Pathway to Japanese Literature

I believe it was published around Meiji 12 or 13—in the faintly colored frontispiece of *Sawamura Tanosuke Akebono Zōshi*, a bound volume, there stood a slightly intoxicated, graceful figure resembling a banquet geisha: her black crepe haori draped carelessly over her shoulders, gathering the hem of her formal attire as she lingered by a rickshaw in the full flush of spring twilight.
Gas lamps glimmered faintly; a single green willow stood arranged, its hem trailing as figures vied for attention—I recall there being a song titled after this scene.
It said: “(A rickshaw in tipsy spirits—no room for gold or men)”—though this may be slightly misremembered. If it is mistaken, that lies with the geisha’s disposition; it’s no concern of mine.
In any case, such spiritedness was sung into existence.
Or perhaps it was the very dawn of the rickshaw’s popularity.
Letting a tipsy haze be gently stirred by spring breezes, the sensation of one’s body swaying smoothly through the air like a willow branch must have been exceedingly delightful.

When nowadays one gets drunk at a bar, stumbles into a taxi—or rather, plants oneself with a heave-ho!—it clatters and clanks, forcing you to splay your legs like a toad (not that I’d know about high-class models), then hunch under the low roof, eyes fixed and head shaking like a tiger—it’s a far cry from that idyllic scene. First, those with romantic flair who flouted societal conventions—heedless of filial piety—were men and women who shared rides. It goes without saying that atop rickshaws one might glimpse women’s elaborate chignons or shimada updos alongside men’s cropped hair… Worse yet, those with lingering long topknots would saunter by arm in arm. To take a slightly extreme analogy, it was little different from parading a velvet bed stood upright through the streets as an advertisement—complete with a man and woman aboard.

Even today’s noble ladies and gentlemen who ride together in automobiles, dashing grandly through Asakusa, Ueno, and Ginza, would surely startle in astonishment were they to see this.
As everyone habitually says, it truly marked the passage of time.
But as for any of those shared rides, it goes without saying that I had no part in them.
In any case, there was a reckless sort of romantic allure about it all—something unsettled.

“—(A shared rickshaw ride with your loved one—‘Pull us somewhere dark,’ you ask the puller, slipping ten sen as a tip—and when you glimpse his face at parting, that hand of his says ‘You rascal!’)—” Even songs like this became popular.
It even earned the formal title of the “Otsudane Melody.”
In any case, rickshaws undoubtedly had considerable involvement in romantic affairs.

By Mr. Wada Shōken of Kanazawa.
In the local historical accounts is recorded an article from the sixth issue of Ishikawa Prefecture’s *Kaika Shinkai*, dated February of Meiji 5:

According to someone who recently returned from Osaka: in that region, rickshaws grew more prevalent by the day, while Saikyō (Kyoto), which until recently had none, now saw their gradual increase to four hundred and six.
In Fushimi, it was said there were fifty-one rickshaws.
They were said to continue increasing gradually... As for Tokyo Prefecture, the total number reached over forty thousand.

It recorded that the tax per rickshaw was listed as eight monme per month.
Of course, in places like Kanazawa and Fukui, people had probably never seen the likes of *Tawara Tōta*, *Minamoto no Yorimitsu*, or *Princess Taki Yasha* either.
At first glance, Tokyo’s forty thousand rickshaws might have seemed numerous, but even for that time, when compared to the prefecture’s entire population, they likely hadn’t been as widespread as palanquins had been—and these were rickshaws taxed eight monme per month.
It hardly seemed that commoners could have afforded to ride them.
When speaking of the trends of the time—particularly those that women made the target of their showiness and longing… if it were such a target, it would have glittered with gold and silver.
For those who studied archery, after three years of fixed gazing, even a louse on the target appeared as large as a wheel.
Therefore, in the street talk of those days, there were many tales of handsome rickshaw pullers.
Being the object of fleeting crushes was something that would soon be ceded not just to rural medicine peddlers but later to automobile drivers.
Inspiring success stories of rickshaw pullers named so-and-so were abundant.

In a brief span of time, the number of rickshaws increased immensely.

Rickshaws—the term originated from “arm-powered vehicle” becoming this 亻 combined with 車 (vehicle). The character, I believe, was Master Kōyō’s invention. Near the counter at the corner where one enters Mitsuke, turning from Ushigome toward Iidamachi, I once saw a horizontal signboard while passing by: they had attached “human-powered” [人力] to it, slightly shaping it into the form of the character 分 [bun], then adding 車 [vehicle] alongside to create a single large character. This was something I recounted to Master Kōyō. “That’s absurd,” he said. “Rather clever.” I remember him leaning on an elbow by the brazier as he spoke.

Needless to say again—even for someone with a soldier’s sash but no rickshaw fare—let alone the bustling crossroads and entertainment districts—navigating through rickshaws waiting at their masters’ convenience proved an immense hardship for one of my standing.
Clamor-clamor-clamor—clattering... It was no exaggeration—in Hirokoji alone, fourteen or fifteen rickshaws would surround you all at once.
Mitsubashi, Gannabe, Daruma Zenzai—the path ahead lay pitch-black and overwhelming to behold.
“If you can’t slip through this easily, you can’t live in Tokyo,” the senior at our boarding house would often say.

