Pathway to Japanese Literature

Therefore, it was sometimes written as 汨董 (Bokutō) or 古董 (Kotō). It remained evident that the characters simply borrowed phonetic values. Now then—how did this sound come to mean "old objects"? There existed a theory positing that "kottō" derived phonetically from "kotō" (ancient bronze). According to this theory, antiques initially denoted ancient bronze vessels before expanding to include jade artifacts, calligraphies, paintings, and all manner of aged objects. When interpreting Han Ju’s verse—“Never claim the monk’s basket lacks a bottom; he returns bearing Jiangnan antiques”—through this lens, the connection appeared plausible. For Jiangnan indeed abounded in bronze vessels. Yet whether "antique" truly originated from "ancient bronze" remained doubtful. Had it been a genuine phonetic shift, one might expect occasional use of 古銅 when writing "antique." Yet despite deliberate substitutions like 汨董 or 古董, 古銅 never appeared. Zhai Qingjiang cited the *Tongya*, asserting that *kottō* stemmed from a Tang Dynasty boat-pulling chant: “Dedong hena ya—Yangzhou teems with bronze vessels.” He claimed the sounds *dedong* formed the root of the characters 骨董. “Dedong hena ya” resembled meaningless refrains like “en’yaraya,” lacking inherent meaning or fixed orthography. By this theory, while *dedong* or *kottō* carried no semantic weight themselves, their proximity to “bronze vessels” in the chant’s second line—“Yangzhou teems with bronze vessels”—led *kottō* to signify copperware. From there it broadened to encompass sundry antiquities. The interpretation linking “antique” to a phonetic shift from “ancient bronze” thus revealed itself as clever yet specious—a derivative explanation ignorant of true origins.

Furthermore, Su Dongpo mixed and cooked various foods together and called this “Hodgepodge Stew.” Here, kottō meant a jumbled assortment, much like how our country’s vernacular terms such as “hodgepodge stew” or “mixed soup” use “gotta” to convey that sense. In this case too, the characters themselves held no inherent meaning. Additionally, people called the sound of something plopping into water kottō. This too merely borrowed the characters’ sounds to mimic the clunk of impact—the written forms carried no semantic value. Ultimately, while all these characters for “antique” originated from China—the realm of written characters—they were not derived from their meanings but adopted for their phonetic qualities. Being mere approximations, they defied pedantic etymological analysis.

Such matters may be debated however one likes, but in any case, the term "antique" encompasses everything old—from esteemed objects like Zhou Dynasty tripods, Han Dynasty ritual vessels, and jade ware down to humble bamboo and wooden utensils; calligraphy and painting albums, zithers, swords, mirrors, inkstones, ceramics—all of it. And so, as there naturally exist people fond of antiques in the world, antique dealers who buy and sell them have emerged; appraisers skilled in evaluating antiques have appeared; and from grand institutions like museums and art museums down to humble collectors of old postage stamps and matchbox labels—the realm of antiques has come to be established everywhere across nations, in cities and countryside alike. It is truly fascinating, thriving, gratifying, and meaningful. If we speak ill of them, antiques are things stained with the grime of the dead—hardly objects that lift the spirits—and even grand museums resemble showcases of thieves’ exploits; yet such overblown arguments amount to crude talk that holds no sway in society. Thanks to antiques being valued and antique collecting being practiced, the history of world civilization gains flesh and blood, its context becoming discernible; the radiance of ages past shines above our heads, their fragrance presses upon our hearts—compelling modern people to savor ancient civilizations, thereby leading them to pioneer civilizations distinct from those of antiquity. Humans who live solely by appetite and lust are still on par with dogs and cats; should they find contentment in these or rise above them, they will inevitably develop a fondness for antiques. To put it another way: once they develop a fondness for antiques and finally become fully human—for pigs and cows show no examples of fiddling with antiques—the act arises from the maturation of one’s aesthetic sensibilities. Furthermore, antiques are evidentiary artifacts. And depending on their field of study, when scholars deepen their scholarship, they inevitably come to plunge headfirst—and hands-deep—into the world of antiques. For unless they reluctantly fiddle with musty old things, they would forever loiter within the confines of settled texts; thus scholars across various disciplines—be it art, history, literature—once they have exhausted all commonplace knowledge inevitably find their research turning antiquarian over time. This too stands as reasonable argument: take for analogy how no true scholarship can be established through studying error-ridden printed editions of the *Man’yōshū*—such being logic’s decree that antiquarian rigor becomes essential truth for certain disciplines while its absence marks falsehood or indolence. Given these implications: antiques demand reverence; antique enthusiasm merits pride; those failing even to fiddle with relics remain pitiable creatures—undeveloped kin to dogs or swine. Thus gentlemen might discard at least a hundred thousand ryō on trifles—Komachi’s genuine *Aname-Aname* scrolls,Yan Hui’s gourd inscribed with Confucius-sama’s golden praises,fragments of bloodstained crosses—then muse,"What have I done?"—a gesture not without its perverse merit.

