Pathway to Japanese Literature

A First Journey in Advanced Years

Crossing the Sea

Year after year, this hectic life had continued.
I thought I must not let this life continue forever.

I stayed home all year, and the phone kept ringing.
People came to visit constantly.
It was nonstop—utterly dizzying.
I doubted ordinary people could ever have imagined this chaotic, disorderly state.

Ordinary people must not have imagined my life was this hectic.
They must have imagined my life to be something far more composed—a perfectly settled existence, as serene as the depths of still water.
However, in reality, it was a life entirely removed from that.

I had been thinking for some time that I must do something about it.
This was not only detrimental to my health but also left no room for peace of mind.
Therefore, following the advice of a certain person, I built a house in the countryside.
Shōkō is the one who goes there.
Shōkō had also thought of that.
I too went there, treating it as my hideaway.
But due to the sequence of my work, I often found no time to go there; such aspirations—to be liberated from the shackles of this truly busy life and lose myself in meditation—remained unfulfilled as time passed.

In this sense, my upcoming trip to China was free of all such hassles, with an assurance that even if any arose, the people there would take care of everything.
Were the train to arrive at a station, I could simply disembark quietly.
I wouldn’t need to jostle through crowds at exits.
If boarding a train, my seat would already be reserved.
Thus those people would handle absolutely everything from start to finish.
I wouldn’t need to paint a single work there.
Having prepared autograph boards for Imperial Army comfort visits in Kyoto beforehand, once departing home I required no further tasks.
And so for about a month I could continue my journey wordlessly in a daze.
Of course my words wouldn’t be understood there anyway—leaving matters to others ensured thoroughness.
Thus I came to embark on a journey utterly divorced from years of accustomed life.

It could be called my first journey since birth—for me, a long-distance trip spanning many days.

This trip had been suggested to me long before, but realizing it had proven no easy task, and so it had remained unrealized; this time, however, I resolved to carry it out decisively.

On the evening of October 29th—I believe it was just past ten-thirty—I departed from Kyoto Station by train. The train would pass Osaka, continue straight along the Chūgoku Line, traverse the Kanmon Strait, reach Nagasaki, and from there we boarded the ship. On the 30th, we stayed overnight at an inn in Nagasaki, and around ten o'clock the following morning on the 31st, we boarded the Nagasaki Maru.

The weather was very good.
The ship was indeed around six thousand tons, I believe.
That night we slept aboard the ship, and by noon the following day, we were scheduled to arrive in Shanghai.

When dawn broke and I stepped onto the deck from my cabin, the sea behind us remained a vivid blue, yet the waters ahead had turned reddish.
Until then, there had been no islands nor anything to obstruct the view, yet ahead one could see rocks scattered in a chaotic jumble.
That area was said to be Shanghai.

On the ship, I was accompanied by Mr. Ta—Vice President of Central China Railway—his wife, and their secretaries.
As they were traveling from Tokyo to Shanghai, we met up at Kyoto Station and departed together.
On the ship, I crossed the sea safely while engaging in lively conversation with them.
It was a quiet voyage.
We finished lunch aboard the ship nonetheless, then after disembarking, settled into the New Asia Hotel on North Sichuan Road in Shanghai.
After that, we decided to tour around Shanghai's streets by car together.
We also toured areas outside the Concession.

Shanghai Sketch

How should I describe the impression left after touring all of Shanghai? In any case, it was an extremely lively place.

Yet the streets lacked the width of places like Tokyo’s Ginza, giving the impression of being strangely narrow.
Shops lined both sides.
Double-decker buses, cars, rickshaws, and the like passed through the middle of the street, and both sides were crammed full of people—people everywhere.
It was chaotically disordered and extremely lively.

We drove around the city like that about three times by car, got off at the French Concession, and since there was a large department store called Yong'an Company, went in to have a look.

And so I felt all sorts of things. What an inconceivable place Shanghai was. It was as if hell and paradise were pressed back-to-back between the city’s front and back streets. Moreover, wealthy people and beggars jumbled together in utter chaos. The lively streets contained numerous narrow side alleys resembling back lanes. Cluttered little food shops stood there. At those establishments, Chinese people took turns sitting down to eat greasy food with apparent relish under open skies. Under that shelterless expanse where no eaves provided cover, I imagined dust must surely be falling. Yet the Chinese people remained utterly unfazed, eating with undiminished gusto.

