uttered almost offhandedly—that became the seed of their dispute, from which a great tragedy would now arise. “Ah, so that is how it appears to you?” Yūsen replied with thinly veiled bitterness, “However, this work is intended to be a masterpiece in my eyes.” “That is why I said it is splendid—however, the gold dust is somewhat faint.”

“It is by no means faint, my lord.”

“In my eyes, it appears faint.” “With all due respect, those words of yours strike me as an amateur’s critique.”

Yūsen paid no heed and declared this, then turned aside and laughed. “Indeed, I am not a painter. However, what we call a painting is not something where a painter paints and a painter views it—I do not think it is such a thing. A painting is meant to be seen by all people. Only when it satisfies the discernment of all people can it be called a masterpiece for the ages. —This Eight Views’ gold dust is faint. Why don’t you take it back and make adjustments?” Having declared it before the entire assembly, Lord Bungo-no-kami could no longer back down. He had no choice but to press forward and uphold his own opinion at least once to preserve the dignity of an Elder Councilor—especially since his ancestors from Tadaaki onward had been somewhat stubbornly inclined—and he was not without a certain boorish tendency to stubbornly push through matters that others would have laughed off.

As for Kanō Yūsen, he was the epitome of inflexibility—the very essence of an artist’s temperament, unchanging from past to present. Had this been someone like Bunchō from the same era, he would have cracked a joke or two, promptly withdrawn the screen, and—if he felt like it—might have sprinkled some gold dust later or pretended he had before bringing it back days later with an air of nonchalance. No matter how stubborn Lord Bungo-no-kami might be, he would never dare to find fault again. “Ah, now this is truly a splendid piece of work.” “A masterpiece, a masterpiece”—it would not be beyond imagining for someone to offer such praise.

At such times, the wisest strategy would be to put on airs with an “Ahem,” clear one’s throat for show, and then withdraw. Yūsen, incapable of such pragmatism, was precisely what one might call the protagonist of a tragedy. Being ordered by the layman Lord Bungo-no-kami to take it back and make adjustments, Yūsen abruptly changed his complexion. Without even attempting to restrain his agitated heart, “Though it be your august command, such a thing Yūsen must refuse!” “Not only do I find no need for further additions, but I consider it superfluous.”

“Enough of your arrogance!” Lord Bungo-no-kami sneered. “Is it not said that even Emperor Huizong of Tang labored over his peony painting, yet revised it after being mocked by some nameless country peasant for depicting flowers out of season?” “I command this by my office.” “Take it back and make adjustments!”

Brandishing the authority of an Elder Councilor head-on, Lord Bungo-no-kami delivered the final blow. However, even now, the stubborn artist would not yield—his face pale, lips twitching, nails thrust into the tatami grating against the matting as he— “Yūsen absolutely refuses… Yūsen absolutely refuses…” “Do you dare defy the command of an Elder Councilor?!”

“Though unworthy as I am—head of the Kanō main family, undeservedly entrusted with supervising the painting bureau, the scroll that binds all Japanese painters—yet should this work go unaccepted, it would bring shame upon my house!”

He abruptly burst into laughter.

“Bwahahaha! This is ridiculous!” “There’s no need for others to behead me.” “I simply won’t exhibit it… Why suffer to create anything?” “In this world of a thousand blind men, I simply won’t exhibit it!”

Yūsen suddenly stood up—glared at the assembly with a piercing gaze—then slid out of the room. The assembly sat in utter silence, not a voice to be heard. They could only swallow hard in silence.

At that moment, Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami—who was usually close to Yūsen—shuffled forward on his knees, but “I must inform even Lord Bungo-no-kami.”

“…………” “Kanō Yūsen has shown signs of headaches these past few days.” “Well now… I see.” “……Ah, so that was it.” “Today’s discourtesy was likely owing to that condition.” “…I most humbly beg your forgiveness.”

“Well, if it’s an illness, there’s nothing to be done.” Just as he was thinking he had gone somewhat too far, a mediator appeared—so Lord Bungo-no-kami promptly delegated the matter.

——

However, it was too late. The tragedy had already occurred in the interim.

II

It happened to be the very same day.

Katsushika Hokusai was peddling pillar calendars through the streets of Edo.

