Pathway to Japanese Literature

White Powder Farewell

One night at a movie theater, I inadvertently exposed my own foolishness to the modest audience around me.
As I watched Yul Brynner’s popular film *The Buccaneer*, when I reached the final farewell scene with his lover that had left everyone sniffling, I found myself unable to stop chuckling.

The lead pirate Brynner pushed his lover away from his chest and continued speaking.
“A sea without a homeland. A sea without permanent settlement.
I can’t take you.” “Stay here.
Because I love you—because I will love you eternally—I cannot take you with me.”
It really was such an antiquated line.

But it wasn’t that I had lost my composure over that. Rather, recalling a couple from eighteenth-century Japan—around the same period depicted in this film—I found myself watching the screen in a sort of double exposure. Now, what constituted this Japanese version of the love scene? To put it plainly, it concerned an episode involving Fujimoto Tessei (Masaakane), leader of the Tenchū Group that spearheaded the Bakumatsu Restoration—a story I’d suddenly recalled, though I’ve forgotten which volume contained it.

In Sumoto on Awaji Island, there was an old family engaged in shipping and grain wholesaling who at the time served as patrons to patriots.
During his western travels, Tessei had stayed there for an extended period, and while teaching painting to the daughter of that Sumotoya household, they gradually grew close.
However afterward, as the time for the Tenchū Group's Yamato uprising finally ripened, Tessei crossed over to Awaji, discreetly bid farewell to the Sumotoya household that had shown him past kindness, and stayed there one night.

Then, come morning, just as he was about to depart, the daughter who had seemed resigned the previous night suddenly burst into tears and began insisting uncontrollably that he take her with him.
Tessei must have been at a loss, but he was, after all, a man in his forties.

“There there, cry all you want. I’ll take you with me, I’ll take you.” He stroked his sobbing lover’s back as one would comfort a child. “Really?”

With that, she wiped her tears with a delighted look.
Tessei gave a large nod with an “Un,” then—as if struck by a thought—dipped his finger into her vanity’s white powder container and dabbed a bit of the white substance on the tip of his nose to show her.
The daughter was left speechless after being startled, unable to find any words to say.
In that instant, the man had already risen from his seat and made his declaration—or so the story goes.

“Isn’t this fine? If I take you like this—I’ll never forget your scent, no matter where I go.”

Because I had been viewing this story through double exposure onto Cecil B. DeMille’s grandiose modern production in glorious Technicolor, Yul Brynner’s portrayal of Fujimoto Tessei now appeared as nothing but a tasteless clod—so much so that had I been able, I would have smeared white powder on that vulgar stiffly upturned nose of his.

They say pines know no past or present hues, but when it comes to those stereotypical love scenes and farewell dialogues, there seems to be no distinction between eras or East and West for men and women. Within this context, Tessei’s way of parting is indeed an Eastern expression of love, yet it’s cleverly humorous. It may be an apocryphal tale from later generations, but if so, it remains an exceptionally crafted one. Even with their dry pragmatism, modern individuals cannot attain both this degree of detachment and redemption.

Postwar Fox Den

With the imperial wedding ceremony approaching, Mr. Yamada Yasuhiko was promoted to Chief Chamberlain to the Crown Prince.
The announced biographical article contained the following lines.

It was the eve of the war’s end.
It is said that when Chamberlain Yamada of the time heard rumors that a faction within the former Imperial Army planned to continue the war by rallying around the Crown Prince, he attempted to flee with the Crown Prince into the mountains of Numata in Gunma Prefecture.
If by any chance that plan by a faction within the Imperial Army had been carried out, what would have happened?
It’s impossible to say whether today’s grand ceremony could have taken place at all.

Admittedly, from the perspective of the old Imperial Army's education, that was indeed one possible strategy at the time.
It became a mindset of reenacting the Yoshino Court from the Taiheiki in real life.
Yet even in something as limited as the Northern and Southern Courts period's civil war, one would think they should have known what miserable ends Emperor Go-Daigo's numerous princes all met.
The earthen prison of Ōtōnomiya that became one of Kamakura's famous sites was a fabrication, but the killing was indeed factual.
Not a single one among the princes - Takanaga, Tsunenaga, Narinaga, Yoshiyasu, Munenaga, Kannenaga - ever completed their life with fulfillment.
There was even a prince who mingled with common soldiers and ran through the flames.

While reading Naoki Prize-winning author Mr. Shiroyama Saburo’s *The End of Righteousness*, I was reminded of something that had occurred in the immediate postwar period.
Rumors had spread credibly through nearby villages that a portion of the Mizunokuchi Army unit—disbanded by imperial edict—had hidden ammunition, food supplies, and other materials in a mountain cave near Okutama where I had been evacuated, all while harboring sinister intentions.
In other words, though they had been officially disbanded, it appeared that a Shōgitai-like faction of staunch comrades—driven by irreversible momentum under their rallying cry of “We absolutely refuse to surrender”—had formed some secret pact to bide their time for another day.

“What became of those cave-dwelling patriots since then?”
“Or was that merely a groundless rumor?”

When the rumors had nearly faded away, I took the opportunity to ask the local police chief when he came by.
Then Mr. Police Chief,

“No—when we investigated, it turned out not to be entirely baseless, you see.”
“However, when we pieced together what we heard from nearby farmers—it was downright absurd, I tell you.”

With that, he burst into hearty laughter and offered this conclusion to my lingering doubts that had been half-convinced all along.

“As for the actual number of personnel—it could have been several dozen—the initial unity at least seems to have been genuinely single-minded.”
“Our investigation found weapons and such had indeed been brought into the cave.”
“But here’s the thing.”
“Supplies like sugar, oil, hardtack, and cigarettes—there wasn’t a trace left of them.”
“Even those who’d once fervently sworn to die for the nation found themselves fretting over each other’s claims to those cave supplies once disbanded.”
“So when someone sneaked off alone to check the cave—sure enough—those who’d arrived first had already dipped into the sugar and cigarettes, leaving them clearly diminished.”
“Then they too stopped playing honest and took their share back.”
“That’s how everything from blankets to gasoline got quietly pilfered bit by bit.”
“Mind you—the farmers might’ve lifted some too.”
“In any case, it all resolved itself quite naturally.”
“Yes—we took the occupation forces to dispose of things like the red-rusted machine guns, then handled the rest ourselves.”

