Pathway to Japanese Literature

Baikei lived within the Scroll of Hungry Ghosts.

The Opportunity to Meet Master Ikku

The proprietor of Kakunaka, a boat inn in Sanyabori, engaged in comic verse and playful writings with some skill in his brushwork.
He had gone by the pen name Jūjisha Sankyū, but later changed it to Jippensha Ikku and published his famous Shank's Mare to the world.

As it showed astounding sales, eclipsing even Bakin's and Tanehiko's works, Jippensha Ikku found himself in high spirits.

At the second-floor north window near Mamachiyama, where he had set up a scholar's desk and often plucked at his nose hairs, the shrill piping cries of a neighborhood child—which had grated on his nerves daily of late—prompted him to snap abruptly at his wife when she came upstairs.

“Are your ears stuffed with bran?”
“Doesn’t that get on your nerves at all?”
“Why’s that brat keep whinin’ ‘Food! Food!’ like a leaky roof drip, from dawn till dusk yesterday an’ today?”
“Do somethin’ about it!”

“What am I supposed to do about someone else’s child?”
“Besides, they’re masterless samurai, aren’t they?”
“I wouldn’t say something careless.”

Pouting, the wife went outside, but upon returning, she hurriedly prepared two large salted rice balls, hid a small dish under her apron, and went out again.

In the wretched back-alley tenements, each house was a living scene from the Scroll of Hungry Ghosts.
Through the narrow alley where even gutter planks were being burned for fuel, the wife feigned casual passage toward the kitchen from which tearful weeping leaked—

"Oh, my son, what troubles you?" she peered in.

"Is it this you want?"
"This isn't something my son should crave."
"My, how you weep."
"Then I'll leave it here."
"Why not make it your plaything?"

With that, she placed down the rice ball dish and hurried back.

The painter Tasaki Baikei and his wife O-Kiku were in the back—if you could call it that—a single six-tatami room containing nothing but torn paper screens and utensils so shabby even a scrap dealer would flee.
They exchanged despondent looks,
Ah, how delicious...

Their child—instinctively clinging to the rice ball dish, eating noisily—their five-year-old son Kakutarō, was being stared at intently by the couple.

Baikei's eyes grew hot.
O-Kiku also cried.

This is it—what corrupts men into evil or elevates them to greatness. This trial.
"This trial."

He was crying—a man's weeping.
Moreover, for these past seven days, his stomach—which had taken in nothing resembling proper food—upon seeing the grains of rice clinging to Kakutarō's fingers, was tormented by such fierce anguish that he felt he might snatch even those morsels to devour.
Both his intestines and stomach writhed, and he felt saliva akin to nausea welling up.

Even O-Kiku, who was modestly watching over their son with tear-filled eyes out of maternal love and feminine propriety, must have been feeling the same as himself, Baikei thought.

A few days later.

When O-Kiku’s brother Matsui Masutaro arrived and they could catch their breath,

“A word of thanks.”

With that, he went to Ikku’s house.

He had heard that an impoverished painter lived nearby, but when he was visited and met him, Ikku felt a terrifying sense of pressure. His clothes were stained with grime, yet not a trace of poverty’s shadow clung to him. Thick eyebrows, eyes as piercing as arrows, broad shoulders—a stature so tall that were he to stand straight, his head would brush against the lintel. He sat with his knees squared at perfect right angles. Then came a debate that crackled like wildfire.

“This one’s trouble,” Jippensha Ikku thought as he mentally doffed his helmet.

When the conversation turned to his own *Shank’s Mare*—about which he had been dismissively claiming even Iidamachi and Ikenohata were mere indulgences—he somehow felt seen through, and inadvertently let slip the secret.

“The reception has been quite something.
“Yes, indeed.
“But truth be told, that fella ain’t just my own brainchild—it’s what you’d call a collaboration, see.
“Through connections with Lord Sakai Uta no Kami, there was this fella named Sakai Nakai—and this guy, he was a real pleasure-seeker, see.
“His scholarship spanned both Japanese and Chinese classics—he had a fair grasp of ’em—but was also well-versed in the ways of Tatsumi and Yoshiwara.
“After the usual confinement and disownment—though really just using the excuse that it was too much trouble—he wandered through various provinces, and after seven or eight years, he casually showed up and presented this humble one with a manuscript humorously chronicling the customs and human foibles of different regions.
“And that’s how *Shank’s Mare* came to be, see.
“Next up’s the Kiso Highway—easier to write, see? Once we get the woodblocks carved, you’ll have to come have a look-see again.”

And that was how it went.

This Edoite was honest, but he still stank.
He belonged to the pickled tofu type.
Moreover, thinking this humorist who told jokes without eliciting tears had nothing more worth hearing, Baikei returned home.

Five Brothers’ Crossroads Killings Commit Crossroads Killings

A fishing rod catches not fish but coins.

“You there? Baikei.”
“Baikei.”
Even on hungry days, the voices that came visiting were all boisterous ones.

They were the brothers of his wife, O-Kiku.
When it came to the four Matsui brothers, their reputation preceded them.
The eldest brother was Yazaemon, followed by Masutaro, then Rihyōe, and Bunzō in that order.
All were practitioners of samurai arts—large men who drank heavily.
Only the eldest Yaza and youngest Bunzō drank little; instead they loved to brawl.

