Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. At Sea On the very day I was to depart Tokyo, Painter Nagano Sōfū came to speak with me. I heard that Painter Nagano Sōfū too planned to depart on a trip to China in about half a month’s time. At that moment, he kindly taught me a wondrous remedy for seasickness. But once you boarded the ship from Moji, you’d arrive in Shanghai within two days at most. To think of carrying seasickness medicine for a mere two-day voyage—one could well grasp Mr. Nagano’s timidity. Even as I thought this—while climbing Chikugomaru’s gangway that March 21st afternoon, gazing at the harbor churned by storm-lashed winds—I found myself pitying Painter Nagano Sōfū’s timidity toward the sea anew.

However—as punishment for my contempt toward **the man**—no sooner had we entered **the Genkai Sea** than waves began churning with terrifying swiftness. When I sat on a rattan chair on the upper deck with Mr. Masugi, who shared the same cabin, spray from waves crashing against the ship’s side would occasionally shower down on our heads. The sea had turned completely white, its depths roaring and seething. When I thought the shadow of some island had dimly appeared ahead, it turned out to be Kyushu’s mainland. But Mr. Masugi, who was accustomed to ships, exhaled cigarette smoke and showed no signs of distress whatsoever. I turned up my coat collar, thrust both hands into my pockets, and occasionally popped Jintan into my mouth—in short, I now thoroughly acknowledged that Painter Nagano Sōfū’s precaution of preparing seasickness medicine had been wise.

In the meantime, Mr. Masugi beside me had gone off to a bar or somewhere. I remained seated on the rattan chair, maintaining an air of composure. To outward appearances, I appeared composed, but the anxiety in my head was no trifling matter. The moment I moved my body even slightly, I would immediately feel dizzy. To make matters worse, I began to feel that my stomach, too, was growing unsettled. In front of me, one sailor was constantly coming and going across the deck. (I would later discover that he too was in fact one of those pitiable seasickness sufferers.) Even his frantic comings and goings felt strangely unpleasant to me. Then in the waves beyond, a trawler emitting thin smoke continued its precarious advance, its hull nearly submerged. What possible reason could there be for braving such enormous waves? That trawler too, to me at that time, was infuriating beyond measure.

Therefore, I earnestly tried to think only of pleasant things that would make me forget my present suffering. Children, flowering plants, whirlwind-luck pots, the Japanese Alps, Shodai Ponta—I don’t remember what came after. No—there were more. I heard that Wagner, in his youth, encountered a terrible storm during a voyage to England. And I heard that this experience later played a major role in his writing of *Der fliegende Holländer* in his later years. I tried thinking of all manner of such things, but my head only grew dizzier. My nausea showed no signs of abating. In the end, I came to feel that Wagner could go get himself eaten by dogs for all I cared.

About ten minutes later, as I lay in bed, the sound of plates and knives clattering to the floor all at once reached my ears. However, I stubbornly struggled to suppress the urge to expel the contents of my stomach. The fact that I could muster this much courage in such a moment was thanks to my anxiety that perhaps I alone had fallen victim to seasickness. Vanity, or something akin to it, seems to serve unexpectedly well as a substitute for bushido in such moments.

However, when morning came, it was said that at least among the first-class passengers, all had fallen seasick—none ventured to the dining hall save for a single American. Yet this extraordinary American alone was said to have remained in the ship’s salon after eating, clattering away at his typewriter. When told this story, my spirits abruptly lifted. Simultaneously, that American began to take on a monstrous quality. To maintain such composure after weathering such a storm seemed a superhuman feat. Perhaps were they to examine his physique, they might uncover some startling truth—thirty-nine teeth perhaps, or a vestigial tail sprouting from his body. —There I still sat with Mr. Masugi upon a deck chair woven of rattan, indulging these wild fancies. The sea stretched serenely blue beyond the starboard rail, Jeju Island’s silhouette lying athwart the horizon—as though yesterday’s tempest had been utterly forgotten.

II. First Glances (Part 1)

No sooner had we exited the pier than dozens of rickshaw pullers suddenly surrounded us. We were four in number: Mr. Murata and Mr. Tomozumi from the company, Mr. Jones from the International News Agency, and myself. Now, the term "rickshaw puller" does not evoke a shabby image in the minds of Japanese people. Rather, their vigorous aspects might even stir something akin to an Edo-period sentiment. However, when it comes to Chinese rickshaw pullers, to call them the very embodiment of filth would be no exaggeration. Moreover, at a glance, they all bore suspicious countenances. They swarmed around us front and back, left and right—craning their necks in every direction while bellowing at the top of their lungs—so that Japanese women fresh off the boat must have found it quite unsettling. In fact, even I—when one of them grabbed my coat sleeve—nearly retreated behind the tall Mr. Jones.

After breaking through this encirclement of rickshaw pullers, we finally became passengers in a carriage. But no sooner had the carriage started moving than the horse recklessly collided with a brick wall at the street corner. The young Chinese driver whipped the horse repeatedly with visible irritation. The horse kept its nose pressed against the brick wall while frantically thrashing its hindquarters. The carriage naturally teetered on the verge of overturning. A crowd immediately formed in the street. It seemed that in Shanghai, unless one had resolved oneself to die, one couldn't even board a carriage carelessly.

Before long, as the carriage started moving again, we emerged alongside a river spanned by an iron bridge. On the river, Shina’s Daruma boats clustered so thickly the water was invisible. Along the river’s edge, green trams glided smoothly, many in number. No matter where one looked, the buildings were three- or four-story red brick. On the asphalt boulevard, Westerners and Shina people walked about in hurried bustle. But this cosmopolitan crowd would properly yield the road to the carriage when an Indian constable wearing a red turban gave a signal. The thoroughness of traffic control here was such that even viewed through the most partial lens, it far surpassed anything cities like Tokyo or Osaka in Japan could achieve. I, who had felt somewhat daunted by the fierceness of the rickshaw pullers and carriages, gradually grew cheerful as I took in this bright, orderly scene.

Eventually, the carriage came to a stop in front of the Tōa Yōkō Hotel, where Kim Ok-gyun had once been assassinated. Then Mr. Murata, who had alighted first, handed the driver some mon coins. But the driver, evidently finding this insufficient, showed no sign of withdrawing his outstretched hand. Not only that, but he was spluttering at the corners of his mouth and ranting incessantly. However, Mr. Murata pretended not to notice and strode briskly up to the entrance. Mr. Jones and Mr. Tomozumi also seemed to pay no mind whatsoever to the driver’s vehement protests. I felt a slight pang of pity for this Chinese man. But thinking this was probably common practice in Shanghai, I promptly followed their lead and stepped inside. When I looked back once more at that moment, the driver was already sitting serenely on his seat as if nothing had happened. If he could be this calm, he shouldn’t have made such a fuss.

We were promptly ushered into a dimly lit yet garishly decorated parlor of peculiar character. Indeed, even if one weren't Kim Ok-gyun, at any moment a pistol bullet might come flying through some window or other. —As I privately entertained such thoughts, there came clattering in through slippers a resolute Western-suited proprietor, entering in haste. According to Mr. Murata, making this hotel my lodging had apparently been Mr. Sawamura's idea from the Osaka office. Yet this sturdy proprietor, though willing to accommodate Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, must have concluded there was no profit in risking assassination—for outside the room before the entrance lay no proper space to speak of. When we went to inspect that room—though it somehow contained two beds—the walls stood soot-stained, the window drapes hung threadbare, and not a single chair proved satisfactory—in short, unless one were Kim Ok-gyun's ghost, this was no habitable space. There I had no choice but to nullify Mr. Sawamura's kindness; after consulting with the other three gentlemen, we resolved to relocate to Bansai-kan, not far from that place.

III. First Glances (Part 2)

That evening, I went with Mr. Jones to dine at a restaurant called Scheffaad. Here, both walls and tables were uniformly well-constructed and pleasant. The waitstaff consisted entirely of Chinese, yet among the nearby patrons not one yellow face could be seen. The food was indeed thirty percent better than that on the mail steamers; exchanging simple English phrases—yes and no—with Mr. Jones gave me a rather pleasant feeling.

Mr. Jones, while leisurely devouring his Nanjing rice curry, recounted various tales from our time apart. Among them was this story. One evening, Mr. Jones—though I still addressed him as “kimi,” it somehow lacked the warmth of friendship— He was an Englishman who had lived in Japan for five years. Throughout those five years—though we once quarreled—I remained close to him all along. We had stood together in Kabukiza’s gallery. We had swum in Kamakura’s seas. There was even a night we left cups and dishes in disarray at a Ueno teahouse until nearly midnight. On that occasion, still wearing Kume Masao’s sole presentable hakama, he suddenly leapt into the pond there. Were I to keep addressing such a man as “kimi,” I might owe him greater apology than anyone. Let me clarify further—my closeness to him stemmed from his mastery of Japanese. Not from any proficiency of mine in English.—One evening when Jones visited some café for drinks, he found a lone Japanese waitress sitting vacantly in a chair. This was a man who habitually declared China his dalliance and Japan his passion. Having newly relocated to Shanghai then, he must have felt Japan’s absence all the more acutely. Using Japanese, he promptly addressed the waiter: “When did you come to Shanghai?” “Only yesterday, sir.” “Then don’t you wish to return to Japan?” When thus questioned by him, the waiter suddenly spoke in tearful tones: “I want to go back.”

In between speaking English, Mr. Jones repeated this “I want to go back.” He then began to grin slyly. “When I was told that too, I became awfully sentimental, I must say.” After finishing our meal, we strolled along the bustling Fourth Avenue (Simalu). Then we went to Café Parisien to take a quick look at the dancing. The dance hall was quite spacious. But along with the orchestral music, the way the electric lights turned blue and red bore an uncanny resemblance to Asakusa. But when it came to the orchestra’s proficiency, Asakusa was no match at all. Even in Shanghai, this alone was unmistakably a Westerners’ dance hall.

We sat at a corner table nursing glasses of anisette, watching Filipino girls in crimson dresses and American youths in suits dance merrily. There's a short poem by Whitman or someone that says while young men and women are beautiful, the beauty of aged ones is truly exceptional. When a portly English couple came dancing past me, I indeed recalled this verse, thinking both were equally beautiful. But when I told Jones this, my carefully crafted poetic observation was met with a derisive snort—he claimed that whenever he saw old couples dance, whether plump or gaunt, he felt an irresistible urge to burst out laughing.