Soldiers and the Emperor

At Samegahashi near the main gate of Aoyama Palace, which was soon to become the Crown Prince's new residence, there once lived Chiba Taneaki, an old scholar of the Imperial Poetry Bureau.

Mr. Chiba too had been temporarily evacuated during the war to Fussa in Okutama—the same place as myself—where he ultimately passed away. But since before the war I had also been living in Akasaka Omotecho, during his early morning walks he would often stop by the edge of my house, where we would sip coarse tea and share a conversation or two.

Mr. Chiba was a quintessential courtly poet—one with the bearing of a true court-attached bard.
That he had served three successive emperors since Emperor Meiji was his greatest pride.

When it came to stories about Emperor Meiji, he would speak with such engrossing detail that time seemed to vanish.
I too would listen whenever my interest was piqued, though most of what I heard would slip away once I left those conversations—yet there remain some stories I could never forget.

When the Emperor, as commander, ordered them to line up, without exception, the soldier ranks never aligned readily.
The ranks would often become uneven.
Thereupon His Majesty would go to each one and correct the soldier's posture.

While the other military officers were puzzling over how strange it all was, the cause was finally discovered.
It was a conscious phenomenon among the soldiers.
It appeared there were not a few soldiers who had been intentionally, imperceptibly shifting forward and backward from the ranks.
Then the Emperor strode purposefully forward and corrected the soldier's posture.
In other words, the soldiers had wanted to be touched by the Emperor's hand.

The Day the Imperial Palace Embraced Civilization and Enlightenment

One morning, Mr. Chiba said to me,
“Mr. Yoshikawa, do you know where in all of Tokyo the electric lights were last installed?”
“Well…”
“Some backwater area, perhaps?”
“No—there was a place that continued using candles for many years even after lamps had disappeared throughout Tokyo.”
“The Imperial Palace, you know.”
“Even speaking of the Imperial Palace—while the Ministry of the Imperial Household had been first to have electric lights installed—only the section where Emperor Meiji resided continued using old-fashioned hundred-measure candles unchanged since the Kyoto Imperial Palace days, you see.”

This was Mr. Chiba’s preface.
And the crux of the story seemed to be that he wanted me, his listener, to ask "Why?"

As a benefit of civilization and enlightenment, there was nothing as evidently convenient as electric lights.
Yet for the halls centered around Emperor Meiji's quarters alone, even as the Ministry of the Imperial Household and other government offices had all been electrified, there remained no imperial permission to "switch to electricity."

"His Majesty might indeed prefer old-fashioned ways."

The palace authorities had privately considered this possibility as well.
However, in other matters, he showed no aversion whatsoever to Westernization.
In fact, His Majesty's progressive tendencies were even proactive.
And so, whenever opportunities arose, the high-ranking officials would subtly bring to His Majesty’s attention the convenience of electric lights and their lack of fire risk, then tentatively broach the subject with, "How about we install them in the Imperial Residence as well?" But His Majesty would dismiss it with a "Well, fine as it is," and before they knew it, over two years had passed.

Then, a certain palace official quietly reported his sudden realization to his superior.
The hundred-me candles lit nightly from His Majesty's quarters to the corridors of various halls—each over a hundred momme in weight and consumed in considerable quantity—would see their remnants extinguished by lower-ranking palace officials resembling toneri court attendants of old once His Majesty retired to bed. Carrying candle snuffers and black-lacquered canisters, they moved through the halls blowing out each remaining candle with quick puffs before depositing them in their containers.

Therefore, since this occurred nightly, the candle remnants amounted to a considerable quantity over a year.
However, this had become a decades-old custom where every six months, the Ministry of the Imperial Household’s official candle supplier would discreetly retrieve the remnants through the back gate, and in exchange, a monetary envelope called “Oroku-dai” for these wax scraps would be privately handed under the table to those in charge.
Then too, by participating in the distribution of this modest wax fund, those low-ranking palace officials—poorly paid colleagues making their rounds through the imperial quarters—would allocate it to their household’s rice cake expenses at year’s end, or during midyear Obon season purchase a single yukata each for both festival use and their wives and children.

“Though His Majesty never speaks of it, I believe he must be fully aware of that matter.”
“No matter how I consider it, I can think of no other reason His Majesty would dislike electric lights. Moreover, the salaries of the lower-ranking officials around the imperial quarters remain as they were in the past despite prices having risen considerably.”

Upon hearing this, the superior promptly had it investigated, only to find their meager salaries were indeed shockingly low.
And so, in place of that fiscal year, they implemented a salary increase that brought some balance with prices, then took the opportunity to inquire with His Majesty.

“How about it, Your Majesty? As Your Majesty can see even from Fukiage, every night the entirety of Tokyo becomes a sea of electric lights. Might we have them installed in Your Majesty’s quarters here as well?”

This time, it is said His Majesty nodded immediately.

“Very well. Electric lights are acceptable. Have them installed.”

Indeed, His Majesty had known all along about the inseparable relationship between the meager salaries of the lower-ranking officials around him and the candle remnants. There had been concern that installing electric lights would disrupt their means of managing household expenses from that year’s Bon season onward, yet refraining from interfering in such peripheral administrative matters of the Imperial Household meant His Majesty had endured several years of inconvenience—or so it appeared.

I would often find myself recalling this anecdote over coarse tea that I had heard from old scholar Chiba Taneaki whenever I was around Miyakezaka at night. The night views of Hibiya, Sukiyabashi, and Ginza seen from that area in recent years were like an ever-glowing rainbow mocking how antiquated such tales had already become. Yet the dark, quiet waters of the moat right beside them remained scarcely changed from Meiji-era waters. I sometimes experienced illusions. While one could simply call it a microcosm of Japan and leave it at that, upon reflection Tokyo appeared to possess a structure maintaining itself through the harmony of two polar extremes—each presenting an utterly strange landscape. Above all, keeping balance seemed most challenging.

