Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

(Hayakawa Yagorō, a samurai from Mito, drifted to Shanghai in Qing China, resided there for over ten years, and sent several lengthy letters to his hometown friend Yoshida Sōzō.
This work is a modernization of those letters into contemporary prose, expanded and embellished.—Author’s Note)

"My friend, today I shall write to you about 'The Beautiful Boy Who Smokes Opium.'"

"The Opium War reached its climax."
"The deceit and hypocrisy of the Qing court went without saying, but Britain’s methods were no good either."
"No—Britain’s methods were far worse."
"The cause of this war lay in British merchants violating Qing China’s national prohibition by importing tens of thousands of chests of opium into Guangdong—indeed, engaging in brazen smuggling—which provoked the iron-willed Governor-General of Liangguang, Lin Zexu, to wrathfully round up and imprison numerous British subjects, starting with Consul Elliot."

But enough of that—let me tell you about "the beautiful boy who smokes opium."

Even I smoke opium.
There are no other pleasures left for me.
Eight years had passed since I left Japan.
On △△3rd Year × Month □□ Day, I went fishing off Shinagawa when an unexpected storm struck—my boat drifted out to open sea until a foreign vessel rescued me after a day adrift. When that ship later docked at Shanghai’s port, they disembarked me there—and thus matters have remained until today.
In my current circumstances, I cannot know when I might return to Japan.
Having learned through your letter that I’ve been struck from the clan register and that shogunate officials misconstrue me as some national criminal—even were I to return now—there would be not only nothing of interest awaiting me but likely cold treatment besides—which is why I’ve no intention of going back.

But there isn’t a single day that passes without me thinking of Japan.
Of course, having neither wife nor children, I find myself recalling our lords and comrades in all matters—and especially you, Mr. Yoshida Sōzō.

On the banks of the Huangpu River, willow catkins bloomed and scattered, swirling through the sky—when April and May arrived, this season when they descended upon pavilions, teahouses, and painted boats like goose feathers—ah, how Japan grew dear to me then.

Willow catkins!
Willow catkins!

My friend, my friend—how can I describe the beauty of willow catkins!

Was it not the poet Li Bai who composed—

楊花落尽子規啼。

聞道竜標過五渓。

我寄愁心与明月。

随風直到夜郎西。

Was it not the poet Wang Wei who also composed—

花外江頭坐不帰。

水晶宮殿転霏微。

桃花細逐楊花落。

黄鳥時兼白鳥飛。

But now, willow catkins make my heart sentimental—though this is not their season.
However, the season when I met the beautiful boy—the protagonist of this tale I wish to tell, "The Beautiful Boy Who Smokes Opium"—was when this year’s willow catkins had bloomed in full array.

That night, I slipped alone into my usual haunt within Shanghai's city walls—the Golden Flower Inebriation Tower opium den.

The establishment's exterior posed as an apothecary.

But were one to pass through its entrance, exchange a knowing glance with the clerk, and emerge through the rear gate into the courtyard, the true visage of an opium den would unfold before their eyes.

In the darkness stretched a stone staircase angling skyward, its apex opening onto a corridor where one entire side housed a smoking room, bar, and entertainment hall. From the bar erupted voices of drunken men and women railing like furies, while from the entertainment hall drifted the twang of a huqin and flute trills.

Being a frequent visitor, I immediately climbed the stone staircase, passed by the bar entrance without stopping, let the musical sounds from the entertainment hall wash over me, and entered the smoking room.

To me—who frequented this place to smoke opium—the stench and smoke and human heat and dim firelight and murky air and ghostly-looking opium habitués and filthy beds and licentious pillows and the blue-flamed lamps of the opium pipes felt rather nostalgic, even drawing a smile; but should someone like you, unaccustomed to this, suddenly enter such a room, that ghastly spectacle would surely make you cover your eyes.

2

I paid the money at the entrance, went inside, and climbed onto one of the beds.
Then I immediately lay down, first lit the opium lamp, and picked up the opium needle.
Then to the liquid in the opium pipe—that is, a single dose of opium liquid—I inserted the opium needle into it, coated the needle’s tip with the opium liquid, and held it over the opium lamp’s flame.
In other words, I had refined the opium.

The bed was set up for two people.
Three sides of the bed were wooden walls, with only one side left open where a hanging cloth was draped.
Thus forming a single independent, small room.

The neighboring room, and the room next to that, and the room beyond that as well—they were all arranged in the same way.

Every room seemed packed with guests.

What a bizarre thing this was!

