Pathway to Japanese Literature

Thus, it may be written as 汨董 or alternatively as 古董. It is clear that the characters were merely borrowed to convey their sounds. Now, however, to explain how the term "kottou" (antiques) came to signify old objects: there exists a theory that "kottou" is a phonetic corruption of "kotou" (old bronze). According to this theory, antiques initially referred to bronze vessels, but in time came to encompass all old objects—from jade and stone vessels to paintings and calligraphic works. Indeed, when one cites and explicates lines like Han Ju’s poem—“Say not that the monk’s basket lacks a bottom; he returns laden with Jiangnan’s antiques”—it does seem plausible. This is because Jiangnan had many bronze vessels.

However, is the term “antiques” truly derived from “old bronze”? This seems somewhat doubtful. If it were truly a phonetic corruption of “old bronze,” one would expect the characters for “old bronze” to occasionally appear when using the term “antiques.” Yet even though characters like *Miedong* or *Gudong* are deliberately substituted, the characters for “old bronze” remain unused.

Zhai Qingjiang, citing *Tongya*, posited that “antiques” originated from the Tang dynasty labor chant’s lines “Dedong hena ya, Yangzhou tongqi duo” (得董紇那耶、揚州銅器多), claiming the phonetic “Dedong” formed the root of the characters “kottou” (骨董). “Dedong hena ya” was akin to “Enyaraya”—a rhythmic chant devoid of meaning, thus lacking standardized characters. Under this theory, neither Dedong nor kottou held intrinsic meaning. Yet because the two characters for “bronze vessels” in the chant’s second line—“Yangzhou tongqi duo”—followed this refrain, the term kottou came to denote bronze vessels and the like. From there, it expanded to encompass all manner of antiquities. The interpretation that “antiques” phonetically derived from “old bronze” was a clever but rootless explanation—a specious interpretation born of hasty reasoning.

Furthermore, Su Dongpo simmered various foods together and called this *kottou-geng* (hodgepodge stew). In this context, *kottou* denoted a miscellaneous assortment, corresponding precisely to the sense of *gotta*—a term for jumbled mixtures—in our country’s vernacular expressions like *gottani* stew or *gottajiru* soup. Nor did these characters carry any inherent meaning in their written form. Furthermore, the sound of something dropping into water was termed "antiques." This too merely used the phonetic value of the characters for “antiques” to represent the *koton* clatter of impact, with no semantic significance in the written components themselves. After all, antiques all derive from characters of Shina—that realm of written signs—but they are not ideograms born of meaning; rather, they are phonograms arising from linguistic sounds. Since these characters serve merely as borrowed vessels, there exists no need for convoluted etymological exegesis.

Be that as it may, the term "antiques" had come to encompass everything old—from noble objects like Zhou dynasty tripods, Han ritual vessels, and jade artifacts down to humble bamboo and wooden utensils; spanning calligraphies, paintings, model texts, zithers, swords, mirrors, inkstones, ceramics, and all such things without exception. And since there naturally existed people fond of antiques, so-called antique dealers who bought and sold them emerged; those who appraised antiques—that is, connoisseurs—came into being; and from grand institutions like museums and art museums down to small-scale collectors of old postage stamps and matchbox labels, the field of antiques had come to exist everywhere across the world’s cities and countryside. It was truly fascinating, thriving, deeply valuable, and profoundly meaningful. If one spoke ill of antiques, they were things smeared with dead men’s hand grime—hardly objects of pleasant sentiment—and even grand museums amounted to little more than thieves’ trophy showcases. But even if one had made such extravagant arguments, they would have remained crude speculations that gained no traction in society. It was through the esteem for antiques and the practice of collecting them that the history of world civilization gained flesh and blood, its context discerned; through them, past glories shone above our heads, their fragrance filled our breasts, compelling modern people to savor ancient civilizations—thereby leading them to pioneer civilizations distinct from those of antiquity.

Humans who lived solely by appetite and lust were still no better than dogs and cats; should they find contentment in these or rise above them, they inevitably became lovers of antiques. To put it plainly, it was only through cultivating a taste for antiques that one became truly human—pigs and cows never showed any inclination to dabble in such matters. Delving into antiques marked the maturation of one’s aesthetic sensibilities. Moreover, antiques served as tangible evidence of history itself. Scholars too, depending on their field, found themselves inevitably plunging headlong into the world of antiques as their studies deepened. For unless they engaged with these musty relics, they would remain forever adrift within the stagnant pages of conventional texts—thus even specialists in art, history, literature, and other disciplines discovered their research veering into antiquarian territory once they had exhausted commonplace knowledge. This reasoning held perfect validity: just as no true scholarship could emerge from studying the *Man’yōshū* in error-riddled printed editions, so too did certain academic fields demand antiquarian rigor—to do otherwise amounted to either falsehood or laziness. Given these implications, antiques deserved genuine reverence; taking pride in collecting them was only proper; while those incapable of appreciating them remained akin to dogs, cats, pigs, or oxen—pitifully underdeveloped creatures indeed. As for gentlemen of means—why shouldn’t they squander a mere hundred thousand ryō on Komachi’s authentic manuscript of her awkward verses, Yan Hui’s gourd inscribed with Confucius’s golden praises, or a fragment of Christ’s bloodstained cross? To then preen while declaring “What do you think of that?” might not be entirely without merit.