IV. First Glances (Part 3)

When we left Café Parisien, even the wide thoroughfares had grown sparse with pedestrians. Yet when I took out my pocket watch to check, eleven o’clock hadn’t yet come around much. The city of Shanghai retires to bed surprisingly early. However, those fearsome rickshaw pullers still had several men loitering about. And whenever they caught sight of us, they would invariably call out something. During the day, I had been taught by Mr. Murata the Chinese word for "unnecessary." "Unnecessary" was of course the meaning of bùyào. Therefore, whenever I saw a rickshaw puller, I immediately began chanting “bùyào, bùyào” like an exorcist’s incantation. This was the first memorable Chinese phrase to emerge from my mouth. How gleefully I hurled this phrase at the rickshaw pullers—any reader who fails to grasp the nuance here must surely have never once studied a foreign language.

We walked along the quiet thoroughfare, our footsteps echoing. On both sides of the thoroughfare, three- and four-story brick buildings sometimes blocked out the star-filled sky. At other times, the streetlight’s glow would illuminate the white wall of a pawnshop boldly painted with a large “当” (dang) character. At times we passed beneath signs for some female doctor’s practice dangling directly above the sidewalk; other times we walked past peeling plaster walls where Nanyang Tobacco advertisements clung. But no matter how much we walked, we did not easily reach my inn. Before long, perhaps due to the curse of the anisette, I became unbearably thirsty.

“Hey, isn’t there somewhere to get a drink?” “I’m ridiculously thirsty...”

“There’s a café right there.” “Just a little more patience.”

Five minutes later, we both sat at a small table, drinking cold soda water.

This café seemed a far more low-class establishment compared to the Parisien. Beside peach-colored walls, a Chinese boy with parted hair was playing a large piano. In the center of the café, three or four British sailors continued their slovenly dancing with women whose cheeks were heavily rouged. Finally, by the glass door at the entrance, a Chinese old woman selling roses—after I had refused her—stood vacantly watching the dancing. I somehow felt as if I were looking at an illustration from an illustrated newspaper. The title of this picture was, of course, "Shanghai."

There, from outside, five or six fellow sailors came pouring in all at once in a boisterous crowd. At this moment, the one made to look most foolish was the old woman standing in the doorway. The old woman—the moment those drunken sailors roughly shoved the door open—dropped the basket she had been carrying on her arm. Moreover, the sailors themselves paid no heed to such matters. They were now rampaging about like madmen together with those already dancing. The old woman muttered under her breath while gathering up the roses that had fallen to the floor. But even as she collected them, they were trampled beneath the sailors' boots.…

“Shall we go?” Jones, as if exasperated, suddenly heaved his large frame up. “Let’s go.”

I also immediately stood up. But at our feet, roses lay scattered here and there. I recalled Daumier’s painting while heading toward the entrance. “Hey, life is…” Jones tossed a silver coin into the old woman’s basket, then turned back toward me. “Life is—what do you say?” “Life is a path strewn with roses.”

We stepped out of the café. There, as before, several rickshaws were waiting for customers. When they caught sight of us, they came rushing over from all directions. The rickshaw pullers were of course unnecessary. But at this moment, I discovered that besides them, yet another persistent pest had latched onto us. By our side, before we knew it, that flower-selling old woman was mumbling incessantly about something while holding out a hand like a beggar. The old woman, even after receiving a silver coin, seemed intent on prying open our purses once more. I felt sorry for the beautiful roses being sold by such a greedy person. This brazen old woman and the carriage driver we rode with during the day—this was by no means limited to our first glimpse of Shanghai. Regrettably, at the same time, it was indeed our first glimpse of China.

5 Hospital

From the very next day, I took to my bed. And then from the day after that, I was admitted to Dr. Satomi’s hospital. The diagnosis was apparently something like dry pleurisy. Now that I had developed pleurisy after all, my long-planned China trip might have to be postponed for the time being. When I thought that, I felt immensely disheartened. I promptly sent a telegram to the Osaka office stating that I had been admitted to the hospital. Thereupon, a return telegram came from Mr. Usuda of the Osaka office: “Take your time and recover properly.” However, whether it was one month or two months, if I were to remain hospitalized indefinitely, the company would undoubtedly face difficulties. While I felt temporarily relieved by Mr. Usuda’s reply, when I considered my obligation to begin writing the travelogue, I could not help but grow anxious.

However, fortunately in Shanghai, besides Mr. Murata and Mr. Tomozumi from the company, there were friends from my student days like Jones and Nishimura Sadaichi. And these friends and acquaintances, despite their busy schedules, constantly came to visit me. Moreover, thanks to bearing some vain reputation as a writer or whatnot, I occasionally received gifts like flowers and fruits from unknown guests. On one occasion indeed, biscuit tins lined up in such a row by my bedside that disposing of them proved somewhat troublesome. (It was after all my esteemed friends and acquaintances who rescued me from this predicament—to my invalid eyes, you all seemed mysteriously robust.) No—it wasn’t merely that I was graced with such gifts. Even among those who had initially been unknown guests, two or three gentlemen had come to interact with me as friends without reservation. Haiku poet Mr. Yonjūki was also one of them. Mr. Ishiguro Masakichi was also one of them. Mr. Hata Hiroshi of the Shanghai Oriental News Agency was also one of them.

Even so, when my fever of about thirty-seven and a half degrees showed no sign of abating, my anxiety remained just that—anxiety. At times, even in broad daylight, I would suddenly become so terrified of dying that I couldn't stay lying still. To avoid being tormented by such nervous afflictions, I devoured every one of the over twenty Western-language books that Mr. Ikawa of Mantetsu and Jones had kindly lent me, reading them haphazardly by day. Whether it was reading La Motte's short stories, Tietjens's poetry, or Giles's arguments—all of these occurred during this period. At night—though I kept this a secret from Dr. Satomi—I never failed to take Calmotin each evening, excessively wary of potential insomnia. Even so, I sometimes still woke before dawn, which left me thoroughly exasperated. I recall that in Wang Cihui's *Collection of Doubtful Rains*, there is a line that goes something like: "Medicine proves ineffective; strange dreams come frequently." This is not the poet being ill. Though it was a poem lamenting his wife's grave illness, had it been written about me at that time, this line would have been literally piercing. 「薬餌無徴怪夢頻」 I do not know how many times I uttered this line while in bed.

Before long, spring advanced unabated, deepening relentlessly. Nishimura talked about the peach blossoms of Longhua. The Mongolian wind carried yellow dust into the sky until even the sun grew invisible. Someone brought mangoes as a get-well gift. It seemed the weather had finally become ideal for visiting Suzhou and Hangzhou. While receiving Diojical injections from Dr. Satomi every other day, I kept wondering when I would no longer be confined to this bed.

Postscript: Had I chosen to write about my hospital stay, I might have filled volumes. But as these matters bore no particular relation to Shanghai proper, I resolved to set them aside here. Let me only note in passing that Dr. Satomi belonged to the new school of haiku poets. Should I offer one of his recent compositions: While feeding the firewood, he speaks of life stirring within

6 Within the City Walls (Part 1)

I caught my first glimpse of Shanghai’s walled city under the guidance of haiku poet Mr. Yonjūki.

It was a gloomy afternoon pregnant with rain. The carriage bearing us both raced through clamorous streets. There stood shops where whole roasted chickens hung thick as vermilion lacquer. There stood shops where assorted hanging lanterns clustered with eerie density. Here gleamed prosperous silver emporiums with exquisite wares, there sagged dilapidated taverns bearing signboards weathered in Li Bai's tradition. While I marveled at these Chinese storefronts, our carriage emerged onto a broad avenue only to abruptly slacken pace and veer into an alley visible ahead. Mr. Yonjūki informed me this very avenue once bore towering city walls in former days.

After alighting from the carriage, we immediately turned into a narrow side street. This was perhaps less a side street than an alleyway. On both sides of this narrow lane were shops selling mahjong equipment and shops selling rosewood furniture, their eaves densely packed together. Moreover, their cramped eaves were so indiscriminately hung with signboards that it was difficult to even glimpse the sky. There was an exceedingly heavy flow of people there. If one carelessly paused to glance at the cheap seal materials displayed in front of a shop, one would immediately collide with someone. Moreover, those bustling pedestrians were mostly Chinese commoners. I followed in Mr. Yonjūki’s footsteps, treading cautiously on the paving stones, so rarely casting sidelong glances that it was as if I hardly did so at all.

When we reached the end of that alley, the much-talked-about Lake Heart Pavilion came into view. Though called Lake Heart Pavilion suggested grandeur, it was in truth a dilapidated tea house on the verge of collapse. Looking at the pond outside the pavilion, one could scarcely discern the water’s color through the bluish mud floating thick upon it. Around the pond ran a stone-paved railing that looked equally precarious. Just as we arrived there—I should interject here that according to Kikuchi Kan’s theory, I apparently often use vulgar terms like “privy” in my novels—a Chinese man with a long queue, dressed in pale blue cotton clothes... He claimed this was because dabbling in haiku composition had naturally subjected me to the influence of Buson’s horse dung and Bashō’s horse urine. I certainly had no intention of disregarding Kikuchi’s theory. But when writing of China, where vulgarity permeates the very locations themselves, one must occasionally cast aside decorum to achieve vivid description. Should anyone doubt this, let them attempt it themselves—returning to our scene, that lone Chinese man was leisurely urinating into the pond. Whether Chen Shufan raised his standard of revolt, vernacular poetry waned in popularity, or talk of renewing the Anglo-Japanese Alliance arose—none of these matters could possibly concern this man. At least his demeanor and countenance bore a tranquility that suggested nothing else. A Chinese-style pavilion standing beneath overcast skies, a pond spreading its sickly green hue, and a robust stream of urine arcing diagonally into that pond—this was not merely a melancholy landscape worthy of affection. It stood simultaneously as a bitterly fearsome symbol of our aged great nation. I gazed intently for some moments at this Chinese man’s figure. Yet for Mr. Yonjūki, this apparently did not constitute a sight rare enough to merit such deep emotion.

“Look here. What’s flowing over these paving stones—all of this is urine, I tell you.”

Mr. Yonjūki emitted a wry smile and briskly turned along the pond's edge. Now that he mentioned it, an oppressive stench of urine did indeed hang in the air. No sooner had I sensed this stench than the enchantment was instantly shattered. Lake Heart Pavilion remained ultimately Lake Heart Pavilion, and urine remained ultimately urine. Digging my heels into my shoes, I hastily pursued Mr. Yonjūki's trail. One mustn't indulge in such reckless sentimentalism.