The government waged a great war against the world’s powerful nation of Great Britain—staking nearly the entire fate of the country—in its efforts to prevent opium from being imported, that is, to keep the Chinese people from smoking opium, yet those very Chinese people nonchalantly smoked it as if it were none of their concern.
Opium dens were not only found here; there were dozens in Shanghai alone, and beyond that, upper and middle-class households had such facilities installed.

Is opium truly so delectable?
Of course!
But regarding that matter, I think I shall say nothing.
The reason I do not return to my homeland—half of it lies in this: that while dwelling in this land I may smoke opium, yet should I return to Japan, I could not.—This much alone I shall commit to paper.

When I had finally finished refining the opium and had packed it into the pipe, a boy lifted the hanging cloth and entered my room.

Though it was called my room, anyone else could freely enter this room.

And then, the boy—in such situations—with his habitual greeting:

“Sir, I too shall join you.”

After giving a greeting to this effect, he lay down on the opposite side of the same bed and slowly began refining the opium.

I was utterly astonished.

The reason lay in how exquisitely proportioned and beautiful were the boy's face and limbs—that is to say, his features and bearing.

My friend, verily in this land there exist boys—beautiful and noble youths resembling celestial prodigies more than earthly creatures—with surprising frequency.

Of course, there are girls equally splendid—maidens of beauty and nobility akin to heavenly nymphs—as well.

I have no intention of employing superfluous descriptions at this juncture.

I will simply say this:—

"I am not a homosexual.
But in truth, only at that moment—only when I saw that boy—did I suddenly become so violently consumed by same-sex desire that I can declare this: he was beautiful, yes, and bewitching and sensual."

That boy was the one.
He was the protagonist of this story.

Name?
Indeed, he was called Song Sifang.

(Needless to say, I heard this later.)

Song Sifang refined the opium.

But what do you know? That refining method of his wasn't even worth considering—it was downright inept.

You likely wouldn't comprehend this, but opium refinement proves difficult. When properly done, it achieves a candy-like consistency. Done poorly, it turns brittle and flaky—utterly moss-like—losing its essential properties until one can neither pack it into the pipe nor smoke it.

The boy's technique produced precisely that result.
No matter how many times he reworked it, the substance crumbled into mossy fragments.

I couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

I had not yet smoked the Opium.
I had forgotten to smoke, utterly engrossed from some time prior in the boy’s beauty and in that beautiful boy’s utterly inept method of refining Opium.

“Shall I refine it for you?”

Finally I said this.

“Thank you. Please do.”

The beauty of the boy’s voice as he spoke, the gentleness of that same voice—once again I was entranced.

I then spoke to the boy while refining opium for him.

3

“Have you never smoked this before?”

“Today is my first time smoking opium.”

“Ah, so that’s why you can’t refine it. …Well, in that case, you would be better off not smoking opium at all.”

“Since it’s opium—something everyone craves enough to start a great war over—I thought I’d like to try it myself.”

“Yes—just as everyone says. They feel that temptation and start smoking, and once they’ve tasted its flavor, opium becomes something they’ll knowingly smoke until death, even as they watch themselves turn into wrecks.”
“…Truly, when it comes to your country’s people, they’re all opium addicts.”

“Your country’s people?”
“You say they’re your country’s people?”
“...So you’re a foreigner?”

(Blast!) I thought.

I had finally revealed my true colors.

My friend!
For eight long years I had lived in this land of China, becoming so thoroughly Chinese in speech and custom that no one ever suspected me—yet on this day I myself split open the bottom of the barrel and let slip those words: “your country’s people.”

Even I myself was disgusted by this, but since declaring my status wouldn’t have caused harm,

“Actually, I am Japanese.”

After saying this, I laid everything bare—how I had drifted here, remained in China all this time, and lived as one of its people.

“A Japanese samurai?” Song Sifang asked with burning curiosity, then proceeded to pose various questions—whether it was true that Japanese samurai were so chivalrous they would accept any request made of them, whether it was true that they mastered swordsmanship and were formidable, and such things.

And so, I told Song Sifang that all of it was true.

Song Sifang fell deep into thought, but

“What do you think of Britain’s methods?” he asked.

“Of course it’s not a legitimate method.”

Thus I answered him.

“Do you know a British man named Grey?”

“If you mean Chief of Staff Grey—Commander Goff’s nephew—I’ve heard of him since the war began.”

“He’s hardly some invincible monster—if someone were to kill just that one man, Qing China wouldn’t be losing this badly.”
“Bold, brave, and resourceful; still in his prime yet lecherous and debauched—even to the point of falling for women.”
“But he’s on bad terms with Elliot.”

So said the boy Song Sifang.

“Which Elliot are you referring to?”

So I asked.

“It’s Admiral Elliot.”

