Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. At Sea

On the very day I was to depart Tokyo, Mr. Nagano Sōfū came to speak with me. I learned that Mr. Nagano himself planned to embark on a journey to China in about half a month’s time. At that moment, he kindly instructed me in an excellent remedy for seasickness. Yet once you board a ship from Moji, you’ll reach Shanghai almost immediately—within two days and nights at most. To think one would carry seasickness medicine for a mere two-day voyage—this alone reveals the extent of Mr. Nagano’s timidity. Having entertained these thoughts, even as I climbed the Chikugomaru’s gangway that March afternoon—gazing out at the harbor churned by wind and rain—I found myself pitying my painter friend Nagano Sōfū’s dread of the sea anew.

But as punishment for scorning the departed—no sooner had our ship entered the Genkai-nada than the sea began to rage violently before our eyes. As I sat on a rattan chair on the upper deck with Mr. Murasugi from my cabin, spray from waves battering the hull occasionally showered down upon our heads. The sea turned completely white, its depths roaring and seething. When I thought some island’s shadow had appeared hazily beyond us, it proved instead to be Kyushu’s mainland. Yet Mr. Murasugi—seasoned sailor that he was—exhaled cigarette smoke without showing any sign of distress. I turned up my coat collar, thrust both hands into pockets, occasionally slipping a Jintan pill into my mouth—in short, I came to admire Mr. Nagano Sōfū’s wisdom in preparing seasickness remedies.

In the meantime, Mr. Murasugi, who had been beside me, had gone off to the bar or somewhere. I remained seated calmly in the rattan chair. To an observer's eye, I appeared composed, but the anxiety in my mind was nothing of the sort. The moment I moved even slightly, I felt on the verge of dizziness. On top of that, my stomach too began to feel unsettled. Before me, a single sailor kept coming and going across the deck. (This I would later discover—he too was in fact one of those pitiable seasickness sufferers.) Even that ceaseless movement struck me as strangely disagreeable. Then, amidst the waves ahead, a trawler emitting a thin plume of smoke continued its precarious advance, its hull barely remaining above water. What possible need was there for that ship to plow through such towering waves? That too struck me at the time as infuriating beyond measure.

So I earnestly tried to think only of pleasant things that would make me forget my present suffering. Children, flowers, Urakami’s bowl, the Japanese Alps, Shodai Ponta—after that, I can’t remember what else. No, there’s more. It is said that Wagner, in his youth, encountered a terrible storm during his voyage to England. And it is said that this experience later played a major role in his writing of *The Flying Dutchman*. I tried thinking of various such things, but my head only grew dizzier. The nausea showed no sign of subsiding. In the end, I reached the point of thinking, "To hell with Wagner and his ilk—let the dogs have him!"

After about ten minutes had passed, as I lay in bed, my ears caught the sound of plates and knives clattering to the floor from the dining table all at once. However, I stubbornly struggled to suppress the urge to expel the contents of my stomach. The reason I was able to muster such courage at this moment was thanks to my concern that perhaps I was the only one suffering from seasickness. It seems that even something like vanity can unexpectedly serve as a substitute for bushido in such moments.

However, when morning came, it appeared that among the first-class passengers at least, all had succumbed to seasickness—save for a single American—and none had come to the dining hall. Yet this extraordinary American alone had reportedly continued clattering away at a typewriter in the ship's salon even after eating. Upon hearing this tale, my spirits abruptly brightened. Simultaneously, that same American began to seem like some manner of monster. To maintain such composure even when encountering such a tempest was a superhuman feat. Perhaps were one to perform a physical examination on that American, unexpected facts might emerge—thirty-nine teeth perhaps, or a small tail sprouting from his body. —Still seated on a rattan deck chair beside Mr. Murasugi, I gave free rein to such imaginings.

The sea lay serenely blue as if it had completely forgotten yesterday's turbulence, with the shadow of Jeju Island stretching across beyond the starboard side.

II. First Glimpse (Part 1)

As soon as we stepped outside the pier, dozens of rickshaw pullers suddenly surrounded us. We were four in number: Mr. Murata and Mr. Tomozumi from the company, Mr. Jones of the International News Agency, and myself. The image that the term "rickshaw pullers" conjures for Japanese minds is by no means an insubstantial one. Rather, their vigorous momentum was such that it somehow evoked a feeling reminiscent of old Edo. But when it comes to Chinese rickshaw pullers, to say they embody filth itself would be no exaggeration. Moreover, when we glanced around, every single one bore a suspicious countenance. With them thrusting their heads forward from every direction—front, back, left, right—all while bellowing at full volume, even the newly disembarked Japanese women must have found it thoroughly unnerving. In fact, when one of them grabbed my coat sleeve, I instinctively nearly retreated behind the towering figure of 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, appearing irritated, whipped the horse repeatedly. The horse, with its nose pressed against the brick wall, wildly thrashed its hindquarters. The carriage was of course on the verge of overturning. A crowd immediately gathered in the street. In Shanghai, it seemed one could not even carelessly board a carriage without first resolving oneself to die.

Before long, the carriage started moving again and came out alongside a river spanned by an iron bridge. The river was crowded with Chinese Daruma boats to the point where the water was no longer visible. Along the river’s edge, numerous green trams were gliding smoothly. No matter where one looked, the buildings were three- or four-story structures of red brick. On the asphalt boulevard, Westerners and Chinese people were walking busily. But this cosmopolitan crowd would dutifully make way for carriages whenever an Indian policeman wearing a red turban gave the signal. The thoroughness of traffic control was such that, no matter how favorably one might view it, cities like Tokyo or Osaka in Japan could never hope to match it. I, who had been somewhat daunted by the ferocity of the rickshaw pullers and horse carriages, found myself gradually growing cheerful as I took in this bright and clear scenery.

Eventually, the carriage came to a stop before the Tōa Yōkō Hotel where Kim Ok-gyun had once been assassinated. Murata-kun, who had disembarked first, handed some coins to the driver. Yet the driver, evidently deeming this insufficient, refused to withdraw his outstretched hand. Not only that—flecks of foam flew from his lips as he launched into a vehement tirade. Murata-kun feigned ignorance and strode briskly toward the entrance. Both Mr. Jones and Mr. Tomozumi likewise appeared utterly indifferent to the driver's impassioned appeals. I felt a twinge of pity for this Chinese man. But supposing this must be local custom, I quickly trailed after them through the doorway. When I glanced back moments later, the driver sat serenely on his perch as though nothing had occurred. If he could compose himself so readily, why make such a scene in the first place?

We were immediately led to a dimly lit yet gaudily decorated peculiar reception room. Indeed, even if I weren't Kim Ok-gyun, at any moment a bullet might come flying through some window. As I privately entertained such thoughts, a boldly dressed proprietor came clattering in with his slippers, looking flustered. According to Mr. Murata, this hotel had been chosen for my lodgings through Mr. Sawamura's planning at the Osaka office. Yet this formidable proprietor must have concluded there was nothing to gain from housing Akutagawa Ryunosuke—what if he got assassinated?—for he claimed there was unfortunately no available room except one before the entrance. When I went to inspect that room—which inexplicably contained two beds but had sooty walls, faded curtains, and not a single decent chair—it became clear this was no habitable space unless Kim Ok-gyun's ghost took up residence. Therefore, reluctantly nullifying Mr. Sawamura's kind intentions after consulting the other three gentlemen, I resolved to move to Banzaikan nearby.

III. First Glimpse (Part 2)

That evening I went with Mr. Jones to a restaurant called Scheffaad to eat dinner. Here, whether it be the walls or the dining tables, everything had been arranged with pleasant uniformity. The waiters were all Chinese, but among the neighboring customers, not a single East Asian countenance could be seen. The food was indeed thirty percent better compared to that on the mail steamship company’s vessels, and I found it somewhat agreeable to speak English—uttering simple phrases like “yes” and “no”—with Mr. Jones.

Mr. Jones, leisurely polishing off his Nanjing rice curry, talked about various things since our last meeting. Among these was the following story. Apparently one evening Mr. Jones—though even with me tagging along, I somehow didn’t feel very friend-like— He was an Englishman who had lived in Japan for five years. Throughout those five years (though we did have one quarrel), I was constantly close with him. We had even stood together in the standing area at the Kabukiza Theatre. There was also a time we swam in the sea of Kamakura. There was also a time when we had cups and dishes strewn about in disarray at a Ueno teahouse late into the night. At that time, he—still wearing Kume Masao’s finest hakama—suddenly plunged into the pond there. If I keep addressing him with such casual honorifics as "-kun," I might end up owing him more apologies than anyone else. Next, I should clarify one more thing: the reason I am close with him is because his Japanese is proficient. It wasn’t because my English was good.—Apparently one evening, when Jones went to some café for a drink, there was a single Japanese waitress sitting blankly in a chair. He was a man who habitually proclaimed, as if it were his catchphrase, that China was his pastime but Japan was his passion. Especially since he had apparently just relocated to Shanghai at the time, he must have felt all the more nostalgic for memories of Japan. He, using Japanese, promptly addressed the waiter. “When did you come to Shanghai?” “I arrived only yesterday.” “Then don’t you want to return to Japan?” When told this by him, the waiter suddenly let out a tearful voice. “I do want to go back.”

In between speaking English, Jones repeated this “I do want to go back.” He grinned slyly. “When I was told that, I became awfully sentimental too, I must say.”

After finishing our meal, we strolled along the bustling Sima Road. Then we went to Café Parisien to take a quick look at the dancing.

The dance hall was quite spacious. But the way the electric lights turned blue and red in sync with the orchestra’s music was utterly reminiscent of Asakusa. When it came to the skill of that orchestra, Asakusa simply couldn’t compare. There alone, even in Shanghai, it was indeed a Western-style dance hall.

We watched from a corner table, sipping Anisette from our cups, as Filipino girls in crimson dresses and American youths in suits danced merrily. There exists a short poem by Whitman or another that says while young men and women are beautiful, the beauty of older men and women is altogether special. When a portly English elderly couple danced before me, I indeed recalled this poem, thinking both were much the same. But when I told Jones this, my earnest exclamation was dismissed with a derisive snort; he said that whenever he saw elderly couples dancing, regardless of their corpulence or leanness, he felt compelled to burst out laughing.