Fourteen or fifteen years ago, when I moved to what is now Shimorokubanchō, rickshaws already faced the stone wall in front of the present-day Bungeishunjū building across the street from Kamiroku’s corner, just outside the Arishima family’s black wall. They lined up at Banchō School’s corner too, and within a mere one or two blocks beyond that stood three or four additional rickshaw stands.

In spring—when cherry blossoms flourished more than Tamakiku’s lanterns once did—and continuing into autumn’s Shin Niwaka festival, seventy-five rickshaws raced down this very street in a mere ten minutes.

Hence, the elder sister of Daionjimae—Ms. Higuchi Ichiyo—rolled up her sleeves and set the rhythm.

“Seventy-five rickshaws in ten minutes—and this was by no means limited to Daionjimae alone. Umamichi Street was choked with rickshaws. As for all matters concerning Asakusa, one should ask Mr. Kubota (Man-chan). ……Yamanote, Hongōdai. ……The cut-through road breached its embankment, unleashing a cascade of rickshaws. Of course, shared rides too swirled into vortices, dancing and tumbling alongside people—around Koetomo and Toyokuni, where they coalesced into a formidable momentum—‘Ah, there it is!’—dancing atop rickshaws with octopus-like arms. Amidst the uproar, the merry tune faltered as geisha stand negotiations collapsed—‘Charge!’—‘Hey there, Commander! How’s this, Captain?’ they bellowed.—‘Well done, Captain!’ …‘Truly splendid, Commander!’ But after bouncing down, pausing, and turning back, their momentum slackened slightly. Don’t you know? In Nakamachi, rickshaw pullers collide in minor clashes. ‘Ain’t gonna play it cool, sir.’ At worst, they would bring their vehicles to a halt. When one passed through there, Hirokoji’s corner clock and Matsugen’s roof ornamentation would flaunt themselves garishly, and it all began anew. ‘It’s just a candle, sir.’ Now, the most treacherous spot was at Yamashita’s railroad crossing, where the tracks deliberately thwarted the momentum of a slope that seemed ready to send one sliding down, then slowly began their imposition. Upon barely managing to pass through that spot, they say that at the corner of Mishima-sama’s estate, with Iriya’s large pond to the right where it suddenly grows dark, things gradually took on a fearsome aspect—or so I’ve heard.”

……In truth, I had only heard about it.
What I remember... is not such—such improper places.
The mountain paths and country roads I traveled back to my hometown, and even in the city center—nothing but shrines and temples encircling the hills.
But here I must indulge in a bit of self-praise.
Sake I gulped down piping hot like a day laborer, tea I chugged as coarse bancha.
I had no grasp of proper dining etiquette.
The three leaves in my rice bowl seemed undercooked, so I discreetly pushed them aside; since I cowered from the wasabi as if it were some living creature, even I found my own demeanor thoroughly off-putting.
Puffing greedily at simmered sasa fish, I would seize only the grilled tofu within reach. When dividing portions, I staked my claim in the pot's corner like a warlord's territory, then jabbed holes with chopstick tips into the offal buried at center—peering as through a spyglass to check its doneness. Such antics would make even a passing infatuation beat retreat... My friends nursed resentment and scorn.
At best, those with sympathy managed strained smiles—so it went—but... when it came to rickshaws, I was praised for my riding skill—though not in any admirable way—by the puller himself.
When sharing rides—beneath trees or along fence lines—he would even deliberately turn around to say such things.

Even as he praised my riding skill, I would often tumble out.
Midway up Kikuzaka in Hongō, I gradually fell sideways but was caught by a temple hedge—no injuries.
In Kanda Sarugakuchō, I collapsed still inside the hood; though I scrambled out panicking—intending to buy restorative bintan but mistaking a sweets shop for a pharmacy—I must have been thoroughly disoriented, yet emerged unharmed.
In midsummer, as we labored up Miyakezaka, the rickshaw puller braced his knee with a thud—the footrest slipped away. In the instant I thought "Ah!", I found myself straddling his back horseman-style. "You're not injured?" came out rather smoothly.
During year-end errands, thrown from the rickshaw at Gomizaka—my pockets desperately empty and chilled, heart hollow—I struck a roadside stone and injured my toe.
More recently... though pre-earthquake... under Dobashi's railroad bridge on rubber tires we sped—*Wham!*—I popped straight out standing upright while the puller sprawled forward on both knees.
Indeed, unintentionally executing a somersault clean over the puller's head.
Not a speck of dust to brush off—yet this realization later horrified me... Truth be told, I remain astonished even now.