"The Toy Kitchen Set Society"

The editorial columns on the front pages of evening papers—such as Asahi's Elementary Particles, Mainichi's Current Fragments, Yomiuri's Yomiuri Briefs, and Sankei's Evening Gleanings—each displayed a pleasurably satirical and humorous tone through their distinctive writing styles. Particularly in Mainichi's Current Fragments, one occasionally found a style so scathing it silenced opposing camps.
Though it was already last month now,

Moriwaki Masamitsu the loan shark became the center of the political arena.
What a splendid country, with its splendid politics.
Such instances—as one columnist quipped—could be considered exemplary cases.
While the printed word “corruption” seems to have a paralyzing effect on public consciousness, seeing it articulated in this way sends chills down one’s spine at the bizarre spectacle of modern parliamentary politics, as if realizing it anew.

“Someone once said, ‘No matter how many times cabinets change nowadays, they all end up becoming Tanuma cabinets.’ There’s half a truth worth recognizing in those words.”
Of course, bribery constituted a twofold or threefold crime when considering its shamelessness and bureaucratic self-interest. Similarly, shouldn’t we mutually hold this societal trend of bribe-giving—which enables such acts—to harsher contempt and condemnation as a social evil?
There undeniably existed a tendency in contemporary society to hastily condemn bribery’s adulteress while letting its paramour off lightly—not that they were entirely excused—but treating them with relative leniency.

When discussing bribery, people often cited Tanuma Okitsugu of the Kansei era as an example, but even in what was called the Tanuma period, one wanted to argue that half the blame for creating such an era lay with the office-seekers surrounding Okitsugu's cabinet and the general populace.
I don't know to what extent Tanuma was ignorant and greedy, but in accounts of his bribery such as Hōan's Posthumous Manuscripts, Stories of the Kōshi Era, and May Rain Twins, people all recorded his scandals with amusement for posterity.

Even Ii Naoyuki, the Great Elder, was said to have obtained his position as Great Elder through those who had bribed him.
As for those gifts, they consisted of miniature landscapes depicting rural houses crafted in gold and silver, each displayed on four-sided trays.
It was said that even the sand spread beneath them was gold dust and silver beans.

Again, on a moon-viewing evening.
A townsman delivered an item arranged with whiting and vegetables in a bamboo basket to the kitchen.
At first glance, it appeared to be an innocuous ceremonial gift, but when someone pulled out the small knife thrust into a green yuzu within, they found it was an autumn grass-carved kozuka by the renowned artisan Goto—considered worth a fortune in those days.

Furthermore, when Tanuma had his secondary residence newly built, one morning as he was looking at the garden of that Inaribori villa, he—

“It would be nice to have carp in that pond,” he muttered to himself. When he casually returned home that evening after leaving the castle, buckets and troughs filled with carp had been placed throughout his estate. “What in the world... All day today, we’ve received carp offerings from various households and tradesmen—the pond can’t hold any more,” his retainers reportedly lamented, utterly overwhelmed. This revealed how bribe-givers had even resorted to covert methods after meticulous planning to infiltrate his inner circle. How does one curry such favor? They appeared to spare no effort. Truly, was the societal corrosion wrought by these malevolent forces not dreadful? As Hōan’s Posthumous Manuscripts records, this climate of obsequious competition birthed specialties like the so-called “toy kitchen sets” in Yoshiwara—concrete proof of how assiduously people groveled to authority.

Who came up with this?

They apparently had a joinery artisan skillfully create a five-shaku water kitchen shelf—about 1.5 meters—with numerous small compartments, filled it with various delicacies and fine foods, added suitable items down to cutting boards and kitchen knives, and sent it to comfort Tanuma on one occasion.
Then their favorable reception spread rapidly—used for cherry blossom viewings, Sumida River boating excursions, and gifts to other influential figures—until the joiner was said to have reaped enormous profits.
The price for one set of these literally adult "toy kitchen sets" ranged from seven or eight ryō for standard models to as much as fifteen ryō for deluxe versions in the currency of that time.

Even Tanuma, who had reached such heights, met with sudden ruin through the incident where his only son Yamashironokami Tomochika was cut down in the Kikyō-no-Ma room of Edo Castle—ultimately stemming from grudges over bribery.

His amassed wealth was, of course, completely disgorged.
However, Tanuma had a mistress who had risen from an archery range attendant, and it seems this was settled with exceptional treatment.
Thus, even into the era of Dōei—grandson of Doctor Dōyū, who had served as the adoptive father of that mistress—they were still reportedly using up the dried bonito flakes, candles, and writing paper that had been sent as gifts from various households during his grandfather’s time, doling them out stingily.
However, the Tsujigai palanquin bearers who knew this would harassingly—whenever their lantern candles ran out—

“Well, good evening there.—Mr. Dōei, keeping well, are we? Since your light’s gone out again, why don’t you offer up a candle to atone for your ancestors’ sins?” they would go to Dōei’s house to demand. Then Dōei would make an indescribably unpleasant face while taking moldy, discolored candles from the back, attaching a few coins to them, and silently extending his thin, malnourished-looking hand through the gap in the sliding door—this routine was said to repeat every time.

Quail's Winged Insects

History knows no shortage of exemplary officials.
Yet tales of virtuous administrators lack contagious appeal as topics of discussion.
Good officials must still exist in modern times.
They undoubtedly do exist - but such officials never become news.

One instance can be seen in "The Window's Desolation."

During the Kan'ei era, when Abe Bungo-no-kami Tadaaki served as regent, keeping quails became immensely popular throughout Edo proper. The fads for Japanese rohdea, quails, and similar things appeared to follow cyclical societal trends, with numerous examples occurring around the Taishō era and early Shōwa period.

