Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

I was sitting in the chair of my Kamakura haiku cottage, gazing out at the garden.

"Haiku cottage" is what I call my study.
Originally a child's room, during our evacuation to Komoro it had served as a storage space - left uncleaned and cluttered with items haphazardly placed.
When I returned from Komoro after three years, I cleaned up that space, placed a desk there, and made it my temporary study.
The piled-up items were nothing but haiku books placed in disarray, with discarded haiku drafts additionally stacked in heaps.
In Komoro too I had called the place serving as my study a haiku cottage, and here again I decided to use the same name.

The garden in front of the haiku cottage was also cluttered with various plants growing in wild profusion.
Moreover, few had been specially planted - over the forty years I had lived here, seeds carried by the wind or deposited through bird droppings had naturally sprouted, making this small garden unexpectedly rich in vegetation despite its limited size.
Were I to describe it to a gardener, they would likely declare it a completely formless, disordered space.
Yet to eyes long accustomed to this view through many seasons, each plant and tree held memories that rendered them impossible to discard.
Particularly numerous were the camellia trees, their red blossoms demanding attention.

I don't know what variety this camellia belongs to, but it's commonly called a mountain camellia and bears an abundance of crimson flowers.
Among them were some double-petaled blossoms, though single-petaled ones predominated.
The flowers bloomed so profusely they seemed to engulf each camellia from crown to roots, and when at their peak, these red camellias would dominate the garden until other trees nearly vanished from sight.

I was sitting in the chair, gazing at these red camellia flowers.
My mind began wandering as if on a journey.
This journey followed no route like the Tokaido or Nakasendo highways, but rather felt like moving freely through heaven and earth without direction.
Then these red camellias became a crowd of women surrounding me, constantly attending me as if they were by my side.

In truth, I had already reached old age, and lately my solitary walks were being prevented by my family.
I myself found that even slight inclines made my legs grow weary, and when I tried to walk briskly, my calves would stiffen up—so walking through places with heavy vehicle traffic felt dangerous indeed.
Even so, I felt that family members prohibiting solitary walks to such an extreme degree was going a bit too far.
But well, thinking that might be acceptable too, I followed my family’s wishes as they said.

When I sat there now, buried among the red camellias and gazing intently at those flowers, I would gradually come to feel as though riding upon floating clouds—and experienced hallucinations where I could freely go wherever my heart desired, my feet stepped lightly through the air to wander about.

At such times of being immersed in fantasy, my heart became exceedingly joyful, and I felt a pleasure akin to a child delighting in listening to fairy tales.

Artificial flowers too favor red—ah, red camellias!

More alluring than women in novels—the camellia's glow

The camellia's radiance—against this, an old man alone.

At that time, Mr. Yamada Tokubei sent over a doll.
It appeared to be a doll of about seven or eight years old, with bobbed hair, wearing a crimson kimono and tied with an obi resembling brocade.
The way its hands hung limply was as is usual for dolls.
And in the letter was written words to this effect: that though it was a crude doll, he would be most fortunate if I would place it by my side.
Since it was precisely when the red camellias were at their peak bloom, I gave this doll the name Tsubakiko and placed it atop a nearby bookshelf.

What could Mr. Yamada Tokubei have been thinking when he sent this doll? It might have simply meant for it to be a decorative item by my side, but I also sensed it carried some deeper sentiment. Around that very time, there came a request from someone asking me to compose a short song, so I created this one:

Placing the doll by my side

Though I gaze upon them from morn till night, worries linger in my mind

I find myself jealous of Tsubakiko

As I had mentioned before, within the haiku cottage where haiku books were piled high and discarded drafts lay in collapsing heaps, I sat utterly alone, with no other soul present anywhere around. Even when I looked about in all directions, there existed no human form that might feel jealousy toward this doll. Perhaps this too stemmed from that same impulse—that just as I, while gazing at the garden camellias, pitied my confined self by conjuring dream heavens where I could soar freely through creation and find solace, so too did I lament my solitary self facing the eight- or nine-year-old Tsubakiko sitting desolately atop the bookshelf, attempting to envision dream realms through her presence. Whether "I grow jealous of Tsubakiko" referred to Tsubakiko herself or some phantom woman connected to her—even that remained indistinct in my heart.

