Pathway to Japanese Literature

With four stamps adorned with a distinctly Eastern-style junk design—a package arrived from Beijing to me. The sender was Shiozaki Tatsuo of the South Manchuria Railway Company's Public Affairs Secretary Section—Shiozaki being my old friend. His Chinese—almost a secondary vocation—was exceptional, and driven by his craving for Chinese life, he had joined the South Manchuria Railway Company to serve as interpreter to the vice president.

Be that as it may, when I unwrapped the package, there emerged from within the box a Chinese silk ceremonial cloth (fukusa) dyed purple. Come to think of it, when Shiozaki's first son was born, I had sent him a token congratulatory gift—this must be his reciprocal gesture. However, what I wish to emphasize is how remarkably sophisticated the pattern on that ceremonial cloth (fukusa) appears.

Longevity (kotobuki)

The white-reserved "Longevity" (kotobuki) character was standard enough for a ceremonial cloth—what made it unusual was how this particular character had been scrawled in a playful, almost drunken-brushwork style that nonetheless suggested, whether through actual skill or mere impression, no ordinary hand. Then, when I spread out the cloth completely, I saw that it was adorned with ink bamboo. But this ink bamboo was executed even more spontaneously than the Longevity character—with an almost furious momentum. So from the overall effect, it was somewhat disjointed—possessing an air of incompletion. However, I found it amusing—this fastidiousness of Shiozaki’s in going to the trouble of having such designs made into ceremonial cloths and distributing them to people.

"I had about ten pieces made at a Japanese shop here for our family celebration. The cloth may be coarse, but I wanted you to see the pattern. Both painting and calligraphy were done by an old man called Zeng Tiesheng. There lies a curious tale here - just the sort of thing for an enthusiast like you. I'll give you full details when time allows—"

What was written on the business card was these very words.

However, afterward, when that troublesome matter arose between Marshal Zhang's Ministry of Transport and the South Manchuria Railway Company—and consequently Shiozaki appeared fully occupied with interpretation duties—he had evidently brushed aside such minor concerns as satisfying the antiquarian whims of someone like myself, living quietly and modestly—no, resignedly quietly and modestly—back in Japan proper.
After all, as a placid arts section reporter, being brushed aside couldn’t be helped.

However, even I had good days.
I suddenly bought a helmet and sunglasses.
I received a talisman from mother.
I daydreamed of silk trees in full bloom and checked silver market rates.
This was because, right around the time when the National Revolutionary Army had advanced into Shandong Province, I had managed to secure an appointment as our company’s Beijing correspondent.
The social affairs department head said this to me:
“You have a talent for essay-style writing.”
“Use that pen of yours to chronicle the turmoil of Beijing.”
“You must walk diligently throughout Beijing.”
“You’ve got to grasp the atmosphere.”
“Before your departure, please use the Investigation Department to review all necessary knowledge.” — And so, I found myself filled with the passion that only a young journalist could possess.
First and foremost, I sent a telegram to Shiozaki.…

A yellow sea.
Reeds and silvergrass.
Wharf.
Willow-lined avenue.
Sorghum field.
Evening sun.
Ancient city walls.—Finally, at the heavily guarded Beijing Qianmen Station, I found myself surrounded by coolies' rickshaws.
However, one of those rickshaw pullers managed to locate Shiozaki's official residence in Little Suzhou Hutong—a tree-lined residential quarter shrouded in darkness.
To tell the truth, compared to the strict inspection at the station, I was astonished by the listless quietness within the city walls—a city that would soon become the former capital.
Shiozaki's residence, though small, had its vermilion-lacquered gate shut tight, enclosing a courtyard where phoenix trees and lotuses grew thick—a space as hushed as a sundial.
To have a courtyard was by no means extravagant.
This was the standard structure of Beijing residences.

Dusk descended.

In my yukata, leaning back on the rattan chair facing the courtyard, I was already drawing up an itinerary with Shiozaki—the Marshal’s Residence, Foreign Ministry, Japanese Embassy, Tsinghua University Political Department—when it happened.
From beyond the lotus pots in the opposite wing—probably startling them wide awake—suddenly came the frantic wail of a baby.
The phoenix trees were dimly dark, the lotuses faintly white; only the baby’s cry was sharp.
I set down my fountain pen and made a show of exaggerated surprise.

“Ah yes, I’d completely forgotten about Special Scoop Number One!”
“Let’s go arrange that interview immediately!”

