Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was during the Bunka era.

Korean envoys came to Japan.

By the decree of Shogun Ienari, contemporary master painters were commissioned to create folding screens for presentation to the King of Korea. The superintendent of the shogunate's painting bureau was Hōgen Kanō Yūsen—secluding himself in his residence in response to the command, he executed the Eight Views of Ōmi. As this was a matter of grave importance, Yūsen permitted no assistance from his disciples, applying his skills single-handedly from preliminary sketches through final pigmentation. The perspective and shading of trees and dwellings, the fishing boats, the comings and goings of people and horses in various postures—all conformed rigorously to Kanō principles, leaving no aspect open to criticism. “Ah,” he murmured involuntarily when sprinkling the last gold flakes, “even I must concede this is masterfully done.”

When Yūsen had finished sprinkling the final gold powder, he inadvertently murmured—so thoroughly satisfied was he with those Eight Views. The inspection consultation was held in the twelfth month as the year drew to a close, with Senior Councilors, Junior Elders, and Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami seated in attendance—yet Kanō Yūsen, whose pride stood so towering it bordered on arrogance, engaged in dispute with Abe Bungo-no-kami during this assembly. “So these Eight Views are Yūsen’s work? … Admirable indeed, but the gold flakes are too faint.”

This carelessly uttered remark by Abe Bungo-no-kami became the seed of dispute, from which a great tragedy was born. “Ah, so that is how it appears to your eyes?” Yūsen responded with bitter undertones, “However, this work was intended as a masterpiece to me.” “That is precisely why I said it was masterful.” “However, the gold powder is slightly faint.” “By no means is it faint.” “From Our eyes, it appears faint.” “With all due respect, I must consider those words of yours a layman’s critique.”

Yūsen, unconcerned, declared this and turned away with a laugh. “Indeed, We are no painter. “However, fundamentally speaking, paintings are not things where a painter creates and a painter views—I do not believe they are such.” "Paintings are meant to be viewed by all people." “Only when it satisfies the discernment of all people can it be deemed a masterpiece under heaven.” “The gold powder in these Eight Views is faint.” “Why not take it back and make the adjustments?”

Having declared it before the entire assembly, Lord Bungo-no-kami could no longer retract his words. As Senior Councilor, he had to impose and uphold his opinion temporarily to preserve his authority—though truth be told, rendered somewhat obstinate since his ancestor Tadaaki's time, he couldn't help but exhibit this boorish habit of forcing matters through with stiffened resolve where others might have laughed and moved on. As for Kanō Yūsen, he embodied inflexibility incarnate—that unchanging artistic temperament constant across eras. Had this involved his contemporary Bunchō instead, he would have cracked a joke and swiftly withdrawn the screen; then applied gold flakes if so inclined—or feigned their application if not—only to return it days later with an innocent air as though nothing occurred. However stubborn Lord Bungo-no-kami might be, he'd never dare criticize twice.

"Ah, now this would be a splendid work indeed," he would have declared without fail, lavishing praise with exclamations of "A masterpiece! A true masterpiece!"

"At such times, the wise course would be to put on grand airs—clearing one’s throat with an 'Ahem!'—then withdraw after a feigned cough." Yūsen, incapable of such pragmatism, was exactly the sort of figure one would call the protagonist of a tragedy.

When ordered by the amateur Lord Bungo-no-kami to take it back and make adjustments, Kanō Yūsen’s countenance abruptly changed. Without even attempting to restrain his surging emotions, “Though this be an imperial command, I, Yūsen, must respectfully decline!” “Not only do I not recognize any necessity for retouching, but I must state that doing so would in fact be superfluous.”

“Enough of your damned arrogance!” Lord Bungo-no-kami sneered. “Is it not said that even Emperor Huizong of Tang, after painstakingly painting his peonies, was forced to revise his work when mocked by some nameless rural peasant for depicting them out of season?” “By virtue of my office, We command this.” “Take it back and make the adjustments!” Brandishing his authority as Senior Councilor head-on, Lord Bungo-no-kami declared with finality. Yet even in this state, the stubborn artist refused to yield—his face deathly pale, lips twitching spasmodically, nails gouging into the tatami seams as he clawed at them—

“I absolutely refuse… I absolutely refuse…”

“Do you dare defy the Senior Councilor’s command?!” “Though unworthy, as head of the Kanō school and humble supervisor of the painting bureau—chief among all Japanese painters—if my work is not accepted, it brings disgrace upon my house!” He suddenly burst into laughter. “Bwahaha! This is rich!” “I need not wait for others to behead me.” “I need not even present it myself… Why torment myself to paint anything at all?” “In a world of a thousand blind souls, I need not even present it myself!” Yūsen abruptly stood up and glared at the assembly with fixed eyes… then slid out of the room.

