Pathway to Japanese Literature

Memories (Part 1)

I was born in Meiji 24 (1891) at Ginza 2-chōme 11-banchi—precisely where Hattori Clock Shop now stands—and grew up there until my youth, listening to the bells of horse-drawn streetcars.
Therefore, I observed Ginza’s transformations over a considerable period, though of course I cannot claim precise knowledge of them.
Yet regarding the various transformations since the era when Tokyo’s only sidewalk was called “Bricktown,” there also seemed to be much to recount.
I thought I would set down these various memories and the critiques that arise from observing our changing world—writing them freely, without particular order.

I believe many are already aware, but my birthplace was the main store of the Seikisui eye drops—a shop better known as Seikisui than as Kishida’s Rakuzendo. Due to my father Ginkō’s hobby, he divided the shop in half—one side became a pharmacy, the other a bookstore—and in the bookstore we sold Chinese brushes, inksticks, inkstones, paper, other stationery-like items, and books. There were things like thick Chinese paper rolled into coarse strings—when you lit one and blew on it with a puff, it would flare up, and blowing again would extinguish it—and I remember finding amusement in playing with these. Chinese people would often come to buy things, and the clerks would attempt phrases like “Chin-chin” in broken Chinese. A one-armed Chinese man named Ō Tekisai (exact characters unknown) often came to my father’s place; they said his arm had been torn off by a carriage wheel, and he probably came to sell goods. After all, this was immediately following the First Sino-Japanese War, and I recall how as a child, the name Ō Tekisai—evoking the image of a great enemy—filled me with antipathy.

Next to my house stood a kankōba department store, and we brothers went there nearly every day. It was our family’s rental property, run by a man named Minamidani. Minamidani still has a shop in Ningyōchō today, but because the entrance was built with plasterwork shaped like a drawstring pouch, people commonly called it the "drawstring pouch kankōba." These kankōba department stores gradually declined after the Russo-Japanese War with the rise of modern department stores, and have now nearly vanished; yet in those days, even moderately busy spots would invariably have one or two. In Ginza alone, there were Maruju one or two doors down from the former Yomiuri Shimbun building in 1-chōme, Marukichi across from it, then Minamidani; a small one at Kikuya’s pre-earthquake location (which soon disappeared); another near the current Hōkyōdō in Owari-chō; one more a block further; and finally Hakuhinkan near Shinbashi—making six or seven kankōba department stores in total.

Truly, these kankōba department stores were one of the most quintessential embodiments of the Meiji era’s essence, and for us, they remain one of those unforgettable, cherished things. Along a narrow passageway about nine feet wide, shops lining both sides sold toys, picture books, stationery, and even items like chests, dressing tables, and lacquerware. In one corner of these display shelves laden with goods, shopkeepers would sit cozily within a space about the size of a single tatami mat, huddling over small hibachi braziers or foot warmers—a scene where they might be eating modest boxed lunches at mealtimes that seemed utterly incongruous with the Taisho and Showa eras.

Night lighting came to be dominated by electricity from the beginning of the Taisho era, but during the Meiji period, kerosene lamps were generally used—these gradually gave way to gas lamps—though Ginza’s kankōba department stores had electric lights installed early on.
In my childhood, when I went to the Marukichi kankōba department store in 1-chōme one evening and happened to look up at the ceiling, I found it extraordinarily beautiful how the electric lights lining the long corridor’s ceiling lit up all at once with a swish—and from then on, I would often go in the evenings to watch those lights being lit.
The department store next to our house had arc lamps installed early on, and I was very fond of the color of their light.
When summer came, insects would swarm in great numbers, and come morning, carbon dust would lie scattered across the sidewalk.
Around Meiji 34 or 35 (1901-1902), if I recall correctly, the neighboring kankōba department store hosted a gas company’s promotional display where they exhibited beautiful gas lamps, gas-heated baths, gas stoves, and similar items. As a mischievous child, I would often go there to play and—precisely because it was a gas company—mockingly “fire off” their prized gas in jest.

Memories (Part 2)

Why don't they restore Ginza's street trees to their original willows? I often wonder.
The current street trees look utterly shabby and unacceptable.
Some may say willow leaves create a mess when they fall, but even in winter's barrenness, willows possess an exquisite charm.
Some may think them unsuitable for a Western-style town, but they are by no means unfitting.
In particular, the fresh buds of spring are beautiful, making the town even more vibrant.
In summer, the green clusters are truly splendid—so lush in every way—and I think willows are truly wonderful.

The first illuminations in Japan were created when I was thirteen years old—during the Osaka Grand Exposition of Meiji 35 or 36 (1902 or 1903). I learned of this through my father's stories when he was still alive, though it would be some time before establishments like Meiji-ya began using them around Christmas. Electric illuminations aside, Matsuda had pioneered similar displays with gas lamps much earlier, and soon our neighboring department store followed suit. While I'll elaborate on Matsuda later, their entrance—a stone gate? with green-painted iron railings—featured pine-shaped gas lamp "illuminations?" that would hiss to life at night with a muffled glow. This light suffused the willow-lined avenue, lending Ginza of two decades past an utterly enchanting atmosphere.

Ginza's night stalls had thrived since my earliest recollections.
These stalls may still occasionally be glimpsed today, but in former times various vendors would set up their wares from morning onward.
Though both the merchandise sold at these stalls and their proprietors have undergone many transformations—each carrying their own memories—I shall confine myself to writing but a little, lest this account grow overlong.
What remains constant across eras are the antique night stalls, though it must be acknowledged that Ginza's current offerings have become so saturated with imitations that people declare genuine articles nonexistent.
They say occasional treasures may yet be unearthed there, though I myself have never chanced upon such fortune.
Yet when I observe couples from the Yamate districts or suburbs now lingering before these antique stalls—sometimes standing contemplative, sometimes crouching to examine wares—I cannot help but feel an indefinable warmth.
There seems to me something beautiful dwelling within the hearts of such people.
To stand before a florist selecting a pot of tulips may charm the eye, but when a couple peruses bargain antiques, one senses in them an even more exquisite refinement of taste—a shared sensibility.

In front of my house, an elderly antique dealer we called Mr. Shō would always set up his stall.
Across Kinokuni Bridge, a short way toward Kobikichō, stood Mr. Shō’s antique shop. Unless rain fell, he would load his cart each evening, spread a thin mat before my house, and sit there stern-faced in silence.
Mr. Shō’s face was truly stern.
People often likened him to a wooden Enma statue, and his face—properly seated and staring fixedly at one spot—was indeed exactly that.
A man named Mankichi who compounded medicine at our house lived near Mr. Shō’s home and seemed to be good friends with him, but this old man too vanished during my childhood, disappearing at some point.

