Pathway to Japanese Literature

Just because it's from the second floor doesn't mean I'm applying eye drops.
The place where I currently secluded myself consisted of two rooms on the second floor—one of eight tatami mats and another of four—and except when eating meals, I rarely descended to the lower rooms.
Though it was my own house, the situation felt as if I were renting a room, and my life was almost entirely confined to these two spaces.
Thus, whether observing the world, gazing at the moon, watching snow, or viewing flowers—all were done from this second floor.
Consequently, my field of view remained narrow.
I decided to write here a few of the things I discovered within that narrow scope.

1. Narcissus

Last November, I bought a pot of Chinese narcissus.
Naturally, I watered it sufficiently and gave it sunlight.
Though I'd done all the customary tending, by December it still hadn't produced any buds.
The leaves simply kept growing unchecked.
Just when I'd concluded all hope was lost, Mr. K came.
Mr. K—a man versed in horticulture—tilted his head at the sight of this narcissus.

“You understand—this is rather problematic.
“I fear it won't bear flowers at all.”

With these words, Mr. K laughed.
I also scratched my head and laughed.
At that time, Mr. K’s son lay bedridden, but there was word that his condition had improved somewhat after being admitted to the hospital.
However, perhaps due to the cold that had suddenly intensified around mid-month, Mr. K’s son collapsed with unexpected fragility.
Mr. K’s son scattered like a bud before blooming.
The narcissus in my house was thought to wither away in vain without even forming a bud.

The new year dawned.

One warm morning, when I happened to peer into the narcissus pot, I saw a pale sack-like object among the long-stretched leaves.
I was as surprised as if witnessing a miracle.
This was unmistakably a bud.
From then on, when I observed it daily without fail, buds began to swell between every leaf.
They gradually grew and spread out.
Once reaching this stage, their growth became truly remarkable; stems stretched upward rapidly.
The buds swelled day by day.
Now they had become over a dozen white blossoms adorning my bookshelf.

The narcissus that had seemed nearly hopeless grew splendidly against expectations, fully accomplishing its mission as a flower.
Mr. K’s son ended without becoming a flower.
On cold spring evenings, whenever I see this white, fragrant flower against the blazing electric light, I cannot help but wonder about the fate of Mr. K’s son’s soul.

2. Danzaburou

When I looked at the newspaper, it stated that Danzaburou Ichikawa had died away from home in Shizuoka.
The death of an actor named Danzaburou caused no repercussions in the theater world.
Except for a few relatives and acquaintances, most people likely read through this article without paying it any heed.
Yet I was among those who shed tears upon reading it.

Danzaburou and I were neither acquaintances nor anything of the sort.
We had never once interacted.
But I remembered this man.
At the time of the Kabuki Theater's opening performance, when I visited Danjuro's dressing room with my father, there happened to be a beautiful boy about my age waiting beside Danjuro—one who served us tea and attended to Danjuro's immediate needs.
Needless to say, he was Danjuro's disciple.

“He’s a beautiful child—what’s his name?”

When my father asked, Danjuro laughed and replied.

“He’s called Danzaburou—a mischief-maker...”

The answer was extremely brief—just this much—but within both the smiling tone and the gaze he cast toward his disciple lingered a kind of affection. This child must be cherished by his master, I surmised with a child’s mind.

“He’ll become an excellent actor before long.”

When my father repeated this, Danjuro laughed again.

“Well, I don’t know... But he’ll manage to become something somehow.”

The exchange regarding the young disciple ended there.

When the curtain soon rose, Danjuro appeared on stage as Tokugawa Mitsukuni.
The page serving as sword bearer was none other than Danzaburou.
He looked even more beautiful than when I had seen him backstage.
I grew fond of Danzaburou.

However, he never performed roles noticeable enough to catch the eye afterward.
Unless one carefully examined the playbills, it was nearly impossible to tell whether he was performing or not.
In the midst of this, I too gradually grew old.
My memories of Danzaburou also gradually faded.
In recent years, the name Danzaburou had vanished from playbills.
It was after some twenty-odd years that I suddenly heard of his passing today.
Apparently, he had joined a new traveling actor troupe and was performing in various regions.
The details beyond that remained unclear to me, but one could well imagine how he spent his final years.

The prediction of Japan's greatest actor proved off the mark.
Danzaburou ultimately never amounted to anything.
Was it the master’s misjudgment or the disciple’s error?
That the beautiful young actor of those days would meet such a fate was something I had never imagined.

