Pathway to Japanese Literature

It had already been five years since I transferred to this middle school.
Three children were born.
All three were boys.
Beyond this, there were no other changes in me.
I still repeated physics and chemistry experiments.
I must have been narrow-minded by nature—I didn’t interact much with my colleagues either.
Rural teachers—such people were nothing more than a gathering of utterly miserable, unfeeling souls.
They often complained about insufficient salaries or spread jealous slander against colleagues.
I disliked hearing that.
But I liked my students.
I did not adorn myself with extravagance.
I kept my hair cropped to three centimeters.
I had never grown a mustache or anything of the sort.
As a result, while some students had initially begun to look down on me due to my unimpressive appearance, they all eventually obeyed me well.
That I strove to be faithful in my teaching was my sole pride.

Middle school teachers had comparatively ample free time, but depending on how one went about it, they could still be quite busy.
There were colleagues who made time to go out shouldering fishing rods, but I thought such unnecessary things didn’t need to be done.
These types were bullied by students precisely because they didn’t break down in tears.
And this too was all my fault.
Middle school teachers were frequently reassigned.
There had been considerable staff turnover at this place.
However, my memories of them are like a sieve.
What remains is nothing but dregs, like miso paste.
But I think that Mr. Saji alone will never leave my mind, no matter how much time passes.
At times, the sight of Mr. Saji—his tall, emaciated frame shedding tears as he leaned back in his chair—appears vividly before me.
What force could have imprinted such a vivid impression upon me? The more I fix my thoughts upon it, the more elusive the answer becomes.
Mr. Saji was a Bachelor of Arts who graduated from the philosophy department.
He said he had majored in sociology.
Mr. Saji always maintained an attitude of profound depth, his long body limply folded in two as he leaned back in his chair.
And he kept his eyes closed.
Mr. Saji's hair was always meticulously combed.
Even Western-style clothing clung perfectly to the body.
Naturally, the surroundings were extremely clean and well-organized.
Thus, Mr. Saji had been living a bachelor’s life.
To me, everything about him was so impeccably maintained that it seemed suspicious.

But there was not the slightest trace of Westernized affectations in Mr. Saji.
My personality stood entirely opposed to his.
For some reason, I remained permissive even in my clutter-strewn workspace.
In classrooms I would frequently break test tubes, drawing complaints from the accounting office.
The clerk Mr. Imai, being particularly close to me, delivered his admonitions with extra vigor.
The same disorder followed me home.
Our shoji screens perpetually bore holes from constant pranks.
I had recently taken up photography as a hobby.
Whenever spare moments allowed, I shouldered my equipment and ventured out.
This new pursuit left me exhaustively busy.
To neglect school duties would have violated my principles.
Though calling it a pastime might mislead, I began photography through interest in applied physics and chemistry.
Clumsy by nature, I started expecting mediocre results but gradually sensed an emerging aesthetic sensibility.
Few published photographic prints worldwide now seemed to surpass my own work.
I traversed every footpath within two ri of my home.
Colleagues who regularly strolled outdoors would eye me with looks saying "Again?"
Yet never once did I encounter Mr. Saji on these excursions.
Mr. Saji seldom left his quarters.
The boarding house landlady mentioned the vice-principal's occasional visits.
They would invariably play Go during these calls.

If he wasn't playing Go, he would read.
He would then lean his elbows on his desk and sit there quietly, lost in thought.
He was a kind man, but because he never opened up at all, one had to remain guarded around him.
Since I dislike visiting others, I only exchanged calls with Mr. Saji two or three times.
The boarding house landlady—who had once stayed at my place temporarily when I summoned my wife—would strike up conversations whenever we met on the street.
For me, such leisurely pursuits as Go were utterly intolerable.
I am an unpolished man.
Yet even so, I held confidence that in understanding an educator's duties, I yielded to no one.

For poor graduates, I persuaded influential people to provide tuition funds and set up the arrangements.
Over five years there, I came to know some of the local guardians.
Therefore, I believe that remaining long in one place is the foremost condition for fulfilling an educator’s duties.
At least in this regard, I can face Mr. Saji without shame.

Mr. Saji left for Kyushu after just one year at his post.
During that brief year, I supervised students alongside him.
This created both the necessity and opportunity for us to exchange opinions.
In that short period, necessity brought us closest together, and thus I maintained careful observations of Mr. Saji.
Since I considered his meditative absorption typical of philosophy scholars, I found nothing particularly suspicious.
Yet as the boarding house landlady noted, there remained something fundamentally unapproachable about him.
Even someone as indifferent as myself felt this distance; consequently, most colleagues never spoke to him beyond official matters.
Mr. Saji persistently wrote what might be termed moral guidance for youth in Chugaku Sekai, a widely-read middle school magazine.
While earnest in intent, his writings contained little that could profoundly move me.
Mr. Saji had only recently graduated from university.
Though experienced as a student, his insights as an educator remained superficial.
From my perspective—forged through ten years of practical experience—his work lacked depth.
Once a magazine solicited contributions from me too, explicitly mentioning payment.
I knew manuscript fees could be earned through such writing.
One naturally assumed Mr. Saji supplemented his income through these means.
He contributed to other similar publications as well.
This presumption of mercenary motives slightly tainted my view of his character.
At times I nurtured extreme suspicions bordering on contempt toward him, yet these dissolved whenever I faced his despondent figure.
Mr. Saji was never deserving of hatred.
My later regret over doubting his character ran deep.

Mr. Saji was someone who could not comprehend the psychological state behind others' cheerful conversations - in other words, a man utterly incapable of letting his mind dwell even momentarily on brighter aspects.

Around that time, pranks became popular among some colleagues.
Those with distinctive traits mostly fell victim.
The ringleaders of the pranks were myself and Mr. Imai, the clerk.
I am simply not the sort of person who can remain inactive.
Mr. Imaki was arrogant and had invited the sneers of his colleagues.
When a student’s parent came to meet with him, he would turn around and leave the waiting room.
Because it was so comical, we would sometimes carry him on our shoulders.
Mr. Imai, being dexterous by nature, would perfectly imitate parents’ handwriting to forge calling cards.
We would have the janitor deliver them.
Then Mr. Imaki would come out as usual, wander about looking terribly awkward, and return.
It was simply a prank done solely to witness his reaction.
You’d think Mr. Imaki would get angry, but he never did.
The reason was that Mr. Imaki, being a colleague who was severely bullied by students, was a man of such precarious social standing that he would struggle to make ends meet from the very next day if dismissed.
Thinking this way made me feel such pranks were sinful, but back then we carried them out regardless.
Such things have ceased now, but back then they continued for some time.
Whenever someone went to the clerk’s office, if I was present, Mr. Imai and I would inevitably tease them together.
But when it came to Mr. Saji, even Mr. Imai couldn’t utter a single word.
When Mr. Saji would quietly bring his frail frame into the room, Mr. Imai’s attitude would abruptly become formal.
From where I observed, it was downright comical.
Even while engaging in such frivolous things, I continued studying sufficiently to fulfill my responsibilities.

Mr. Saji was responsible for English.
English held little interest for the students.
Thus regarding Mr. Saji, the students began taking what might be called his measure.
Mr. Saji was not one to intimidate students.
The students seemed to think him easy to approach.
He had assumed the position at the very start of the second term.
At the Emperor's Birthday ceremony, Mr. Saji delivered a speech.
His voice remained low, yet so thoroughly compelled attentive listening that people leaned in of their own accord.
The students were deeply moved.
I too found myself astonished by his oratorical skill.
Listening carefully made it clear why—Mr. Saji was an ardent Christian believer.
He had stood at Sunday pulpits several times before.