7 Within the City Walls (Part 2) When we went a little further along, a blind old beggar sat there. —Beggars are inherently romantic creatures. What exactly constitutes Romanticism invites endless debate, but at least one defining characteristic seems to lie in this inherent tendency to yearn for perpetually unknowable things—the medieval era, ghosts, Africa, dreams, women’s peculiar logic. Given this, beggars being more romantic than company clerks stands to reason. But Chinese beggars transcend mere unknowability. Lying sprawled on rain-drenched streets; clad in nothing but newspaper scraps; licking kneecaps rotted like pomegranates—they’ve attained a romanticism so profound it verges on embarrassment. Read Chinese novels and you’ll find many tales of libertines or immortals disguised as beggars. This romanticism developed naturally from China’s beggars. Japanese beggars lack China’s supernatural squalor; hence such stories never take root. At most, they might ambush a shogunate palanquin at Tanegashima or invite Yanagisawa Kien to a mountain tea ceremony—the outer limits of their narrative potential. I’ve digressed too far—yet even this blind old beggar looked like an immortal in disguise, perhaps the Red-legged Immortal or Iron Crutch Li. Most striking were the paving stones before him, where his tragic life was neatly inscribed in white chalk. The calligraphy even appeared somewhat superior to my own. I wondered who wrote these pleas for beggars.

When we came to the next alleyway, there were now many antique shops. Here, peering into any shop revealed bronze incense burners, haniwa horses, cloisonné bowls, dragon-headed vases, jade paperweights, mother-of-pearl cabinets, marble inkstone screens, stuffed pheasants, and dreadful Qiu Yings—all jumbled together to clutter the space—within which the Chinese-clad proprietor, smoking a water pipe, waited nonchalantly for customers. Next, I casually browsed a few more shops, but even if half the items were overpriced, the prices didn’t seem particularly cheap. After returning to Japan, I was teased by Mr. Katori Hidetane about this: that to buy antiques, one would do better to wander Nihonbashi Nakadori in Tokyo than to go to China.

When we passed through the antique shops, we came to a place with a large temple. This was the renowned City God Temple within the city walls, familiar even from illustrations in picture books. Within the temple, worshippers came to kowtow, mingling and jostling. Of course, those offering incense sticks or burning spirit money were also present in numbers far beyond what one might imagine. Perhaps due to being smoked by that haze, the plaques between the beams and the couplets adorning the pillars were all slick with grime. Perhaps the only things not blackened with soot were the many gold and silver paper spirit money and spiral-shaped incense sticks hanging from the ceiling. Even this alone sufficed to make me recall, just like with the beggar earlier, the Chinese novels I had read in times past. When it came to statues flanking both sides that resembled Infernal Judges—or rather, when considering the statue enshrined at center that resembled the City God sitting upright—there was scarcely any difference from viewing illustrations in books like Liaozhai Zhiyi or Xin Qixie. While greatly impressed, I remained there indefinitely, paying no heed to Mr. Yonjūki’s inconvenience.

8 Within the City Walls (Part 3) It goes without saying that in Chinese novels teeming with tales of ghosts and foxes—from the City God down to his Infernal Judges and demon underlings—none lead idle lives. When the City God interprets the fortune of a scholar who spent a night beneath the temple eaves, an Infernal Judge startles a marauding thief to death across the town.—This might suggest nothing but benevolence, yet there exist rogue City Gods who will side with villains if offered even dog meat as tribute. Thus, not a few Judges and demon underlings—having chased after men’s wives—end up with broken elbows or severed heads, their scarlet shame proclaimed to all under heaven. When one only reads books, aspects remain somehow unconvincing. That is to say, even if one grasps the plot’s logic, its emotional resonance falls short. This had been a source of vexation—but now, seeing this City God Temple before my eyes, however fantastical these Chinese novels may be, one cannot help but nod at each circumstance that birthed their imaginings. Ah—such crimson-faced Infernal Judges might well stoop to mimicking young ruffians. And a City God with such splendid whiskers, surrounded by his majestic retinue—how fitting he would look ascending into the night sky.

After thinking such things, I went out with Mr. Yonjūki to browse through various street stalls set up before the temple. Tabi socks, toys, sugarcane stalks, shell buttons, handkerchiefs, Nanjing beans—and beyond these, there remained many dingy food shops. Naturally, the crowd here differed little from those at Japanese festival markets. Over there strode a Chinese dandy in gaudy striped Western suit, amethyst tie pin glinting at his throat. Yet on our side walked an old-fashioned lady—her bound feet crammed into shoes barely three inches long, silver rings clasped about her wrists. Chen Jingji from *Jin Ping Mei*, Xi Shiyi from *Pinhua Baojian*—in such multitudes, one might well encounter heroes of that ilk. But as for Du Fu or Yue Fei, Wang Yangming or Zhuge Liang—you could distill all China and still find no trace of them. To rephrase—modern China is not the China of poetry and literature. It is an obscene, cruel, covetous China—the China found in novels. That cheap mock Orientalism which prized ceramic pavilions and embroidered birds had already fallen from Western favor. As for Japanese sinology that knows China only through *Wenzhang Guifan* and *Tangshi Xuan*—better it vanish entirely.

Then we turned back and passed through a large teahouse beside the pond we had passed earlier. Inside the temple-like teahouse, contrary to expectations, there were not many customers. But the moment we stepped inside, the voices of larks, white-eyes, society finches, parakeets—every kind of small bird—assaulted my ears all at once like an invisible squall. Looking up, I saw the dim ceiling beams hung thick with birdcages. That Chinese people loved small birds was not something I had only just now come to realize. But to line up so many birdcages and set their voices to clash like this—this was a reality I had never even dreamed of. With this, far from being able to love the birds’ voices, I first had no choice but to hurriedly cover both ears to keep my eardrums from rupturing. Nearly fleeing, I urged Mr. Yonjūki onward and rushed out of this terrifying teahouse filled with shrill voices.

However, the birds' cries were not confined to the teahouse alone. Even after finally escaping outside, from the birdcages hung in rows along both sides of the narrow thoroughfare came an incessant downpour of chirps. Yet this was not mere idlers making them sing for amusement. They were all professional bird shops lining the street—though to tell the truth, whether they sold birds or perhaps cages instead, even now I cannot say for certain.

“Please wait a moment.” “I’ll go buy a bird.” After saying this to me, Mr. Yonjūki entered one of the shops. Just past that spot, there was a single freshly painted photo studio. While waiting for Mr. Yonjūki, I gazed at the photograph of Mei Lanfang displayed in the front of the decorated window. While thinking about the children waiting for Mr. Yonjūki’s return.

9 The Theater (Part 1)

In Shanghai, I had only two or three opportunities to see plays. It was after going to Beijing that I became a self-taught theater connoisseur. Yet even among the actors I saw in Shanghai—such as Gai Jiaotian, renowned for martial male roles, or Lü Mudan and Xiao Cuihua in young female roles—there were nonetheless celebrated performers of the age. But unless I first depict the theater's appearance before discussing the actors, readers might never properly comprehend what Chinese theater truly is.

One of the theaters I visited was called Tianchan Stage. This white-plastered three-story structure still retained its pristine newness. The semicircular second and third floors encircled by brass railings were undoubtedly imitations of contemporary Western fashion. Three large electric lights hung glaringly from the ceiling.

On the brick floor of the auditorium, rattan chairs were lined up in rows—but being China, one couldn’t let one’s guard down even with rattan chairs. Once when sitting there with Mr. Murata, I suffered bites in two or three places on my wrist from bedbugs I had long dreaded. That said, the theater’s interior was generally presentable—clean enough not to cause discomfort. Large clocks hung dutifully on both sides of the stage. (Though one had stopped working.) Beneath them displayed tobacco advertisements in garish colors. Above the stage’s transom, amidst stucco roses and acanthus motifs, bore large characters reading “Tensei Jingo.” The stage might have been wider than the Yūrakuza Theater. Here too Western-style footlights had already been installed. As for the curtains—ah, those curtains—they were never used to demarcate scenes. To change backdrops—or rather as backdrops themselves—they sometimes drew cheap advertisement curtains for Suzhou Bank and Three Castles cigarettes. The curtain was always drawn from center to sides apparently. When not drawn, the backdrop filled the rear—various new and old curtains first painted in oil-painting styles of indoor and outdoor scenes. With only two or three types available, whether Jiang Wei galloped his steed or Wu Song enacted murder, the scenery behind remained unchanged. At stage left waited Chinese musicians holding fiddles, moon lutes, gongs and such. Among them could be seen one or two gentlemen in bird-hunting caps.

Incidentally, to explain the procedure for theater-going here, whether first-class or second-class, one could simply march right into any section. In China, it being customary to pay the admission fee after securing seats made that aspect remarkably convenient. Once seats were settled, scalding-hot towels would arrive, followed by letterpress-printed programs. Tea naturally came in a large earthenware pot. As for watermelon seeds or one-mon sweets, one needed only to decisively refuse them with repeated "No need!" As for those towels—ever since witnessing a stately Chinese gentleman beside me first wipe his face vigorously then blow his nose into one—I had resolved to steadfastly decline them henceforth. The payment—which might include gratuity depending on presentation—for first-class seats generally ranged between two yen and one yen fifty sen, I should think. This qualification arises because Mr. Murata invariably settled the bill before I could reach for my purse.

The defining characteristic of Chinese theater lay first and foremost in the clamor of its musical accompaniment being far greater than one could imagine. In martial plays—those with frequent stage combat—several grown men would glare at a corner of the stage as if engaged in mortal combat while others desperately banged gongs, making it utterly impossible for this to be any Tensei Jingo space. In truth, even I could not remain seated unless pressing both hands to my ears—at least until I grew accustomed. But for someone like our Mr. Murata Ukō, it seemed that when the musical accompaniment grew subdued, he felt unsatisfied. Not only that, but even when outside the theater, he could usually discern what play was being performed merely by hearing this cacophony. “That noisy place really does have its charm.”—Every time he said that, I couldn’t help doubting whether he was even sane.