IV. First Glimpse (Part 3)

When we left Café Parisien, even the wide thoroughfares had grown sparse with pedestrians. Yet when I took out my pocket watch and checked, it hadn't yet turned eleven. Surprisingly, Shanghai went to bed early. However, those fearsome rickshaw pullers still lingered in numbers. 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.' Bùyào of course meant 'unwanted.' So whenever I saw a rickshaw puller, I would immediately fire off 'Bùyào! Bùyào!' like some demon-banishing incantation. This was the first Chinese phrase worth commemorating to emerge from my lips. How eagerly I hurled these words at the rickshaw pullers! Any reader who cannot grasp this circumstance must surely have never experienced learning a foreign language.

We walked along the quiet thoroughfare, our footsteps echoing. On both sides of this thoroughfare stood three- or four-storied brick buildings that blocked out the star-filled sky. Then again, there were moments when streetlamp light revealed white walls of pawnshops bearing thickly brushed "Tō" characters. At times we passed beneath signboards hanging directly overhead—one for some female doctor—and at others walked past walls with peeling plaster where Nanyang Tobacco posters clung. But no matter how far we walked, my inn remained elusive. Before long—perhaps owing to Anisette's curse—my throat grew unbearably parched.

“Hey, isn’t there somewhere to get a drink? I’m ridiculously thirsty.” “There’s a café right there. Just endure a little longer.” Five minutes later, we both sat at a small table drinking cold soda water.

This café seemed a far more inferior place than Parisien or the like. Beside the peach-colored wall, a Chinese boy with parted hair was striking a large piano. In the center of the café, three or four British sailors were continuing their slovenly dance with heavily rouged women. Finally, by the glass door at the entrance, an old Chinese woman selling roses—after being rebuffed with my “bùyào”—was blankly watching the dance. I somehow began to feel as though I were looking at an illustration from an illustrated newspaper. The title of the picture was, of course, “Shanghai.”

From outside, five or six more sailors of the same ilk came bursting in all at once with boisterous clamor. At this moment, the one who cut the most ridiculous figure was the old woman standing at the entrance. As the drunken sailors roughly shoved the door open, the old woman let drop the basket she had been carrying on her arm. Moreover, those very sailors paid no heed to such matters. They immediately joined those who had been dancing and began cavorting like madmen. While muttering under her breath, the old woman started gathering up the roses that had fallen to the floor. But even as she collected them, they were being trampled beneath the sailors' boots...

“Shall we go?”

Jones, as if thoroughly exasperated, suddenly heaved his large frame upright. “Let’s go.” I stood up immediately. But around our feet, roses lay scattered. As I turned toward the entrance, I recalled a Daumier painting. “Hey, life is...”

Jones tossed a silver coin into the old woman’s basket, then turned back toward me. “Life is—what was it again?” “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, each vying to be first. Rickshaw pullers were, of course, unnecessary.

But at that moment, I discovered yet another nuisance had attached itself to us beyond those rickshaw pullers. By our side before we knew it stood that flower-selling old woman, mumbling incessantly while extending her hand like a beggar. Even after receiving a silver coin, she appeared determined to make us open our purses once more. I pitied those beautiful roses being peddled by such a grasping crone. This brazen hag and the carriage driver from earlier that day—this was by no means unique to my first impressions of Shanghai. Regrettably, these also constituted my genuine first glimpses of China.

5 Hospital

I took to my bed starting the very next day. And starting the day after that, I was admitted to Dr. Satomi’s hospital. The diagnosis was apparently something called dry pleurisy. Now that I had developed pleurisy after all, the long-planned trip to China might have to be postponed for the time being. Thinking this made me feel greatly uneasy. I promptly sent a telegram to the Osaka office stating that I had been hospitalized. Then from Mr. Usuda of the Osaka office came a return telegram saying, “TAKE YOUR TIME TO RECOVER.” However, if I were to stay hospitalized for a month or two, the company would certainly be in trouble. While I felt temporarily relieved by Mr. Usuda's reply telegram, the more I thought about my obligation to take up my pen and write this travelogue, the more I could not help feeling uneasy.

However, fortunately in Shanghai, apart from Mr. Murata and Mr. Tomozumi from the company, there were also friends from my student days like Jones and Nishimura Teikichi. And these friends and acquaintances, despite their busy schedules, constantly came to visit me. Moreover, thanks to bearing some hollow reputation as a writer or whatnot, I even received flowers and fruits from complete strangers from time to time. On one occasion, biscuit tins lined up in a row by my bedside to such an extent that disposing of them became somewhat troublesome. (It was none other than my esteemed friends and acquaintances who rescued me from this predicament. To my sickly eyes, you all seemed mysteriously hearty.) No, it wasn’t merely that I was humbled by such gifts of condolence. Even among those who were initially complete strangers, there came to be two or three people with whom I could interact as friends without reserve. Haiku poet Yonjūki-kun was also one of them. Ishiguro Masakichi-kun was also one of them. Hata Hiroshi-kun of the Shanghai Oriental News Agency was also one of them.

Even so, when it became clear that the fever of about thirty-seven and a half degrees would not subside easily, the anxiety remained just that—anxiety. At times, even in broad daylight, I would suddenly grow so terrified of dying that I couldn’t stay lying still. Desperate not to be tormented by such nervous afflictions, during the day I devoured over twenty Western books—kindly lent by Mr. Ikawa of the South Manchuria Railway and Jones—grabbing whatever came to hand. Whether it was reading La Motte’s short stories, Titchens’s poetry, or Giles’s discourses—all of these occurred during this period. At night—though this was kept secret from Dr. Satomi—I took Calmotin without fail every night, excessively worried about potential insomnia. Even so, I was exasperated to find myself waking up before dawn from time to time. I recall there being a line in Wang Cihui’s *Doubtful Rain Collection* that goes: “Yao er wu zheng guai meng pin” (“Medicine proves ineffective; strange dreams come often”). This does not mean the poet himself was ill. It was a poem lamenting his wife’s grave illness, but even had it been written about me at that time, this line would have been literally piercing. "Medicine proves ineffective; strange dreams come often" I do not know how many times I uttered this line while lying in bed.

Before long, spring advanced without restraint, growing steadily deeper. Nishimura talked about the peaches of Longhua. A Mongolian wind carried yellow dust up into the sky, so thick that even the sun was blotted out. Someone came to visit me with Mango-o. It seemed the weather had finally become ideal for visiting Suzhou and Hangzhou.

While receiving injections of Doiyojikaru from Dr. Satomi every other day, I kept wondering when I would finally stop lying in this bed.

Postscript: Had I written about my hospitalization, I might have continued indefinitely. But as these matters bore no particular relation to Shanghai proper, I shall confine myself to this much. Let me only add that Dr. Satomi belonged to the new school of haiku poets. To cite one of his recent compositions: He speaks of fetal movements while stoking the coal.

6 Inside the City Walls (Part 1)

My first glimpse inside Shanghai’s city walls was guided by the haiku poet Mr. Yonjūki.

It was a dim, rain-threatening afternoon. The horse carriage carrying two people dashed off down the bustling street. There was a shop where whole roasted chickens—vermillion as cinnabar clay—hung plastered across every surface.

There was a shop where all manner of hanging lamps stood arrayed with eerie precision. There were silver shops that seemed prosperous, their exquisite wares gleaming brightly; and there were shabbily poor taverns bearing timeworn signboards that still echoed Li Bai's stylistic legacy. As we amused ourselves observing these Chinese storefronts, the carriage entered a broad thoroughfare, then abruptly slackened its pace and turned into an alley visible ahead. According to Mr. Yonjūki’s account, a city wall had once towered over this very thoroughfare in times past.

After alighting from the horse carriage, we promptly turned into another narrow alley. This was perhaps less an alley than a lane. On both sides of this narrow lane were shops densely packed together—shops selling mahjong sets and shops selling rosewood furniture. Moreover, beneath those cramped eaves, signboards hung so densely that it was difficult to catch a glimpse of the sky. There, the foot traffic was extremely heavy. If you carelessly stopped to look at even something like the cheap seal materials displayed in front of a shop, you would immediately end up bumping into someone. Moreover, those dizzyingly bustling passersby were mostly Chinese commoners. While following behind Mr. Yonjūki, I proceeded to tread cautiously on the paving stones, so much so that I rarely glanced sideways.

When we reached the end of that lane, the much-rumored Lake Heart Pavilion came into view. To call it Lake Heart Pavilion suggests grandeur, but in truth it stood as a teahouse in utter ruin, seemingly on the verge of collapse at any moment. Moreover, looking at the pond outside the pavilion, bluish mud floated so thickly that the water's color remained nearly invisible. Around the pond ran a stone-paved railing that appeared equally precarious. Just as we arrived there—a Chinese man with a long queue wearing pale blue cotton clothes stood before us—allow me to digress here: according to Kikuchi Kan's critique, I'm apparently prone to using vulgar terms like "privy" in my stories. This habit, they claim, stems naturally from composing verses under the influence of Buson's horse dung and Bashō's horse urine. Of course I don't mean to dismiss Kikuchi's theory outright. But when writing of China's travels, the very baseness of these locales demands occasional breaches of decorum for vivid depiction. Should you doubt this, feel free to attempt such descriptions yourself—returning to our scene: one Chinese man stood urinating leisurely into the pond. Whether Chen Shufan raised rebel banners or vernacular poetry waned in popularity or Anglo-Japanese alliances were proposed—none of these could possibly concern this man. At the very least, his demeanor and countenance showed nothing but unshakable serenity. A Chinese-style pavilion beneath overcast skies; a pond spreading its morbid green hue; a robust stream of urine arching diagonally into those waters—this constituted more than some melancholy-charming landscape painting. Simultaneously, it formed an acridly terrifying symbol of our ancient great nation. I found myself gazing intently at this Chinese figure with profound absorption. Yet for Mr. Yonjūki, this too appeared no novel spectacle worthy of deep contemplation.

“Take a look. Even what’s flowing over these paving stones—all of this is piss, I tell you.” Mr. Yonjūki let slip a wry smile as he briskly rounded the pond’s edge and moved on. Now that he mentioned it, the air did indeed hang heavy with the oppressive stench of urine. The moment I registered this odor, the enchantment shattered completely. Lake Heart Pavilion remained merely Lake Heart Pavilion; urine stayed irrevocably urine. Digging my heels into the ground, I hurried after Mr. Yonjūki’s retreating figure. Such careless poeticizing must be avoided.