The season gradually grew cold.
Outside the glass window, withered cherry trees were being shaken by the dry wind.
Baseball players exerted their full strength on the parched ground; beyond them, few people could be seen outdoors.
By the stove, small groups of staff members could always be found engaged in idle chatter.
The stove indeed brought Mr. Saji and me closer together.
I spoke with Mr. Saji on matters of education.
And our opinions aligned completely.
I had long been irritated that most colleagues gave no thought to education, yet I'd remained silent until meeting Mr. Saji.
I think teachers amount to little more than field pumpkins.
Truly clever ones are rare.
These past two or three years saw considerable staff turnover.
Those who left were like ripe pumpkins plucked from vines; their replacements resembled unripe green ones swelling at vine tips.
The worth of teachers kept declining steadily—what could one do?
Dismissed men were naught but rotten pumpkins fallen to earth.
Were I to speak freely here, I'd proclaim principals unnecessary.
He monopolized an entire room daily—I often wondered what he did there.
Yet he couldn't distinguish ripe from unripe pumpkins.
I know this well, being born to farmers.
Even watermelons need no knife—a fingertip's tap reveals ripeness.
The principal couldn't discern a pumpkin's taste unless skewered on chopsticks for tasting—how infuriating.

As evidence of this—what had he brought back from attending pompous events like the Principal's Conference? Using leftover travel funds to buy trinkets for his wife could hardly count as an educational accomplishment, could it? If one wanted money so badly, they'd do better to quit being an educator and become a shop manager instead. "An apron would suit you far better," I digressed in this manner and rambled on unrestrainedly. Since Mr. Saji always listened so attentively, I often found myself unwittingly getting carried away. My voice overpowered his low, somber tones, forcing him to endure whatever I said. When my tirades grew particularly harsh, Mr. Saji appeared somewhat distressed. And whenever I declared that those craving wealth should become merchants instead, he would inexplicably flush crimson. His languid frame seemed to slump even further forward. I began suspecting some strange secret might lie buried in Mr. Saji's heart—perhaps shame at discussing money's vulgarity—which made me subsequently avoid financial topics.

The west wind blew through all the treetops, and whenever it discovered leaves gathered in a corner of the ground, it relentlessly scattered them.
Bramblings and siskins were being blown about by the west wind like leaves.
I couldn’t help but wonder what these migratory birds sought that would make them deliberately come to this place, only to be buffeted by such a cruel wind.
The trees, now stripped bare, revealed each their own distinctive forms, standing starkly conspicuous across the vast plain.
For me as a photography enthusiast, this was the perfect season.
When the green covering the ground was beautiful to the eye, it became winter for photography enthusiasts.
In photography, colors did not appear.
The phenomenon differed between when light fell upon our retinas and when it passed through a lens onto a dry plate.
Dry plates were excessively sensitive yet dull.
The contrast between light and dark was too intense.
Therefore, in current photographic techniques, we found winter trees easier to photograph.
Photography enthusiasts made photography compete with painting.
They strained themselves trying to advance into the realm of art.
There were also those who flatly rejected photography as utterly useless.
It made no difference to me.
If I found it interesting, then that was satisfaction enough.
There were any number of flaws.
Elimination was necessary.
Of course, they had to also be eliminated sooner or later.
That was neither our responsibility nor our obligation.

We simply needed to carry our equipment and walk about—that was all that was required.
In winter, all living creatures shrank.
Even among my colleagues, I no longer saw anyone out for walks.
I naturally didn’t encounter Mr. Saji at all.
I became quite intimate with winter by saving every spare moment, all because I wanted at least one satisfactory dry plate.
Lining both sides of the highway, bare alder trees stood straight and rigid.
Beside the highway, there was a vegetable field forming a distinct area.
In the surroundings, the only green thing was that field.
Green vegetables might appear soft, but they were undeniably tinged with the rusty hue of winter.
An ox cart passed leisurely through the alder trees.
When I came to such places, I could not help but feel the beauty of colors beyond the forms that should be captured on the dry plate.
I thought that Mr. Saji had probably never seen such a place.
I thought that if Mr. Saji were to cultivate a habit of walking—even by compulsion—he might be able to direct his frail body toward health.
I tried to encourage him, but Mr. Saji merely remained silent and nodded.

It was a certain Sunday.
I decided to venture out to a distant place and took two students with me.
While wandering near the rice paddies, the west wind began blowing.
On days when clouds like clumps of mud slapped against wooden door planks float over sun-drenched mountains, a west wind inevitably follows—but going out that morning without noticing this had been my mistake.
With my photography ruined, I resolved to return by boarding a carriage that happened to arrive.
The carriage halted.
The eight-seat carriage already held six passengers.
I would have to make one student walk.
I felt momentarily perplexed.
Then the woman in a maroon hood sitting at the edge

“We’re both cramped here, but one more can manage somehow. It’s no trouble—please get in.”

And
“Everyone, please squeeze in a little.”

She addressed the passengers as though issuing a command.
As a small space had opened up, the students were finally able to board.
I expressed my gratitude to the woman.

“Oh, it’s nothing at all. Please, don’t mention it.”

The woman was light and cheerful.
The carriage crossed the rice paddies and emerged into wheat fields.
The dried wheat field appeared shrouded in a mist-like haze from the dust.
The carriage stopped in a certain village.
The driver adjusted the horse's bit.
At the same time, another carriage approached from the opposite direction and stopped before the station.
The teahouse woman brought out a tobacco tray and then poured tea for nine people.

The woman in the hood said with authority,
“Well now, how about it everyone?”
With the tray still in her left hand, she took out Shikishima tobacco and lit it from the tobacco tray on her knee. When all bowls had been returned to the tray and a five-rin copper coin had dropped into each one’s bottom, she produced a two-sen coin from her obi and placed it on the tray with a clink.

“Here, Granny—clear these away.”

The carriage began creaking again through rising dust. Along the rod-straight highway stretched withered paulownia trees, beneath which scattered dried chrysanthemums swayed with poignant fragility. In mulberry fields here and there stood trees like white threads, their backs clinging to two or three remaining leaves like alighted birds. The fierce west wind shook them relentlessly, refusing to cease until scattering every last leaf. Distant groves blurred under dust-choked skies.

In the opposite direction, the other carriage started moving—a black mass shrinking gradually into dusty haze. Ash from the woman’s cigarette fell persistently onto my face until she finally noticed.

“Oh my, what’s happened here? I’m truly sorry.”

The woman abruptly discarded her half-smoked cigarette.
The cigarette was swept to the edge of the road and then toward the field, emitting faint wisps of smoke as it went.
The carriage steadily distanced itself from the smoke as it pressed onward.

I had not found the photographic subjects I had aimed for that day, but given my interest in nature’s transformations, I was not disappointed.
I realized that my attention had sharpened to such a degree that I did not overlook even the withered mulberry leaves or the smoke from the woman’s discarded cigarette, and I could not suppress a sense of pleasure.

On this day, I became aware of an unprecedented interest in humankind within myself.
Had it not been for that graceful woman in the maroon hood inside the carriage—had she not spoken as she did—the other passengers would never have consented to letting another person board that already cramped eight-seat coach.
I keenly sensed this woman's influence.
From my observation, she must have been a waitress at some establishment.
She belonged to that most disagreeable class of women.
Yet strangely, within that carriage, I felt not the slightest aversion toward her.
Nor did this feeling diminish afterward.
Her brisk manner pleased me.
Though I knew she must be a woman of loose morals, this knowledge did not taint my sentiment.
I wondered how she had managed to seize hold of my heart.
At that moment, my heart had developed a grave deficiency—insufficient to maintain its usual authority.
Had we resolved to walk, a three-ri journey would have meant nothing to us two.
The very attempt to board that carriage had enfeebled my spirit.
To stop the carriage and refuse boarding would have required more resolve than I possessed.
Yet I could not abandon my students.
For me to depart alone would have pained me.
Thus I found myself troubled.
Absurd though it was, this turmoil lasted but a sigh's span.
There remained no leisure for deliberation.
Unexpectedly, that graceful woman had granted me satisfaction.