Shiozaki seemed genuinely pleased by this jest as he led me to the wing room, his footsteps ringing sharply against the courtyard’s stone pavement.
The space functioned as both tearoom and nursery.
His wife worked in the kitchen while a dark-skinned Manchu girl—all unskilled motions—tried soothing the baby by clumsily rattling a pellet drum.
The infant looked scrawny, reportedly born a month premature.
Though I felt guilty toward Shiozaki, my eyes wandered to the walls instead of the child, and before I knew it, I’d gasped aloud.
There hung that framed bamboo painting—the one seemingly drawn in fury.
And beside it, that violently scribbled “Longevity” character.
Stranger still were the ink splatters now savagely strewn across the paper—splatters absent from those ceremonial cloths.—Yet amid this hushed evening in Beijing’s tranquil heart, buoyed by the joy of reuniting with an old friend after so long, I once again found myself emitting an undignified shriek.

“Ah! This bodes well!”
“Everywhere you look, it’s nothing but news.”
“Look, here’s another odd story in the making.”

Shiozaki, dressed in oversized infant clothes, laughed in Chinese fashion and found himself playing the fatherly role.

“I’m rather troubled by your correspondent’s pushy mercantile spirit. You’ll immediately scribble down something like ‘First Evening Vignette,’ then plan to slack off half of tomorrow, I suppose!”

＊ ＊ ＊

＊ ＊ ＊

“Right. It wouldn’t be bad to meet with Old Zeng Tiesheng either. He’s right across the street here in a place called Chunshu Hutong. It’s in an alley curiously dense with antique shops and such, and quite close to our vice president’s official residence.”

Shiozaki began speaking in this manner.

“He’s an eccentric, but seems to possess considerable scholarship.”
“Since he was a jinshi during the Tongzhi era, he naturally knows figures like Zhang Zhidong, Zhao Erxun, and Chen Baochen.”
“He worked in the First Revolution, but back when he served as a Qing official, they say he did some favor for Zhang Zuolin during his Green Forest bandit days—which is why even now the Marshal’s Residence occasionally invites him to banquets, though he never responds unless inclined.”
“Apart from writing treatises and anonymously penning editorials for newspapers, he secludes himself in reading, painting, and wine.”
“To speak of seclusion suggests refined elegance, but Old Zeng pursues all three with fervor.”
“His wife apparently died long ago, but what’s interesting is that precisely because his only son studied at a school in Guangdong, he’s now become a young officer in the National Revolutionary Army.”
“However, when people occasionally mock this matter, Old Zeng’s response is excellent.”
“In other words, the notion that something like a nation’s justice wouldn’t change during the lifetime of a septuagenarian is a lie.”
“I did the same thing during the late Qing era.”
“He should go all out in his own way.”
And that’s how he drunkenly declares such things in his high-handed manner.
That he would do this even before someone like Zhang’s adjutant made it rather reckless.
“He must dote on his son beyond measure.”

"At first, I thought this old man might have monomaniacal tendencies."
This was because we had first met at the home of a retired military officer born in Sichuan.
To put it precisely, we had met before a scroll hanging on the wall of the retired military officer’s quiet main house.
The master, having grown weary of Beijing’s political atmosphere and intending to return to his native Sichuan Province to embark on a new venture, had discreetly—informing only friends—put his collection up for sale.
At that very moment, our vice president—in the throes of that Beijing-specific calligraphy-and-painting fever—had received word of this.
It was a hot summer day.
By the time we entered, Old Zeng was already hunched over, waving a large round fan as he faced the wall where scrolls hung.
Apart from us and the old man, there was only this house’s young servant boy standing apart by the entrance.
The reason was that the master had gone out on an errand and had been absent for about an hour.
Whether from having cleared away most furnishings, the place had taken on an air of desolation; with courtyard weeds growing so thick that their scorching glare reached deep into the rooms—it bore all the hallmarks of a house whose owner had liquidated his collection and prepared to depart.
On that floor, the sound of our Western shoes resounded as loudly as those in a museum.

Hearing our footsteps, the elderly servant emerged; upon seeing us, he immediately retrieved a scroll that had been set aside and hung it on the wall.
A magnificent ink bamboo painting.—For as per our prior arrangement from the day before, they had agreed to keep that scroll stored away until our arrival that day.
I wasn’t particularly pleased by this aura of the vice president’s bonus.
However, the painting itself—what powerful brushwork.
The brushwork was truly powerful.
Then, the old man who had been inspecting another painting with a magnifying glass noticed this scroll; brushing past our shoulders without hesitation, he drew near and began staring at it more intently than anyone else in the room.
They were the eyes of a tenacious continental man.
His gaze could hardly be called pleasant.
He no longer used a magnifying glass or such tools, nor did he meticulously examine collector’s seals.
That manner couldn’t help but seem like proof that this painting was already no stranger to the old man.
Sure enough—he turned to us and began to speak.
Naturally, in Chinese.