Their sister’s poverty never entered their field of vision.
With their perpetual coming and going, it became unbearable.
Naturally they would drag him out to play—Senju, Yoshiwara, Shinagawa—no district their feet didn’t trample. Yet O-Kiku had never once revealed a look of displeasure.
Had she shown any sign, it would have come from the brothers rather than Baikei that—

“Such a woman isn’t fit for Baikei—get out.”

And a proxy-written letter of divorce might well be issued.

On that day, the four brothers ventured out together as a quartet,

“Baikei! There’s something amusing happening—come outside for a bit!”

As usual, they lured him out.

No sooner did they wonder what was afoot than a street slasher appeared at Izumibashi in Kanda.
Street slashers weren’t uncommon, but since this one seemed exceptionally skilled, they resolved to turn the tables and cut down the slasher themselves.

“Alright. Who’ll do the slashing?”

With each brother shouting “Me! Me!”, a squabble nearly erupted among them.
In the end, they assigned roles—one drunkard, one slasher, and three backups—and drew lots.
The drunkard’s role fell to Baikei, while the youngest brother Bunzō became the slasher.

They drank at an izakaya in Kundai Yokocho before heading to Izumibashi.
Baikei deliberately staggered in a zigzag pattern, swinging the empty bento box meant to lure out their prey.
The fox took the bait shamefully.
When the custom-made black blade swished—its tsuba clanging—Baikei—

“There you are!”

With a bellow, he suddenly struck from behind.

Bunzō, assigned as the slasher, found that Baikei had beaten him to the strike,

“You broke the deal!”

While voicing his discontent, he swung his naginata in a diagonal strike from behind.
The three backups couldn’t hold back anymore,

“Let me get a slash in too!”

“Me too!”

In the blink of an eye, they finished slashing the street slasher—like a blood clam atop vinegared rice.

The Matsui family that produced both the chaste O-Kiku and brothers of this nature indeed carried a single bloodline.
That blood would eventually flow to their sole son Kakutarō—born between O-Kiku and Baikei—and there was no denying it had already begun budding the signs of his fated destiny.

The ancestor of the Matsui family died in battle during Ieyasu’s entry into Kōshū. His descendants worked as potters in Matsuida Village of Mikawa until being discovered and relocated to Edo. There they attained hatamoto-equivalent status with audience privileges while receiving a residence in Inariya and land in Imado. At this new post they manufactured all ceremonial pottery for shogunal headquarters along with Three Houses and Three Lords—establishing themselves as pioneers of Imado pottery production for official shogunate use. Their income thus dwarfed stipend rice allocations of three or four thousand koku—until reaching four brothers’ generation when competitive squandering diminished their wealth; no—utterly drained it dry—forcing sale of even their Inariya mansion before relocating to Hori.

The way they spent that money was equally flamboyant.
At one moment they would go out to Shinagawa solely for net fishing—scattering money like chum to catch minnows and delighting in it—and the next moment there was one who made massive donations to the Kanda Festival, performing foolish dances atop flower-decked floats with immense self-satisfaction.
Among them, the second brother Masutaro, upon hearing of Iwai Hanshirō’s tremendous popularity at the time, waited for him at the stage door and deliberately stood imposingly blocking the thoroughfare.

“You riverbed beggar—wait.”
“How dare you appear before Matsui Masutaro with that face like a monstrous gourd wrapped in cloth! What is this? Unwrap it—the cloth!”

he bellowed.

Hanshirō was startled.
He hurriedly grabbed his stage-entrance hood, pressed his forehead to the ground, and trembled violently.
The male attendants rushed off to the greenroom to report the emergency.
They called for a fixer.
The onlookers and townswomen,

“It’s Yamatoya! It’s Yamatoya!”

Since there was no admission fee, they immediately formed a crowd and pushed forward noisily.

“This must be that recent trend of harassment by homeless rōnin.”
“Since they’re blocking the stage, just wrap some coins in paper and send them off.”

When the theater staff rushed over, they found Masutaro had already swung the shrimp-shaped scabbard at his waist like a crossbar,

“Are you fundamentally a man or a woman?”

he demanded of Hanshirō with this bizarre inquiry.
Hiroshirō’s tremblingly delivered response proved equally remarkable.

“Yes… the truth is, I am a man.”

“A man? Unbelievable idiot! You parade through main streets in women’s kimonos with white and red makeup—more monstrous than any specter! And that filthy purple rag on your forehead?”

“All kabuki performers wear such cloths on their foreheads. I’m not unique in this. If it offends your eyesight, I humbly beg your pardon.”

“Offensive indeed! Then you profess to be an actor?”

“I am Iwai Hanshirō.”

“Hmph.
“So you’re the famed Yamatoya.”
“When I saw this ghostly white specter walking in broad daylight, I thought to cut it down with one stroke—but since it’s the celebrated Yamatoya, I’ll grant you mercy.”
“There! This is your tribute—pick it up and begone.”

—and with deliberate theatrics, he scattered a hundred ryō worth of freshly minted gold koban coins from the Kinza mint, letting them clatter across the roadway.

“—Well now, what splendid weather.”

There is also a story that he fanned his face with a folding fan and smugly walked away under the gaze of the onlookers.