I could not help but feel grateful. The woman had responded to the defect in my heart. And then, perhaps it was because both the brief time spent in that carriage—which had captured everything about her as she appeared to my eyes—and the maroon hood that narrowed the visible area of her face had not provided any motive to stir ill feeling. Furthermore, the hood’s gaudy color must have also prevented any ill feeling from arising. The hood eliminated the unattractive parts of her face. I thought it was just like photography. The objects projected onto the dry plate through the lens—we strive to make discoveries solely about those objects themselves. Whatever exists beyond what is projected onto the dry plate is of no concern. That is precisely where the lens proves more valuable than the naked eye. When amateurs are shown photographs, they inevitably ask, "Where is this?" Wherever it is, there's no need to ask such a thing. Amateurs are undoubtedly fixated on that, yet I find myself wanting to show them the photographs I’ve taken. So when they ask that, it gets on my nerves a bit. It’s a strange thing. Such things I thought. Thinking is something that rarely occurs to me. This too might have been Mr. Saji's influence. Even if I entertained shallow thoughts, that was simply my own doing—there was no helping it. I rejoiced wholeheartedly that I had come to find interest even in dust-filled wheat fields. And I wanted Mr. Saji to experience nature as well.

Mr. Saji had never once spoken of nature.
After meeting the woman and pondering various matters, I found myself growing interested in reminiscing about her.
I became curious about what thoughts Mr. Saji—living as a bachelor—truly held regarding women.
The next day, I recounted to him the events of that entire day.
What Mr. Saji said only served to deepen my doubts further.
"Pessimism constitutes my entire being.
Even when flowers bloom, I cannot bear to look upon them while knowing their decline must inevitably follow.
Gazing at them brings me no pleasure whatsoever.
Thus nothing impresses upon me a more acute sense of sorrow than the winter landscape.
In the end," he concluded, "grief dominates my entire existence."
I argued for the lush verdure that follows fallen blossoms, the boundless vitality nourished by fierce sunlight, that overwhelming sensation making our very skin tingle when beholding such scenes—yet Mr. Saji remained cold as stone.
Speaking of the graceful woman in the carriage, I shared my impressions as though disclosing some grand revelation.
Mr. Saji uttered not a word.
He sat motionless, as if contemplating some distant inquiry.
Tears slid down his folded cuffs onto the stove.
The heated iron plate instantly vaporized them.
I was startled.
In that moment, my sudden notice of these evaporating tears barely diverted my thoughts.
Mr. Saji proved ultimately incomprehensible.
Yet perhaps that was only natural.

Mr. Saji was a man who ought to have been a philosopher.
What good would come of us spouting shallow words?
I should focus solely on my true calling in physics and chemistry.
As an educator, I must also exchange opinions with Mr. Saji.
To go beyond that would be presumptuous.
Why did I choose physics and chemistry?
There had been circumstances forcing me to specialize early due to a lack of educational funds, but my simple disposition could not endure—nor did I care for—the way discussions of abstract matters tended to branch out in endless directions.
The principle that truth is singular is a great law that pervades both heaven and earth.
Physics and chemistry can most appropriately explain this.
That very rigor makes it irresistibly delightful to me.
My true calling lies in taking note of how tears fall upon the stove and evaporate.
I will no longer dwell on futile matters. After coming to this realization, I maintained a closeness with Mr. Saji but never ventured into deeply personal discussions.

The academic exams had concluded, and thirty-odd graduates were sent out.
At the certificate award ceremony came the principal’s trite speech.
The principal of this middle school stood pitifully diminutive in stature.
He perpetually regarded people with an air of suspicion.
This proved unbearable.
To occupy such hollow authority invited nothing but contempt.
I detested that principal.

Mr. Saji also gave a speech.
Though it contained nothing particularly novel as an admonition to the youths, his somber low voice stirred something within my chest.
It was Mr. Saji’s unassuming attitude—never imposing upon others—that drew me to him.
Soon afterward, one hundred fifty new students filed into the school, all wearing ill-fitting new uniforms.
They lined up their innocent faces.
Wanting to instill something in these boys, I volunteered to take charge of one class.
Mr. Saji also assumed responsibility for a new student group.
My closeness with Mr. Saji remained unchanged.
When near him, I found myself inexplicably drawn in—to the point where I sometimes felt compelled to doubt my own psychological state.
Yet my carefree nature remained unaltered.
Pranks were occasionally carried out.
That year’s summer vacation was shortened, and classrooms opened immediately upon September’s arrival.
That summer I shouldered my usual equipment and journeyed upstream along the Kinugawa River.
I climbed Kinunuma Mountain and explored Kinunuma Marsh—shallow waters pooled amidst weeds.
I captured the surrounding groves and shifting clouds and mist on dry plates.
Thus I confirmed the marsh bore no relation to the Kinugawa River, discovering an error in the Land Survey Department’s maps.
The ten-ri stretch of gorge compelled me to marvel at its status as nature’s peerless masterpiece.
Having grown up in Kanto’s plains with the comparatively nearby Aizu Highway traversing level ground, I felt ashamed at having remained ignorant of this until now.
I rejoiced at achieving this discovery of unknown landscapes and concretely introducing them to society.
Yet I finally realized this grand nature could never evoke even one ten-millionth of its essence through a lens under two inches in diameter.

It also made me think how humans, existing between heaven and earth, require a lifetime of effort just to seize a single millet grain. And then, as I left this gorge thinking that even one ten-millionth part of that grain would suffice to carry away, I felt renewed determination arise within me. I exhausted three dozen dry plates. Shattering at its root the mistaken belief that only dead trees made suitable photographic subjects, I departed the gorge. At the same time, I ascertained that my physical strength proved unexpectedly robust. The sunburn on both hands became noticeable even to myself. Classes began while I still organized the original plates. Returning home to inspect them, those plates made me realize my expended labor and time hadn't been in vain. I concluded I could trust in my own skill.

At school, Mr. Numasaki from biology exposed his figure in the school garden beneath an old straw hat. Mr. Saji remained engrossed in stone-like meditation. When looking at Mr. Saji, I couldn't help feeling the vitality I'd painstakingly cultivated was being sapped away. Though I'd meant to boast about my vacation activities, I held back instead. This made me wonder how Mr. Saji had spent his summer, so I inquired.

"I made a brief visit home," came his exceedingly simple reply.

Mr. Saji's face reddened slightly - this appeared habitual for him. Confronted by his utterly wilted demeanor, no desire to press further stirred within me. I passed my days without weariness until eventually hearing from clerk Mr. Imai about Mr. Saji's internally decided transfer elsewhere.

His tenure had been brief, but that alone would likely have only made me feel slightly surprised. Mr. Imai also mentioned the salary increase. I completely revived my doubts. The doubts that had been fading regarding Mr. Saji as a magazine contributor abruptly resurged. When I vehemently denounced the baseness of educators obsessing over money, the faint memory of his reddening face flared before my eyes like fire. He might have campaigned for a transfer during this vacation. Wasn't my inability to answer myself due to some guilt I harbored within? I had often heard of the astonishing moral corruption among educated Christians. That memory further intensified my displeasure toward Mr. Saji. I could not help but regard Mr. Saji with cold eyes. And I never reflected on whether my shallow self could absolutely resist money's temptation. Nor could I even recognize that my ill feelings toward Mr. Saji were tinged with jealousy—a resentment falling short of outright malice.

I enjoy traveling.
At times, when carried away by enthusiasm, I would speak of it to others.
Yet when others, similarly impassioned, shared their travel tales with me—particularly those of my colleagues—I found myself swept up while simultaneously unable to escape a peculiar loneliness in my heart.
I was compelled by unrecognized jealousy.
Even regarding Mr. Saji, who was being honorably transferred, I felt an indescribable faint loneliness—as though abandoned alone.
Had I nurtured even the slightest habit of self-reflection and contemplation then, I might not have become so governed by my own impulses toward Mr. Saji.