“Is it you—the Japanese gentleman likely to purchase this painting?”

“That’s correct.”

“You’ve made an excellent choice! This is a remarkable painting! Since I currently lack the means to acquire it myself, I’ve been visiting daily to gaze upon it ever since hearing of the sale—yet since yesterday they’ve denied me even this view, leaving me most aggrieved. This is undoubtedly a Yuan dynasty work. The owner claims it’s an authentic Wu Zhonggui, though that attribution remains uncertain. Regardless, this painting stands as a splendid Yuan piece rarely encountered. It transcends mere aesthetic indulgence—the spirit is vigorous, the brushwork resolute. I must commend your discernment in selecting this!”

The Vice President whispered.

“You—do you know that person?”

“Not at all.
“He does seem like a painter though—”

I turned around, intending to quietly inquire with the man of the house, but the manservant had withdrawn hesitantly to the entrance as expected. Be that as it may, he showed a bit too much familiarity toward someone he had just met. But Old Zeng remained utterly unconcerned by our perplexed expressions, and upon perceiving that I was a man who understood Chinese quite well, he continued speaking even more volubly without reserve.

“Splendid, splendid! Look here. The three bamboo stalks are swaying slightly in the wind, you see? But it’s never boisterous. They move majestically, as if clouds or great oceans were shifting. And yet it doesn’t overlook the minute details at all. The topmost leaf is slightly twisted, fluttering and dancing, you see? That is exquisitely delicate. Refreshing. It’s as though one can hear the rustling of leaves.” (The old man demonstrated by pressing a hand to his ear and gesturing.) “Truly, had this been someone I’d wished to befriend all along, I’d boldly ask you to let me call upon you occasionally to see it!” He roared with laughter.

To be honest, I had begun to grow wary of the old man.
In that first moment, I had felt a slight twinge of sympathy.
Unlike our vice president, he probably wanted this painting so badly he could snatch it up.
He must have had an attachment to it.
How pitiful.
But before long, I thought—this fellow must be seeing this as a prime opportunity to cozy up to me.
The old man roared with laughter as if in jest, yet I believed I had detected within it a passion different from mere levity.
And then—a peculiar anxiety.
—The South Manchuria Railway Company had become a target for opportunists; not that this was anything commendable, but even I had unwittingly developed this habit of wariness toward others.
"I half-heartedly brushed him off and managed to lead the vice president outside."

"The next day when I told this story to the master of that house, he threw back his head and roared with laughter."
"What absurd caution I had shown!"
"That man may dress carelessly," he said, "but he is Zeng Tiesheng—Marshal Zhang's senior."
Then on another day at a certain dignitary's banquet, I chanced upon Old Zeng once more.
Under lamplight we were formally introduced by our host.

“This is Mr. Zeng Tiesheng.”
——Out of regret for my pitiable conduct the other day, I spent that entire night deftly disentangling myself from the vice president to attach myself to the old man.
In the post-dinner parlor, we sat on the same sofa, stepped on the same carpet pattern, and I passed along tea and tobacco to the old man.
We quickly became close.
We spoke of that unburdened host who had gone to Sichuan seeking a new life.
However, it was another matter that brought us even closer.

"In these times when the postal service couldn’t be relied upon, I time and again discreetly performed the role of courier."
"Letters from the son on the Jiangsu front and the daughter-in-law in Nanjing."
……”

"Despite the motley assortment of people visiting Old Zeng, I gradually found myself growing interested. Bookstore owners, art dealers, Peking University students, journalists, military officers, painters, actors, flutists, epigraphers—the reason Peking University youths still came was that he had taught Oriental history around the seventh and eighth years of the Republic. However, among them, the guest I found most intriguing was Zhang Zuolin’s elderly guard captain? His surname was Tao. Though called a guard captain, he was by no means a fool. His duty was to pass along name cards of visitors seeking an audience with Marshal Zhang to the secretaries, but I had heard rumors that this alone brought him nearly twenty thousand yuan in annual kickbacks. What’s even more absurd was that whenever Marshal Zhang went out in his armored car, this old man would don a colonel’s uniform, raise a pistol, and ride along. What country has colonels serving as escorts? Needless to say, when the automobile returned to the entrance, he would be back in plain clothes like Tao Yuanming retiring to his fields—serving as escort, or rather, the man himself served as decorative ornamentation. No one questioned this either. There was no laughter. Even the mistresses of high-ranking officials went shopping accompanied by soldiers—this was Beijing, after all.—"

He would swing his large frame and enter unannounced every time.
Marshal Zhang's communications all came through this old man.
He was said to be a fellow townsman from near Xinmin Village.
Yet in this house where all manner of guests gathered in chaotic profusion, I found myself entertaining such novelistic suspicions—that someone might be planting some scheme here.
This business of having military uniforms arbitrarily donned and doffed—I simply couldn't make sense of it.
Yet Old Zeng had offered only a simple explanation.