The assembly sat in deathly silence.

They could only silently gulp.

At that moment, Hayashi Daigaku-no-kami—who was usually close to Yūsen—moved forward on his knees, but “I must bring this to your attention, Lord Bungo-no-kami.”

“…………” “Kanō Yūsen has shown signs of headaches these past few days.”

“Ah, I see. “...Ah, so that was it.” “His discourtesy today was likely due to that as well. “…I humbly beg your forgiveness.” “If it’s an illness, then there’s nothing to be done, I suppose.” —Just as he was thinking he had perhaps overstepped somewhat, someone came forth to mediate, and Lord Bungo-no-kami promptly entrusted the matter to them.

——

However, that was too late.

The tragedy had occurred in the interim.

II

It was precisely the same day.

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

When one speaks of Hokusai—that peerless painter whose bold brushwork and unconventional subjects are said to find no equal across time or borders, even hailed as sharing lineage with expressionist works like those of Picasso—such acclaim belongs to today’s Taisho era. For Hokusai himself, in the age he lived—particularly during his prime years—existed in wretched misery. First: obscurity. Second: poverty. Third: brusqueness that bred contempt. By merely examining his history, one could comprehend the extent of his adversity.

“He was the son of a mirror maker purveyor to the shogunate.” His family name being Nakajima or Kimura—initially named Tokitarō before changing it to Tetsuzō—he bore art names including Shunrō, Gummatei, Hishikawa Sōri, and Nishiki-e no Sha, yet became most renowned as Katsushika Hokusai. He trained in sculpture but ultimately abandoned it; subsequently studying under Kanō Yūsen of the Kanō school, his exceptional talent was cherished and he stood poised for great employment—until excommunication for insolence. Thereafter apprenticing to Katsukawa Shunshō, he earned praise for his coloring techniques but was expelled when discourtesy angered his master. From then on he took no formal teachers, admiring Tawaraya Sōri’s style while studying Kōrin’s methods, tracing influences back through Sesshū and Tosa until ultimately mastering Ming painting techniques.

Such, in general terms, was his history—but after being cast out by Katsukawa Shunshō, true hardship descended. To put it plainly, when he severed ties with his master, he likewise lost hold of the rice chest. At times he painted actor prints; at others he even drew bawdy comic sketches. When commissioned, he designed handkerchief patterns and promotional flyers too. Still he couldn't fill his belly. Hiding his face, he trudged through Edo peddling seven-colored chili peppers. "Spicy! Fiery seven-colored chili peppers!"

Thus he went about peddling his goods while shouting. Tears spilled from his eyes.

“Maybe I should give up painting, return to Katsushika, and eke out a living digging dirt”—he finally began to think such things.

Before long, December arrived with the sound of its coming. The time came when calendars were being distributed to every household. Having requested the wholesaler to supply them cheaply, he shouldered the goods,

“Calendars! Fresh off the press!” He called out like this as he peddled his wares.

"With the money I make from selling calendars, I should at least try going back to Katsushika." "Village Headman Kano Monbee has always been kind to me." "I should ask that person to let me borrow some farmland." "Tenant farming suits someone like me."

Harboring a desolate heart, he had come again today from his Fukagawa dwelling toward Kanda when, suddenly noticing his surroundings and looking around, found himself standing before the gates of the Kajibashi Kanō family. "By the Three Treasures—this is unbearable!"

In a panic, he started to flee. Yet at the same time, a sense of longing prevented him from fleeing entirely. He concealed himself beneath the eaves of the house across the street to avoid notice, tightened the knot of the hand towel wrapped around his head, brushed away with his sleeves the powdered snow whipped up by the howling December wind, and peered through gaps in the gate—but the entrance remained hidden behind the pine garden.

There were no visitors to be seen, nor any attendants waiting about. ...Was Master at home, or had he gone to the palace? How I longed to see his face again after all this time, but an excommunicated wretch like me couldn't even pay a visit. ...When I thought back—in those days I'd come daily to the residence, receiving his esteemed guidance until that unforeseen offense led to my abrupt expulsion from the Utsunomiya inn. Years had passed since last I laid eyes on him. This wretched state was of my own making. Truly shameful when one considered it.

He stood rooted, unable to tear himself away, his heart laden with reminiscence.