Fiddling with antiques was truly chic—positively dashing. It proved undoubtedly interesting, undoubtedly refined, undoubtedly meaningful, and undoubtedly beneficial at times to both individuals and society. Had I been wealthy myself, I would have undoubtedly purchased splendid counterfeits and forged calligraphies while grinning ear to ear. What sort of attitude was it to buy antiques while penny-pinching over avoiding fakes? Hadn’t people of old even spoken of buying dead horses’ bones for a thousand gold pieces? They said there were roughly twenty grades of Qiu Shizhou’s forged works—buy twenty counterfeits and you’d graduate to obtaining an authentic piece through sheer persistence. After all, one couldn’t learn anything without paying tuition. Since buying counterfeits amounted to paying school fees, there was nothing unjust about it. After paying hefty tuition fees repeatedly, people finally purchased genuine articles at great expense. They were undoubtedly delighted—undoubtedly entitled to boast. They rejoiced; they preened. That vast sum became a delight tax—a vanity tax. What counted as “vast” differed by purse: taking one yen from a ten-yen frog-mouthed wallet meant hardship, but extracting ten thousand from a million-yen strongbox remained proportionally trivial—mere petty vanity tax. Unlike income taxes funneled into bureaucrats’ pockets—those bandits in official garb—this tax flowed straight to antique dealers, greasing society’s wheels while stimulating prosperity. This was no crude levy but a stylish tax worlds apart from those paid through gritted teeth or by pawning wives’ obi sashes after debt collectors’ hounding. Though still taxation, unlike income levies accumulating monetary grudges like vengeful Dojo-ji spirits, this vanity tax blazed like fireworks—splendid pyrotechnics where payers cried “There! Fifty thousand ryō—a bargain!” and recipients crowed “Ah! Fifty thousand yen! This’ll make my nose tilt skyward!” Hardly a disagreeable spectacle. Who hadn’t paid this tax? I too wanted to pay my vanity tax in full—but how outrageous! To have passed fifty yet remain delinquent—utterly inexcusable!

The one who properly grasped how to make people pay this vanity tax was Toyotomi Hideyoshi—he was, by all accounts, a man of style. The practice of paying the vanity tax began during the Higashiyama period, though initially it was the masters of Ginkaku and Kinkaku themselves who paid the tax. They were truly people of commendable mindset. By Nobunaga’s time, Nobunaga had already converted his vassals’ military merits into vanity tax quotas, making them gratefully receive so-called antiques. Hashiba Chikuzen no Kami and others would achieve military feats through battle, and as part of the rewards for such merits, they were granted tea utensils. In other words, when they achieved military merits equivalent to fifty thousand ryō, they received tea utensils instead of fifty thousand ryō. If that antique had a value of fifty thousand ryō at the time, then receiving such an antique was essentially equivalent to Chikuzen no Kami gladly paying fifty thousand ryō in vanity tax to acquire it. A friend of mine possesses a letter documenting that Hideyoshi received numerous tea utensils from Nobunaga as rewards for his military merits during his time as Chikuzen no Kami. According to the appraisal of professional historians, it is beyond doubt. Now, while it is considered that the inventor who made people pay the vanity tax was not Hideyoshi but rather Nobunaga as his senior, it was Hideyoshi who greatly propagated this tax system. Through Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s strategic brilliance and formidable power, the realm greatly brightened and settled into peace. Through the accumulated momentum since Higashiyama, tea culture flourished remarkably. In the way of tea as well, there must have been such a thing as momentum; stalwart men emerged one after another. Even Matsunaga Danjō and Oda Nobunaga—men not without refinement and possessed of leisure—all delighted in tea banquets. However, the one who fanned the flames most vigorously was Hideyoshi. To such an extent were tea ceremonies conducted that even Date Masamune, the Oshu warrior, studied the tea ceremony while awaiting his punishment on Dogashima. Of course, Toyotomi Hideyoshi had even brought a tea ceremony grandmaster with him to the Odawara campaign. They would procure intriguing utensils from southern foreign lands and China, while also treasuring both old imports and domestic items—greatly esteeming those that were fascinating and possessed depth. Antiques began to be respected in society with tremendous momentum. Of course, they did not promote things that were uninteresting, lacked depth, or were ordinary.

They treasured only those antiques truly sufficient to make people nod in agreement and murmur "Indeed." Appetite and carnal desire have their limits—moreover, these are base urges shared even by oxen and swine. Yet humans cannot be content with these alone. When carnal appetites are sated and some leisure obtained—even as flames of profit-seeking and power-lust burn unceasingly—when social conditions begin tending toward stability, rendering futile any thrashing about in reckless Asura-like fury... how could desires for refined taste fail to lift their heads? All the more since taste itself has hierarchies and rankings—the competitive urge to stand on superior ground naturally lending its force—and given that here exists the tea ceremony: not some solitary pursuit but a convivial interest of gatherings... who then could fail to delight in tea banquets? And again—who would not rejoice to obtain antiques surpassing others' possessions: intriguing objects of depth and extraordinariness? Many were those who desired; few were the items to be supplied.

Now then, how could antiques not become ever more precious? From the daimyos above to the wealthy townspeople below, all competed to pay the vanity tax. The tax rate was bid ever higher as people clamored to outdo one another. As for the Kitano Grand Tea Ceremony—whether it was foolish or uncultured, one cannot say—but viewed from one angle, it enveloped the realm in tea smoke, vigorously fanning it and effectively orchestrating a vanity competition.

Now then, during that era, bearing Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s authority behind him, the one who blazed with dazzling brilliance was Sen no Rikyū. Of course, Rikyū was an unparalleled heroic genius. Just as Hideyoshi stood peerless in military governance, Rikyū rightfully occupied the supreme position in the realm of artistic taste. The aesthetic sensibilities cultivated since the Ashikaga period were brought to their zenith by this man. His mental acuity, discernment, and practical skill far surpassed ordinary measure. Though other talented individuals existed besides Rikyū—albeit with minor differences—they all fundamentally resonated with and followed his lead. Rikyū shone like the moon amidst constellations of stars, standing composed as the leading fish guiding its school. That Hideyoshi patronized Rikyū exemplified Hideyoshi’s own exceptional nature. Even during the Ashikaga era when figures like Sōami held comparable statuses, none matched Rikyū’s caliber; none were employed as extensively; none propelled an entire era’s aesthetic sensibilities forward as he did. Rikyū was truly a celestial genius. As for one such as myself—who knows not a mote of tea ceremony formalities—I keenly perceive how Rikyū’s beneficence upon our nation’s world of taste endures to this day, still bestowing its grace upon those like us. That Hideyoshi employed Rikyū to such heights testifies profoundly to Hideyoshi’s own discernment. Rikyū became—through unspoken consensus—the appointed assessor of vanity taxes during his time.