Tadaaki too was caught up in the trend and kept quails. Trends resemble modern-day golf. When captivated by something, one considers only its merits. Tadaaki proved no exception. During moments of respite from his official duties, he enjoyed their beautiful songs. He couldn't suppress an unfeeling smile while raising the hatchlings. He had even come to regard it as the refinement and elegance befitting a noble person.

Then one morning.
The wealthy merchant who served as purveyor to the shogunate visited his private residence.
It did not appear to be any special business—merely,

“Well, those who’ve never even tried keeping them might dismiss it as half-baked quail mania or just another passing fad—not that they have anything worthwhile to say in their gossip—but once you actually try it, it’s truly…” The man’s entire discourse, filled with quail expertise and self-aggrandizement, revealed him to be utterly single-minded.

Not only that, but he soon placed the number one quail cage he had brought before Tadaaki.

“Well now, this may sound rather boastful of me, but I daresay it could be called the finest quail in all the land.”
"...The truth is, having learned that you too, my lord, have recently developed an esteemed fondness for quails, I immediately instructed a certain Kamigata quail connoisseur to spare no expense—not even a thousand gold pieces—and finally obtained this exceptional bird. Two quail handlers accompanied it nonstop on the journey, had them rush it by express palanquin, and it arrived in Edo just last night."
"Yes, in my eagerness to present this offering, I could scarcely wait for dawn.… Or rather, my wife and I have been striving day after day to prepare something worthy for you."
“Well, if it should meet with your approval, there could be no greater joy for me.”

The quail indeed appeared impressive, but the gold and silver maki-e cage with crimson tassel ornaments was something crafted to perfection.
Tadaaki was admiring it with interest, but suddenly turned to his attendant and issued this command:
“Compared to this, they’ll look shabby indeed—but have all the quails I’ve kept until now lined up in the garden.”
The retainers immediately brought out dozens of quail cages from the estate’s coop and lined them up in the garden.
As they all likely thought he intended to compare them with the prized quail, Tadaaki abruptly stood up,

“As of today, I’m putting an end to this indulgence.”
“Release all the quails in the cages—do not leave a single one.”

he ordered,

“Well then. It’s time I attended at the castle,” he declared, retreating into the inner chambers to prepare himself.

The merchant turned pale and retreated.
Since then, having been deeply troubled by this and remaining shut away at home in fear of future repercussions—when Tadaaki later heard of this through others,

“Oh, that’s unfortunate.”

And it is said he had this message conveyed through that intermediary.

“I bear not the slightest resentment toward him.
Rather, I, Bungo, am the one who should be thanking him.
Had that morning never occurred, Bungo would have continued day after day manipulating bakufu politics with one hand while increasingly wearing himself out cleaning quail droppings with the other.
Furthermore, there’s no doubt this healthy body of mine would have been plagued by quail disease by now.
Ha ha ha ha.”

The Tested Imperial Consort

Even as spring departs, the "commemorative marriage boom" continues.
Thanks to this, I too have been asked to serve as matchmaker for one couple this month.

When I try my hand at matchmaking, being a man, I inevitably find myself siding with the man and cannot help but view the chosen woman not merely as a woman. Even among commoners, this "empress selection" operates through subtle intuitions. Though an old tale, such a story is recorded in Ōkagami.

The daughter of Lord Higashisanjō (Chancellor Kaneie) was a sheltered beauty of profound grace.
She was called Lady Yasuko.

Among Kaneie’s concubines was none other than the author of *The Gossamer Years* herself—a talented woman who had even composed that man-slaying masterpiece included in the *Hyakunin Isshu*: *"Lamenting alone through the night until dawn breaks—how interminable its length I now know."* With such cultured women gracing his household, Lady Yasuko’s upbringing required no further explanation.

There were many suitors, but Yasuko already showed faint signs of catching Crown Prince Takahira’s (later Emperor Go-Sanjō) attention.
Her father Kaneie had no intention of betrothing her elsewhere.
When the Crown Prince underwent his coming-of-age ceremony soon after, he arranged for the princess to enter court.
Though empresshood remained separate, she was appointed as Naishi-no-kami—a position permitting her to share his bedchamber.
Installed within Reikeiden Palace, she came to be known as "Lady of Reikeiden."

However, when placed by his side, even this girl of exceptional beauty may not have quite suited the Crown Prince.
One summer day.
It must have been an exceptionally hot day, for a large silver platter was heaped with ice.
The Crown Prince was suddenly struck by a mischievous impulse,

“Princess… Don’t let go.”

he placed a lump of ice in Yasuko’s hands.
And,

“If you trust me, and if you intend to swear lifelong chastity to me, then you must not discard that ice until I say you may.”

“You must not let go,” he ordered.
The princess kept clutching the ice exactly as instructed.
Yet even when her nails turned violet and her skin began discoloring, she persisted in earnest.
This endurance seemed less a pledge of love than some other form of stoicism.

The Crown Prince was finally moved to disillusionment and said.
“That’s enough, that’s enough.”
And afterward, it is said he murmured to his attendants.

“The Lady of Reikeiden’s obedience is commendable, but that surpasses pitiable—utterly untrustworthy… Even my own jest has grown distasteful.”

It was an unfortunate omen.
Later, this Lady Yasuko—evading the Crown Prince's notice—secretly consorted with Minister Yoritsune Minamoto. When pregnancy rumors arose, she was ultimately expelled from the imperial harem and made to return to her ancestral Higashisanjō residence.
As for Minister Yoritsune Minamoto, this transgression resulted in his banishment from court throughout Emperor Sanjō's reign, leaving him to smolder through half his life in the humiliating post of a minor noble.

A woman who clutches ice until her nails turn purple might still endure it obediently even when compelled by a man who isn't her lover.
Among modern women, I feel certain you couldn't find such a person even if you tried.
Yet perhaps we should consider that within our own unknowable hearts—hearts even we ourselves don't comprehend—there may lurk some unexpected version of ourselves.

