Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Tayama Katai

Beneath the monumental gate, the boat stood ready. Atop the Four-Cloth Quilt in its center lay a small square brazier like those used in theater productions—this he noted.

Dusk was already approaching.
Across the long hill opposite, faint traces of sunset still lingered, yet winter’s abbreviated daylight made clear even these remnants would soon vanish entirely.
He scrambled aboard the vessel,

“Can we make Itako before dark?”

“Well…” The relatively young boatman, who was slowly untying the rope at the stern, looked up and said, “After all, the sun’s already over there.
“It’ll be dark soon, won’t it?”
“No matter what…”

“Even so, we should be able to make about half the way while it’s still light, right?”

“Well…”

By that time, Masaki was already sitting on the Four-Cloth Quilt and had placed a tidy cotton robe that had been beside him over the square brazier.

“Is this alright? Mind if I borrow this robe?”

“Certainly.”

The boatman nodded obediently.

The Boatman nodded readily.

“After all, with this cold lately… you know?”
“The boat’s a bit of an odd choice, but they say the steamship doesn’t come till past six.”

“I’m not even sure about that six o’clock.”
“After all, with this cold lately, the ice has frozen over, hasn’t it?”
“The steamship that came here earlier—usually it goes all the way to Hokota and stays overnight—couldn’t get that far this time and had to turn back.”
“It’s bound to be two or three hours late…”

No sooner had he felt a slight sway than the boat was already away from shore, floating several meters out on the lake.
The Boatman kept thrusting his pole as if driving it deeper into water.

“This cold’s something else, isn’t it? This year!”

Masaki said.

“It really is!
“This hasn’t happened in years.”
“First time since we can remember.”
“In Taisho 6, it did freeze a bit, but nothin’ like this.”
“They say the Yokotone’s completely frozen over with ice, ain’t that right?”

“The steamship came here by crushing through that ice.”

“So, you came on that steamship earlier, huh?”
“So you went to Kashima Shrine, didja?”

“Yes, I paid a quick visit there.
“I’ve come here many times before, but—” As Masaki spoke these words, the events since disembarking from the steamship earlier flashed vividly in his eyes.
The vehicles had all gone to Kashima Town for inspection, and since there wasn’t a single one left here, he had no choice but to trudge up that long slope.
There was a pond with withered lotuses and a house displaying a sword polisher’s signboard.
When he looked back from the top of the slope, he involuntarily stopped and let out a sound.
From there, Kitaura Lake—half-lit by the afternoon sun—appeared as if one could reach out and grasp it.

In Kashima Town, he saw a crowd of people in haori jackets and hakama trousers gathered along a narrow street—they said someone who had once served as a priest there had died, and now the funeral was about to begin. He felt lonely. He thought that he too would one day be sent off by people in that manner. Masaki had already tasted more than his share of life’s hardships. His hair had already turned half white. He had just seen the desolate Kashima Shrine, where sunlight formed slanting lines through the trees.

On the way back, he felt inclined to stop by Konponji Temple located halfway up the slope on the left.
He recalled how about ten years prior C—the head priest there—had come to his house requesting donations for historic preservation.
He remembered C earnestly asking him to visit if he ever came that way.
Was this really it?
This was Konponji Temple?
The very place where Bashō had stayed?
As these thoughts arose within him nostalgia welled up.
He decided he would stop by briefly.
It might be interesting if C were still there.
Yet deep down he knew much time had passed—they’d met only once or twice—so C might no longer be around or might have forgotten him entirely.
Still he entered.

But what do you know!
There was C, wasn’t there!
Now, having transferred this dilapidated temple to a disciple, he was serving as head priest at a temple in Tsuchiura—yet this very C had arrived on the same steamship as him just a short while earlier and welcomed him in with astonished delight.
And hadn’t he shown him various temple treasures?
“I never imagined I would meet you now.”
“This too is a Buddhist connection!”
“Please stay a while longer!” C had joyfully tried to detain him, hadn’t he?
And hadn’t he even shown him Bashō’s diary and such?
No—hadn’t C, upon seeing his whitened hair, said, “You’ve aged as well!” and done so as if comparing it to himself?
Had there been no life in this as well?
Had there been no life that vanished in an instant?