Handling antiques was truly chic; it was sophisticated. It was undoubtedly fascinating, undoubtedly noble, undoubtedly meaningful, and in some cases, undoubtedly beneficial for both individuals and society. If even someone like myself had been a wealthy person, I would undoubtedly have bought splendid counterfeits and forged works while grinning broadly. To fuss over avoiding counterfeits when buying antiques—how utterly petty! Hadn’t the ancients even spoken of buying horse bones for a thousand gold pieces? They said there were about twenty grades of Qiu Shizhou’s forged works, but if one simply bought twenty counterfeits, they’d graduate and obtain an authentic piece—nothing to it. After all, if you don’t pay tuition, you can’t learn a thing. Buying counterfeits and forged works was paying tuition—no unfair practice at all. Now, after paying hefty tuition fees, they finally purchased genuine articles and authentic works with fortunes. They must have been overjoyed; they must have been entitled to boast. They rejoiced; they boasted. Those large sums were Delight Taxes; they were Vanity Taxes. To call them fortunes—taking one yen from a ten-yen toad-mouthed purse was indeed a fortune to them, but whether one spent ten thousand or fifty thousand yen from a ten-million-yen cash box—proportionally speaking—it was no true fortune to them: mere trifling Delight Taxes and Vanity Taxes. And unlike income taxes, this Vanity Tax wasn’t remitted to the government to become salaries for what might as well be bandit-officials—it circulated directly to antique dealers, swiftly facilitating monetary circulation and invigorating the economy. This was no crude levy but a sophisticated tax—funds of an entirely different nature from grudgingly paid dues or those extracted after dunning notices forced men to pawn their wives’ obi sashes. Even among taxes, income levies (though not quite Dōjōji Temple’s vengeful serpents) bred countless resentments over money. Yet this Vanity Tax gleamed like coins and fireworks cast skyward—a radiant levy charged with momentum where payers cheerfully declared “Fifty thousand ryō? A trifle!” as they tossed it forth, while recipients exclaimed “Ah! Fifty thousand yen! With this modest contribution secured, my pride swells!” and joyfully accepted it. It could hardly have been called an unsightly spectacle. Hadn’t everyone paid the Vanity Tax? I too wished to pay the Vanity Tax in abundance. But—outrageous! To still be delinquent even after passing fifty years of life was truly inexcusable.

The one who had fully grasped how to make people pay this Vanity Tax was Toyotomi Hideyoshi—he was, after all, a man of style. The practice of paying the Vanity Tax began during the Higashiyama period, but initially it was the masters of Ginkaku-ji and Kinkaku-ji themselves who paid the tax. Truly, they were people of commendable intent. By Nobunaga’s time, Nobunaga had already converted his vassals’ military merits into Vanity Tax quotas, graciously bestowing upon them what were called antiques. Even someone like Hashiba Chikuzen no Kami fought battles and achieved merits, receiving tea utensils as part of his military rewards. In other words, when they achieved military merits equivalent to fifty thousand ryō, they received tea utensils in place of fifty thousand ryō. If that antique held a value of fifty thousand ryō at the time, then Lord Chikuzen’s receipt of such an antique was tantamount to him gladly paying fifty thousand ryō in Vanity Tax to acquire it. A friend of mine possesses a letter documenting that Hideyoshi, during his time as Lord of Chikuzen, received numerous tea utensils from Nobunaga as rewards for military merits. According to the appraisal of specialist historians, there can be no doubt about its authenticity. Thus, while it is considered that the originator of compelling payment of the Vanity Tax was not Hideyoshi but rather Nobunaga as his predecessor, it was Hideyoshi who greatly propagated this taxation system. Through Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s wisdom and might, the realm grew considerably brighter and more tranquil. Tea culture flourished remarkably through the accumulated momentum since the Higashiyama period. In tea culture as well, there must have been such momentum; heroic figures of profound spirit emerged one after another. Whether it be Matsunaga Danjō or Oda Nobunaga—men neither lacking in cultural sensibility nor wanting for leisure—all delighted in tea gatherings. However, it was Hideyoshi who fanned the flames most vigorously. Even the Ōshū warrior Date Masamune learned the tea ceremony while awaiting his sentence at Tangashima—such was the extent to which the tea ceremony was practiced. Of course, Hideyoshi had even brought a tea ceremony master along to the Odawara campaign. They procured intriguing artifacts from southern foreign lands and China, while also treasuring both old imports and domestic items—greatly esteeming things that were fascinating and imbued with character. Antiques came to be revered in society with tremendous momentum. Of course, they did not tout things that were uninteresting, lacking in taste, or mundane.

They treasured only those antiques worthy of making people nod in solemn agreement and murmur, “Indeed.” Appetite and lust have their limits; moreover, they are base desires—those shared even by cows and pigs. Humans cannot be satisfied with that alone. When appetite and lust are sated, when there is some leisure to be had—even as the flames of desire for profit and power continue to burn—if society shows signs of gradually stabilizing, rendering futile any reckless thrashing about in warlike fury, how could the desire for refined tastes fail to raise its head? Moreover, since tastes have hierarchies and rankings, the desire to stand atop the hierarchy of superiority naturally lends its hand—and given that tea gatherings exist as a communal rather than solitary interest, who could possibly fail to delight in them? And is there anyone who would not delight in obtaining fascinating, tasteful, extraordinary antiques surpassing what others possess? There are many seekers, yet few items to supply. How could antiques not become precious upon precious? From the daimyos above to the prosperous townspeople below, all vied to pay the Vanity Tax. The tax rate was driven ever higher as people swarmed and clamored to compete. As for the Kitano Grand Tea Gathering—though whether it was neither foolish nor uncultured I cannot say—when viewed from one perspective, Hideyoshi enveloped the realm in tea’s smoke and fanned the flames most vigorously, instigating what amounted to a competition of vanity. Now, furthermore, during that time, it was Sen no Rikyū—backed by the prestige of Toyotomi Hideyoshi—who shone with dazzling brilliance. Of course, Rikyū was a once-in-a-generation genius of exceptional spirit. Just as Hideyoshi was a once-in-a-generation figure in the realm of military governance, so too in the world of refined tastes was Rikyū a peerless individual who should rightfully stand at the highest position. The refined tastes since the Ashikaga period were strikingly advanced by this man. His intellect, discernment, and skill were far from ordinary. While eminent talents existed besides Rikyū, even if there were slight differences, they were all individuals who resonated with and followed Rikyū’s lead. Rikyū shone among them like the moon amidst a multitude of stars and stood composed as the leading fish guiding a school. That Hideyoshi favored Rikyū was indeed characteristic of Hideyoshi. Even during the Ashikaga era, there were individuals like Sōami and others who shared Rikyū’s social standing, yet none possessed Rikyū’s caliber, nor was anyone employed to the extent Rikyū was, nor did anyone propel and elevate the tastes of an entire era as Rikyū did. Rikyū was truly a celestial genius.