“That man’s an old acquaintance of mine—easygoing by nature.”
“Hard to dislike.”

"I didn't know whether he was truly carefree deep down.—But before I knew it, I too had become acquainted at Zeng’s house."

Before long—it must have been around the end of March, when Sun Chuanfang’s entire army was finally routed in Jiangsu—
—I received the freshly made frame from the shop on Wangfujing Street and set out for Old Zeng’s house.
When the old man saw my heavily burdened load, he was absurdly pleased and promptly untied the outer wrapping in the courtyard.
Beijing was already in early spring, and the old man’s narrow courtyard too was a model of that season.
Moreover, though coincidental, the photograph in its frame did not clash with that lively atmosphere.
Even so, what emerged from removing the outer wrapping was certainly no Jiangnan beauty.
It was a portrait of his son wearing an officer’s uniform adorned with the Blue Sky with a White Sun emblem.
Amid peach blossoms beginning to bloom and ducks swimming along a Xuzhou-area riverbank—likely pausing to wash his hands during a rest—he stood with both sleeves neatly rolled up.
If there were no soldiers in the background, one wouldn’t think it a wartime photograph.
That was not merely a healthy young man.
It was a portrait of all 'officers' of the south.
It was something his daughter-in-law in Nanjing had recently sent, which I then discreetly took to a Japanese photo studio to have enlarged.
The old man was in thoroughly high spirits and called out loudly to the gatekeeper and kitchen maid to show it to them.
The gatekeepers likely did not know the young master in that distant land—their young master advancing toward the government that ruled their capital—but even so, their remarks did not seem entirely mere flattery.

“As expected, good things come at the start of spring.”

“Lately there’s been nothing but good tidings for you, Master.”

Looking every bit the benevolent elder from any angle, the master continued.

“But Lord Shiozaki remains unaware of the greatest news.”

“What might this news be?”

“It was in those Nanjing letters you delivered earlier.”
“While you were occupied these past days, something most extraordinary has transpired.”

“Now what could that be?”

“It’s the same as what happened at your house.”

“Congratulations!” I said with a Western-style handshake. “Is it a boy? Are both of them well?”

The reason I asked this was that at my home, my wife had suffered a long illness and ended up giving birth prematurely. On that first day, when I saw beside its mother the baby with astonishingly thin limbs crying incessantly, my immediate thought was how alarming this was. How could something so frail possibly endure? To think that it would grow up like this! At that moment, I felt vividly the baby’s own infinite labor.—

“Ah, he’s healthy. By the time this old man can no longer keep up with the times, my son will have properly readied a new generation to take my place. It worked out perfectly.”

“That’s what matters most! In that case, I must absolutely bring a congratulatory gift this time.” “That’s right”—I added, having just thought of it—“Shall I present some Japanese baby toys as well? Forgive my forwardness, but I happen to have just received a great many at my place. They’re somewhat unusual, but not bad at all.”

However, it was over a month later that I brought the congratulatory gift as promised.
Around the time you were sailing through Genkai Nada waters, the Jinan Incident had erupted in Shandong.
I had hurried back from Dalian with the Vice President.
During my absence, Beijing’s season had transformed entirely.
Whether within city walls or beyond them，the whole sky had been enveloped in that gray dust from Mongolia’s deserts.
This was Beijing’s famed specialty.
Quiet yet endlessly oppressive like ceaseless rain.
Old Zeng’s gatekeeper saw me through his small window and reported:
“Lately he’s done away with visiting days altogether—turning away all his regular guests.”
“But why not slip inside and ask the old maid?”

I nevertheless knew Old Zeng would receive me. When it came to news of his son's movements, I—a foreigner from a neighboring country—had become his principal confidant. True enough, the old maid ushered me in. The old man had secluded himself in a study even gloomier than usual. Amid books, jars, paints and brush washers strewn chaotically across his desk, he had spread paper and was vigorously painting landscapes and birds. Yet what first caught my eye upon entering was how that familiar large photograph of his son now dominated the central wall. When had he moved it? Before my journey, he'd surely kept this portrait of the young officer bearing the Blue Sky with a White Sun insignia discreetly in his bedroom—such prudence being necessary in a Northern Government-controlled city. And there too hung a map of all China—a map tracing Chiang Kai-shek's main forces advancing northward from Nanjing through Shouzhou in Anhui; Sizhou in Jiangsu; Peixian in Jiangsu; Jinxiang in Shandong; reaching now to Tai'an. Jiangnan's armies seemed to advance in step with spring's fresh verdure. At each major town and village where they'd stationed, Old Zeng had marked vermilion brushstrokes. These crimson notations had climbed far up the map—until being checked days prior by Japanese garrison forces at Jinan.