In short—one must ride a rickshaw prepared for it to tip over. Moreover, when faced with bad roads and uphill or downhill slopes—one must always get down and walk— This is the secret technique of our school—not that we need to guard it like some clandestine tradition, as if we were Yaba Shichi and Tsuchi Roku secretly brewing their pounded pickled eggplants. ――In truth—having been compelled by the necessities of travel to rely on rickshaws for the long journeys to and from my hometown during that time—I suppose I had grown accustomed to riding them before I knew it.……

The railway used Maibara as its connecting line and did not extend beyond Tsuruga.
“Shelled crab.”
“Shell-on crab,” they’d praise in Ginza’s headband-clad eateries, or custom-order Echizen crabs—those colossal ones—at Yataa… Yet barely a decade ago, attendants in hakama had still served them with solemnity in formal dining settings—a sight that now seems almost fictional.
However, during the time when the Hokuriku Line was not yet operational, the old road extended through places immortalized in *The Tale of the Heike*, *Taiheiki*, and *Taikōki*—notable sites like Arajiyama, Kaeri, Torikabesaka, Nakagawachi, and Hinokigatake. As for the new road: Kasugano Pass, Daira, and Ōhietsu stood as its perilous points, with the distance from Kanazawa to Tsuruga’s Kagaizaki along this route measuring thirty-eight *ri*.
If a crab were to walk, it would take three years.

There did exist a steamship under 100 tons that connected from Kaga no Kanaishi in Kanazawa—stopping at three provinces from the legend of Rennyo Shōnin: the dojo where brides were frightened, Yoshizaki Port, and Kojorō—to Kagaizaki.
Yet given what they call Nyohō’s notoriously rough seas—to say nothing of northern weather proverbs—the waves were never calm.
While Tsuruga’s fine harbor spared travelers hardship, ships at Kaga no Kanaishi anchored offshore; when waves rose, one had to endure being tossed about in a small boat for two or three ri.
Even this much risked life and limb.
In winter, ships from Tsuruga would often drift five or even seven days off Kaga no Kanaishi—unable to secure a skiff—until finally being blown clear to Sado Island or desperately turning back to Tsuruga.

For traveling to Tokyo, there was another method: a thirteen-*ri* overland journey from Kanazawa to Etchū Fushiki Port—though this required crossing the perilous Kurikara Pass—followed by a steamship from Fushiki Port to Naoetsu, which then connected directly to the railway. Needless to say, this route too involved traversing the treacherous waters off Oyashirazu and Koshirazu. …This passage proved equally arduous.
What if one were to take this overland?
It was over sixty ri—a considerable distance.
The crucial thing was: the travel expenses were exorbitant.

Thus, students on summer vacation would rather venture through the perilous Hida Pass to Matsumoto, traverse Hakusan’s back slopes to cross into the depths of Yasha Pond via Minō Road—some even went so far as to seek out Sassa Narimasa’s infamous Sarasara Pass.
……In fact, Your Excellency Honami Nobuyoshi of Hiroshima Normal School—here, in a manner that neither undermined his dignity as principal nor breached decorum—composed a verse tinged with congratulatory intent and a dash of mockery.
Under normal circumstances, one would write it in a separate line to preserve its haikai dignity, but since a spiteful critic lurked nearby, I humbly squeezed seventeen syllables into a twenty-character space.
It said: “A thousand ryō’s worth of ceremonial dress laid out for mid-summer airing.” ――Or alternatively―― “Ceremonial dress and a thousand ryō sun-dried in midsummer.” ――This grand attire had been made in Tokyo.
But when one put on a hat, fastened a sword, and tightened gloves, sitting became awkward.
A camp stool—or so it should have been—(at a relative’s house—) but since none was prepared, he perched imposingly on a footstool instead…“See?” he laughed as he told me this.
This seemed to be a secret from his wife and the students.――Ever since his student days, His Excellency had cultivated both scholarship and fortitude—unlike my own cowardly self—so though no master swimmer, he feared not the sub-100-ton steamships battling the North Sea’s rough waves.
He didn’t fear them, yet strangely, his seasickness was more severe than others’.
Once, in such agony along the Mikuni coast that he… nearly threw himself… no—rather, with a suddenness akin to a woman’s impulse, he thought of plunging to his death—so much so that one summer, traveling alone, startling mountain deities and treading upon snakes, he crossed the still-dreaded Amatsutōge Pass—Ah, the snow that fell!—brushing mountain leeches from his sleeves before lodging at a beautiful woman’s solitary house.
He had successfully crossed over to Gifu.

The path diverges—but that's a story for another time.
I too once traveled the Shimokaidō route by steamship from Fushiki to Naoetsu.
—I will mention this again later—though I usually took that trusty rickshaw via Kamikaidō Echizen to Tsuruga—that time, it was due to travel funds.
Having heard—though I doubt they actually did such things—that Fushiki's steamship companies were competing so fiercely for passengers they offered free passage: Company A gave a hand towel, Company B three picture postcards as souvenirs.
Though we never spoke of such matters aboard ship, rumors about Ryūgūbara's moving picture promotions drove us—two cash-strapped travelers—to rush out thinking we couldn't afford not to board.