What Rikyū deemed excellent, the world deemed excellent. What Rikyū found intriguing and deemed precious, the world found intriguing and deemed precious. This was no mere pretense on Rikyū’s part—the objects he judged excellent, intriguing, and precious were truly excellent, truly intriguing, and truly precious in essence. Even a crude ceramic vessel transformed into something surpassing mere gold and jewels once touched by Rikyū’s discerning eye. While other luminaries certainly contributed to advancing the era’s aesthetic sensibilities, Rikyū stood unrivaled as grand master of his age, wielding fearsome authority to lead these talents and command society’s allegiance. This phenomenon sprang from Rikyū’s unerring spiritual discernment—a process untainted by artifice—for his chosen treasures remained eternally excellent, intriguing, and precious. Yet equally undeniable was the great radiance behind him: Hideyoshi, the age’s paramount power, who elevated Rikyū to near-divine status through patronage and reverence. Thus did Rikyū’s touch transmute base iron into gold—a feat belonging to immortal arts, for he was indeed a celestial being descended to earth, wielding spiritual alchemy. The entire generation followed where Rikyū led. People competed to value what he valued, daring to pay vanity taxes for the pride of possession—tax rates effectively set through Rikyū’s indirect appraisals. Though never intending such servile duty, natural forces gradually cast him in this role. Antiques came to rival provinces in worth, castles in value, blood-soaked battle merits in prestige. In essence, antiques became non-convertible currency—with Rikyū as their unwitting mintmaster. Unlike Saigō’s or Ōkuma’s paper notes that swiftly depreciated, Rikyū’s currency retained value across centuries. Hideyoshi proved terrifyingly astute in harnessing this immortal alchemist for his ends—Rikyū being truly desireless yet peerless in transmuting matter through spiritual craft. How much spiritual power this non-convertible currency exerted over society’s workings remains unknowable. But its benefits flowed not to Rikyū—they enriched Hideyoshi alone. A fearsome strategist, he deployed immortals as tools for earthly gain. When rites conclude, straw effigies become superfluous.

When the non-convertible paper money had sufficiently circulated, its issuance was discontinued, and Rikyū was killed on some flimsy pretext. Because they were not endlessly issued thereafter, the non-convertible paper money long retained its value. They had settled back into the storehouses of the daimyos and wealthy townspeople. When you consider it, even gold and jewels hold no true value in life—they are ultimately nothing more than a form of promissory note. If one examines them thoroughly, antiques, gold, jewels, convertible notes, and non-convertible paper money are all much the same—if they are acknowledged and circulated as such, it would be no wonder if tree leaves became gold coins. Since truly excellent and intriguing antiques surpass large gold coins or diamonds in both merit and fascination, it is only sensible that one would gladly pay the vanity tax in gold or convertible notes to acquire—and take pleasure in handling—antiques of discernible worth, be they tea bowls or caddies with the ineffable beauty of their glaze work, or any other pieces that catch the eye. Rather than autumn's loneliness mired in logic, spring's delight that transcends logic seems preferable. A wealthy man from Kansai who loved the tea ceremony acquired a single tea utensil for tens of thousands in gold on his deathbed, enjoyed it for a few hours, and then passed away. There are those who mock this as paying thousands of yen per hour, but such criticism stems from a stingy disposition—the argument of those who know nothing of a joyous realm beyond logic, capable only of floundering through a lifelong hell of reasoning. It is because they fail to grasp that even a million ryō before refined taste seems no more substantial than tobacco smoke.

Antiques, no matter how one considers them, are not a bad thing in many respects. For those who have grown old or become wealthy, there is nothing better than having them tinker with antiques. Having elders use elixirs of youth and such—letting them hinder the young—that’s a poor joke. Assigning elders toys befitting their age and letting them sit contentedly in corners with self-satisfied expressions serves as prayer for universal peace. Children have celluloid toys; elders have Raku ware toys—one might as well write this in an elementary school primer. Moreover, the wealthy—inevitably burdened with excess money and trapped in pitiable fate—cannot be redeemed by mere Six Dynasties Buddhas or Indian Buddhas. Thus they ought splendidly to purchase grand antiquities from the Xia, Yin, and Zhou eras at exorbitant prices: Daji’s golden basin with three fox hairs still clinging to it, Yi Yin’s cooking pot, Yu’s snowshoes, and the like. For this would facilitate exchange between abundance and lack, eliminate societal inequities, and even serve as divine kagura performance to soothe the vexed divine considerations of socialists and proletarians alike.