At the beginning of the Kansei era, having received orders from the shogunate to repair Nikkō Tōshō-gū, Kanō Yūsen departed for Nikkō with Hokusai in tow. The place they stayed en route was Tsutaya, the Kanō family’s customary lodging, but at the innkeeper’s unavoidable request, Yūsen wielded his brush on fabric with the casual intent of an impromptu sketch. It depicted a scene of a child harvesting persimmons. Bold brushwork and serene composition. Given that it had turned out unexpectedly well, Yūsen proudly remarked to Hokusai.

“Nakajima, what do you think?”

“Yes,” he replied, though Hokusai’s expression betrayed lingering doubt. “Might the pole be too long?”

“What?” Yūsen asked in surprise.

“The child is not standing on tiptoe.” “If he were to pick them by standing on tiptoe, I believe it would make the action more lively.” He expressed his conviction without reservation.

Yūsen, who was pride incarnate, could not help but fly into a rage when his disciple wounded his pride.

He shouted in a panic like this. “Standing tiptoed shows the wisdom of adults!” “What manner of child stands on tiptoe?!” “You fool!” “You imbecile!”

Three

However, Hokusai found those words difficult to accept. He couldn't help thinking that even a child should know about standing on tiptoe to pick things. And so he remained silent all along. This tenacious silence caused Yūsen’s heart to rupture and compelled him to issue the decree of excommunication.

"All of that is in the past now." Muttering this, Hokusai remained rooted in place a while longer, but with the cold biting and people growing suspicious, he steeled himself and began to walk.

Before he had walked even three chō, a familiar palanquin came from ahead.

Ah—that’s the Kanō family’s vehicle. "He must be returning from the palace now... Well then, I'll step aside into the shadows and observe." Hokusai hurriedly concealed himself behind a merchant’s plank fence and peered out at the street from there. Today marked the year’s first snow—a light but ceaseless fall that had continued without pause since morning—leaving the road faintly whitened and utterly deserted of passersby in the stillness when a palanquin came shuffling softly through the snow-covered ground.

Now it passed before Hokusai. Then from beneath the palanquin came a steady dripping onto the snow. ...Before Hokusai's watching eyes, the snow transformed into crimson. "Ah!"

Quicker than the sound of his shout, Hokusai dashed toward the front of the palanquin, but— “Halt the palanquin! Halt!” They thrust back the pole tip sharply. “Ruffian!” The two samurai—disciples of the Kanō family stationed by the palanquin—gripped their sword hilts and leapt forward with a whoosh. “What idiocy! Blind imbeciles! Can’t you see the Master’s in peril?! Put it down! Put it down! Hey—open this door!”

The ferocity of Hokusai’s voice overwhelmed them; the palanquin was lowered. He tore off his headcloth, dropped heavily to his knees in the snow, and wrenched open the palanquin door. The metallic tang of blood stabbed his nostrils. "Master..." With a muffled scrape, he thrust his head inside. Kanō Yūsen sat slumped forward, neck bent like a broken crane’s. From knees to floorboards—crimson spatter patterns. Shoulders shuddered with shallow breaths; his belly lay newly split, glistening wet.

“Unbearable.” Yūsen raised his head. Vividly imprinted on his lower lip were five tooth marks. They were the marks of clenched teeth... Disheveled sideburns fell across his forehead. His face was paler than indigo. “Wh-Who are you? Who are you?” “I-I am Nakajima, unworthy as I am. Tetsuzō, unworthy as I am…” “It was unbearable! …Damn you, Bungo!” “Stay with us! Stay with us!” “…My personal honor—my family’s prestige—I’ve reclaimed them by cutting my belly! …In any era, in any age, the master artisan’s painstaking efforts are never recognized!”

“Indeed.” “Indeed!” “Where is this place? Where is this place?” “Near your estate on the main street… Let me prepare medicine for you.” “Please allow me to tend to your wounds.”

“Unbearable!”

And Yūsen groaned again. “Move the palanquin!”

Even as he spoke, he slumped heavily. Hokusai, snapping to his senses, closed the palanquin door and sprang up. Then he calmly said: “Master Kanō Hōgen has taken ill. Proceed with the palanquin gently.”

If this were deemed a suspicious death, the aftermath would prove troublesome. He had staged it as an illness.

While chasing away the scattered figures who had begun to gather, Hokusai walked on with measured composure. For once, he did not appear wretched in the least.

That night, Yūsen finally died.

When Lord Bungo-no-kami received this news, his shock appeared so pitiable that bystanders averted their eyes; sullen and devoid of joy, he naturally began neglecting his official duties.