This companion was not the later Principal Excellency.
Similarly, a university student returning home for summer vacation—together with one who was fond of salted herring pickled in rice bran (easy to prepare, abundant, and tingling the tongue)—departed Kanazawa on foot through Morishita, Tsubata, and Isurugi.
From there, at Kurikara’s Shindō Amata-goe Pass—where they had hoped to eat strength-giving rice cakes but found nothing but bitter tea—they panted their way across until reaching the bridge over the vast river—likely the Shō River—where they slumped in exhaustion before being taken aboard by a boatman’s half-obliging gesture and carried downstream to Fushiki.
Upon hearing the details, the steamship company’s free fare amenities proved illusory.
Though it seemed dubious and left me disappointed, I cannot forget that moment’s scenery.
As the boat drifted downstream, evening clouds enshrouded the banks until river and sky merged into one; distant reeds swayed as a heron lingered longingly while nearby ripples stirred—*Ah! A sea bass?*
A cormorant leaped.
While the boatman ate his bento, we drifted with the current until he finished his meal and scooped water against the gunwale with a split bamboo basket—the trailing wake stretching longer than our vessel across the still surface as he drank from one hand while sculling with the other—the very moment a white heron descended dancing to alight upon our prow.

But—more importantly—we two who hadn’t even eaten strength-giving rice cakes now gulped in unison at the sight of that seemingly delicious boxed lunch, our stomachs unbearably empty. …Even the boatman’s side dish was salted herring pickled in rice bran…

Here there were sardines—salted herring pickled in rice bran—and even the fearsome pufferfish.
This large pufferfish pickled in rice bran.

To think—there was a man who presented this pufferfish pickled in rice bran to Master Kōyō as a gift.
When it came to food—from the chestnut kinton delivered by Chūkatei’s daughter to the hard candy bullets sold at the local rickshaw pullers’ side-business snack shops—he couldn’t help but savor their peculiar charm. Yet his late breakfast remained tea over rice, plainly prepared.

After a while, the sliding door of the entryway opened with an uncharacteristic, strangely quiet motion, and there stood Master Kōyō, hands tucked into his sleeves, looking somewhat sullen.

“Izumi.”

“Yes?”

“So—did you eat that pufferfish too?”

“In my hometown, we prepare it as a side dish.”
“My stomach’s been aching a bit, I must say.”
“Master Kōyō, they say being poisoned by pufferfish doesn’t cause any aching.”
“Ah, I see.”

Swiftly, just like that, he headed upstairs—

At this very moment, my Mr. Takitarō, without so much as a blink, his eyes widening all the more, astounded us by devouring a pufferfish—sweetened and puffed up to ripeness in its rice bran fermentation.

During his newlywed years, a time when he hadn’t returned to his hometown for four or five years, Your Excellency Honami would often repeat, “Ah, how I crave salted herring pickled in rice bran.”

“Is that even edible?”

“No—that’s not it. That’s a delicacy, you know.”

After returning home and coming back from Shinbo Village,

"I ate it—ate it, but... somehow, it just wasn't what I'd imagined."

I suppose that's right.
The young lady of the Nihonbashi sugar wholesaler, her hair styled in a round chignon, taught one about... freshly sliced horse mackerel and abalone from night voyages.
Was salted herring pickled in rice bran really so delicious?

Now, that evening we stayed in Fushiki.

"What on earth is this?" someone exclaimed at the late-night meal.
The maid with the Shimada mage hairstyle who was serving us said, "It's catfish, you see."
The catfish dish—cold cotton-like shreds—he stuffed into his mouth.
Of course, the lodging fee was cheap.
No—he didn't even eat the soup; he spat out the catfish.
It was no jest—I was genuinely shocked.

In front of the harbor, with this catfish dish before me, I divined—a storm must be coming.
As for the wind’s disposition… Well, whatever it might be—this weakling leaned quietly against the slightly creaking railing when the maid with the Shimada mage hairstyle smoothly rose… Still in her summer kimono in early September, she tucked her sleeve and stretched a white hand out over the sea.
The handkerchief in hand fluttered briskly, caught diagonally across the roof toward the mountain’s edge.
“With conditions like this, it’s perfectly safe.”
I was happy.

Even with the same handkerchief, the young wife of Kanazawa’s book lender—perched lazily with half her body leaning through the shop’s curtain, always clutching the handkerchief between her lips and casting her eyes downward—presented a figure that crudely mimicked the seductive poses of Eisei’s frontispieces. Yet this scene, unintendedly, resembled the modest elegance of Toshikata’s inserted illustrations.

Now, as for the steamship—"Lies!" "Betrayal!"—don’t get cheeky.

To Naoetsu, nine sen per person.
Though this occurred around Meiji 26 or 27 (1893–1894), they provided lunchboxes for the midday meal.
The containers—lidless tinplate ones—held a coal-tinged dish of three simmered wheat gluten slices. “Hey! Come get yours.”
“Still need some over there? —There you go.”
And yet, even if they distributed them under the sailcloth awning to that scruffy-looking bunch.

After a full day… we safely disembarked at Naoetsu, but due to the timetable, the train halted at Nagano.
Was it Sensō-ya or Fuji-ya? The land and stars were dark.
Though my memory is hazy, when I stepped into the entryway, someone greeted us… A maid with an otaiko-style chignon knelt down—tugged sharply at the university student’s protruding boots, which sagged misshapenly yet stubbornly stiff until they came off with a heavy thud… “Socks would’ve been better,” she scoffed. “Who cares about appearances? Such nonsense!”
Because he was a man who paid no heed to his appearance, his indigo tabi socks had a large hole at the tip of his big toe, gaping like a crushed cockroach.
……He wore a gold-buttoned uniform, while I was in a hakama-less hunting hat, so the maid paid no mind—or rather, no matter what, even if they’re high-quality sheepskin boots, it seems better to take them off oneself.
It was a bit pretentious—or perhaps had a certain allure—but though it was none of my concern, I felt ashamed.