The old man was in a foul mood; when he turned to face me, he spoke bluntly.

“Japan’s methods are utterly incomprehensible! When you station troops with such arrogance in another country’s combat zone, isn’t it certain that incidents will occur? During your absence, Beijing has completely become a marketplace of rumors and slander. According to what our gatekeeper heard last night at Tianqiao Market, there are rumors that Chiang’s staff army was among those clashing with the Japanese military, and that they’re still actually engaged in combat. Among them, there are even those claiming that the Japanese military is actively attempting to attack Chiang’s headquarters in Tai’an. I tried verifying the truth by contacting Tao—you know, Zhang’s chief guard—and had them try calling since this morning about twice, but the calls wouldn’t connect. In times like these, not having a telephone at my house is truly inconvenient!”

Though startled by his sudden vehement tone, when I realized from the old man’s demeanor that this arose not from patriotic outrage but anxiety over his son serving as Chiang’s staff officer, I began to explain.
The forces that engaged the Japanese military were, as per the initial telegram, guest troops from Feng Yuxiang—a different lineage from Chiang’s main force.
—That Commander-in-Chief Chiang’s orders fundamentally failed to properly reach these guest troops.
Therefore, fearing that its military plans might be thrown into disarray by trivial encumbrances, Chiang’s main force had established a policy to advance while avoiding the national highways near Jinan.—

“In fact, according to information that came to me late last night, Chiang had ordered the First Army to cross the Yellow River from Feicheng and advance toward Shijiazhuang.”
“Hasn’t that new-model upbound train for Beijing steadied itself and departed?”
“It’s perfectly safe now—we’re only putting more distance from Jinan Station with each passing moment.”

While mixing in jokes, I traced the vermilion dots on the map that had just now struck me as unexpected and convinced the old man. Then, seizing the opportunity when the maid brought in sake, I thought to change the subject and unwrapped the package I had neglected to present until then.

“How about this?”
“Might these things unexpectedly prove useful sooner than you’d think?”
“Indeed, that’s exactly how things stand!”

What came to be lined up one by one on the desk were a carefully arranged papier-mâché dog and pellet drum. At the tip of the pellet drum was even attached a Momotaro figure. “This is remarkable! Thank you! Thank you!” The old man’s expression transformed into a guileless smile after all. He tried shaking the pellet drum, then as the sake gradually took effect, began sketching the papier-mâché dog for amusement. After a while, he started speaking as if struck by a sudden thought.

“Ah, right.”
“Since I can’t properly return the favor, I’ll paint you something instead.”
“There just happens to be a good piece of antique paper.”
“Now, I don’t mean to make you feel indebted, but this paper here is from the Qianlong era.”
“It’s not good because it’s old; it’s good because it’s inexplicably good to draw on.”
“Since I’ve received just a small token from someone, I suppose I must return the favor—I’ll paint you a small picture. Using colors—a spring landscape or something like that should appeal to Madam.”

Spreading out paper about the size of torinoko and preparing his paints, the old man appeared to be contemplating the composition for some time.

“Making you wait like this”—he muttered while looking down, as if speaking to himself—“do you know why I’m painting now?”

I wondered whether to say it must be because he liked those Japanese toys so much.——

“Because I want to paint a picture, put myself in a thoroughly good mood, and then have dinner together with you.”

The old man was silent for a while. When I looked, he had hunched his back without my noticing. He had fixed his eyes. I recalled the old man from that first day at the Sichuan military man’s household. The person before my eyes was not someone taking the slightest pleasure in diversion. He was a monomaniacal man engrossed in his pursuit. Then, he suddenly let out a theatrical sigh.

“I just can’t stand it!”
“It seems I’ve wasted an important sheet of paper, you.”
“Why—even painting becomes something I simply can’t quit.”
“I started after passing sixty, but this is exactly what people mean by an addiction.”

“It truly is like a disease,” I said honestly.
“To tell the truth, when discussing painting, you’re half-mad.”
“I’ll have none of it.”
“It’s hardly appreciated.”