As for myself—knowing not a speck of the tea ceremony’s formalities—I nevertheless perceive how Rikyū’s benevolence upon our nation’s world of refined tastes persists even now, its grace still reaching us today. That Hideyoshi employed Rikyū to such an extent was quintessentially Hideyoshi. Rikyū had been tacitly appointed assessor of the Vanity Tax in those days. What Rikyū deemed excellent, the world deemed excellent. What Rikyū found intriguing and judged precious, the world found intriguing and judged precious. This occurred because Rikyū harbored not an iota of falsehood—those things he pronounced excellent, fascinating, or precious were truly so in their essence. Even a crude ceramic vessel, once deemed worthy by Rikyū’s judgment, transcended mere gold and jade. While other luminaries undoubtedly contributed to advancing that era’s aesthetic sensibilities, Rikyū—as supreme master—commanded fearsome authority, marshaling these stars and compelling society’s emulation. This stemmed from Rikyū’s unerring spiritual discernment, his selections remaining eternally valid in their excellence. Yet equally undeniable was how Hideyoshi—the age’s paramount power—illuminated Rikyū from behind like a great pyre, employing him reverently until he verged on sanctity. Thus did base iron turn to gold beneath Rikyū’s touch. While turning iron into gold may be alchemy’s domain, Rikyū was in truth a celestial immortal descended with mystic arts. The entire generation trailed in Rikyū’s wake. People competed to value what Rikyū valued. They willingly paid the Vanity Tax for this acquisition’s joy and pride—the tax rate itself being indirectly set through Rikyū’s appraisals. Though he likely never intended such lowly duties, circumstance’s tide had imperceptibly cast him in this role. Antiques came to equal hundreds in gold—entire domains or castles, even the spoils of blood-drenched campaigns. In essence, antiques became unbacked currency—with Rikyū serving as their unwitting mintmaster. The fiat notes issued by Saigō and Ōkuma swiftly depreciated, yet Rikyū’s currency retains value centuries later. Hideyoshi indeed ensnared a prodigy for this minting—and Rikyū proved an alchemist sage devoid of avarice. What spiritual force this unbacked currency wielded in ordering society remains beyond reckoning.

The one who reaped its benefits was certainly not Rikyu—it was Hideyoshi. Hideyoshi was a terrifying man who deployed immortals to serve his own purposes. Once the festival ends, straw dogs are no longer needed. When the unbacked currency had sufficiently circulated, its issuance was halted, and Rikyū was killed under fabricated pretexts. Since they did not endlessly issue more thereafter, the unbacked currency long retained its value. They came to be housed in the storehouses of daimyos and prosperous townspeople.

Upon reflection, even gold and jewels hold no true value in life—they are ultimately nothing more than promissory notes. If one observes thoroughly, antiques, gold, gems, convertible notes, and unbacked currency all amount to much the same—were they acknowledged and circulated, there would be nothing strange about tree leaves passing as gold coins. Since fine and fascinating antiques prove both more excellent and intriguing than gold ingots or diamonds, one should heartily pay the Vanity Tax in specie or banknotes and take pleasure in acquiring tea bowls or caddies with ineffable glazes—or any antique possessing merit—if so inclined; this constitutes enlightened discernment. Rather than the autumnal loneliness of being mired in logic, the vernal delight of transcending reason is preferable. A great Kansai magnate with a passion for tea ceremony acquired a single tea utensil for tens of thousands in gold on his deathbed, spent his final hours delighting in it, then passed away. That each hour equated to thousands of yen—there are those who mock this as absurd, but such mockery stems from stingy dispositions ignorant of the joyous realm beyond reason, being incapable of anything save treading endlessly through a hell of logic their entire lives. Because they fail to comprehend that even a million ryō, when set before refined tastes, seems no more substantial than tobacco smoke.

Antiques, no matter how one considers them, are not in any sense bad things.

For those who had grown elderly or wealthy, nothing surpassed having antiques pressed upon them to manage. Having seniors employ elixirs of immortality to obstruct the young made for wretched humor indeed. Better to assign elders toys befitting their station—let them sit quietly in corners wearing prideful expressions—as this constituted prayerful work for national tranquility. That children wielded celluloid trinkets while elders clutched Raku ware curiosities might as well be codified in elementary primers without objection. As for the moneyed class—inescapably cursed with surplus gold—mere Six Dynasties Buddhas or Indian deities proved insufficient for salvation. They required magnificent overpayment for Xia-Yin-Zhou relics: Daji’s fox-furred golden basin, Yi Yin’s culinary cauldron, Yu’s straw sandals. This became sacred ritual—mediating abundance and lack, rectifying inequities, soothing even socialist and proletarian deities through ceremonial redistribution.