When speaking of Katsushika Hokusai—a painter of singular renown—his bold linework and unconventional subjects were said to have no parallel across time or place, and he is even likened today in the Taisho era to sharing artistic lineage with expressionist painters like Picasso. Yet this acclaim belongs to the modern age; the era when Hokusai himself lived—particularly his prime years—was one of profound wretchedness. The first was obscurity. The second was poverty. The third was his brusque manner that made others detest him. A mere glance at his history would reveal the extent of his misfortunes.

"He was the child of a mirror craftsman supplying the shogunate." He went by the surnames Nakajima or Kimura—initially named Tokitarō before changing it to Tetsuzō—and though he used art names like Shunrō, Gunmatei, Hishikawa Sōri, and Nishikibukuro-sha, it was as Katsushika Hokusai that he became most prominent. He studied sculpture but ultimately did not master it; subsequently apprenticing under Kanō Yūsen, he learned the Kanō school’s methods and was so cherished for his genius that he neared great employment—yet was expelled for insolence. From there he studied under Katsukawa Shunshō and earned praise for his coloring; however, his disrespect toward his teacher led Shunshō to angrily cast him out. From then on he took no more teachers—admiring Tawaraya Sōri’s style while studying Kōrin’s techniques, then tracing back through Sesshū and the Tosa school until he mastered Ming painters’ methods."

Such was the general outline of his life, but after being driven out by Katsukawa Shunshō, the true ordeal arrived. In short, when he parted with his master, he also parted with the rice chest. At times he painted actor prints, and at other times even drew comic pictures. When commissioned, he would create patterns for hand towels and even design advertising flyers. Even so, he could not eat. He hid his face and peddled seven-colored chili peppers throughout Edo. “Spicy! Spicy seven-colored chili peppers!”

He shouted at the top of his lungs as he peddled them around. Tears spilled from his eyes. Should I give up art and return to Katsushika to make a living tilling the soil?—he had finally begun to think such things. Before long, the clamor of year-end arrived. The time had come when calendars were being delivered to every household. After requesting the wholesaler to supply them cheaply, he shouldered the calendars, “Calendars! Brand-new calendars!” He called out like this as he peddled them around.

“With the money I've earned selling calendars,I'll try going to Katsushika at least. The village headman,Lord Kano Monbee,has always been kind to me. I'll rely on that person and have them lend me some farmland. Tenant farming suits someone like me.”

With a heart full of profound unease, he had come once again today from his dwelling in Fukagawa toward Kanda—but when suddenly becoming aware of his surroundings, he found himself standing before the gates of the Kajibashi Kanō residence. "Merciful Buddha, this is unbearable." In a panic, he started to flee. However, a lingering attachment kept him from fleeing completely. He concealed himself beneath the eaves of the house across the way to avoid notice, tightened the knot of the hand towel wrapped around his head, and with sleeves repeatedly brushing away the powdery snow whipped up by the whooshing year-end wind, strained to peer through the gate’s gap—yet even the entrance remained hidden behind the pine garden.

"There were no visitors in sight—not even attendants waiting by the gate." "...Is Master at home? Or has he gone to the palace?" "I would give anything to see your face again after all these years—but an excommunicated wretch like me cannot even pay a visit." "...When I think back—how I used to call daily at your residence to receive your gracious instruction... Until that unforeseen blunder angered you... Since being cast out from that Utsunomiya inn... Years without laying eyes upon you..." "This wretched state—a rust born of my own making." "When I think on it—the shame burns still."

He stood there, unable to tear himself away, steeped in melancholy remembrance. It was the beginning of the Kansei era when Kanō Yūsen, having received orders from the shogunate to repair the Nikkō Mausoleum, departed for Nikkō with Hokusai in tow. The place they stayed along the way was Tsutaya, the Kanō family’s customary inn, but at the proprietor’s insistent request, Yūsen took brush to cloth with the casual air of creating an impromptu painting. It depicted a child picking persimmons. Bold brushwork paired with serene composition. Pleased by its unexpectedly fine execution, Yūsen addressed Hokusai.

“Nakajima, what do you think?” “Yes,” he replied, but Hokusai wore a slightly unconvinced expression. “Might the pole be too long?”

“What?” Yūsen asked in surprise. “The child isn’t standing on tiptoes.” “I humbly suggest that depicting him reaching up on tiptoes would convey greater vitality.” He stated his convictions without reservation. Yūsen, who embodied pride itself, could not help but fly into a rage after having his authority challenged by his disciple. He shouted impatiently: “Tiptoeing is an adult’s wisdom!” “What child would stand on tiptoes?!” “You damned fool!” “You imbecile!”