7 Inside the City Walls (Part 2)

When we went a little further along, there sat a blind old beggar. —To speak of beggars as a concept—they are romantic beings. What constitutes Romanticism remains an inexhaustible topic for debate, but at least one of its distinctive characteristics seems rooted in this perpetual yearning—whether for medieval times or ghosts, Africa or dreams or women’s logic—always directed toward something unknowable. Given this, it follows naturally that beggars are more romantic than company clerks. But Chinese beggars possess not merely one or two layers of unknowability. Lying prostrate on rain-drenched streets clad only in tattered newspapers, slobbering over knees with flesh rotting like pomegranates—in short, they were crafted with such romanticism it bordered on embarrassment. When reading Chinese novels, one often encounters tales of libertines or immortals disguising themselves as beggars. This is a Romanticism that developed organically from China’s beggars. Japanese beggars lack China’s supernatural filth, so such stories never emerge. At most, they might launch a Tanegashima attack on a shogun’s palanquin or invite Yanagisawa Kien to a mountain tea ceremony—that being their limit. —Though I’ve digressed too far—even this blind old beggar bore the semblance of someone like the Red-Legged Immortal or Iron-Crutch Immortal in disguise. Particularly when observing the paving stones before him, his wretched life lay neatly inscribed in white chalk. The calligraphy even appeared somewhat more skilled than my own. I found myself wondering who composed such biographies for beggars.

When we came to the next lane, there were now many antique shops. Peering into any shop here 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 cluttered chaotically about the space. Amid this jumble sat the Chinese-clad owner, water pipe clenched between his teeth, waiting for customers with an air of perfect ease. Next, I casually browsed a few more shops, but even if half the items were overpriced, the prices didn’t seem particularly cheap overall. This was something I was teased about by Mr. Katori Hidetane after returning to Japan: when buying antiques, it seems better to wander through Nihonbashi Nakadori in Tokyo than to go all the way to China.

When we passed through the antique shops, we emerged at a place with a large temple. This was the renowned Chenghuang Temple within the city walls—a place familiar even from the margins of illustrated books. Inside the Chenghuang Temple, worshippers came to kowtow, jostling and milling about. Of course, there were also far more people than one could imagine offering incense sticks and burning paper money. Perhaps due to being smoked by that haze, all the plaques between the beams and the couplets on the pillars were exquisitely greased with grime. Possibly, the only things not blackened with soot were those hanging in numbers from the ceiling—gold and silver paper money, spiral-shaped incense, and the like. Even this alone was already sufficient to evoke in me, just like the beggar from earlier, memories of Chinese novels I had read long ago. Moreover, when it came to the statues of what appeared to be judges seated on either side—or rather, when it came to the statue resembling Chenghuang seated solemnly at the front—it was practically indistinguishable from viewing illustrations in books like *Liaozhai Zhiyi* or *Xin Qixie*. While filled with great admiration, I remained there indefinitely, paying no heed to Mr. Yonjūki’s inconvenience.

8 Inside the City Walls (Part 3) It goes without saying that in Chinese novels teeming with tales of ghosts and foxes, from the Chenghuang deities down to the low-ranking judges and demon underlings, none remain idle. When Chenghuang reads the fortune of a scholar who spent a night beneath his temple’s eaves, a judge might startle a thief rampaging through town to death—though this makes it seem all virtue prevails. Yet considering there exists a Thief Chenghuang who sides with evildoers for mere dog meat offerings, many judges and demon underlings who chased human wives end up with broken elbows or severed heads, their shame proclaimed to the world. If you only read the books, something about it feels unconvincing. That is to say, while you might grasp the plot well enough, the emotional truth never quite lands. This had frustrated me endlessly—yet now that I stood before this very Chenghuang Temple, no matter how preposterous these novels’ constructions seemed, I couldn’t help but nod at each circumstance that birthed their imaginings. Why, a judge with such a florid face might well stoop to mimicking street toughs. And that Chenghuang with his magnificent beard? Were he to ascend into the night sky encircled by his stately retinue, nothing could seem more natural.

After thinking such thoughts, I once again joined Mr. Yonjūki to look around the various stalls that had set up shop before the temple. Tabi boots, toys, sugarcane stalks, shell buttons, handkerchiefs, Nanjing peanuts—and beyond these, there were still many slightly grubby food stalls. Of course, the crowd here was no different from that at a Japanese temple fair. Over there walked a Chinese dandy in a flashy striped suit with an amethyst tie pin. No sooner had I noticed this than on our side walked an old-fashioned lady with silver bracelets clasped around her wrists and foot-binding shoes no more than two or three inches long. Chen Jingji of *Jin Ping Mei*, Xi Shiyi of *Pinhua Baojian*—in such a teeming crowd as this, there must surely be heroes of that ilk. But as for the likes of Du Fu, Yue Fei, Wang Yangming, or Zhuge Liang—they wouldn’t even be worth turning into medicine here. In other words, modern China as it exists is not the China found in poetry and literature. Obscene, cruel, greedy—the China found in novels. The cheap mock Orientalism that prized ceramic pavilions, water lilies, and embroidered birds had gradually fallen out of fashion even in the West. It would be well for Japanese Sinology—that antiquarian taste which knows no China beyond the *Bunshō Kihan* and *Tōshisen*—to finally vanish from our shores as well.

Then we turned back and passed through a large teahouse located beside the pond from earlier. Inside the temple-like teahouse, customers were surprisingly sparse. But no sooner had I entered than the voices of larks, white-eyes, society finches, parakeets—every variety of small bird—assaulted my ears all at once like an invisible squall. Looking up, I saw dim ceiling beams thick with row upon row of hanging birdcages. That Chinese people cherish small birds was no newfound realization. But that they would mass cages in such numbers and pit avian cries against one another—this was a reality beyond my wildest imaginings. Here one could scarcely call it appreciation of birdsong—first necessity demanded I clap hands over ears lest eardrums burst. Near fleeing now, I pressed Mr. Yonjūki forward as we escaped that dreadful teahouse ringing with shrill cries.

However, the cries of small birds 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 chirping that assailed me. Yet these were not idlers making the birds sing as a pastime. All of them were professional bird shops lining the street—though to tell the truth, whether they sold birds or cages, I still couldn’t tell for certain.

“Please wait a moment. I’ll go buy a bird.”

After saying this to me, Mr. Yonjūki entered one of the shops. A little past that spot stood a single photo studio painted in glossy enamel. While waiting for Mr. Yonjūki, I gazed at the photograph of Mei Lanfang in the display window directly in front of me, thinking about the children awaiting his return.

9 Theater Stage (Part 1)

In Shanghai, I had only two or three opportunities to see theater performances. It was after going to Beijing that I became an instant theater connoisseur. However, even among the actors I saw in Shanghai, there were indeed contemporary luminaries—such as the renowned Gai Jiaotian in martial male roles, and Lü Mudan and Xiao Cuihua in flower dan roles. But before discussing the actors, unless I first describe the theater’s features, readers may not fully grasp what Chinese theater was like.

One of the theaters I visited was called Tianchan Wutai. This was a still brand-new, white-plastered three-story building. The second and third floors formed a semicircle encircled by brass railings—undoubtedly an imitation of contemporary Western fashion. Three large electric lights hung brilliantly from the ceiling. In the auditorium, rattan chairs lined the brick floor—but as long as this was China, one couldn’t let one’s guard down even with rattan chairs. Once when sitting in these chairs with Mr. Murata, I suffered bites in two or three places on my wrists from Nanjing bugs I had long dreaded. Still, the theater’s interior was acceptably clean overall—not enough to cause discomfort.

On both sides of the stage hung large clocks. (Though one had stopped.) Beneath them sprawled tobacco advertisements in garish colors. In the transom above the stage—amid stucco roses and acanthus leaves—loomed large characters reading *Tensei Jingo* ("Divine Utterances, Human Words"). The stage might have been wider than Yūrakuza. Here too they had installed Western-style footlights. As for curtains—well—they used no curtains at all to demarcate scenes. But when changing backdrops—or rather serving as backdrops themselves—they sometimes drew cheap advertising curtains for Soochow Bank and Three Castles cigarettes. The curtains everywhere seemed designed to part from center to sides. When undrawn, painted backdrops blocked the rear— oil-painting-style drapes old and new depicting interiors and landscapes. With only two or three varieties available, whether Jiang Wei galloped his steed or Wu Song committed murder, the backdrop remained stubbornly unchanged. At stage left waited Chinese musicians clutching huqins, yueqins and gongs. Among this crowd one could spy one or two gentlemen sporting hunting caps.

Incidentally, regarding theater etiquette—whether first or second class—one could simply stride boldly into any section. In China, it was customary to pay the venue fee after securing seats, making that aspect remarkably straightforward. Once seats were settled, towels steamed with boiling water would arrive, followed by letterpress-printed programs. Tea naturally came in a large earthenware pot. As for extras like watermelon seeds or penny sweets, one needed only to firmly declare “No need!” As for those towels—ever since witnessing a stately Chinese gentleman beside me first wipe his face thoroughly before blowing his nose into one—I had resolved to refuse them indefinitely. The charge—or perhaps gratuity depending on presentation—for first-class seats generally ranged between two yen and one yen fifty sen, I should think. This conjecture arose because Mr. Murata never permitted me to pay, always settling accounts himself.

The defining characteristic of Chinese theater lay first and foremost in the sheer volume of its musical accompaniment, which exceeded anything one might imagine. In martial plays—those with many fight scenes—several large men would glare at a corner of the stage as if engaged in mortal combat while desperately beating gongs, making it far from being a place for serene discourse. In fact, when I was still unaccustomed to it, I could not remain seated unless I covered my ears with both hands. But when it came to our Mr. Murata Ukō, I heard he felt unsatisfied when the musical accompaniment grew subdued. Not only that, but even when outside the theater, merely listening to this clamor supposedly allowed one to generally discern what play was being performed. "That noisy place is just the best, isn't it?"—Every time you said that, I couldn't help but wonder whether you were in your right mind.

10 Theater Stage (Part 2)

On the other hand, if you were in a Chinese theater, even if people in the audience were talking or children were wailing, it didn't particularly bother anyone. This alone was supremely convenient. Perhaps it was because this was China that such loud musical accompaniment had been developed—so that even if the audience wasn't quiet, it wouldn't interfere with listening to the play. In fact, throughout an entire act, I was being taught various things by Mr. Murata—the plot, the actors' names, the meaning of songs—but the gentlemen in the neighboring seats never once made an annoyed expression.