When one stepped further inside that place, what a shocking sight awaited—there existed an indescribably bizarre area akin to a den of beggars, and an uncanny shudder involuntarily ran across one's skin. What serious crimes might lie there. What secrets might be plotted there. It left such an impression.

On sunny days, there were those who sat in cluttered, malodorous spots, picking lice off themselves with relaxed expressions. Without a trace of shame or anxiety, they went about it with utterly ordinary expressions. An uncanny strangeness, like a carefree yet bottomless swamp, floated in the air. Outside that area, there were said to be two large gambling establishments—one where intellectuals and wealthy patrons gathered, and another where ruffians congregated to gamble. They had said they would show them to me, but neither the intellectuals nor the ruffians were to be seen. However, although we had come passing through the fronts of such bizarre houses, since it was said that the French Concession wasn’t particularly dangerous, we would cross the boundary of the Concession almost every day.

I was seated exactly in the middle of the car. On both sides of me sat my companions. The other vehicle carried the men of our party. We explored the city daily using two cars each time. The following day, as we drove out, we encountered tremendous commotion—there lay starved corpses abandoned in such places. Though I wished to examine them thoroughly without particular purpose, walking about revealed they were not isolated cases but scattered everywhere, with none sharing my curiosity. Passersby feigned ignorance as they walked past. In Japan such a scene would cause great uproar, yet here in this land all pretended not to see. No crowds gathered—it was a peculiarly wretched place.

When we went to Suzhou, it was a cold evening in mid-November. It was said that throughout Shanghai, about a hundred people had died from the previous night’s cold. Hearing this, I was utterly astonished. Just as one contemplated such realities existing, there were large dance halls outside the Concession. There, everyone reportedly danced straight through from around midnight until five o’clock the next morning. These pleasure quarters appeared to be places where leisured ladies, fashionable young men, and the wealthy would go. On one hand there were such places, yet it seemed to be a land of extreme disparity between rich and poor—a place where something like a middle class did not exist.

The movie theaters too were splendidly large establishments said to be thriving so vigorously that arriving even slightly late meant one could no longer get in.
People bought tickets during daytime hours.
There existed lounges of remarkable spaciousness.
Supplies were so plentiful that cars could be left waiting for two or three hours without concern.
Audiences would wait however many hours it took until performances concluded.
Cosmetics, woolen yarns, cotton fabrics—all lay heaped abundantly at shopfronts.

Chinese Theater

In Shanghai stood a large hotel managed by Jewish people—an eleven-story building.
When looking down from its fifth or sixth floor, the area beyond resembled a coastline.
Cars were lined up there like strings of beads.
Even before the hotel entrance, five or six cars always stood parked.
We never lacked for automobiles whatsoever.

I stayed in Shanghai for about four days.
During that time, I conducted military comfort visits.
At the hospital where bullets had struck and marks still remained, one could imagine days of fierce fighting.
The hospital housed many wounded soldiers.
That everyone was so delighted when we paid these visits brought me great joy as well.
And we were hospitably entertained in various ways.

I visited Shanghai Shrine.
November 3rd was Meiji Festival Day here, an auspicious occasion that saw several wedding ceremonies taking place.
There were brides in white ceremonial robes and three-layered kimonos with tall headdresses—all youthful figures who turned out to be Japanese girls without exception.
These were unions between fellow Japanese.

Before departing Kyoto, I had received injections for cholera, typhus, and smallpox.
The doctor had warned me extensively that unless I took great care, I might fall victim to Chiang Kai-shek's terrorism and face danger.
I had been cautioned that wearing Japanese clothing would make me conspicuous, but when walking through Shanghai's streets, I saw young women in kimono and elderly ladies of considerable age strolling about with perfect composure.
With nannies present and many Japanese people around, I felt completely at ease.

The interior of the Concession remained free from danger.
Near the hotel there was a vegetable market, where I saw many Japanese women going to buy vegetables.

On the final day, I watched a Chinese theater performance for about an hour. An excellent female-role actor was present. I couldn't follow the plot. The musical accompaniment was clamorous. Unlike Japanese theater productions, there were no props or backgrounds—only a curtain hanging at the rear of the stage. They would carry out physical gates only when needed, placing just a symbolic marker of a gate that would be promptly folded and stored after actors passed through it. This symbolic approach resembled the props used in Japanese Noh theater.