But that aside, even those of the so-called middle-aged middle class—who were neither elderly nor young, neither wealthy nor penniless—did not necessarily refrain from appreciating antiques. Such people were neither completely blind nor did they possess the funds or resolve to willingly pay substantial vanity taxes; thus, they often became like wandering spirits lost in limbo. However, the majority of those who took an interest in or dabbled in art and antiques were precisely these people. Since there was no helping it, even those among them who were intelligent and virtuous—though they were not without desire to handle splendid high-end antiques—found it akin to a lover’s path beyond reach, like trying to climb a ladder to the clouds. Thus, they ultimately contented themselves with mid-tier antiques befitting their station. The most intelligent and virtuous among them adopted a specialized, categorical approach, narrowing the scope of their engagement as much as possible and finding enjoyment in that realm over the years. They maintained a single focus and adhered to a particular lineage—if it was painting, they might center on a specific artist from a particular school; if ceramics, concentrate on works from a specific kiln and era; if calligraphy, fixate on certain Confucian scholars; if lacquerware, devote themselves to either extremely ancient pieces or more recent works—applying their hearts and hands to these chosen domains. This "logical approach to collecting and research" Since this was indeed the wisest and most genuine approach, as long as they paid appropriate tuition fees, they would splendidly gain discernment and understanding, thereby obtaining—without error and most safely—pure enjoyment; thus, there could be no dispute. However, most people found such dutifulness too rigid and dull; like moss shifting with water currents in all directions, they cast eyes toward Sesshū-esque works yet dabbled in Ōkyo-like pieces, showed interest in Utamarō-styled items, wanted to cultivate Taikadō halls and Takeda fields, intended to buy Han Gan’s horses for about a hundred yen if luck favored them, and—as Chinese jokes told—might not even refrain from acquiring strange works like Du Xunhe’s crane paintings. Even so, were their interests limited to paintings alone it might have been tolerable, but their passions extended variably to sculptures, lacquerware, ceramics, weapons, tea utensils, and beyond. Such people were by no means few in number, yet it was precisely these individuals who, even without ill intent but with a touch of greed mixed in, ended up reaping what they sowed through encounters far removed from the straightforward purchase of goods at a department store. Among them were those of rather unscrupulous character, intent on outwitting antique dealers to score so-called 'unearthed treasures.' Antique dealers maintained an air of composure as they tidied things up, but theirs was no charitable enterprise; they had invested years into their trade and capital into their business, supporting their families through it. There was nothing wrong with intending to purchase a thirty-yen item for fifty yen after accounting for commissions and expenses—but when one set their mind on buying a fifty-yen piece for thirty yen, the world would not run smoothly. It stood to reason that through such errors, a five-yen item could end up being sold for thirty yen. Even if they had harbored such a shamelessly greedy treasure-hunting mentality and carried an audacious scheme in their hearts to buy a Kenzan plate for three yen and fifty sen, there had been simply no way something like Kenzan ware would ever fall into their hands. Even if one were to buy an industrial bond that might grow to a thousand or two thousand yen, such a thing as unearthing treasures should have been fundamentally impossible. It was a malicious scheme, an inferior understanding, and an ignorant intent. However, when one tinkered with antiques—objects that inherently possessed value and were entwined with monetary considerations—even those who had not been inherently base might unwittingly develop a treasure-hunting mentality. This constituted one of the unsavory aspects of antiques.

The term "unearthed treasures" was inherently abhorrent in origin, for it fundamentally referred to objects excavated from tombs or the earth. A scoundrel would dig up graves with nothing but a stick or hoe and procure fine items—that precisely constituted unearthed treasures, an abhorrent state of affairs. The term "grave-robbing" was an ancient expression in China, for since antiquity, lawless individuals had dug into the graves of nobles and others. The extant *Sanryaku* was said to have been unearthed from Zhang Liang’s tomb—a legend claiming he brought up what he received from Huang Shigong—but the *Sanryaku* did not enter the world through such means. It was utterly counterfeit. However, the excavation of ancient and illustrious tombs was indeed practiced; an evil monk who plundered various precious items from a Ming emperor’s tomb and even trampled the bones underfoot was struck by divine retribution—afflicting him with a leg disease—until his deeds were finally exposed. Such abhorrent accounts—distressing even to read—were recorded in miscellanies. The notion that Cao Cao had built many decoy tombs to avoid being excavated had been clearly disproven by recent research; however, considering that even Wang Anshi believed such legends of decoy tombs and composed poems about them, one could infer that grave-robbing was by no means a rare occurrence. In ancient Chinese customs, high-status deceased were sometimes buried with jade placed in their mouths; thus, despicable individuals would dare to plunder not only the treasures within tombs but even extract the jade from the very mouths of skeletons. It was said to be around Weixian County—even now, when farmers entered their winter off-season, they prepared hoes and spades, followed a leader, searched through old graves everywhere, and engaged in what was called unearthing treasures. Such were the rumors one heard. In Japan as well, there were occasionally individuals who committed outrageous acts; some years earlier, an incident had been reported in which a certain noble burial ground in a western province was violated. Even hearing of it was detestable, but since the term "unearthed treasures" had undoubtedly been born from such acts, it was a word—and concept—that those who possessed ordinary human emotions should neither use nor even consider. Yet despite this, there were many with this treasure-hunting mentality—shifty-eyed and hawk-gazed—inwardly prepared for grand excavations. People might be somewhat flawed, but their greed flourished splendidly—such made for a vivid tale. Because there were so many such people, the trade had grown treacherous: they would bury counterfeit goods produced in western regions out in the eastern countryside, deluding treasure-hunting gangs into believing they’d made a splendid find to delight them—only to then reel them in with their hooks. They would bury Kyoto-made goods in Korea, put on the pretense of having unearthed them, and thus began the shady business of smoothly reeling people in. If there truly were those who unearthed treasures, they must be unscrupulous ruffians. If there existed someone who bought these unearthed treasures cheaply and sold them at a high price to profit in between, that person must be a merchant paying business taxes. Merchants had invested years and capital, having weathered countless trials and tribulations. They approached each day as a life-and-death contest; in this world where truly superior items—whether ancient relics, flawed pieces, second-rate goods, or third-rate wares—were scarce, standing at a precipice where a single misjudgment could spell ruin, they strove to accurately appraise every manner of antique’s appropriate value and secure their rightful commission—this was the proper mindset of their trade.

By no means could there be any carelessness or lapses. It was like steering a boat through waves. Layered turbulence was the norm in this trade. What could amateurs possibly achieve by barging into such turbulence?

Let us now briefly present a tale that sufficiently illustrates the multilayered turbulence and perilous state of this antique world. However, none of these are my own fabrications: they all have verifiable origins. The so-called "sources" are clear; if you wish, I can duly disclose them. Heh.

This is a tale that appears in a book nearly two hundred years old.

In Kyoto's Horikawa district, there was a renowned antique dealer named Kinpachi. This concerns Kinpachi in his youth. Trained by his father and having diligently honed his discernment through personal effort, he developed a keen eye for antiques. Privately, he considered himself now a fully capable man—one who need not yield to any peer. Indeed, covering every aspect from start to finish—with thorough vision and attentive care—he reached such competence that even had his father transferred the shop to him, he could have managed it independently. Yet like all aging parents, his father—motivated by veteran caution and overflowing paternal concern—likely still regarded him as somewhat inexperienced, remaining steadfastly behind Kinpachi to offer protection.