A month had passed since the transfer rumors began.
Throughout that time, I had maintained a coldness like that of a roadside stranger.
I could not help but feel remorse and shame.

At that time, the pranks had still not ceased. Mr. Omori, the mathematics teacher, had a new frock coat made. Mr. Imai had discovered this through the tailor. Because it was a small town, nothing could remain hidden. This fact provided us with perfect material and inspired an eccentric scheme. Mr. Imai had the janitor take a large wrapping cloth to retrieve the frock coat from Mr. Omori's house. Claiming it was Mr. Omori's order, his wife unsuspectingly sent it over exactly as packed in a large cardboard box. As I happened to have two hours free, I concentrated on devising plans in the clerk's office. Mr. Omori was the most obese among the staff; even during lessons he found standing before the blackboard so laborious that he had no choice but to sit in a chair. Moreover, he had never worn Western clothes before, insisting that roomy Japanese garments suited him best. Particularly in summer, he suffered as copious sweat poured from his head—bald beyond what his age would suggest. Conversely, he rarely approached the stove in winter. He would extend his fatty hands and boast about never developing calluses regardless of circumstances. Being relatively short-statured, Mr. Omori tied his hakama below his solar plexus. His appearance was comical. We often teased him by saying we wanted to see his body in Western clothes. Mr. Omori absolutely refused to remove his loose Japanese garments. Each time ridiculed, he would tap his bald pate with his palm and protest. However, attendance at formal venues necessitated a frock coat. This arose because Mr. Omori's gradual salary increases had created discrepancies with his official qualifications.

Mr. Omori was surprisingly honest. What astonished us was the voluminousness of those trousers—they had ample room to accommodate his own legs with space to spare. I ordered the janitor to bring over as many short sticks as he could find. They assembled a thick torso and legs as best they could manage. For the belly alone, they went through no small effort to accentuate its distinctive features by wrapping newspapers around it. On sudden inspiration, I peeled off a football’s leather casing and inflated the rubber bladder until taut. Boldly I drew eyes, a nose, and a mouth upon it—exaggerating Mr. Omori’s signature baldness by rendering hair where none existed. When this large red sphere meant to resemble a human face fell, it bounced across the floorboards with uncanny vigor. I carefully positioned it in place. Thus did this grotesque figure come to lord over the night-duty room adjoining the clerk’s office. I felt satisfied with this prank’s inevitable success.

Mr. Imai forged the business cards. The attendant’s dutiful delivery of those cards thoroughly deceived Mr. Omori. Before luring him out, we had peered into the night-duty room multiple times—Mr. Omori, so ill-suited to his own bulk, fidgeted nervously all the while. Clutching the card and muttering “Where could it be? Where?”, he barged into the clerk’s office.

Mr. Imai—ever unflappable in such moments—declared, “I had them wait in the night-duty room.”

It was unthinkable to have students' guardians waiting in the night duty room.
Mr. Omori, never suspecting a prank, carelessly opened the glass-paned door.
There the grotesque figure glared down at Mr. Omori.
When Mr. Omori slapped his trademark bald head with his palm, I could no longer contain myself and bolted from the clerk's office.
Mr. Omori was compelled to withdraw with a strained wry smile.
Even after Mr. Omori's departure, everyone in the clerk's office remained bent double with laughter.
I peered into the night duty room once more.

Suddenly, the glass door of the clerk’s office swung open and Mr. Saji entered.
Mr. Saji exchanged some words with Mr. Imai.
When Mr. Imai called out to me, I snapped the glass door shut.
For some reason, I felt as though some wrongdoing had been exposed.
Fortunately, the prank inside seemed to have escaped Mr. Saji’s notice.
Mr. Imai looked at me and said, “It appears Professor has some business with you.”
Mr. Imai used “kun” when addressing us but referred to Mr. Saji as “Professor.”
Mr. Saji must have found our unsettled demeanor peculiar; declaring he would return later if we were busy, he took his leave.
I wondered why Mr. Saji had specifically come seeking me.
I had kept my distance from Mr. Saji.
I had conjectured his inner feelings and maintained that distance with malice.
But when I saw Mr. Saji’s desolate figure retreating, a pitiful nostalgia abruptly welled up within me.

That afternoon after classes, I busied myself recovering the time spent on the prank.
I conducted an experiment in the physics and chemistry classroom.
Having completed the apparatus setup, I leaned back in my chair and gazed out the window.
Mr. Numasaki walked through the school garden shouldering a Hōrēki, wearing nothing but a shirt.
A Hōrēki is a farm tool fashioned by fixing a sickle and rake back-to-back.
He had discarded the old straw hat he wore until recently, replacing it with his usual winter hat whose brim drooped.
The hat had faded thoroughly through years of use.
Its shape resembled a mushroom.
Mr. Imai promptly nicknamed it Akahatsu.
Akahatsu denotes a mushroom akin to early autumn varieties in local dialect.
With summer's passing, Mr. Numasaki became Akahatsu once more.
After he began venturing out with the Hōrēki, weeds were cleared away.
Stakes supported even the cosmos flowers that leaned precariously.
The cosmos bloomed weightlessly as though suspended in air.
I too had planted cosmos in my small garden.
Their white blossoms stood most conspicuously.
The red flowers carried a somber air.
Those in my garden surpassed the school's.
Yet their profusion and visibility from afar characterized the school garden - Mr. Numasaki's achievement.
The attendant quietly opened the door and entered.

During experiments, we had established a rule not to allow anyone to carelessly enter, so the attendant strictly adhered to this.
"What?" I asked bluntly.
He had been sent to inform me that Mr. Saji wished to meet.
He was asking whether I was busy.
If it had been someone like Mr. Omori, he would have barged in abruptly; but Mr. Saji was that much more reserved.
Though suspicious, I immediately had him convey that he should come.
Mr. Saji entered quietly.
I noticed those beautifully polished shoes.
Mr. Saji possessed a refined grace.
Though I had harbored ill feelings toward him daily, meeting him face-to-face like this naturally inspired a sense of reverence in me.
I had always had a tendency to indiscriminately view people as enemies.
Yet when the other party relented and initiated conversation first, it felt as if I’d been preempted—and moreover, my own excessive exertion struck me as strangely awkward—leaving me at a loss instead.
I had ended up being passive toward Mr. Saji as well.
I stood up and offered the chair.
Mr. Saji’s attitude that inspired reverence in others caused me to unconsciously make such a gesture.
However, Mr. Saji declined.
I further recommended it again and again.
However, bending his tall frame, he did not accept it.
I noticed there was nothing for me to sit on.
There was only one chair in the room.

Mr. Saji was not the sort of person to monopolize a chair for himself.
I abruptly stood up and barked at the janitor.
The janitor came scrambling over.
"Bring a chair! Make it quick!" I ordered.
The janitor came shuffling down the corridor with the chair.
Finding this charade tedious, I dashed out and practically wrested it from him before storming back to the classroom.
Mr. Saji stood before the table wearing an apologetic look, but upon seeing my flustered entrance, he adjusted his stance slightly.
I thrust the chair beside him without ceremony.
Mr. Saji waited until I'd taken my seat before finally settling himself.
He kept his eyes downcast as always.

“Am I interrupting you during a busy moment?”

Mr. Saji opened his mouth heavily.

“No, it’s not that I have any particular business.”

I said this.

“Though I’m afraid visiting your home would be an imposition.”

That low voice sank further, tinged with unease.

“No, not at all—since I’m quite at ease here, such concerns are unnecessary.”

I found myself compelled to speak forcefully.
Mr. Saji leaned against the chair as usual, as if drained of strength, and remained silent for a time before...