Afterwards, this short song was set to music by Ms. Yoshimura Ryu, and I heard that she herself performed it intimately at a certain short song gathering.
Later still, this short song was set to music by Mr. Kineya Jokan, and through this arrangement, Ms. Kawai Shigeko also performed a dance to it.

Employees from Hototogisu-sha, Tamamo-sha, and Kachodo would come visit my residence once or twice a year.
On those occasions, wooden statues of Moritake and Shiki would be taken out from their boxes, made to hold small national flags, and placed in the alcove to welcome our guests.
At that time, Tsubakiko too would be taken out from the box, made to hold a small national flag in her hands, and placed alongside the statues of Moritake and Shiki with the same intent of welcoming our guests.
The moment Tatsuko entered this room, instantly—

“Ohh! How unsettling.”

“Oh, how creepy,” she said.
This must have been because Tsubakiko had somehow emerged from its box in the haiku cottage and now stood at the very front of the tatami room’s alcove.
This must have been because Tsubakiko standing there felt more unsettling than statues of Moritake or Shiki.
After that,I too began feeling inexplicable unease whenever entering haiku cottage at dusk-time and seeing Tsubakiko stored inside its box gazing toward me.

Nearly three years had passed since Tsubakiko was placed on the bookshelf in the haiku cottage.
In that time, the garden's camellias bloomed and fell three times.
At that time I had been seventy-five years old; I was now seventy-eight.
Family members became increasingly strict in guarding against my outings.
Sitting at the desk in the haiku cottage, I grew ever more solitary and desolate.

It was the end of last year.
Mr. Furuya Shika Kukuri of Wadayama in Tanba came to visit.
He brought along Miss Asaka Eiko, who happened to be in Tokyo at the time.

Interlude

It was perhaps the year the war ended when I traveled to pay respects at Hakun’s grave.
First I stayed two nights at the home of Mr. Nishiyama Koshiko, son of Hakun in Tanba Takeda, visited Hakun's grave, then the next day called on Mr. Furuya Shika Kukuri in Tajima Wadayama where the Toshio family had evacuated to, staying one night there; the following day visited Mr. Kyogoku Kiyo in Toyooka and stayed one night; then the next day returned to Wadayama to visit Mr. Asaka Sugao, again staying one night there.

Mr. Sugao’s house was the foremost old family in Wadayama, and it was said that the local people referred to it as the main household.
Mr. Sugao was a man of fine features and robust build who had lost his sight in middle age and left Doshisha University, receiving guidance in haiku composition from Mr. Hakun while maintaining his ancestral household.
During Mr. Hakun's lifetime, having been guided by him, Mr. Sugao had once specifically come to Osaka and shook hands with me at a Mainichi Shimbun haiku gathering.
After Mr. Hakun's death, he had been receiving haiku guidance from Mr. Kiyo.
I often heard stories about Mr. Sugao through Mr. Kiyo.
Mr. Kiyo had related such stories.

Mr. Sugao was not blind from birth.
While studying at Doshisha University, he suddenly lost his eyesight.
It was precisely when cherry blossoms were blooming, during that time when falling petals fluttered visibly before one's eyes, that suddenly a black curtain descended from above; this curtain steadily lowered until it abruptly concealed his vision.
At that moment, the falling petals had been appearing white in his vision, but they suddenly vanished from sight.
Since then, he could distinguish light and dark but became unable to discern the shapes of objects.
It was what they called retinal detachment.
Mr. Kiyo related this story.

The Asaka family was an old established household in Wadayama that possessed many fields and forests, and after becoming blind, Mr. Sugao lived a frugal and simple life as the family head, devoting himself entirely to protecting his ancestors' property.
Mr. Kiyo also shared such stories.

He also told such stories.
Mr. Sugao had many children, but only his eldest daughter Miss Eiko was born during the time he still had his sight; naturally, she became his dearest and the one he relied upon most.
He also mentioned how Miss Eiko obediently served her blind father and attended to his needs.

That Mr. Sugao’s house was the foremost old family in Wadayama could be imagined from elements like the dirt-floored entrance area and wooden flooring one encountered upon entering.
Even now, there were parts within the building where pillars from the Genroku era remained exactly as they were.
It was a pillar retaining chisel marks and gleaming with a lacquered sheen.
When descending from the engawa, there was an old-fashioned garden with stepping stones continuing.
There stood a large persimmon tree, with two or three ripe fruits left untouched upon its highest branches.
It was said that those had been left there for me.