“Hahahaha.” It was a laugh mingled with alcohol-laden fervor. “But rest assured. We are likely the very last of our kind. Finding satisfaction in creation’s logic through painting—that too will fade away. But this is how we survived in the old days. Wars and chaos persist, yet one cannot stay hidden at home expecting encounters with wise scholars. It was through facing clouds, stones, and bamboo in practice that the ancients devised their art of living. You—whose duty it is to report on China’s affairs—must keep this well in mind.”

Rarely had I felt so purely beside an ancient Oriental as at that moment.
Outside continued falling that same fine gray dust.
Endlessly stifling.
The Southern Army forming battle lines and Northern Army too—reeds and willows and Yellow River and pigs—all bathed soundless in this dust.
I suddenly recalled my wife and child weakening under that same dust.
Thinking of that frail baby made me melancholy.
Being a first-time father made me grow excessively anxious about its resistance—that life force.
Wasn't that buzzing coming from this house's broken doorbell?
"Who could it be..." I murmured.

“Kindly remain silent for a moment.”

The old man, having replaced the paper and taken up his brush, commanded.
At that moment Tao—the chief guard—entered unannounced.

“Let me make this clear—I was hired on account of my limited Beijing Mandarin skills; I don’t understand a word of these splintered provincial dialects that outnumber even our warlords.” However, when Tao—who had appeared at the threshold—saw me, he suddenly addressed Old Zeng in a thick Manchurian accent. Old Zeng also replied in the same language. I immediately sensed through their complexions that something had gone awry—that this was an awkward conversation. Tao’s nervousness, so unlike his usual demeanor, stood out conspicuously. The downfall of the Zhang government was now only a matter of time.—Tao shook his head vehemently, spread his hands wide, and spoke. Thinking that even this man could harbor such emotions, I found it slightly amusing at this odd moment. However, Old Zeng was still denying Tao’s statements through gestures.

“Hey, Mr. Shiozaki!” The old man turned around, seeking my support.
“The Southern Army that clashed with the Japanese military has no connection to Chiang’s main force—that’s certain, isn’t it?”

I answered that it was certain.

“Chiang fighting the Japanese military to mutual annihilation? Such a preposterous notion!”
“—This man here is normally an extremely carefree, amusing fellow, but—” The old man directed his sarcasm at me while indicating Tao with his chin.
“He’s off his rocker today. This man seems to think the Three Eastern Provinces and Japan have formed some sort of offensive-defensive alliance.”
“How about having a drink and returning to your usual self, Tao?”

“Who has time for that?”

Tao couldn’t openly show his bitterness before me and forced an awkward smile.—“I came because you called so many times. I’m leaving now. So won’t you give your answer about the banquet?”

The old man waved his hand.

"I must decline."
"Where large crowds gather—"

“No—it wouldn’t be such a multitude.”
“If it were a multitude, I wouldn’t invite you.”

“In any case, I loathe anything conspicuous.”

“Yet this wouldn’t be conspicuous.” Tao persisted in a lowered voice.
“Only Marshal Zhang’s old familiars.”
“And kept strictly within our circle.”

“Just Marshal Zhang’s old familiars?”
“At this hectic hour?”

“If you comprehend that much, then attending should suffice.”

“I see—you’re telling me I should gratefully accept, is that?” Since Tao was pressing him with petty officialdom, the old man responded with a hint of mockery. “Hey—isn’t there some ulterior meaning here?”

I overheard this and involuntarily stared at Tao. Because there had been such a rumor—that as part of his preparations to withdraw from Beijing, Zhang Zuolin had begun systematically urging prominent figures from the Three Eastern Provinces to return to their hometowns for political reasons. If that were true, then it was only natural for this lonely old man, who could hardly wait for his son’s return, to feign avoidance—I tensed momentarily.

“Nonsense!” Tao denied, deliberately raising his voice for my benefit. “How could you possibly endure being invited to a banquet of actual significance? You’d do well to consider that carefully.”

“Ha ha ha!”
“Are you saying that as Chief Guard?”

“What? It’s merely an elegant banquet.” Tao, poor with words, strained to maintain appearances before me.
“At that gathering, they intend to have you paint too.”
“I’ve already told Marshal Zhang all about your artistic devotion.”
“That’s all there is to it.”

“Is that so? Well then—” The old man’s hands came into view.
“I must decline until I’ve improved somewhat.”
“I’ve been thinking I might make my living through this once the world changes.—I don’t want people seeing my unrefined aspects yet.”
“Enough of this talk!”
“Have a drink before leaving.”
“Get out.”
“I’ll just keep practicing as I please.”