The second characteristic of Chinese theater was its extreme avoidance of props. Even elements like backdrops existed here, but these were merely recent innovations. The original stage properties of China consisted solely of chairs, tables, and curtains. Mountains, oceans, palaces, roads—no matter what scene they depicted, they had never used a single standing tree beyond arranging these basic items. When an actor pantomimed removing a heavy latch, the audience had no choice but to recognize a door existing in that void. Moreover, when an actor swaggered about brandishing a tasseled whip, one was compelled to envision some unruly violet-maned steed neighing beneath his straddled legs. Yet we Japanese could instantly comprehend this convention through our familiarity with Noh theater. If instructed to perceive stacked chairs as a mountain, we readily acquiesced. When an actor slightly raised one foot to indicate a threshold separating interior from exterior, this too required little imaginative effort. Beyond this realism lay a stylized realm where one might even discover unexpected beauty. I still vividly recall how Xiaocuihua, playing the tavern maid in *Meilong Zhen*, would flash glimpses of her small shoe soles beneath yellowish-green trousers each time she crossed this imaginary boundary. Had those fleeting shoe soles not belonged to a fictional threshold, they surely could never have conjured such delicate poignancy.

The fact that they do not use props here, being as described above, did not trouble us in the least. Rather, what exasperated me was how utterly haphazard the ordinary small props like trays, plates, and handheld candlesticks were. For instance, even in this *Meilong Zhen*, upon careful theatrical analysis, it is not an event of contemporary times. The plot involves Emperor Wuzong of the Ming dynasty taking a liking to Fengjie, the daughter of a flag pavilion in Meilong Zhen, during his incognito journey. However, the basin that the girl held had a silver-plated edge on its ceramic base painted with roses. That must have been something displayed in some department store. If Umewaka Mansaburō were to stride out with a saber dangling at his waist—the utter absurdity of such a thing needed no explanation.

The third characteristic of Chinese theater was the great variety of its elaborate face painting. According to Venerable Tsuji Chōka, Cao Cao alone had over sixty variations of kumadori makeup—far surpassing anything the Ichikawa school could ever fuss about. Moreover, what made this face painting so excessive was how red, indigo, ochre, and other colors completely covered the entire skin. At first glance, one could not possibly perceive it as makeup. When Jiang Menshen lumbered out during the performance of *Wu Song*, no matter how much I listened to Mr. Murata’s explanations, I still could not help but think it was a mask. If one could discern at a glance that those so-called painted faces were not masks, then that person must indeed have possessed something akin to clairvoyance.

The fourth characteristic of Chinese theater was that its fight scenes reached extremes of intensity. When it came to the movements of lower-ranking performers, calling them "actors" was scarcely more appropriate than labeling them acrobats. They would execute two consecutive somersaults from one end of the stage to the other, then plunge headfirst from stacked desks at center stage. Since these performers typically wore red trousers with their torsos bare, they inevitably seemed akin to tightrope walkers or ball-balancers. Even distinguished martial actors would swing Green Dragon Blades with such force that they literally whipped up wind currents. While martial actors had always been reputed for physical strength, without such power they could never have sustained this essential craft. Yet true masters of martial theater possessed a unique dignity transcending mere acrobatic feats. The proof lay in watching Gai Jiaotian—costumed as Wu Song in patched trousers like a Japanese rickshaw puller—and realizing how much more authentically fearsome he appeared as Pilgrim Wu Song when silently fixing his opponent with a piercing gaze at crucial moments than when wildly brandishing his blade.

Of course, such characteristics were defining features of China’s traditional theater. In new theater, they apparently neither applied kumadori-style makeup nor performed somersaults. Yet to claim that everything about it was new would be going too far. Even in plays like *Selling Oneself into Service* performed on such stages, when an actor carried out a candle without fire, the audience still had to imagine that the candle was lit. In other words, the symbolism of traditional theater still lingered on the stage. As for new theater, even outside Shanghai, I later attended performances two or three times, but in this regard, all were regrettably no more than fifty steps versus a hundred. At the very least, things such as rain, lightning, or the arrival of night were entirely dependent on the audience’s imagination.

Finally, when it comes to discussing the actors—since I had already cited Gai Jiaotian and Xiaocuihua as examples—there remained nothing further to elaborate on now. However, the one thing I wished to record was Lü Mudan in his dressing room. The place where I visited him was again a theater dressing room—or rather, to be more precise, it might better be called backstage. In any case, that space behind the stage—with its peeling walls reeking of garlic—stood as a truly wretched sight. According to Mr. Murata’s account, when Mei Lanfang had visited Japan, what most astonished him was the cleanliness of dressing rooms; compared to this one, those of the Imperial Theater must indeed have seemed astonishingly immaculate. Moreover, in Chinese theaters’ backstages, actors of a certain shabby sort—their faces still thick with kumadori-style face painting—loitered about in numbers. Their comings and goings under electric lights, engulfed in swirling dust, created a spectacle resembling a procession of night-wandering demons. From the path trodden by these figures, in a slightly shadowed spot, Chinese-style bags and such had been placed. Lü Mudan had removed only his wig onto one of these bags while still dressed as Su San the courtesan, just then drinking tea. On stage his face had appeared narrow, but seen up close now, it proved less delicate than expected—rather, he was a strapping young man exuding strong sensuality, standing at least six inches taller than myself. That night, Mr. Murata—who accompanied me—introduced us while exchanging pleasantries with this clever-looking female impersonator after a long separation. I heard that Murata had been one of Lü Mudan’s most ardent patrons since his days as an unknown child actor—so devoted he could scarcely endure a day without him. I conveyed to Lü Mudan that Yutang Chun had been fascinating. Then, unexpectedly, he used the Japanese word “Arigato.” And then—and then what did he do? For both his sake and that of my companion Murata Ukō, I have no desire to commit such matters to public record. Yet should I refrain from writing this, my efforts in introducing him would have pointlessly let truth slip away.

In that case, I would be most remiss to my readers. To that end, if I resorted to unvarnished truth—no sooner had he turned aside than he flourished his crimson-sleeved arm embroidered with silver threads and deftly snorted snot onto the floor.

Eleven: Mr. Zhang Binglin

In Mr. Zhang Binglin’s study—for reasons unknown to me—a large crocodile specimen clung belly-down to the wall. Yet this book-buried study was so bitterly cold it seeped into one’s bones—so cold that the crocodile itself felt like an irony. To borrow a haiku’s seasonal motif, the day’s weather had indeed been a bitingly chill rain. The tile-lined room contained neither floor mats nor stove. The seating consisted solely of angular rosewood armchairs, cushionless of course. Moreover, I wore only a thin serge sleeping robe. Even now when I recall sitting in that study, my having escaped catching cold seems nothing short of a miracle.

However, Mr. Zhang Taiyan was wearing an ash-gray dàguà overcoat and a black riding jacket lined with thick fur. Therefore, he was of course not cold.

Moreover, the chair on which Mr. Zhang was sitting was a rattan chair covered with fur. While I was so engrossed in his eloquence that I even forgot to smoke, I could not help but feel profound envy at how warmly and comfortably he stretched out his legs. Rumors have it that Mr. Zhang Binglin appoints himself as a mentor to kings. And it is said that at one time he even chose Li Yuanhong as his disciple. Speaking of which, on the wall beside the desk beneath that crocodile specimen hung a horizontal scroll inscribed: "Dongnan Puxue, Mr. Zhang Taiyan, Yuanhong." However, to speak frankly, Mr. Zhang’s face was by no means handsome. His skin was almost yellow. His mustache and beard were pitifully thin. His jutting forehead was so prominent that one might mistake it for a lump. But those thread-thin eyes alone—those eyes that always smiled coldly behind elegant rimless glasses—were certainly no off-the-shelf product. It was for these eyes that Yuan Shikai threw Mr. Zhang into prison and tormented him. At the same time, it was also because of these eyes that even after imprisoning Mr. Zhang, they ultimately could not carry out his execution.

Mr. Zhang’s discourse remained thoroughly centered on political and social issues in modern China. Of course, there was no reason for me—who knew not a word of Chinese beyond stock phrases like “No need” or “Wait a moment” used with rickshaw pullers—to comprehend such debates. That I could grasp Mr. Zhang’s arguments and occasionally even pose impertinent questions to him was entirely thanks to Mr. Nishimoto Shōzō, editor-in-chief of Shūhō “Shanghai”. Mr. Nishimoto, sitting perfectly upright with chest thrust out in the chair beside me, dutifully served as interpreter however convoluted the discussion grew. (Especially since the deadline for the weekly Shūhō “Shanghai” was fast approaching at the time, I could not help feeling profoundly grateful for Mr. Nishimoto’s considerable exertions.)

“Modern China is, regrettably, in a state of political decay. The fact that corruption is openly practiced might be said to be even more rampant than in the final years of the Qing dynasty. When it comes to scholarship and the arts, the stagnation appears even more severe. However, the Chinese people are inherently disinclined to extremes. As long as this characteristic persists, the Bolshevization of China will remain impossible. It is true that some students welcomed worker-peasant ideology. However, students are not synonymous with the nation. Even if they were to become Bolshevized, a time would surely come when they abandon their claims. The reason is that the national character—the national character that loves the golden mean—is stronger than momentary fervor.”

Mr. Zhang Binglin, while incessantly waving his long-nailed hands, expounded his unique theories in a torrential manner. I—was just cold.

“Then, what means should one take to revive China?” “The solution to this problem—no matter what concrete measures one takes—cannot arise from deskbound academic theories.” “The ancients also declared that those who understand current affairs are outstanding talents.” “Not deducing from a single claim but inducing from countless facts—that is what it means to understand current affairs.” “After understanding current affairs, one establishes a plan—to follow the times and control what is appropriate ultimately comes down to this meaning.…”

While listening intently, I occasionally gazed at the crocodile on the wall. And so, completely unrelated to the issue of China, I found myself musing such thoughts. That crocodile must surely know the scent of water lilies, the sunlight, and the warmth of the water. Considering this, my current coldness should be most comprehensible to that crocodile. Crocodile! You stuffed specimen are fortunate. Please have pity on me. Still living like this, me.…

12. The West

Q. Shanghai is not merely China. Since it is also Western in one aspect, please make sure to thoroughly observe those areas as well. As for the parks alone, I think they are far more advanced than Japan’s, but—

A. I did see all the parks, after a fashion. French Park and Jessfield Park make ideal places for a stroll. What struck me as particularly beautiful at French Park was Western mothers and nannies letting their children play among the plane trees putting out new leaves. But I wouldn't say they're especially more progressive than Japan's. Aren't these parks simply labeled as Western-style? Just because something becomes Western-style doesn't automatically mean it's progressed.