Admiral Elliot—a relative of the other Elliot, the British consul here in Shanghai—was the man who, no sooner had the Opium War begun than he led fifteen thousand troops from India and the Cape of Good Hope, commanded twenty-six warships, carried one hundred forty cannons, occupied Dinghai Bay, Zhoushan Island, Zhapu, Ningbo, and others; plotted with Commander Goff to launch a joint naval-land offensive; captured Wusong; seized Shanghai; made that Shanghai his base; boldly ascended the Yangtze River; and now intended to plunder Zhenjiang.

Grey was what you might call the British Army’s star officer—a man of both praise and censure, but undeniably capable. Through this man’s strategic planning, the British forces won battle after battle, while Qing China suffered defeat after defeat.

The two of us did not smoke opium and talked about such things for a long time.

The next night and the night after that too, we two met at the same opium den.

Song Sifang gradually grew accustomed to refining opium and little by little appeared to sink into the ambrosial essence of the drug.

I would often ask Song Sifang about his origins—what manner of person he was, where and what sort of dwelling he inhabited, what family members he possessed—yet he always skillfully dodged these inquiries and showed no inclination to speak of such matters.

However, things gradually took on a strange tone. This was because Song Sifang had begun to show feelings of longing affection toward me. It was a passion like that of a woman in love with a man.

I am not a homosexual.
But since Song Sifang was, as he himself had previously stated, a beautiful boy rare in this world, such affection from such a person did not strike me as unnatural.

4

Now, about a month had passed since then.
Suddenly, the boy Song Sifang stopped showing his face at the opium den.
Then I began to burn fiercely in my heart with loneliness, sorrow, and even jealousy—like that which follows suddenly parting from a beloved woman.

(Someday, I too must have been in love with that woman—with that beautiful boy who resembled a woman.)

Thus I came to feel this with profound certainty.

To soothe such a heart, I resolved to embark on a journey.

(I’ll try ascending the Yangtze River!)

And so I departed.
The willow catkins had already scattered completely, and along the riverbanks pear blossoms bloomed in a whitish hue tinged with yellow—not the pale, delicate color of Japanese pear blossoms nor their slender forms, but billowing voluminously and clustering in dense masses. As we glimpsed these here and there, our boat ascended along the shore.
Junks, rafts, rafts with sails—raft boats where, as they say, people raise pigs, grow vegetables, and give birth to children—passed by our ship.

Rumors of war—that Zhenjiang was on the verge of falling, that the Qing Emperor in Beijing might flee the capital—reached us even aboard ship, and these rumors always carried an unpleasant air for the Chinese side.

The ship anchored at Jiangyin.
And so I disembarked.
British troops were also stationed in Jiangyin, and though war fervor permeated the air, there were elements in the houses' architecture and garden arrangements that delighted me—owing to its long-celebrated scenic beauty—and I spent the entire day wandering through town and outskirts without tiring.
I continued looking around until evening.
As the ship was to remain anchored for about three days, I had resolved from the outset to stay at a shore inn that night.

Thinking to find a comfortable lodging, I turned my steps toward town.
At that moment, a middle-aged British officer accompanied by a Western dog and Chinese beauty overtook me from behind.

“Ah,” I involuntarily let out a sound.

The reason was that the Chinese beauty’s face bore a striking resemblance to Song Sifang’s.

Then the Chinese beauty also looked at my face—whether feigned or genuine, her expression changed as though showing both surprise and nostalgia.

However, she simply walked away without another word.

My friend, in such circumstances, you wouldn’t call it improper if I were to follow that Chinese beauty wherever she went, would you?

I followed after them, you see.

And then, the group entered a rather splendid mansion at the town’s entrance.

At the mansion’s gate stood British soldiers shouldering their rifles, so I asked one of them.

“Who is the officer who just went by?”

“Chief of Staff Grey, Your Excellency.”

“Is the lady accompanying him your wife?”

“She’s not his wife—his mistress.”

The British soldiers, being such carefree fellows, told me this with a smile.

I stayed at a hotel called XX Pavilion in the center of town that night, but I couldn't sleep at all.

And so I wandered through the town.

By then, it was nearing dawn, and the moon hung low beyond the rows of houses, sinking toward the edge of the plain. As I suddenly turned a street corner, there appeared a splendid two-horse carriage—rare in these parts—on which rode a British naval officer with half-white hair and a Chinese boy. Having seen British Admiral Elliot once or twice before in Shanghai and knowing his appearance, I had already discerned that the old officer in the carriage was Elliot.