3. Tea Bowl

Mr. O came and gave me an old bancha tea bowl.
It was O-Tetsu Botamochi’s tea bowl.

O-Tetsu Botamochi had been one of Kōjimachi's famous products since before the Restoration. This was because a beautiful girl named O-Tetsu had become the talk of the town. At the corner shop in Motozono-cho 1-chome 19-banchi—where the adjacent land had originally been the Tokugawa Shogunate's herb garden before becoming a drill ground—many young samurai would gather. With such a beautiful girl running a shop right beside it, its fame came as no surprise.

I believe O-Tetsu's shop continued operating until around Meiji 18 or 19 (1885-1886). The proprietress O-Tetsu who remains in my memory appeared to be about forty years old then—a middle-aged woman of small build with plucked eyebrows and blackened teeth. They said she'd taken in a son-in-law only to separate later, leaving her with an eleven- or twelve-year-old boy. The beautiful girl must have aged beyond recognition over time. To my childish eyes, she hardly seemed remarkable.

The shop entrance featured a small garden designed for visitors to follow stepping stones into its depths. By the gate stood a tall fatsia plant whose leafy shade framed my daily view of O-Tetsu bent over sweeping the entrance each morning. Though they sold shiruko sweet bean soup and botamochi rice cakes, by my time both shop and sweets had fallen into shabby decline—neither seemed particularly appetizing anymore. Despite its proximity, I seldom went there to eat.

To the site of O-Tetsu Botamochi moved a liquor store called Yorozuya, which rebuilt all the houses and prospered to this day. I heard that O-Tetsu and her child moved toward Azabu, but all trace of them afterward vanished.

The tea bowl I received is a memento of that O-Tetsu. Mr. O’s father lived nearby and had been on friendly terms with O-Tetsu’s family since long ago. At the time of the Restoration, O-Tetsu Botamochi had intended to close shop temporarily and, with something like the sentiment of leaving mementos, distributed the shop’s teapots and tea bowls to acquaintances. Mr. O’s father received some. However, due to some circumstances, O-Tetsu continued her business, and until the time I knew of her, she still kept the O-Tetsu Botamochi signboard hanging.

Though called a shiruko shop's tea bowl, being made before the Restoration after all, both its clay body and glaze were not poor. In hiragana, "O-Tetsu" was written large. I was now using this as my tea bowl. Yet how many lips must have touched this bowl.

As I sipped bancha from it now, Edo-period Kōjimachi emerged hazily like a mirage through the steam. The shop's fatsia had been green even then. A samurai-class daughter with her hair in a Bunkin Shimada coiffure and obi tied in a cursive 'ya' shape entered slowly accompanied by her maidservant. The girl's long sleeve brushed against the fatsia leaves. She proceeded to the back quarters, using a small white fan.

When the figures of these two vanished, a shop boy resembling Hisamatsu from the plays entered.
The shop boy unloaded a large cloth-wrapped bundle and sat down on the veranda edge.
He appeared to be on his way to run some errand.
He ate the botamochi first, hiding his face as much as he could as though afraid of being seen by others.
Then he ate the sweet bean soup.
He paid his coins, wiped his mouth with his apron, and slipped away furtively like a fox or a mouse.

A young samurai entered grandly—his hair tied in a Kobusho-style topknot, wearing a black cotton family-crested kimono and kokura riding trousers, thrusting a long daishō sword set in vermilion-lacquered scabbards at his waist, tall magnolia-wood geta clattering beneath him.
He was holding an iron fan.
He sat leisurely on the zabuton cushion and took out a tobacco pouch with a horn-carved skeleton netsuke.
While blowing out a strong puff of smoke, he gazed at the white profile of O-Tetsu working at the counter.
And then, in a low voice, he recited a poem by Rai Sanyō.

Two women who appeared to be townsmen’s wives entered holding parasols.
They too took out tobacco pouches and gently blew white smoke from lips stained black with iron-based cosmetic.
“How tiring it is to come all the way up to Yamanote,” they remarked.
“On our way back, we should stop by Lord Hirakawa Tenjin’s shrine too,” they added.
The bancha tea bowl with “O-Tetsu” written large in hiragana was placed before these people.
From the direction of the drill ground came a thunderous war cry.
It seemed the Hōroku drill had begun.

I leaned back in my chair smoking a cigarette as I gazed at this tea bowl.
The samurai, townspeople, and beauties who once touched their lips to this bowl had all likely settled where fate decreed - each following their own course through life’s currents.