At the night stalls, one particularly popular spot belonged—for reasons unknown—to a man with bulging eyes and an imposing handlebar mustache who sold a cosmetic lotion purportedly made from egg whites.
He would extol the lotion's virtues through peculiar vocal modulations, rhythmic cadences, and artful phrasing, but I so adored his sales patter that whenever he appeared, I would inevitably stand listening for extended periods.
This man remains alive today, now maneuvering paper shogi pieces with elongated tweezers while chanting in his signature melodic style—"Somehow promote that bishop!"—as he peddles books on shogi strategies or similar subjects, though he has vanished from Ginza's streets.

Memories (Part 3)

When it comes to Ginza’s festival days, the famous Shusse Jizo stands out, gaining prominence every tenth day on the 7th, 18th, and 29th.
In the old days, stalls would line up from the corner of Ginza 4-chome toward Sanjukkenbori; I was especially fond of grape mochi and would affect connoisseurship by insisting it had to be from Inosuke’s stall.
While potted plants certainly added to the festival’s charm, the hōzuki lantern shops—their red and white hues blending exquisitely under the glow of oil lamps and drifting smoke—truly represented one of old Japan’s finest beauties; to call this an exaggeration would hardly be fair.

When exactly did spectacle shows at Ginza’s festival days begin their decline? I believe it was over twenty years ago, but prior to that, a great variety of spectacles used to thrive.
Among them was that living doll Ōeyama Sutten-dōji—though it sounds crude, we used to call him Ōeyama Shuten-dōji-kun—this Sutten-dōji-kun would tilt his grand cup with flamboyant gestures until his complexion changed and horns sprouted, whereupon he’d throw a tantrum and crash backward, his scarlet hakama transforming into crimson robes as he became a grotesque Daruma that bobbed up dancing.
That dramatic flip of Sutten-dōji—which to us children felt like the very essence of what made him Sutten-dōji—was something that truly delighted us fans when it came to spectacles like this.
Years later, Kimura Shōhachi discovered this at the Negishi festival and was overjoyed; he became deeply versed in its artistry. Particularly compelling was the puppet scene where a demon hag slices open a pregnant woman to devour her unborn child—though being puppets, they couldn’t actually consume the fetus. Thus, the narrator would interject, “We’ll save that for later enjoyment,” deferring the child’s fate with such realism that it felt utterly lifelike.

I too tried imitating this, but I could never match Kimura Shōhachi. Should you, dear readers, remember this spectacle of old and feel nostalgic, I implore you to visit Hongō Morikawa-chō.

Giant serpents, kappa, rokurokubi, and kekkai were nothing out of the ordinary.
Among the unusual spectacles was a play where armored warriors mounted on actual horses performed staged fights atop an earthen floor within a fenced enclosure—shouting lines like "Miura no Daisuke!" or such—and I remember becoming enthralled while clinging to the warehouse manager's back, sharing in his awed fascination as he watched.
Around Meiji 30-something, when the infamous Ochanomizu Okono murder case promptly became a spectacle show, I once caught sight of Okono’s blood-smeared face painted on a curtain displayed in place of a main signboard, and in my terror, covered my face and fled.
The calls to attract customers to spectacle shows sounded like drawn-out "Aah-bai, aah-bai," which actually derived from "Aah-hyōban ee"—a phonetic shift akin to how "Tōfu-ii" becomes "Ee-uu-ii." We children would often play at imitating these spectacles in the second floor of our Ginza home, enthusiastically chanting "Aah-bai!"

In those days when phonographs remained rare curiosities and flat discs had yet to replace wax cylinders, there existed a man who would position his phonograph high upon a platform. Sitting formally beside it, he collected coins and lent customers long rubber tubes that served as receivers. When the performance reached its climax, he would bellow "Korai!" at full volume to pique other listeners' curiosity.
He was an elderly man with an elongated face that radiated dissipation, yet I detested him without any particular reason.
Now even this memory has grown dear to me.

There were men who would chant plaintively, "Granny working nights with silk needles by the andon lamp," then sell needle-threaders as "the finest filial gift," and others peddling oddities like "Dutch Kōppei-san powder—soft then firm, firm then soft." But let us set aside these night stall tales for now and walk through today's Ginza while speaking of the new and reflecting upon the old.

Bobbed-Hair Maidens (Part 1)

I seem to recall that Shinbashi had become a bridge with beautiful iron railings.
At the corner stood Hakuhinkan, Tokyo's premier department store—though originally it wasn't called Hakuhinkan but was commonly known as the Shinbashi Department Store. It had been rebuilt and renamed Hakuhinkan when I was eleven or twelve.
When this was completed, it caused quite a sensation.
There were no fixed stairs; instead, the path sloped upward with only two or three gentle steps here and there—a design that naturally guided visitors to the upper floor, praised alongside the sidewalk's frosted glass windows. The exhibits were rather fine, and we somehow felt an air of sophistication about them.
I still sometimes dream of department stores, though I often envision scenes from this place.
From the rear windows on its upper floor, one could glimpse Shinbashi's courtesan sisters preparing for evening engagements—or so today's elders confess when recounting how young men would devise excuses to steal glances.
Nowadays, the first floor has become a small department store. I went there seeking a pencil for this article's illustration, but the clerk had gone elsewhere, so I left without making a purchase.

The moment one stepped into Ginza, it was thoroughly modern.
As I stood there blankly, thinking to find some good material, a bob-haired beauty glided past like a swallow.
As if they belonged to an entirely different species from women of a generation ago, they walked briskly.
They walked briskly on.
From the opposite direction, about three beauties approached.
There were indeed many women now.
In the past, it had been rare to encounter women even when going out, but these days there were truly many women.
They didn’t seem to have any particular business, but they all walked briskly.

What of the aesthetic considerations behind these modern girls' preferences? Be that as it may, the essence of their beauty fundamentally resides in a "Western-style" aesthetic.
Western clothing remains relatively uncommon, with Japanese attire being quite prevalent; yet the sense of "beauty" they express remains fundamentally rooted in Western-style aesthetics.
Their faces remain unmistakably Japanese in form, yet they skillfully harmonize them with Western-style beauty.
This beauty constitutes neither imitative adaptation nor forced mimicry of past Westernization efforts, but rather emerges as an entirely natural form of aesthetic harmony.
It feels as though Eastern aesthetic sensibilities have gradually vanished from Japanese countenances, leaving them to naturally assume Western-style appearances.

This also applies to the faces of today’s Kabuki actors.
The faces of past actors like Tadanosuke or the fifth Kikugorō, and even contemporary ones like Nakagoro and Gennosuke, all possessed that quintessential Eastern quality—leisurely and refined. Yet while exceptions exist among today’s actors, their faces generally lack that lingering resonance; though handsomely chiseled, they evoke Valentino-esque features or the air of a young corporate heir.

All these things are indeed natural, and Japan must increasingly depart from old Japan—feudal-era Japan—in all aspects of survival: economically, ideologically, and in every necessity such as medicine, politics, military, law, and all such matters.
Opportunistic nationalists often attempt to assert the authority of Eastern medicine through the recent revival of Kampo remedies, but when it comes to clinical matters—such as which specific diseases these Chinese medicines effectively treat—Kampo regrettably amounts to nothing.
All material civilization, no matter what one says, will inevitably Europeanize Japan henceforth.
It is only when Japan has been completely Europeanized that it will finally see its own form, un-Europeanized.