Q.

Did you go to New Park too?

A. Of course I did. But that must be a sports ground. I did not think it was a park.

Q. Public Garden?

A. That park was interesting. Foreigners may enter, but not a single Chinese person can enter. And yet they dare call it 'Public'—now that's reaching the pinnacle of naming ingenuity!

Q. But even when walking through the streets, don't areas with many Westerners feel somehow pleasant? This too isn't something you see in Japan— A. Come to think of it, I did see a foreigner without a nose the other day. Encountering such foreigners might prove a bit difficult in Japan.

Q. "You mean that one?" "That’s the man who was first to wear a mask during the influenza outbreak.—But even when walking through the streets, compared to foreigners, Japanese people all look rather feeble." A. "Japanese people in Western clothes, you know."

Q. "But isn't wearing traditional Japanese clothing even more problematic? After all, when it comes to Japanese people—they don't give a second thought to having their skin exposed—"

A. If one were to think anything of it, it’s that the one thinking is obscene. Wasn’t it for that very reason Kume the Ascetic fell from his cloud?

Q.

So, are Westerners obscene?

A. Of course they're obscene in that regard. Unfortunately, customs—that business—are a matter of majority rule. Therefore, before long, even Japanese people will come to view going out barefoot as something vulgar. In other words, they're growing more obscene than before.

Q. However, having the likes of Japanese geisha walking about in broad daylight must be embarrassing in front of Westerners.

A. "Oh, don't you worry about that. Because Western geisha are walking around too—it's just that you can't tell them apart."

Q.

"That’s a bit harsh, I must say." "Did you even go to the French Concession?" A. "That residential area was pleasant. Willows already hung hazy, doves faintly cooing, peach blossoms still blooming, Chinese houses remaining here and there—"

Q. “That area is almost entirely Western, isn't it? With their red tiles and white bricks—aren’t Westerners’ houses quite nice?”

A. “Westerners’ houses are mostly no good, aren’t they?” “At least the houses I saw were all inferior.”

Q.

Q. "That you harbor such an aversion to the West—I never would have dreamed it, but—" A. "It’s not that I dislike the West. It’s that I detest vulgar things." Q. "Of course I do."

A. "Do not lie. You would rather wear Western clothes than Japanese clothes. You would rather live in a bungalow than in a house with an imposing gate. You would rather eat macaroni than kamaage udon. You would rather drink Yamamotoyama tea than Brazilian coffee—"

Q.

“I get it already.”

“But cemeteries can’t be all bad—what about that Westerners’ cemetery on Bubbling Well Road?”

A. Cemeteries are quite the predicament, aren't they? Indeed, that cemetery was tastefully done. However, if I had to choose, I would rather lie beneath a dirt mound than under a marble cross. As for lying below sculptures of dubious angels—I'll have none of that.

Q. "So you feel absolutely no interest in Shanghai’s Western aspects?"

A. No, I feel it quite strongly. "As you say, Shanghai is Western in at least one regard." "For better or worse, seeing the West must certainly be interesting, mustn't it?" Yet even to my eyes—unacquainted with the authentic West—the Western elements here still feel misplaced.

13 Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu

According to rumors among the populace, Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu was said to live in contented frugal simplicity. However, one cloudy morning, when I arrived by automobile at the gate together with Mr. Murata and Mr. Hata, this house of supposed frugal simplicity revealed itself as a far more splendid three-story edifice painted mouse-gray than I had anticipated. Within the gate, before a slightly yellowed thicket of bamboo that appeared to extend into a garden, snowball flowers perfumed the air. I thought to myself: I would have no objection to living amid such frugal simplicity at any time.

Five minutes later, the three of us were shown into the reception room. Here, apart from scrolls hung on the walls, there was almost no decoration. However, atop the mantelpiece, a small Yellow Dragon Flag hung its tail between a pair of ceramic vases flanking left and right. Mr. Zheng Suqian was not a politician of the Republic of China; he was a loyalist of the Qing Empire. As I gazed at this flag, I recalled a half-remembered phrase someone had used to critique Mr. Zheng: "Others retreat but do not hide—such men can hardly be discussed in the same breath," or something to that effect.

There, a slightly plump young man entered soundlessly into the room. This was Mr. Zheng Chui, his son who had studied in Japan. Mr. Hata, who was acquainted with Mr. Zheng, promptly introduced me. Since Mr. Zheng Chui was proficient in Japanese, there was no need to trouble Mr. Hata and Mr. Murata with interpretation when speaking with him.

It was not long after that Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu appeared before us, his tall figure commanding attention. At first glance, he had a healthy complexion unbefitting an old man. His eyes too held an almost youthful brightness. In particular, his posture with chest thrust out and animated hand gestures made him appear even more youthful than Mr. Zheng Chui. The fact that he wore a black riding jacket over a light-gray long coat tinged with blue showed that, true to his reputation as a genius of his day, he presented an exceedingly refined figure. No—even now, in these leisurely days of ample repose, seeing him so vigorous, one could scarcely imagine how dazzlingly brilliant he must have been during that theatrical Wuxu Reform centered around Kang Youwei, when he played such a flamboyant role.

With Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu now among us, we spent some time discussing issues concerning China. Of course, I too shamelessly expounded on unbecoming matters like China’s public sentiment toward Japan following the New Consortium’s establishment and such. To say this makes me sound utterly insincere—but at the time, I was by no means prattling thoughtlessly. In my own view, I had been presenting my arguments with deadly seriousness. Yet looking back now, I must have been somewhat out of my right mind then. Though to be fair—while my flighty disposition contributed to this flush of fervor—modern China itself surely bore half the blame. If you doubt this, let anyone go to China and see. Within a month of staying there, you’ll find yourself strangely compelled to discuss politics. This can only be because modern China’s very air has gestated political problems these twenty years.

As for one such as myself—with all due politeness—this fervor showed no signs of cooling even as I traversed the Jiangnan region. And so, though none had asked it of me, I found myself thinking of nothing but politics—a matter far inferior to art and its ilk.

Mr. Zheng Xiaoxu had despaired, politically speaking, of modern China. As long as China clung to republicanism, it could never escape perpetual chaos. But even were one to implement monarchical rule, overcoming the present crisis would require waiting solely for a hero's emergence. Even that hero, in modern times, must simultaneously navigate an intricate web of competing interests within international relations. To await the emergence of such a hero was to await the emergence of a miracle.

In the midst of such conversation, when I placed a cigarette between my lips, Mr. Zheng immediately rose and lit it with a match for me. While feeling thoroughly abashed, I couldn't help thinking that in matters of hospitality, we Japanese prove utterly inept compared to the gentlemen of our neighboring country. After being regaled with black tea, we were guided by Mr. Zheng to view the expansive garden behind his residence. The garden featured a pristine lawn encircled by cherry trees he had procured from Japan and white-barked pines. When I took what appeared to be another similar mouse-gray three-story structure beyond them for part of his estate, it turned out to be the newly built residence of Mr. Zheng Chui's family.

As I walked through this garden, I gazed up at a patch of blue sky that had finally broken through the clouds above a cluster of bamboo groves. And once again, I thought that if this was frugal simplicity, then I too would like to live with it.

While I was writing this manuscript, a scroll arrived from the framer’s shop. The scroll had been mounted with the seven-character quatrain that Mr. Zheng had written for me during my second visit. “How do dream offerings compare to the force of historical deeds? The colophons of Wuxing pale before those of Yuanzhang. The swords of Yanping boast divine marvels. He Pu’s pearls return to favor secret hoarding”—seeing these characters flow across the paper with dancing brushstrokes, I found myself still nostalgically recalling those minutes spent facing Mr. Zheng. For those several minutes, I was not merely facing an eminent personage who was a loyalist of the former dynasty. Moreover, I had indeed come into contact with the very presence of modern China’s poetic master—the author of the Haicanglou Poetry Collection.

14 Crime

Dear Sir,

Shanghai was said to be China’s premier “city of sin.” After all, it was a place where people from various countries congregated, so it was only natural that it would turn out that way. Even from what I had seen and heard, public morals certainly appeared to be poor. For instance, incidents of Chinese rickshaw pullers transforming into robbers in the blink of an eye were constantly appearing 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, it was said that they even cut off ears to steal a woman’s earrings. These acts might have been driven less by common thievery than by a form of *Psychopathia Sexualis*. In such crimes of depravity, for several months now, an incident called the Lianying Murder Case had been adapted into both plays and novels. This referred to what they called the Chai Bai Dang there—that is to say, one member of this gang of delinquent youths had killed a geisha named Lianying in order to steal her diamond ring. Moreover, the method of killing—luring her into a car, taking her near Xujiahui, and then strangling her—was, in any case, an unprecedented and innovative crime in China. According to public opinion, as one often heard even in Japan, it was said that detective films and such had exerted a bad influence. However, according to the photograph I saw, the geisha named Lianying could not even politely be called a beauty.

Of course, prostitution was also thriving. If one went to a teahouse called Qinglian Pavilion or the like, countless prostitutes would gather there from around dusk. They were called "wild pheasants," but at a glance, none appeared to be over twenty years old. When they caught sight of Japanese people or the like, they would all come swarming around while calling out, “Anata! Anata!” In addition to “Anata,” these women would also say things like “Saigo! Saigo!” As for what “Saigo” meant—it was said to have originated when Japanese soldiers stationed in China during the Russo-Japanese War would catch local women and say “Let’s go” while dragging them to nearby sorghum fields or such places. Hearing its etymology made it sound like a rakugo comedy routine—but in any case, this did not seem to be a particularly honorable story for us Japanese. Then at night around Simalu, these “wild pheasants” who had taken rickshaws could be seen loitering in considerable numbers. It was said to be their custom that when they found a customer, they would put him in their rickshaw and walk him back to their homes themselves. What their reasoning might have been, they generally wore glasses. It may have been that in present-day China, women wearing glasses was becoming one of the new trends.