He stared intently at the shadow of the setting sun gradually disappearing on the opposite hill.

Abruptly, he asked.

“The one from earlier—is that your child?”
“Which one’re ya talkin’ ’bout?”

The Boatman, still poling the boat with his oar, retorted.

“Hey—earlier when boarding the boat—were they pushing it?”

“That one?”
“That one ain’t…”

“But you do have children, don’t you?”

“Me?”
“Is that so? Do I seem like that?” The Boatman laughed.

“You have about two, I suppose?”

“That so?”

The Boatman discarded the pole and gave the oar a small push.

When he looked back, the large torii gate, the inn beside it, and the long line of hills stretching beyond had all grown distant into the far-off.
The lake stretched boundlessly wide, its silvered waters bearing not a single sail’s shadow.
Along the shore, patches of withered reeds remained scattered.

“What about the young couple at that inn over there? Do they get along well?”

“You know a lot, don’t you?
“Sir—?”

“I know that well.”

“But Sir, aren’t you from Tokyo?”

“I know ’bout Tokyo too,” Masaki laughed. “Got yourself a kid now?”

“We do—”

“Rare thing out here in the sticks.”
“What ’bout your wife?”

“That’s why I took to her.”
“The adoption…”
“Didn’t need to shack up at that inn…”
“Just fell for her, y’see…”

“That so?”

“This’un over here?” The young Boatman jerked his chin downward. “Second son from H way—them rich folk.”
“Been studyin’ at Waseda’s place…”

However, even such talk could not sustain their interest for long.

As they entered the narrowing waters from Kitaura Lake toward Yokotone River, both the Boatman and M fell silent. Gradually, the day darkened. Above Nobokata Hill, stars glittered coldly.

Fortunately, large chunks of cherry charcoal filled the brazier. It stayed warm however far they traveled, showing no inclination to die down—no, its wooden rim grew so searing they sometimes had to hike up their padded robes.

To the sound of the oar, the boat moved quietly onward.
It was now fully dusk.
Distant hills and forests half disappeared into the evening gloom.
The expansive Kitaura Lake had been left behind at some point, gradually taking on the character of a river.
Here and there, ice chunks drifting about could faintly be seen.

He began to speak again.

“You boatmen have it easy, don’t you?”

“That so?”
“Does it seem that way?”

“As long as you keep rowing like this...”
“Not like there’s anything to worry about, right?”

“That ain’t how it is!”

“So after all, you do have worries?”

“It’s all the same thing…”
“Ain’t we all just gotta live day by day, right?”

“How many children do you have again?” he repeated the question once more.

“There’s one who’s three…”
“That’s all there is, y’know.”

“So your wife’s still in her charming prime, eh?”

“Not really.”

The Boatman smirked.

“My wife’s charming days were the best…”
“In those days, I’d feel like working as hard as I could, y’know?”

“You’ve already left those times behind…”
“After all, the time when you were alone was more interesting.”
“Wherever you went, you could do as you pleased.”
“In those days, there were times I wouldn’t go home for a week or ten days at a time, y’know.”
“As long as I had a couple of pecks of rice to get by—didn’t need a single coin.”
“Whenever I earned money, I’d drink it all away.”
“When there’s no money—I just sleep in the boat.”
“A day or two…”
“And if I felt like working—I’d work.”
“Those were carefree times.”

“So, do you often sleep inside this boat?”

“That ain’t just sometimes! Even tonight, I’m sleepin’ in this boat too, y’know.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Not cold at all! Plenty warm. With this setup—lay out a reed screen and sleep inside it—it’s way warmer than sleeping indoors.”

“That sounds carefree and nice.”

“So when I was alone, I wouldn’t go home for three or four days. In Sawara, Ushibori, Itako, Isosaki, Tsu no Miya—wherever I washed up, I’d just bed down right there. And once a week passed, I’d figure my old lady must be frettin’ herself ragged—that’s when I’d finally feel like headin’ back. But now? Can’t do that no more.”

“Isn’t that your wife’s charm?”