4 Gardener

The gardener’s son came to trim the pine’s greenery.
Until the year before last, his father had been the one to come, but when his father died last spring, the son began coming in his place.
The son was still young; he must have been eighteen or nineteen.

During the lunch break, he spoke.

“I never intended to go into this trade—I was attending the Kotei School in Tsukiji.”
“I was about to graduate in just one more year when father died.”
“There was no way I could keep going to school.”
“Grandmother was taken in by father’s younger brother，but at home there’s mother.”
“There’s a younger brother.”
“I ended up accompanying uncle—who’s in the same trade as father—making rounds to clients.”
“This too is just misfortune，but I often think if only father had lived one more year.”
“All classmates have graduated from school.”

Though he had resigned himself to it, his voice was somber.
I too became somber at heart.

However, graduating from school was not humanity's sole purpose. There existed all manner of vocations beyond that. In times ahead, one couldn't assume academic completion would ensure an untroubled existence. Those who'd acquired superficial learning often discovered themselves confounded by life's practical demands. Shouldering your father's trade and sustaining yourself through it—this couldn't be deemed an ill-fated course for you. The very classmates you presently envied might someday find themselves coveting your position." With grave emphasis I counseled him: "Henceforth devote yourself wholeheartedly—strive to become a gardener of true mastery."

He too appeared to have comprehended it.
He climbed back up the high ladder and worked energetically.
The pine branches creaked and bent from time to time.
Each time I heard that sound，I was overcome with unease.

5 Spider

Between the garden's pine and kōyamaki trees, a spider had spun a large web.
Because these two tall trees jutted right before the second-floor window, the spider’s web became a severe eyesore.
Every morning I would brush it away, only for the large web to be re-spun by noon, fully restored.
When I brushed it away again in the evening, by the next bright morning it would once more be grandly spread out.
Each time I tenaciously brushed it away, he would tenaciously spin his web again.
The struggle between the spider and me continued for over half a month.

I began to feel slightly outlasted. No matter how I breached his barbed-wire entanglements, I realized true victory would remain elusive unless I destroyed the spider himself—but the clever creature kept his small body hidden beneath branches and behind leaves, skillfully evading my poles and brooms. I was far too sluggish in attacking this ubiquitous enemy.

His enemies were not limited to me alone.

One day a strong southerly wind blew fiercely, shaking the branches of the pine and Japanese plum yew until they bent.
His web swayed violently along with them.
Part of the web split open like a fishing net torn by a large fish.
As usual, he busily worked his small body while swaying in the wind, mending the torn web.

One day when a sparrow frolicking in the garden was startled by something and flew up, his spread wings brushed against the spider’s web.
The bird recklessly burst through the web.
For the next half hour or so, the small creature once again had to work busily.
He wove his thread ceaselessly, like a faithful factory girl.

He worked diligently, and I was deeply impressed. At the same time, I resigned myself to the fact that driving him out was ultimately futile. I resolved to cease fighting this stubborn enemy.

That I brushed away the spider’s web was of course not done out of mischief. But there was no pressing need compelling me to remove it at all costs—it amounted merely to being a nuisance or eyesore. Even with its presence, this hardly constituted any major disruption to my life. On the contrary, for him it meant a truly grave matter of survival. His spinning of webs involved neither mischief nor jest—he strove simply to live. By sheer necessity of existence, he had to spin his web each day to secure sustenance. He clung tenaciously to life. Though swept away daily, he mended his work each time without fail. Doubtless he would have persisted in this effort until his final breath.

I realized I could not oppose him.

The small insect had finally conquered me, and now arrogantly occupied my garden.

6 Frog

Next was the frog.
A tree frog with several golden lines running down its azure back like military epaulets.

In my cramped garden stood an artificial hill.
He had materialized there abruptly around mid-June.
Establishing the azalea thickets encircling the mound as his domain, he would patrol the area morning and evening, emerging undaunted even in daylight.
When rains came, he emitted cool, crystalline calls.

As there was little rain during this year's rainy season, my nephew fashioned a water dispenser using a long glass tube.
He hung it from a high maple branch, arranging it so a thin waterfall cascaded into the azalea thicket as if mimicking nature.
Around half past one each afternoon, when my nephew returned from school, he would immediately fill a bucket and tend to his water apparatus.
The slender stream would first spurt upward before plunging straight down, making the summer maple's tender leaves quiver under the weight of heavy droplets.
The remaining white azalea blossoms dipped their rain-soaked heads in ponderous nods.
At times the wind would scatter the falling water into spray, conjuring small rainbows before the bright summer sun.
The damp moss gleamed blue.
Some patches shone gold.