Opium too seemed to be smoked everywhere with semi-open acceptance. In the opium den I visited, illuminated by faint bean-oil lamps, a prostitute sat sharing a long-stemmed pipe with her customer. According to that foreigner's account, there existed such shocking entities as the Makkyōtō and Nandōshi. Nandōshi referred to men vending their allure to women, while Makkyōtō denoted women performing lewd spectacles for patrons—or so I was told. Hearing this, I grew convinced that among the queue-wearing Chinese passersby, there must walk several Marquis de Sade incarnations. And walk they surely did.

According to a Dane’s account, though he had spent six years in Sichuan and Guangdong without hearing rumors of necrophilia, two actual cases had been discovered there within just the past three weeks. Moreover, recently, a large number of suspicious-looking 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 by a shabbily dressed Russian man demanding money. That fellow was likely just a beggar, but it left an unpleasant impression. However, owing to the Municipal Council’s strict oversight, Shanghai’s public morals appeared to be gradually improving overall. Indeed, even in the Westerners’ quarter, disreputable establishments like El Dorado and Palermo had already disappeared. Yet at a place called Del Monte, located much closer to the outskirts, many businessmen still frequented the place.

“Green satin, and a dance, white wine and gleaming laughter, with two nodding ear-rings―these are Lotus.”

This was a verse from the poem that Eunice Tietjens had written about the Shanghai courtesan Lotus. "White wine and gleaming laughter"—this did not apply to Lotus alone. The women leaning against tables at Del Monte while listening to the orchestra that included Indians were ultimately constrained to these very trappings. End.

15. Southern Beauties (Part 1)

In Shanghai, I saw many beautiful women. By what fate I cannot say, but whenever I saw them, it was always at a restaurant called Xiaoyoutian. This was said to be the establishment that Qingdaoren Li Ruiqing, who had passed away in recent years, frequented. "The Way that can be spoken is not the eternal Way; each day's heavens hold Xiaoyoutian"—given that such wordplay existed, his patronage must have been no casual matter, but rather something cultivated with considerable care. However, it was said that this renowned literatus possessed such an extraordinary stomach that he could devour seventy crabs in one go.

To begin with, Shanghai’s restaurants were not particularly comfortable places to linger. The partitions between each room at Xiaoyoutian consisted of wooden walls of the utmost crudeness. Moreover, the utensils arranged on the tables—even at Ippinko, which prided itself on elegance—differed in no way from those found in Japanese Western-style restaurants. Furthermore, whether at Yaxiyuan, Xinghualou, or even Xinghua Chuancai Guan, one’s senses beyond taste were more likely to suffer shock than find satisfaction in such establishments. On one particular occasion when Mr. Hata treated me to a meal at Yaxiyuan, I asked a waiter where the restroom was only to be told to use the kitchen sink. In fact, even before I arrived there, a single greasy kitchen knife had already established a clear precedent at that very spot. I found myself thoroughly disgusted by this.

However, the food surpassed Japan's. If I were to affect connoisseurship, the Shanghai teahouses I visited—such as Ruiji and Houdefu—fell short of their Beijing counterparts. Nevertheless, compared to Tokyo's Chinese cuisine, even Xiaoyoutian proved decidedly superior. What's more, prices stood at roughly one-fifth of Japan's.

Though I had digressed considerably, none of the occasions when I saw many beautiful women surpassed the time I dined with Mr. Yu Xun, president of Shenzhou Daily. As I mentioned before, this was when I was on the upper floor of Xiaoyoutian. Xiaoyoutian, after all, faced Simalu Road—a thoroughfare especially bustling at night in Shanghai—so the clamor of carriages and horses beyond the railing hardly ceased for even a minute. Upstairs, voices of conversation and laughter mingled incessantly with the strains of a Chinese fiddle accompanying song. Amid this commotion, sipping rose tea while watching Yu Kung-min vigorously wield his brush on the jupiao slips, I felt not so much in a teahouse as waiting on a post office bench—a peculiar sense of hurriedness.

The jupiao slips undulated across Western paper, their red-printed characters writhing with the message: 「叫―速至三馬路大舞台東首小有天閩菜館―座侍酒勿延」 ("Summon—Proceed immediately to Xiaoyoutian Min Restaurant east of Grand Theater on Simalu Road—Seat reserved for wine service without delay"). I recalled that the jupiao at Yaxiyuan had displayed phrases like "Never Forget National Humiliation" and anti-Japanese slogans in their corners, but fortunately no such lines were visible on these here. ("Jupiao are slips used to summon courtesans, similar to Osaka's meeting notices.") Mr. Yu wrote my surname on one of them and then added the three characters "Mei Fengchun."

“This is that Lin Daiyu.” “She’s already fifty-eight years old now.” “They say apart from President Xu Shichang, this woman alone knows all the political secrets of these past twenty years.” “I’ll have you do the summoning—take a look for reference.” Mr. Yu smirked and began writing the next jupiao slip. His command of Japanese was so formidable that he was said to have once delivered a bilingual table speech that impressed his guest Mr. Tokutomi Sohō.

Before long, we—Mr. Yu, Mr. Hata, Mr. Murata, and I—took our seats around the dining table, and the very first to arrive was a beauty named Aichun. This was a clever-looking geisha with a refined round face somewhat reminiscent of a Japanese schoolgirl's. Her attire consisted of a pale purple robe with white woven patterns and celadon-colored trousers bearing some sort of design. Her hair—styled in the traditional Japanese manner with a blue ribbon tied at the roots—hung long down her back. The way her bangs fell across her forehead seemed no different from those of Japanese girls. On her chest glimmered a jade butterfly; in her ears shone earrings of gold and pearls; around her wrist gleamed a gold watch—all glittering brightly.

16. Southern Beauties (Part 2)

Having been greatly impressed, even while using the long ivory chopsticks, I continued gazing intently at this beauty. Yet just as dish after dish was brought to the table, beauties too began streaming in. This was no occasion to be marveling at Aichun alone. I began observing the next geisha to enter—one named Shihong. This geisha called Shihong was not more beautiful than Aichun. However, her face bore boldly defined features that carried a rustic air, possessing distinctive character. The ribbon tying her low ponytail differed only in being pink—otherwise identical to Aichun’s. Her robe of deep purple satin had a border roughly two inches wide woven with silver and indigo. According to Yu Kung-min’s explanation, this courtesan hailed from Jiangxi province, hence her attire followed no contemporary fashion but preserved an antiquated style. Indeed, her rouge and powder were applied far more lavishly than Aichun’s natural complexion could boast. Surveying her wristwatch, diamond butterfly brooch on the left breast, necklace of large pearls, and two gem-studded rings adorning only her right hand, I marveled that not even a Shinbashi geisha could match such resplendent adornments.

After Shihong came—but if I were to list them all one by one, even I would wear myself out—I shall just briefly introduce two of them here. One was a tragically ill-fated beauty named Luo’e, who had been on the verge of marrying Wang Wenhua, governor of Guizhou Province, only for Wang to be assassinated, leaving her still working as a geisha to this day. She wore black patterned satin with fragrant white orchids pinned to it and nothing more. Her attire—plainer than her years would suggest—combined with her cool eyes gave an undeniably pure impression. The other was a quiet-looking girl of twelve or thirteen. The gold bracelets and pearl necklaces adorning this geisha seemed like mere toys. Moreover, when teased, she displayed a bashful expression like any maiden in the world. What made this all the more curious was that this protagonist—one who, being Japanese, invited incredulous smirks—bore the name Tenjiku.

These beauties took their seats among us one after another, each according to the names written on the jupiao slips. However, Lin Daiyu—whose coquettish fame had dominated an era and whom I was supposed to have summoned—did not readily show herself. Before long, the geisha Qinlou, still holding a half-smoked cigarette, began to sing a lilting tune called Fenhewan in the Xipi style. When geishas sing, it is customary to accompany them with the Chinese fiddle. For some reason, the Chinese fiddle players typically wore utterly drab hunting caps or fedoras even while playing their instruments. The Chinese fiddles mostly had bodies made from straight-cut sections of bamboo with snake skin stretched over them. When Qinlou finished singing a piece, it was now Shihong’s turn. This time, without using the Chinese fiddle, she played the biwa herself while singing a somewhat lonely song. Speaking of Jiangxi, her birthplace was the plains along the Xunyang River. If one indulges in schoolboy-like sentimentality, one might imagine that on an autumn evening of rustling maple leaves and reed flowers, the pipa melody that moistened Sima Hakurakuten’s blue robe-sleeves in Jiangzhou could well have been something akin to this. When Shihong finished, Pingxiang sang. When Pingxiang finished—Mr. Murata suddenly stood up and began singing “Mid-Autumn night, the moonlight shines bright,” a Xipi-style rendition of “Wujiapo”—I was quite startled. Admittedly, unless one were this adaptable, they might not be able to thoroughly grasp the intricacies of Chinese life as you do.

It was only after the shark fin soup on the dining table had been thoroughly devoured that Lin Daiyu’s Mei Fengchun finally joined the gathering. She was a plump woman who conformed far more closely to the archetype of a courtesan than I had imagined. Her face, now, was by no means considered to be of exceptional beauty. Even with rouge and eyebrow makeup applied, the only thing that evoked her former beauty was the still-glamorous light drifting in her narrow eyes. But when I considered her age—that this was fifty-eight years old—no matter how I thought about it, it seemed nothing short of a fabrication. At first glance, she appeared to be no more than forty. Her hands in particular were like a child’s, the joints at the base of her fingers indented into the plump backs of her hands. Her attire consisted of a black satin robe adorned with silver trim and orchid patterns, paired with trousers of the same sheath-like cut. On her earrings, bracelets, and the plaque hanging from her chest, every flat surface of their gold and silver bases was inlaid with jade and diamonds. Among these, the diamonds in the rings were about the size of sparrow's eggs. This was not an appearance suited for a main street restaurant like this. A figure intermingling sin and opulence—one that should be reminiscent of something like "The Velvet Dream" within Mr. Tanizaki Jun'ichirō’s novels.

No matter how old she grew, Lin Daiyu remained ultimately Lin Daiyu. How remarkably talented she was could be surmised immediately from her manner of speaking. Moreover, when she began singing a Qin opera melody moments later, accompanied by the Chinese fiddle and flute, the power that surged forth with her voice truly overwhelmed the assembled courtesans.