In stark contrast, Hokusai’s spirit became intensely focused at once.

"After all, Master was truly great. Not yielding to intimidation nor fearing authority, boldly declaring his convictions to the end, and sacrificing himself without hesitation—only a man of true fortitude could achieve such a deed……Compared to this, poverty hardly registers as a hardship. Didn't they say Ogyū Sorai gnawed on roasted beans while discoursing on the ancients? Even if I subsist on tofu lees, I can survive if I choose to live. ……I'll give up on returning to Katsushika. After all, I'll stay in Edo and grasp my brush."

—he had summoned forth a great and valiant resolve.

IV

Nearly half a year had passed since these events occurred. Hokusai remained as poor as ever.

One day, a splendid man who appeared to be the chief clerk of an eminent shop came calling.

He had come to request banner paintings to decorate for his master’s child’s seasonal festival. “When there are splendid painters elsewhere, why would you request something from an incompetent like me?” With his characteristic gruff manner of speaking, Hokusai first inquired with apparent puzzlement. “Yes, regarding that matter—my master, though a merchant, possesses an artistic refinement unbefitting his station. As he has long appreciated calligraphy and paintings, he became a patron of Master Bunchō and received various advisements in such matters. When consulting Master Bunchō about this year’s May festival banners, the master declared that if one were to name the foremost ukiyo-e artist of our time, it would undoubtedly be Master Hokusai.” “My master was exceedingly pleased and immediately instructed me to come and earnestly make the request; thus, I have hastened here today for this very purpose.”

“So Master Bunchō recommended me?” “Yes, precisely so.”

“Hmm.”

Suddenly, Hokusai crossed his arms and began to groan. At that time, Tani Bunchō served as the official painter for the Tayasu Nakatsukasa family; his lifestyle surpassed that of minor daimyo and was truly splendid. He named the residence Shasanrō, and those who gathered there were all so-called elite gentry; even ukiyo-e artists would struggle to gain an audience despite countless visits. —That Bunchō of all people had praised him—even someone as stubborn as Hokusai couldn’t help feeling moved.

“Very well.”

Hokusai said with a look of delight. “I’ll wield my brush to its fullest.” “Understood. I shall certainly paint it.” “Oh my, such prompt acceptance! My master will be overjoyed.”

Having said this, the messenger took his leave and departed.

From that day forth, Hokusai turned away visitors, secluded himself at home without venturing out, and devoted his divine focus to perfecting his art materials.—Perhaps having grown too rigid, the fantasies that usually overflowed now refused to well up on this occasion. One day, struggling in thought, he visited Yanagishima Myōkendō, a temple he devoutly worshipped. It was on his return journey when he was suddenly caught in an evening downpour. Hokusai, who detested thunder, turned pale and panicked, dashing headlong down the rice paddy path. At that moment, a pillar of fire abruptly shot up from the enoki tree before his eyes, and in an instant, the entire world turned deep crimson. A deafening thunderclap! He completely lost consciousness, but in that instant, a divine general—its head towering into the clouds, feet planted firmly on the earth, appearing at a height of dozens of meters—manifested in a form of pure majesty.

Helped by nearby farmers and placed into a palanquin to return home, he immediately turned to silk canvas. What flowed from his moistened brush was a Zhong Kui ablaze with fury—an unprecedented crimson incarnation of the demon queller rendered entirely in vermilion hues. This work set Edo abuzz, catapulting him to overnight fame. For the first time, confidence coursed through his veins. Masterpieces cascaded forth in rapid succession: *One Hundred Views of Mount Fuji*, *The Fox's Wedding Procession*, *Illustrated Tales of the One Hundred Poets*. *Hokusai Manga*, *Chōsen Seibatsu*, *Teikin Ōrai*, *Hokusai Gafu*—each stood as both artistic triumph and radical innovation.

He became famous, yet he never became wealthy. It was because he was unfamiliar with the ways of wealth accumulation.

He often changed residences. His peripatetic nature was renowned; it is said that within Edo alone during his lifetime, he changed residences over eighty times, nearly a hundred. Every house he moved into—every single one—was famously filthy. This was partly due to his indolent disposition and partly, of course, due to the matter of rent—he had no choice but to select humble dwellings.

It was during his time living near Negishi Goyō no Matsu that one day, a splendid samurai arrived at Hokusai’s humble dwelling with numerous gifts brought by attendants.

“My lord Abe Bungo-no-kami, having heard of your illustrious renown, desires to receive a painstakingly executed original work. In humble accordance with this command, I have come before you today to make this entreaty.” “Might Your Honor be so gracious as to grant your assent in this matter?”