Kinpachi went down to Osaka on one occasion. As he passed through Fukakusa along the way, there stood an antique shop by the road. Being a place of business, he cast a quick glance about and caught sight of a finely crafted stirrup adorned with period lacquerwork. "Hmm, what a fine stirrup," he thought, stopping to examine it. The piece was undeniably superb in both era and craftsmanship—truly exceptional—but regrettably only one remained. Had they been a pair, such items would never remain in a shop like this—but even so, when he inquired about the price expecting exorbitance, it turned out paltry. "Ah, if paired, with my skills I could sell them for thirty ryō—but with one alone, nothing can be done. Even cheaply bought, unsellable goods amount to naught." Though unable to articulate precisely what drew him to the stirrup’s qualities, he kept glancing back even as he resolved to leave it behind and continued down to Osaka. It was indeed wise he refrained from buying something unsellable however fine. Yet after traveling some distance and arriving at an antique shop near Kyōbashi—whether by chance or divine arrangement—there indeed lay another stirrup identical to the first. Hmm—so these were two widowed pieces separated! Perfect—if I buy this and the Fukakusa one, combining them would make thirty ryō. Concealing an inward grin, he inquired about the price only to be told it was high for a single piece—the shopkeeper insisting such items were rare even singly—and indeed it wasn’t cheap. Though expensive, having a scheme in mind he bought it at asking price, returned home and immediately recounted this tale expecting Father’s approval. But far from pleased, Father flew into rage: "Impudent fool! Blinded by greed you bought without checking the stirrup’s pair!" Kinpachi was no idiot either. He jolted awake: "I’ve blundered. “I’ll take care hereafter—forgive me,” he kowtowed, but thenceforth gained the nickname “Single Stirrup Kinpachi.” This was a scheme where only one stirrup ever existed—they priced it in Fukakusa then took backroads to bury its twin in another Kyōbashi shop for Kinpachi to “discover.” Had haste not clouded judgment he’d never have been duped—yet between preempting rivals and false certainty from prior scrutiny—even Kinpachi forgot to verify left/right and swallowed the bait. Father’s veteran instinct alone grasped no sweet deal existed pairing widow-stirrups for profit—while Kinpachi neglected verification, Father alone pierced greed’s darkness with paper candlelight. Of course searching Fukakusa revealed no stirrup—only notoriety as “Single Stirrup” became Kinpachi’s gain. Times differ between past-present, but even now between Shinshu-Nagoya or Tokyo-Beijing using this ploy—the greed-flushed likely won’t escape swallowing bait. The tale of Single Stirrup Kinpachi proves somewhat amusing.

Shall I recount another old tale? This one appears in a late Ming Dynasty scholar’s miscellanies—a rather intricate story wherein antique enthusiasts and dealers’ varied temperaments are naturally revealed through its narrative. Not only does it prove deeply engaging in how it articulates the profound duality of attachment and greed entwined with noble artifacts—their gravity and peril—but it also evokes a subtle insight into antiques themselves. Whether this resonates with others I cannot say, but I find it most intriguing. Among the people appearing in the tale are those of renown; it is naturally regarded as no fictional account.

When speaking of Ding Ware, it refers to that precious porcelain which any antique enthusiast with even a passing interest would know. It is called Ding Ware because it was produced in Dingzhou during the Song Dynasty. In detail, there are Southern Ding and Northern Ding within this category. Southern Ding refers to pieces produced after the Song was driven south by the Jin and established their southern court. Of course, Northern Ding—created during the Northern Song period under the Art Emperor Huizong’s Zhenghe and Xuanhe eras, spanning from around 1110 to some twenty-odd years later—is considered more valuable. There is also what is called Xinding (New Ding), but these were produced later during the Yuan era and are not true Ding ware. The inherent quality of Northern Ding is white; with its white tinged by a turbid water-like effect, it exudes an indescribably intriguing charm, and even pieces that are not particularly remarkable possess an allure that draws people in.

However, here there existed one Ding ware treasure tripod. Since this was a tripod, it had likely been presented to the imperial court in its time—the purest of the pure, the most beautiful of the beautiful—truly an astonishing divine artifact. Initially, during the Chenghua and Hongzhi eras of the Ming Dynasty, Sunshi of Zhuyang had kept it at Mountain-Water Mountain Villa. The Master of Curving-Water Mountain Villa, Sunshi—a man of immense wealth—was connected to Sun Qifeng, renowned as an aesthete and connoisseur. Qifeng counted among his friends eminent figures of the age: Yang Wenxiang, Wen Taishi, Zhu Jingzhao, Tang Jieyuan, and Li Xiyai. When Qifeng hosted an Orchid Pavilion-style purification gathering at Nanshan in the fifteenth year of Zhengde, Tang Liuru had not only created a painting for the occasion but also inscribed a long poem. Thus, Sunshi was no mere tycoon. Thereupon, on the pedestal of this Ding ware tripod, his friend Li Xiyai wrote an inscription in seal script and engraved it. Li Xiyai’s inscription alone would have been prized even in its time—let alone today. It was indeed such a splendid tripod.

However, during the Jiajing era when ravaged by wokou pirates, the Sun family—being major magnates—suffered damages on multiple fronts and gradually saw their family fortunes decline. They gradually came to part with the precious items they had stored up. The tripod finally passed into the hands of Jin Shangbao of Jingkou. Afterward, Tang Taichang Ning'an of Piling ardently sought it and finally acquired it. This Ning'an was a man of status and wealth, erudite and skilled in appraisal, and of course learned—thus his household possessed an exceptional collection of antiques. However, when the white Ding ware tripod from the Sun family's former collection arrived, all other kiln wares lost their brilliance to such an extent. Therefore, those who discussed kiln wares across the realm came to definitively regard Tang Ning'an's Ding tripod as the foremost within the realm and preeminent under heaven. It was truly a peerless and exquisite rare treasure, and regardless of whether one had seen it or not, all mouths buzzed with fervent praise, spreading word of it far and wide, such that it became an object of covetous drooling.