“The frog should come out any moment now.”

As he spoke these words, sure enough, a blue creature came crawling out slowly from somewhere. He calmly crouched beneath the waterfall. And there he bathed in the artificial rain that poured ceaselessly through the maple leaves. When the bucket ran dry, the nephew and the maid would draw water and refill it. The frog merely kept its eyes glinting and didn’t move an inch. Before long, when what seemed like ten or twenty minutes had passed, he raised a thin, quivering voice like that of a frail woman and began to croak with a dry, rattling sound. The pitch was quite high, so it could be heard clearly even by me on the second floor.

When this continued for about ten days, he disappeared somewhere.
No matter how much my nephew labored, the artificial rain could no longer summon him.
My nephew was disappointed.
I too felt somehow lonesome.

After about four days passed, a light rain began falling from morning.
A dry, rattling voice could be heard from somewhere.
Because my nephew was away at school, my wife and the maid went outside the fence to search for the voice.
The voice seemed to be coming from within the neighboring house’s wall.
Within the wall, hydrangeas were blooming thickly.

“Ma’am, it’s here,” whispered the maid.
The frog was crouching beneath the wall, singing in the midday rain.
The maid reached her hand beneath the wall and captured him without difficulty, bringing him back.
Telling him not to run away anymore, they released him once again into the shadow of the artificial hill.
It rained all day long.
When evening came, he began to sing in my garden.

The family rejoiced as though a runaway crane had returned.
They gathered in the four-and-a-half tatami mat room closest to the artificial hill, drinking tea while listening to the frog’s song.
My family had abruptly transformed into aesthetes.

The makeshift poets and haiku masters were disappointed once more come morning.
The frog escaped again.
This time, no matter how diligently they searched, he was nowhere to be found.

After that, it often rained.
Moreover, his voice was never heard again.
He didn’t sing in the neighboring garden either.
The water dispenser my nephew had made was thrown into a corner of the storage shed.

“We took such good care of him…” Both my nephew and the maid wore discontented expressions.

In truth, we did not try to torment him.
Rather, we had cherished him.
Moreover, it could not be denied that we had harbored a selfish desire to confine him within the narrow garden and keep him as our own possession forever.
There existed both tangible and intangible constraints.
He must have longed for a realm of freedom and departed for some distant place.

The spider prevailed over me.
The frog escaped my captivity.
It cannot be said that they were not happy.

Seven: Frogs and Mules

When I wrote about frogs last time, I suddenly recalled those of Manchuria.
Of all the animal voices I had heard over a decade ago on Manchurian battlefields, what remains most vividly etched in my ears are the cries of frogs and mules.

On the night I lodged in Gaiping, a desolate drizzle fell. Having borrowed a room in the logistics department, I lay on the wooden floor covered with a blanket when—around ten at night—suddenly outside the door came something that let out a gwaa-gwaa cry and another that screeched with a shrill gii-gii sound. That noise resembled a duck’s quack yet was not quite one. I was particularly struck by how loud it was.

I lit a candle and peered outside. Outside was pitch black, and the rain pitter-pattered without pause. As the strange screeching seemed to come from deep within a distant thicket of grass, I replaced the candle with a slow-burning torch. And so I walked through the rain searching diligently, but the true nature of the monster remained unclear. I was disturbed all night by this bizarre music.

When I asked a logistics department member after daybreak, he was a frog.
Because his cry was discordantly high-pitched, anyone hearing it for the first time would be startled; moreover, it was said that few had ever seen his form.

In Chinese poetry, the croaking of frogs is called ka-mei or ka-bai, but I felt for the first time then that the character for "bai" (吠) might be appropriate not merely for considerations of tonal rhythm, but because they truly seemed to be barking.

In Japanese theater, when creating frog sounds, it has long been customary to rub red clamshells together. But what if, during Mitsuhide's appearance from behind the moonflower trellis in the tenth act of *Taikōki*, that Oda frog were to raise its Manchurian-style duck-like voice and begin screeching "gii gii"? Mitsuhide himself would likely flee in terror, bamboo spear in hand, with no other option. I burst out laughing all by myself.

However, not all Manchurian frogs were this out of tune.
Among them were species that possessed the qualities of musicians.
On the evening I camped out at Yangjiatun, those frogs boldly raised their voices—like a ruptured shō—and thoroughly disrupted my peaceful sleep, but as the night deepened, their cries finally ceased.