…An incident came to mind.

When I was living in a back tenement in Asakusa Tawaramachi during a chilly spring... I had no tabi socks... It wasn't quite midwinter anymore, but the season seemed to be leaning toward warmth, showing a coquettish air.
Without tabi socks, I detested going out to Nakamise.
In the closet, I suddenly found them.
The landlord of the back tenement was a medical student who secretly practiced taking peculiar pulses—hence he wore white tabi socks—one slightly soiled specimen that could fit two of my feet since they belonged to a large man.
Stealing it from the landlord's wife, I slipped on the left one—then off to Nakamise.
...Could I venture out in daylight?
Waiting for nightfall, I took to the road and visited Kannon.
By divine favor, unharmed as I stealthily circled from the hall's rear—walking in that absurd fashion like an elephant paired with a hare—suddenly in the flickering lamplight's gloom emerged a pale face with blue half-collar from nearby.

“Psst, psst, psst.”

“White Tabi Brother—psst.”

I broke into a cold sweat and resolved to forsake tabi socks for life.

Later—when I visited Ms. Ichiyo for the first time in Maruyama Fukuyama-cho and was being seen off from her room by a figure in a high-collared robe with her hair in a ginkgo-leaf twist and an apron tied at the front—from the kitchen burst forth an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old girl with a Shimada hairstyle, fair-skinned and slender-backed: none other than Okuni, her younger sister, who had only recently assumed that role.

“This crude one [at your service].”

When my hand was seized, my legs reflexively drew up.
As I tried to put on my geta, there was a large hole in the tip of my tabi sock.

Compared to clothing, tabi socks catch the eye.
In Edo, women went barefoot.
That suppleness, softness, and pleasing shape can be seen in the works of Harunobu, Utamaro, and others.
Among them, the more stylish sort would—just as they were about to step out after bathing—dip their feet once more into hot water, vigorously wipe them dry, and slip into their geta with toenails glowing translucently pink against the snow, or so it’s said.
Modern ladies… Even if their kimonos are everyday wear, they want their tabi socks to stay unyellowed by grime, snug without bagginess, and free of wrinkles.
This concerns the time of starching them.
When it comes to practice, the theory differs.
Even if they’re pitch-black and torn, who cares about soot cleaning or year-end cleaning? These too are unsightly things—mere dust from the trash heap.

Now then, on the day after staying in Nagano, having arrived in Ueno, I parted with the group at Hongo and returned to Master’s residence in Ushigome.
Because I had lost my father that year, I had been away from the entrance of Yokoteramachi for many days.
As if rushing in, passing under the willow outside the gate, when I peeked at the plum tree before the latticed door, there was a student sitting alone at a desk in a two-tatami room—it was Haruba, whom I met for the first time.
Since he was seventeen, he didn’t have a beard—with a face that seemed long beneath his crew cut, he looked up.

“Master… His wife—”
“She… has just returned.”

“Ah, Mr. Izumi… I’ve heard about you from Master.”
“I did indeed get that impression.”
“My name is Yanagawa.”
“I have been coming here since around this time.”

“Ah, welcome… Please, come in.”

Courteous, and we got along well.
As the autumn chill deepened, we would gradually find ourselves glaring at each other and quarreling over roasted sweet potatoes and shares of tobacco—but this episode is best left to this essay.

So then—upon receiving the critical telegram about my father’s condition, a life-altering event—in January of that year when the season still lay in midwinter’s depths, I rushed back to my hometown. Having traveled by train through the night from Tsuruga, I took a rickshaw, but by Takefu the day had already darkened.
The road measured eleven ri, but with nothing but mountain slopes, progress proved sluggish.
In days of old, Takefu—the castle town of Maeda Toshiie—was renowned as a place of willows, clear waters, and beautiful women.

Perhaps due to Sakuma Genba’s negligence in reinforcing the defenses, Shibata Katsuie—defeated at the Battle of Shizugatake—caught his breath within this castle, requested hot water rice, then retreated north to Kitano-sho in dejection.
Not long after, Hideyoshi—emboldened by victory—spurred his horse forward alone. Drawing a baton from his waist and waving it briskly, he declared: “This is Chikuzen-no-kami! Mataza! Mataza! Hold your fire!” compelling them to open the main castle gate. Though this marked the Taiko’s moment of triumph, he had not dreamed of such glory and instead spent the night in anguished wakefulness.
The next morning still hung dim when the rickshaw I boarded at seven—despite lacking any bouncing tip—arrived at a teahouse on Kanazawa’s outskirts by nine that evening.
He was no sturdy youth but an elderly rickshaw puller.
This might make brief conversation fodder—the distance from Takefu being twenty-seven ri*. They say Fukagawa rickshaws maintained their prestige by never crossing Eitai Bridge... skimming the cream for themselves while leaving dregs to others.
They would take fares from customers, grip them firmly at the topmost point, then drop them down to their comrades below.
Even when competence and character differed, switching rickshaws at convenient spots mid-journey remained customary—agreements for through trips made at departure points went unhonored.
Yet kind pullers showed goodwill by searching station after station multiple times until finding trusted colleagues to whom they could entrust passengers.
Thus they typically hauled ten or fifteen ri.
This was my first encounter with one who had driven twenty-seven ri within a single day....