Mr. Sugao emerged at the entrance and led the way for me. He did not use a cane as most blind people do. Instead, he would casually rest his hand on a girl's shoulder and walk exactly like a sighted person. The girl wore a sailor outfit with her hair tied back in a ponytail, appearing about fifteen or sixteen years old. This was Miss Eiko, Mr. Sugao's eldest daughter whom Mr. Kiyo had mentioned in his stories.

Miss Eiko walked silently while offering her shoulder for support. Mr. Sugao first led me to his ancestral gravesite. It formed an expansive burial ground enclosed by wooden plank fences, where rows of family graves from the Genroku era stood aligned.

Clearing moss - thirteen generations blind Sugao

Autumn clarity—caressing ancestral graves Kyoshi

Then he guided me to another field.
He said this was a field Mr. Sugao cultivated with his own hands, and as he placed his hand on the leafy greens growing there and showed them to me with satisfaction, he truly appeared to be delighting in their growth.
Then we left the town and proceeded along a wild path until we came upon a river with a bridge spanning it.
Standing on that bridge,

“This river is called the Tade River.”

“he said.”

And leaning his back against that bridge's railing, his eyes seeming to fixate on some unseen point, he sank into a deep silence for some time.

Autumn deepens-like when Sugao falls silent Kyoshi

The banks of the Tade River were beautifully colored with autumn grasses.

When autumn grasses die I turned to Sugao Kyoshi

No means to guide—I and autumn grasses Sugao

Mr. Sugao remained silent for a while longer.
All the while, Miss Eiko stood by Mr. Sugao’s side, looking lonely.
Miss Eiko did not utter a single word from beginning to end.
After spending several silent minutes on that bridge, the host and guest finally turned back.
Mr. Sugao once again placed his hand on Miss Eiko’s shoulder and headed homeward along the path they had come by.

This trip occurred at year's end; I was accompanied by Tatsuko, and at this time Mr. Kiyo and Mr. Kukuri were also together.

The following year, Mr. Kukuri came to my evacuation residence in Komoro, accompanied by Mr. Sugao, to return my visit.
At that time, Mr. Kukuri was supporting Mr. Sugao by the shoulder in place of Miss Eiko.

Only Komoro nears - the train breathes cool Sugao

At the time when they came to Komoro, Mr. Sugao,

“Since becoming blind, I have studied acupuncture and moxibustion, so let me try applying them.”

he applied acupuncture to his elderly wife and massaged my shoulders.
Mr. Kukuri,

“Recently, Mr. Sugao put up an acupuncture treatment sign at his gate, but due to people’s hesitation regarding his former status as a prominent landlord, not a single person has come for treatment.”

Mr. Kukuri related this account.

Around that time, it seemed as though Mr. Sugao’s haiku had reached their most intense period.

Cast down upon heaven and earth—a great evening downpour

One ear spared by grace—winter confinement

Taking out cold eggs—only that today too ends

From around the time when voices advocating agricultural land reform grew vigorous, Mr. Sugao’s haiku compositions abruptly ceased entirely.
In a letter from Mr. Kukuri, it stated that the matter of agricultural land reform was greatly distressing Mr. Sugao’s nerves, and because of this, he seemed to have lost interest in haiku.

Around that time, Miss Eiko went to Kyoto and was studying at Doshisha University.
Mr. Sugao had sent Miss Eiko—who had rarely left his side—to study at Doshisha University, his alma mater.
The voices advocating agricultural land reform arose not long after that.
This voice shook the Asaka family—who had owned many fields and forests—to its very foundations.
Subsequently, the matter of property tax arose.
Those matters weighed heavily on Mr. Sugao’s mind.
He resented his own worthlessness as a blind man.
Vision completely vanished.
Until then, he had been able to distinguish light and dark, but even that completely vanished.
His hearing deteriorated.
The hearing that had inspired his verse “One ear spared by grace—winter confinement” deteriorated.
His appetite was also lost.
Declaring that even when he ate it didn’t taste good so he wouldn’t eat, days continued where he hardly touched his chopsticks.