10 The Theater (Part 2) On the other hand, if you were at a Chinese theater, even when people in the audience chattered or children wailed, it caused no particular disturbance. This alone proved supremely convenient. Perhaps precisely because this was China—where audiences might never stay quiet—such clamorous musical accompaniment had developed to ensure listening to the play remained unimpeded. In fact, throughout an entire act, I received instruction from Mr. Murata about plot points, actors' names, and song meanings, yet the gentlemen in neighboring seats never once appeared annoyed.

The second characteristic of Chinese theater was its extreme avoidance of props. While things like backdrops did exist here, these were nothing more than recent innovations. China's authentic stage properties consisted solely of chairs, desks, and curtains. Mountains, oceans, palaces, roads—no matter what scene they sought to depict, beyond arranging these basic elements they had never employed so much as a single standing tree. When an actor pantomimed removing an immense latch with exaggerated effort, the audience found itself compelled to acknowledge a door occupying that empty space. Should an actor grandly flourish a tasseled whip, one was meant to envision an obstinate violet-maned steed neighing beneath his loins. Yet we Japanese, acquainted with Noh's conventions, grasped this artifice instinctively. Stacked chairs and desks designated as mountains required no suspension of disbelief—they simply were mountains. A slightly raised leg sufficed to conjure a threshold separating interior from exterior; no spectator struggled to visualize it. More remarkably, by stepping back from realism into this codified realm, one might glimpse unanticipated beauty. To this day I recall Xiao Cuihua performing *Mei Long Zhen*: each time he—in the role of the tavern maid—crossed that imaginary sill, canary-yellow trousers would fleetingly reveal small shoe soles beneath. Had those soles belonged to an actual threshold rather than a fictional one, they could never have conjured such exquisite poignancy.

The absence of props did not bother us in the least given its circumstances as described above. What rather disconcerted me was how utterly haphazard ordinary small props like trays, plates,and hand candles appeared. For instance,taking Mei Long Zhen currently being performed—upon careful examination through theatrical scholarship—it became clear this was no event from our present age. The plot concerns Emperor Wuzong of Ming taking fancy to Fengjie,daughter of a tavern in Mei Long Zhen during his incognito travels. Yet the tray that girl carried bore a silver-gilt rim on ceramic painted with roses. That must have been merchandise displayed in some department store. Were Umewaka Mansaburō to swagger forth with saber dangling at his waist—the sheer absurdity would require no elaboration.

The third characteristic of Chinese theater lay in the great variety of its face-painting styles. According to Mr. Tsuji Chōka, Cao Cao alone was said to have over sixty varieties of face-painting—far surpassing anything the Ichikawa school could boast. Moreover, the most extreme examples completely covered the skin with reds, blues, ochres and such. At first glance, one simply couldn't perceive it as makeup. As for myself, when Jiang the Gate God lumbered out during the play about Wu Song, no matter how much I listened to Mr. Murata's explanations, I still could only think it was a mask. To discern at first sight that those so-called "flowery faces" weren't masks—anyone achieving this must indeed have possessed something akin to clairvoyance.

The fourth characteristic of Chinese theater was that its stage combat reached extreme intensity. Particularly when it came to the movements of lower-ranking actors, calling them "actors" proved no more appropriate than calling them "acrobats." They would perform two somersaults in quick succession from one end of the stage to the other, then leap headlong down from stacks of desks positioned at the front. Since these actors typically wore red pants with their upper bodies bare, I couldn't help feeling they resembled cousins of tightrope walkers or ball jugglers. Of course, even high-class martial actors demonstrated their skills by swinging Green Dragon Blades with such force they literally generated wind currents. While it's said martial actors had always possessed strong arms, under these conditions they could never have managed their essential trade without such physical strength. Yet when it came to true masters of martial theater, beyond such acrobatic feats there remained an air of unique dignity. The proof lay in observing Gai Jiaotian—costumed as Wu Song in patched trousers like a Japanese rickshaw puller—where his silent moment of glaring sharply at an opponent during some beat contained far richer ferocity true to the ascetic warrior Wu Song than any indiscriminate swordplay.

Of course, these are characteristics of China's traditional theater. In new theater, they neither apply stylized makeup nor perform somersaults, it seems. Now, if we were to say this makes everything thoroughly modern, consider *Selling Oneself into Service* performed on stage—even when they brought out a candle without fire, the audience still imagined that candle was lit. In other words, the symbolism of traditional theater still remained on the stage. As for new theater, even outside Shanghai, I saw performances two or three times afterwards, but in this regard, regrettably, they could only be described as six of one and half a dozen of the other. At the very least, things like rain, lightning, or the coming of night relied entirely on the audience's imagination.

When I finally come to discuss the actors—since I have already cited Gai Jiaotian and Xiao Cuihua—there remains nothing further to elaborate on now. But there is one thing I must record: Lü Mudan in the dressing room. It was in a theater dressing room that I visited him—no, to call it backstage rather than a dressing room might better approximate reality. In any case, that space behind the stage—with its peeling walls and reek of garlic—stood utterly desolate. According to Mr. Murata’s account, when Mei Lanfang visited Japan, what astonished him most was the cleanliness of dressing rooms; compared to these backstage areas, even the Imperial Theater’s dressing rooms must have seemed dazzlingly pristine by contrast. Moreover, Chinese theaters’ backstages teemed with somewhat shabby actors wandering about, their faces still daubed with that stylized makeup. The sight of them shuttling back and forth under electric lights while engulfed in clouds of dust resembled nothing so much as a procession of night-walking demons. From this throng’s thoroughfare, Chinese-style bags had been arranged in a slightly shadowed corner. There sat Lü Mudan—wig removed atop one such bag—sipping tea while still costumed as the courtesan Su San. The face that appeared delicately narrow on stage now revealed itself as less fragile than expected—rather, he proved a strapping young man exuding robust sensuality. His height surpassed mine by at least six inches. That night Mr. Murata—who accompanied me—introduced us while exchanging nostalgic pleasantries with this clever-looking female impersonator. I hear you’ve been among Lü Mudan’s most ardent patrons since his days as an unknown child actor—so devoted you could scarcely endure a day without him! I conveyed that Yutang Chun had been fascinating to watch. Then came his unexpected response—the Japanese word “Arigato.” And then—what did he do then? For both his sake and our Mr. Murata Ukō’s, I would prefer not to commit this matter to public record. Yet should I refrain from writing it, this carefully arranged introduction would lose its very essence.

In that case, I would be doing a great disservice to the readers as well. For that purpose, when I resolutely wielded my brush—no sooner had he turned away than he fluttered his beautiful sleeve, crimson with silver-thread embroidery, and masterfully blew his nose onto the floor.

Eleven: Mr. Zhang Binglin

In Mr. Zhang Binglin’s study—I don’t know what prompted this—a large crocodile specimen lay prostrate against the wall, belly-down. Yet this study, buried in books, was bitterly cold—so much so that the crocodile itself felt like an ironic presence. To borrow the seasonal theme from haiku, the weather that day was indeed a bitingly cold rain. In that tile-walled room, there was neither carpet nor stove. The seating was, of course, an angular rosewood armchair without cushions. Moreover, what I wore was a thin serge undergarment. Even now, when I recall sitting in that study, the fact that I didn’t catch cold seems nothing short of a miracle.

However, Mr. Zhang Binglin wore a mouse-gray overcoat and a thickly fur-lined black riding jacket. Therefore, he was naturally not cold. Moreover, the rattan chair on which Mr. Zhang sat was draped with fur. Engrossed in his eloquence, I even forgot to smoke my cigarette—yet seeing him stretch his legs so warmly and leisurely filled me with profound envy. Rumors held that Mr. Zhang Binglin had appointed himself a teacher to kings. It was said he had once even chosen Li Yuanhong as his disciple. Now that I thought of it, on the wall beside the desk beneath that crocodile specimen hung a horizontal scroll inscribed: “Southeast Puxue, Mr. Zhang Taiyan, Yuanhong.” Yet to speak frankly, Mr. Zhang’s face was far from imposing. His skin verged on sallow. His mustache and beard grew pitifully sparse. His sharply jutting forehead might well have been mistaken for a tumor. But those thread-slender eyes alone—those eyes that perpetually smiled coldly behind refined rimless glasses—were assuredly no commonplace feature. For these eyes Yuan Shikai had made the master suffer imprisonment. And for these same eyes, though once confined, they ultimately could not bring themselves to kill him.

Mr. Zhang’s discourse was thoroughly centered on political and social issues in modern China. Of course, beyond set phrases like *Bùyào* or *Děng yī děng* used with rickshaw pullers, I knew not a single word of Chinese—there was no reason I should have comprehended such discussions. That I could grasp his arguments and occasionally pose impertinent questions was entirely thanks to Mr. Nishimoto Shōzō, editor-in-chief of *Shanghai* Weekly. Mr. Nishimoto, sitting upright in the chair beside me with his chest thrust out, dutifully interpreted even the most convoluted debates. (Especially since *Shanghai* Weekly’s deadline loomed at the time, I remain indebted to him for this considerable labor.)

“Regrettably, modern China is politically decadent." "The prevalence of corruption may perhaps be said to have grown even more rampant than in the final years of the Qing dynasty." "In the realms of scholarship and the arts, the stagnation appears even more severe." “However, the people of China by nature do not tend toward extremes.” "As long as this characteristic persists, the communization of China will be impossible." "It is true that some students welcomed the worker-peasant doctrine." “However, students are not the nation.” “Even if they were to become communized, the time would surely come when they abandon their ideology.” “Why? Because the national character—the national character that loves moderation—is stronger than momentary passion.”

Mr. Zhang Binglin incessantly waved his long-nailed hands as he volubly expounded his unique theories. I was——only cold. “Then, what means should be employed to revive China?” “The solution to this problem—no matter what concrete measures are taken—cannot arise from academic theories alone.” “The ancients declared that those who understand current affairs are outstanding individuals.” “Not deducing from a single premise but inducing from countless facts—that is what it means to understand current affairs.” “After one has ascertained current affairs, one formulates plans—to act in accordance with the times and govern what is fitting ultimately means nothing other than this.……”

While listening, I occasionally gazed at the crocodile on the wall. And so, having nothing to do with China's problems, I found myself idly thinking such thoughts: That crocodile must certainly know the scent of water lilies, sunlight's glow and water's warmth. If one considered this, my present chill should find deepest understanding with that reptile. Crocodile! You stuffed thing knew fortune. Have pity on me. Me who yet lives like this...