But that aside, even those who were neither elderly nor infants, neither wealthy nor destitute—the so-called middle-aged middle class—were not necessarily averse to antiques. Such people were not exactly blind, yet lacking both the funds and resolve to willingly pay substantial Vanity Tax, they often became like wandering souls lost in limbo. However, the majority of those who set their hearts on or dabbled in calligraphy, paintings, and antiques were precisely these people. Thus, among them, those who were both intelligent and well-meaning—though they could not help it—could not deny their desire to lay hands on splendid high-class antiques. But this proved as futile as trying to climb a ladder to the clouds in pursuit of love. Thus, they ultimately found contentment in antiques befitting their station—middling pieces of respectable quality. The most intelligent and virtuous ones acted in a specialized manner: they narrowed the scope of their engagement as much as possible, then spent their years delighting within that domain. They maintained a single path and adhered to one stream—if it was painting, then within painting, centering on a specific school’s master; if ceramics, then within ceramics, focusing on a particular kiln’s era; if calligraphy, then Confucian scholars of renown; if maki-e lacquerware, then either the most ancient or recent styles—devoting their hearts and hands accordingly. This “conducting well-reasoned collection research” This being the wisest and truest method, there could be no dispute—for if one paid fitting tuition, their eyes would open splendidly to discern essence, and they would obtain refined pleasures most safely and without error. Yet again, the majority found such dutifulness too rigid to be enjoyable. Like moss scattered by water flowing to the four directions, they cast eyes toward Sesshū-esque pieces only to lay hands on Ōkyo-esque ones, showed interest in Utamaro-flavored works, itched to dig into Taigadō’s realm or Takeda’s fields, and—should fortune smile—even fancied acquiring Han Gan’s horses for a mere hundred yen. As per Chinese jests, they exhibited momentum toward purchasing oddities like Du Xunhe’s crane paintings. And though paintings alone might still have been tolerable, their whims sprawled further—to sculptures, lacquerware, ceramics, weapons, tea utensils—in restless diversity. Such people were by no means few in number, yet it was precisely these individuals who sometimes met with pitiable fates; even absent malice, should a touch of greed accompany their actions, they encountered outcomes—unlike purchasing goods at a department store—entirely of their own making. Among them were those of somewhat ill disposition who schemed to outwit antique dealers in pursuit of so-called “unearthed treasures.” Antique dealers might have acted composed and collected, but they were not running their shops as charities. After all, they had invested years in their trade and capital into their businesses to support their families. So if they intended to purchase a thirty-yen item for fifty yen after accounting for commissions and expenses, there was nothing wrong with that—but when buyers set their minds on acquiring fifty-yen items for thirty yen, things would not go smoothly in this world. It stood to reason that one might end up selling a five-yen item for thirty yen if things went awry. Yet even if someone had harbored such an audacious scheme in their heart—to buy a Kenzan plate for three yen and fifty sen with ever more brazen bargain-hunting zeal—there had been simply no way they could obtain even a Kenzan piece. Even if one could have bought an industrial promotion bond for a single yen and seen it grow to a thousand or even two thousand yen, the very notion of “unearthed treasures” ought to have been impossible. It was a malignant mindset, an inferior understanding, and what we called foolish intent. Yet when handling antiques—since they inherently possessed value and involved monetary considerations—even those who had not originally been base might unknowingly develop a tendency toward treasure hunting. This constituted one of the unsavory aspects of antiques.

The term "unearthed treasures" was inherently abhorrent, for it originally meant nothing other than objects dug up from beneath the earth or within burial mounds. Wretched men obtained splendid things by digging up graves with nothing but a single stick or hoe—that was what unearthed treasures were, an abominable state of affairs. The term “grave-robbing” had long existed in China as an ancient expression; from olden times, lawless men had dug into the tombs of nobles and others. The Three Strategies that survive today are said by legend to have been retrieved from Zhang Liang’s tomb—items he received from Huang Shigong—but the Three Strategies did not enter the world through such means. They were complete counterfeits. Yet the excavation of venerable ancients’ graves had indeed been practiced: evil monks once plundered a Ming emperor’s tomb, seizing its many treasures and even trampling the bones underfoot—only to be struck with foot ailments as divine retribution, until their deeds were finally exposed. Such abhorrent tales, repulsive even to recount, are recorded in miscellanies. The notion that Cao Cao built many decoy tombs to avoid excavation had been clearly disproven by recent scholarship; yet considering that even Wang Anshi believed such legends of decoy tombs and composed poems about them, one realized that grave-robbing had been by no means uncommon. In ancient Chinese custom, since high-ranking deceased were sometimes buried with jade placed in their mouths, it stood to reason that wicked men would dare plunder not only treasures from tombs but even pry the jade from skeletons’ jaws. I heard it was around Wei County or such places—even now, when farmers entered their winter agricultural off-season, they prepared hoes and spades, appointed leaders, searched through old graves everywhere, and engaged in what was called digging for unearthed treasures—or so the rumors went. This seemed no mere rumor. In Japan as well, there were occasionally those who committed outrageous acts—it was reported that some years ago in a certain western province, an incident occurred where a noble burial ground had been desecrated. Though even hearing it was abhorrent, the term "unearthed treasures" was undeniably rooted in such acts; thus, it became a word and concept that no one possessing ordinary human sentiments should use or entertain. Yet despite this, those with a treasure-hunting mentality abounded—with flea-catching eyes and hawk-like gazes, inwardly preparing for grand excavations. A tale where people were somewhat flawed, but their opportunistic instincts remained splendidly intact. Because there were many such people, the trade grew perilous; some even buried counterfeits produced in western regions out in eastern farmlands, deluding treasure-hunting gangs into believing they’d made splendid finds to please them—only to then set the hook. The gaudy fraud of burying Kyoto-made items in Korea and then properly hooking [customers] under the pretense of excavation also began.

If there truly existed those who unearthed treasures, they must needs be unscrupulous rogues. Moreover, should there be ones buying such unearthed goods cheaply to sell dear and profit thereby, these could only be merchants paying business taxes. Merchants invest years and capital, seasoned through a thousand trials at sea and a thousand in the mountains. Approaching each day as mortal combat—in this world where long-hoarded relics, inferior wares, second-rate and third-rate pieces abound while truly fine articles prove scarce—they stand poised at ruin’s brink where a single misjudgment spells disaster, endeavoring to appraise without error every manner of antique’s fitting value while securing rightful commissions: this constitutes commerce’s proper mindset. No room exists for carelessness or oversight. It resembles steering vessels through tempestuous waves. Layered turbulence remains this trade’s constant condition.

What could amateurs possibly achieve by barging into such turbulence? Allow me to present a tale sufficient to envision the present state of this antique world—a realm of layered turbulence and peril. However, none of these were fabrications of my own; they all had their origins. The so-called 'origins' were clear; if you so desired, I could disclose them. Ha ha ha.