Masaki laughed.

“Yeah, now that you mention it, maybe that’s how it is? Back then, I thought money was just somethin’ to earn and blow right away—but now I end up savin’ it instead of usin’ it… Takin’ it home and all.”
“But ain’t it kinda dull?”
“The old days were better after all.”

“So where d’you leave the boat?”
“Is there a regular spot?”

“Regular spot? Nah, nothin’ like that.”
“Anywhere’ll do.”
“But y’see…” The Boatman launched into his story. According to his account, he remembered returnin’ to his boat—tied up by the lock gate after a night out in Itako—but beyond that? Nothin’. Not a damn thing…

It’d been around May when he woke next mornin’ to find his boat someplace unrecognizable—reeds rustlin’, embankments risin’, sun beatin’ down. He stared around bewildered.
“Took me ages to figure it out—goddamn ridiculous! Just drifted a bit downstream from Isosaki!”

“Is it the tide?”

“Nah, the tide doesn’t reach up this far. The Kitakita River’s current runs swift there.” The oar’s sound clattered persistently around them.
The boat pushed onward without pause.

“Sir—we’ll bed down in Itako tonight—what’ll you do come morning?”

Thus, the Boatman asked.
The surroundings had already turned completely to night.
The lights on the shore flickered as they fell in long streaks upon the water, stretching and shrinking.

They barely managed to pass through the chunks of ice.
The sound of broken ice floes brushing against each other as they flowed was ultimately akin to insects chirping along the shore.
Clink, clink, clink, clink—that was how it sounded.
They rowed through such stretches.

A little further back, they had had such a conversation.

“Still not there?”
“What about Itako?”

“Soon.”
“Ain’t even ten *chō* left!”

“It’s quite far, isn’t it?”

The Boatman did not respond to that—
“Did the fire go out?”
“Sir?”

“No—it’s still going!”

They fell silent again.
The glow of Masaki’s cigarette flickered red now and then in the night’s darkness.
When they reached that stretch, boats returning from all directions suddenly multiplied, the creak of oars grating incessantly from behind.
Some came up swiftly from the rear and overtook their vessel.
Black shadows of riverside houses fell upon the water, swelling and shrinking with the oar-stirred waves.
Here and there, hearth fires burned crimson.
“Hey—ain’t that Ei-chan?”
“What’s up?”
“Just get here?” Voices called from behind as two-oared boats surged past.
“Sir—folk like that!”
“Don’t go home for five-six days straight?” After passing them in the distance, the Boatman said this to Masaki.

“Huh? Sir?”

Since he remained silent, the Boatman asked again.

“Well, what’re you thinkin’ of doin’? Are you thinkin’ of goin’ to Isosaki, waitin’ there for a steamship to Choshi? Or maybe headin’ out toward Lake Kasumigaura instead?”

“If you’re goin’ to Isosaki, I can come along with ya. Tomorrow—”

“You’re not goin’ back tonight?”

“You’re stayin’ over tonight?”
“Found yourself a decent spot here, have you?”

“Ah, it’s nothing…” The Boatman laughed. “We’ll sleep here…”

“If I end up going to Isosaki, I’ll be in your care again, you know? Since it’s truly not yet decided, it’d be a shame to keep you waiting for that reason.”

“No—we’re stayin’ here no matter what!” The Boatman said this, then added, “If you ain’t goin’, there’s cargo to load anyway—”

“In that case, let’s do that—I generally go to Isosaki anyway.”

They had long since passed Sendai Riverbank.
The black shadows of houses and bright reflections cast by lamps upon the water grew ever more numerous.
Beside bare-branched river willows and withered reeds wrestling with the night wind came into view two or three large ships lying at anchor.
There were some too where lights peered up from deep within their black hulls.

Suddenly across the quiet night water came the sound of a drum.

“They’re really goin’ at it, huh?”

“What about you, Sir?”

The Boatman said with a laugh.

“Well—if we’re talkin’ five or six years back.”
“Hearin’ those sounds used to drive me clean wild.”
“Can’t take it no more now!”
“Even makin’ such a racket—it’d last two, three hours tops!”
“That’s why I think that way straight off!”