Bobbed-Hair Maidens (Part 2)

Yet when viewed through the lens of cultural life, how utterly desolate this reality became.
Tea ceremony, flower arrangement, Noh, Kabuki—Japanese-style shops, bridges, towns, garments—even if these persisted for a considerable time, they would eventually be lost.
Even if we said the spirit remained, when all aspects of life had transformed and become Europeanized, the civilization of the people’s heart could not retain its original form.
I often found myself contemplating when I saw electric lights: the concept of “light” held by children born after the Taisho era must be entirely different from our own.
When night fell, the lights came on.
But for those born in the Taisho era and after, when they spoke of "light," they could only envision those electric lamps—thin filaments encased in glass spheres, utterly devoid of character, bearing mechanical lines.
This was but one example.
When one spoke of "books," they meant volumes with gold lettering on cloth bindings.
And what met the eye were vehicles and trucks roaring with electricity; as such, there remained no trace of nature’s plump softness or soothing forms—only machines with hard and hot or cold and prickly shapes.

The work of Futurist and Constructivist gentlemen adeptly captures these modern sensibilities, and I can acknowledge such works as a form of artistic expression separate from my own path.

Thus has the heart of our people—their inner essence—already begun to change.
In some distant future this civilization may settle into new forms; a quietly beautiful civilization might yet arrive.
But that era will birth new transformations still—and the once-lost civilizations of old Japan and ancient East shall never return to this world.

The question then was whether these old Japanese aesthetic sensibilities were inherently inferior or flawed simply because they were destined to disappear.
Were I to state it plainly, it was precisely the opposite.
That is to say, they perished precisely because they were good.
One might think future civilization would develop into something where cultural pursuits and practical convenience maintained harmonious balance without canceling each other out—or rather, in civilizations to come, cultural life would gradually cease being so urgently and intensely demanded due to the human happiness derived from rational social living.
Such cultural obsessions—whether discerning a tea ceremony’s water source through a single sip or abandoning home and wife for love suicides with courtesans—these aesthetic indulgences pursued for their own sake, this total immersion where one felt life itself through refined tastes, were phenomena born, nurtured, and deepened exclusively within irrational societies—that is to say, capitalist societies.
To put it another way: when individual incomes remained unequal, those who earned more spent more; driven by necessity, they cultivated richer experiences to attain greater satisfaction.
From another perspective, human society—burdened by the anxieties produced by irrational systems—sought fulfillment through directly observing, savoring, and engaging with alternative pursuits.
Cultural endeavors—what we call artistic life—stood as a Tower of Babel erected against humanity’s yearning for ethical or rational existence; they represented the urge to grasp fragments or essences of ethical fulfillment—something humanity could not achieve until its final hour—through surrogate means in the present.
Thus it seemed natural to me that as humanity marched toward rational living, this demand for cultural life would soften and wane.

Now, speaking of the present, the general trend of the world has increasingly modernized and appears to be heading toward this rational mode of existence.
Truly, the present age is an era of becoming conscious of, categorizing, and managing things previously unnoticed; the demands of humanity henceforth are precisely shifting away from art toward thought, abandoning aesthetic pursuits for practical realities.
However, I cannot conceive of cultural pursuits vanishing entirely.
Because humanity is not machines.
However, the equalization of wealth and the elimination of life’s anxieties will bring about an averaging of cultural tastes, resulting in something neither commendable nor objectionable.

Bobbed-Hair Maidens (Part 3)

Thus, cultural pursuits inevitably reach their zenith in the era of overripe capitalism.
And our nation’s Edo period—that three-century-long feudal reverie—stood as an era unparalleled worldwide in its capacity to deepen aesthetic cultivation across every dimension; it constituted both a national essence and an inherent ethnic disposition.

This ultimate national character—the wondrous delicacy, complexity, restrained elegance, and profundity permeating our people’s aesthetic sensibilities—itself defies comprehension.
While the East generally surpasses Westerners in such qualities, Japan outshines China and Korea by orders of magnitude.
From this wellspring emerged the tea ceremony; Noh theater with its costumes, lacquerware, chirimen silk, yukata robes; Kabuki’s dramatic arts; traditional music; even the demimonde of pleasure districts.
Through both the generative force behind these creations and the creations themselves, the Japanese people accepted without question the severe demarcations between lord and vassal, the chasms between social strata—nay, within those very divisions cultivated a mysteriously harmonious beauty that has endured not three hundred years, but two millennia.

The concept of loyalty and filial piety may seem strange to some societies, but the "beauty" inherent within them alone remains immutable. However difficult any coming age may find it, I believe recreating such potent "beauty" would prove nearly impossible.

This is how I perceive what we call cultural refinement. Being a painter by vocation, I find myself inevitably favoring aesthetic sensibilities over rational societal structures. Which preference holds moral superiority? I sense neither does. Yet in our present day, I cannot deem it wholly unreasonable to suggest that hearts still cherishing cultural refinement harbor deeper reservoirs within.

No matter how I consider it, I find Japanese aesthetic appreciation deeper and more understated than Western.
As for a woman’s form and countenance—to say nothing of her facial essence—while both photographs of courtesans from two generations prior and today’s modern beauties might equally be deemed beautiful, there lies between them an immense chasm in their beauty’s nature: profundity versus superficiality, austere elegance versus cloying sweetness.

Modern beauty lacks “stillness.”
This mirrors societal currents.
Modern beauty embodies haste.
It is glimpsed beauty.
Beauty that assails the eyes rather than inviting contemplation.
Against hair gleaming like wet cormorant feathers, a boxwood comb’s beauty reveals its depths through prolonged observation.
Bobbed hair and ear-warmers offer beauty that commands glances yet defies savoring—moreover being coiffed not for hair’s own sake but to frame facial allure.
An elongated oval visage with subtle cosmetics discloses its nuances through lingering study.
Yet cheeks rouged crimson, eyes rimmed with pigment, lips painted scarlet—though arresting masculine gazes—prove incapable of sustained appreciation.

However, on the whole, modernity had aesthetically standardized women.
This was not merely due to makeup techniques having generally improved, nor solely because cosmetic methods had adopted styles making anyone appear beautiful, but also stemmed from women’s facial features themselves becoming more uniformly beautiful overall—no longer exhibiting the unevenness of former times.
While this certainly brought women happiness, as I noted earlier, standardization meant the disappearance of truly exceptional qualities.
Though extraordinary beauties might still exist today, that “beauty” discerned through aesthetic judgment—the austere allure transcending mere popularity—had effectively vanished from contemporary women.
What did this signify? Did it not suggest that true beauty had disappeared from individuals, replaced by a generalized standard of attractiveness?
This argument might strike some as paradoxical, yet upon deeper reflection, I found it not entirely without merit.
Future civilization would become one of averages and equality—a natural outgrowth of inherent laws.
It seemed not inconceivable that biological principles governing living organisms would likewise conform to this pattern.