“I must now leave this middle school, but regarding this matter, there is something I wish to say to you—with whom I have shared the most intimate association this past year—so I may have no lingering regrets. Will you hear me out?”

“By all means.”

I said this as if tossing aside a log. Then noticing how utterly straight-backed the chair was, I pushed it slightly backward and quietly hitched up my torn shoe.

“That is the fate that had connected my past to the present.”
“Had I served at least three years at this school, I might have fulfilled some obligations.”
“To depart after barely one year brings me inexcusable shame.”
“Yet my circumstances drove me down this path.”
“At present, leaving here remains my most viable course—there is no alternative.”
“This demands I recount my whole story for your understanding, though…”

Mr. Saji, who had crossed his hands and tilted his head, closed his gentle small eyes.

"I was raised in Kōchi, in a family of samurai lineage—though of very low rank and impoverished.
By the time I reached middle school age, my family found even sustaining our daily bread to be nothing but pain.
Yet even so, the hope of somehow acquiring higher learning ceaselessly haunted my young mind.
At that time, there existed a merchant in the city who held considerable wealth.
I became that merchant's adopted son.
There was a daughter in that household.
My father was a man of old-fashioned principles—duty-bound and stubborn—who at first refused to send me as an adopted son to a merchant family. Yet he did love me.
And so the sole means to realize my earnest hope—to secure academic funds for my long future—lay in entrusting myself to that merchant.
I had been an exemplary student in the crude elementary schools of that era.
The merchant—whom I must now call adoptive father—sat arrogantly upon his wealth.
'Though born to impoverished samurai stock,' he declared, 'your disposition seems unobjectionable enough for adoption.'
My father had never fully understood that my adoptive father made such pronouncements.
Resentment toward samurai oppression from the old domain days likely still festered in my adoptive father's mind.
In truth, our family had surrendered to a merchant household.
'Educating one or two brats won't diminish my coffers,' my adoptive father would drunkenly proclaim, 'so I'll toss you that much coin as if discarding scraps.'
How did my stubborn father bend his principles regarding my adoption? And how did my adoptive father—so fundamentally incompatible with him—come to accept me?
My nature is wholly inherited from Mother.
Mother embodied traditional femininity.
Precisely because of this womanliness, expecting her to consider distant futures proved impossible.
Thus my hopes became Mother's hopes without pause."

“Mother cried and pleaded with Father for my sake.”
“Moreover, there were others who persistently recommended me to my Adoptive Father.”
“Why did I run to my Adoptive Father without considering even my stubborn Father’s opposition?”
“Mother’s sympathy was my foremost ally in strengthening my heart.”
“And the reason I resigned myself to staying under the roof of my arrogant Adoptive Father was solely because I was devoted to academic pursuits.”
“My understanding of scholarship went no further than progressing through school step by step.”
“And I believed that leaving my adoptive household would leave me absolutely no means to achieve my purpose.”
“Having inherited my mother’s nature, I am now all the more so—I have never been one to argue with others.”
“In the end, the vanity of youth blinded me and sent me to my adoptive household.”
“My affection for the daughter of my adoptive household ultimately bound me deeply to that family.”
“In that time of boyhood when I should have been innocently playing, I came to know the affections of women and children all too early.”
“I was not conscious of anything regarding that.”
“The daughter had been destined from the very beginning to become my wife.”
“The daughter was kind to me.”
“I left a household where even my young heart had been etched with the hardships of survival, finding myself amidst a wholly vibrant family where I felt nothing but joy.”
“That was the happiest time of my life.”
“When I recall that it was a time of happiness, the happiness has already departed completely.”
“That I came to know the affections of women and children so unusually was nothing more than a fleeting dream of a boy.”

I felt myself being drawn into Mr. Saji’s story.
My gaze remained fixed on his perpetually downturned cheek.

“My adoptive father was a speculative man.
Misfortune befell his household.
The failed speculation struck like a sudden blow.
He nearly went mad.
But it was futile.
The family shattered from within.
Yet we somehow managed to preserve appearances.
Amid this turmoil, I completed middle school.
My wife bore an infant.
She had to leave the wailing child to work.
At times I sat at my desk soothing the crying babe as a father should.
Naturally, I was meant to advance to higher school.
I trusted his promise would hold.
Yet emboldened by drink, he cast me aside.
‘Not a single sen more for your education,’ he declared.
Weakness overcame me—my wife and I clung together weeping.
Father flew into rage upon hearing this.
That is why I had refused from the start.”

“There was no longer any possibility of keeping me in such an inhumane household for even a moment.”
“He promptly pressed for formal disownment.”
“Though Father’s resentment had not softened once in five years.”
“Not only did my adoptive father never visit my real father even once, but when Father occasionally came to see me, he would claim busyness and withhold greetings.”
“It was all arrogance born of money.”
“Father ground his teeth in rage.”
“‘That’s why I stay silent—because you’re dear to me.’”
“‘Never have I suffered such humiliation.’”
“‘In former days,’ he said, ‘I would have cut them down with one stroke.’”
“My adoptive father showed astonishing audacity in matters of obligation.”
“Yet the pain would not let me abandon my wife and obey Father’s command.”
“I owed five years’ debt to my adoptive household.”
“My wife’s fidelity toward me remains unchanged from past to present.”
“How many times must I have trudged tearfully between Father’s houses?”
“The burden of fatherhood forced him to quell his anger.”
“When my adoptive circumstances cast me out, I had to seek new means for school fees.”
“Only one savior need exist for me.”
“I came to know how unexpectedly narrow the world is.”
“It must have been natural that someone as insignificant as I should escape notice.”
“But at last that person appeared.”

“I left my wife and children and went to Okayama.”
“A simple dormitory life commenced.”
“It was then that I entered a life of solitude.”
“While in Okayama, my adoptive father sank deeper into self-destruction.”
“The store had completely passed into others’ hands, and when I returned home during my first vacation, I spent a summer in a small temporary dwelling.”
“Starvation began looming before us.”
“Poverty was something I had known since childhood, but had my family not spent resources educating me, the household I grew up in could have somehow managed to make ends meet.”
“Poverty had been a constant state for my family members.”
“Yet the adoptive household’s downfall pained me deeply.”
“I resolutely decided to divert part of my educational funds to send to my wife.”
“Though called a portion, it amounted to merely three yen.”
“These three yen represented a drastic reduction from my other borrowed educational funds.”
“Yet for my wife, they became a vital source of income.”
“It would be no exaggeration to say my child grew up through this means.”
“Around that time, I also began contributing to magazines through translations and other writings.”
“The income—equivalent to the fee from a single tea gathering—sustained my household.”
“Even while physically separated, sharing in my wife’s suffering remained my deepest resolve.”

“My benefactor did not abandon me in the end.
I entered university.
My family at that time was already beyond description.
My adoptive father still dreamed of speculative success and boasted about it.
I had almost ceased to have any interaction with my family.
After I entered university, my wife came to Tokyo holding our young child.
Partly because she could no longer bear exposing her impoverished state to our hometown, and partly because there was psychological comfort in having opportunities to see me.
Returning home from Tokyo was something I could not do.
My long summer vacations were entirely spent obtaining funds for sustenance.
Because I was far away, I did not try to forget my wife.
Therefore, coming near my wife somewhat strengthened my resolve.
However, seeing her haggard face only became a source of pain for me.
My wife was hiding in a corner of a back-alley tenement.
Although she did a small amount of paid work, it naturally went without saying that this was insufficient to make ends meet.
I had no choice but to allocate six yen at a time from my educational funds and give them.
I never ceased contributing to magazines either.
This was vital capital for my family.
This had no small impact on my academic performance.
At that time, I had not yet cultivated myself to coldly disregard superficial achievements.
I sometimes had opportunities to meet my wife.”