“It’s true—when I think about it, I can’t do such things either!”

Yet that sound conjured in him the very essence of a water town’s narrow pleasure quarters.
Through the darkness, he could vividly imagine those houses’ lights strung in a row.
The memory surfaced of an iris dance he had witnessed over a decade prior.

No sooner had the lock gate’s form loomed black against the night sky than the boat swung around and entered it.
In the Boatman’s hand was a long pole.

“Have we arrived already?”

“We’ve arrived!”

The boat passed quietly through the lock gate. Rows of poplar trees resembling upside-down brooms stretched far into the darkness, and soon they entered what seemed like an increasingly narrow riverbank area. They could tell they were passing beneath a bridge even in the night's obscurity.

When they came to the riverbank, suddenly the surroundings grew bright.
It was nothing else but this.
That was because there were many lights around there.
There were two or three two-story houses shining brightly with lights.

Moreover, there were already many ships anchored there.
It was impossible to land from anywhere.
The Boatman, with no other choice, said, “Let’s go this way!” and ducked under the bridge again.
He barely managed to moor the boat to the shore.
The Boatman went ahead to guide him to the inn.

Masaki, who had woken early the next morning, rattled open the third-floor shutters.
It was a beautifully clear morning of the kind unseen except in winter.
Patches of residual snow clustered white across the waterways, stretching from Yokotone to Kitatone in a single sweeping vista.
On the hills toward Katori, smoke from morning fires could be seen rising quietly.

The Yokotone River was narrow, flowing like an unfurled sash.
So vividly did everything appear close at hand—houses, rivers, ships and bridges clumped together in a jumble—that he might have thought *this* was where they had passed through last night.
The lock gate they had navigated after dark stood right there.

As a matter of course, his eyes fell to the congested ships and clustered riverbank immediately below.
There were at least seven or eight ships temporarily anchored there.
He could also see white morning frost settled upon the new matting.
From one of the ships, wispy smoke from morning fires rose through the cold air.

Is he really sleeping over there?
As he thought this, he searched with his eyes for the Boatman’s boat and found one near the bridge, pushed into a corner and half-covered with matting—it seemed to be that very vessel.
He could not help feeling a certain amusement.
That in coming to this water town’s narrow lanes, one man had slept in a third-floor room of the inn and the other under the boat’s matting directly facing each other—this struck him as nothing short of miraculous.

The other maid came to inform him that the Boatman had arrived while he was eating breakfast.

“Are you heading to Isosaki, Sir? He asked if you could step over for a moment—”

“Oh, really…?”
“Well then, I’ll go. Could you tell him to get ready and wait for me?”

The maid went downstairs.
After settling the bill and descending the stairs, there at the inn’s entrance stood the Boatman waiting.
Walking side by side toward last night’s riverbank, he asked, “Did you really sleep there?”

“Me?”

“You couldn’t have slept there, could you? You’ve got one or two regulars in this town, don’t you?”

The Boatman, without even smiling,

“Nah, I slept there. Had some business—was out till ’bout eleven—but came back an’ slept…”

“Isn’t this ‘business’ of yours a bit shady?”

“Nah—” The Boatman wore an uncharacteristically solemn expression compared to last night.

“Have you eaten?”

“I… cooked and ate there on the boat…”

“You must’ve been cold last night, eh?”
“Nah…”

With these words, he headed toward the boat moored under the bridge.
Looking, he saw that the area had already been neatly tidied up, and there on the Four-Cloth Quilt lay the square brazier, just as it had yesterday.
Masaki removed his geta and boarded the boat as he was.

If it had been like last night’s manner, he would have said, “How was it? And you, Sir? Did you visit the pleasure quarters?”—he should have said something like that—yet this morning, for some reason, he stayed utterly silent, merely replying to whatever I said. Before long, the boat passed through the lock gate and continued toward Kitatone along a different route from the previous day.

It was a cold, cold morning.
The wind blowing in from Nobukata Hill whistled sharply, grazing their faces.
Despite the morning sun shining across the river, the banks, the willows onshore, the yellow reeds, and the sails moving distantly ahead, it was even colder than inside the boat last night.
Even as he warmed his hands over the Square Brazier beneath his padded robe, a full-body shiver ran through him alone.