In any case, it was melancholy that old Japan's aesthetic sensibilities were disappearing today.
This was something that could not be stopped even if one tried, yet also something that must not be stopped.
However, for that very reason, it was not something to mourn.
To know deeply and lament deeply—that had to be the heart of true old Japan aesthetes.
As for me, I remained perfectly content to throw myself into this modern era.
While societal change was inevitable, I counted myself fortunate to be among the last humans born with the capacity to know and savor old Japan's beauty.
At the very least, within our limited means, we needed to caress these vanishing treasures one final time, savor them fully, and if possible, leave them behind through some new force as exemplars for posterity.
This too could be considered a correct and profoundly compelling demand of both nature and humanity.

My discussion of Ginza had digressed into rather convoluted territory, but when I contemplated Ginza, I could not avoid considering matters of modernity and modern girls.

I had ended up engaging in somewhat clumsy arguments, but leaving these difficult matters at that for now, I resolved to slowly resume our stroll once more.

Ginza Stroll Travelogue (Part 1)

Along Ginza-dori, the stores that had remained from olden times to the present were more numerous than I had imagined; however, the majority continued to change steadily.
Aoyagi, a confectionery shop, was one I had remembered since olden times.
Eriji, along with Erien, was one of the shops my sisters and others frequented and one of the leading establishments for detachable collars in the Eastern Capital.
The soba restaurant called Chōjūan was also old.
It was rather curious that soba shops had existed since olden times along Ginza-dori, where land prices and employee costs were high, but one could argue that establishments like this shop and Yabu Soba in the Fourth Block demonstrated that soba was by no means something to be underestimated; I would write about Yabu when we reached the Fourth Block.
In any case, while retracing old shops from times past and peering into new ones alike, I would now trace through memories of both famous and obscure establishments that once existed.

Regarding Matsuki, the beef restaurant—when was it established? It did not seem to have existed long ago, but it must have been around twenty years now. Among Ginza's beef restaurants, there was one called Yoshikawa in the First Block, which now operates as a restaurant named Yūrakuen? next to Shinbashi Station. I will write about these matters again later. Beef restaurants too once declined abruptly alongside the rise of cafés and restaurants, with major establishments like Iroha closing many branches, but they had recently flourished again. No matter what one says, Japanese people and beef hot pot share a bond that cannot be severed, even if the flavor may be new. The beef restaurant waitresses still retained the unchanging charm of olden times. If those waitresses were to appear with bobbed hair, that would be a problem. However, as Mr. Takahama Kyoshi posited, even things that appear incongruous eventually grow familiar with time. Thus, those bobbed-hair young women might come shouldering plates while calling out "Nama okawari!" as they climb the stairs—or rather, they may already be here.

Hachijakuya too was formerly a picture frame shop and Western-style painting store. The owner of this shop was renowned for his eccentricity; there used to be many paintings by Mr. Kawamura Kiyoo here. As for Mr. Kawamura, I never formally studied under him, but looking back now, even those old Western-flavored paintings from his time abroad have grown dear to me. Shiseido was originally a pharmacy specializing in medicines; as my family home was in the same trade, I often heard mentions of Fukuhara this and that. It is now renowned for cosmetics, and my wife and others are devoted patrons. The head [of Shiseido] was a patron of the Kokuten exhibition and a master photographer, while the upper floor served admirably as a small exhibition space. The space before the alley had become a modest spot serving lunch-style meals and tasty drinks. There had already been operating as a café for some sixteen or seventeen years by then, and during that period I had even painted it in oils and exhibited the work. Nobumori-dō was not particularly old, but nor was it a new shop. Is the red thing that store’s signboard? However, since they sold good products at low prices, I too came to frequent this place extensively—I had been doing so. Yamanote-style office workers were always thronging about buying things. Kameya was old. The old Kameya had a white-and-red wall facing the alley, with an exquisitely painted Western-style *ponchi* illustration rendered in lacquer. It likely served as a poster-like advertisement for foodstuffs, but the painting itself appeared to be a copy of some Western artwork—one that would have been quite challenging for lacquer painters of that era to reproduce. As someone fond of art, I revered this piece intensely; I would often visit to absorb its impact, then return home and attempt to replicate it through my own drawings.

The next corner past Kameya’s alley was a recently opened establishment called Sawamasa Kansai Cuisine Restaurant, which offered a one-yen set meal.
I never ventured inside, but it had a rather peculiar name.
Minōjō was old, and Tenshōdō was old as well.
This Tenshōdō held memories for us—my wife and me—of purchasing a pillar clock when we first acquired our modest home.
After all, it was renowned for its sales events and discounted hours, making it particularly famous among visitors from the countryside and residents of Yamanote.
However, their products must have been of high quality.

Ginza Stroll Travelogue (Part 2)

Keiseisha and Kyōbunkan were stores imbued with strong Christian character.
From my boyhood until around twenty years of age—a period when I remained an earnest Christian—I found myself inexplicably drawn to these two establishments.
I believe there existed near Keiseisha a church dedicated to evangelism, one that conducted its missionary work through methods resembling those of the Salvation Army.
I must apologize for having forgotten his name, but there was a certain pastor—a man with a thick black beard and thunderous voice—who would perpetually roar like a lion in his zeal.

I feel truly nostalgic for the former appearance of this street near Shinbashi—where, near what had until recently been a chewing gum shop, there grew a large tree, perhaps a Chinese parasol or an oak, on the house side opposite the street trees; beneath it stood a small tobacco shop, and beside that, one of those Meiji-era Western-style shops unique to Ginza. At night, it possessed an utterly beautiful atmosphere, and even now I still dream of that sensation.

Kikusui Tobacco Shop is also old, but it is regrettable that Ezoe Tobacco Shop across the street—if I recall correctly—has disappeared.
Yoshishōdō was renowned for selling rattan crafts, baby carriages, children’s bicycles, and such; at some point it began dealing in Chinese sundries, though I’m uncertain of its current state.
Continuing further down, Kurosawa Typewriter Store too is an old establishment.

In this vicinity—as I mentioned briefly before—there had been what was called the Takekawachō Department Store, but it closed around the time of the Russo-Japanese War.
From that period onward, large oil painting frames were hung on the staircase walls, and I—being fond of paintings—took delight in viewing them; but when that department store eventually shut down, the space became a permanent exhibition hall for oil and watercolor paintings.
Just before that time, picture postcards had begun coming into fashion, and there they sold hand-painted postcards by Western-style artists that I desperately wanted.
After all, when speaking of department stores in those days, they typically featured lengthy corridors.
To have Western-style paintings like oils and watercolors displayed throughout such a space meant that for me—who had lacked opportunities to view proper exhibitions—this became an extraordinarily joyful experience.
I later learned this arrangement occurred because Isogaya Gakubuchi-ten in Sakurada Hongō-chō—finding it wasteful to merely store unsold works and consigned pieces from various exhibition artists—had rented out the venue. Thus everything shown there bore the brushstrokes of accomplished masters, granting me my first genuine opportunity to deeply contemplate true Western-style paintings.