Tonight was a night of unseasonably warm wind.
The sky lay completely shrouded.
At the neighborhood pond, frog voices arose once more.
This was a familiar, ordinary sound.
I heard my hometown’s music after a long absence.
I felt as though walking through Minowata’s fields when cherry blossoms scatter.
I felt joy; I felt longing.
That night, even my weary body resisted sleep’s call.

The mules’ braying too held deeply unpleasant memories.
This too was a screeching sound—
one that seemed wholly divorced from living throats.
I wondered if trees grinding together might produce such resonance.
A voice both anguished and lonesome, sorrowful—as though teetering on extinction’s edge.
Little wonder someone called it “the cry of a dying nation.”
Neither auspicious nor cheerful—might he not be heralding mankind’s end with each shrill neigh?

At the height of the Liaoyang offensive, I made my way toward Shoushanbao fortress through rainy dusk. Along the route I came upon a Chinese cart that seemed to carry refugees. Both sides stretched endlessly with sorghum fields, only a narrow path cutting through the middle. With no alternative, I stepped into the field to let the cart pass. The beast pulling it was that same mule I knew too well. Inside rode three souls—a woman past sixty winters, a girl of seventeen or eighteen summers, and a boy of six or seven years—while a man nearing forty, his cheek marked by a large birthmark, gripped a long whip. The cart stood uncovered, leaving all its occupants soaked through. The girl’s pallid face glistened with droplets at her temples, making her appear all the more pitiful.

The rough road made the wheels struggle to advance.
The cart swayed from side to side.
Each violent jolt of the cart sent the young woman clutching her chest in a fit of painful coughing.
I wondered anxiously if she might be consumptive.

The man shouted with urgent impatience.
Then raising the long whip, he struck the emaciated horse's back without mercy.
The horse reared up wildly.
In its frenzy, it let out several high-pitched neighs.
The young woman collapsed against the old woman's knees and coughed violently as if about to vomit blood.

From Liaoyang to the Shoushanbao area, the sounds of cannons and rifles grew increasingly intense.
I could no longer wait for the cart to pass and returned to the original road.
The mule once again continued to neigh.
The young woman was being shaken in the cart as if to be crushed.
Soon the boy also began to cry.

Even after I had gone about a chō past, the mule’s cries could still be heard far off in the cold rain.

8. Otake

Otake took her leave and departed.
She was a quiet and hardworking woman, but she left after only about two weeks.
Oyone, who had been working here until now, suddenly had to return home because her mother fell ill.

As her replacement, Otake came for her interview on July 17th.
She was born in a village near the Oyama Highway in Sagami Province and claimed to be twenty-one, though her petite build made her appear older than her years.
On the evening of that interview, my nephew developed acute gastroenteritis, necessitating a midnight call to the doctor for enemas and injections that kept the whole household in frantic activity until dawn.
Otake, having just arrived, seemed thoroughly perplexed by our ways yet labored earnestly nonetheless.
She even ventured out through the dark night on medicine-fetching errands.
With the interview formalities concluded, she took up residence in my home from the following day onward.

She was, if anything, excessively docile.
She was rather a gloomy woman.
However, she was docile, honest, and worked diligently without sparing any effort, never once making a disagreeable face in any situation.
The household members were also pleased that they had found a good servant.
I, too, was pleased.
Then four or five days later, my wife wrinkled her face and whispered this to me.

“Otake’s stomach seems quite large.”
“I wonder.”

I couldn't quite make it out clearly. To be sure, for a petite woman, her stomach did seem somewhat broad around the middle, but there were certainly country-bred women of such build. I didn't pay it particular mind and let it pass.

Otake appeared to have some basic education, for she would read newspapers whenever she had spare time. She would write letters too. There had even been times when she wrote extremely long ones. She hardly spoke except when necessary. She always worked in silence.

She had served at a certain military man’s household in Aoyama before coming to my home. She said that among seven siblings, she was the youngest child. Her family home was said to be in farming, but they didn’t seem to be a particularly poor household, for as a servant, she possessed more kimonos and obi sashes than usual. Her appearance wasn’t particularly attractive, but as she was honest, worked diligently, and possessed a decent number of kimonos, she made for a thoroughly satisfactory servant overall. As people often said, she was an exceedingly docile woman; if even slightly scolded, her face would pale as she apologized profusely.

She had a habit of overusing the word “dainaishi.”
She would frequently say things like “It’s terribly hot” or “It’s awfully late.”
My nephew, whose illness was gradually improving, began imitating her speech and kept making “dainaishi” all the rage.