III

However, Hokusai found those words difficult to accept. “Even a child would know to stand on tiptoes to pick them”—he could not help but think. And so he kept silent all along. This tenacious silence caused Yūsen’s heart to rupture and compelled him to pronounce the decree of excommunication.

“All of that is in the past now.” After muttering this, Hokusai remained standing still for a while longer, but with the cold biting and people eyeing him suspiciously, he steeled himself and began to walk.

Before he had walked even three blocks, a familiar palanquin came into view ahead. Ah, that is the Kanō family’s palanquin. It appears they’re returning from the palace now... Well then, I’ll move aside into the shadows and observe the situation.

Hokusai hurriedly hid himself in the shadow of a merchant’s wooden fence and peered out at the street from there. Today marked the year’s first snow—light yet ceaselessly falling since earlier—and perhaps because of its relentless drift, the street lay faintly whitened, devoid of pedestrians and steeped in silence. Then, crunching through the snow on the ground, a palanquin approached. It now passed before Hokusai. Then, something dripped from the bottom of the palanquin onto the snow. Before Hokusai’s watching eyes, the snow turned crimson.

“Ah!” Before the sound of his shout had even finished, Hokusai rushed to the front of the palanquin—but “Stop the palanquin! Stop the palanquin!” He forcefully thrust back the front pole.

“Ruffian!” The two samurai—disciples of the Kanō school—who stood beside the palanquin placed hands on their sword hilts and leapt forward in a flash. “What madness is this?!” “Blundering fools!” “Can you not see our master is in mortal peril?!” “Set it down! Set it down!” “You there—open this door!” The ferocity of Hokusai’s voice struck like a physical blow. Cowed by his intensity, they lowered the palanquin. He tore off his headcloth, slammed knees into snow-crusted earth, and wrenched open the door. A metallic stench pierced his nostrils—the unmistakable reek of blood.

“Master…” With a hushed sound, he thrust his face into the palanquin. Yūsen was bowing down with his head hanging. From the knees down, blood had splattered across the entire palanquin, staining it crimson; his shoulders shook with each labored breath; his abdomen looked as though it had been sliced open mere moments before. “Regret.” Yūsen raised his head. His lower lip vividly bore five tooth marks. It was the mark of clenched teeth… The disheveled hair clinging to his forehead. His face was paler than indigo. “Who… who are you?” “Who are you?”

“It… It is I, Nakajima!” “It… It is I, Tetsuzō…”

“It was unjust!” “…You… Bungo!” “Stay conscious!” “Stay conscious!” “...My personal honor, my family’s reputation—I halted my seppuku for them!” “…In any age, in any era, a master’s labors go unrecognized!”

“That is entirely reasonable.” “That is entirely reasonable!” “Where is this place? Where is this place? Where is this place?” “We’re near the estate on the main street… Let me prepare medicine for you.” “Please allow me to tend to you.” “Unjust!” Yūsen groaned again. “Move the palanquin!” Even as he shouted this—the master slumped over. Hokusai suddenly realized, stood up the palanquin door, and leapt to his feet. Then he said quietly: “Lord Kanō Hōgen has taken ill.” “Proceed gently with the palanquin.”

Since it was an unnatural death, handling it would be difficult. They had staged it as an illness. While leading the way and urging along the scattered onlookers, Hokusai strolled leisurely.

At this moment alone, his figure did not appear shabby.

That night, Yūsen finally died. When Lord Bungo-no-kami heard this news, his shock was so profound that others pitied him to witness it; he became sullen, found no joy in anything, and began neglecting his official duties as a matter of course. In contrast to this, Hokusai's spirit grew taut in an instant.

“After all, my master was truly great. To neither yield to might nor cower before power, to boldly declare one’s convictions to the end, and to sacrifice oneself without hesitation—these are deeds only a true man of valor could accomplish. …Compared to this, poverty hardly merits consideration. Is it not said that Ogyū Sorai gnawed on roasted beans while discoursing on the ancients? Even if I ate tofu scraps, I could survive if I resolved to live. ……I’ll give up on returning to Katsushika. After all, I’ll stay in Edo and grip my brush.”