As this was during the Russo-Japanese War, there were many war paintings—scenes like Cossack cavalrymen fleeing on horseback, one of them clutching his face where a bullet had struck as he nearly fell from his mount. I imitated these scenes in my own drawings countless times.
I was truly impressed by scenes such as that of a young wife seeing her husband off to war at the gate—holding their beloved child as they bid farewell to the father—and the way the sunlight filtered through the fresh green leaves of the maple tree within the gate.
There was also displayed a painting my father had commissioned from Mr. Yamamoto Hōsui—a nude Diana drawing her bow at a crescent moon in the heavens. This had once hung in our study, but as it was a nude work, the police ordered us not to display it; thus, it had long been stored in our warehouse until aging damage led us to entrust it to Isogaya for repairs—or so I later heard.

Whether the admission fee was three sen or six sen, I couldn’t resist going to see it every day. I would get coins from my mother, clutch them tightly, and dash all the way there. The kindly old man working as the ticket collector, moved by my enthusiasm, eventually declared grandly, “Young master, you don’t need to pay anymore,” and exempted me from the fee—an honor and delight beyond measure.

I wonder if it was near there or in Owari-chō Itchōme—there was a shop that sold tai miso, its signboard carved with red sea bream scales in golden lines.
I was so fond of that carved sea bream and its signboard that I would often stand there transfixed; the place next door was said to be the Japan Times office, and I later read in Mr. Gaikotsu’s writings that people used to call it the “Taimiso Newspaper.”

Ginza Stroll Travelogue (Part 3)

Matsuzakaya, alongside Matsuya, stood as one of Ginza's great renowned landmarks.
The architecture here was undoubtedly the most beautiful among the Western-style buildings lining Ginza-dori.

Every time I saw those rigid, coldly mechanical buildings that Japan had been constructing these days, I was overcome with profound melancholy. I would later share some of my thoughts on these matters, but be that as it may, amidst such circumstances, Matsuzakaya’s architecture appeared truly harmonious. The colors and lines were delicate, the carvings quite exquisite; on its rooftop, beautifully built beneath the late April sky, two carp streamers swam fluttering.

The corner of Owari-chō Itchōme was Matsuda Lamp.
This must have been one of the oldest buildings of its kind.
I think it had likely stood for over ten years; the Shirayuri across the way was old.
There had been a time when people claimed women's accessories simply had to come from Shirayuri—they would sell beni on the Midsummer Day of the Ox and give customers simple earthen black ox toys that had a strangely charming feel.
However, I don't know whether they still give them now.
I liked those oxen and remember occasionally receiving them from our maid or my sister.

Though Café Tiger’s name was new, its allure resounded far and wide. To call a Western restaurant by such a flowery name was the height of unsophistication—especially here where writers, painters, actors, Noh performers, and all manner of artists came and went frequently. As for me—being someone who appreciated neither the taste of Western liquor nor Western culture in general—even when I did go, I never quite fit in. While encountering beauties was certainly gratifying, I always ended up feeling too awkward and thus rarely visited. That said, in drunken revelry’s aftermath, I had paid my respects there three or four times.

True to its reputation, there were indeed many beauties—I heard a certain teacher would hand out lavish five-ryō tips, but as for me, being unable to spare five ryō, I would splurge fifty sen before retreating.

Across from Tiger lay an alley colloquially called Shokushō Shindō, where the sweet red bean soup shop Wakamatsu had long stood.
This corner once housed a picture postcard shop; when I lived in Ginza and received pocket money, I would often come here with my younger brother and others to eat.
There used to be a second floor with a cozy tatami room where stylish women frequented, but now it appears to be a small makeshift structure furnished with chairs and tables.
Eventually I reached a point where sweets wouldn't pass my throat at all, and now my feet naturally turn toward the neighboring yudofu shop and further on to Okada of the Hachimaki.

This Okada of Hachimaki did not seem to have been around for very long. The proprietor was a robust young man with a pleasing demeanor—his Edo-style face crowned by an angular head shape, around which he wore a headband made from a fresh tenugui cloth.
The sake was superb, the fish top-quality, and the lightly grilled baka clams were absolutely delicious.
There at the corner, an ukiyo-e shop called Tanryokudo had been established since last year; differing from other stores, it became famous primarily for selling early hand-painted ukiyo-e works. Through presenting truly exceptional rare items by then, Mr. Uemura the proprietor had elevated his renown.

Indeed, Sanjukkenbori 2-chome was a street lined with rather notable shops. This area served as Ginza's premier senbei district, home to famous establishments like Tamarukuya for salt rice crackers and Hirano-ya specializing in cloth bags.

Ginza Stroll Travelogue (Part 4)

Twenty-one or twenty-two years ago, there was a time when I lived slightly closer to the fourth block than where Hirano-ya stands today. After my father's death, when we sold our Ginza shop at Eleventh Block to the Salvation Army, we moved only our residence to this Sanjukkenbori. My younger sister served as housekeeper and lived with my older brother and younger siblings. Right around that time, Yamazaki Tailor Shop built a new store with an attached tower—an exceptionally novel sight—and particularly drew attention for displaying in their show window an oil painting depicting a watermelon cross-section by a renowned artist of the time alongside another painting of a young woman playing the koto, which became tremendously talked-about.

I had developed beriberi and lay confined to bed on the second floor of our Sanjukkenbori house, yet even now I recall how profoundly tranquil Ginza's backstreets were during daytime—possessing that distinctive Shitamachi-like serenity.
Vendors would traverse these low-city alleys from morning till evening, their peaceful voices calling out one after another—"Sweet millet jelly with mint here!", "Freshly baked karintō!", "Scissors and razors sharpened! Kitchen knives sharpened!", "Sieves and strainers here!"
The autumn sun cast its quiet light; on holidays, national flags would flutter above roads bathed in golden sunlight, creating utter peacefulness.
This atmosphere too vanished with the earthquake disaster, yet standing before Tanryokudo while pondering twenty years past, I began noticing Sanjukkenbori still exuded its essential character—truly, a place's spirit remains mysteriously enduring.

Now, I returned to the main street.
Two or three shops down from Tiger stood Arai Shingadō, another store selling frames and Western paintings; this shop holds various memories for me.
This shop too was an old establishment that had existed since I first became aware of my surroundings—as someone fond of Western paintings, I would often stand before this shop.