Twelve: The West

Question. "Shanghai isn't just China." "Since it's also Western in aspect, you must properly inspect those parts too." "Even just the parks—I'd say they're far more advanced than Japan's, but—"

Answer. “I’ve seen all the main parks, you know.” “French Park and Jessfield Park are perfect for a stroll.” “Especially in French Park—among plane trees sprouting new leaves, Western mothers and nannies letting their children play—that was truly beautiful, I must say.” “But I don’t think they’re particularly more advanced than Japan.” “Aren’t these parks merely called Western-style?” “It’s not as if adopting Western forms automatically counts as progress.”

Question.

“Did you go to Xin Park as well?”

Answer. “I did go.” “However, that’s nothing but an athletic field.” “I did not think it was a park.”

Question. “What about the Public Garden?”

Answer. “That park was quite something.” “Foreigners may enter, but not a single Chinese person is allowed to enter.” “And yet they call it ‘Public’—they’ve truly perfected the art of naming, I tell you.”

Question. “But even when walking through the streets—don’t areas teeming with Westerners have an agreeable atmosphere?” “This too remains unseen in Japan—”

Answer: “Speaking of which, I did see a noseless Westerner the other day.” “Encountering such a Westerner might prove rather difficult in Japan.”

Question. “That one?” “That’s the man who first wore a mask during the influenza outbreak.—But even when walking through the streets, compared to Westerners, all Japanese look frail, don’t they?”

“Japanese in Western clothes—”

Question. “But wouldn’t those wearing Japanese clothes be even more problematic?” “After all, those Japanese don’t care at all about others seeing their skin—” Answer. “If anyone thinks anything of it, it’s because the thinker is obscene.” “Didn’t Kume the Immortal fall from his cloud for precisely that reason?”

Question. “So Westerners are obscene?”

“Of course they’re obscene in that regard.” “However, customs themselves are unfortunately a matter of majority rule.” “So before long, even Japanese people will come to think going out barefoot is vulgar.” “In other words, they’re becoming more obscene than ever before.”

Question. "But the fact that Japanese geisha walk about in broad daylight must be embarrassing in front of Westerners, I tell you."

Answer. “What—rest assured about such things.” “Since Western geishas walk about too—it’s simply that you can’t distinguish them.”

Question.

“That’s rather harsh, isn’t it?” “Did you go to places like the French Concession too?” Answer.

“That residential area was pleasant—the willows were already hazy, pigeons faintly cooing, peach blossoms still blooming, Chinese houses remaining—”

Question. “That area is nearly all Western, do you not think?” “With their red tiles and white bricks—are not the Westerners’ houses splendid?”

Answer. “Most Westerners’ houses are rather inferior, don’t you think?” “At least all the houses I saw were thoroughly inferior.” Question. “That you harbor such a dislike for Western things—I never dreamed of it, but—”

Answer. “It’s not that I dislike the West.” “It’s that I detest vulgar things.”

Question. “Of course I feel precisely the same.”

Answer. “You lie.” “You would rather wear Western clothes than Japanese ones.” “You would rather live in a bungalow than a house with a gate.” “You would rather eat macaroni than kamaage udon.” “You would rather drink Brazilian coffee than Yamamotoyama tea—”

Question. “All right, I get it.” “But cemeteries can’t be all bad—what about that Westerners’ cemetery on Jessfield Road?”

“Cemeteries—another dead end, I see.” “Indeed, that cemetery had a certain elegance.” “But if I had to choose, I would rather lie beneath an earthen mound than a marble cross.” “Let alone under some dubious angel sculpture—I’ll have none of it.” “So you feel absolutely no interest in Shanghai’s Western side?”

“Not at all—I’m intensely aware of it. Shanghai, as you say, is Western on one side at any rate. For better or worse, observing the West must certainly be interesting, don’t you think? Yet even to my eyes—unacquainted with the original—the Westernness here still feels somehow misplaced.”

13. Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu

Rumors among the townsfolk had it that Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu dwelt in serene poverty. Yet one cloudy morning, when I arrived by automobile at his gate alongside Mr. Murata and Mr. Hata, this house said to embody such austere living proved far grander than anticipated—a three-story edifice painted mouse-gray. Beyond the gate stretched what seemed a continuous garden; before a bamboo thicket tinged yellow stood snowball flowers perfuming the air. Were this what they called "serene poverty," I mused, I should not mind residing thus myself at any time.

Five minutes later, the three of us were shown into the reception room. Here, aside from scrolls hanging on the walls, there was almost no decoration. However, atop the mantelpiece, small Yellow Dragon flags draped their tails in a pair of ceramic vases flanking each side. Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu was not a politician of the Republic of China; he was a loyal subject of the Qing Empire. As I gazed at these flags, I recalled a half-remembered phrase someone had used to critique him: "Those who withdraw from society yet refuse seclusion can scarcely be spoken of in the same breath as others."

There, a slightly plump young man entered without a sound. This was Mr. Zheng Chui, his son, who had studied in Japan. Mr. Hata, who was acquainted with him, promptly introduced me. Since Mr. Zheng Chui was proficient in Japanese, there was no need to trouble Messrs. Hata and Murata to interpret when conversing with his father.

It was not long after that when Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu appeared before us, his tall figure commanding presence. At first glance, Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu’s ruddy complexion seemed unbecoming of an old man. His eyes too bore a radiant light, nearly like those of a young man. His posture—chest thrust out—and the vigor of his gestures made him appear even more youthful than Mr. Zheng Chui. The fact that he wore a light gray overcoat with a faint bluish cast over a black magua jacket was, as befitted the genius of his day, a truly refined and tasteful appearance. No—even now in his leisurely retirement, seeing him so vigorous, one could easily imagine how dazzlingly brilliant he must have been during those theatrical Hundred Days’ Reform centered around Mr. Kang Youwei, when he played such a flamboyant role.

With Mr. Zheng joining us, we spent some time discussing issues concerning China. Of course I too, without compunction, held forth on matters quite unbecoming of me—China’s public opinion toward Japan following the New Consortium’s establishment, and suchlike. To say this sounds rather flippant, but at the time I wasn’t merely prattling nonsense. I myself was expounding my views in all seriousness. Yet looking back now, it seems I wasn’t entirely in my right mind then. To be fair, the cause of this frenzy lay not only in my frivolous disposition—modern China itself surely bore half the blame. If you doubt this, by all means go see China for yourself. Within a month of staying there, you’ll inexplicably find yourself wanting to discuss politics. That must be because modern China’s very air is heavy with two decades’ worth of political problems. In my case, this fever showed no signs of abating even as I traveled through Jiangnan—so very persistent was it. And thus, though no one asked, I found myself pondering politics—a pursuit far beneath art—more than anything else.

Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu had despaired, politically speaking, of modern China. As long as China persists in republican government, it can never escape perpetual chaos. But even if monarchical rule were implemented, overcoming the immediate crisis would require nothing less than awaiting the emergence of a hero. That hero too, in modern times, must simultaneously navigate a tangled web of international conflicts. To wait for a hero's emergence was to wait for a miracle. As we were engaged in such talk, when I placed a cigarette between my lips, Mr. Zheng immediately stood up and transferred a match flame to it. While feeling deeply embarrassed, I couldn't help but think that in hosting guests, we Japanese proved most inept compared to the gentlemen of our neighboring country.

After being treated to black tea, we were guided by Mr. Zheng and stepped out into the spacious garden behind the house. The garden was graced by cherry trees—procured from Japan by Mr. Zheng himself—and white-trunked pines planted around a pristine lawn. What I had taken to be another mouse-gray three-story building beyond it turned out to be the residence of Mr. Zheng Chui's family, reportedly built just recently. As I walked through this garden, I looked up to behold a patch of blue sky that had finally broken through the clouds above a cluster of bamboo groves. And once more, I thought that if this was what they meant by serene poverty, then I too would willingly live in such circumstances.

While I was writing this manuscript, a scroll arrived from the framing shop. The mounting contained the seven-character quatrain Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu had written for me during my second visit. "Dream offerings pale before historical deeds, Wuxing's inscriptions yield to Yuanzhang's brush. Yanping's crossed swords proclaim divine marvels, He Pu's pearls return to their secret trove." Gazing at these characters whose ink strokes seemed to dance like soaring figures, I found myself nostalgically recalling those minutes spent facing him. In that time, I had not merely confronted an eminent loyalist of the fallen dynasty. More profoundly, I stood in the presence of modern China's poetic patriarch—the author of the Haicanglou Poetry Collection.

14. Evil

Dear Sir, Shanghai is said to be Shina’s foremost “city of evil.” After all, it being a place where people from various countries have gathered, such conditions would naturally arise. Even from what I personally observed, the prevailing customs did indeed seem depraved. For instance, matters like Chinese rickshaw pullers swiftly turning into bandits constantly appeared in the newspapers. Furthermore, according to people’s accounts, having one’s hat stolen from behind while riding in a rickshaw was also an everyday occurrence there. In the most extreme cases, they even reportedly cut off ears to steal women’s earrings. This might have been less a matter of common thieves and more one aided by some form of Psychopathia sexualis. Regarding such crimes, for several months then, the Lianying Murder Case had been adapted into both plays and novels. This concerned a case where a member of the Chai Bai Dang—a gang of delinquent youths—killed a geisha named Lianying to steal her diamond ring. Moreover, the method of killing—luring her into an automobile, taking her near Xujiahui, then strangling her—likely made this a crime of unprecedented novelty in Shina, one that broke entirely new ground. As rumor had it—and as one often heard even in Japan—detective films and similar motion pictures were said to have exerted a corrupting influence. That said, judging by the photograph I saw of the geisha called Lianying, she could not even politely be termed a beauty.

Of course prostitution too flourished. If one went to a teahouse called Seireikaku or such places, countless prostitutes gathered there from around dusk. They were referred to as "wild pheasants," but at a glance, none appeared over twenty years old. When they caught sight of Japanese people or similar figures, crying “You! You!”, they would all at once come swarming around. In addition to “you,” these people also said things like “Saigo, Saigo.” As for what “Saigo” meant—it was said this originated when Japanese military personnel during the Russo-Japanese War would seize Shina women and say “Let’s go” while dragging them to nearby sorghum fields or such places. The etymology sounded like a rakugo comedy routine, but whatever the case might be, it didn’t seem like a particularly honorable story for us Japanese. Then at night around Fourth Avenue (Simalu), wild pheasants who had taken rickshaws wandered about in no small numbers. It was said that when these people found customers, they would have them ride in their rickshaws while walking ahead to lead them home. What reasoning lay behind this I wondered—they mostly wore glasses. In China at that time, women wearing glasses may well have been one of the new trends.