“But the sight of my wife only makes me weep.”
“What wrenched my heart even more was my young child.”
“While attending high school, my child contracted meningitis.”
“Though her life was spared, the lack of competent doctors in our area and our destitute circumstances made proper treatment impossible.”
“As a result, my child became intellectually disabled after the illness.”
“A six-year-old girl should be at an age when she develops some awareness of the world.”
“Yet my child’s speech remains unintelligible.”
“There is ultimately no hope for her development.”

“The way my wife devotes herself entirely to me while pleading for mercy makes me feel wretched,”
“But I harbor little heartfelt love for my child.”
“Perhaps our years of separation gave no occasion for affection to take root.”
“Even when I try forcibly to embrace her, she shrinks away in fear.”
“Though I’ve attempted countless ways to win my child’s favor, this daughter of mine—with all her faculties delayed—never responds cheerfully like other children.”
“Yet she remains my flesh and blood—there’s no escaping that.”
“I must shoulder my share of the burdens my wife bears for our child.”
“In time, Father began pressing me repeatedly for divorce.”
“Yet the mere fact of my having a child always stayed his tongue.”
“Even through this, my adoptive father’s conduct only fanned the flames of Father’s righteous anger.”
“When Father’s patience finally snapped, he’d confront me violently about the divorce.”
“I reluctantly resumed my original surname, but destitution gave me no leave to cast aside my virtuous wife.”
“During my time in Okayama, a certain celebrated pastor visited.”
“Hearing his sermon moved me profoundly.”
“I sought him at his lodgings afterward.”
“Thereafter I came to hold deep Christian faith.”
“Christianity brands the abandonment of one’s wife a mortal sin.”
“My wife knows full well the pressures Father brings upon me.”
“At times she even implores you—‘For your future’s sake, cast me aside.’”
“Could any woman voice this without tears?”

“The moment I leave my wife, she will cease to exist in this world.”
“My wife has resolved to die.”
“She said she had wandered countless nights clutching our child disabled in mind.”
“She said even when resolved to take the razor kept at her breast and die, she found herself unable to kill the child.”
“My wife is a woman of unyielding will.”
“Given sufficient cause, she would perish without hesitation.”
“Thus I would be compelled to commit murder’s mortal sin.”
“Could such a thing be borne?”
“From these circumstances grew my habit of contemplative thought.”
“I too cannot relinquish ambition.”
“Therefore I necessarily chose a field permitting extensive research.”
“Thus did sociology—still in its infancy—captivate me.”
“Upon graduating too, I had immediately to secure income.”
“Partly believing rural air might mend my frail constitution, I accepted appointment to this middle school.”
“With my posting, I sent my wife back to Kochi.”
“This stemmed from Father’s obstinate refusal to countenance cohabitation with wife and child.”
“Deferring to Father’s will, I exiled them far within our native prefecture.”
“Concurrently I consigned twelve yen monthly from my salary—the utmost possible—to comfort her.”
“When departing Kochi, my wife shed not one tear.”
“Her newly sharpened gaze instead pierced my heart violently.”

“And the twelve yen I must send to my wife represents the maximum amount I can possibly allocate from my income.”
“I also have an obligation to repay my benefactor for my educational expenses.”
“And I have also set aside a portion to comfort my father in his old age.”
How much leeway could my life possibly have under these circumstances?
Therefore, I had no choice but to devote myself to contributing to magazines.
To smoothly harmonize my surroundings with myself and allow happiness to approach without limit, I am compelled to recognize the necessity of money earned through earnest and legitimate means.
Nothing but money can bring salvation to my family.
“I went up to Tokyo during this midsummer break and attended a certain lecture meeting.”
“At that time, I was invited by an acquaintance to take up a teaching position at the recently established Kyushu Commercial School.”
“The increased salary caught my interest.”
“Upon concluding the lecture meeting, I used the remuneration as travel funds and returned home.”
“Due to the fact that leaving Kanto would bring me closer to my hometown, I managed to sway my father’s heart.”
“As a result of my pleading, I succeeded in obtaining consent to bring my wife and children.”
“My income will increase by two hundred and forty yen per year.”
“I, as an educator, am not unaware that aiming for money is a despicable act.”
“Thus, leaving for Kyushu tormented my conscience for a time.”
“However, I reconsidered that my actions were not a sin.”
“That is because it can restore my wife and children to life.”
“By forming a household, my wife will be saved from her long hardships.”
“However, my stubborn father’s sole condition for permitting me to live with my wife and children was that I must never interfere with his absolute refusal to associate with my adoptive father.”

“Whether I obey my father or not, both fathers will ultimately be unable to maintain their friendship.”
“That remains beyond my power to resolve, no matter how I agonize over it.”
“I must find satisfaction in having saved the wife I must protect.”
“The salary increase will also enable me to shorten the time required to fulfill my obligations to my benefactor.”
“It provides great convenience in comforting my impoverished father’s old age.”
“And thus I resolutely decided to leave for Kyushu.”
“However, resigning as an educator after only one year must inflict a wound upon my conscience.”
“I must feel ashamed before you.”
“I cannot bear to depart in silence.”
“That is why I had thought to have you hear just this much…………”

Mr. Saji did not slacken his posture in the slightest.
That low voice felt as though it filled his classroom, sharply stimulating his ears.
I had never even dreamed such facts could exist in relation to Mr. Saji.
From the depths of my heart, I felt shame for having foolishly doubted him.
It seemed I had recognized for the first time in Mr. Saji what could be called human character.
I imagined that from then onward, Mr. Saji would at last be able to lead a happy life.
With that single thought, I considered consoling him.
Yet for Mr. Saji's sake, I found myself seized through heart and body as though shrinking back.
Not a single word could I utter.
I too kept my head bowed and maintained silence.

“However, my anguish will never permanently depart.”

Mr. Saji’s voice resounded intensely within me.

“Regarding my father’s conditions, I shall endure them for a time.”
“The anguish within my household will never truly depart.”
“My sole diversion lies in playing Go—there exists nothing else.”
“Save when asleep, I ceaselessly torment my mind.”
“Should I not afflict my thoughts, I cannot withstand the solitude.”
“Go grants no respite to this weary brain.”
“Every hour beyond my teaching duties becomes pure torment.”
“Long have I labored under this peculiar disposition.”
“I take solace in meticulously maintaining but a single set of presentable garments.”
“Even common utensils must please the eye ere I suffer their daily use.”
“Were I blessed with scholarly leisure, still would this mind exhaust itself without cease.”
“At such moments, had my wife’s countenance borne beauty, communion with her might restore me.”
“For one devoid of pleasures, spousal comeliness alone could offer balm.”
“Yet my wife stands revealed as loathsome to behold.”
“Adversity’s crucible has etched her indomitable will upon that visage.”
“Each encounter’s initial instant never fails to rouse revulsion and dread.”
“Forming a proper home might yet coax forth some feminine softness through domestic stability.”
“In all else, advancing years render hope impossible.”
“Hitherto have I mourned my wife’s plight and bent all efforts to her salvation.”
“Thus did Fate’s partial mercy compel our cohabitation.”

“At the same time, within my heart arose an acute feeling of loathing for my wife.”
“I should be able to lift this gloom by leaving for Kyushu.”
“Yet the anguish toward my wife only further tore at my heart.”
“I have cultivated thoughts and considerations born of anguish these past several years to such an extent that I believe I can now fairly judge every aspect of myself.”
“Even so, I am unable to discover any light within my household.”
“My wife merely spent a brief period of luxury in a merchant’s household.”
“If I could at least handle the writing of practical letters on her behalf, that would be something.”
“I cannot even feel safe entrusting someone with tidying my desk.”
“My acquired sense of morality—disregarding even my obstinate father’s opposition—forms a household with this wife who borders on despair.”
“And as a father’s duty, I must exert all possible strength to develop my child who is akin to an imbecile.”
“At the time I became part of my adoptive household, beyond tasting my wife’s affection, how could my eyes have discerned beauty from ugliness?”
“I was far too innocent in leaving regrets for later days.”
“I constantly fall into melancholy whenever I bring my unsatisfied wife to mind.”
“The only thing binding my wife and me is a mere shred of moral conscience.”
“The Christianity I believe in to such an extent does not resolve my anguish in the slightest.”