However, such people were not limited to the four Matsui brothers alone—within the decadent culture already showing signs of its end, countless other archetypes must have teemed as well. The shogunate was rotting in its negotiations with Kyoto and foreign powers; masterless samurai multiplied like maggots; townspeople reached dead ends in their materialistic existence and leaned toward hedonism; officials’ minds grew senile, and before they knew what to do, opportunists exploited their weaknesses—extortion, fraud, street theft, murder—while societal evils danced mockingly around the rulers.

Since they did nothing but spend money, these brothers too soon found themselves struggling to afford tobacco; conspiring together as family, they pioneered an innovative profession called “O-Naikiki-tori” (eavesdropping for hire), which combined amusement with income.

They would find a dazed guard and pick a fight. Moreover, whenever they spotted a Hatchōbori patrol officer, they would deliberately provoke them. Clad in padded kimono jackets and three-foot belts, their bulky ruffian-like appearance meant that whenever underlings dragged them to the magistrate’s white sand court—

“Take it off!”

—the officials would bark, berating their gaudy jackets.

As if awaiting this cue, they would shed the padded garments to reveal the hollyhock-crested formal attire bestowed upon the Matsui family underneath.

They couldn't be bound with rope.
The magistrate was flustered.

Suddenly, when the officials began acting furtively, the business was already thriving.
The Matsui brothers began loudly reciting the scripted lines they had prepared.

“Hurry up and decide our punishment! How do you intend to conduct this interrogation?”
“With all due reverence—we of the Matsui clan, who have received audience-granted status through Lord Tokugawa Ieyasu’s own handwritten decree—how exactly do you intend to punish us? We would be most honored to witness it.”
“And regarding the matter of our bestowed crested attire being soiled by impure gravel, we would like to receive the magistrate’s personal apology as well!”

They took turns shouting.
They clamored deafeningly.

The magistrate was at his wits’ end,

“First, a private hearing! A private hearing!”

As he stepped back, a minor official wrapped coins in a folded fan and—

“Please—just for today—”

With that, they came.
Among them were even magistrates who took them around to the back of the office and entertained them.
This became quite profitable, but once their faces became known in Hatchōbori, the authorities there stopped dealing with them.

“Let’s slightly change our riverbank.”

And this time, they set their sights outside the city.

The Nakagawa River in Katsushika was a river under shogunal prohibition.
In other words, it was a prohibited fishing zone where no one could cast nets except those using the shogunate’s official nets.
And along this river stretch, the glint of fish scales jostled against one another.
To this venture, Baikei too threw himself into,

“Splendid—a fishing spot!”

With that, shouldering their fishing rods, they set out.

Ina Hanjūrō’s subordinates were keeping watch from the boat checkpoint.
With five fishing rods, they were making such a racket that they were spotted immediately.
Once bound with rope and dragged to the magistrate’s office, alas—they commenced their usual routine of reciting the script for “eavesdropping for hire.”

When sent home with bribes, they would come right back.
When the petty bribes ran out,

“How about Nakagawa River?”

“Very well.”

With plans to return via Senju or Yoshiwara, they shouldered their fishing rods and set out.

Even at the Nakagawa checkpoint, they were exasperated,

“They’re back again.”

They could do nothing but laugh and watch.

Respected Sirs, This year hath seen the scales of sea bass observed in great abundance, with other piscine denizens likewise appearing under favorable tidal conditions; yet of late they have wholly ceased their visits. What measures might Your Honors have taken? We humbly recommend selecting an auspicious autumn day for a singular angling endeavor.

In the end, they had grown so intimate with the checkpoint that even such a letter arrived from there—thus the brothers’ enterprise had come to an end.

Moreover, Baikei had at last become wholly consumed by his devotion to advancing along the path of painting, giving no thought even to the autumn sky.

He was already a person of destiny in the womb.

Old and young cicadas droned in resonant chorus.

He was a low-ranking retainer of the Ashikaga Domain in Yashū.

Though technically of samurai status, his rank was scarcely higher than that of a foot soldier.
To begin with, Lord Toda Ōi-no-kami Tadafumi himself held a domain yielding a mere 11,000 koku—an undeniably impoverished daimyo.

Baikei was born destined to that small domain.
His childhood name was Yasuke; later called Tsunetarō, his formal posthumous name was Akiyoshi, and he also went by Gei. After turning forty-six, he split the character for Gei into two parts and adopted the name Sōun.

For practical purposes, he shall henceforth be called Sōun.

It could be said that Sōun carried with him since birth—in the tenement of his domain’s residence in Ogawamachi—a poor lord, a poor father, and a poor self.
His father Tsunezō rose from being a foot soldier with two koku stipends through lifelong loyal service, finally attained samurai status only to die.
The extent to which two koku stipends constituted a cruel living expense for humans during this time could be understood from the story of Sōun’s birth.
However, the commonly accepted account and my own interpretation differ—

It was when Sōun’s mother Masu, upon becoming pregnant with him, whispered this joy to her husband Tsunezō, that Tsunezō grew somber,

“This is troubling,” he said. “Your diet being so lacking—the children born to us, Kiyoshi and Takashi—they’ve all been sickly. To bring another frail child into this storm-tossed world would be sinful. It serves neither society nor our household. However pitiful it may seem, go buy Nezumiya’s Kōōsan and drink it quietly.”

From darkness unto darkness—so it began. Masu stole out into the night.

“Did you obtain it?”