Now, there was a man named Zhou Danquan from Wumen. Zhou Danquan was an extraordinary genius of keen intellect and spiritual insight—a man who possessed both an innate eye and skilled hand for art and antiques. On one occasion, he boarded a boat from Jinchang bound for Jiangxi, passing through Piling along the way where he requested an audience with Tang Taichang and sought to view his world-renowned Ding tripod. Mr. Tang, who knew Danquan was no vulgar man and had associated with him accordingly, gladly granted him an audience and acquiesced to his request. Danquan effusively praised the tripod while scrutinizing it from every angle, measured its dimensions with his hands, sketched its patterns on paper from his pocket, expressed gratitude for the good fortune of beholding such a rare treasure, and then took his leave. And then he set out by boat and resumed his journey.

A little over half a year later, Zhou Danquan visited Tang Taichang once more. With an air of calm composure, Danquan first expressed his gratitude for their previous meeting, then declared, “I too have acquired a white Ding tripod identical to Your Excellency’s treasured piece.” Tang Taichang was astonished. It was because the piece he had proudly declared peerless under heaven existed elsewhere. “In that case, please show me the item,” he said. Since Danquan had brought it with him, he presented it without demur. When Tang took it in hand and examined it—from its size, weight, body texture, to the quality of its glaze color—there was not a hair’s breadth of difference from the one in his household. Immediately bringing out his own to compare them side by side, they proved as indistinguishable as twin brothers—one could scarcely tell which was which. When he tried fitting his own lid onto Danquan’s tripod, it matched perfectly. Even when he tried fitting the base, it matched perfectly as though crafted specifically for it. Tang Taichang, increasingly astonished and on the verge of sighing, asked, “And from where did this Ding tripod of yours come to be passed down?” Zhou Danquan smiled faintly and said, “This tripod actually came from your honorable household. “When I had the honor of viewing your treasured tripod at your honorable residence, I thoroughly grasped every aspect—its size, weight, form, and essence—within my mind.” “Therefore, in truth, I crafted this as an imitation. To speak plainly, I would never dream of deceiving Your Excellency,” he said. Zhou Danquan had originally made it his regular practice to go to Jingdezhen in Jiangxi, where he would direct skilled artisans to produce replicas of fine ancient ceramics. These creations dazzled so-called treasure hunters—those greedy souls seeking to buy high-value items at low cost, and dilettantes attempting to acquire precious objects through mere wealth without understanding—for their inscriptions, patterns, coloration, and glaze were all strikingly lifelike in their fidelity to the originals. There were truly fearsome individuals—for even during the Ming era there existed men of such caliber that it would hardly be surprising if even today, replicas crafted by this man lie swathed in silk and cherished in some household as Northern Ding ware or whatnot. Now, upon hearing Zhou’s account, Taichang once again expressed his admiration at this point. “In that case, I would ask you to relinquish this new tripod to me. I shall keep it hidden away alongside the genuine article as an eternal companion piece.” With these words, he presented forty gold pieces. Needless to say, Zhou Danquan likely never produced another piece like it thereafter.

From this tale alone, antique enthusiasts should learn quite a bit; yet the story continues further. Then, after many years had passed—around the late years of the Wanli era—there was a man named Du Jiuru in Huai'an. He was a merchant, a wealthy man who had gained renown for acquiring splendid items. He spared no expense in acquiring exotic artifacts, so much so that even items like Dong Yuanzai’s formerly collected Han jade seal and Liu Hairi’s formerly collected Shang dynasty gold tripod all fell into Du Jiuru’s hands. This Du Jiuru had heard rumors of the Ding tripod in Tang Taichang’s household and had long been scheming to acquire it by any means necessary. By the time of Tang Taichang’s grandson’s generation, a man named Junyu had become the head of the household. Junyu was born into an illustrious family—a man of lofty pride, extravagant tastes, and fondness for social engagements. Thus, Jiuru arrived bearing vast sums to celebrate Junyu and formally requested to behold the renowned Ding tripod by any means necessary, hoping to satisfy his lifelong craving. Junyu did not particularly care for Jiuru—a man who tried to bludgeon his way with money—and likely looked down on him due to his own aristocratic lineage. With a half-jesting “Very well, I’ll show you,” he kept the genuine tripod securely hidden and instead brought out the counterfeit one, a replica Zhou Danquan had crafted as its companion piece. Even the counterfeit tripod was something that had initially drawn admiration from Ning’an, the owner of the genuine one—let alone Jiuru, who had never laid eyes on the real article. There was no way he could discern it as a fake. Utterly overwhelmed by its noble elegance and exquisite craftsmanship, he became convinced it was an unbearably splendid object and fell head over heels in love with it. Thereupon, he forcibly pressed a thousand gold pieces, separately rewarded the intermediary who arranged the deal with an additional two hundred gold, then made off with the counterfeit tripod as if seizing it by force. The term "artful theft and forcible seizure" has been documented numerous times since the Song Dynasty, and for antique enthusiasts, such acts of forcible seizure arise as a matter of course. Well, if one were to deem it forgivable, then indeed it would be forgivable.