For instance, if it were the modern Lady Yasuko, she might immediately strike the man with the ice while shouting “No way! You’re mocking me!” in anger—or else perhaps crunch it to pieces while declaring “Oh, I can’t wait!” and devour it. Yet in either case, the man would feel the same disillusionment as the Crown Prince (Emperor Sanjō). In any case, since men’s eyes when testing women are tyrannically merciless, should a woman ever be subjected to trials like having ice placed in her hands by a man, she must skillfully employ that uniquely feminine combination of cool meticulousness and radiant beauty in her response—thereby making the man feel like he’s grasping fire instead.

Mr. Kikuchi Kan's Punchline

Suddenly, I noticed a strange phenomenon lately. In the past, people often said things like, "Well, we can talk about it..." "But it's simply impossible to put into print," regarding certain sexual matters—yet nowadays the situation has completely reversed. Things that appear in print through books and magazines prove difficult for those of us born in the twilight years of Meiji to speak about aloud.

Indeed, even in matters of love that don't reach such extremes, the same holds true. Upon reflection, I feel our generation was cultivated in an environment akin to sexual puritans—if not in actual substance. This reminded me how Mr. Kikuchi Kan used to relish recounting this particular anecdote about Tokugawa Yoshimune during his "Chronicles of Great Generals" lectures.

Yoshimune, the eighth shogun, demonstrated such frugality in reforming the licentious customs of previous eras that he himself wore only tsumugi silk hakama, earning renown as a wise ruler of his time—yet he also possessed refined sensibility. One time at the cedar door marking the boundary between the Ōoku and outer chambers, Yoshimune caught a glimpse of the palace maid who had escorted him from the inner quarters and an outer page briefly brushing their hands as they closed it.

After all, for the women of the Ōoku—where men were strictly forbidden—even something like briefly touching a page's hand through that cedar door seemed to be their greatest joyous opportunity. However, the man and woman that day, through their clumsy approach, ended up being seen by Yoshimune. Then Yoshimune reportedly said the following.

“Don’t do this too often.”

This was the punchline of Mr. Kikuchi’s lecture.
At its climax, the audience broke into simultaneous applause.
Such romantic notions would likely pass unnoticed by today’s young audiences.
No—if there were applause, one would look for those old-fashioned faces among them who would surely find it amusing.

Matanosuke's Love

"You see, in lectures, anecdotes are crucial—use them to delight the audience first, then make them swallow your main point," he would say.
This was the lecturing secret Mr. Kikuchi always emphasized.
Following his example, I too once attempted such idle talk in the past.

Among the loyal retainers, Shiota Matanosuke was one of the younger ones.
He spoke little and appeared too weak for a samurai.
Moreover, it was said he was also considered the most handsome man among their group.
Therefore, it seemed there had been a woman who reciprocated his feelings before the raid.

However, whether this lover was a town girl or childhood betrothed remained vague in everyone's minds—the truth stayed a mystery. Yet after being taken in by the Hosokawa family following the raid, their idle boredom made it a frequent topic of conversation, and Matanosuke often found himself teased by the others.

At such times, Matanosuke would always flush crimson, but when the day of his seppuku finally arrived the following year, Horinouchi Denemon—the Hosokawa family's chief retainer who had been caring for the ronin over those several months—saw his lover with his own eyes for the first time.

On that day, Denemon had likely been unable to bear witnessing the ronin - with whom he had long been acquainted - being summoned one after another to the seppuku platform in the garden, each cutting open their abdomen at intervals of roughly ten minutes. Waiting in an adjacent room, each time a death was completed, he broke out in goosebumps at the voice of the officiating samurai calling out again from the garden, "So-and-so-dono, prepare yourself." And each time they were called, the next ronin in turn would rise and go; while attending to them as they removed their garments in the waiting room there and changed into the provided death robes, he accepted each one's final farewell.

Afterward, he would fold the kosode robes and undergarments that the person had removed, attach labels to them along with wills and mementos, and meticulously bind everything with paper twine.
—Then came Shiota Matanosuke’s turn.
"—Matanosuke too," no different from the others," he quietly offered his final words of gratitude—"Thank you for your long kindness"—before disappearing into the white death platform in the garden."

Silently folding Matanosuke’s remaining kosode,
Denemon found lingering within its folds
the warmth of youthful skin.
Then something hard brushed his hand
within the sleeve.
"Hmm... What’s this?" Extracting it,
he discovered a woman’s koto plectrum
wrapped in purple silk.
"Ah—so this was his secret lover."

It is said that even the gruff old Den'u, feeling he had now accurately perceived the love Matanosuke had never once spoken of in life, could not help but shed tears.

How would something like this appear today?
It was like a star from another world.
But one could never claim that all youths of the Genroku period were such romantics.
Rather, most of society during Genroku had itself been a decadent, overripe age.
Thus perhaps such examples became ironically treasured as legendary tales precisely for that reason.

Sexual Liberation

When it comes to matters of sex, why do I find it so difficult to speak aloud about things that now commonly appear in print? Truth be told—though I cannot say whether today's Sexual Liberation represents progress or decadence—looking back, we persisted in exasperating behavior, treating love patterns like that koto plectrum or those cedar door lovers as supreme ideals. Not only that, but during sexuality's adolescence there existed a timidity resembling consciousness of sin. Not to the extent of Mr. Masamune Hakucho, but I find myself recalling something akin to what Mr. Masamune once wrote about in my own past.

Once, I delivered a talk titled "waidan" at a readers' convention held at Osaka Asahi Kaikan.
It was a time when Sexual Liberation had not yet become as undisciplined as what we see in today’s print media—though even then, Mr. Ishihara’s Sun Tribe boom had emerged, and topics like the Chatterley problem and 'the key' were causing quite a stir.

To be honest, I had something within myself that felt like resistance against myself.
Or perhaps it would be more honest to call it a variation of a complex.
Before solemn gentlemen and ladies and wholesome young men and women, couldn't there be some cheerful 'waidan' that one could speak about even from the lectern?
What reaction would the audience show—such curiosity and adventure also played their part.
But in the end, it was not something I could do.
In the end, all I managed was to stumble over my own words, stuttering through forty or fifty minutes of circling grandly around topics like sex and literature or the dual aspects of instinct and humanity—subjects I myself had broached.
However, afterward, the editor came to me and said.