“No…” Her voice trembled as she watched her husband’s expression. “I stopped.”

“In truth, before I became pregnant with this child, I had dreamt of swallowing a white Go stone.”
“But when I went to Nezumiya’s door just now—when I was about to knock to buy the medicine—something white glistened at my feet.”
“Oh!” I thought—and when I picked it up—isn’t it strange? Here—exactly like the Go stone from my dream…’

With that, she drew a single white stone from her obi.

Auspicious omen! Miracle!—so this story was recorded in biographical writings.
It shared the same mold as the birth narratives of eminent monks and illustrious figures.
Sōun himself had been so moved by this that he named his late-life study *Hakuseki Sanbō* (White Stone Mountain Villa); engraved seals with inscriptions such as *Zuihaku*, *Hakusekishi*, and *Sekishō*; and even in his old age—

That he often remarked—“Had my mother taken a dose of Kōōsan back then…”—proved this was no legend, but incontrovertible fact.
I believe it too.

But what I believe in is not the dream, but Masu’s maternal love. One cannot help but be moved to tears by her precious ingenuity that made her husband reconsider. Contemplating her figure—returning not with the purchased Kōōsan from Nezumiya’s doorstep, but with loving ingenuity clutched in hand; contemplating the womb; contemplating the formless white stone child dwelling within; and further still, contemplating O-Kiku who wed Sōun from the Matsui family, and Kakutarō born of their union—in such moments, one feels the profound line formed by chains and links of humanity piercing through life itself.

Sōun was a terribly mischievous child from birth.
Tasaki's mischief got his nose pinched at the domain residence in Ogawamachi.
In the vacant lot of the row houses, the rascal would often chase dragonflies with a sticky pole.
Among their group was a notoriously scolding old woman who constantly berated him. One time, when he happened by the communal toilet at the corner of the row houses, he saw that old woman enter to relieve herself.

Soon, a shriek arose from within the outhouse.
From a gap in the outhouse, someone used a sticky pole to prod the old woman’s private parts with its adhesive end.
Though disheartened and letting out a shriek, the old woman—being of samurai stock—resolutely snapped the sticky pole and gave chase to the rascal.

The old woman’s son came out; the rascal’s parent went to apologize; whether to execute him or not became such a commotion throughout the tenement that it nearly caused an uproar.

They sent him to the countryside as a nursemaid’s apprentice, but he was sent back faster than a bouncing ball.

“The only solution is binding.”

Thus at age ten, Sōun was dispatched as a tea page to the Ashikaga domain lord’s residence.

He served the retired lord—styled “great lord”—father to the incumbent head Tadafumi.
The stone-inspired name Zuihaku was bestowed by someone during this period.

However, the young acolyte Zuihaku was not at all constrained.
Moreover, this retired lord was an eccentric, and the old child had come to share his innermost thoughts with him.

It was when they entered the bath.
As Zuihaku was stepping into the bathtub, the retired great lord reached out his hand and firmly grasped his adorable member,

“Oh!
“An eggplant’s sprouted here!”

he was teased.

A few days later, Zuihaku again accompanied the retired great lord to his bath for his skin-scrubbing ritual.
Just as the retired lord was casually about to enter, Zuihaku—who had been lying in wait—reached out from behind and lightly grasped the sixty-year-old great lord’s nether regions,

“Oh my, this pumpkin’s sprouting hair and starting to rot.”

“Brat”

And so, the Retired Lord, still being grasped, turned around—

“Revenge—magnificent.”

he laughed.

Furthermore, this Retired Lord had an odd quirk—when walking incognito, he would pinch his own nose, arch his back slightly—

“Chirr… chirr… chirr…”

he muttered to himself.

None of the retainers dared ask what he was imitating, though it seemed to be a cicada’s cry.
Zuihaku promptly learned it and went about everywhere doing the nose-pinching “chirr-chirr.”
When the household’s Retired Lord saw this,

“Brat—you’ve learned that too?”

When imagining this old cicada and young cicada resonating together while wandering the garden, one could also envision the peculiar expressions worn by the retainers watching them.

At twenty years old, Sōun abandoned his domain and fled to Edo.
With both his artistic fervor and political zeal ablaze within him, he found it impossible to idly subsist any longer on his minor fief’s meager stipend.

To his right stood Seigan; to his left, a beautiful woman.

A moonless house—seven herbs and sorrow.

Having married O-Kiku and fathered Kakutarō—between poverty’s second phase and third—Sōun had moved his family to a row house in Hino-mi Yokochō within Asakusa’s Denbōin Temple grounds. Yet poverty followed them even there.

“Um… truly—” O-Kiku would often begin, face flushing crimson as she went from her kitchen door to the neighbor’s—woman to woman—to unburden her heart.

“It’s always—always—so hard for me to ask this favor…”

When she said just that, the neighbor’s wife immediately understood,

“Is it rice you need?” she offered.

“No, today I managed to prepare a little of that white rice, but both the soy sauce and miso have run out.”

“It’s no trouble at all—though I haven’t much to offer.”

The neighbor’s wife was older than O-Kiku.
In the six-tatami room sat an old man with a long face, sunken cheeks, and sharp eyes set deep within their sockets, perpetually stroking his jet-black beard as he immersed himself in reading or tending to his inkstone.

While portioning out soy sauce and miso into a vessel, the neighbor’s wife said.