However, in Suzhou I did see some rural theater performances.
I had met Lieutenant Colonel Kaneko, head of Suzhou Special Service Agency, on the train returning from Nanjing when a group of Japanese people came crowding noisily into the carriage. Since Shanghai newspapers had featured my photographs and articles beforehand, people seemed to have seen them; likely recognizing our party as the subjects from those news reports upon boarding, they called out to me from across the aisle.
This man was Lieutenant Colonel Kaneko, who suggested showing me around Suzhou's finest gardens.
Accordingly, after settling into a Japanese inn called Shigeno House in Suzhou as requested, I eventually visited his official residence.
It was an impressively large and splendid government residence where I was served a lavish dinner.
He proved quite talkative, his conversation flowing endlessly from one topic to another.

On our way back from there, we watched a play. Lieutenant Colonel Kaneko suggested having my secretary guide us to the theater at that time, so he took us there by car. This secretary—perhaps owing to his connections—proposed entering the dressing room, which led to us being shown around it. As we climbed up to the cluttered second floor, we found it to be a single room where all actors were costumed according to their respective roles—emperors, charioteers, and various others. The actor playing the emperor had a high nose and handsome features. Female roles mingled among them too. Finding it all novel, I sketched them. When I moved my brush swiftly to capture their forms, someone would peer at my sketchbook and murmur approvingly, whereupon nearby actors pausing their preparations would come look too. Returning from the stage while adjusting collars, they approached as if hoping to be drawn themselves. I thought such rural theater dressing rooms possessed a uniquely interesting quality instead.

The actors’ facial makeup possessed a fascination unseen in Japan. The clown actors would paint their nose tips vermilion, add a line or two around their cheeks with ink and white powder, apply red and yellow to their foreheads—all creating an indescribable guise that defied expectations—and since everything was symbolic, there were no realistic minutiae; it remained remarkably simple. No sooner would they drape some special costume over themselves than they had fully transformed into their intended roles.

Courtesans

Exiting the theater and walking along a dark stone-paved road, we came upon a geisha house. As we ascended to the second floor, the room had chairs lined up, with a grinning man playing a Chinese fiddle at one end; presently, a geisha emerged there. The geisha wore rouge on her cheeks and sat beside the fiddle player to sing an unintelligible song in time with the instrument. When the song ended, she drank tea and left immediately. The next geisha who arrived sang in the same manner before departing. This superficial encounter might explain why neither these women nor this room held any particular beauty—nor could they be called beautiful. Yet even in such places, it seemed men sought amusement. As I became absorbed in these peculiar musings, I noticed that young geishas without white powder appeared to specialize solely in singing songs, while instrument playing remained the men's domain. The station master had accompanied us here too. Generally speaking, station masters were individuals thoroughly acquainted with local conditions, and whenever I disembarked at a station, I would meet each one in their office to receive guidance. When I visited Yangzhou, a station master had even shown me a manju shop.

Yunlin Temple

I went from Shanghai to Kangzhou.
In Kangzhou, I stayed at an inn called Xiling Hotel situated on a hilltop that offered the finest view of West Lake.
Around two o'clock in the afternoon, I visited the military headquarters and military hospital.
Then before sunset, I arrived at this inn.
There I developed a fever.

In truth, I had caught a cold while still in Shanghai.
On the evening before departing for Kangzhou, I had gone to see a dance hall in Shanghai.
Though I had written of this earlier, the dance hall formed a vast space.
Its center had wooden flooring.
There I felt slightly chilled.
It seemed I had already contracted the cold by then.

When I arrived at the inn in Kangzhou, I hadn't been particularly concerned, but I began sneezing incessantly. So I took some medicine and went to bed. When I took my temperature with a thermometer, it showed a fever of about 37.8 degrees. I took the medicine, kept myself warm, and quietly stayed in bed. The next day, my fever still hadn't subsided, so a doctor came and advised me to stay warm and rest, which kept me in bed the entire day. The following day, fortunately my fever had broken, but refraining from going out, I spent about three days recuperating quietly at that inn. And on the fourth day, I went to see the two temples in Kangzhou's hillside area. The temples were Gyokusen-ji and Unrin-in. This place was after all a battlefield site where the Imperial Army had advanced. The mountain gate among others was half-shattered. As it was a desolate hillside area that still seemed dangerous, fourteen or fifteen soldiers from the military provided an imposing escort with a machine gun-equipped truck. Perhaps because of this precaution, we were fortunately spared enemy attacks and could complete our pilgrimage without incident.