Tears streamed down his haggard cheeks.

“Over these past several years—how many times I have sought resolutions in my heart regarding my circumstances—I cannot say.”
“And every time, they end up being ineffective.”
“What my reason has built up, emotions immediately destroy from their very foundations.”
“While being destroyed, I have thus managed myself all along.”
“When I am tormented by anguish and sink into melancholy, I feel as though I can find my dwelling place there.”
“The state of melancholy has come to give me a kind of pleasure.”
“My body must simultaneously be damaged.”
“To gain a sorrowful pleasure, my cells diminish.”
“I must kill my flesh.”

Mr. Saji remained silent for a while.

“I will be moving to Fukuoka shortly.”
“If anyone should ask about me after I’m gone, please tell them my story.”
“I’ve never opened up to anyone before—I couldn’t find peace until I told you.”

After another interval,

“I must have caused you considerable trouble.”

Mr. Saji's story came to an end.
I didn't know how to respond in such situations.
Truth be told, my heart was weak.
I was simply at a loss.

When I looked up suddenly, Mr. Numasaki stood outside the window shouldering a hoe, smiling as he peered in.
The only ones who would stay at school until sunset after classes were Mr. Numasaki and myself.

“Are you still here?”

Mr. Numazaki said.
"Let’s head back now."

I answered.
The three of us left through the school gate together.

Even after returning home, I remained absently pondering Mr. Saji's circumstances that defied compassion.
I lay down using a zabuton cushion as my pillow.
My wife grew suspicious enough to wonder what had come over me.
A notion I had never before entertained passed through my mind.
I became conscious of an alteration in my mental state.

There was a man—a friend from my boyhood days—who had aspired to the literary arts. When I met him two years prior, he had kept speaking about what he called the meaning of life. I had never understood it from the start. Nor had I made any attempt to understand. He said he was constantly commuting between places like Ichigaya Mitsuke and Ushigome Mitsuke. Around those mitsuke checkpoints, after heavy rains, you would often see embankments collapsing halfway up their slopes. Crows would perch on the enoki trees along the levees. After the leaves fell, parasitic hoya plants stood fully exposed. A boy carrying an air gun would wander about the area. One day when passing through, the boy shot a crow with his air gun. The crow fell swiftly. As it neared the embankment, it flapped its wings in one final exertion of strength before its body crashed into the withered grass with a heavy thud. When the boy ran up and seized it, the crow let out a mournful cry. He said he felt there was some meaning in these phenomena at the mitsuke. I told him it was simply gravity’s effect—that collapses naturally occur when voids form in parts of the earth’s crust. “Even if there are hoya plants,” I added, “it doesn’t signify anything.” Half-jokingly, I suggested the loud noise when the crow fell resulted from its increased falling velocity. “Still,” I insisted, “I do know enough to love nature.” To which he retorted, “What’s the use of merely skimming nature’s surface?”

When I met him last summer, he spoke again of such matters.
He had recently encountered an unfortunate woman and heard her story.
She had wept while sharing her plight.
At the time, he advised her not to vainly seek solace but to grieve completely and submit to fate.
By doing so, he said, the meaning of existence would deepen.
He claimed to have told her that through this submission, her own worth would simultaneously increase.
"I simply couldn’t comprehend it," I retorted. "You people agonize over such trivialities."
When I said this, he asked, "You understand farmers, don’t you?" To which I replied, "Naturally."
"Does any falsehood exist in their cultivation of crops?" he pressed. "I say it’s sacred labor."
"Since you acknowledge their lives are built upon effort," he continued, "they must occupy effort’s highest plane."
"If so," he concluded, "this constitutes sacred effort."
"A farmer wouldn’t begrudge parting with a handful of seedlings."
"Yet should a single plant be trampled after transplanting, his fury would erupt."
"When ears form and flowers bloom, his heart frets through stormy nights."
"When rice hangs drying on bamboo poles, his cherishing intensifies."
"What transpires when unhulled becomes brown rice, then white?"
"That single grain of white rice gains worth through accumulated effort—the farmer’s labor layered within."
"This embodies sacred effort’s value."
"Not material value."
"For from husk to white grain, isn’t the very substance being annihilated?"

"Whether it be a Shinto shrine or a Buddhist temple, the solemn atmosphere that overwhelms people is a concrete manifestation of the devout attitudes held by all who built them and those who have continued serving them through long subsequent years."
"It is human effort that overwhelms people."
"You seem not to comprehend what attitude means."
"The greatest object of study would likely be astronomy."
"The smallest would be microscopy."
"And do you believe there exists any distinction in value between them?"
"The reason one finds no distinction lies in researchers' devout attitudes toward their subjects being entirely identical."
"Scholarship is the crystallization of sacred effort," he said.
"I countered, 'That may be so, but even with identical efforts, some succeed while others do not—doesn't this occur?' He replied, 'That concerns innate talent. Each must simply exhaust their talent—this act of exhaustion constitutes sacred effort. Value resides precisely in that attitude.'"
"'Then aren't those born unskilled disadvantaged?' I asked. 'Terms like profit and loss don't apply here,' he retorted. 'Consider sitting idle for ten days—what remains when looking back after a year? Half a year? Even a month?'"
"A single day's journey suffices."
"Which requires more effort?"
"Which leaves more memories?"
"And isn't it true that as more incidents befall the journey—as more pains accumulate—as travelers' minds surge against these events and sufferings—substance, meaning, and value multiply there?"
"Our true vocation lies in discovering meaningful, valuable life even within microscopic points."
"And through striving toward this," he concluded, "our own meaning and value increase."
I listened with muted derision.
His lecturing tone—as if addressing elementary pupils—struck me as insufferable.
Relationships unchanged since boyhood hold something peculiarly grating.
Yet afterward I had utterly forgotten such matters.

Upon hearing Mr. Saji’s story, it suddenly struck me.
There are times when matters from twenty years past abruptly surface in my mind.
Psychologists must have some name for this condition.
Whenever I observe Mr. Saji, I cannot help but feel myself shrink into insignificance.
I have encountered several university graduates.
Yet none resembled Mr. Saji.
And still, this Mr. Saji remains perpetually consumed by domestic tribulations.
He is but a man constrained to one narrow sphere.
What could possibly dwell there?
I fell heavily and lay unable to rise.

The next day, Mr. Saji bid farewell to his students and left early. After classes ended, I visited Mr. Saji’s boarding house with two or three photographs of the upper reaches of the Kinu River tucked into my pocket.
He said he had entrusted most of his luggage to a transport service, leaving the room completely empty save for a single suitcase.
Mr. Saji took out a piece of white cloth from his suitcase, wiped the tea set, and served tea.
When I took out the photographs and showed them, Mr. Saji scrutinized them closely.
I spoke of how the upper reaches of the Kinu River were a peerless scenic spot, the particularly violent water flow following torrential rains, the overwhelming power of nature that instills superstitions in the valley’s inhabitants, and various other matters.
Mr. Saji,

“I imagine my circumstances and disposition would not permit me to traverse such deep mountains.”
“I thank you for allowing me to experience this grand spectacle through your efforts.”
“I am by nature a person who cherishes beauty.”
“I am also studying what art truly is.”
“However, my heart is exceedingly fragile in one aspect, yet it endures even the most intense stimuli—so intense that one wouldn’t feel pain unless pierced with an awl.”
“I do not care for the many exaggerated landscape paintings created by contemporary artists.”
“I too believe that exaggeration is one of the elements of painting.”
“However, many contemporary paintings induce a distasteful sense of superficiality and falsehood that accompany exaggeration.”
“But your photographs have presented truth itself before me.”
“Truth is the foremost nourishment for me.”

he spoke words to that effect.