When I was around ten years old, there was an oil painting of an Arabian horse at this Shingadō that I desperately wanted. I was taken by the clerk Mr. Imai to purchase it, only to find it carried an exorbitant price of over ten yen for that time.
Mr. Imai, greatly troubled, consulted with the shop staff and—to me, who insisted on having it no matter what—persuaded me by explaining this was the shop's signboard and thus couldn't be sold; he then managed to placate me by buying a small toy go board at what was called the Owari-chō department store across the way, after which we returned home.
Afterward, there hung a painting by Mr. Kurata Hakuyō that had been exhibited at the first Bunten exhibition—depicting a small bridge spanning some backstreet where sunlight fell upon the road and shadows formed, rendered with striking realism. By that time, I had already begun attending Western-style painting lessons at the Hakuba-kai, and being deeply impressed by this work, I would visit it whenever possible, attempting repeatedly to paint such scenes in that style.

In addition, paintings by an old watercolor painter named Mr. Tabuchi—a free-spirited, ethereal soul I had met in Nikko—were often found at this shop. Later, I became acquainted with the owner there as well, and we would frequently share stories about Mr. Tabuchi. Moreover, this is also the shop where I purchased my first picture frame. I heard it recently suffered a fire and was half-burned down, but I pray for their prosperity.

Jūichiya was old; Sanoya was old as well.
Sanoya was one of the few establishments in Japan that crafted high-quality tabi socks together with Ebiya in the second block.
It was no exaggeration to say that once you wore the tabi made here, you wouldn’t be able to wear any others.
Ebiya still hand-sewed theirs; in any case, that these shops—Fukusuke, Tsuchiya, and others—continued to thrive by crafting premium tabi despite engaging in mass production was proof that the lingering temperament of Edo people remained—one of the few heartening things.

Ginza Stroll Travelogue (Part 5)

When exactly Hakuhodō moved here I cannot say, but it has now become a large store where exhibitions can be held upstairs; their recent exhibition of Utamaro’s works was truly splendid.
The Seiunkō incense here is what I regularly use, and I must proclaim it as truly fine-smelling incense.

Now here at Ginza Fourth Block intersection—the very heart of Tokyo—I remembered how the Mainichi Shimbun, Nichi Nichi Shimbun, and two other major newspaper companies had once stood facing each other; yet these publishers all vanished from Ginza one after another and relocated to Marunouchi.

Now, Café Lion, 84 Bank, Sankyo’s Orizanin, and Yamazaki Tailor Shop had taken up positions in this intersection.

Café Lion stood as one of the venerable cafés of its era.
The true progenitor of cafés would undoubtedly be Café Paulista.
Before its advent, milk parlors had served as substitutes unless one frequented single-item restaurants.
I became a patron of this Paulista during its humble yet prosperous beginnings.
Whenever pocket money permitted, I would gather my younger siblings and stake our claim there—debating the merits of donuts versus snake-shaped pastries while insisting one could never add too much sugar—as we savored genuine coffee, a novelty in those days.
This rarity stemmed from coffee previously meaning nothing more than charred beans encased within sugar cubes.
Likely seventeen years past now—soon after Paulista's establishment—Printemps came into being.
Matsuyama-kun of Printemps had been my senior at the Hakuba-kai.
Though Matsuyama-kun would often appear at the research institute with his elongated frame and features—loafing about aimlessly—his carefree demeanor remains unaltered from days of yore.
I recall assisting during Printemps' establishment alongside friends like Ishikawa Ishiro-kun and Okamoto Kiichi-kun.

In those days I would often go to Café Lion to drink draft beer, where I frequently met Takamura Kōtarō and we would stand our beer cups in rows. Takamura would drink in silence with that gentle demeanor of his; the beauties of this place only began gaining renown comparable to Tiger's current reputation somewhat later, and by that time I had already stopped visiting so often.

Kimuraya, the bakery known as such, was renowned throughout the land and remained the manufacturer of several varieties of bread unforgettable to us children. Heso Pan referred to a sweet, slightly firm round bread containing a single dried grape at its center—that being the navel; Sokatsu Pan was shaped like a British-style rolled chignon yet similarly contained dried grapes here and there; and Ō Pan was a large bread formed in the shape of a filled bun but without any filling. Leaf Bread was shaped like a leaf, as its name suggested, and existed in two varieties: a plain hard bread and one with filling.

The song-like refrain—"Western bread, American bread, Kimuraya's bread"—still lingers in the memories of those who spent their childhoods in the Meiji era, so widely was Kimuraya's bread celebrated in verse. The names I mentioned earlier, so distinctly Meiji in flavor, remain nostalgic echoes intertwined with this melody.

Yet bread itself had long since transcended the realm of sweets to become daily sustenance. Look—next to the Kimura residence stands Hōrai Bakery, while across the way lies Ginza Pan. Particularly remarkable was Hōrai's prosperity. When evening approached around company closing times, people would compete to obtain freshly baked bread for households waiting beyond the commuter trains in distant suburbs. Truly, "Man shall not live by bread alone." Yet equally true: "What new home can you have without bread?"

Ginza Stroll Travelogue (Part 6)

I heard that in the West, a life of bread and milk equated to Japan’s cold rice with pickled radish—but until two generations ago, incorporating milk, bread, and tea into one meal had been considered a fashionable lifestyle, something one might even boast about.
However, through catchphrases like "lifestyle reform" and "simplified living," combined with practical necessity, bread in the households of salarymen commuting in Western attire ceased to be a matter of fashion or pretense.
Yet there remains another consideration here: even when arising from necessity, within the act of eating bread lies our nation’s unconscious acceptance of Western influences.
The wearing of Western clothes undeniably stemmed purely from necessity for office workers—no mere affectation—yet what Japanese person first donning them did not feel somewhat stylish, somewhat pretentious, or even slightly elevated in status?

As Japanese people increasingly donned Western attire and ate bread, those who found this transition melancholic were likely met with ridicule.
Thus did Japan advance from civilization and enlightenment to cultural refinement.

Around the mid-Meiji era, an amusing song became popular—one that sang of the "high-collar" trends of those days.

“Cows, milk, soup, and butter; that long-bearded Napoleon with his shūshurashunge whiskers, you know! Then there’s that sanbaizu vinegar—so sour, right? A cat kite and a farting kappa—grab it and toss it away, ho!”
The late Kokontei Imasuke, who recently passed away, would often take to the stage half-genuinely drunk to tell drunken tales and sing this song.

Yet this song, while exuding an air of naivety, truly encapsulated the spirit of Meiji-era civilization and enlightenment. Did today’s moms and dads clad in Western clothes and eating bread not taste this song’s essence? If they did, it would have been most splendid indeed.
The progression of culture arises not from scholars' theories but from a people's unconscious, instinctive yearnings and demands.

Now, regarding the establishment of a bakery right next to this Kimuraya, I had heard there was some profound backstory involved.
But gossip was relentless, and may both businesses have prospered together.
For the future prosperity of bread consumption in our nation, it would have been well if three shops there had lined up their eaves, faced each other, and each striven on their own.
However, compared to the bustling crowds at Hōrai Pan, Kimuraya could not be said to have been entirely free from a sense of having somewhat lost its former glory.
Yet, being a long-standing establishment after all, it remained unhurried and composed; someone once remarked that this was because Kimuraya’s name had never been merely a local one but truly nationwide, possessing deep roots in regional areas.
Whether bread would spread to the provinces or not, I did not know, but Kimuraya’s composure was by no means ordinary—it was a composure born of deep confidence.