“In exchange for giving you this, if your honorable household happens to have lamp oil for just tonight, I would like to ask a small favor of you.”

O-Kiku turned bright red,

“However, unfortunately, that too had been gone since the day before yesterday, so last night we passed it in darkness.”

“Oh my, oh my. In that case, we’d both be having moonless nights at home, wouldn’t we?” The neighbor’s wife laughed in a cheerful voice that belied any resemblance to an old woman. This was Madam Kōran, who had made a name for herself as an eminent poetess in her youth. Even when Kōran made her moonless night puns, the person in the back who remained unsmiling, motionless as a reishi mushroom, was none other than the impassioned poet Yanagawa Seigan.

Even when night fell, in the three-unit row house, only the left neighboring unit had its light lit.
Tasaki Sōun’s house was in the middle, with Seigan to the right and the illuminated house to the left.
On moonless nights, perhaps because it was narrow, the left house appeared neatly compact, with red Yuzen fabrics visible on the clothes rack.
It was a household of women—a mother and daughter named O-Sumi and O-Fusa—with no male presence.

O-Sumi appeared to be thirty-five or thirty-six, yet she seemed determined not to be outdone by her sixteen- or seventeen-year-old daughter O-Fusa. She would often sit flat before the vermilion-lacquered mirror stand, presenting a picture of desperate effort as she agonized over how to stave off the appearance of aging.
O-Fusa was a kind-hearted girl.
She had a touch of melancholy about her, but she was a beauty.

Her mother had been someone’s mistress.
The man who could not openly be called her father was Nakayama Kōgaku, who served as a financial agent for the shogunate and, through his gokenin shares, at any rate carried both long and short swords.
Even when Kōgaku did make rare visits to this mistress’s household, he was no longer of an age to meet O-Sumi’s desires.
He only showed his face out of obligation.
And since he had some foundation in painting, ever since Sōun moved there, he had eventually come to study under him.
He often brought small gifts for his teacher’s son, Kakutarō.

That Kōgaku had already died two or three years prior. It appeared living expenses had been arranged to avoid hardship; while modest, the mother and daughter could still afford lipstick and face powder. In particular, O-Fusa’s beauty began drawing notice in the Denbōin Temple precincts as she reached marriageable age.

Kakutarō—who once wailed “Rice! Rice!” in the back-alley tenements by the moat—now had his forelock shaved off, becoming a youth with a pale forehead and fair complexion. From childhood he had honed swordsmanship at the Ongaya Dojo before training at Saitō Yakurō’s Renpeikan in Kudan; academically, he diligently attended the Mita Academy daily without fail.

Kishida Ginkō, Matsuura Takeshirō, Kurita Manjirō, Tomioka Tessai, Hayashi Waichi, and Watanabe Kōki—such were Kakutarō’s academy classmates. Among them, he became particularly close with Kishida Ginkō, who would later sell Seikisui eye drops in the Meiji era.
And both Ginkō and Takeshirō,

“Tasaki’s got what it takes.”
“His father is his father, but he’s a prodigy too.”

they said.

In his short hakama and long sword—his Kōbusho-style attire—Kakutarō’s figure commuting to the academy was something O-Fusa next door found delightful to catch even a fleeting glimpse of.
Around lamp-lighting time—when he ought to have been returning—she would fabricate some errand and insist on going out.

However, whenever they happened to meet outside, O-Fusa would turn red up to her collar and pretend not to notice.
When their eyes met, she licked her lips and, with a pained look, gave a faint smile.
Kakutarō also smiled.
Two whole years passed in this manner.

Meanwhile—as for his father Sōun—now five years past the age of forty, he had entered what would become known as the heartrending path of his “Asakusa Sōun Era,” a defining period of his life.

At age twenty, these twin passions—his artistic spirit and political ambition—that had compelled him to leave his domain remained undiminished through twenty-five years of destitution.
No—fate had honed him to harsh extremes.
His samurai discipline. His painterly mastery. His very humanity.

The person who opened his eyes to the heart of painting was Kanai Usū, and the one who taught him the fundamentals of the Six Laws was Katō Baiō, the hermit of Kawasaki.

In Edo, he was spurred on by Bunchō, stimulated by Kazan, sought out Haruki Nanko’s tutelage, and consulted Aigai—such was his path. Yet he himself possessed a distinct artistic vision; surely he had vowed in his heart to emulate Sōgen and forge what might be called self-wrought originality through solitary study.
When he obtained painting manuals by Chinese masters like Liu Songnian, Qiu Shizhou, or Qian Cangzhou, Tasaki Sōun became a solitary figure between heaven and earth, with no thought for wife, child, or rice.

It was not Sōun alone—the extent to which painters and poets of this era revered and cherished "paper" remains beyond comprehension for us in today's materialistic, science-dominated society. A single sheet of painting paper held immense significance. This wasn't about monetary value. Nor was it scarcity in society. For impoverished artists, it equated to currency itself. Even someone of Tanomura Chikuden's stature possessed brushes yet perpetually thirsted for paper. They would smooth out and reuse even creased, tea-stained sheets. When fortunate enough to obtain a single piece of imported Chinese paper, they'd grow as exhilarated as lovers exchanging vows—writing poetry, creating paintings.