As for that Chinese boy dressed in alluring attire reminiscent of a male courtesan or perhaps an actor—? As for the Chinese boy who was riding with Elliot—? My friend—that was none other than Song Sifang! As proof—when that boy noticed me, he smiled and gave a slight bow, you see. As for the Chinese beauty from earlier—! What about the Chinese beauty who was with Grey? I don't know! I don't know! I don't know!

I returned to Shanghai.

Zhenjiang did not fall easily.

Various rumors spread.

Zhenjiang lay at the strategic throat of the Yangtze River, its terrain both magnificently formidable and uniquely precipitous, abundantly endowed with natural defenses.
Some claimed that even the formidable British forces couldn’t capture Zhenjiang because Qing elite troops had gathered there and were defending it to the death, while others insisted that Admiral Elliot—having ruined his health and his mind, losing all semblance of his former self—had sapped their morale, thus preventing Zhenjiang’s fall.
However, there were also those who claimed that since Chief of Staff Grey was growing ever more robust in body and keen in mind, Zhenjiang would likely fall sooner or later through his strategic maneuvers.

As for me, upon returning to Shanghai, true to form, I immersed myself in opium dens and brothels, living each day as it came.

You must find it strange—how someone like me bases his existence upon what foundation to indulge in such dissipation day after day?

5

I shall speak of that in due course.

Yes, I will speak of it in due time. But for now, rather than such matters, it seems better to relay the truly bizarre incident I encountered thereafter.

My friend, a month had passed since then. At the entrance of my house, on toilet paper used in the lavatory, characters reading “You are hereby informed that we shall come to fetch you the day after tomorrow” were written, while an illustration of a war arrow piercing a heart—drawn in red—had been pinned with a needle.

Since this seemed to require explanation, I resolved to provide one.

In Shanghai there exists a secret club formed solely by women of the upper class.

It is called "Kahua Villa."

The purpose it aimed for was none other than sexual pleasure.

Having marked their target, they would post such notices at the entrance of a handsome man’s residence, then come to fetch him by sedan chair.

Men absolutely could not refuse.
If a man were to refuse, not only he alone but his entire household would meet with terrible calamity, you see.

The power of women in this country!
It bears no comparison to Japan—truly terrifying in its magnitude.
This holds true not merely today—indeed, it may be said to have been China’s custom since ancient times.
Should you examine the histories of warrior queens and enchantresses—Empress Wu Zetian, Empress Lü, Bao Si, Daji—you would grasp this truth at once, my friend.

Yet even so—that they should fix their white-feathered arrow upon one such as myself and seek to summon me—this was unexpected, to say the least.

Not that I mean to say this implies I am an ugly man.
I hesitate to sing my own praises, but as you well know, a man like me should be quite the handsome man, you see.

What I meant was not in that sense, but rather “To extend such an invitation to one living the sort of life I lead—how utterly audacious these women must be!”—that is to say, this was my meaning.

Someone living the kind of life I live? What kind of life is "the kind of life I live"? You probably want to know, I suppose. Very well, I'll tell you. I'll tell you within that context.

At any rate, the day arrived in this manner, then that day turned into night, and that night deepened into midnight. Guihuade Street, No. 103—that was my residence—but sure enough, a single sedan chair was carried into that place by several men.

I put on a new robe and fresh hakama trousers, tucked my dagger—an armor-piercer, a Kanesada-forged masterwork—into my breast pocket, and boarded the sedan chair.

(Harlots—learn your lesson!)

While harboring such feelings, I boarded the sedan chair—it was thus.

Now the sedan chair sped down the road.
Even were I to describe that route in detail, I imagine it would hold no interest for you.
Therefore I resolved to omit all of it.

The sedan chair arrived at the intended mansion. That was where "Kahua Villa" was located. I was shown to a room.

There I decided to briefly inform you of this mansion’s structure.

Kindly imagine there was a staircase.
Yes, a single staircase.
At the top of that staircase lay a moderately spacious room, from which countless narrow corridors extended in all directions.
And at each dead end of those corridors were small ladies’ rooms where the members resided, so it was said.
Moreover, at the bottom of the staircase stood another moderately spacious room, from which a single corridor stretched in one direction until it ended at the bath area.
And on one wall of this bath area was a secret door that opened onto another corridor.
This corridor ran sufficiently long parallel to the bath area, with rooms lining both sides.
Yes—several bedrooms.
There were as many bedrooms as there were members.

The summoned handsome man was first made to bathe, thoroughly washed, and then put to bed in a bedroom.
Then they would draw lots among themselves, and the female member who had been selected first would likewise enter the bath first, wash her body and apply makeup, then be led to invade the room where the man slept.

I need not write about what happens next.