“I have plenty of Kinu River photographs. If you wish, I can make prints tonight.”
“When you go out to the meeting tomorrow, please stop by briefly to see them on your way.”

"I then continued,

‘When you go there, why not make an effort to take walks in the suburbs? I am certain your health will surely recover.’"

I tried saying something perfectly ordinary.

“I shall endeavor to follow your advice.”

Mr. Saji said tersely.

The next day was Sunday. A farewell gathering for Mr. Saji had been arranged among the staff. Having spent the previous night developing prints, I awoke at ten o'clock. The sky shone crisply clear, and cosmos flowers in the narrow garden appeared cheerfully bright. I laid out the washed photographic prints along the veranda to dry. When they dried completely, I trimmed their edges with a glass ruler and mounted them on boards. It was then that Mr. Saji came calling. He entered through the garden path. The room lay strewn with miscellaneous photographs, aged mounting boards, newspapers, and general clutter—an environment that must have discomforted the fastidious Mr. Saji. My wife happened to be absent that day, attending some gathering with colleagues' spouses. I served chilled tea. As Mr. Saji examined photographs scattered from their box one by one, I kept my hands busy while explaining how prints discolor without proper washing, how inferior paste causes fading regardless, and how Americans regard this mounting process as a technical discipline. Considerable time elapsed. The sunlight seemed to have acquired an oblique angle. When I noticed my hands growing dim as if twilight approached, I fancied I heard a sound at the entrance.

“It appears someone has come to see you.”

Mr. Saji alerted me.

“Hello there.”

It was a low, courteous voice.
I remained standing where I was and looked out.
Beyond the bamboo fence in the garden, unassuming red cosmos stood straight and tall, their blossoms bathed fully in sunlight.
Through their shade, I could make out a dim figure standing.
When I went out to investigate, a shabby old man was unloading something from a carrying pole.

“What is it?”

I said.

“Ah, these are loaches. Since this is all I have left, I’ll let them go cheap…”

He was a pitiable-looking old man.

"Why don't you try measuring it properly?"

I said as I took out my wallet.
The old man took out the scale tucked at his waist, hooked the basket, and raised the scale’s beam higher than eye level.

“Hey old man, if you do it that way, the remainder will jump!”

“Yessir, yessir.”

The old man adjusted the weight slightly.
There was something odd about this.
The old man soon

“Please take a look, sir.”

He was telling me to read the scale’s markings.
The old man poured the loaches into the small basket I had brought out, then hung the wet bamboo basket, and asked what the net weight was.

“Two hundred forty-five momme. So what’s the going rate?”

“Ah, normally it’s sixty percent, sir, but since today’s an end-of-day sale, fifty-five percent’ll do if it please you.”

“What a convoluted calculation—13 sen 4 rin 7 mō 5 shu? You wouldn’t make sense of that, old man. Let’s call it 13 sen 5 rin. Here’s a twenty-sen silver coin.”

The old man took the silver coin, held it close to his eyes to rub and inspect its rim, then pulled out a grimy wallet from the emptied basket and scattered coins into his palm with a clatter.

“Sir, if you’d kindly take your change from here onward.”

“You want me to take it myself? Then that’s six sen five rin. Ah—already taken.”

The old man clattered the small coins mingled with Bunkyū-era currency back into his wallet and twisted its long cord round and round.

"My, what a rare occasion! Have you come all this way out here, Mr. Saji? It seems you've traveled quite a distance... But why do you remain standing there?"

Hearing my wife's voice offering greetings, I looked up to find she had returned with our two children.
Unnoticed until now, Mr. Saji stood by the bamboo fence gazing in our direction.
He must have come to take his leave, as the farewell gathering's appointed hour drew near.

“Oh, do come in for a moment. Please have some tea.”

The wife was making polite conversation. I had noticed,

"I must have been quite careless and caused you trouble. I'll finish developing a few photographs and come later, so please go ahead without me."

"Have you been here since earlier? I thought you had only just arrived."

While greeting Mr. Saji, my wife approached me. The child held by my wife showed his newly emerging white teeth, waving both hands toward Mr. Saji while standing and squatting on his mother's palms, making a joyful commotion.

“This child really has no fear of people at all—I must say, what are we to do about this behavior?”

After greeting Mr. Saji, my wife remarked to herself, “The ladies are having quite the laugh again today, aren’t they?” Then, looking at me and laughing, she added, “You’re impossible—what are you doing with that little basket of all things?” The second son, who had been clinging to her waist, pestered her to show him what was inside. When she held the basket up to his head, water from the loaches dripped down with a plop. He shrank his neck and whined in a spoiled voice, making a fuss. Another playmate who had spent the day with the neighborhood children rushed in through the gate, kicking off their geta a full ken behind before dashing up. Mr. Saji remained standing there.

“I just bought some loaches.”

I told my wife about the old man.

“Old man, your eyes are bad?”

My wife asked earnestly.

“Ah, I’ve gone near blind myself these days.”

“Aren’t you lettin’ yourself get hoodwinked by that?”

“Sellin’ these gives enough for tobacco money—it’s a blessin’, truly.”
“The gentlemen know my face, so they look out for me one way or ’nother. ’Sides, if it’s just me eatin’, I don’t need more’n two gō a day.”

“Well really now, at your age you oughtn’t have to keep workin’ no more.”

The wife asked sympathetically.

“I had me a son early on—just when I thought he’d grown proper, he up an’ died on me. That rotten luck was my own damn fault. Then I took in an adopted child, raised ’em all the way to twenty-five only to get stabbed in the back. Makes my blood boil just thinkin’ on it—should’ve married ’em off sooner, but no, I messed that up too. Ended up gettin’ tricked by some woman who dragged ’em off. Heard a whisper they’re workin’ the Ashio Copper Mines now. Fine if they send money back, but they won’t—not a lick. If it was just about gettin’ by, they could’ve stayed right here! But no—had to go chasin’ after what they fancied. Not like that woman couldn’t’ve been their wife proper! If my real boy’d lived, I’d never be in this fix… That bastard…”

The old man was using his carrying pole as a walking staff while

“Nothin’ but your own flesh’n blood’ll do—your own child’s your treasure.”

he murmured.

“If you find out where they are in Ashio, why not bring them back here?”

The wife said.

“They ain’t comin’ back to no good-for-nothin’ like me—makes my blood boil somethin’ fierce. Past seventy now, legs gone useless on me—been left a pitiful wreck. Can’t hardly carry my load no more neither—nights wear me down proper. Last year to this one’s a world o’ difference. No use arguin’ over it—not even a year’s worth o’ fight left. Don’t know where that bastard’s ended up neither, but I’ve resigned myself to this being my lot… Nothin’ to be done—I’ve given up on that good-for-nothin’…”

My wife and I simply stood watching the old man.
Mr. Saji too remained standing motionless by the bamboo fence.
The day was gradually darkening.
The old man opened wide his unseeing eyes.

He wrapped the basket's rope around the end of the scale pole and stood as if pondering for a while.

"If that bastard hadn't got the wrong idea, he wouldn't be so hateful—but hell, I ain't had no decent luck myself neither, so what's the use?"

The old man suddenly seemed to notice.

“Thankee kindly.”

With that, he shouldered the scale pole in a leaning-forward posture.

“I’ll buy some for you again, so come by.”

My wife called out from behind.

“Ohh, please do.”

The old man poked his bamboo cane and shuffled unsteadily out.
Mr. Saji also followed and left.
The figures of the two soon disappeared into the twilight.
The night, growing ever thicker, pressed down and closed in around me.

(Published October 1, Meiji 42 [1909], in Hototogisu, Volume 13, Issue 1)