Of course, for someone like Sōun, wanting for paper must have been an even harsher trial than lacking rice. He would lay out scrap paper as though it were gold leaf, copying ancient paintings. In the guttering lamplight of deep night, his face—overgrown with an untamed beard—became the very incarnation of an art-obsessed demon. Had someone snapped his brush shaft in such moments, blood would surely have spurted forth.

Yet for Sōun at forty-five, these paintings still brought no coin. True, he had journeyed to barter for rice and daubed kite designs to hawk in streets, but never did a patron come knocking at his gate seeking commissioned work.

“How we’ve managed to survive.”

O-Kiku, the wife, thought deeply.

On this twenty-five-year path of utter darkness where not a single glimmer could yet be found ahead, even she began to show slight signs of fatigue.
When her husband sold kites on the main street, she would expose her face alongside him and attach the bridles.
She who never once showed a displeased expression no matter when Sōun went out or returned home drunk.
Moreover, she had been especially kind to Kakutarō, managing to prevent her husband and child from starving to death and bringing them this far.

"If I didn’t have this wife…"

Even O-Kiku, who at times appeared god-like in Sōun’s eyes, was a woman.
Lately, her vitality and spirit seemed to have waned, her emaciation becoming noticeable.

At such a time—indeed, precisely at such a time it was.

One day came a client requesting a painting,

“On this silk, I would like you to paint the seven autumn grasses.”

“On silk?”

Sōun’s chest tightened as he involuntarily swallowed a gulp of saliva that would have shamed him had the client heard.

“Understood.”
“By when?”

“For my autumn housewarming—I intend to have it mounted and displayed there—therefore…”

Even the sound of that person’s departing footsteps rang in his chest like a happy chime.
Immediately, he called his wife:

“O-Kiku, rejoice.”
“If I complete this piece, you’ll finally get some relief.”

When he unfurled the pristine silk—a material never before seen in their home—O-Kiku seemed to glimpse in that twenty-odd-year darkness a flicker of hope repaid, whether as flower or light.

“Oh…”

With those words, she began shedding copious tears.

“Alright! This is the heaven-sent opportunity given to me.”
“I shall challenge the world with this work.”

His desperate devotion began.

The silk was stretched on a frame.
He applied the underdrawing.
He applied it ten times, twenty times.
It was a grueling endeavor.
With the expectation that if only he could complete this painting, he sold all their belongings and exchanged them for pigments.
The composition was completed.
The line drawing advanced as well.

At the same time, he had made it his daily routine to visit Asakusa Kannon to worship, whether in morning or evening.
As autumn approached, the painting was eventually completed.

"Hmm…"

As he laid down the brush, Tasaki Sōun's deep breath carried firm confidence.

"The seal…"

He immediately thought to apply it but remembered his daily routine.
I must inform Kannon of this achievement and go offer my thanks.
And with the serene mood of having completed my devotions, I shall apply the seal.

He put on zōri.

The large feet clad in thirteen-mon tabi had only their heels protruding from the worn-out straw sandals.
But for the first time in ages, the wind billowing through his sleeves felt light.
The refreshing evening breeze gently soothed his heart after the grueling work was done.

“Kiku, I’m home.”

The alley was already dark.

"Oh, the light’s still—" he thought as he—

“Has Kakutarō also not returned yet?”

He removed his sandals but received no reply.

Yet he sensed a human presence.

“Kiku… Kiku…”

he continued calling out.

Immediately, Sōun flared up in anger.
Even when weeping inwardly, he would often lash out violently at his wife with contrary impulses.

“You fool!”
“Why haven’t you lit the lamp?”
“What are you doing in such pitch darkness?”

“I…”

A faint voice answered.

And in the unnervingly still darkness, a pale face turned toward him and smiled.

"Gh—!"

Tasaki Sōun stiffened his entire body and went to her side.
A blade-like fury and chill raced from his spine to the tips of his fingers.

When he looked, the painting of seven grasses he had leaned against the wall before leaving now lay sideways on the tatami mats.
And there, sitting properly before it, was his wife, O-Kiku.
She had placed a brush washer and set an inkstone there, just as Sōun would when facing his painting brush.

That alone would have been tolerable, but O-Kiku had soaked her brush in ink and was now smearing her husband’s autumn grasses painting—the very work into which he had poured his soul—into utter blackness.

By now, even if he were to seize that hand and stop it, it would already be too late.
The painting of seven grasses was now a wretched hollow shell.
Tasaki Sōun’s entire body burned with anger.
A feeling as if his beloved child had been slaughtered heated his eyes, and tears threatened to spill.

Yet it was Sōun who, in such moments, could assume a composed demeanor entirely unlike his usual short-tempered self.

In a calm, gentle voice,

“Kiku…”
“You… What are you doing?”

“Yes, I am erasing the seven grasses.”

“Why?”

“Lonely flowers… the seven autumn grasses… whichever I look upon brings me sorrow.”
“Even without that, it’s autumn.”
“…such grass growing from the tatami mats.”

Even as she spoke, the ink swept swiftly across the silk.

With a clack, she threw the brush against the wall.
Startled, Sōun grabbed his wife’s thin shoulders.
At the same time, with vacant eyes, she—

“Hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh.”

and she laughed loudly.

“Hey! Pull yourself together! Are you out of your mind?! Kiku—Kiku—” He embraced his mad wife tightly in his large arms.