The landlord of this Kimuraya was said to be Maruhachi of the third block.
I would later write about Maruhachi in the third block section, but I had heard they never raised Kimuraya’s rent by a single sen from olden days to the present—truly worthy of Maruhachi, that venerable establishment dating back to the Edo period.
Such practices might ill suit the times, but the very existence of those defying modernity today must be acknowledged as both a phenomenon and those beautiful remnants adorning the final blossoms of Edo’s legacy.

I have never eaten what is called Hokakezushi.
Recently, these low-priced eateries have appeared in Ginza, and among them are those that display cooked food in their show windows, but those displays strike the eye as neither beautiful nor slightly unclean—they simply won’t do.
Food achieves beauty only when placed on a dining tray; it is not something to be encased in windows for passersby to view. Even the finest tuna slices end up resembling wares at an Arita drugstore.

Ginza Stroll Travelogue (Part 7)

Yamano Music Store is also quite old.
Mikimoto holds little use for impoverished art students like us, but it is nonetheless a world-renowned establishment.
The other day, there was talk that a clerk from Sankimoto died from eating tonkatsu, so I wondered if it was true, only to have people recently start calling it a "Western food double suicide."

Yabu Soba is also old.
During my time in Sanjūkengōri, when I would order soba from there, young men would call out in spirited voices, “Apologies for the wait—Yabu de gozai,” and deliver the order.

Let’s double back a bit and turn at the square in the Fourth Block.
Kamigataya, the picture postcard shop, must have stood here for seventeen- or eighteen years since relocating—no, perhaps even longer.
Originally situated along Third Block’s main street, it had dolls mounted on its eaves depicting postal workers of that era—bulging eyes agape beneath rounded wicker hats, letters clutched in their hands as if mid-run—while kings from playing cards and hanafuda tiles dangled from the shop’s overhang.
I found these dolls somewhat eerie yet endearing.
The charm of these signs can still occasionally be glimpsed in modern Gaikotsu Hon’s illustrations—truly bearing the flavor of works painted by Meiji-era ukiyo-e artists—yet today they’ve become utterly impossible to encounter.
Why not take a cue from Ebiya in Nichōme and, when properly rebuilding, affix a lacquered giant shrimp to the eaves like the tabi shops of old?

Takeha was famous, but in recent times had taken on a cafeteria style and even opened in a side street across the tramway.
In those days convenience reigned supreme in all matters, but this trend toward simplicity had not begun recently—it had been popular since at least the mid-Tokugawa period.
There existed cabinet-style boxes called kendon at that time—their design originated from old convenience soba stalls known as stingy soba—where kendon meant stinginess initially before coming to signify affordability through extended usage—meaning soba that could be eaten conveniently and cheaply.
“Eight-mon kendon stalls! Asakusa-cho’s cheap manju!”—such were the cries associated with these vendors whose wares sat in what were then called kendon boxes.
I had seen in old books that such boxes of that style were indeed named kendon.
Alongside trends like roughly chopped tuna sashimi and fashionable tea-rice dishes—this convenience-first approach remained an unchanging constant—and from this simplicity-driven philosophy emerged delicious creations never found among elaborate dishes.

Generally speaking, Tokyo’s most delicious foods are found more in simpler fare than in formal cuisine. While many today consider tempura to be proper cuisine, I would argue it can hardly be called such.
Sushi, soba, tempura, kabayaki grilled eel—these simply do not thrive in Kamigata, where the tea ceremony reigns supreme.

If one enters this side street, the grand Kabukiza theater building becomes visible to all.
But I cannot find this building beautiful at all; the Japanese-style design and Western materials fail to harmonize, the colors are unpleasant, and above all, the very preference for Japanese aesthetics feels overly conceptual, revealing not a trace of inner beauty.

Ginza Stroll Travelogue (Part 8)

Kabuki was born in Edo and flourished there, and the ambiance of Edo Kabuki theaters truly melded seamlessly with Kabuki itself. They were ostentatious yet refined. For my part, even if it had to be concrete, I still wish they had boldly made Kabukiza into a grand theater in the Edo style. But be that as it may, I simply cannot find Kabukiza’s form beautiful. I find even elements like the gable design to feel overly conceptual and distasteful. Nor do I care for the interior. Compared to this, Shinbashi Enbujō, though clumsily Wrightian in style, at least achieves an unpretentious Western aesthetic that remains free of distastefulness. In any case, I wish it had a somewhat more restrained feel. Is it also inevitable that theater seating areas have become relics of the times? Well, let’s just consider such matters unimportant and leave it at that.

Now that we were on the subject, I thought to briefly share my thoughts on contemporary Japan’s Western-style architecture and other domestically produced Western-style objects.

At that time, those crude materialistic buildings—like boxes with holes punched in them, blurred into existence here and there beyond Marunouchi—what unpleasant forms and colors they possessed!
There was probably no town as ugly as that even in America.
And what of the form of those strange square bridges being built in Tokyo and elsewhere?
I found myself longing for Shinbashi and Tokiwabashi from times gone by, even if they had been crude.
Truly, everything had become conceptual.
Yet when I carefully considered this, Shinbashi and Tokiwabashi had merely imitated Western forms straightforwardly, whereas the era’s ugliness arose from our people—who possessed neither Western nor Japanese aesthetics—mistaking their conceptually conceived ideas for genuine creations.

To put it simply without belaboring the point, today’s Japanese people are a nation that has lost its inner beauty as a people.
They are truly a nation incapable of creation—a people robbed of the very substance they should create.
The Japanese nation, as a people, had possessed both a sense of taste worthy of pride before the world and an "inner beauty."
It had flourished from ancient times through the Tokugawa period to the beginning of Meiji.
However, when the Meiji era arrived—when interactions with the West began, material civilization was imported, and everything inevitably had to be Westernized—the Japanese found themselves compelled to borrow even their aesthetic sensibilities from the West.
Even in making a single signboard, lacquer fell out of use, replaced by paint; for anything printed, woodblock printing not only proved inadequate but gave way to lithography to match Western-style designs.
Yet fundamentally, we are not Westerners—while we do possess Japanese aesthetics, Western aesthetics cannot take root within us unless borrowed.
However, that which is not used withers.
In the midst of this process, Japan’s aesthetic sense lost its vitality and has now withered completely.
Is there any Japanese today who can create designs rivaling the signboards and shop curtains of old?
Yet borrowed things cannot abruptly be made into one’s birthright.
Thus Japan has now become a nation that has completely lost its internal aesthetic sense.
Hence today’s Japanese-made Western goods remain inexplicably different from genuine imports.
The colors of today’s trams, the decorations on daily goods, paper products, postage stamp designs, coin patterns, banknotes—not a single one of these elements, whether in color or design, matches those of the West.
They linger somehow dull, sluggish, and lacking clarity.
In contrast, those of the West remain distinctly Western—cleanly defined, possessing a national beauty welling up from within.
Sixty years ago, Japan’s coins and koban likely possessed beauty unrivaled in the world—

Ginza Stroll Travelogue (Part 9)

I am not merely idly repeating what I have stated before.
I wonder if anyone has noticed that a considerably significant cause of our nation’s stagnant exports might lie here.
Anyone who sees that ugly peach-colored celluloid Kewpie doll with its cheap-looking face must realize that Japanese toys’ poor reputation in global markets stems not solely from their fragility.