However, for Junyu, this posed a problem. The reason was that what had been taken was not the genuine article. Initially acting from aristocratic pride, Junyu had shown the counterfeit to the potbellied merchant with a straight face—as if to say “What would some townsman know?”—but being fundamentally decent rather than malicious, he found himself unable to let the deception stand. Thereupon, Junyu dispatched his disciples and had them inform Jiuru: “What you took is, in fact, a counterfeit tripod. “The genuine Ding tripod remains stored here, and as we adhere to Lord Taichang’s injunction against showing it lightly to others, we could not present it to you.” “However, now that you have already donated a thousand gold pieces to possess a counterfeit, even if you remain unaware, we cannot in good conscience remain unashamed.” “Please return that tripod by all means; we will naturally refund the thousand gold pieces,” they made him understand. However, as is often seen in the world, before selling an item, one values the money and parts with it, but once it is gone, its absence feels lonely, and a lingering attachment arises that makes one want to reclaim it. On Du Jiuru’s side, since he was absolutely convinced it was genuine, he dismissed the claim of it being counterfeit as a mere pretext, perceiving that their true intent was to renege on the agreement. Thereupon came the reply: “What nonsense! “There can’t possibly be such a counterfeit.” “Even if it were a counterfeit, for my part, it is perfectly acceptable—I have no regrets in having received and kept it,” he retorted. “If you distrust our words so thoroughly, why don’t you line up both tripods and see for yourself?” proposed one side, but even so, the other remained half-doubting and half-believing as they stubbornly insisted, “We will keep it by all means.”

Thereupon, Tang Junyu finally brought out the genuine tripod and compared it to the counterfeit. Both were splendid pieces, but when compared side by side, their divine aura and spiritual majesty revealed that the genuine article stood truly peerless in this world. However, bound by his earlier declarations, Du Jiuru could not bring himself to protest. He merely acknowledged it as a replica—yet refused to return it. While observers might have found Jiuru's mental state amusing at that moment, for the man himself, it must have been profoundly disquieting. Yet the world remained ignorant of these complexities—in Jiuru's household, a treasured tripod obtained for a thousand gold pieces became part of his legacy. When Jiuru died of old age, his son had preserved it.

There was a man named Wang Tinggu, whose style was Yueshi. This was an antique dealer of unsavory character, the sort who would sell a single stirrup to Kinpachi. This man knew that there was a remarkable Ding tripod in Du Jiuru’s household. Du Jiuru’s son was a profligate, squandering vast sums in the pleasure quarters until the household gradually fell into ruin. Taking advantage of this situation, Tinggu provided Du Sheng with eight hundred gold pieces, stating in advance: “Even should repayment prove impossible, if you would but relinquish your household’s kiln tripod...” Du Sheng was a monk; things unfolded exactly as Tinggu had schemed, and the tripod fell into Tinggu’s hands. Wang Tinggu was overjoyed and began pushing to sell it to Xu Liuyue—a prominent gentleman long known for his connoisseurship—with extravagant boasts of it being “the finest under heaven” and “worth ten thousand gold pieces.” Tinggu had likely targeted Xu Liuyue as an easy mark from the very beginning. However, Xu Liuyue, disliking Tinggu’s excessive craftiness, turned his face away. Tinggu was troubled that his scheme had failed, but there was nothing to be done. Being one who had always navigated the world through scheming and cunning, during lulls between scams he would pawn items, only to hurriedly redeem them when a promising mark appeared. Over this decade-long span—during which he orchestrated stratagems like moves in a game of Go—he ceaselessly sought out similar opportunities among kindred fraudsters, ever striving to reap sweet rewards by any means. Among them was a man named Ji Yinshi of Taixing, a person of some social standing, who became entangled with Tinggu.

Ji Yinshi had also long heard about the Tang family’s Ding ware tripod. He had never seen it, of course, nor had he heard any detailed accounts. He had merely yearned for its fame, knowing only that it was a renowned artifact. Wang Tinggu discerned that Ji Yinshi was a gullible customer and, recounting a conveniently concocted provenance tale—“This here is the treasured vessel, you see, and it came into circulation under such-and-such circumstances”—foisted a kiln tripod upon him. Had he at least sold the item obtained from Du Sheng, that would have been one thing—for even a counterfeit would have been Zhou Danquan’s splendid replica. But this was an utterly dissimilar object, a square tripod differing even in form. However, Ji Yinshi knew nothing of this; deceived by Tinggu’s words and overjoyed at having obtained a great treasure, he paid the vanity tax of five hundred gold pieces and was grinning broadly.

However, a man named Zhao Zaisi from Piling happened to pass through Taixing, and being acquainted with Ji Yinshi, he visited his home. Piling was where the Tang family resided, and since Zhao Zaisi was also from Piling, he had visited the Tang household and seen their renowned Ding tripod. When this visitor from Piling arrived, Ji Yinshi—swelling with pride like a tengu—declared: “I’ve recently acquired something extraordinary—none other than a celebrated artifact from the Tang family’s former collection. I had been meaning to request your esteemed appraisal, so your timely visit proves most fortunate.” As Zhao Zaisi nodded noncommittally, Ji pressed further: “Have you ever beheld the square Ding ware tripod from the Tang household?” At this, Zhao could no longer contain his laughter. “What do you mean? The Tang family’s Ding tripod isn’t square—it’s round with three legs. When you speak of a ‘square tripod,’ whatever are you referring to?” he replied. Hearing this, Ji Yinshi turned livid and retreated to his inner chambers, remaining absent for hours. Zhao Zaisi waited helplessly until dusk when Ji finally reappeared, his face still dark with anger. “That villain Wang Tinggu who foisted this square tripod on me is a detestable scoundrel taking me for a fool! Since I was Qu Jingyuan of Nanke’s patron, I’ve now dispatched written orders to Jingyuan.” “Jingyuan will settle this matter for me,” he concluded.

As expected, when Qu Jingyuan enlisted the authorities to pursue an investigation, Wang Tinggu—having committed a grave blunder—fled headlong to conceal himself, implored others to make apologies on his behalf, and separately presented counterfeit goods, narrowly avoiding being cast into prison.

Even if this anecdote had ended there and then, there would already have been quite enough humor and bitterness to savor—but since it continued unfolding, the affair grew all the stranger.