17. Southern Beauties (Part 3) “What do you think of Lin Daiyu?” After she had left her seat, Mr. Yu asked me this question. “She’s quite a remarkable woman. Above all, I was astonished by how young she looks.” “Apparently she drank powdered pearls when she was young.” “Pearls are an elixir of immortality, you see.” “If she didn’t take opium, she’d look even younger.”

By that time, a newly arrived geisha was already seated in Lin Daiyu’s place. This was a fair-skinned, petite beauty with an air of refined elegance. Her pale purple damask robe, woven with a treasure motif, and the crystal earrings dangling from her ears undoubtedly enhanced this geisha’s refined elegance even further. When I promptly asked her name, the reply came: “Hua Baoyu.” Hua Baoyu—when this beauty pronounced her own name, it was precisely like the cooing of a dove. As I handed her a cigarette, I recalled Du Shaoling’s poem: “The cuckoo urges the spring planting.”

“Mr. Akutagawa.”

Mr. Yu Xun called my name with apparent reluctance while offering me aged rice wine. “What do you think of Chinese women? Do you like them?” “I like women from anywhere, but Chinese women are beautiful.”

“Which part do you find appealing?”

“Well... I think the most beautiful part would be the ears.”

In truth, I held no small measure of respect for Chinese people’s ears. When it came to that, Japanese women were no match for Chinese people. Japanese people’s ears were too flat; moreover, many had thick flesh. Among them, there were not a few that—due to some inexplicable reason—resembled mushrooms sprouting from faces rather than what one would call ears. Upon consideration, this was the same as deep-sea fish having gone blind. Japanese ears had, since ancient times, kept themselves hidden behind oiled sideburns. But Chinese women’s ears had not only always been caressed by spring breezes but were even adorned—with utmost courtesy—with jeweled earrings. Because of this, Japanese women’s ears had degenerated to their current state, while Chinese ones seemed to have become beautiful ears that were naturally well-maintained. Indeed, looking at this Hua Baoyu, her ears were precisely like small seashells—truly adorable ears that one could find in this world. In *The Romance of the Western Chamber*, Yingying recites: “Her hairpin askew, jade ornaments slanting across... / Her coiled hair disheveled like scattered clouds / The sun high, yet her eyes remain unopened / Perfectly languid / Half-rising after long repose / Several times she scratched her ear / A long sigh escapes.” This must surely have been describing ears like these. Li Weng once expounded in detail on the beauty of Chinese women (in Volume III, “Voice and Appearance Section” of *Occasional Gatherings*), yet he never once mentioned these ears. In this regard, even the great author of the Ten Plays should rightly yield the credit of discovery to Akutagawa Ryunosuke.

After expounding my theory on ears, I ate sweetened porridge together with the three other gentlemen. After that, we went out to the bustling Sanmalu thoroughfare to tour the brothels. The brothels were mostly lined along both sides of stone-paved alleyways that ran crosswise through the streets. Mr. Yu guided us while reading aloud the names on the eaves lanterns, but upon arriving before a certain house, he briskly went inside. The place we entered had a dreary dirt-floored entryway where shabbily dressed Chinese people were eating meals or going about their business. Unless informed beforehand that this was a house employing geisha, no one would have believed it to be anything but an ordinary dwelling. However, when we immediately climbed the stairs, bright electric lights illuminated a compact Chinese salon. The space where rosewood chairs had been arranged and large mirrors erected indeed appeared worthy of a first-class brothel. On walls covered in blue paper were also arrayed several glass-fronted nanga paintings in frames.

“Becoming a patron of Chinese geishas isn’t an easy thing,” “After all, you even have to buy all this furniture for them.” Mr. Yu drank tea with us while offering various explanations about the courtesan world. “Well, for geishas like the ones who came tonight, you’d need at least five hundred yen to become a patron.” Meanwhile, Hua Baoyu peeked out from the next room. Even when Chinese geishas enter the parlor, they return home after about five minutes. It was no wonder Hua Baoyu—who had been at Xiaoyoutian—was already here. Not only that—regarding what constitutes a patron in China—one would do well to consult *Chinese Customs, Volume I: Vocabulary of the Flower and Willow World* by Mr. Inoue Kōbai.

We spent a short while engaged in idle chatter with two or three geishas while spitting out watermelon seeds and puffing on tobacco. Though it may be said we engaged in idle talk, I had not turned into a mute. Mr. Hata pointed at me and said to a mischievous-looking young geisha, “He’s not an Oriental. He’s Cantonese,” or something to that effect. “Is that true, Mr. Murata?” the geisha asked. Mr. Murata also said, “Yes. Yes.” As I listened to such talk, I found myself idly pondering trivial matters—in Japan, there is a song called Tokoton Yarena. That Ton’yarena might, depending on circumstances, be a metamorphosis of Orientals.…

Twenty minutes later, having grown somewhat bored, I paced about the room before stealthily peering into the adjoining chamber. There beneath the electric light sat that gentle Hua Baoyu, sharing her evening meal with a plump matron at the dining table. Only two plates lay upon it—one containing nothing but vegetables. Yet Hua Baoyu appeared wholly absorbed in manipulating her bowl and chopsticks. I found myself smiling despite myself. This Hua Baoyu who had graced Xiaoyoutian might well be a southern belle after all. But this Hua Baoyu—this Hua Baoyu masticating vegetable roots—transcended mere beauty meant for libertines' dalliance. In that moment, I felt my first glimmer of womanly affinity toward Chinese women.

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 represent "Young China" in Shanghai.

Through the streetcar window en route, I saw the lush green trees along the streets already welcoming summer. The sky hung overcast, with rare glimmers of sunlight. "The wind blows yet raises no dust."

This was a memo I had jotted down after visiting Mr. Li. When I opened my notebook now, many of the penciled scribbles had begun to fade. The writing was, of course, disjointed. But perhaps my state of mind at the time is in fact more clearly evident in that very disjointedness.

"There was a servant who immediately led us to the reception room. A rectangular table stood there with two or three Western-style chairs; upon it rested a platter piled with ceramic fruits—this pear, this grape, this apple—yet aside from these crude imitations of nature, not one decoration existed to please the eye. Still, no dust could be seen in the room. 'The atmosphere brimming with simplicity was agreeable.'"

A few minutes later, Mr. Li Renjie arrived. He was a compactly built young man. His hair was slightly long. He had a slender face. His complexion was not very good. His eyes were keen. His hands were small. His demeanor was most earnest. That earnestness simultaneously suggested a keenly sensitive nerve. The momentary impression was not unfavorable. It was as if one had touched a thin yet resilient mainspring of a clock. He sat across the table from me. Mr. Li was wearing a mouse-gray long gown.

Because Mr. Li had attended a university in Tokyo, his Japanese was exceptionally fluent. In particular, his capacity to make even convoluted reasoning clearly understandable to others might have surpassed my own Japanese. Though unmentioned in my notes, the reception room we passed through had a structure where the second-floor staircase descended directly into the room's corner. This meant that when coming down the stairs, one's feet became visible to guests first. Even regarding Mr. Li Renjie's appearance, the initial thing I saw were his Chinese shoes. To this day, I have never encountered any other eminent personage in the world—no matter how distinguished—whom I met starting from their feet upward, save for Mr. Li.

“Mr. Li said: ‘What should be done with modern China? The solution to this problem lies neither in republicanism nor imperial restoration. Such political revolutions are powerless to reform China—the past has already proven this, and the present continues to prove it. Then the path we must strive for lies solely in social revolution.’ This was the assertion that all thinkers of ‘Young China’ who advocated the cultural movement proclaimed. Mr. Li continued: ‘To bring about social revolution, one must rely on propaganda. Therefore, we engage in writing. Moreover, the awakened scholars of China are not indifferent to new knowledge. No, they are starving for knowledge. Yet how are we to satisfy this hunger when there is such a dearth of books and magazines to do so? I declare to you: The urgent task at present lies in writing.’”

It may well be as Mr. Li said. In modern China, there exists no public will. Without public will, no revolution arises—how much less could it succeed? Mr. Li continued: “The seeds are in hand. We fear only the boundless wasteland—or that our strength may not reach it. Whether our bodies can endure this labor—this is why we cannot be free from worry.” He furrowed his brows after speaking. I felt sympathy for Mr. Li. Mr. Li went on: “What demands attention of late is the power of the China Banking Consortium. Regardless of the forces behind it, the Beijing government’s tendency to be swayed by this consortium remains an undeniable fact. This is not necessarily lamentable—for our enemy, the target upon which we must concentrate our fire, has been determined to be none other than a single banking consortium.” I said: “I have been disappointed by Chinese art. The novels and paintings I have seen are not yet worth discussing. Yet considering China’s present state, to expect an artistic renaissance in this soil—nay, such expectation itself seems rather misguided. I ask you: beyond propaganda’s methods, do you have the luxury to consider art?”

“Mr. Li said.” “Almost none.”

This was all my memorandum contained. Yet Mr. Li's way of speaking had indeed been brisk and precise. No wonder Murata-kun, who accompanied me, had exclaimed in admiration: "That fellow's got a sharp mind." Moreover, Mr. Li mentioned having read one or two of my novels during his student days abroad. This certainly must have heightened my favorable impression of him. Even a gentleman such as myself—novelists being creatures in whom this hunger for vanity grows so vigorously cultivated.

19. Japanese People

When I was invited to dinner at Mr. Kojima’s residence from Shanghai Spinning, there was a small cherry tree planted in the front garden of his company residence. Then Mr. Yosoji, who was with us, said, “Look! The cherry blossoms are blooming.” There was, strangely enough, a cheerful tone suffusing the way he said it. Mr. Kojima, who stood at the entrance, wore an expression that—if one were to describe it with exaggeration—resembled Columbus returning from America presenting souvenirs. Yet despite this, the cherry tree bore only meager blossoms on its gaunt, withered branches. At that moment, I found it strangely curious why the two gentlemen were so delighted. However, after staying in Shanghai for about a month, I came to realize this was not limited to these two gentlemen—it was true of everyone. What manner of race the Japanese are—that is not something I know. But once overseas, regardless of whether the blossoms are double-petaled or single-petaled, they are a race that becomes instantly happy if they can but glimpse cherry blossoms.