It was not long after that when news of Mr. Sugao’s passing suddenly arrived.
One night, he entered his second-floor bedroom; by morning, he had become a still, cold corpse.

For a time there was Mr. Ogata Kukyō in Kyushu while Mr. Asaka Sugao had emerged in San'in.
Mr. Kukyō had been a miner who lost his sight to dynamite and once resolved to die in anguish.
Through haiku he revived himself and ultimately stood as an accomplished writer.
Yet later he contracted stomach cancer and died.
When facing his end he maintained composure like a high priest without a trace of torment.

Snatching eyes, snatching life - "Consent" and eagle Kyoshi
Mr. Kukyō was a man who carried an eagle-like aura.
Now Mr. Sugao too had lost his sight, lost his hearing, and finally even lost his sense of taste, vanishing as if extinguished.
More than anything, regained blossom glow—Kyoshi
Mr. Sugao, who once lost his sight while watching falling flowers, must now have been reborn in a land of complete freedom and regained clear eyes.

The two blind haiku poets who had emerged contemporaneously now vanished nearly in unison.

Departed spring—by something close at hand, an aged cane Kukyō

Sprinkling water—ah! Leaning on my cane Kukyō

Urging my cane onward with thunder that chases and clings Kukyō

My cane goes where it will—auspicious path Kukyō

A cane forgotten on the veranda—tranquil Kukyō

Drawing a rainbow for the departing rain deity—thunder’s mood Kukyō

Following my cane’s guidance—a frail monk beneath the moonlit night Kukyō

With no falling flowers—blindness grows tedious Kukyō

I have no face to turn from lightning—my bare face

An Indian summer day captures me and will not release Kukyō

If I press my ear—a faint sound in the withered field plain—Kukyō

Idleness—counting shuttlecocks on my writing desk Kukyō

I must return along Pine-Rope Path beneath the western sun — Kukyō

On leaves a presence arises—the camellia falls Kukyō

To this pleasure-seeker—empty butterfly sky Kukyō

A comforting haiku he had sent to Mrs. Toshiko, the widow.

As winter departs, so spring arrives—Kyoshi

Miss Eiko, upon hearing of her father's death and being shocked, returned home, entered mourning, stayed quietly by her mother's side, and then went back out to Kyoto to continue studying at Doshisha University.

The days of old age passed swiftly.
Three years had already passed since Mr. Sugao’s death.

Miss Eiko had graduated from Doshisha University and returned home to her family for a time, but this time she came out to Tokyo briefly to visit relatives.
It so happened that Mr. Kukuri had also come to Tokyo, and the two of them came visiting me together.

Below

Miss Eiko, whom I met after a long interval, had transformed into someone unrecognizable from the girl who once walked silently supporting Mr. Sugao by the shoulder. While her hairstyle and clothing still retained faint traces of her schoolgirl days, she had now matured into a full-fledged woman. The formerly silent girl now offered crisp replies to every question posed to her. Not a shred of timidity remained in her bearing.

In "Wood Owl," which had once published the Sugao Memorial Issue, I saw that the widow Mrs. Toshiko had written thus.

"My father—to the children, their grandfather—would sit around the charcoal brazier with them, deeply...

'Father, despite that body of his, lived this long for us.'
'You really endured so much.'
'By now you must be at peace and breathing easy, I'm sure.'

Overhearing her speaking like this from the adjacent room without truly listening, I suddenly became aware—reflecting on myself who had been shut away in my own sorrow—and felt deeply apologetic toward the deceased and everyone else along with"

“Just as Grandfather said, Father truly endured such hardships, didn’t he? Let us give thanks that you lived through to this point and spend our days bright and warm—we promised.”

she had written.
Thus Mrs. Toshiko had taken over managing the household in her deceased husband's stead, raising Miss Eiko and many other children with bright propriety—particularly in recent years keeping the Doshisha-graduated Miss Eiko near at hand while devoting herself tirelessly to her cultivation—and that Miss Eiko now served as a steady support pillar helping her mother was not hard to imagine with Miss Eiko present before my eyes.