“That talk the other day was quite fascinating, wasn’t it? Could you let us publish that transcript in the next issue?”

Thinking “Is that so?”, I had the galley proofs of the stenographic transcript sent over. This was printed text. When I saw such a story in print, I felt terribly embarrassed beyond measure. I scratched my head and apologized, begging for forgiveness. But when I spoke from the podium, somehow I felt the audience had listened with great seriousness. Of course, when it came to one or two anecdotes, both the audience and I at the podium would end up laughing all at once. Afterward, I received inquiries from two or three audience members asking about the source of that nun’s story from that time, but having left them as they were, I will now attempt to put part of it into print here.

The Nun's Bottomless [Thing]

After the war, I wrote Takayama Ukon for the Yomiuri.
I wrote of the honey of Ukon's youth and women like bees, intending then to proceed to his later years as Deus Ukon the Christian daimyo.

However, a vehement protest came from Professor Laures of Sophia University.
"Lord Deus Ukon would never engage in such conduct.
Even speaking of his youth, licentious behavior is utterly inconceivable—one cannot possibly imagine there being any romantic affairs whatsoever."
"The Jesuit mission reports state as follows."
"The biographies state as follows."
Asserting that everything was exactly as documented, he would come carrying his own works and records to my evacuation residence in Yoshino Village at that time, tenaciously requesting protests and corrections.

I was exasperated.
There came a day when he appeared at that mountain village in Okutama even as snow fell, expounding upon Saint Deus Ukon's pure and chaste youth.
It resembled nothing so much as the proselytizing fervor of Nichiren Buddhists' shakubuku.
Finally I went to Sophia University one day and attempted before the missionary professors an impassioned discourse spanning "literature, historical facts, and religion," but ultimately finding it all too tiresome, I brought the novel to its conclusion.

What I felt then was that even scholars like Mr. Laures showed a strong tendency to recoil from matters of sexuality in Catholicism from the very outset.
They regarded even love as perilous.
There seemed to persist this inclination to avert one's gaze from humanity's focal point, as if still clinging to belief in "Mary conceiving without wedlock."

In contrast, religions that originated in the East were not like that.
On the contrary, there were even traces of them confronting sexuality head-on.
It is said that some scriptures of Tendai and Shingon esoteric Buddhism were sexual sutras.
These were not akin to Mr. Murakami Shōfū's Onna-gyō.
Mr. Mizuhara Gyōei's A Study of the Tachikawa-ryū;
In works such as Mr. Moriyama Seishin's A Study of Monk Bukan, their existence becomes apparent.
However, just as Catholicism viewed it as dangerous, Tendai and Shingon also regarded it as perilous, ultimately sealing them away as so-called secret scriptures.
Yet Zen did not resort to such petty acts of fear or concealment.

While someone might find the theme of "Zen Monks and Sex" intriguing to explore, I have no leisure for such pursuits and must hastily confine myself here to the story of a single nun.

It concerned a nun named Eshun-ni from the Kamakura period. According to The History of Bhikkhunis, her secular surname was Fujiwara; she resided in Kasuya, Sagami Province, and was said to possess peerless beauty.

The circumstances of her marriage remained unclear.
However, it appeared she had become a widow around the age of thirty.
Following her brother Ryōan, she entered the Zen priesthood.
The beautiful nun must have stirred the temple gates throughout Kamakura like a pure plum blossom.
She was sent love letters, visited by nocturnal courtship attempts, and there was no end to monks constantly making advances.

When harassment became unbearable，Eshun-ni later took a burning firebrand and branded her own face，it is said.
The following story likely concerned events prior to that.
Once，the nun had visited Engaku-ji Temple’s platform on an official mission.

That day, the monastic assembly of Engaku-ji Temple formed lines on both sides of the steps and waited for the nun.
According to Zen tradition, it was customary to hold dharma debates, and knowing the sharpness of the nun's dialectical prowess, the resentful monks who had been spurned by her now lay in wait with sleeves rolled ready.

Before long, the nun's figure appeared gracefully, advancing from the temple gate through the encircling gaze of the monks toward the steps. Then a young monk leaped out and suddenly blocked the nun's path—in the next instant he lifted the hem of his priestly robe and exposed his penis in broad daylight, then arched his back to make the reddish-black enormous member stand erect while—

“A monk’s member measures three shaku. What say you to that?”

—and thus he did.

Then, without moving a muscle, the nun immediately lifted her robe to both sides with a swift motion, revealing not only her pure white skin but also the jeweled gate surrounded by lush mounds of hair before the monk’s member.

“A nun’s thing has no bottom.”

The nun retorted.

This was the male monk's defeat.
When three shaku faces bottomlessness, even in sports terms, the loss is absolute.

Now then, let us proceed.

There is another such incident involving this Eshun-ni.
There was a young disciple under her brother Ryōan who was desperately in love with the nun.

One night, he crawled into the nun’s bed and pleaded while weeping.
Eshun-ni soothed him, saying “Not tonight. Next time,” and sent him away.
Several days later came the day of Ryōan’s grand assembly in the dharma hall.
The nun deliberately posed a dharma inquiry to the people regarding the importance of sex.
Everyone put on airs of importance, yet when it came to matters of sex, they all fell silent.
Then the nun, invoking the name of the young monk from the previous night, declared, “Discussions won’t settle this. Shall we fulfill here and now the promise you desired that previous night, Venerable Monk? Now then, proceed,” she said, moving to the center of the Zen platform as she began to undo her robes.

Not only did the young monk flee, but he disappeared from the mountain entirely, it is said.
――Both proved utterly spineless men.
Indeed, one might say men's sexual consciousness remained so fundamentally weak - even in what was called Kamakura's age of fortitude - that this very frailty ultimately manifested in the peculiar phenomenon of Mr. Shintaro Ishihara's "The Season of the Sun" sweeping into vogue during our present Shōwa era.