At Shinobazu Pond, there once occurred a strange prize competition that threw the entire capital into uproar. The pond winds around its inner edge with a circumference said to exceed one ri (approximately 3.9 km). From dawn till dusk—regardless of pace—victory went to whoever completed the most laps within roughly fifteen hours... If I err, forgive me—I believe it was indeed sponsored by the Jiji Shinpō newspaper at the time... Both of us remained in the entryway, but Yanagawa, who adored such spectacles, went to observe—or rather, to properly witness it.

"About three had collapsed lying there—not a soul got disqualified... They all walked like this," he interlaced his arms demonstratively, "plodding through the grass—trampling that vegetation was supposedly their secret technique. Some hung their heads limply, looking utterly beyond reason."

"The crowds packed both hills and town!"

"But with no discernible trigger, they just kept trudging on—it felt uncanny watching them. In broad daylight, they might as well have been possessed or enchanted—those gloomy men gave off a rather sinister air."

"Everyone's faces had turned deathly pale." At this event, the first prize went to a competitor who circled the pond over thirty times. When results were announced the next day, this elderly Dai Zong—a man past sixty—proved to be a former Kaga Domain courier from Komatsu.

I heard recently—in those days, when they were called *Edo Three Times*, the regulations for the Kaga Domain's couriers—then the sole means of transport—dictated a route crossing Takaoka, Toyama, Tomari, Oyashirazu, Gochi, Takada, Nagano, and Usui Pass along the lower highway to Matsuida, Takasaki, and Edo's Itabashi: a distance of 120.5 *ri* (approx. 472 km) over 4,038 stations. Express couriers completed this in five full days—even during winter's shorter daylight hours, they extended this by merely one day and two hours.

Regular couriers' summer schedule (March to September) of ten days—a full eight days—and winter schedule (October to February) of twelve days—a full ten days—aside, their express counterparts reportedly made twenty-five *ri* (approx. 98 km) per day their standard work.

Even if they pushed beyond their regular work to manage an extra three or five *ri* (approx. 12–20 km), the rickshaw puller who had circled Shinobazu Pond over thirty times—let alone covered twenty-seven *ri* (approx. 106 km) in a day—remained an extraordinary figure.

Those who rode gained no merit.

Yet this nearly had to be called miraculous.

But that I did not even remember his face, and regrettably, had not asked his surname, was not solely due to being distraught over my father’s death.
Having become accustomed to traveling the Echizen Highway multiple times, I had come to believe that as long as there was fare, the rickshaw would start moving on its own.
However, traversing these ups and downs also involved considerable hardships.

The blazing sky-sea melted lead, its viscous glare piercing the eyes.
The wind did not stir even slightly.
The cliff’s rocks, scraped by salt, stung the tongue.
The mountains held not a single shadow of leaves.
The grass's heat emitted an illusory haze.
In early August… beneath Tsuruga Bay ablaze and along its rugged rocky path above, I had climbed Mount Ōhi by rickshaw.

Having moved to the capital, my first return home had been due to illness.
At that time, students' lung disease was fashionable among young women.
Students' beriberi didn't even find favor with middle-aged women.
Since it would attract neither interest nor regard even now—though I confide this privately to you ladies—it was in fact beriberi.
...And a rather severe case at that.
It wasn't that greater severity meant puffier swelling; what they called the dry type—the wasting variety—was actually of poorer quality.

For lunch, I ate kenchin stew and vomited.
Since it was summer, Master Kōyō’s wife grew concerned and—as her family home had a physician—obtained a letter of introduction for me. When I visited him, he examined me, leaned forward attentively, and handed me a reply.
He had reportedly urged me to seek a change of climate without delay.
To this day, I never eat kenchin stew.
In Edo-period chapbooks, there exists a dish called matsu-modoki—a pine-resembling concoction.
Though I hadn’t researched it thoroughly and left it as unfinished business, a woman raised in Kanda recently taught me its preparation: eggplant, myoga, and fried tofu simmered in clear broth, topped with thin kudzu glaze.
It’s said to be an exceedingly economical side dish.
Since matsu-modoki somewhat resembles kenchin stew, I keep even that at arm’s length.

I had been told to take thin rice gruel, watery porridge, or a small amount of bread, but on the train, such things could not be obtained. Continuing the journey without rest was dangerous... and so I stayed in Maibara, but the boy without a haori wouldn't cook any gruel.

From that night to the next day.—

Until then—when I set out by rickshaw under the midday sun—I had hardly eaten anything.
Under the direct sunlight, the rickshaw struggled with the slope and did not put up its hood.
I carried no parasol.
My only shield was a winter bird-hunting cap.
I gasped for breath with my shoulders heaving.
As we pressed onward toward Ōragatake’s peak—despite not a moth-sized cloud above us—a towering mass of clouds, black as storm-driven waves, loomed overhead, while lightning that flickered like vengeful spirits’ helmet crests slashed the sky at the mountain’s edge.
My pulse raced wildly; my heart felt ready to split apart.