He had summoned forth a great and valorous resolve.

Four

Almost half a year had passed since these events occurred. Hokusai was still poor.

One day, a splendid man who appeared to be the clerk of a prominent shop came to visit.

He came to request festival banners to decorate for his master’s child’s Children’s Day celebration. “There are surely other splendid painters out there—why would you request someone as incompetent as me?” In his usual brusque manner, Hokusai first inquired with a look of puzzlement. “Yes, regarding that matter—my master, though a merchant, is a man of refined tastes unbefitting his trade. As he has long appreciated calligraphy and paintings, he became a patron of Mr. Bunchō and often engaged in discussions on such matters. When he consulted Mr. Bunchō this time about the May festival banners for the Children’s Day celebration, Mr. Bunchō stated that if one were to name the foremost ukiyo-e master of our time, it would undoubtedly be you, Mr. Hokusai.” “My master was exceedingly pleased and immediately requested that I come at once to formally extend this commission to you—hence why I have hastened here today.”

“So Mr. Bunchō recommended me?”

“Yes, precisely so.” “Hmm.”

Suddenly, Hokusai crossed his arms and began to groan. At that time, Tani Bunchō was the retained painter of the Tayasu Nakatsukasa family, and his lifestyle surpassed that of minor daimyō, being truly splendid. He named that residence Shasanrō, and the people who gathered there were all so-called first-class gentlemen; for ukiyo-e artists and the like, even if they made a hundred pilgrimages, obtaining an audience was nigh impossible. That this very Bunchō had praised him—something utterly unexpected—meant even someone as obstinate as Hokusai could not help but be deeply moved.

“Very well.”

Hokusai said with a joyful expression. "I will exert my skills to the fullest. Understood—I will certainly paint it."

“Well, well! Your prompt agreement—my master will be overjoyed.”

With these words, the envoy took his leave and departed. From that day onward, Hokusai turned away visitors, secluded himself at home without venturing out, and concentrated his spirit on devising new painting materials.—Perhaps having become too rigid, the imagination that usually gushed forth refused to flow this time.

One day, after struggling in vain, he visited the Myōkendō Hall at Yanagishima that he regularly worshipped. It was on his return journey when an evening downpour suddenly assailed him. Hokusai—who detested thunder—turned pallid with panic and went dashing down the rice paddy path. At that instant, a pillar of fire erupted abruptly from the enoki tree before his eyes, dyeing the entire world crimson. A thunderclap roared deafeningly! He collapsed heavily into unconsciousness—yet in that very moment appeared a divine general, its head piercing the clouds and feet rooted deep in earth, standing dozens of yards tall—a figure of utmost solemnity.

Helped by nearby farmers and riding home in a palanquin, he immediately turned to the silk canvas. What he painted upon warming his brush with breath was a Zhong Kui blazing with such intensity it seemed ready to ignite. An unprecedented red Zhong Kui. It was a Zhong Kui rendered entirely in crimson.

This became the talk of all Edo, and he became famous overnight. He gained confidence for the first time. He published masterpieces one after another. “One Hundred Views of Mount Fuji,” “The Fox’s Wedding,” “Illustrated Tales of the Hundred Poets” “Hokusai Manga,” “The Conquest of Korea,” “Teikin Ōrai,” “Hokusai’s Painting Manual”—they were all thoroughly artistic and profoundly original. He became famous, but he never became wealthy. Because he was unfamiliar with the ways of commerce. He often changed residences. His tendency to relocate was so renowned that within Edo alone during his lifetime, he is said to have moved residences over eighty and nearly a hundred times. Each house he moved into was famously filthy. One reason was his indolent nature; the other, of course, was the matter of rent—he had no choice but to select poor houses.

This story dates back to when he lived near Negishi Goyō no Matsu. One day, a splendid samurai arrived at Hokusai’s rundown house with a great many offerings in tow. “My master, Lord Abe Bungo-no-kami, having humbly received word of your esteemed reputation, earnestly wishes to receive a meticulous autograph work. In accordance with his command, I have come before you today.” “Would you deign to grant this request?”

This was the messenger’s formal address. When Hokusai heard the name Abe Bungo-no-kami, his complexion abruptly altered. Without uttering a word, he crossed his arms and fixed the samurai with an icy stare.