Since I needed to attend an afternoon haiku gathering that day requiring me to go out after noon, I decided to have lunch with Mr. Kukuri, Miss Eiko, and my old wife gathered around the kotatsu in the four-and-a-half-mat room, simple side dishes laid out atop the heated table. Pouring a small cup of sake for each person, we raised our cups before the meal to toast our mutual health—particularly celebrating how Miss Eiko had grown straight and true without worldly troubles weighing her down.
It was barely enough sake to moisten one's lips, yet halfway through the meal Miss Eiko's face began steadily reddening.
My old wife laughed.

“Oh, Miss Eiko, you’ve turned bright red!”

she said.

Miss Eiko silently pressed her cheek, changed seats, and sat down, but her face was growing increasingly red.
Mr. Kukuri laughed, and I laughed too.

I thought Miss Eiko was beautiful at that moment.
The gloomy, lonesome countenance from when she had silently supported Mr. Sugao's shoulder while walking all the way to Tade River had been swept away—now modest yet vivacious, here before my eyes with a face turned crimson without any apparent cosmetic effort, seemingly overwhelmed by the intoxication of a single cup of sake—this I gazed upon as something extraordinarily beautiful.

When the New Year's haiku gathering was broadcast, I recalled Miss Eiko from that time and composed this haiku:

This woman now radiant with toso's intoxication

Later, when there was a question asking who this referred to, I spoke of that occasion with Miss Eiko. Mr. Kiyo, who had come from Toyooka for the broadcast haiku meeting,

"Miss Eiko has become 'this woman,' hasn't she?"

laughed.

After returning to Wadayama, Miss Eiko sent a letter containing the following.

"After you were out, I obtained your wife’s permission and took a look around the haiku cottage. There, I could imagine how Master’s daily work was being conducted."

she had written.
Then there was also this written.

"I had the honor of meeting Miss Tsubakiko, whom I had long heard about."
"When I thought that this was always by your side, comforting you through dawn and dusk, I felt nostalgic."

she had written.

Both Miss Eiko and her mother Mrs. Toshiko used to compose haiku under Mr. Sugao’s influence in the past.
But afterward, I never heard any indication that they composed them.
They might have composed them, but no such indications reached me.
After a long interval, Miss Eiko’s visit to my home together with Mr. Kukuri served as the opportunity, and from then on she seemed to have begun composing haiku enthusiastically alongside Mr. Kukuri’s companions.
When the haiku drafts from that group circulated to me, a letter arrived saying they eagerly awaited my selection and return of them.
And each time, they would report things like “This time two haiku were selected” or “This time there were none at all.”

This year’s camellias also bloomed vividly red.
As had become my custom, I would sit in the chair and gaze out each day as always, but those vivid sensations from before no longer clearly surfaced.
Daydreams of being enveloped by these crimson camellias and riding clouds to wander freely through vast skies did still flicker into being at times, yet they proved faint and ephemeral—appearing only to dissolve like wispy shadows.
When I looked at Tsubakiko ensconced in its box atop the bookcase, even it somehow seemed drained of vitality, coated in dust.
I lowered it onto the desk.

Suddenly, I thought of giving this Tsubakiko to Miss Eiko.
When I tried to consider why I had thought of giving it to Miss Eiko, I could not discern the reason.
Apart from the fact that Miss Eiko had entered the haiku cottage during my absence and felt nostalgic upon seeing this Tsubakiko, I could find no other reason.
But I simply thought of giving it to Miss Eiko on a whim.
I wrote a postcard to Miss Eiko.
And I wrote something to the effect of: "I am thinking of giving Tsubakiko to you—would you do me the honor of accepting her?"
A reply came from Miss Eiko.

Regarding Master's gracious offer to bestow Miss Tsubakiko upon me—though it felt as though I were dreaming—I have humbly received your words.
I find myself recalling that lovely face.
I earnestly and most sincerely request to receive her.
It is an honor far beyond my station.
Miss Tsubakiko, who has not left your side for three years—I assure you I will cherish her and never let her feel lonely, so I most humbly beg you to allow me to receive her.

I was holding the postcard and talking with my mother who was in the back.
The red flowers of mountain camellias fell and piled upon the damp rocks.
Even while I was weeding afterwards, I found myself thinking of the Master in the Kamakura study and Miss Tsubakiko who resides there.
I called Mr. Kukuri and discussed how things had become quite serious.