Opium too seemed to be smoked almost openly anywhere. In the opium den I visited, with a dim bean-oil lamp inside, even a prostitute was there sharing a long-stemmed pipe with a customer. According to that foreigner’s account, there also seemed to exist such shocking things as the Mirror Polishing Sect and male brothels. Nandangzi referred to men selling their charms for women, while mojingdang was said to involve women performing indecent acts for customers. When told such things, I began to feel that among the Chinese passing through the streets there must be any number of Marquis de Sades wearing queues. And indeed, they must have actually existed. According to a certain Dane’s account—though he had spent six years in Sichuan and Guangdong without hearing rumors of necrophilia—in Shanghai they had apparently found two actual cases within just three weeks.

Moreover, these days, a great number of suspicious Westerners—both men and women—seemed to be arriving here from around Siberia. Once, while walking through the Public Garden with a friend, I was persistently pestered for money by a shabbily dressed Russian. That one was probably just a beggar, but it wasn’t a very pleasant experience. However, due to the Municipal Council’s strictness, Shanghai’s public morals seemed to be gradually improving overall. Indeed, even among Westerners, dubious cafés like El Dorado and Palermo had vanished. However, in a place called Del Monte, much closer to the outskirts, businesspeople still came in great numbers.

“Green satin, and a dance, white wine and gleaming laughter, with two nodding ear-rings―these are Lotus.” This was a verse from Eunice Tietjens’ poem celebrating Lotus, a Shanghai courtesan. “White wine and gleaming laughter”—this applied not merely to Lotus; the women leaning against Del Monte’s tables while listening to the orchestra that included Indians ultimately never transcended such descriptions. End of report.

15. Beauties of the Southland (Part 1)

In Shanghai, I saw many beauties. By what twist of fate was it that I saw them? It was always at a restaurant called Xiaoyoutian. This establishment, I was told, had been favored by Qing Daoren Li Ruiqing—a man who had passed away in recent years. "The Way that can be spoken is not the eternal Way; every day has its Xiaoyoutian"—given that such wordplay existed, the patronage it received was no ordinary favoritism; they must have invested particular care into it. Though it must be said, this renowned literatus was rumored to possess such an extraordinary stomach that he could polish off seventy crabs in one sitting.

Shanghai’s restaurants were not particularly comfortable places to linger. The partitions between each room at Xiaoyoutian were plank walls utterly devoid of elegance. What’s more, even at Ippinkō—a place that advertised itself as refined—the utensils arrayed on its tables were no different from what one would find in Western-style restaurants in Japan. Whether at Yaxuyuan, Xinghualou, or even Xinghua Chuancai Guan, these establishments left one’s senses—apart from taste—more shocked than satisfied. Particularly when Mr. Hata once treated me to Yaxuyuan, upon asking the waiter where the restroom was, he told me to use the kitchen sink. In fact, even before I arrived, a single greasy cleaver had already set a precedent there. I was not a little taken aback by that.

Instead, the food was more delicious than Japan’s. If one were to put on a somewhat knowing air, the Shanghai teahouses I visited—such as Ruiji and Houdefu—were inferior to those in Beijing. But despite that, compared to Tokyo’s Shina cuisine, even a place like Xiaoyoutian was undeniably delicious. Moreover, the price was cheap, being roughly one-fifth of Japan’s. The conversation had digressed considerably, but of all the times I saw many beauties, none surpassed when I dined with Mr. Yu Xun, president of the Shenzhou Daily. As I had mentioned before, this too was when I was on the upper floor of Xiaoyoutian. Xiaoyoutian fronted Shanghai’s especially bustling Simalu thoroughfare at night, so the clatter of carriages and horses outside the railing scarcely ceased for even a minute. Upstairs, of course, voices in conversation and the strains of huqin accompanying songs surged ceaselessly. Amidst such commotion, as I sipped rose tea while watching Yu Jun Guomin wield his vigorous brush over the summons slips, I felt not so much that I had come to a teahouse as that I was waiting on a post office bench—such was the hurried quality of the moment.

The summons slips undulated sinuously across Western paper, their crimson-stamped characters coiling into: "Summon—Proceed immediately to Xiaoyoutian Min Restaurant east of Grand Theater on Simalu—Seat awaits with wine. Do not delay." I recalled that the summons slips at Yaxuyuan had borne phrases like "Never Forget National Humiliation" and "Anti-Japanese Fervor" in their corners, but fortunately, no such slogans were visible on these. (A summons slip is a note used to call courtesans, akin to Osaka’s meeting notices.) Mr. Yu wrote my surname on one of them before adding the three characters Mei Fengchun.

“This is that Lin Daiyu.” “She’s already fifty-eight, you know.” “They say aside from President Xu Shichang, she’s the only one alive who knows the political secrets of these past twenty years.” “Since you’ll be summoning her, take a good look for reference.” Mr. Yu smirked as he began writing the next summons slip. His Japanese proved so masterful that he’d reportedly once impressed Mr. Tokutomi Sohō himself with a bilingual tabletop speech.

Before long, we—Mr. Yu, Mr. Hata, Mr. Murata, and I—took our seats around the dining table when first arrived a beauty called Aichun. She was an intelligent-looking geisha with a refined round face that somewhat recalled Japanese schoolgirls. Her attire consisted of a pale purple garment bearing white woven patterns paired with celadon-colored trousers displaying some design. Her hair—tied at the roots with a blue cord in the Japanese style—hung long down her back. The manner her bangs fell across her forehead likewise appeared no different from Japanese girls'. At her chest glimmered a jadeite butterfly, in her ears gold-and-pearl earrings, around her wrist a gold watch—all shining brilliantly.

16. Beauties of the Southland (Part 2) I was greatly impressed, so even while using the long ivory chopsticks, I continued gazing intently at this beauty. However, just as dishes were carried one after another to the table, beauties too continued streaming in. This was no situation to be marveling at Aichun alone. I then began observing a geisha named Shihong who had entered next. This geisha called Shihong was not more beautiful than Aichun. Yet her face possessed boldly defined features that carried a rustic air—distinctive qualities throughout. The cord tying her hair back was pink but otherwise identical to Aichun’s. Her kimono of deep purple satin had a border roughly five bu wide woven with silver and blue. According to Yu Jun Guomin’s explanation, this courtesan hailed from Jiangxi and preserved an old-fashioned style rather than chasing trends. Indeed, her rouge and powder were far more lavish than those of Aichun, who prided herself on a natural complexion. As I observed her wristwatch, the diamond butterfly on her left chest, the necklace of large pearls, and two gem-studded rings adorning only her right hand, I marveled that even among Shinbashi geishas one would struggle to find such brilliant adornment.

After Shihong came—well, were I to chronicle each arrival in detail, even I would grow weary—so I shall briefly introduce just two of them. One was Luo E, a beauty of tragic fortune who had been about to marry Wang Wenhua, Governor of Guizhou Province, yet remained a courtesan to this day following Wang's assassination. She wore black figured satin adorned only with a fragrant white orchid. Her attire—more subdued than her years would suggest—combined with those cool eyes of hers to create an immaculately chaste impression. The other was a quiet girl of twelve or thirteen. The gold bracelets and pearl necklaces worn by this geisha seemed mere playthings. When teased, she would display a bashful expression like any ordinary maiden. What rendered this doubly curious was that this figure—who would have provoked derisive laughter were she Japanese—bore the name Tenjiku.

These beauties took their seats among us one after another according to the names written on the summons slips. But Lin Daiyu—whose enchanting reputation had dominated an era and whom I was meant to have summoned—showed no sign of appearing. Before long, the courtesan Qinlou, still holding a half-smoked cigarette, began singing the mellifluous Xipi-style tune Fenhewan. When courtesans sing, they are typically accompanied by a huqin—though for some reason, the huqin players mostly wore drab newsboy caps or fedoras even while performing. Many of the instruments had bamboo bodies covered with snakeskin. When Qinlou finished her piece, it became Shihong's turn. She sang a plaintive melody while accompanying herself on the pipa without any huqin. Speaking of Jiangxi—her birthplace was the plains along the Xunyang River. To indulge in schoolboy-like sentimentality, one might imagine this resembled the pipa airs that once moistened the blue robe of Bai Juyi, that Tang dynasty magistrate who heard weeping strings amid autumn's rustling maple leaves and reed flowers. When Shihong concluded, Pingxiang sang next. Then—when Pingxiang finished—I started as Mr. Murata suddenly stood up and began singing "The fifteenth of August, the moonlight shines bright," a Xipi-style rendition of Wujia Slope. Of course, without such adaptability, you might never fully comprehend life's complexities in China.

By the time Mei Fengchun—Lin Daiyu—finally joined the gathering, the shark fin soup at the dining table had already been ravaged. She was a rotund woman, far closer to the archetype of a courtesan than I had imagined. Her face too no longer seemed particularly beautiful. Even with rouge and eyebrow makeup applied, the only thing that evoked her former beauty was the still-resplendent light drifting within her narrow eyes. However, when considering her age—that this was fifty-eight years old—no matter how I thought about it, it felt like a falsehood. At first glance, she appeared to be no more than forty. Especially her hands—like a child’s, with the joints at the base of her fingers indenting into plump backs. Her attire consisted of a black satin garment with orchid patterns and silver trim, paired with trousers of the same sheath-like design. These were set entirely into gold and silver settings on her earrings, bracelets, and the plaque hanging from her chest, embedded with jadeite and diamonds. Among these, the diamonds in her rings were about the size of sparrow’s eggs. This was not a figure one expects to see in a main street restaurant. A figure that should be reminiscent of Mr. Tanizaki Jun'ichirō’s novels—such as *The Velvet Dream*—where sin and opulence intermingle.

But no matter how old she grew, Lin Daiyu remained Lin Daiyu. How talented she was—that much could be readily imagined even from her manner of speaking. Not only that—when she later began singing a Qinqiang opera tune accompanied by huqin and flutes, the force that burst forth with her voice truly overwhelmed the other courtesans.

17. Beauties of the Southland (Part 3)

“How do you find Lin Daiyu?”

After she left her seat, Mr. Yu asked me this.

“She’s quite a remarkable woman. First of all, I was surprised by how young she looks.”

“I hear she used to ingest pearl powder in her youth,” “Pearls being an elixir of immortality, you understand.” “If she didn’t take opium, she’d appear younger still, you realize.”