I tightened my knees and sat up straight in the rickshaw, clutching firmly to my chest the cool Haihara-made fan—with its light blue silk border—that Master Kōyō had bestowed upon me as a summer custom.
And so, taking up the theme, I mentally composed an essay on the scorching heat.
Hah!
They say that if you extinguish your mind, you’ll attain enlightenment or some such—but it’s hot because it’s hot.
I still detest enlightenment to this day.…

You must battle the blazing might; the sea, mountains, grass, and stones all glow white-hot, seeking to dazzle your eyes.
Arise—hoist your emaciated frame; raise your sleeves as a shield against the demon of illness.
Brandish your lone arm; sever the arrows of fire!
The battle was feeble.
Though my legs might tremble, let my heart gallop through the sky.
If not…

Such were my thoughts—no, truly mortifying—but to avoid collapsing there, I desperately polished [the essay].
Because of this, that not a single drop of sweat emerged under the blazing sun was by no means the marvel of a rain-invoking song.
The sickly green grass was withering; the water had dried up.

Yet even now, I cherish the courage of that boy in his winter bird-hunting cap and Kurume kasuri, who pressed on alone through the midday solitude, defying the towering clouds.

Let the heart gallop through the sky.
If not—because it’s painful—repeat it,

You must battle the blazing might.
The sea and mountains, the grass and stones all glow white-hot, seeking to dazzle your eyes.
Arise…

As I gritted my teeth with resolve—*Hmm!*—the rickshaw puller shook off the sweat streaming down his forehead.

“You must be hot too—ah, look how pale you’ve gone!”
“…Just a bit further and there’s a teahouse—let’s get you some water or such.”

All I managed was “Water… water,” yet the young wife at that suspicious shack of a teahouse nestled in the mountain’s shadow kindly stirred sugar into a glass cup and handed it to me.
She might as well have been Yakushi incarnate.
Compassion does sometimes grace wretched travelers.
The youth came back to life.

By fortune, no thunder rumbled.
The menacing storm clouds crumbled toward the foothills as we descended the pass—lightning flashing northward like upturned blades—yet twilight brought its own terror: a swirling pillar of mosquitoes around Ōra Teahouse.

In the darkness of the veranda pillars where lamplight lingered dimly at the Katayama household, arms stabbed and stabbed again—brandishing in torment—as blood dripped from them.
To cool his body from that anguish, he thrust himself into blue hydrangea clusters resembling a cliffside waterfall and frantically clutched their great indigo blossoms—as if trying to anchor a soul threatening to slip away.
……He came to know the aqueous fragrance of hydrangeas.
Though an evening shower had swept through earlier, no water remained at the mountain pass.

At last, under stars where a stream raced alongside the rain, we arrived at Takefu’s inn.

One night’s stay.
After staying one night, we left this place, and from here, there was also a time when we crossed through heavy snow to Tsuruga.
The rickshaw wouldn’t budge.
The rickshaw puller stood with a lantern to guide the way in the early dawn.
As we approached the village, the heavy snow had bent the towering bamboo grove into an arched tunnel of pure white. When passing through it, sparrows scattered chaotically to both sides like staggered plovers, their wings—adorned with indigo, chartreuse, and crimson—disrupting the air like frayed raincloaks in the dim candlelight. This commotion arose from siskins, tits, phoenixes, and white-eyes startled from their makeshift roosts.

We reached the mountain pass, and he split off to guide the way.
The path ahead was a single thread stitching through a white universe of peaks and valleys—yet even this, under the ceaselessly falling snow, was being buried step by step with every glance.

The tangled blanket turned white; people became cold powder butterflies and began to vanish.

Long ago, there was a great and virtuous sage known as Zen Master Kai’an.
From his youth, he had renounced the tenets beyond the teachings, always entrusting himself to the life of an itinerant monk…

Having nearly memorized the entire *Aozukin* chapter from *Tales of Moonlight and Rain*, they recited it aloud while choking on snow.

The Zen Master beheld this, then righted his staff and roared, “What manner of deed is this?”—and when he struck the other’s head, it vanished instantly as ice meeting the morning sun, leaving only that blue hood and bones upon the grasses.

They shouldered umbrellas, called out to one another, and pressed forward through the swirling snow, slashing at it again and again.
Along the three-ri mountain path, we saw only the roofs of ruined houses in the valley—resembling a broken eagle’s wing—and not a shadow of anything resembling a human being.
At the second pass, starting from Ōra, the snow was thin because one side of the rugged path was exposed to the sea.
The rickshaw finally reached Tsuruga.

How many times have I traversed this highway?
Be that as it may, I did not have only painful memories.