I think how delighted Father would be if he were in good health.

Tomorrow is my youngest sister’s entrance ceremony (first grade of elementary school).
I believe young Obotsu-chan at Master Kiyo’s residence is about the same age.

The haiku gathering welcoming Master Yamaguchi Seison, who had come to Ikuno Mine, was in the evening with no return train available.
I had been so looking forward to attending but found it deeply regrettable.

And then came her letter written upon receiving Tsubakiko:

Miss Tsubakiko has now safely arrived.
My heartfelt gratitude.
This doll of mysterious destiny now rests in my care.
As my late father would soothe me by stroking my hair each night before bed,
so now do I tenderly brush Miss Tsubakiko’s tresses each evening.

Then after another two or three days,

In the coming days, I wish to request Mr. Kiyo’s assistance, invite Mrs. Akiko, and hold a welcoming haiku gathering for Miss Tsubakiko.
It is something I eagerly anticipate.

And then in the letter that reported the results of that haiku gathering,

Aged sake's faint fragrance—peach-perfect day —Toshiko

Tsubakiko and Eiko—suddenly akin on a spring evening —Kukuri

Departing spring—on the table Tsubakiko's tale —Akiko

There were haiku written by three or four others.
And there were no haiku by Miss Eiko that mentioned Tsubakiko, but there were such haiku.

Night cherry blossoms mingling with bare trees - awfully Eiko

And then again,

In the room where I had now seen off all our guests, there remained only Tsubakiko and myself.
At this time, I was glad that Mother had regained her heart for composing haiku.

Mr. Kukuri and his wife Haru-jo-san also reported on the Tsubakiko welcoming haiku gathering.
A letter also arrived from Mr. Kiyo.

Today was the Tsubakiko welcoming gathering hosted by Miss Eiko.
I stayed behind to look after things, and Akiko came.
A call came in reporting that it had been an extremely enjoyable haiku gathering.
Akiko was staying overnight in Wadayama.

The other day, I met Miss Eiko who had just received Tsubakiko.
She looked very happy.

While thinking I must inform Mr. Yamada Tokubei of this matter, I had still left it as it was.

I tried to consider what meaning lay behind my giving Tsubakiko to Miss Eiko, but once again I could not provide a clear answer.
I simply felt an inexplicable urge to give it to Miss Eiko, and so I did.
That this Tsubakiko welcoming haiku gathering had been held - hearing that even Mrs. Akiko Kyogoku attended it - and that Miss Eiko's mother Toshiko-san had through this regained her passion for composing haiku - whether these outcomes aligned with my intentions in gifting Tsubakiko to Miss Eiko or diverged from them - this necessarily had to be a matter of satisfaction for me.

Mr. Kiyo, who had come to Tokyo for a certain matter, after completing his business, found a day's leisure and visited the thatched cottage in Kamakura. The conversation turned to Tsubakiko as well. And then he took out the poem card that Miss Eiko had requested and was told to write a haiku on it. I wrote: I named her Tsubakiko and had her serve by my side. Ought I to have Tsubakiko hold a painted parasol? Then I composed a few more camellia haiku. Mr. Kiyo politely expressed gratitude on Miss Eiko’s behalf and wrapped it in a furoshiki cloth. The sight was amusing.

“Somehow this feels like being a messenger of love.”

He laughed.
Mr. Kiyo also laughed.

“Since it’s a young lady’s errand, after all.”

He laughed.

The glass box for housing Tsubakiko that had subsequently been sent by Mr. Yamada Tokubei remained exactly as received.
It still had not been sent to Miss Eiko.
I explained that since it was a fragile item, I thought I would ask someone when a suitable opportunity arose.
Mr. Kiyo said it would be fine if I carried it, but hesitated because he already had a heavy suitcase.
However, when he asked to see the glass package, I took it out and showed him.
Mr. Kiyo looked at it and declared, "I shall take it after all."
As he left through the entrance carrying this additional burden alongside his heavy suitcase, he felt what might be called "love's heavy weight."

A pencil-written postcard sent from Maibara Station arrived.

"Tsubakiko's box is currently passing through the foothills of Mount Ibuki.
May 25th morning, Maibara Station, Kyogoku Kiyo"