The electric light came on. The old maidservant who had brought the tea turned it on. Then Tao suddenly noticed the photograph on the front wall. Tao's face changed color. Within the glass frame, an officer symbolizing New China—clad in a Sun Yat-sen suit with the revolutionary army's fashionable belt crossed over his chest—was smiling beneath his cap's shadow. In the dimly lit room, it stood out crisply white. It contrasted starkly with the room's oppressive atmosphere. Because of this, the photograph's smile appeared ironic. It looked defiant. In this room, the slightly oversized frame loomed diagonally from the wall, seeming to threaten us all—including his father.

“I see. Now I understand why you’re so vigorous!”

Seeing Tao turn around and speak like this, I grew anxious that things had taken a bad turn.

“But what’s the meaning of this military uniform?”
“If you want to display something, why not put up the civilian one?”
“You’re no different from a man who willingly lives in Beijing.”

“That was me, Mr. Tao—I enlarged it as a pastime.” With chaos brewing and fearing harm might come to the old man, I intervened.
“Therefore, I will take responsibility.
“It was careless of me.”

“………………”

Tao remarked to me, averting his eyes downward with an air of battling his patience.

“Please advise this man to at least quit painting.”
“Things wouldn’t have reached this state had I not come during his painting time.”
“First off, no one starting at sixty could ever attain mastery!” Though his tone pretended concern, he was actually striking at the old man’s weakest point.
“If it were just a hobby, that’d be different—but despite his tight finances, the paper and paint costs are outrageous.”
“All his friends worry about him in private.”
“What’s the point of gradual improvement at his age?”
“You can’t take painting skill to the grave!”
“Pathetic.”
“He’s exactly like a puppet.”

“What puppet?!”

The old man, made even more unrelenting by drink, raised his voice loudly.

“Fine puppet! Then what’s that colonel’s uniform of yours?”

“Hmm…”

Tao’s ears turned red.
In a battle of wits, Tao was no match for the old man.
Tao was somewhat slow-witted.
Before a foreigner’s eyes, Tao tried to pass it off as a joke and looked my way.
Realizing this half-hearted jest couldn’t preserve his dignity in the slightest, Tao suddenly—hurled the ink-drenched brush at the portrait.

“My uniform—it’s a uniform for crushing Red Bandits!”

The photograph scattered black stains like bullet wounds.
I stepped between them.
The old man’s roar vibrated against my eardrum.

“Get out! Get out!”

After Tao had left, Old Zeng gazed absentmindedly at the ink-splattered white paper—now here too marred by rough splatters—and spoke to me as if muttering to himself.

“That man—decent enough at heart—remains through and through a petty official of the Fengtian Government.”
“He measures life solely by results.”
“I understand why the sight of that photograph enrages him.”
“But what I cannot abide is his utterly mediocre disposition.”
“Isn’t that so?”
“What significance lies in refining one’s painting skill?”
“What does it matter if I’m a puppet?!” The old man’s fury seemed to mount. Suddenly seizing the pellet drum with its attached doll, he thrust it into his own collar.
“That Tao wretch has ruined another precious sheet.”
“In this state—you see—I cannot paint the promised landscape.”
“No—I can paint it!”
“Watch closely!”

The old man painted a vibrant ink bamboo composition with reckless abandon—or so it seemed to me—nearly tearing the paper in the process. Each time the old man moved his arm, the bells attached to the doll at his collar struck the drum, letting out a delicate sound. That closely resembled the bamboo painting that had been in the Sichuan military man’s home. The old man must have clearly drawn that from memory. "It wasn't as exquisitely refined as that one, but instead bore a direct, sharp, and desperate intensity......"

On my way back, walking through dust that seemed to carry the scent of distant camels, I repeated quietly to myself that a life without neighbors like Old Zeng's—no matter how beautiful—would likely perish before long. Still, I—had thought of applying the bamboo design I had just received as the pattern for a ceremonial cloth meant as a childbirth celebration gift. The ink splatters on the paper could be removed during dyeing, and though I acknowledged myself as but a single puppet in the universe, I thought that paintings created by the brush of an old man who sustained such passion within his life might yet bring some turn of fortune for the baby born frail and premature. Even the paper that had seemed ruined being salvaged felt somehow satisfying. When it came to my duties, I suppose I was something of an activist who diligently bustled about, but regarding the baby’s vitality—being raised on this unfamiliar continent—I was somewhat timid, one might say nihilistic. In that regard, I felt somewhat awkward before that aged enthusiast. "This is the strange tale entwined with my ceremonial cloth."