Gyokusen-ji had a large pond.
The pond contained beautifully clear water.
Countless large koi were swimming about.
A monk from the temple brought something resembling millet straw, saying he would feed the koi, so I gave it to them.
The monk looked exactly like one you’d find in a Southern School landscape painting, and it was said he ate the same food he gave to the koi.
From there, taking the car up the hillside led us to Unrin-in.
Here, there were girl guides around five or six years old.
They were all children from poor families.
Moreover, their Japanese was remarkably fluent—when had they learned it?
When we got out of the car, the girl suddenly ran up and said, “Good day.”
“Please allow me to guide you.”
“Well,” she said.
Here, there were boy guides and adult guides as well, but surpassing them all, this girl seemed to earn the most.
She took the lead and briskly guided us onward.
In the depths of the temple, there was an air-raid shelter.
Now it too became one of the tourist attractions.
Each person held a candle to illuminate the dark interior as they entered, lighting their way, but the inside proved to be surprisingly spacious.
There were several partitioned rooms illuminated by candlelight—bedrooms, a bathing area, a meeting room, a toilet, and others.
They wound and twisted as they continued.
Then, when the aforementioned girl guided us with remarks like “Please be careful of Asumoto,” even I couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

Of course, Buddha statues were enshrined in the temple. However, they lacked the dignity and awe-inspiring quality seen in Japanese Buddha statues. Moreover, whether painted or pasted on—I couldn’t tell—the statues’ gold coloring wasn’t true gold but bore an oddly reddish tint that left an unpleasant impression.

I stayed at West Lake for about four days starting November 5th, though the area wasn’t particularly cold. Traveling by boat across the lake revealed islands dotted with pavilions favored by literati, making for a scene rich in charm throughout. The Sudi Embankment too possessed an elegant grace. On rainy days especially, there was an indescribable bright beauty in the misty rain that drifted through the air like smoke.

The Qiantang River, its far shore blurred by rain, evoked the very image of a Southern School ink landscape painting—hazily beautiful.

Tangzi Child Figures

Purple Mountain in Nanjing appeared perfectly framed by the window of the inn where I was staying, yet come evening, it transformed into an extraordinarily beautiful sight.

The mountain’s shape had angular peaks reminiscent of Mount Fuji’s summit area, and when the setting sun struck them, they turned completely purple.
And though I knew not why through what relation, the roof tiles of houses at its base shone golden and were truly beautiful.

I thought the name Purple Mountain was indeed fitting for this scene, but come morning, those golden houses that had seemed as beautiful as a dragon palace now appeared as truly shabby rooftops, utterly unremarkable.

Over Kangzhou’s Qiantang River had once spanned a bridge, but during the Incident, enemy troops blew up its central section and fled, leaving it severed and collapsed into the river.

Near the hotel there stood a mountain where a Taoist priest dwelled within its slopes.

It was said they had resided there continuously since ancient times, but I was unable to visit them due to conflicting circumstances.

In Zhenjiang stood Kanro-ji Temple and Kinsan-ji Temple.
Viewed from Kanro-ji Temple, the land below formed a lake where reeds and rushes grew in endless stretches.
They say people harvest these reeds and rushes to craft objects.
The production value of such crafts reportedly reaches substantial sums, which explains why reeds and rushes are so highly prized here.
Kinsan-ji Temple proved an impressively large complex.
Though situated quite far away, one could easily view it by car.

When I went to Kanro-ji Temple, stone steps stretched continuously upward. At the base of the stone steps stood a squalid dwelling. From there emerged children of about four to ten years old—all from poor families—who pushed against pilgrims' waists from behind as they climbed those steps. The gratuities received became these children's livelihood. Among them were impoverished children whose hairstyles recalled those of Tang-era child figures—some with hair left only at the forehead or above the ears, the rest closely shaven, their remaining strands braided into triplets or gathered and tied. I found myself gazing with peculiar nostalgia at how such customs, so reminiscent of child figures from ancient paintings, persisted in this remote countryside.

About three children would push at my waist to hurry me along, but since I couldn't walk so quickly, they'd tease me with rhythmic chants of "Hurry-hurry! Hurry-hurry! Slow-slow!" And among them, I noticed that adorable children—ones that evoked Tangzi child figures—were also mixed in.

Yanyu Tower

On the return journey from Kangzhou to Shanghai, I stopped by a place called Yanyu Tower in Jiaxing.

The place called Jiaxing was structured somewhat like an island.
The house where I stayed appeared Chinese-style from the outside, but inside it was an inn adapted to Japanese tastes.
The handrails were done in Chinese style, with Taihu rocks placed in the garden.