My wife was also fond of her.
I had also told them to keep an eye on her.
But what cast a dark shadow in the depths of our hearts from time to time was the secret harbored in her belly.
The more carefully I observed her, the more peculiar it seemed, so I considered confronting her directly to resolve the doubt, but “You should stop—it would be too pitiful,” my wife said.
I, too, somehow found myself feeling sorry for her, so I left the matter as it was for the time being and kept watch over how things might unfold.

When the month ended, the lodging house keeper came and said, "I'm truly sorry about this, but please give O-Take her leave." As we made gradual inquiries, she turned out to be six months pregnant indeed. While in her hometown, she had grown close to a young man from the same village, but because his family was exceedingly poor and their social standing differed from hers since olden times, her elderly parents refused to hand over their beloved youngest daughter to him. The young couple were torn apart. To distance herself from the man, she had been sent to Tokyo that spring while it was still cold to work as a servant. No one had known she was already pregnant at that time. She herself had not noticed it either. After coming to Tokyo, as month followed upon month, she came to know for the first time that there was something moving inside her belly.

What must her sorrow have been when she discovered this? She wrote of this to her hometown, but neither her parents nor brother replied. Unable to return home, she kept working with an aching heart and swollen belly until her master abruptly dismissed her just before Bon. Had her unusual condition drawn his notice? He gave her wages along with a bolt of cloth.

She carried the child growing heavier in her belly and sought a new place of service once more.
The one she found was my house.
For her, it must have been bitter, it must have been harsh, it must have been sorrowful.
Even while working hard in this unfamiliar new employer's household, she must have had countless thoughts.
However much she kept up an impassive facade, there must have been tears she couldn't show her master.
The long letters she wrote in secret may have poured endless feelings of helplessness through her brush.
It was no wonder her face looked shadowed.
Unaware of such circumstances, I called out to her in an overloud voice.
I gave orders without restraint.
I had been an inconsiderate master.

Even so, she was fortunate.
From around the time she informed her hometown of having changed service, her parents’ hearts began to soften.
Her brothers also interceded, arguing there was nothing to be done now that she’d even borne a child.
In the end, it was decided she would be called back and sent to live with the man.
Once settled that she would be married before the traditional Bon festival—since this was reportedly the local custom—the second brother abruptly journeyed to Tokyo.
Otake was thus to return home, taken by her brother.

Of course, it had been agreed she could keep working until a replacement servant came once her leave was settled, but we couldn't endure keeping her forever.
We answered that taking her back straightaway would be no trouble, considering there must be wedding preparations to handle.
She departed the next afternoon.

When leaving, she came up to the second floor, placed her hands beneath my chair, and made a polite farewell bow.
She had applied white face powder and was wearing a rather gaudy obi.

“On my part, I would like you to continue working here longer, but since returning home seems better suited for your circumstances...”

When I said this with a laugh, she blushed slightly and looked down.
She must have been so happy.
Whether they were poor or of different social standing—none of that mattered anymore.
She was now able to go to the man she had chosen.
She managed to avoid becoming an unwed mother.
Her sad past became a dream.

I was terribly happy too.

Otake, who had spent a mere two weeks in my house, left behind such memories and departed.

Nine: Spring in Motozono-cho

“Mr. S.”

“The rural districts too appear to be gradually developing these days.”
“Your neighborhood must certainly be bustling with spring.”
“Now regarding your inquiry about spring in your Motozono-cho neighborhood—lately our area has rather grown quieter than yours, and even with New Year’s here, there seems little particularly worth mentioning.”
“But since you’ve kindly asked, I shall offer some small correspondence.”

Nowadays, even when New Year came, the peaceful droning of kites that once lifted people's hearts to the distant skies was no longer heard at all. When one entered a quiet backstreet with little traffic, one could faintly hear the spring-like sounds of battledore games, but since most of the crowd consisted of live-in students at the entrance and kitchen maids—with young ladies and daughters rarely seen mingling—the figures moving through these New Year streets framed by kadomatsu pine decorations appeared rather lacking in color. With flat-handed beats against boards creating drum-like sounds, several manzai performers wearing hunting caps came. Lion dancers who did nothing but ring gongs and drums without any real artistry also came. With fewer people leaving paper-wrapped coins at bathhouses that closed early during Matsunouchi, even the sight of those snowdrifts of offerings piled upon the sanbo tray had become a dream of the past. Yabuiri holidays naturally had no connection to this district; one could only secretly divine the prosperity of Taishoji Temple’s honorable Enma deity by watching Shinjuku-bound trains rush busily past with their "full" signs displayed.