However, sixty years had indeed seen buds of Western-style aesthetics emerge from within certain parts of Japan.
This becomes self-evident when comparing the Western attire of Japanese women from a generation ago with that of today.
That entrepreneurs were turning their attention to this sphere as well seemed not entirely without purpose.

The corner of Ginza 3-chōme was Matsuya.
It seemed I need not write separately about Matsuya anymore.
This had been the site of the former Tobacco Monopoly Bureau; before it stood Tengu Tobacco by Mr. Iwaya Matsuhei—a legendary speculator whose eccentric name once commanded great renown.
Nowadays, a storefront like Matsuya’s might not seem particularly remarkable, but Mr. Iwaya’s storefront of old had been something that astonished people in its time.
Moreover, it was entirely painted red, with Tengu masks and Okame masks lined up along the eaves, between which was written something like "Do Not Be Surprised: Tobacco Tax Reaches One Million Yen."
I also remembered well how this high tax had grown increasingly exorbitant year after year.
He would always ride in a red carriage dressed in red garments and drive around the Ginza streets.
At one time he ran a newspaper called Kokueki Shimbun and competed fiercely with Niroku Shimbun, resulting in a terrible feud.
When he ran for parliament and lost, Niroku was overjoyed and published a satirical cartoon titled "Don't Be Surprised: The Big Boss of Election Defeat," depicting the tengu with a broken nose.

I clearly remember when Kyōbashi Bridge was rebuilt and my father and Venerable Matsudaira performed its inaugural crossing.
There was also such an incident.
When I sat with an ice bag on my head due to a slight headache or something similar, two family members nearby were saying things like "Even Iwaya’s tengu has turned blue this time." Having often gone to see this tengu mask myself at Iwaya’s shop, hearing this moved me deeply. "Did it really turn blue?" I asked eagerly. The family members responded with smirks: "Oh yes yes—it’s turned blue indeed."
With the ice bag still on my head, I ran to Iwaya’s storefront only to find it remained red throughout—returning home seething with indignation.
In any case—it seems Venerable Matsudaira was indeed an extraordinary figure endowed with demonic genius.

Saegusa was old, and Tamaya too was old.
Tamaya's former building had been a modest Western-style structure with Meiji-era charm, remaining unforgettable to us as one of the first importers of oil paints.
Itōya was slightly old, but the Matsushima Eyeglasses Shop next to it was also old.
Furthermore, Maruhachi was even older—said to have operated since the Edo period—and this establishment remained renowned alongside Sasaki's polished cloth shop in Ichōme as one of Ginza's iconic landmarks.
At this establishment was a clerk named Mr. Maeda, a true theater expert; people would come to ask him whenever they had questions about plays, truly embodying what one expected from a Maruhachi clerk in a most delightful way.

The more I wrote, the longer it just kept becoming.
Once I tried to write about Ginza, the number of things to write about inevitably grew beyond what I had imagined.
I had already exceeded twice the allocated pages, so though reluctantly, I decided to write the rest in brief and lay down my brush.

Ginza Stroll Travelogue (Part 10)

Jūjiya was also an old shop that originally bore Christian affiliations; there was a one-yen crocodile toy in its display window that my younger brother and I yearned for.

Nichōme is where I was born; the once-renowned Kikuya at the corner has now become bank premises, while Sakai Hōchōten is said to have been in business for about ten years.
This area formerly housed a soba restaurant called Tsukikatsu along with geta shops, bag shops, and others.
Shibata Jūten, Yoneda Yōfukuten, Meidiya, Ebiya, Echigoya, Kinjō—it heartens me that all these establishments continue thriving in their original locations.
Echigoya’s shop has recently adopted gaudy displays that feel somewhat cheap.
The store’s wares remain truly superior, said to attract many patrons from Yamanote’s finest districts—though they were rather pricey in former times.
My house stood across from it; the current elderly proprietor would grow fretful watching us children roughhouse and climb roofs, even admonishing his own staff.
They say Mr. Keifuku remains hale and hearty to this day.
Hattori Clock Shop still sits awkwardly outside its natural habitat of 4-chōme.
This spot originally held our family shop and a department store. After we relocated to part of the department store, Salvation Army headquarters long occupied the vacant lot.
Eishōdō—that venerable brush shop—has regrettably shuttered recently.
On the eastern corner stood Iseko, a Western clothier notable for offering women’s garments when such was rare; next door lay Fukudaya confectionery with its hanging scroll-shaped sweets—I fondly recall purchasing rakugan there.
In Ichōme stands Daishin, that long-established tempura restaurant.
The site now housing Asahiya florist once held Takeuchi Clock Shop beside Daishin—followed by a lamp store and Kibun tile-senbei shop—though only Daishin endures.
There exists a pottery shop called Tōgado; having once used that very name myself, I changed it to Tōgadō or Tōkadō upon discovering the duplication.
Kaneda Eyeglasses Shop too is old; Sasaki’s Polished Cloth Shop needs no elaboration as ancient relic. Every Seven Herbs Festival saw this shop host Daikagura performances—indeed, each year’s festival night found me bound for Sasaki’s.
Sankōdō, Washijirushi and another—three phonograph shops clustered here—makes curious phenomenon.
What’s now called Tōchōkan was formerly Kanazawa-tei; in my youth I frequented it—Shiga claims Kishida’s knowledge springs from Kanazawa-tei.

Tamaki Shōkai was not particularly old, but it stood as a historic site where we held the second Sōdōsha exhibition and devised that paradoxical incantation: "Admission Free—No Admission."
Once when I wrote "Tamaki-ya" on a poster, the owner scolded me: "We are not Tamaki-ya—we are Tamaki Shōkai."

Kyōbashi-zume housed Ikeda Tea Shop—an old establishment where pitch-black tea jars once lined the rear of the store, making it a charmingly traditional tea shop.
Whenever I entered to buy tea, they would invariably serve me excellent sencha.
The signboard preserves its original form.

When I glanced beyond Kyōbashi，the Sōgo Building loomed imposingly.
Night gradually settled over the towns，and the flames of the lanterns atop the bridge pillars grew deeper.
Daikongashi’s makeshift barracks，too，became beautiful at night，somehow showing us vestiges of old Tokyo.
From here onward was no longer my domain.
With this，I decided to lay down my brush.

(May 4, 1927, Night)