Staying at this inn, when I was performing my morning ablutions, a very large bird that had grown accustomed to humans came quite close.
It was a magpie with its feathers divided into white and black.
These were what people commonly referred to as "China birds," and there were many of them.
However, there were also jet-black birds like those seen in Japan.

To reach Yanyu Tower, one first got out of the car and walked a short distance before boarding a boat—what they called a guniang boat. There were also boats rowed by young girls. They said it was the prettiest among them who did the rowing. These boats were their very homes—the entirety of their existence. I too boarded one to sketch the guniang. Inside lay a red blanket spread out where they slept curled up, making these narrow vessels their dwellings. Three woven reed screens resembling ajido blinds stood in the boat, with a dressing table and household items arranged at its center. Most housed mothers and daughters, though some held just two sisters living together.

Among these daughters of the guniang boats were some quite beautiful ones who wore permanent waves, but unlike those in Japan, they styled them in Chinese fashion, their Chinese clothing and hairstyles harmonizing perfectly. The girls applied light makeup. Moreover, their complexions were delicately smooth and beautiful. Could it have been due to their custom of frying everything in oil that their skin was so remarkably beautiful? Yanyu Tower in Jiaxing was an island in the lake, a place of splendid scenery.

His Excellency Wang Jingwei

After returning to Shanghai, we departed for Nanjing on the 13th at 8 o'clock by express train, arriving around 3 o'clock that afternoon.
We entered Nanjing's city interior and settled at the Capital Hotel.
After changing into fresh clothes, I was scheduled to have an audience with His Excellency Wang Jingwei.
As the appointment was for 4 p.m., I promptly set out.

His Excellency Wang Jingwei’s reception room was an exceptionally spacious chamber where chrysanthemum flowers bloomed abundantly with fragrance.
Countless large potted chrysanthemums—blooming in yellows and whites, their fragrance rich—presented a truly splendid sight.
A six-panel folding screen depicting cranes on sand-scattered ground had been erected, this being the work of a Japanese painter’s brush.

It was said that His Excellency Wang Jingwei was proficient in Japanese, but he still spoke in Chinese, and the interpreter translated it into Japanese to address me.

“What kind of painting style do you practice—landscapes or figures?”

I stated that I paint genre paintings.
When someone from Central China Railway mentioned that being sixty-seven meant I was already on the verge of seventy, His Excellency was greatly astonished.

“To have resolved to come all this way at your age.”

With that, he expressed his admiration.

Though I didn’t understand Chinese, the atmosphere remained supremely cordial, and I found myself partaking in an utterly relaxed conversation.

The photography team from that newspaper company was there.
The Central China Railway staff were also scheduled to take commemorative photographs.
His Excellency Wang Jingwei, remarking in Chinese that the indoor lighting was likely inadequate at that moment, stepped out into the garden. He personally closed the doors behind them and guided the entire group to a sunlit spot with good illumination.
There too, yellow and white chrysanthemums bloomed in profusion, emitting a truly fine fragrance, but as it was decided this area would be suitable, everyone lined up there and had their photograph taken.

Even from fragments of our conversation, I discerned that His Excellency Wang Jingwei possessed considerable depth of artistic discernment regarding painting, and I found myself bowing my head in profound respect.

Guanghua Gate

The next day, hearing there was a museum in this area, I promptly went out to see it.
I had set out in eager anticipation, thinking that at the museum I would surely be able to see many fine works by people of old, but upon entering, contrary to my expectations, there was nothing that particularly stood out as worth seeing.

There were large jade and stone slabs inscribed with delicate characters, an abundance of Qianlong-era ink sticks and vermilion pigments, and scrolls of calligraphy as well—but regarding paintings, for a nation so renowned in that art form to not possess a single work worth seeing left me feeling profoundly disheartened.

Other than that, there were heavy stone Buddhist statues that seemed immovable, and taxidermied animals. I saw taxidermy specimens of tigers, leopards, and birds.

Unlike Japanese museums where one could view exhibits simply by visiting at any time, here prior application was required before visiting—when we went to see them, they would unlock each room one by one with a key to show us, such was the state of affairs.

Japan is a national polity that constitutes this very national polity. Because it is a national polity without peer among all nations, even when considering only ancient masterpieces, numerous works have not been scattered or lost since antiquity but remain properly preserved.