In contrast to the many pet dogs kept in households, people who keep cats were few and far between.
It was exceedingly rare to see the gaunt figure of a cat in heat gaily prancing along the rooftops.
Only occasionally did stray cats wander in from somewhere, but these intruders were cruelly driven away with sticks or brooms.
The nights were quiet, truly quiet.
It seemed to slumber like a Chinese town from early evening.
By eight or nine o'clock, most houses had their doors tightly shut, with only the eaves' electric lights casting an even whiter glow upon the frost-whitened earth.
A large dog, as if suddenly remembering something from time to time, would look up at the star-filled sky and roar like a tiger.
When the time came for Aoyagitei—the lone vaudeville hall there—to dim its sign lights, a clamor of clattering geta sandals, as if dragged in wide strides, would briefly enliven my gatefront, and the biwa songs of students returning from the performances could be heard.
The aftermath grew hushed, the Chinese flute of the shumai shop rising and falling, its sad reverberations trembling in the night wind as they trailed long and longer, fading from alley to alley into the depths of darkness.
From somewhere, the sound of a baby crying could also be heard.
The sound of a shakuhachi being played could also be heard.
The clack-clack sound from the corner billiard hall could be heard chillingly.

During midwinter, straw sandal-clad monks performing winter austerities would come. Among them were those who brought along a young acolyte bundled up in a scarf. As dusk fell, the sound of bells from winter pilgrimages could also be heard. At the haberdashery on Kōjimachi Street that day, oxblood-red posters were hung, and women from Yamanote wearing Kiruku geta stood before the shop with haughty demeanors. The women here applied their face powder strikingly thick—it caught the eye immediately.

Perhaps because it adjoined Yotsuya Highway, horse-drawn carriages passed incessantly those days, further eroding the already thawed road. This was also the season when children walked on stilts. This was also the season when scams involving fire watch fees became prevalent. However, on windless sunny days, this was also the season when the pine treetops along the imperial moat’s embankment naturally grew hazy, and a black kite perched leisurely atop the British Embassy’s flagpole.

There was still much more he could have written, but for now he would take his leave here.
"Farewell."

Ten: O-Some Flu

This spring, influenza spread.

The first time this disease began spreading in Japan was during the winter of Meiji 23 (1890), and by the spring of Meiji 24 (1891), it had grown increasingly rampant.
At that time, we first learned of the disease name "influenza," and heard rumors that it had been imported from a French ship to Yokohama.
However, at that time it was not called influenza but commonly referred to as the O-Sore Flu.
When investigating why it came to be bestowed with the lovely name "O-Sore," we find that even during the Edo period, a remarkably similar influenza had spread widely, and at that time someone had already affixed the name "O-Sore" to it.
An old man explained that this recent epidemic influenza likely came to be called O-Sore by deriving its name from that earlier instance.

Thus, it seemed the reasoning behind those ancients bestowing the name O-Some likely lay in a sort of wordplay on "love-struck breeze"—a riddle where, just as O-Some fell for Hisamatsu in the kabuki tale, the disease would immediately infect its victims.
Then it need not be limited to O-Some.
It could just as well have been O-Natsu, O-Toshi, Koharu, or Umekawa—but O-Some sounded the most charmingly unaffected.
That this fearsome disease—possessing such violent contagion as to frequently claim lives—should be specifically crowned with the most adorable name of "O-Some" made for a fascinating contrast; one truly characteristic of Edo townsfolk.
However, when the great Taikoretsu epidemic raged, even the Edo townsfolk seemed overwhelmed by it, for there appeared none who would act as naming patrons bestowing titles like Koharu or Umekawa.
They ended up giving it the uninspired name "Korori"—derived from "dropping dead suddenly"—and suchlike.

Now that the disease had taken the name O-Some, those possessed by it had to be Hisamatsu.
Therefore, to block O-Some's intrusion, people decided posting signs reading "Hisamatsu Is Away" would work.
Newspapers reported on such matters.
Of course, the papers weren't endorsing this—they simply covered it as a trending custom—but this coverage further fueled public superstitions until during Meiji 23-24, pasting paper notices saying "Hisamatsu Is Away" beneath eaves became fashionable across Tokyo.
Some even wrote blunt warnings like "O-Some Keep Away."