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

In Kyoto’s Horikawa district, there existed a renowned antique dealer named Kinpachi. This was from when Kinpachi was young—trained by his father and having accumulated earnest efforts through personal diligence, his discerning eye had grown quite sharp. He now considered himself fully capable—no longer lagging behind his peers—a splendid, accomplished man. Indeed, across all aspects—with his vision reaching everywhere and his mind fully engaged—he had become capable enough that even were his father to hand over the shop, he could manage it entirely on his own. However, as with all elderly household heads, his father—driven by seasoned prudence and overflowing paternal care—likely still regarded him as somewhat unready, remaining steadfastly at Kinpachi’s back to shield him.

Kinpachi once traveled down to Osaka. As he passed through Fukakusa on the way, there was a single antique shop along the road. As it was a matter of business, with a quick glance around, he glimpsed a splendid period maki-e stirrup. "Hmm, what a fine stirrup!" he exclaimed, stopping to examine it. The piece was indeed remarkable in both age and craftsmanship—truly exceptional—but regrettably, only one remained. If they had been a pair, of course they would never have remained in such a shop—but even so, upon inquiring the price, it turned out to be a paltry sum. Ah—if they were a pair—with my skills I could surely sell them for thirty ryō—but with just one there’s no use; even for a small sum, buying something unsellable would amount to nothing. Though undeniably drawn to the stirrup’s exquisite charm, he glanced back repeatedly yet steeled himself to abandon it, descending to Osaka without making the purchase. That he refrained from purchasing such an unsellable item, fine though it was, proved indeed wise. However, after traveling some distance along the road, when he went to an antique shop near Kyōbashi—whether by coincidence or celestial design—there indeed lay the other stirrup, identical to the previous one. Hmm—so these had been separated and both left widowed! Got it! Buy this one, buy the Fukakusa one, pair them up for thirty ryō—he smirked inwardly even as he inquired about the price. They claimed it was high for a single piece, insisting something this fine remained rare even as a singleton—and indeed, the cost was hardly modest. Though it was relatively expensive, there was no help for it; since he had an ulterior motive, he purchased it at the seller’s asking price. Upon returning home, he immediately recounted this tale—naturally expecting his father to be pleased. But far from being pleased, his father flew into a rage. “You fool!” he rebuked. “Blinded by greed, you bought these without even checking if the stirrups matched!”

Kinpachi was no fool either. He realized with a start: “Oh no! “I will be more careful in the future! Please forgive me!” he kowtowed—but from then on became known by the nickname “Kinpachi of the Single Stirrup.” This was a scheme where they had priced a stirrup that originally only had one piece in Fukakusa, then taken a shortcut to bury its twin at another Kyōbashi shop for Kinpachi to “discover.” Had he not been hasty, he might have avoided deception; yet between wanting to outmaneuver others first and his false certainty from prior scrutiny—even Kinpachi forgot to check left and right before taking the bait. His father, with seasoned intuition, had sensed that pairing widow’s stirrups for profit was too fortuitous—yet even he hadn’t immediately verified them. Only Father thrust forth a paper candle to pierce greed’s darkness. Of course when searching Fukakusa again, no stirrup remained—Kinpachi’s sole gain being his ignominious moniker. Though eras differ, even today—should this ploy entice someone between Shinshū and Nagoya or Tokyo and Beijing—those swollen with avarice might still swallow the hook. The tale of Kinpachi of the Single Stirrup makes rather droll telling.

Shall I recount another old tale? This one appeared in the miscellanies of a late Ming figure—a rather intricate affair. Not only did it vividly portray the personalities of antique enthusiasts and dealers that naturally emerged within the narrative while articulating how profoundly treacherous were the dualities of attachment and greed clinging to noble artifacts, but it further evoked a faint awakening regarding antiques themselves. Whether this resonates with others I cannot say, but I found it deeply intriguing. Among the people appearing in the tale were renowned figures, and it was naturally considered not to be a fictional account.

Ding ware was a precious ceramic known to anyone with even a passing interest in antiques. It derived its name from being produced in Dingzhou during the Song Dynasty. To elaborate: within this classification existed Southern Ding and Northern Ding. Southern Ding referred to pieces created after the Song was driven south by the Jin, while Northern Ding—naturally more esteemed—originated from the Northern Song era under Emperor Huizong, that artistically inclined ruler, specifically during the Zhenghe and Xuanhe periods spanning approximately 1110 to the 1120s. There also existed what was called Xin Ding, but this was produced later during the Yuan period and did not qualify as true Ding ware. The essential character of Northern Ding lay in its white hue—when enhanced by a milky rinse-water glaze—which produced an indescribably fascinating charm; even pieces lacking grandeur possessed an allure that captivated.

However, here there existed a Ding ware treasure—a tripod. Since this was a tripod, it had likely been presented to the imperial court in its time—the quintessence of refinement, the pinnacle of beauty—truly a divine masterpiece that inspired awe. Initially, during the Chenghua and Hongzhi eras of the Ming Dynasty, it had been stored in Sanshui Shanfang by the Sun family of Zhuyang. Qushui Shanfang's master Sun was a great magnate whose lineage was continued by Sun Qifeng—renowned as an elegant connoisseur. Qifeng befriended eminent figures of his time: Yang Wenxiang, Wen Taishi, Zhu Jingzhao, Tang Jieyuan, and Li Xiya. In the fifteenth year of the Zhengde era, when Qifeng held a purification gathering at Nanshan—modeled after the ancient Lanting tradition—Tang Liuru created a painting for the occasion and composed a long poem. Thus, the Sun family stood distinguished not merely by wealth alone. Thereupon upon the pedestal of this Ding Kiln tripod, his friend Li Xiya composed an inscription in seal script and engraved it. Even Li Xiya’s inscription alone would have been treasured not only today but even in its own time. Such was the splendor of this tripod.