The navy-blue sea wove a rainbow vertically from its thousand-fathom depths and cast it forth with a sound like rolling jewels; red leaves scattered over the rickshaw and road—each one still reflecting the sea’s shadow—turned even the pampas grass and withered bush clover blue.
Moving through crimson leaves in broad daylight—not under the moon—when one looked up, the same crimson leaves from distant peaks danced across the azure sky and scattered into the sea…
In autumn around Saga—where he might have composed verses like *“the cry of a deer in this mountain village”*—was it a mountain gale, the wind through pines, or the koto of someone he sought? Uncertain, he urged his horse onward…

Clang, clang—the faint sound of a gong resonated.
At the base of the zelkova tree in Tsuka no Mori forest, incense smoke rose faintly; in the moss-covered stone shrine, a wick burned dimly; the gong echoed further as the elderly crouched and the young ones gathered standing—and beside the boundary Jizō in the mountain gorge, a young man embraced a woman before him and openly rummaged through her collar.
He also saw a person leaning over Tōhashi Bridge’s railing playing a shakuhachi.
Was this heaven or hell? In the great caldron of the mountain’s embrace, he also saw a woman of striking paleness bathing.

“Student, take me to Tokyo—”

A girl with a red sash raised her hands to the sky, tossed young seedlings into the rickshaw, and laughed loudly…

“How fascinating! On the road to Kyoto, there are those ascending and those descending.”

It may lack any particular artistry—the rows of pine trees, the scattered roadside inns, the slopes of mountains—yet it resembles the scenery of a journey. ——This evokes how, in those days, the throngs of pilgrims from Noto, Etchū, and Kaga bound for Honganji Temple wove almost like threads of color as they traversed Echizen——the Kamikaidō highway.

Clear skies turned cloudy, then moonlit, then windy—though snow brought cessation—through this thoroughfare passed rattling rickshaws, their passengers leisurely viewing flowers and listening to birds as they went……

Having come to know such pleasures, I once developed a habit of wandering Tokyo's streets by rickshaw whenever I had spare coins. In Asakusa, Ginza, Ueno—I wove the human currents, shopfronts, and myriad scenes into a single travelogue-like scroll—though this remains confidential—surreptitiously producing daifuku or kintsuba I'd hidden in my sleeves beforehand and devouring them with sleight-of-hand that would shame Daikagura jugglers... None would ever know. ...Truth be told, I longed to stop for soba, but a mere bowl of kake represented instant gratification—ephemeral as foam, vanishing without trace. With rickshaw fare deducted, my purse forced me to choose between options—there I stood, gripped by sweets-craving. Kintsuba went for two sen per four pieces. With all seas calm, I meant to view blossoms from my rickshaw perch. No—this simply wouldn't do. Yet with such fervor—why didn't those better-heeled folks take an automobile... even a one-yen taxi would suffice. Why not attempt eating soba while speeding along? If only I could arrange two palanquins, have a page roast rice cakes while crossing Suzuka Pass, then turn that composed Dutch Saikaku about-face—that might overwhelm Kyoto-Osaka's nouveaux riches...

Speaking of soba—Tei—pears.
Somehow this feels like a three-theme rakugo story—but let’s set that aside for now.
Tei was one who used to claim—and likely still does—that eating pears made him drunk.
When everyone laughed and said, “Who could possibly get drunk from that?” he’d obstinately insist, “I do get drunk.”
If they still wouldn’t take him seriously, he’d puff out his cheeks and snap, “I believe I get drunk!”

It was when I was young.
Now, I suppose it doesn’t matter—the two of us, me and that Tei, were turned away at the post town.
It was not in Sōka that we encountered rain.
At the outskirts of Yotsuya, both of us were turned away.

“Hey.”

Tei snapped sullenly.

"How can anyone eat such rock-hard soba?"
"What a backwater this is."

With a sigh, he threw his chopsticks into the basket on the dinner table that doubled as a supper tray.
Had it been local soba, he might have stayed quiet. But facing this slapdash fare was unbearable.

“The soba’s hard because it’s freshly made—hmph!”

Indeed, freshly made soba was by no means vulgar among buckwheat noodles.
Given his weak stomach’s inability to handle such fare, he could sullenly chew these stretched noodles with saliva all he liked—but to hear that very tongue occasionally critiqued literary works! No doubt he disparaged fresh soba while nursing his pear-induced “drunkenness.”
While his dietary quirks were his own affair, to appraise Master Kōyō’s character and presume his intentions through such narrow perspective—this was sheer presumption.

I am a coward.
Intimidated by hygiene, I do not eat at Gyoken.
But Gyoken is esteemed.
The reason for this aversion is not that I dislike what Master Kōyō calls "clams," but rather that I must be someone disliked by the clams themselves.

Though titled *Cutting Hemp*, this is no spun, woven, or stitched work—merely a yukata-clad veranda chat.—

It had grown slightly cooler.

How about this heat? Just as one might remark that the cicadas still weren’t singing in full chorus... this year, their faint cries could be heard in the distance from the day before the end of Doyō.
The cicadas’ chirring began two days after Doyō ended—there had been a heavy rain—starting from the day before that.

If the muggy heat persisted, the crickets’ song felt distant.
……Around here, every year, the stone wall directly across from Shunjūsha was the earliest.
Before the Great Kantō Earthquake, they used to begin singing on the third or fourth evening of Doyō’s peak period, but each year this had grown slightly later. ……This autumn too had been delayed.

"There comes a car!" people—women among them—exclaimed; with the road being narrow, those on verandas repeatedly stood up, but rickshaws had grown so rare.
Hereafter came shared rides—at this juncture.
……Oh, the Milky Way was visible—the early night had passed.

Taisho 15 (September–October)