Among Wang Tinggu’s acquaintances was a man named Huang Zhengbin. Though claiming kinship with Wang Tinggu as fellow natives of Huizhou, this man moved among the gentry, collected modest quantities of bronzes and paintings, possessed some discernment, and—while not making it his primary occupation—engaged in semi-shady dealing through buying and selling. Such men are not uncommon in this world—appearing refined yet vulgar, seeming common yet curious, looking foolish yet clever, and though clever, ultimately proving foolish. He was a talentless talent. This Zhengbin would often exchange antiques he owned with Tinggu, have him handle sales, and took great pleasure in doing so. This man had entrusted his own Ni Yunlin landscape painting—an excellent masterpiece in a single scroll—to Yanhui, hoping to have him sell it. The price was one hundred twenty gold pieces, and it was nothing short of a masterpiece. He had entrusted it to Yanhui’s care, but given its immense value and fearing unforeseen complications during what might prove a protracted transaction—especially with Yanhui being such a careless man—he had discreetly marked his personal seal in an inconspicuous area beforehand, keeping this precaution entirely hidden from Yanhui. When Tinggu saw the Yunlin, it was so splendid that he couldn’t resist wanting it. So he commissioned a skilled forger to create an exact replica of it. When Huang Zhengbin came to retrieve the painting, Wang Tinggu intended to pull off a Mi Yuanzhang-style artful theft—handing over the replica while feigning ignorance. However, the other party was not without his own protective deity, and Wang Tinggu had failed to notice the clearly present hidden seal. Due to such a mishap, no matter how much time passed, it wouldn’t sell. Thereupon, Huang Zhengbin dispatched his manservant and instructed him to retrieve the Yunlin painting. Of course, he had made the man fully aware of the hidden seal. This man named Wang Foyuan had become quite clever by keenly observing even half of his masters’ habits through what he had seen and heard in daily life. So Foyuan went to Tinggu’s place and requested the return of the Yunlin painting. Tinggu consented and handed over a scroll. The scroll showed no differences whatsoever. However, Foyuan checked for the presence of the hidden mark at its designated location. How strange—his master’s seal showed neither trace nor form.

There should be none—what Wang Tinggu had just handed over was indeed a replica. Wang Foyuan smirked slyly to himself, realizing how things stood. Now, this man was the sort who’d try to parry a naked blade with nothing but a sheet of hōsho paper. "Outrageous—to hand over a replica counterfeit!" But he wasn’t one to recklessly swing the wooden sword of his own logic against his opponent’s venomous steel in direct confrontation. He accepted the replica Yunlin with an utterly blank expression. Without intercepting his opponent’s naked blade, he maintained his composure and sidestepped into safer ground. And he spoke these words. “My master did not merely instruct me to retrieve the painting; he also wishes to take custody of this Ding ware tripod here. The matter of its price shall be discussed at a later time.” It was a conversation that seemed to present an opportunity to sell the Ding tripod. Thereupon, Wang Tinggu delightedly brought out the aforementioned tripod and handed it over to Foyuan. Wang Tinggu thus concluded matters by passing Wang Foyuan an even longer naked blade.

At that moment，Zhengbin arrived．After inspecting the painting，he said，“If you can’t sell it，then return the original instead of scheming！” To this，Tinggu insisted，“Nonsense！This *is* the original．” “No！I won’t let you squirm away．I placed a hidden mark—where is it now？You think I’d swallow such a cheap trick？” “That’s just an excuse，” he retorted．“Return what’s mine，and we’re done．” They clashed violently，their struggle ringing through the air．Foyuan hooked his fingers around the tripod’s ears，anchoring himself against surrender． Tinggu—realizing victory meant nothing without reclaiming the vessel—lunged for it．But Foyuan’s grip held fast．The ear snapped．The tripod plummeted． A single *clang* reduced ten thousand gold’s worth to shards． Rage detonated through Tinggu．He headbutted Zhengbin full-force．Ribs cracked．Zhengbin collapsed．Chaos reigned．

Originally, Zhengbin had been facing adversity in recent years and was in dire straits—so much so that he had even considered parting with his prized Yunlin painting. Then came Tinggu’s contemptuous treatment: his possessions were seized, his ribs injured. Overwhelmed by anguish and torment, he succumbed by the following evening. Tinggu, now implicated in a manslaughter case and unable to remain in the region, departed and concealed his traces in Hangzhou. Thus, the replica created by Zhou Danquan returned to the earth.

The anecdote is already more than sufficient as it is, yet it persists—such is its profound transgression. Among the several types of Ding ware tripods that Wang Tinggu had previously collected, there existed one that—still bearing the designation of a famed artifact formerly owned by the Tang family—stood ready to deceive others through its counterfeit renown. When Wang Tinggu fled to Hangzhou, Prince Lu happened to be residing there at the time. Wang Tinggu encountered Yu Qiyun, an attendant of Prince Lu, produced the counterfeit tripod to show him, and boasted that this was the famed artifact formerly owned by the Tang family. And with Prince Lu’s mediation secured, he kept sixteen hundred gold pieces for himself, arranged to gift four hundred to the attendant, and sold it for two thousand gold. As the era approached the late Ming Dynasty—when all affairs were disorderly and no competent people could be found—they entrusted the key to the vault containing the tripod to a rather crude kitchen servant. This man then accidentally broke one leg of the counterfeit tripod. And fearing punishment, the man threw himself to his death.

Around that time, a large army entered Hangzhou. Prince Lu fled, and the attendant sank the discarded tripod into the Qiantang River, disposing of it—so the story goes.

With this, the account of this particular anecdote comes to an end; however, the various phenomena accompanying what we call antiques are surely not limited to this tale alone. Antiques are splendid; antiques are fascinating. However, I wish to enjoy myself by effortlessly paying a hefty vanity tax. No one would wish to associate themselves with the likes of Tinggu and Zhengbin. Moreover, no one would wish for even the most trivial person to be driven to suicide over something like breaking a tripod’s leg.

(Taishō 15, November [Kaizō])