＊ ＊ ＊

＊ ＊ ＊

A month later, I received a telegram from the company abruptly ordering my transfer to Nanjing.
I had been commanded to compile an eyewitness report on the Southern Government's headquarters as it stood poised to achieve success in the Northern Expedition.
I journeyed from the city where camels dwelled to the city where tropical diseases encroached.
When departing Beijing, I had seen with my own eyes at Qianmen Station what they called Zhang Zuolin's special train—already fully prepared for withdrawal to Fengtian—but now this city in Jiangsu where I arrived stood in stark contrast, seething with preparations for a revolutionary military victory celebration.
The Girl Scouts had assembled only sturdy girls for the flag procession, while up at New Park on the hill, the military band was hastily rehearsing festive melodies.

It was already June.
In puddles everywhere, women were washing clothes.
On the blindingly hot thoroughfare, the smell of carbolic acid lingered.
I rode a rickshaw that ran more hastily than those in Beijing and, carrying Old Zeng’s letter of introduction, went to visit Madam Zeng.
On Madam Zeng’s European-influenced nameplate at Hachihō Lane was written the following.
Hygiene Committee Member.
Women's Education Committee Member.
――

I thought it must be the influence of Workers' and Peasants' Russia, but Madam Zeng emerged like all the young wives of Nanjing as a "female comrade"—that is, wearing a quasi-military officer's uniform with leather gaiters still fastened. Madam Zeng was beautiful, but her attire lent her rather an innocent appearance. To Madam Zeng, whose sloping shoulders appeared strikingly pronounced and whose waist was cinched as tightly as a wasp's by her leather belt, I offered my greetings in English.

“Father has been eagerly waiting for you over there, Madam.”

“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
While cutting open the letter from her father-in-law before me, Madam Zeng rapidly fired off questions.
“How is the situation in Beijing?”
“Is the Fengtian Army’s withdrawal proceeding orderly?”
“Are ordinary people frightened of us?”
“Or are they inwardly waiting for us?”
“That’s right.”
“Those people needn’t do anything at all.”
“Truly—if only they would simply keep waiting...”

I said with some hesitation.

“It’s not that they particularly dislike the National Revolutionary Army, Madam, but Beijing remains congested regardless.”
“All manner of rumors swirl about without respite.”
“Amidst this turmoil, your father-in-law shuts himself indoors daily to paint.”

“Has he been deprived even of books to that extent?” The uniformed madam furrowed her brow, embodying the image of a daughter-in-law schooled in Eastern filial piety.

“How pitiable that he has nothing to occupy himself!”

I attempted to explain the old man's dignity to this new Chinese person.
I thought to make a case.
I focused my mind on English adjectives.

“Oh please rest assured, Madam. Father-in-law says books aren’t some all-or-nothing meal for him. He’s a noble man. Someone seeking the Way. Someone who makes friends with stones and bamboo and clouds while affirming life itself.”

“What do you mean—excuse me—I don’t understand.”

“How should I put it...” My English lacked the confidence of my essays. “Through facing such things in his discipline, he achieves the same state of mind as one confronting a sage.”

“Please excuse me—I truly don’t understand what you’re saying, so I beg you not to take offense.”
“Though I did grasp that Father-in-law was absorbed in some special research...”

As Madam Zeng blushed girlishly, I too decided to return to our original topic while stirring the offered tea to compose myself.

“Still, Father-in-law has properly framed your husband’s photograph in a large frame and displays it in his study.”
“After all, keeping a National Revolutionary Army officer’s portrait displayed like that within Beijing is rather dangerous.”
“My acquaintances who maintain friendly relations were apparently nervous.—Moreover, he made daily inquiries about the baby.”
“Ah yes, it seems he made an astute remark to that friend of mine.”
“The old man completes whatever work he can manage, and by the time he becomes useless, the son dutifully provides a grandchild.”
“A clever arrangement indeed.”

“Did he say such a thing?”
Madam Zeng laughed aloud as if she had suddenly understood my English.
“Oh, that’s truly how it is.”
“――Shall I show you the baby?”
“I will bring him here, so in the meantime, please take a look at this.”
“This was printed by the city, so I’m sure it will serve as a useful reference for you.”

I picked up the printed material titled “Childcare Guide” that had been left on the desk.
The opening bore this phrase as its title.
“The infant mortality rate in Nanjing City is as shown in the following table.”
“In our Republic, the most important thing now is children.”

When I took my leave, the bashful crying of the baby could still be heard from the second-floor window.
But the June wind was carrying an even larger, even more lively sound that drowned it out.
It was the military band’s practice tune on the hill.
At that moment, the baby’s cry had become part of the larger sound.

The baby seemed to resemble both his grandfather in Beijing and the photograph of his father at the front. Considering this, perhaps this infant being raised strictly according to the city's hygiene pamphlets had inherited half his grandfather's blood and half his father's. It might have been a happy third-generation citizen of the Republic. I too placed hope in the baby—

(October 1928)