A short way out, the Boatman raised the mast.
Next, he took out the rolled-up sailcloth from the bottom of the boat.
He tied together the ropes on this side and that side.
He gave a firm pull and hoisted it up.
The patch-covered brown sail flapped and fluttered in the river wind.

Before long, the Boatman pulled the rope that had come loose and was moving, went to the bow, and tied it there.
The boat suddenly caught the wind full in its sails and swelled.
The boat tilted somewhat.

“Good wind, isn’t it?”

“Ain’t it a bit too much of a good thing?” Saying this, the Boatman went to the stern and hastily took up the oar.
The boat, which until now had been tilting toward the shore, suddenly veered its course toward the wide waves of Namiura.

Because he was cold, Masaki took out two or three mats that were there—which he assumed the Boatman had used to sleep on the quilt the night before—and arranged them like a folding screen behind him.
And to keep them from being blown over by the wind, he propped them against the rope used to hoist the sail.
Suddenly there formed a cozy nook like the hollow of a warm mountain.
“This works—this’ll do nicely—” Saying such things, he pulled out the two-gō bottle of Masamune he’d brought along without drinking that morning from Tonbi’s Pocket.

“How ’bout a drink?”
“Thank you—”
The Boatman approached.

“Is the oar secure?”

“Nah，it’s fine…” He turned to look．“Just shifted a bit west…”

“With the sail，it’s easier，huh? With this，we’ll arrive soon enough，won’t we?”

As he poured wine into a bowl with a splashing sound，he said，“Since you’re asking，Sir… Were you troubled last night?”

“Why?”
“So something did happen after all, didn’t it?”

Tilting his head back to expose his Adam’s apple, the Boatman gulped the sake from his bowl and said, “Troubled? That’s not half of it… I’ve been at my wit’s end—truly at a loss—”

“What happened?”

“Did she make you cry?” After having another cup poured for him, the Boatman gulped it down.

“So it really was like that after all, eh?”
“Just as I imagined, then?”

However, the Boatman neither laughed nor allowed himself to be drawn into the lighthearted mood.
He remained serious.

“But what’s there to do?
“I’ve got a wife, y’know? And she’s got herself a proper husband—”

“So it’s finally gotten complicated, has it?”

The Boatman looked at Masaki’s face and said, “It’s not like that… I’ve known that woman since way back… She’s pitiful—her husband’s a proper wastrel through and through.”

“Have you told me everything? I’ve only heard bits and pieces—can’t make sense of it all.”

“Nah, ain’t nothin’ worth makin’ a fuss over—” The Boatman creaked the oar into place and came back. “Known her since she was knee-high, see? We got on well enough. Never once crossed my mind to marry her or nothin’. But then… things happened around that time—fights broke out between us, me and her…? So I went and took a wife for myself, and she ended up with that husband of hers now.”

“Was there a relationship?”

Masaki pressed further and asked.

“Nah…”
“Just young folks, y’know…”
“And back then, we thought we’d end up together, y’know?”

“So you’re saying you unexpectedly met her again last night?”

“Nah—ain’t nothin’ much at all.”
“Last night, after sending you off, Sir—well, on a whim, I got to wonderin’ what she was up to and went to see her.”
“She’s now the wife of that charcoal shop owner on the riverbank…”

“Hmm—”

“And even that—I ain’t hardly ever had such an urge before.”
“I come to Itako five or six times a month, but I’d gone and clean forgotten ’bout her.”
“But why—dunno—last night I just up and felt like goin’—”

“So what happened?”

“Her husband’s been off gambling with some woman and hasn’t come home for three days now.”
“Then she went and told me all sorts of things…”
“I was stuck—didn’t know what to do anymore…”

“Hmm—”

Masaki nodded like this.
He could no longer keep up the lighthearted mood of teasing or laughter.
Such things are common in life—especially when a child turns three.
He had thought this way, but those words never left his lips.