When visiting Japan’s distinguished families or temples，not only were Japan’s ancient masterpieces preserved with care，but China’s exceptional works as well．Foreign cultures had been meticulously preserved．What a profoundly grateful thing this was．As a Japanese citizen，I felt great pride and joy．Yet in China，such things had vanished．China，through those ceaseless revolutions，had scattered and lost its own precious paintings—a loss truly too grievous for that nation．

Then I walked through the recent battlefield sites. I visited Guanghua Gate. Fortunately, an officer who had been directly involved in this battle was present, and he kindly provided detailed explanations of the Imperial Army's fierce struggles during those days. We climbed to the top of the castle gate where he narrated with vivid immediacy—as if one could grasp it physically—how enemy forces had been positioned there and such battles had unfolded. It was said that where we now walked had been filled with Chinese soldiers' corpses, and here and there beneath the gate could be seen small earthen mounds rising slightly from the ground.

When Shōkō had visited, it was said bones still remained here and there—exposed to the rain with autumn grasses blooming among them—and he had described feeling an indescribably mystical sensation; but when I went, none of those desolate sights that pained the eyes remained at all. There were grave markers for members of the Imperial Army who had fallen in battle around that area, with flowers laid in offering. The officer’s account was so vividly realistic that all listeners found themselves unable to suppress their welling tears.

Tranquil Scenery

I viewed sites like Sun Yat-sen’s Mausoleum and the Ming Xiaoling Mausoleum along with their stone figures and beasts; the autumn foliage was truly splendid.

Nanjing was quite a good town.
Qinhuai—this was a place poets once celebrated in verse, where painted pleasure boats had graced summer nights of remarkable beauty—now lay with murky waters, its once-ornate vessels reduced to broken hulks littering the banks.
At the edge of the bridge were crowds of beggars.
In that area, food shops had opened their stores under the open sky, and Chinese people gathered around pots to eat oil-fried dishes.
Moreover, in such narrow streets, there were also people sewing outdoors.
The townspeople’s meals were also taken out in the open.
At the end of the street stood an elementary school, where a child acting as class monitor wielded a stick to reprimand outsiders trying to enter.
Soon, the students began to leave.
The students’ attire varied considerably, yet none appeared disheveled.
When I saw children on their way home from school spending a coin or two to drink sweet soup, I found myself struck anew by the peculiar resilience of Chinese digestion.
Hygiene and such concepts seemed to hold no meaning whatsoever for the Chinese people.

The side streets of Japanese towns had considerable width even when called alleyways, never being as narrow as those here. In Chinese cities, when cars entered the side streets branching off main avenues, people simply could not pass through. Wherever one went, the side streets were extremely narrow. The houses on both sides were flattened structures with continuous wall-like surfaces, only opening here and there with entrances gaping like mouths. When I peered inside, every last one was dark. Given this, it was no wonder one couldn't live within these houses. It could be said the interiors served solely for sleeping and eating. With no sunlit rooms like those in Japanese houses, residents seemed to deliberately bring their food outside to eat.

Is China abundant in stone? Wherever I went, the streets were stone-paved. When riding a rickshaw, since it ran over cobblestones, the constant jolting proved painful. Moreover, the shafts were unreasonably long. When riding in this rickshaw, lying back and being jolted upward gave me the sensation of being tossed about by great waves.

Passing through a cluttered street, there would be a somewhat affluent house; upon entering inside, Taihu rocks were placed in the garden with trees arranged. When exiting that, there would be open-air toilets. Haircuts were also done outdoors. When I began sketching that, curious children and adults gathered around. Everywhere presented the same spectacle of curious onlookers. Barbers too would abandon their customers mid-cut and come to watch the sketching. The customers waited without uttering a single complaint, sitting silently until the barbers returned and resumed their work.

When so many people swarmed around, what an overpowering stench there was….

A woman was minding the shop while eating her meal. A large pot contained yellow rice, which she ate without side dishes, crunching away. Perhaps this counted as being grateful to have anything edible at all—apparently many couldn’t even obtain that much.

When I entered Ōgiya to shop, two beggars followed me inside. Beggars were indeed numerous.

When I went to Xuanwu Lake, there were many willows here. There were painted pleasure boats, and it was said that in summer, lotus flowers bloomed splendidly. Willows hung their branches over the embankment, and cows were left to graze in that area. The cows were extremely composed and gentle. They walked calmly and leisurely without butting horns at each other. A single girl accompanied them, creating a tranquil scene.

At times donkeys would pass by, or pigs would come in large processions. It was here that I could behold rare scenes utterly unseen in Kyoto or similar locales.