Incidentally, there was another nun named Ryōnen-ni who shared a similar anecdote. She lived much later than Eshun-ni, having previously been the wife of Takeda Jūan, great-grandson of the famed warlord Takeda Shingen. When she first sought entry at Tetsugyū's school, they refused her with "Absolutely not—you're far too beautiful." She then studied under Shirakamō, only to be expelled when her mere presence began unsettling the male disciples. Ultimately achieving enlightenment through her own efforts, she spent her final years at Taiun Temple in Edo's suburban Ochiai Village until passing at sixty-six. However, since her story perfectly mirrors Eshun-ni's from *The History of Bhikkhunis* mentioned earlier, one might suspect later generations grafted the tale onto her.

"The Great Debate"

Setting aside tourist spots and the like, hasn't the general tendency for graffiti in cities become less common these days? In a society where anything can be said, anything can be expressed—where one can speak with such self-indulgent freedom—there would presumably be no place for graffiti mentality, public urination, or walls that invite such acts.

Yet even among graffiti, there exist works of national treasure caliber.

Such examples included the famous figure painting "The Great Debate" among the Shōsōin treasures.
It must surely have been either an ancient sutra copyist’s doodle or an impromptu sketch from that time.
At the edge of the sutra copy paper lay graffiti depicting a large man wearing a robe and headdress (cap), with eyes bulging and shoulders squared as he engaged in a heated debate.
In today's terms, his dignified appearance suggested he could have been a top labor union executive, while his demeanor perfectly captured the intellectual spirit of his era.

No—what’s even more delightful is the fact that at that time (some twelve hundred years ago)—during the Tenpyō-shōhō era of Emperor Shōmu—these sutra copyists, already what we would now call civil servants, were conducting strikes.

Of course, the first page of Japan's labor movement history begins in the early Meiji period, but even in those bannerless times, we find that people twelve hundred years ago exhibited what could be called primitive strike impulses—as revealed in these Shōsōin documents.
In formal academic terms, this is a document called "Shakyōshi no Kaian" (Copyists' Resolution).
In other words, it was something akin to a strike resolution document drafted by the sutra copyists.
And one comes to think that the very leader of those sutra copyists who conducted the strike might have been the man who served as model for The Great Debate—upon re-examining that graffiti figure, he now appears twice as vividly alive, making it feel hardly strange to imagine him marching at the forefront of today's May Day demonstrations.

An Amusing Strike

The sutra copyists were lower-ranking officials of the time. They were individuals dispatched from various government ministries to Tōdai-ji. Divided into departments handling the transcription, proofreading, bookbinding, and examination of voluminous foreign scriptures, they spent their entire lives engaged in long-term scribal work.

This description alone might prove somewhat difficult to reconcile with modern conceptions of "temples," but the temples of that period served roles akin to international cultural centers. Not only religion but also academics, medicine, gigaku ritual dance-drama, sangaku folk performances, and arts and crafts—all were assimilated through temples, where people came to study them. The sutra copying office may indeed be considered one department within this system.

However, while the general public's status was presumably low as well, the lives of these sutra copyists must have been truly terrible. Paper, ink, brushes, and other stationery items were supplied by the authorities, but compensation followed a piece-rate system. (There might have been some minimum guaranteed salary system) - for example, five mon per sutra sheet copied, one tan of cloth for forty sheets, one hiki of silk for eighty sheets, and so on. And all their food was strictly vegetarian. They could not consume meat or seafood, of course. Even among vegetables, seaweed, pickled goods, and similar items, only a very limited variety appeared in the records.

By the way, perhaps due to famine years or an epidemic, inflation occurred from the third to fourth year of the Hōki era. They pawned even their own residential lots and allotted farmlands to barely endure such times. The interest rates on these government funds from the "monthly loan system" created for such financial maneuvering were utterly unreasonable. With a principal of 100 mon carrying a monthly interest of 13 mon, this amounted to an exorbitant rate of thirteen percent per month. Looking at one example of their loan agreements preserved in the Shōsōin documents, to borrow two kanmon of coins, six people put their names to joint responsibility, with each submitting their own house as collateral.

“What’re we supposed to do?”
“We can barely survive as it is!”
“Farmers can flee if they want, but scribes like us? No way to earn our rice even if we ran clear across the provinces.”
“Why don’t we try telling our superiors?”
“No way, no way—we’ll definitely get chewed out.”
“So we’ll submit it as a document then? That way no one’ll get singled out.”

This was likely how such meetings concluded.
Gathered around one man's sutra-copying desk, they chattered noisily as each refined their brainstormed items into what became the "Demands for Improved Treatment."
This document remains preserved today in the Shōsōin Repository from Tenpyō 11 (739 CE) -

*Resolution of the Sutra Copying Office*

*A Peaceful Proposal to the Office*

- appearing at its beginning as what might be called one of Japan's oldest records of civil servant strikes.

As intellectuals of their era, their demands showed remarkable organization despite being composed in difficult classical Chinese.
When freely translated, these coalesced into six key items.

1. That the hiring of new sutra copyists be ceased.

2. We request periodic provision of clean garments.

3. We request a holiday on the fifth day of each month.

4. We request that our current brown rice ration be polished to a medium degree.

5. We request that alcohol be provided once every three days for medicinal purposes.

6. The barley that had traditionally been provided as an allowance has been discontinued.
That this be implemented.

From today’s perspective, each demand appears charmingly simple—almost laughably so. But for those civil servants of their time, this must have been the culmination of heated debates that finally led them to declare, "Let’s do it!"

However, that they stated in the first of these six items the prevention of new hires to protect their workplace was something that could resonate even with modern workplace sensibilities. Their scribal work likely faced annual interruptions and frequent lack of continuity, making workplace preservation their foremost concern. The fact that they requested five days of leave per month was roughly equivalent to modern weekly holidays. What proved worse than imagined had been their clothing. Fibers were truly precious then. They must have worn grime-ridden garments that reeked of grease, with hem tears and ragged holes so severe it bordered on absurdity.