×

When I went to see Dōbun Shoin and walked along the second floor of its dormitory, through the window at the corridor's end I saw a sea of blue wheat ears swaying across fields where clusters of common rape flowers bloomed sparsely here and there—and beyond them all stretched low rooftops over which loomed an enormous koinobori flag rippling vividly against wind-swept skies until this solitary carp-shaped banner abruptly transfigured my surroundings into something unrecognizable until then—until suddenly I knew with certainty—no—this wasn't China anymore—this must be Japan—but when I pressed close against that windowpane there below me worked Chinese peasants bent among their wheat rows—their presence inexplicably offending some unspoken propriety within me even as I too found myself deriving faint pleasure from gazing upon this Japanese koinobori flag fluttering over distant Shanghai—perhaps cherry blossoms weren't so laughable after all.

×

I was once invited to the Japanese Women’s Club in Shanghai. The location was, if I recall correctly, in the French Concession—Madame Matsumoto’s residence. A round table covered with a white cloth. On top of it were a pot of cineraria, black tea, sweets, and sandwiches. The ladies gathered around the table all seemed more gentle and virtuous than I had expected. I discussed novels and plays with those ladies. Then a certain lady addressed me thus.

“The novel *Crow* that you contributed to this month’s Chūō Kōron was most interesting.” “No, that was a poor attempt.” While giving a humble reply, I thought I wanted to let Uno Koji, the author of *Crow*, hear this exchange. ×

According to Captain Takeuchi of the Nanyo Maru, when walking along the Hankou Bund, he saw an English or American sailor sitting with a Japanese woman beneath a row of Japanese pagoda trees on a bench. That woman’s profession was immediately apparent at a glance. Captain Takeuchi reportedly felt displeased upon witnessing this. After hearing his account, while walking along North Sichuan Road, I saw three or four Japanese geishas in an approaching automobile, animatedly chattering as they surrounded a Westerner. Yet unlike Captain Takeuchi, I felt no particular displeasure myself. Still, that someone might feel displeased was not entirely incomprehensible. No—rather, I found myself unable to resist taking interest in such psychology. Here it was merely a sense of displeasure, but amplified—would this not undeniably transform into patriotic indignation?

×

There was a Japanese man named X. X lived in Shanghai for twenty years. He married in Shanghai. He had a child in Shanghai. He accumulated his wealth in Shanghai. Perhaps because of this, X developed a passionate attachment to Shanghai. When guests occasionally visited from Japan, he would always boast about Shanghai. Architecture, roads, cuisine, entertainment—in every aspect, Japan did not fall short of Shanghai. Shanghai was just like the West. "Rather than muddling along in a place like Japan, come to Shanghai as soon as you can." He even urged his guests in this manner. When X died and his will was examined, something unexpected was written there. "My bones must be buried in Japan, no matter the circumstances..."

One day, at a hotel window with a lit Havana cigar clenched between my teeth, I imagined such a story. X’s contradiction was no laughing matter. When it comes to such points, we are largely comrades of X.

20. Xujiahui

The Ming Wanli era. Outside the compound wall. Here and there stood willow trees. Beyond the wall, the roof of the Catholic church could be seen. The golden cross atop it shone in the light of the setting sun. A Buddhist monk and village children emerged together.

Buddhist monk. "Is Lord Xu’s residence over there?" Child. "That’s over there." "That’s the place—but even if you go there, Uncle, you won’t get any feast offerings. The lord hates monks, see." ——

Buddhist monk. “Alright.” “Alright.” “I already know that.” Child. “If you already know, then you shouldn’t go.” Buddhist monk. (With a bitter smile) “You certainly have a sharp tongue.” “I’m not going to request lodging.” “I’ve come here to debate with the Catholic priest.” Child. “Oh, really?” “Then go ahead.” “I won’t care if you get beaten by his retainers.”

The child ran off.

Buddhist monk. (To himself) I can see the hall's roof over there, but where on earth is the gate? A red-haired missionary, riding a donkey, happened to pass by. Behind him, I alone followed.

The Buddhist monk. "Excuse me! Excuse me!" The missionary stopped his donkey. The Buddhist monk. (Ferociously) "From whence do you come?" The missionary. (Suspiciously) "I went to a believer's house." The Buddhist monk. "After Huang Chao's rebellion - have you retrieved your sword since returning?" The missionary stood dumbfounded. The Buddhist monk. "Have you retrieved your sword since returning? Speak! Speak! If you do not speak—" The Buddhist monk brandished his nyoi scepter and was about to strike the missionary. I knocked down the Buddhist monk.

"I." "He’s crazy." "Please go on without concern."

Missionary. “Poor thing.” “I did think there was something strange about his eyes.”

The missionaries departed. The Buddhist monk rose to his feet. Buddhist monk. What a detestable heathen. Even his nyoi scepter had been broken. Where on earth had my bowl gone? From within the wall, faint hymn voices arose.

×　×　×　×　×

The Qing Yongzheng era.

Grassland.

Here and there stood willow trees. Amidst them stood a ruined chapel. Three village girls, all with baskets hanging from their arms, were picking mugwort and such.

A. “The larks are positively deafening.” B. “Yes.—Oh, what a nasty lizard.”

A. “So when are you getting married, sis?” B. “It’ll probably be next month.” C. “Oh my, what could this be?” (She picks up a cross covered in dirt.) (C was the youngest among three.) “A human figure’s carved on it.” B. “Let me see?” “Let me have a look.” “This is a cross.”

C. "What's a cross?" B. "It's something Catholic people have." "Could this be gold?" A. "Stop that." "If you keep holding that thing or do anything with it, you'll get your head cut off like Mr. Zhang did."

C. “Should we bury it back the way it was?” A. “Well, isn’t that way better?”

B. "Let me see..." "That does seem like the safer way."

The girls depart.

Several hours later, dusk gradually approached the grassland. C emerged together with a blind old man. C. “It was around here.” “Grandfather.” The old man. “Then hurry up and search for it.” “Because we can’t have anyone interfering.”

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

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

×　×　×　×　×

Republic of China Year 10 (1921).

Amid the wheat fields stood a granite cross. Above the standing willows rose the spire of the Catholic church, towering resolutely and grazing the clouded sky. Five Japanese emerged, weaving through the wheat fields. One of them was a student at Tōbun Shoin.

A. “When was that Catholic church built?” B. “They say it dates from the late Daoguang era.” (While opening her guidebook) “The nave measures two hundred fifty feet deep, one hundred twenty-seven feet wide. That spire stands one hundred sixty-nine feet tall.” The student. “That’s the grave.” “The cross there—” A. “Ah yes—seeing these remaining stone pillars and guardian beasts, it must have been far grander in its day.” D. “Naturally.” “After all, it belonged to a minister.”

The student. "You see how a stone is embedded in this brick pedestal?" "This is Xu’s epitaph." D. "It reads: 'Inscription of the Cross Before the Grave of Xu Wending Gong, Late Junior Guardian of the Ming Dynasty, Posthumously Promoted to Grand Guardian, Minister of Rites and Grand Academician of Wenyuan Pavilion.'" A. "Was there another grave elsewhere?"

B. “Well, I do think that’s the case, but—” A. “The cross also has an inscription.” “‘Holy Cross, object of veneration for all eternity.’”

C. (calling from a distance) “Please stay still for just a moment.” “Let me take a photo.”

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 went out to the deck of the Hōyōmaru with a cigarette still in my mouth. The pier, bright with electric lights, now showed scarcely any human figures. On the thoroughfare beyond that, three- or four-story brick buildings rose continuously into the night sky. No sooner had I thought this than a single coolie, casting a vivid shadow, walked across the pier beneath me. If I were to go with that coolie, I would undoubtedly end up naturally 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, lights twinkled here and there along the Bund-lined thoroughfare. I wondered if I could see the Garden Bridge spanning Suzhou Creek's mouth—that bridge where carriages and horses never ceased even by day. The park at its foot—though young leaves' hues remained unseen—appeared clustered with groves. When last I visited there, on lawns where pallid fountains sprayed upward, a single hunchbacked Chinese man in a red Shanghai Municipal Council half-coat had been gathering cigarette ends. Could tulips and yellow daffodils still bloom in those park flowerbeds under electric lights? Beyond lay what should be visible—the British Consulate with its spacious garden and Yokohama Specie Bank. Following the riverside straight past these would reveal Lyceum Theatre in a leftward-turning lane. Though comic opera posters might linger on its stone entrance steps, human traffic had likely ceased by now. An automobile came speeding straight along the embankment toward it—roses, silk, amber necklaces—glimpsed then gone like fireflies. That must have been bound for Calton Café's dancefloor. In its wake through shadowed avenues came someone singing ditties to clacking footsteps. “Chin chin Chinaman”—I flicked my cigarette butt into Huangpu River's dark waters and slowly retreated to the salon.

The salon too was devoid of human presence. Only on the carpeted floor did the leaves of a potted orchid glisten. I leaned back on the sofa and drifted into idle reminiscence—when I had met Mr. Wu Jinglian, he had affixed a purple medicinal plaster to his large, close-cropped head. He kept fussing over it as he muttered, “A boil formed, you see.” I wonder if that boil has healed? As Mr. Yosoji and I walked along a dark thoroughfare with his staggering drunken gait, there was a perfectly square little window right above our heads. The window cast a slanting beam of light into the sky where rain clouds hung low. And from there, like a small bird, a young Chinese woman was looking down at us below. Mr. Yosoji pointed at that and said, “That’s it—the Cantonese courtesan.” She might still show her face there tonight as usual.—As I rode in a brisk carriage through the tree-lined French Concession, far ahead a Chinese groom led two white horses. One of the horses, for some reason, suddenly fell to the ground. Then my companion Mr. Murata clarified my doubts by saying, “That one’s scratching its back.”—Continuing to think of such things, I reached into my jacket pocket to take out my cigarette case. But what I pulled out was not the yellow Egyptian box—it was the Chinese theater program I had left there the other night. At the same time, something softly fell from inside the theater program onto the floor. Something—after a moment, I was picking up a withered white orchid. I took a slight sniff of the white orchid, but not even a trace of its scent remained. The petals had also turned brown. “White orchids, white orchids”—the sound of that flower seller’s voice had already faded into mere memory. That I had gazed upon this flower as it was fragrant upon a southern beauty’s breast now seems like a dream. While sensing the danger of succumbing to facile sentimentality, I threw the withered white 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 my departure.