Yangzhou Cuisine

On the way back from Nanjing, I went to Zhenjiang and there visited a restaurant called Kagetsu.

This establishment had tatami mats laid out, and from the room across came the sound of a shamisen—elements that faintly evoked memories of the homeland.

The soldier who had coordinated with the military was also with us, but it seemed that having a relaxed drink together at such a restaurant was enjoyable, as he appeared to be having a splendid time.

Eventually, under that soldier’s guidance, we boarded a boat to Yangzhou and arrived at an inn called Ryūya.

There, the station master took care of various matters for us.
I wanted to sketch women untouched by modernization—those quintessentially Chinese women wearing their hair in traditional topknots.
Modern Chinese women had all become Westernized, and young girls sported perms.
Rather than that, I absolutely wanted to sketch women who retained their purely Chinese-style appearance.
When it came to purely Chinese-style people, I only occasionally saw middle-aged women, so I searched for such models.
However, Yangzhou had been renowned since ancient times as a birthplace of beauties, and it was said that even Yang Guifei of the Tang Dynasty hailed from this place.
I had heard that if one went to Yangzhou, there would surely be such women.
However, the station master had searched for a suitable Chinese woman working at the governor’s office here and brought her to me.
She was the middle-aged woman with the Chinese-style topknot I had been seeking.
Fortunately, since she had come all the way to the inn, I was able to sketch her profile and three-quarter views to my heart’s content.

That evening, the Governor was kind enough to host a dinner in my honor.
After dusk fell, I went out by rickshaw.
The cuisine here was Yangzhou cuisine.
Yangzhou cuisine was somewhat light, which struck me as unusual given how it differed in character from ordinary greasy Chinese dishes.
However, being naturally a light eater, I partook of shark fins, some brain matter, and various other delicacies but couldn’t manage them at all; I only nibbled on bamboo shoots and shiitake mushrooms, and merely tasted Yangzhou cuisine for reference.

A Landscape with Cranes

At the banquet in Nanjing, I was able to meet a beautiful young lady.
At night she wore heavy makeup, but during the day her cosmetics were applied very lightly.

Well then, the day after staying one night in Yangzhou, I traveled up the canal in a roofed boat.

The boat was operated by a daughter and her mother; that day brought truly fine weather—serene mountains and waters, a bridge in the distance crowned with five roofs. This bridge, I was told they call Five Pavilion Bridge, was indeed beautifully colorful. We moored the boat by that bridge, climbed up onto it, and when I looked down across the way, five or six houses were visible scattered about, with children and water buffalo here and there, sheep left to graze—a truly serene landscape. As it was autumn, there were no flowers, but had it been peach blossom season, I thought this must surely be what they call Wu Ling’s Peach Blossom Spring—a realm apart.

Then we continued onward by boat. There were thickets here and gentle slopes there, and to me those hills seemed like Mount Penglai. There stood halls there—the larger one was called Heishan Hall, while the smaller one was known as Kannon Hall, I was told.

The scenery around there was also exceptionally beautiful, with a mountain stream running through it, and when I thought a large bird had come down, lo and behold, it was none other than a red-crowned crane. As I gazed at it, I felt as though wandering through a fairyland—so intensely that it seemed a white-haired sage might appear at any moment with a young attendant carrying a koto. Had there been landscape specialists present, they would surely have been green with envy—so many excellent painting subjects lay before me.

Suzhou's Ambience

Then we went to Suzhou.
From the train window, I gazed upon a leisurely scene of chattering birds and magpies flocking through the sky.
There were children riding water buffalo that ambled peacefully and sheep scattered here and there at play.
Farmhouses stood among crumbling dwellings whose very decay paradoxically exuded an elegant charm that pleased me.
Wherever a stream flowed, Chinese country girls washed vegetables.
In every field, grave mounds lay scattered like earthen dumplings.

But once again I thought... What an immense country China was—and not merely in its territorial expanse.

The train was large and roomy inside, making for a comfortable journey.

Suzhou’s Hanshan Temple itself held little remarkable as a temple, but beyond it lay the famed Maple Bridge. Standing atop that bridge and letting my thoughts drift, I reflected how fitting it was that this very place—where “A Night Moored at Maple Bridge” took shape and “Hanshan Temple’s bells resounded far and wide”—had given birth to the verse “Falling moon, cawing crows, frost filling the sky...” Yet the surrounding scenery remained truly splendid.

I visited Suzhou’s Lion Grove Garden; there were many Taihu rocks there, and it was quite a spacious garden.