This was the messenger's formal address. When he heard the name Abe Bungo-no-kami, Hokusai's complexion abruptly changed. Without uttering a word, he crossed his arms and stared coldly at the samurai.

After a moment, Hokusai said. “What sort of painting does your lord desire?” “Regarding that point, it is his lordship’s decree that we leave it entirely to your discretion, Master.”

“Is that so?”

When Hokusai heard this, he suddenly burst into a fearsome laugh— “Understood.” “I’ll paint it.”

"Oh! Then you accept?" "I shall indeed paint it with meticulous care." “Lord Abe comes from a hereditary noble lineage.” “Moreover, he serves as His Majesty’s Senior Councilor.” “To receive a commission from such an eminent personage is an artist’s supreme fortune.” “I shall create something astonishing—a novelty to make you gasp.” “Heh heh heh... Understood.”

Five

From that day onward, closing his gate and refusing all visitors, Hokusai set to work. He permitted neither his disciples nor even family members to enter the studio.

His fervor was tremendous, his demeanor utterly that of a madman. Thus, for a full twenty days, he remained seated before the painting surface. What on earth was he painting? No one could understand it. In any case, he did not use reference materials when painting that work. He did not attempt to use what would today be called models. He seemed to be painting it through imagination—or rather, through recollection.

In this way, on the twentieth day, he finally completed the painting.

He let out a deep sigh. Then he stared fixedly at the painting. His face bore fatigue. As he twisted his weary face into a triumphant smile, it instead appeared lonely and sorrowful. After neatly rolling up the painting silk, he quietly placed it into the plain wood box he had prepared and sealed it.

He seemed relieved at last.

The next day, a messenger came from the Abe household. “Please present this directly to my lord.” Hokusai presented the plain wood box before the messenger, muttering as he did so.

“Understood.” With a bow, the messenger immediately turned to leave.

Here, the story shifts to the Abe household.

Night had deepened at the Abe household.

Bungo-no-kami was in the sitting room. He had just returned home from his duties at the shogunate and had not even removed his formal attire. “Hokusai’s painting has been completed and delivered?” “That was remarkably quick.”

Bungo-no-kami, looking satisfied, extended his hand while saying this and received the plain wood box from his retainer Kanaya, who had served as the messenger. “Well then, let me take a look at once. Still, I must say—Hokusai, that artist notorious for his obstinacy, has managed to produce this with surprising speed. It must have been due to the messenger’s eloquent report. Ha ha ha ha ha!” he said in high spirits. He first untied the box’s cord. Next, he sliced through the seal with his finger. Then he popped open the lid. Inside lay a rolled painting silk.

“Kanaya, brighten the lamps.” “…Now then, I wonder what he’s painted for me.” While muttering to himself, he extracted the painting silk and gently laid it before his knees. “Kanaya, hold this steady.”

After giving the order, he smoothly unrolled the painting silk, and upon finishing, fixed his eyes intently. “What is this?”

“Ah! A ghost!” Thus did the voices of Lord Bungo-no-kami and Kanaya pierce through simultaneously.

“Damn you, Yūsen!” Then in the next instant, Lord Bungo-no-kami’s shrieking voice pierced the midnight manor—followed by a guttural groan…a heavy thud of something collapsing… It seemed Lord Bungo-no-kami had fainted. When one speaks of ghosts, they conjure Ōkyo; when one speaks of Ōkyo, they conjure ghosts. While Ōkyo’s ghosts have become so renowned that they define the genre, the yōkai painting titled "Palanquin Ghost"—which Hokusai, driven by his own convictions, created and sent to Lord Bungo-no-kami—has achieved considerable fame in its own right.

The dusk of glistening white snow.

A palanquin lay abandoned. Inside the palanquin was an old man. Exposed intestines. Splattered blood. The old man’s eyes blazed with resentment! It was both a human ghost and a ghostly human. And that was Kanō Yūsen. “Yes—with the tools of my trade, that is to say, paints, brushes, and paper—I sought to avenge my master.” “Even if Lord Bungo-no-kami was obstinate, I painted that picture thinking he would surely faint upon taking a single look at it.”

"My plan succeeded. It worked beyond all expectations. For not long after that, Lord Bungo-no-kami resigned from his post." "I felt my resentment dissolve, I tell you. And so I grew ever more confident in my own hand. But I shall never paint ghost pictures again." "Why do you ask?" "The reason is plain enough—even if I tried painting anew, I could never create such potent work a second time."

This was a reminiscence Hokusai let slip to a certain person in later years.