Undoubtedly, among all the loves he had manifested in his lifetime, this one must have contained the greatest strength and tears.

A procession of white lanterns in broad daylight.

The father was an imperial loyalist; the son was pro-shogunate.

O-Kiku's voice filled with devotion to her husband would never be heard again.

Poverty had made her a madwoman.

Pale and emaciated in bed, from that night on, she never rose again.
At times, she would lick paper and paste it along the tatami seams.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"There are just so many fleas."

She answered.—It was already the time when the chilly winds of winter began to arrive.

Before long, she ended her life.
Sōun could not bear to witness Kakutarō’s grief.
At the same time, with a parent’s heart, he also feared this impulse might give rise to nihilistic thoughts within him while he was still young.

That was not the motive, but indeed, the next change came upon Kakutarō.
Love had formed between the neighbors before they knew it.

Following O-Kiku’s death, Tasaki Sōun set out on a journey to forget his grief.
During his absence, it seems there had been opportunities for O-Fusa and Kakutarō to grow closer.

It was an era when the word "infidelity" still carried strict sanctions, but Tasaki Sōun remained silent and watched.
I want to believe in my child’s rationality.
At the same time, while Kakutarō appeared gentle on the surface, in his heart—in his blood—he bore much of the Matsui family lineage inherited from his mother, O-Kiku.
A tremendous strength lay concealed within his bright-eyed smile.

“It’s the mother’s bloodline.”
“If only that passion would burn toward something good.”

He was their only child.
Sōun thought of it.
As a father, he worried about it.

Sōun was forty-seven.

The year was Bunkyū 1 (1861 CE).

He left Kakutarō at the school and returned to the Ashikaga domain residence.
Although he had long been in a state of unofficial exile from his domain, after receiving a lenient decree from the feudal lord, he had been nominally reinstated to the Ashikaga Domain several years prior.

The reason he suddenly abandoned his painting brush and returned to Ashikaga was that he had been shocked by the increasingly perilous times hurtling toward crisis.
The clamor for Imperial Restoration, cries to Expel the Barbarians, and movements to Topple the Shogunate had grown ever more intense.
The ideals of young unknown men were now verging on realization.

With his neighbor Seigan, he would discuss current affairs, advocate restoring kingly governance, and at times engage in spirited debates over foreign policy—whether to maintain national isolation or throw open the country’s gates. Moreover, secret letters and fiery manifestos would occasionally arrive from comrades whose very existence remained obscure.

His imperial loyalism and patriotism, stimulated by his studies of Ansai’s teachings and the rising momentum of the Imperial faction, dated back to his youth when he had fled his domain.

What must not be overlooked were the alliances that had been secretly forged—from before his desertion from the domain until after his return.
Moreover, since these connections existed not within their own domain but among the retainers of Akimoto Tajima no Kami in the neighboring territory, the wider world paid them little heed.

They consisted of Koroko Taizō, Okaya Shigezane, Shiotani Yoshimoto, and Aiba Tomoatsu.
And when considering both the marital ties between the Akimoto family and Chōshū’s Mōri domain along with their close political dealings, it became evident that Chōshū had long been bound to Akimoto—that powerful domain of Tosa—while Akimoto itself must have naturally kept watch over the stance of its adjacent domain, Ashikaga.

Like other domains in Tōhoku, Ashikaga—though a small domain—had split into two factions: the pro-shogunate faction and the imperial loyalist faction. Moreover, left far behind by the swift currents of the times, they remained indecisive, merely squabbling among themselves.

It was into this situation that he returned to his domain.

“What’s this about pro-shogunate and imperial loyalist factions? Nonsense! Even now, you still can’t see the light?”

He headed to the estate of chief retainer Kawakami Saiza and reproached him for powerlessness and lack of policy.

Kawakami had long been one who was convinced by Sōun’s imperial loyalist arguments, but

“This is a troubling situation indeed.”

he remained indecisive.

“However, as the domain’s leader, Lord Chief Retainer—what are you hesitating for?”

“But lately, the young ones have grown so fervent—they look down on their superiors as obsolete.”
“This is truly perplexing.”
“Somehow, I must have you resolve this outcome through your own efforts, but…”

Kawakami’s perplexity was that the Edo-based retainers had largely inclined toward the pro-shogunate faction and were refusing to act on directives from the domain’s home government.
Moreover，the majority of retainers were in Edo，while those remaining in the home domain did not even number half.

“Very well. I，the unworthy Sōun，shall take charge and resolve this.”

He promptly sent a lengthy written opinion to the pro-shogunate faction at the Edo domain residence.
Kawakami issued a manifesto.
But not only did their efforts meet with deafening silence—there were even signs that every action and word of the imperial loyalists in the home domain was being reported to the shogunate.

In the midst of this, the year changed.
The year was Keiō 1 (1865 CE).
The political coups, military revolts, and all manner of fierce storms centered in Kyoto had now intensely agitated the eleven young imperial loyalists of Ashikaga,

“Kawakami’s senile! Tasaki’s a fool! Those bastards are all talk!”
“Both leaders are unworthy of trust!”

they shouted,

“Kill them! Kill them!”

they proclaimed.

“If we’re killing them, then the Edo-based pro-shogunate ringleaders too—”

“Of course!”
“Before that, we should first renounce our domain allegiance and settle matters decisively.”