After a moment, Hokusai said. “What manner of painting do you desire?” “Regarding that matter, it is Lord Bungo-no-kami’s command that we leave it entirely to your discretion, Master.” “I see.”

When Hokusai heard this, he suddenly laughed fiercely, but— “Understood.” “I will paint it.” “Ah! Then you agree?”

“I will paint it most meticulously.” “Speaking of Lord Abe—a hereditary daimyo lineage of great prestige.” “Moreover, Lord Elder Councilor of the shogunate.” “To receive a commission from such a distinguished personage is truly an artist’s greatest privilege.” “I shall paint something so astonishing it leaves you breathless—a true rarity.” “Heh heh heh... Consider it done.”

V

From that day onward, Hokusai closed his gate, refused all visitors, and set to work. Disciples, of course, and even family members were not permitted to enter the studio.

His enthusiasm was tremendous, and his attitude was utterly like that of a madman. ……And thus, he remained seated before the painting surface for a full twenty days. What on earth was he painting? No one could tell what it was. In any case, he did not use reference materials when painting that work. He did not attempt to use what is today called a model. He seemed to paint it through imagination—or rather, through recollection.

And so, on the twentieth day, he finally completed that painting.

He let out a deep sigh. And then he stared fixedly at the painting. Fatigue showed on his face. As he twisted his weary face into a smile of fulfillment, it instead took on a lonely, sorrowful appearance.

He neatly rolled up the painting silk and quietly placed it into the prepared unpainted wooden box, then sealed it. He seemed to have finally felt relieved.

The next day, a messenger came from the Abe household. “Please present this directly to my lord as it is.” Hokusai repeated his words as he presented the unpainted wooden box before the messenger.

“Understood.”

With a bow, the messenger immediately turned and departed.

There, the story shifted to the Abe household.

The night had deepened at the Abe household.

Lord Bungo-no-kami was in the living room. He had just returned home from his shogunal duties and had not even removed his formal attire. “So Hokusai has completed the painting and come here?” “That was remarkably quick.” Lord Bungo-no-kami, looking satisfied, extended his hand while saying this and received the unpainted wooden box from Kin’ya, the samurai retainer who had served as messenger.

“Well then, let me take a look at once.” “Even so—for Hokusai, whose stubbornness once resounded through the land—to have painted this so swiftly is remarkable indeed.” “It must have been due to the messenger’s eloquence. Ha ha ha ha ha!” He was in good spirits.

First, he untied the box’s cord. Next, he cut through the seal with his finger. Then he popped open the lid. The painting silk was rolled up inside.

“Kin’ya, brighten the lamp.” “...Now then, I wonder what he’s painted for us.” Muttering to himself, he took out the painting silk and gently placed it before his knees. “Kin’ya, hold it steady!” After issuing the command, he smoothly unrolled the painting silk. Once fully extended, he fixed his gaze upon it.

“What is this?” “Ah! A ghost!” The voices of Lord Bungo-no-kami and Kin’ya rang out in unison. “Damn you, Yūsen!” Then, in the next instant, Lord Bungo-no-kami’s shouting voice startled the midnight residence; followed by a guttural groan—“Mmmph”—...a heavy thud of something collapsing... It seemed Lord Bungo-no-kami had fainted. To speak of ghosts brings Ōkyo to mind; to speak of Ōkyo brings ghosts to mind. While Ōkyo’s ghosts had become that renowned, the supernatural painting titled “Palanquin Ghost”—which Hokusai, with deliberate intent, painted and sent to Lord Bungo-no-kami—was itself quite famous.

The evening was a world of glistening white snow. A palanquin lay abandoned. Inside the palanquin was an old man. Exposed intestines. Blood splattered about. The old man’s eyes burned with resentment! It was both a human ghost and a ghostly human. And that was Kanō Yūsen.

“Yes, with the tools of my trade—paints, brushes, and paper—I sought to avenge my master. Even if Lord Bungo-no-kami was stubborn,” I thought, “one glance at that painting would surely make him faint”—and so I painted it with that conviction. My scheme succeeded. Succeeded beyond all expectations. For not long after that, Lord Bungo-no-kami resigned from his post. I had my vengeance. And through this, I grew ever more confident in my own skill. “But I shall never paint ghosts again.” “Why do you ask?” “The reason is simple: even if I tried hereafter, I could never create such a powerful work a second time.”

This was Hokusai’s voiced reminiscence to a certain person in later years.