Now, when completely intoxicated, the woman would again enter the bath and thoroughly wash away the sweat and opium residue.
She then withdrew to her own room. This time, the man was made to enter the bath and washed.
He was then sent to another bedroom and made to receive the second woman.
This cycle repeated—whether two days or three days, five days or ten days—and as long as the man’s vitality persisted and the women’s desires remained unquenched, it continued endlessly, you see.

My friend, it was to such Kahua Villa that I received an invitation.
And having undergone the aforementioned procedure, I was led to a bedroom.
In that bedroom there was a bed, on the bed was an opium apparatus, and liquor had also been prepared for drinking.
A faint lamplight had been lit.
I lay down on the bed,

(Come on then, harlots?) I thought.

At last, the woman came.

She unlocked the door from the outside, and upon entering, locked it again, then approached with composure.
They were thoroughly accustomed to this.
Just as men were thoroughly accustomed to toying with women, they were equally thoroughly accustomed to toying with men.

Huddled under the quilt, I gripped the hilt of my dagger—not dreaming of killing, not dreaming of wounding, thinking at most to draw it and give them a fright.
And then, the quilt was thrown back.
In other words, the woman had thrown it back.
And I saw the woman's face.

"Ah," I said without thinking.

That woman was her—the Chinese beauty who had been strolling with Grey in Jiangyin's outskirts, the one bearing resemblance to Song Sifang.

I let go of the dagger from my hand.

Then I cleared space on one side of the bed,
so she might lie beside me.

And she lay down next to me.

Thus did we both succumb to intoxication.

When she rose satisfied to leave, she whispered:

"Though it repulses me to pass you to other women, I must at least lend you to one more."

I was then put into the bath and guided to another bedroom.

The moment I opened the door and entered however I saw an unexpected sight.
Unmistakably the youth Song Sifang had his throat seized by a foreigner was twisted down onto the bed and was about to be smothered.

“Ta...! Help!” gasped Song Sifang to me in a breathless voice.

And then, in near frenzy, I lunged at the foreigner and stabbed once with the dagger I had.
The foreigner—it was Grey—had crumbled dead just like that.

My friend—after placing Grey’s bloodstained, grotesque corpse beside the bed, that Song Sifang and I succumbed to a second intoxication upon that very bed—and by “second,” I mean this literally, for Song Sifang and the Chinese beauty from earlier were one and the same—my friend, do not condemn us.
Such matters are entrusted to the Green Gang—for someone like me, it’s an ordinary affair—just as they’re entrusted to the Red Gang, and for Song Sifang, they’re everyday occurrences.

Today again at the usual opium den "Jinhua Zuilou"—as lovers, me with her, or perhaps him. She wore male attire again today—for male attire suited her better.—I had gone to meet that Song Sifang.

This extreme pleasure—of smoking opium to ecstasy and embracing each other in egoless union—is something none in Japan could ever fathom.

But he—no, no, she... Yes, for my part, I should say "her."
And what manner of being was she?
The truth is, she had once been a daughter of good family.
But now she belonged to the Red Gang—one of two great secret societies in this land that practiced murder, human trafficking, plunder, smuggling and every evil deed while posing as perpetual champions and defenders of the poor, all rooted in patriotic ideology—serving as a cunning operative within its female contingent.

And so I am a Green Gang member, and because of this membership, I am able to make my living, you see.

Today she said to me—

“When this humble one cross-dressed as a woman or a man and freely offered my body to those two—Grey and Elliot—it wasn’t because the Red Gang leader ordered me to. This humble one did it of my own accord.”
“That’s how I ruined those two—because I meant to have them killed.”
“But in the end，Elliot took up the opium this humble one kept offering him—started smoking it until his mind rotted away，until he was no longer the man he used to be—and as for Grey，well，you killed him in that manner．So this humble one’s purpose has been achieved．”
“With this…I’d say Zhenjiang won’t easily fall into British hands…Not with their two commanders taken out like this，after all．”

“Still, why did a man like Grey come to such a place?”

“Because I called him after all.”
“Using that lavatory paper.”
“Out of curiosity—that fellow came.”
“Foreign devils are such lustful beasts... But when the woman who appeared turned out to be me—the very mistress he’d deluded himself into believing belonged solely to him—he grew jealous and throttled my throat.”

“So you invited me here to have Grey killed... Was that your only reason?”

“That was part of it—but there was another reason. I did it because I was in love with you.”

——If that’s the case, then it’s fine, I thought.

My friend, this is the end.

People of old would take candles to enjoy their nightly revels.
I—a man of today—indulge in such diversions.
Vile! Intensely stimulating! Murderously debauched diversions!

And this too constitutes my very livelihood.

Goodbye... farewell.