I had seen Taihu rocks in paintings, but the actual ones differed considerably from their depictions.
First, the Taihu rocks were remarkably large.
Moreover, unlike their painted representations, the real ones appeared ochre-colored.

Lion Grove Garden had a pond at its center.
At the rear stood a gate, Taihu rocks, bamboo grass, and plantains. The moss here had weathered to a pale greenish-white hue, while that growing in shaded areas took on an ultramarine tone.
Qiu Ying’s depictions of Taihu rocks—adorned with ultramarine, verdigris, and beautifully mottled moss—were revealed to be greatly idealized versions when compared with the actual stones.
In reality, Taihu rocks far more frequently appeared as these massive formations than as the charming specimens depicted beside flowers and birds in Southern School paintings.
They had large holes through which a person could pass.
There were also ones that had been joined.
The exceptionally large ones appeared to have been connected midway—traces of such work were visible.

I was also shown the rooms of a wealthy woman here.
It had vermilion-colored stairs and handrails, making it quite beautiful.
The second floor used wooden flooring, but the rooms downstairs had stone paving, and it occurred to me they would be cold in winter without heating.
Upon entering a gate, there was yet another.
Passing through several gates, I finally reached the owner’s parlor.
Just seeing this made me realize how deeply China’s wealthy class guarded against external threats.
The long, long history of anxiety stretching back to ancient times had inevitably instilled such wariness in them.

It was said that Chinese people never drank to the point of collapsing, no matter how much alcohol they consumed.
Because even if they were to drink themselves to death, there would be nothing to be done.
I came to realize this existed as another facet of those otherwise supremely carefree Chinese people.

Chinese shoes

Returning from Suzhou to Shanghai, I attempted sketches of street scenes, food shops, barbershops, and the like.

Wondering how exactly the clothes worn by Chinese people were constructed, I decided to purchase a Chinese outfit.
At the sales counter of a specialty store selling Chinese clothing and Chinese textile fabrics, two garments I liked were displayed side by side, so I requested one with a good pattern.
Perhaps for an obi—there was also a Japanese person buying cloth with a beautiful ground pattern.
I didn’t need much, but seeing a fabric with an exceptionally fine pattern, I asked them to cut me five or six sun of it—only for the Chinese shopkeeper to refuse, insisting cutting was out of the question.
Just then, a Japanese woman who had been on the other side of the sales area suddenly turned toward me and said, “Master, please help me decide which obi would suit this kimono,” then brought two matching obis for the garment and spread them out before me.
Our activities must have been reported in the Shanghai newspaper, for she likely recognized me by my coiled hairstyle.
So I told her what I thought would look best.
The Japanese woman was delighted and promptly purchased it, and then—at that moment—she told the Chinese shopkeeper in Chinese to cut the fabric for me, so at long last I was able to obtain the cloth I desired.

“No cut for others! Today special cut!”

The Chinese shopkeeper was grumbling like that.

Having been recommended by someone, I tried riding a double-decker bus too. When I tried to get off, many Chinese people were jostling at the exit, making it seem nearly impossible for someone elderly like me to disembark. As I stood there perplexed, the conductor called out “Hey! Hey!” and stopped the driver to let me off.

There were truly beautiful Chinese shoes too. Dragons and floral patterns had been embroidered in vivid colors, making them quite artistic pieces. I purchased those as well. It wasn’t that I’d bought Chinese shoes intending to wear them—I’d simply been drawn to their beauty and ended up purchasing them anyway.

Ferry

The outbound voyage aboard the Nagasaki Maru had been a calm journey, but the return trip on the Kobe Maru began to rock slightly almost immediately after departing Shanghai.
Because people immediately lay down, I too followed suit and finally managed to return without getting seasick.

For someone like me with no experience of long journeys, a month was daunting indeed; yet looking back now, it feels strangely like mere days passed.
I must say that setting foot on lands beyond Japan at this age has proven an unforeseen blessing.

But when I thought that I was now heading back to Japan, I still felt a welling up of joy in my heart. The engine’s vibrations continuously transmitted something akin to nostalgia through my body.

“Land is in sight.”

The voice saying this sounded truly nostalgic.
In the fierce headwind, the sight of her homeland Japan beginning to come into view was utterly nostalgic.

Yet despite having seen nothing but Chinese people until yesterday upon returning, wherever I looked in every direction there were only Japanese people, and I couldn’t help feeling an inescapably strange sensation.

“It must be China-daze,” they said and laughed.
That might be it…