By then, a newly arrived geisha was already seated in Lin Daiyu’s place. This was a fair-skinned, petite beauty reminiscent of a young lady. Her pale lavender damask robe woven with treasure-laden patterns, adorned with crystal earrings, undoubtedly further enhanced this geisha’s refined elegance. When I promptly inquired her name, the reply came: Huabaoyu. Huabaoyu—the way this beauty pronounced this name was precisely like the cooing of a dove. As I handed her a cigarette, I recalled Du Shaoling’s line: "The cuckoo urges the spring planting."

“Mr. Akutagawa.” While urging laojiu on me, Mr. Yu Xun called my name grudgingly.

“How do you find Chinese women?” “Do you like them?” “I like women from anywhere, but Chinese women are beautiful indeed.” “What do you find most appealing about them?” “Well...” “I think it’s the ears that are most beautiful.” In truth, I held considerable respect for Chinese people’s ears. When it comes to that, Japanese women are no match for Chinese people. Japanese people’s ears are too flat, and many have thick flesh. Among them, there were not a few that—rather than being called ears—resembled tree fungi inexplicably sprouting from faces. Upon reflection, this is no different from deep-sea fish going blind. Japanese people’s ears have long remained hidden behind oiled hair at the temples. But Chinese women’s ears have not only always been caressed by spring breezes—they have even gone so far as to dangle earrings embedded with jewels. As a result, Japanese women’s ears have become degenerate as they are today, but Chinese ones seem to have developed into beautiful ears, naturally well-tended. Indeed, even looking at this Huabaoyu, she has ears exactly like small seashells—ears so lovely they could be cherished by the world. In *The Romance of the Western Chamber*, Yingying says: “Her hairpin askew, jade pendant slanting across... Her chignon askew, cloud-like tresses in disarray. The sun high, yet still her eyes remain unopened. Perfectly languid. 半晌擡身。

repeatedly scratched her ear. The line that says "a long sigh" must surely have been describing ears like these.

Li Yu of old expounded in detail on the beauty of Chinese women (Occasional Gatherings, Volume III: Voice and Appearance), yet never once did he mention these ears. In this regard, even the great author of the Ten Plays ought rightly to yield the credit for this discovery to Akutagawa Ryūnosuke.

After expounding my theory on ears, I ate sweetened porridge together with the other three gentlemen. After that, we went out to the bustling Third Avenue thoroughfare to tour the brothels. The brothels were mostly laid out in rows running horizontally, lining both sides of stone-paved alleys. While guiding us, Mr. Yu read off the names of the eaves lanterns one by one, but upon arriving before a certain house, he briskly went inside. The place we entered had a gloomy earthen floor where shabbily dressed Chinese people were eating meals or going about their business. Unless one had been told beforehand that this was a geisha house, anyone would surely take it for a lie. But upon immediately climbing the stairs, there shone bright electric lights in a compact Chinese salon. The area with rosewood chairs arranged and large mirrors installed was indeed befitting a first-class brothel. On walls papered in blue were also hung numerous framed nanga paintings behind glass, arrayed in a row.

“Becoming a patron of Chinese geishas is no simple matter, you know. After all, one must even buy all this furniture for them.” Mr. Yu explained various aspects of the pleasure quarters while drinking tea with us. “Well, if we’re talking about geishas like those who came tonight, it would require around five hundred yen to become a patron.” In the meantime, Huabaoyu peeked out from the next room. Even when Chinese geishas come to the parlor, they leave after about five minutes. That Huabaoyu from Xiaoyoutian was already here came as no surprise. As for what constitutes a patron in China—for further details, one may consult Mr. Inoue Kōbai’s *Chinese Customs, Volume One: Vocabulary of the Flower and Willow World*.

We, together with two or three geishas, cracked watermelon seeds and puffed on premium cigarettes while engaging in idle chatter for a short while. However, even if we engaged in idle talk, I remained a mute. Mr. Hata, pointing at me, said to a mischievous-looking child geisha, “That’s no Oriental. He’s a Cantonese,” or something to that effect. The geisha asked Mr. Murata, “Is that true?” “Yes. Yes,” Mr. Murata replied. While listening to such talk, I sat alone, absently turning over trivial thoughts in my mind. In Japan, there is a song called Tokoton Yarena. That Ton’yarena might perhaps be an Easterner’s metamorphosis.…

Twenty minutes later, having grown somewhat bored, I walked about the room before quietly peering into the adjoining chamber. There beneath the electric light sat that gentle Huabaoyu, sharing supper at a table with a portly matron. Only two plates lay upon the dining table. One contained nothing but vegetables. Yet Huabaoyu appeared wholly absorbed in manipulating her rice bowl and chopsticks. I found myself smiling despite myself. The Huabaoyu who frequented Xiaoyoutian might well have been a southern beauty of renown. But this Huabaoyu—this Huabaoyu masticating vegetable roots—transcended mere beauty meant for libertines' dalliance. In that moment, I felt my first genuine affinity for Chinese women—a warmth distinctly feminine in nature.

18. Mr. Li Renjie

I visited Mr. Li Renjie together with Mr. Murata. Mr. Li was not yet twenty-eight years old; by creed a socialist; one who should be counted among those representing 'Young China' in Shanghai. From the tram window en route, I saw the verdant street trees already welcoming summer. The sky hung overcast; rarely did sunlight pierce through. The wind blew, yet stirred no dust.

This was a memorandum I had jotted down after visiting Mr. Li. When I opened my notebook now, not a few of the pencil scribbles had begun to fade. The prose was of course chaotic. But perhaps the feelings of that time are—if anything—all the more clearly revealed in that very disorder. "A servant appeared and immediately led us to the reception room. A rectangular table—two or three Western-style chairs—and on the table, a tray. Ceramic fruits were heaped upon it. This pear, this grape, this apple—apart from these clumsy imitations of nature, not a single decoration existed to please the eye. Yet no dust could be seen in the chamber. The air of simplicity filling it was pleasant."

Several minutes later, Mr. Li Renjie arrived. He was a compact young man. Slightly long hair. A narrow face. His complexion was rather poor. Eyes brimming with intellect. Small hands. His demeanor was most earnest. That earnestness simultaneously compelled one to perceive his keen nerves. The initial impression was not unfavorable. It was as though one had touched the thin yet resilient mainspring of a clock. He sat facing me across the table. Mr. Li wore a gray overcoat. Because Mr. Li had been at a university in Tokyo, his Japanese was extremely fluent. In particular, his ability to make others clearly grasp even complicated logic might have been superior to my Japanese.

Moreover, though it was not written in the memorandum, the reception room we passed through had a structure where the staircase from the second floor descended directly into a corner of the room. Because of this structure, when one came down the stairs, one first saw the guests' feet. Even when observing Mr. Li Renjie's figure, what I saw first were Chinese shoes. I have yet to meet, apart from Mr. Li, any renowned personage in the world whom I encountered starting from their feet.

“Mr. Li said. ‘What is to be done with modern China?’ ‘What will solve this problem is neither republicanism nor monarchical restoration.’ ‘That such political revolutions are powerless to reform China has already been proven by the past and is now being proven anew by the present.’ ‘Then the path our efforts must take lies solely in social revolution.’ This was the assertion that all thinkers of ‘Young China’ engaged in promoting the cultural movement proclaimed. Mr. Li continued. ‘If we wish to bring about social revolution, we must rely on propaganda.’ ‘This is why we write.’ ‘Moreover, the awakened scholars of China are not indifferent to new knowledge.’ ‘No—they are starving for knowledge.’ ‘But what can be done about the scarcity of books and magazines to satisfy this hunger?’ ‘I declare to you.’ ‘The urgent task at present lies in writing.’ Perhaps it was indeed as Mr. Li said. In modern China there was no public opinion. Without public opinion revolution could not arise. How much less its success? Mr. Li continued. ‘The seed is in hand.’”

"Only the vast desolation stretching ten thousand li—or perhaps fearing our strength may prove insufficient." "Whether these bodies can endure such labor—this is why we cannot be free from anxiety." Having said this, he furrowed his brows. I sympathized with Mr. Li. Mr. Li continued: "What demands attention of late is the power of the China Banking Consortium." "Regardless of what forces stand behind it, that the Beijing government shows a tendency to be swayed by this banking consortium—this fact cannot be denied." "This need not be lamented." "For now our enemy—the target upon which we must concentrate our fire—has been clearly fixed upon a single banking consortium." "I say—" "I have been disappointed by Chinese art." "The novels and paintings that meet my eye—none are yet worth discussing." "And yet when observing China's present state—to expect artistic flourishing in this land... nay, such expectation itself seems rather mistaken." "I ask you—is there any room left to consider art beyond propaganda's means?" Mr. Li responded: "Virtually none."

This was all my memorandum contained. Yet Mr. Li's way of speaking remained brisk and precise. No wonder Mr. Murata, who had accompanied us, marveled: "That fellow's got a sharp mind." What's more, Mr. Li let slip that during his studies abroad, he'd apparently read one or two of my novels. This too surely swelled my regard for him. Even a gentleman like myself—we novelists are beings who've cultivated such voracious appetites for vanity.

19. Japanese

When I was invited to dinner at Mr. Kojima of Shanghai Spinning’s residence, there stood a small cherry tree in the garden before his company housing. Then Mr. Yonjūki, who accompanied us, declared, “Look—the cherry blossoms are blooming,” his voice brimming with inexplicable delight. Mr. Kojima, waiting at the entrance, wore the expression of a Columbus returned from America displaying his trophies—though the tree bore only meager blossoms on gaunt, withered branches. At that moment, I privately wondered why these two gentlemen rejoiced so over such a pitiful sight. Yet after a month in Shanghai, I learned this rapture wasn’t theirs alone—it seized every Japanese soul there. What manner of race we Japanese are lies beyond my ken. But send us overseas, and whether the blooms be single or double-petaled, the mere glimpse of cherry flowers transforms us instantly into creatures of bliss.

×

When I went to see Tongwen College, as I walked along the second floor of the dormitory, beyond the window at the end of the corridor stretched a sea of bluish ears of wheat. Here and there in those wheat fields, clusters of commonplace rapeseed flowers could be seen. Finally, far beyond those—on top of the row of low roofs—a large koinobori flag could be seen. The carp-shaped banner, buffeted by the wind, fluttered vividly skyward. This single koinobori flag suddenly transformed the scenery. I was not in China. I came to feel that I was in Japan. However, when I went to that window, right below me in the wheat field, Chinese peasants were working. That, for some reason, struck me as improper. I too found it somewhat pleasant to gaze upon the Japanese koinobori flag in the distant Shanghai sky. I may not have been able to laugh at such things as cherry blossoms.