The problem was alcohol. Their justification of "for medicinal purposes" seemed rather strained, but the stipulation of "once every three days" remained utterly endearing. In any case, this appeared to be a draft of collective demands that the large group of sutra copyists had produced—surrounding their proposal while engaging in heated debates and clamoring as they wrote. For that very reason, it felt natural. Moreover, this very draft had been reproduced photographically in various Shōsōin-related texts and compilations like the Dai Nihon Shiryō Taikei. However, upon closer inspection, one discovered that someone—seemingly from across the desk—had playfully added the single character for "sake" in upside-down script using a different brush. No doubt this prank had been the work of one man among them who had been most vocal in clamoring for it.

The Bee-Keeping Minister

In the Jikkinshō, there appears mention of a rumor concerning Sukehira, Grand Minister of State from the Kyōgoku family.
Suddenly recalling this as I spread honey on my lunchtime bread, I found myself strangely amused.

Sukehira kept many bees, it was said. The Jikkinshō made no mention of him collecting honey, but he had skillfully tamed them nonetheless. “Bees may be small insects,” he declared, “but they possess a diligence and benevolent wisdom that even humans lack.” With such pronouncements, he baffled those around him. Moreover, he gave names like “So-and-so-maru” or “So-and-so-suke” to each and every bee—and if some lazy one displeased him, “Nanimaru,” he would command, “go sting someone.” When he went out, the bees would form a golden halo swirling about his ox-drawn carriage. At his “Return,” they retreated; at his “Stop,” they alighted upon the carriage’s canopy and eaves. People of the time marveled that such a remarkably skilled man existed, dubbing him the “Bee-Keeping Minister.”

This Sukehira served under Emperor Horikawa’s reign and was renowned as the author of Kangengun (Treatise on String Instruments); he even bore the alternate title “Chūnagon of the Spring Warbler’s Song.” Thus he must have been quite the accomplished musician. But I’ve never heard that bees comprehend music. What could have been the secret behind his technique?

Fact or fiction?
Up to this point, it was just a trivial story, so it didn’t matter either way.
The reason I found myself oddly amused was because I had indulged in the fantasy of what it would be like if I could perform such a feat myself.
In short, I too would assign various names to bees—from the window of my Akasaka house commanding "...Nanimaru, go sting that riverbank!" At times directing them toward critics, at others toward National Tax Agency officials, or even toward instigators like Sasaki Mosaku—who had robbed me of my golf time through launching this *Shukan Bunshun* magazine—with orders like "Sting Mosaku thoroughly!" What splendid stress relief that would make.
Even with just a passing thought, there were plenty who’d want to use bees in such ways.
But since that was an impossible proposition, I found myself musing alone—if someone were to use this as material and adapt it into a musical or such, wouldn’t it make for a sharply amusing satire?

Dissent Council

Spring advanced—a landscape too banal even for a clumsy haiku about spring’s arrival—but at last, from the Governor of Tokyo down through every corner of the nation, election posters were finally being cleared away here and there.

Next would come immediate crackdowns on violations, followed once more by conflicts being dragged into assembly chambers.
Upon reflection, it was quite an inconvenient and troublesome system.
Under current political fundamentals, this represented the pinnacle of human wisdom—thus both social structures and what passed for progress were in truth profoundly precarious.

The wisdom of feudal-era people in their simplicity could at times prove far superior.
The societies and systems they supported were undoubtedly far smaller in scale than modern ones, yet one might say they were fundamentally gatherings between people.
For example, the “Dissent Council” seen in the Kuroda Family Chronicles was quite an interesting system.

The Dissent Council was essentially a consultation meeting, what we would now call a committee or some sort of conference. But without overcomplicating matters, in the Kuroda domain they also called it the "Night Storytelling Gathering Without Anger."

It appeared that Nagamasa, son of Josui, had initiated this practice.

Once or twice monthly, seven or eight prominent figures from various clan departments would gather—under a rotation system permitting junior members' participation—around Nagamasa to present demands and deliberate pending matters.
Naturally, this meant airing all accumulated grievances, offering advice, raising doubts—indeed discussing anything that weighed on their minds.
Thus strict meeting regulations came to form the foundation of this Dissent Council.

All matters in this council shall be solely dedicated to selecting the optimal governmental policies and measures; no one shall ever harbor resentment toward any statements made here.
Furthermore, no grudges shall be harbored henceforth.
Furthermore, what must be kept secret shall not be divulged to others.

The above was the essence of the oath.

This council seems to have been quite enjoyable; the clan's retainers apparently looked forward to these Dissent Council meetings. Particularly with Nagamasa, whenever he encountered people’s harsh criticisms, his feudal lord mentality would surface, causing him to flush angrily or become sullen. At such times, “Then would Your Excellency, as Council Chairman, violate our sacred regulations yourself?” someone among the assembled members would press this sensitive point, “No, no—I may have let my words grow heated, but in my heart I bear no anger whatsoever.”

There was said to be no shortage of instances where he would force a strained smile.

The Kuroda family's governance achievements and clan customs were said to have greatly improved, with much credit given to the contributions of this Dissent Council.
Nagamasa too appeared to acknowledge this, for before his death,

"He had not neglected to state in his testament to his son Tadayuki: 'The Dissent Council shall continue to be conducted monthly without fail in the Shakano-ma Hall within the castle grounds, as we have maintained over the years.'" To call this the true "Kuroda-style" would make for a joke too lame to even qualify as wordplay—

Thus, I never even considered attempting to extract any answers from such feudal lord-vassal consultations.
Yet whenever I witness the stagnation of these numerous petty disputes that have become so prevalent lately, or when I observe the modern conference system persisting after all that election commotion, I can only lament how utterly dehumanizing these mechanisms have grown.
And at times, I find myself unexpectedly yearning for those hometown gatherings where people could discuss matters amicably with one another.
(Showa 34)