However, during the Jiajing era, ravaged by wokou (Japanese pirates), the Sun family—precisely because of their great wealth—suffered damages in every aspect, and their family fortunes gradually declined. And they gradually came to part with the precious items they had stored. The tripod finally passed into the hands of Jingkou’s Jin Shangbao. Afterward, Tang Taichang Ning’an of Piling persistently sought it until it finally came into his possession. This Ning’an was a man of status and wealth, cultured and skilled in appraisal—a learned individual without question—and thus his household held an exceptional collection of fine antiques. However, when the white Ding kiln tripod from the Sun family’s former collection arrived, all other kiln wares lost their brilliance to such an extent. Thus, those who appraised kiln wares across the land came to unanimously regard Tang Ning’an’s Ding tripod as the foremost treasure within the realm—unrivaled under heaven. Indeed, it was a peerless and supremely exquisite treasure, and without distinction between those who had glimpsed it and those who had not, a clamor of voices spread tales and rumors, evoking covetous drool from all.

Here was a man from Wumen named Zhou Danquan. He was an extraordinary genius with brilliant intellect and spiritual insight—a man who possessed both an eye and hand of genius when it came to fine arts and antiques. Once he boarded a boat from Jinchang bound for Jiangyou; passing through Piling along the way, he requested an audience with Lord Tang Taichang to behold the latter’s world-renowned Ding tripod. Knowing Danquan was no vulgarian through their prior acquaintance, Lord Tang gladly granted him an audience and complied with his request. Zhou Danquan lavished praise while scrutinizing every angle of the tripod—measuring its dimensions by hand and sketching its patterns onto paper from his pocket—before expressing gratitude for this rare fortune of beholding such an extraordinary piece and taking his leave. Then he set sail once more to continue his journey.

A little over half a year later, Zhou Danquan visited Tang Taichang once more. Then, with calm composure, Zhou Danquan expressed gratitude for their previous encounter before stating, “This humble one has acquired a white Ding tripod identical to Your Excellency’s own treasured piece.”

Tang Taichang was astonished. This was because what he had proudly proclaimed as peerless under heaven was said to exist elsewhere. “In that case, please show me the piece,” he said. Since Zhou Danquan had brought it with him, the man presented it without demur. When Tang took it in his hands and examined it—from its size to its weight, from its bone-like material quality to the harmony of its glaze color—there was not the slightest difference from his family’s piece. He promptly took out his own and compared them side by side—they were so identical they might have been 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 aligned as if crafted specifically for it. Growing ever more astonished, Tang Taichang nearly let slip a sigh before asking, “And from what lineage does this Ding tripod of yours descend?” Zhou Danquan smiled gently and said, “This tripod indeed originates from your esteemed household. “When this humble one had the honor of viewing your treasured tripod in your hall long ago, I fully grasped every detail—its dimensions and heft, form and essence—and committed them wholly to memory.” “Therefore, in truth, I crafted this one through imitation. To speak plainly, I would never engage in deceiving Your Excellency.” Zhou Danquan had long made it his practice to regularly visit Jingdezhen in Jiangxi, where he directed skilled artisans to craft replica antique kiln wares modeled after fine pieces. He preyed upon treasure hunters, avaricious types seeking bargains, and those who pursued precious artifacts through hearsay despite lacking discernment. His creations—from inscriptions and patterns to glaze hues—were all startlingly faithful to the originals. Truly there were fearsome individuals; given that such a man already existed during the Ming era, even today it would hardly be surprising if counterfeits he produced were being passed off as Northern Ding ware and carefully stored away as prized heirlooms in some household. Well, upon hearing Zhou’s account, Taichang found himself impressed once more. Thereupon he declared, “In that case, I ask you to bestow this new tripod upon me—I shall keep it stored alongside the genuine article as a companion piece for eternity,” and presented forty gold pieces. Needless to say, Zhou Danquan likely never produced another such piece thereafter.

This tale alone would quite teach antique enthusiasts a lesson—but the story continues further.

After many years had passed, around the final years of the Wanli era, there was a man named Du Jiuru in Huai’an. He was a merchant of great means who had gained renown for procuring splendid objects. He spared no expense in acquiring rare curiosities—to such an extent that even Dong Yuanzai’s formerly treasured Han jade seal and Liu Hairi’s once-collected Shang golden tripod had fallen into Du Jiuru’s possession. This Du Jiuru had heard rumors of the Ding tripod kept in the Tang Taichang household and had long been scheming to obtain it by any means possible.

By the time Tang Taichang’s household had reached his grandson’s generation, Junyu had become its master. Junyu, born into a distinguished family, was a man of lofty pride, opulent tastes, and sociable inclinations. Thus Jiuru brought a large sum of money to present lavish gifts in Junyu’s honor, requesting by any means necessary to view the famed Ding tripod and thereby satisfy his lifelong yearning. Junyu neither particularly favored Jiuru—who wielded money like a cudgel—nor, given his own pedigree, did he likely view him as anything but beneath contempt. “Very well, I shall show it to you,” he declared half in jest, keeping the genuine tripod securely stored away while presenting the counterfeit replica Zhou Danquan had crafted. Even this counterfeit tripod was of such caliber that Ning’an—the original owner of the genuine piece—had marveled at it. As for Jiuru, who had never laid eyes on the authentic vessel, he stood no chance of discerning its falsity. Utterly overwhelmed by its elegant sophistication and exquisite craftsmanship, he became thoroughly convinced of its irresistible beauty and fell head over heels in love. Thereupon he forcibly pressed a thousand gold pieces upon them, separately rewarded those who had mediated the arrangement with two hundred gold pieces, and thus seized the counterfeit tripod through strong-arm tactics before departing. The phrase “cunning theft and forceful seizure” has been documented numerous times since the Song era; for those enamored with antiques, such acts of plunder arise as a matter of course. Well, if such acts are to be pardoned, then pardoned they must be.