×

I once received an invitation to the Shanghai Japanese Women’s Club. The location was certainly Mrs. Matsumoto’s residence in the French Concession. A round table covered with a white cloth. On top of it were a cineraria plant, black tea, sweets, and sandwiches. The ladies gathered around the table seemed more gentle and virtuous than I had expected. I discussed novels and plays with those ladies. Then one of the ladies spoke to me thus.

“The novel *The Crow* that you contributed to this month’s *Chūō Kōron* was most fascinating.” “No, that was but a trifle.” While giving a modest reply, I thought how I wanted to let Uno Kōji, the author of *The Crow*, hear this exchange.

× According to an account by Captain Takeuchi of the *Nanyo Maru*, while walking along the Bund in Hankou, beneath a row of shinoki trees on a bench sat a sailor from England or America with a Japanese woman. Her profession was apparent at a glance. Captain Takeuchi reportedly felt displeasure upon seeing this. After hearing this story, as I walked along North Sichuan Road, I saw three or four Japanese geishas in an oncoming automobile, flanking a Westerner and chattering excitedly. Yet unlike Captain Takeuchi, I felt no particular displeasure. Still, such displeasure was not entirely incomprehensible. No—rather, I could not help being interested in such psychology. Here it was mere displeasure—but amplified, would it not undoubtedly become patriotic indignation?

×

There was this Japanese man named X. X had lived in Shanghai for twenty years. He got married in Shanghai as well. He had a child in Shanghai as well. He accumulated money in Shanghai as well. Perhaps because of this, X had developed a fervent attachment to Shanghai. Whenever guests came from Japan, he would always boast about Shanghai. Architecture, roads, cuisine, entertainment—in none of these does Japan come second to Shanghai. Shanghai is no different from the West. Rather than muddling about in Japan, come to Shanghai as soon as you can.—He even urged the guests thus. When X died and they examined his will, something unexpected was written there. “Regardless of any circumstances, my bones must be buried in Japan.…”

One day, at my hotel window with a lit Havana cigar between my teeth, I imagined such a story. X’s contradiction was not something to laugh at. When it comes to such matters, we are all ultimately comrades of X.

20. Xujiahui

Ming Dynasty, Wanli era. Outside the wall. Here and there stood willow trees. Beyond the wall, the cathedral’s roof could be seen. The golden cross atop its spire shone in the light of the setting sun. A wandering monk appeared with village children. Wandering Monk: “Is Lord Xu’s residence over there?” Children: “Right there.” “That’s the place, but—even if you go there, uncle, you won’t get any feast offerings. The lord hates monks.” —— Wandering Monk: “Very well.” “Very well.” “I know that already.”

“If you already know, then you shouldn’t go.” The wandering monk gave a bitter smile. “You’ve quite the sharp tongue. I haven’t come to beg for lodging. I came to debate the Catholic priest.” “Is that so?” said the children. “Then do as you please. But don’t come crying when the retainers thrash you.” The children scampered off.

The wandering monk. (To himself) The temple roof seemed visible over there, but where could the gate be?

A red-haired missionary passed by, straddling a donkey. Behind him, I alone followed.

Wandering Monk: "Excuse me, excuse me." The missionary stopped his donkey. Wandering Monk: (Fiercely) "From what place do you come?" Missionary: (Suspiciously) "I went to a believer's house." Wandering Monk: "After Huang Chao's passing, did you obtain your sword upon returning?" The missionary stood dumbfounded. Wandering Monk: "Did you obtain your sword upon returning now?" "Answer me!" "Answer me!" "If you do not answer—" Brandishing his ritual implement, the wandering monk was about to strike the missionary. I knocked the wandering monk down. I: "He's crazy." "Please proceed without concern."

Missionary: “Poor thing.” He thought there was something strange about his eyes.

The missionaries departed. The wandering monk rose.

Wandering Monk: Detestable heretic. Even the nyoi had been broken. Where has the alms bowl gone? From within the wall, a faint hymn arose.

× × × × ×

Yongzheng era (Qing Dynasty).

Grassland. Here and there stood willow trees. Amidst them stood a ruined chapel.

Three village girls, each with a basket hanging from their arm, were picking mugwort and such. A. “The larks’ song is almost annoyingly loud, isn’t it?” B. “Yes.—Oh, what a nasty lizard!”

A. “Hasn’t your wedding happened yet?” B. “It will probably be next month.”

C.

“Oh, what could this be?” (She picked up a cross covered in dirt.) (C was the youngest of the three.) “There’s a human shape carved on it.”

B. “Let me see?” “Let me have a look.” “This is what’s called a cross.”

C. “What’s a cross?”

B. “It’s something Catholics have.” “Could this be gold?” A. “Stop that.” “If you keep such things or do anything with them, you’ll get your head chopped off like Mr. Zhang did.” C. “Then shall we bury it back the way it was?” A. “Hey, wouldn’t that way be better?” B. “Well,” “That does seem like the safest way.”

The girls departed. Several hours later, dusk gradually approached the grassland. C emerged with the blind old man.

C. "It was around here." "Grandfather." The old man. "Then search quickly." "We mustn't have interference."

C. “Look, it was here—this is it, right?”

The light of the new moon. The old man, while still holding the cross, slowly bowed his head in silent prayer.

×　×　×　×　×

The tenth year of the Republic of China.

In the wheat field stood a granite cross. Above the willow trees rose the cathedral's spire, towering so high it seemed to graze the clouds. Five Japanese people emerged, weaving through the wheat field. One of them was a student at Dobun Shoin College. A. "When was that cathedral built?" B. "I hear it was during the late Daoguang era." (While opening a guidebook) "It says the depth is two hundred fifty feet, the width one hundred twenty-seven feet, and the height of that tower is one hundred sixty-nine feet."

Student.

“That is the tomb.” “That cross—” A. “Indeed, seeing these remaining stone pillars and stone beasts, it must have been much grander before.” D. “That must be so.” “After all, it’s a minister’s tomb.” The student. “You see, there’s a stone fitted into this brick pedestal.” “This is Xu’s epitaph.” D. “It reads: ‘Inscription of the Cross Before the Tomb of Xu Wendinggong, Late Junior Guardian of the Heir Apparent of the Ming Dynasty, Posthumously Promoted to Grand Guardian, Minister of Rites, and Grand Secretary of the Wenyuan Pavilion.’”

A. “Was there another tomb elsewhere?”

B. “Well, I suppose that’s the case, but—”

A. "The cross has an inscription too, does it not?" "'Holy Cross, revered through all ages'?" C. (Calling from afar.) "Pray remain still for a moment. I shall take a photograph."

The four stood before the cross. An unnatural few seconds of silence.

21. The Final Glimpse

After Mr. Murata and Mr. Hata had left, I stepped out onto the deck of the Hōyō Maru with a cigarette still clenched between my lips. On the pier brightly lit by electric lights, there was almost no one to be seen anymore. Beyond that thoroughfare, three- or four-story brick buildings stretched towering into the night sky. No sooner had I noticed this than a coolie walked across the pier below, casting a vivid shadow. If I were to go with that coolie, I would no doubt naturally end up before the gate of the Japanese Consulate where I had gone to receive my passport.

I walked across the quiet deck toward the stern. Looking downstream from here, scattered lights glittered along the Bund's thoroughfare. I wondered if I could see the Garden Bridge—spanned across the mouth of Suzhou Creek where carriages and horses never ceased even in daytime. The park at the foot of that bridge—though no young leaves' color was visible—seemed to have a grove of trees clustered there. When I had gone there days before, on the lawn where a pallid fountain sprayed upward, a single hunchbacked Chinese man in an S.M.C. red half-coat had been picking up cigarette butts. Were tulips and yellow daffodils still blooming under electric lights in that park's flower beds? If one passed through ahead, one should see the British Consulate with its spacious garden and the Yokohama Specie Bank. Continuing straight along the riverside beside it, upon turning left into a side street, the Lyceum Theatre would also come into view. On those stone entrance steps, a Comic Opera billboard might still remain, though the stream of people had likely ceased. An automobile came straight along the riverbank toward that spot. Roses, silk, an amber necklace—no sooner had these flashed into view than they vanished before my eyes. That must have been them heading to dance at Calton Café. In their wake along the darkened thoroughfare, someone walked humming a ditty, footsteps echoing. "Chin chin Chinaman"—I flicked my cigarette butt into the Huangpu River's dark waters, then slowly turned back toward the salon.

The salon too was devoid of any human presence. On the carpeted floor, only the leaves of a potted orchid glistened. I leaned back against the sofa and began to drift into idle reminiscence—when I had met Mr. Wu Jinglian, he had affixed a purple medicinal plaster to his large, close-cropped head. While fussing over it, he muttered, “A boil has formed, you see.” Had that boil healed? As I walked through a dark thoroughfare with the staggering, drunken Mr. Shijūki, a perfectly square little window appeared directly above our heads. The window slanted its light upward into a sky sagging with rain clouds. And from there, like a small bird, a young Chinese woman peered down at us below. Mr. Shijūki pointed at her and informed me, “That’s a Cantonese courtesan.” She might still be showing her face there tonight.—When we rode a brisk carriage through the tree-lined French Concession, far ahead a Chinese groom led two white horses along. One of them—for some reason—suddenly tumbled to the ground. Then my companion Mr. Murata dispelled my confusion: “It’s scratching its back.” While dwelling on this memory, I reached into my inner coat pocket for my cigarette case. But what I pulled out was not the yellow Egyptian box—it was the Chinese theater program I had forgotten there the night before. At that moment, something fluttered down from the program onto the floor. Something—a moment later, I was holding a desiccated white orchid flower. I gave it a tentative sniff, but not even a scent lingered. The petals had browned to rust. “White orchid flowers, white orchid flowers”—even that vendor’s cry had faded into mere recollection now. That I once saw this blossom perfuming a southern beauty’s bosom seemed but a dream now. Sensing myself teetering toward facile sentimentality, I tossed the withered orchid onto the floor.

Then, after lighting a cigarette, I began to read the book by Marie Stopes that Mr. Kojima had given me before departure.