“And then…”
“That woman kept saying, ‘Even if I regret it now, there’s nothing to be done… Why’d things turn out that way back then?’ she kept saying…”
“But still… ain’t nothing to be done now.”

“That’s true.”

Masaki poured more sake into the bowl for him.
The rest was nearly gone.

The sail swelled fully with wind, sending up waves along the gunwale as it advanced swiftly onward.
They were now in the vast expanse of Namisaka Bay—to the right beyond a floating island rose Katori Hill; to the left stretched hills thick with trees around Kami Pond south of Kashima.
In the distance clustered houses near Ipponmatsu among stands of timber that seemed to float upon the lake.
Morning sunlight glittered like scattered metal where it shattered upon the water.

“Sir, what should I do?”
“What does one do in times like that?”

“………………?”

He did not know how to respond.

That must have been when he returned uneventfully last night.
He must have slept there.
However, when he thought deeply about that matter，the Boatman must have hardly slept at all.
However，it was truly a problem he didn’t know how to resolve.
Would abandoning their families and being together bring happiness or misfortune to them? He then recalled that he himself had passed through such a crucible of love.
And then，the face of the woman with whom he had tearfully parted during that time floated vaguely into view.
However，now it stirred no impression nor any emotion within him.
At that time，he must have suffered a life-or-death wound across his entire being，but it had healed without him knowing when，and now not even a trace of it remained.
No，it wasn’t just that.
He then recalled having suffered even deeper，more raw，physical agonies of love since then.
Life or death.
Far from it—should I kill him and take her?
Or would that person be killed by him for her sake?
He had passed through such trials as well.
Even when he looked back，dangerous cliffs had loomed there at every turn.
He thought it was a wonder he had made it this far unharmed.
However，he was safe now…
He had passed through the perilous edge of love’s abyss.
While thinking such things，he stared absentmindedly.

The Boatman fell silent.

“That’s how it goes, isn’t it? Is that torii gate over there Isosaki?” Masaki asked, pointing at the small, distant shrine gate emerging into view.

“That’s right…”

“This area… boats don’t come through here anymore at all, do they…?”

“Due to river construction work, they redirected the Tone River’s water over there, right?”

“In our youth, this was the main waterway of the Tone—steamships used to stop right by that shrine in Isosaki.”
“It used to be lively back then.”
“Completely fallen into ruin now, hasn’t it?”
“And Isosaki…?”

“Nothing remains of its former shape…”

“But does an inn still exist?”

“There’s still one Kashiwaya left.”
“Ain’t nobody stayin’ there anymore, y’know…”

“I suppose so…”

Gradually, the torii gate of Isosaki grew larger.
The wooded areas, houses, and triangular roofs erected on the floating islands came into clear view.
A single boat with a billowed sail glided across the glassy-smooth lake surface as if sliding over it.

A steam whistle faintly sounded.
When Masaki turned around, he could see what appeared to be the steamship’s smoke floating distinctly in the sunlight near the base of Katori Hill.

“Has the downriver steamship arrived?”

“We won’t make it now.”
“That’s the eleven o’clock one!” Masaki took out his pocket watch and checked. “What time’s the next?”

“Two o’clock, ’bout?”

“There’s quite a wait!”

However, there was nothing he could do.
He thought it would have been better had he left a little earlier that morning, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
“Well, how about we take our time and have lunch or something?” Masaki said.

The desolation of Isosaki was more severe than he had imagined.
There were no longer any boats moored there, nor any sails skimming past.
The inns that had once stood row upon row—now there were none of the women who would don red sashes and aprons each time a steamship arrived, calling out in unison to solicit customers, nor any of the people who would troop off the boats and head straight toward the shrine for worship.
There were only two or three men diligently laying out straw mats woven from local reeds to wrap luggage.
It had fallen into utter desolation.
It had become completely barren.
There was no longer any romantic atmosphere there, nor any lively sound of shamisen music.
Even the site of the renowned male and female jars beside that torii gate had been completely buried over.
He thought how perfectly this devastated landscape mirrored his own inner state.
And so he parted forlornly with the Boatman.
He had to wait there three hours until the next downriver steamship arrived.