However, this posed a problem for Junyu. The reason was that what had been taken was not the genuine article. Initially, out of his lofty pride, Junyu had shown the counterfeit with a straight face—as if to dismiss some bloated merchant as beneath notice—but being by nature not an ill-natured man but rather a gentle one, he found himself unable to let matters rest as though he had deceived [Du]. Thereupon, he dispatched a retainer to inform Jiuru: “The item you took is in fact a counterfeit tripod.” “The genuine Ding tripod remains stored here with us. In accordance with the late Lord Taichang’s stricture against lightly revealing it to others, we refrained from presenting it for your inspection.” “However, given that you have already donated a thousand gold pieces to possess this counterfeit, even if you remain unaware, how can I not feel ashamed in my heart?” He had his retainer make [Dù Jiǔrú] understand: “Please return that tripod, and we will naturally refund the thousand gold pieces.” However, as is a common occurrence in the world, before selling an item, one thinks money precious and parts with the object; yet once parted with it, its absence grows lonesome, and lingering attachment arises, making one wish 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: “What do you mean?” “There could be no such counterfeit in existence.” “Even if it were a counterfeit, it is perfectly acceptable to me. Having received it, I have no regrets,” he retorted. “If you doubt our words so gravely,” said one party, “why not compare the two tripods side by side?” Yet even then, the other remained half-convinced and half-skeptical, obstinately insisting, “Regardless of circumstances, we shall keep what we have received.” In the end, Tang Junyu brought out the genuine tripod and had it compared with the counterfeit. Both were splendid pieces, but when compared side by side, the genuine article’s divine brilliance and spiritual authority made clear that there could be no second such treasure in all the world. However, bound by his earlier assertions, Du Jiuru could bring himself to say nothing that might alter the situation. In the end, he merely acknowledged it was a counterfeit and did not return it. Du Jiuru's state of mind at that time must have appeared quite amusing from the outside, yet felt utterly peculiar to the man himself. However, the world had no way of knowing these intricacies; in Du Jiuru’s household, the treasure tripod exchanged for a thousand gold pieces was passed down as an heirloom.

Du Jiuru died of old age, and his son passed it down as an heirloom.

There was a man named Wang Tinggu, whose style name was Yueshi. This was an unscrupulous antique dealer of the sort who’d sell a single stirrup to Kinpachi. This man knew that there was a notable Ding tripod in Du Jiuru’s household. Du Jiuru’s son was a profligate, so he squandered vast sums in the pleasure quarters, and the household gradually fell into ruin. Taking advantage of this situation, Wang Tinggu provided Du Sheng with eight hundred gold pieces, and then stated in advance: “Even if repayment becomes impossible, should you but hand over your family’s kiln tripod.” Du Sheng, being a monk, fell precisely into Wang Tinggu’s scheme, and the tripod ended up in Tinggu’s hands. Tinggu was overjoyed and began trying to sell it to Xu Liuyue—a prominent gentleman long renowned for his connoisseurship—by boasting extravagantly of it as “the finest under heaven” and “worth ten thousand gold pieces.” From the very beginning, Wang Tinggu had likely targeted Xu Liuyue as an easy mark. However, Xu so resented Tinggu’s cunning that he turned his face away. Tinggu was troubled that his scheme had failed, but there was nothing to be done. Being by nature a schemer who navigated the world through cunning, whenever he lacked an immediate mark to swindle, he would pawn items; when a promising target emerged, he would hastily redeem them. Over a decade—as though executing a grand strategem akin to a game of Go—he had during that time acquired various artifacts of similar lineage and provenance, all while scheming to siphon off whatever sweet profits he could. Among them was a man named Ji Yin-shi from Taixing, a person of considerable social standing, who became entangled with Tinggu.

Ji Yin-shi had also long since heard of the Tang family’s Ding kiln tripod. Of course, he had neither seen it nor heard detailed accounts about it. He had merely yearned for its fame, knowing only that it was a celebrated masterpiece. Tinggu, discerning that Yin-shi was an easy mark, spun a fabricated tale of provenance—“This is that very treasure, unearthed under such-and-such circumstances”—and foisted a kiln tripod upon him. Had he merely sold something acquired from Du Sheng, it might have been tolerable—and even a counterfeit tripod would have been acceptable if it were one of Zhou Danquan’s masterful replicas. But this was an object bearing no resemblance whatsoever, a square tripod differing even in form. However, Ji Yin-shi knew nothing of this. Deceived by Tinggu’s words, he paid the Vanity Tax of five hundred gold pieces in his delight at acquiring a great treasure, and was left grinning broadly.

Now, a man named Zhao Zaisi from Piling happened to pass through Taixing, and since they were acquainted, he visited Ji Yin-shi’s home. Piling was where the Tang family resided, and being from the same region, Zhao Zaisi had visited the Tang household and seen their renowned Ding tripod. When this visitor from Piling arrived, Ji Yin-shi—puffed up with pride—declared: “I’ve recently acquired a most remarkable item—none other than the famed antique once in the Tang family’s collection. Just when I had been wishing to seek your esteemed appraisal, your arrival proves most fortuitous.” As Zhao Zaisi nodded with noncommittal “Yes, yes” responses, Ji pressed further: “Have you ever laid eyes on the Tang family’s square Ding kiln tripod?” Unable to contain himself, Zhao burst out laughing: “What are you saying? The Tang family’s Ding tripod isn’t square—it’s round with three legs. When you speak of a ‘square tripod,’ what do you mean?” Upon hearing this, Ji Yin-shi stormed into the inner quarters and remained absent for hours. Zhao Zaisi had no choice but to wait until evening fell, when Ji finally reappeared, his face still flushed with lingering rage. “That scoundrel Wang Tinggu who pawned this square tripod on me—what a detestable wretch! Since I was the one who elevated Qu Jingyuan of Nanke, I’ve now sent him a written appeal.” “Jingyuan will surely resolve this matter for me.” True enough, when Qu Jingyuan—now affiliated with the authorities—moved to investigate, Wang Tinggu found himself cornered. He fled to hide his tracks, enlisted intermediaries to offer groveling apologies, and even gifted counterfeit artifacts until he barely escaped imprisonment.