In February of Meiji 24, I went with my uncle to the Umeyashiki plum estate in Mukojima—a windless, warm day. As I walked along the Mimeguri embankment, I saw a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old girl before a farmhouse—white hand towel over her head—affixing beneath the eaves a paper sign freshly inscribed in feminine script: "Hisamatsu Is Away." White plum blossoms bloomed by the eaves. That scene remains etched in my eyes.

Though influenza would recur many times thereafter, the name "O-Some Flu" vanished after its first occurrence. My father used to laugh that for something possessing someone as modern as Hisamatsu, the katakana-written "influenza" seemed more fitting. And that father too died of influenza in Meiji 35.

Eleven: Fox Spirit

Mr. S, the musician came and told me an eerie tale about a fox impersonating a military officer.

It was the summer of Meiji 25 (1892). Mr. S, who came from a military background, was then serving as a probationary officer at the XX Division headquarters in a northern province, and he asserted there could be no mistake about the incident occurring on his watch that night. The story went that a fox had impersonated a military officer and attempted to intimidate the guards at the ammunition depot. As memories of the Akabane and Uji ammunition depot incidents still lingered in my mind, I listened to this tale with particular interest.

It was the same everywhere—near ammunition depots there were hills; there were forests; the grass grew thick. Particularly as it was early summer, the verdant foliage of the forest had grown so dense that even at noon shadows pooled beneath the trees. From within that forest around midnight emerged a single paper lantern glowing dimly. When the sentry guard looked closely, it proved an army-issued lantern—nothing particularly strange. As it gradually drew nearer, its bearer turned out to be Captain M—a face long familiar to him—wearing full captain's regalia. Yet per regulations, the sentry raised his bayonet and challenged, "Who goes there?" Captain M stood motionless before him without response.

Though protocol permitted him to stab the unresponsive figure immediately, precisely because he clearly recognized this face as Captain M's, even the sentry found himself hesitating.
The sentry called out again, but Captain M still did not answer.
In that moment, the sentry discovered something strange.
The lantern Captain M was holding consisted only of paper, lacking any frame.
Captain M was not wearing a sword.
The sentry called a third time, but seeing there was still no response, he suddenly brandished his bayonet and thrust it into Captain M’s chest.
Captain M let out a scream and collapsed.

When the sentry reported the matter, even the unit was shocked.
Even headquarters was shocked.
The on-duty Mr. S was first dispatched to the scene.
When the regimental commander and others rushed there and looked, Captain M lay collapsed still in his military uniform.
Contrary to the sentry's account, the lantern he held had a frame.
However, he wore neither sword nor boots.
Above all, why had he—not even on duty—come patrolling there in such state? This became the primary question.
First they sent a messenger to Captain M's residence, where they found the captain safely asleep inside his mosquito net.
When roused and informed of the incident, Captain M himself grew flustered and hastily rushed there.

Captain M was a small-statured man.
The fallen corpse was also a small-statured man.
At first glance, everyone had recognized him as the captain, but when compared carefully with the real Captain M himself, his face proved utterly dissimilar.
Though wearing an army captain’s uniform, it had become impossible to determine who he was or where he came from.
In short, he was not a real soldier; they concluded that it must have been someone disguised as a military officer who had approached this ammunition depot.
If this proved true, the matter would grow even more serious; as they carried the corpse indoors and began discussing this and that, the brief summer night gradually began to dawn.
The corpse lay face-up, a hat having been placed over its face.

In any case, as they needed to draft a facial description, when a lieutenant once again removed the hat from the corpse's face, he involuntarily cried out, "Ah!" The corpse's face, lit by dawn light streaming through the glass window, had transformed into that of a fox. The fox had been wearing a military uniform.

“Foxes can’t transform.”

The young officers were not easily convinced.
However, the corpse currently lying there was not human—and certainly not Captain M.
It was indeed a single old fox.
No matter how eloquently the young officers argued, it was impossible to alter this living evidence.
The legend that foxes and raccoon dogs could transform had proven not to be a lie.
Mr. S was one of those who voiced objections, stubbornly keeping watch over the corpse indefinitely, but the fox never resumed human form.
As the morning gradually brightened, he unabashedly laid bare the true nature of his tawny fur before the intense rays of the summer sun.
However, the origins of both the military uniform and paper lantern remained unclear.

“The idea that a fox could transform into a human is utterly unbelievable.”
“I still absolutely refuse to believe it.”
“Yet I can’t deny having witnessed such an inexplicable fact with my own eyes.”
“It defies all understanding,” said Mr. S, tilting his head.
I listened, entranced.