Even if this tale had concluded here, it already held ample absurdity and bitterness—yet it continued, growing all the stranger. There was an acquaintance of Wang Tinggu named Huang Zhengbing. He was from Huizhou like Tinggu and claimed some familial connection. This man moved among the gentry, kept a modest collection of bronze ritual vessels, calligraphy, and paintings, and possessed a modicum of discernment. Though not his primary occupation, he dabbled as a semi-professional dealer—buying and selling as opportunities arose. Such men were not uncommon in the world—seemingly refined yet vulgar, ostensibly vulgar yet connoisseurial, appearing foolish yet clever, and though clever, ultimately foolish after all. He was an unaccomplished prodigy. This Zhengbing was always exchanging antiques he owned with Tinggu, arranging sales for each other, and finding amusement in it. This man had entrusted Wang Tinggu with selling an excellent landscape painting by Ni Yunlin from his own collection and was attempting to have it sold. The price was 120 gold pieces, and it was a piece not lacking in the slightest. Though he had entrusted it to Wang Tinggu’s care, the sum involved was substantial, and as time dragged on with no resolution, he feared some mishap might occur. Given that Tinggu was a man not lacking in carelessness, he preemptively affixed his personal cipher to an inconspicuous part of the piece—naturally keeping this precaution hidden from Tinggu himself. When Wang Tinggu saw that Yunlin painting, it was so splendidly fine that he couldn’t resist wanting it. So he commissioned a skilled forger to create an exact replica of it. When Zhengbing came to retrieve it, Wang Tinggu pulled off a clever theft in the manner of Mi Yuanzhang, intending to hand over the replica and feign ignorance. However, the other party wasn’t without divine protection either—Wang Tinggu had simply failed to notice the precisely placed hidden mark. Given such circumstances, no matter how much time passed, it wouldn’t sell. Thereupon, Huang Zhengbing dispatched his manservant with instructions to retrieve the Yunlin painting. Of course, he had made sure the man understood about the hidden mark. This man Wang Foyuan, having observed even the subtlest aspects of his masters’ conduct through daily experience, had become quite a clever fellow. So Wang Foyuan went to Wang Tinggu’s place and requested the return of the Yunlin painting. Wang Tinggu consented and returned a single scroll. The scroll showed no differences whatsoever. However, Wang Foyuan investigated whether the hidden mark was present at its designated location.

How strange! His master’s stylized signature was nowhere to be found. There should have been none—for what Tinggu had just handed over was indeed a replica. Foyuan smirked inwardly at this revelation. Now, this was a man who’d try blocking a naked blade with nothing but official parchment—outrageous that they’d pass off counterfeit replicas! Yet he wasn’t fool enough to swing reason’s wooden sword against venomous steel in direct confrontation. He accepted the forged Yunlin painting with practiced indifference. Rather than intercepting his opponent’s blade, he sidestepped calmly to safer ground. Then he spoke these words: “My master didn’t simply order me to retrieve the painting—he also wishes me to take custody of this Ding kiln tripod pending further discussion about its price.” This hinted at prospective buyers for the tripod. Delighted, Tinggu produced the aforementioned vessel and handed it to Foyuan. Finally, Tinggu passed over an even longer genuine sword to conclude their exchange.

At that moment, Zhengbing arrived. After inspecting the painting, he said, “If it won’t sell, return the original properly—this underhanded trickery won’t do.” To this, Tinggu insisted, “Preposterous! This *is* the original!” “No! I won’t let you wriggle out of this.” “I left a hidden mark. Where is it now?” “I’m no simpleton to swallow such a crude ploy.” “That’s baseless slander—returning the original would settle this,” he retorted. The two grappled fiercely, clanging and thrashing about, but Foyuan hooked his fingers around the tripod’s ears and clung fast, refusing to relinquish it. Realizing even victory would mean nothing if he lost the tripod, Tinggu tried to snatch it at an opportune moment—yet Foyuan’s iron grip on the ears foiled his attempt. The ear snapped; the tripod plummeted to the ground. With one resounding clang, what they had prized as worth ten thousand gold pieces lay shattered to dust. In that instant, Tinggu’s pent-up rage detonated. Wild-eyed, he rammed his forehead into his foe Zhengbing’s chest. Zhengbing collapsed with cracked ribs, reducing the scene to utter bedlam.

Now, Zhengbing had been in adverse circumstances in recent years and moreover found himself in straitened conditions—to the point where he was even considering parting with his precious Yunlin painting—when he suffered Tinggu’s contempt, had his possession seized and his ribs injured. The anguish and agony converged upon him all at once, and by the following evening, he had finally perished.

Wang Tinggu, now implicated in a manslaughter case, could no longer remain in the area. He departed, concealing his tracks by slipping away to Hangzhou. Thus did Zhou Danquan's counterfeit return to the earth.

Even though this tale had already been more than sufficient, the sin ran deep because it persisted. Among the several types of Ding kiln tripods Wang Tinggu had previously collected, there remained one that—still falsely touted as the Tang family’s former Ding tripod—stood ready to deceive others through its status as a celebrated artifact. When Wang Tinggu fled to Hangzhou, Prince Lu happened to be residing there at the time. Wang Tinggu met Yu Qiyun, steward to Prince Lu, produced the counterfeit tripod to show him, and boasted that this was none other than the celebrated artifact formerly in the Tang family’s collection. Through Prince Lu’s mediation, he secured 1,600 gold pieces for himself after earmarking 400 for the steward, having sold it for a total of 2,000 gold pieces. By this time, the Late Ming period had fully descended into decline—all affairs lay in disarray, and no soul found true satisfaction. They entrusted custody of this tripod to a somewhat rough-mannered kitchen servant, who inadvertently broke one leg of the counterfeit vessel. And so, fearing retribution for his blunder, the man cast himself into death’s embrace.

Around that time, a large army entered Hangzhou, Prince Lu fled, and the steward sank the ruined tripod into the Qiantang River, it is said.

With this concludes our account of this particular episode—yet the myriad phenomena accompanying antiques are surely not limited to this tale alone. Antiques are splendid; antiques are fascinating. Yet one would wish to pay a hefty Vanity Tax with graceful ease and enjoy them. None would wish to associate with the likes of Wang Tinggu and Huang Zhengbing. Nor would anyone desire even the most unfortunate soul to cast themselves to death over a broken tripod leg.

(Taisho 15 [1926], November, "Kaizo")