In broad daylight, the eleven young samurai brought out white lanterns from the storehouse and raised them high in their hands,

“Though the sun shines in heaven, our domain remains dark even at noon.”

“Oh, dark! So dark!”

And so, they boldly passed through the domain residence gate and declared their domain renunciation.

Upon hearing rumors that the white lantern demonstration had formed ranks, gone to the chief retainer’s estate to force Kawakami to commit seppuku, and was likely heading to Edo, Sōun rushed there.

Before the eleven men—whose eyes seemed ready to cut even Sōun down—he began to explain with earnest conviction.
His passion for the royal house and his torrential eloquence in advocating righteousness were not those of the painter Sōun.
He was the loyalist Tasaki Kōtarō.

“Leave it to me. Tasaki is a samurai.”

Having temporarily quelled [the situation], he hurried to Edo.
To enter the Edo-based domain residence now consolidated under pro-shogunate forces was akin to casting himself into a death trap.
He faced this confrontation staking his very life.

Here within the domain too, no small number of formidable men stood ready.
Death or persuasion?
Only two paths remained.

Within the council chamber of the domain residence, murderous gazes converged.
Swords and men lay densely piled.
Sōun took his seat at one end.

His quiet tone gradually intensified with passion.—As he proclaimed righteousness, explained the current situation, and fervently argued for Toda Domain's proper path at this era's crossroads with crimson ears, the Edo-based retainers indeed began swaying like a great wave in agitation.

"Shut up, you false loyalist!"

someone roared.

Simultaneously, a barrage of insults ignited by this outburst came flying at Sōun one after another from three or four voices.

"What?! Since when do you have the right to lecture others on their beliefs?"

“How dare you! Retire!”

“Before preaching Imperial Loyalism to us, why don’t you preach it to your own son! Your only son, Tasaki Kakutarō, is our comrade! A Pro-Shogunate man!”

Sōun was startled.

However, his expression immediately softened into a smile as he calmly surveyed the agitated hall.

“—Kakutarō.”
“I see.”
“However, that man had long ago been disowned—he is no son of Tasaki Kōtarō!”

He said decisively.
And then, immediately following those words:

“Children oppose parents; parents oppose children—flesh-and-blood kin betraying each other amidst war’s flames. Such instances have been customary in every age of turmoil. This is what we call ‘destroying kin for the Great Cause.’”
“Now, even for this unworthy Tasaki—were I to consider only my son, neither contemplating the royal cause’s great matter nor the domain’s critical affairs—how could the true path of the warrior class stand?”
“No—when comparing the esteemed lords gathered here with this single unworthy son of mine, which holds greater weight is clear in principle.”

Having declared all this in a single breath,

“Is there any room for debate? How now!”

With a thunderous roar, a single shout echoed through the ceiling and pressed down upon the heads of the assembled retainers.
A heavy silence fell; from it, no voice could emerge.

“Moreover, each of you upholds your iron-hearted resolve—Pro-Shogunate!”
That sentiment too, Sōun understood well.
“But consider this! Now that our small domain of Ashikaga stands on the brink of crisis—should we once bear the name of traitors before the Imperial Banner, by what means could we uphold the title of samurai beneath the eternal sun and moon?
When even the Shogunate itself is rumored in Kyoto to be submitting and resigning—what opposition could a single small domain or a mere retainer offer? Do you deem it your duty as subjects to uphold this spiritless Edo Castle, this hollow shell of a shogunate—defying both His Majesty the Emperor and your lord’s will?”

In any case, sincerity and passion could not fail to stir people.
The counterarguments from the Edo domain residence unanimously yielded to his sincere loyalty.

An all-night council—and then came the sudden unification of domain opinion under urgent circumstances.
Sōun had completely unified the masses.

Immediately, a courier raced to the home domain.

Toda Domain unified—the entire domain now committed to Imperial Loyalism.

He must have surely felt relieved—the heavy burden lifted from his shoulders.

"But now—forward!"

Sōun rested his sleepless body for about two hours and then, immediately after the courier had departed, tightened his travel attire again. And when he reached the approach of Asakusa Mitsuke Bridge, from the opposite direction came a still quite young woman carrying an infant not yet several months old on her back, walking toward him.

In the brief time since he last saw her, she had become emaciated almost beyond recognition—but there was no mistaking her. This was O-Fusa from the neighboring house in Hinomisuji Yokocho. She was his child Kakutarō’s lover.

“…………”

Sōun stood hidden in the shade of a roadside tree, concealing both his form and his tear-blurred eyes with fixed intensity.

O-Fusa did not notice.

Holding a small cloth bundle to the chest—where was she going, and on what errand?
And, soothing the child on the back, she passed right in front of him.

“Ah… she’s borne a child too.”

In his heart, he throttled his own throat.
O-Fusa—my son’s wife—he nearly called out despite himself.

Pitiable one…

He had long known how intensely O-Fusa's mother detested the romance between Kakutarō and her daughter. Even in that house in Hinomisuji Yokocho, the young couple could no longer remain. Where had they managed to establish their meager household? Where had they found their transient dwelling?

A cursed bond of flesh and blood that defied yearning—Kakutarō estranged from his father, O-Fusa from her mother.

What an ill-fated pair they made.

Sōun closed his eyes.

"This too is an era's microcosm," he thought. "Inevitable casualties…"

When he opened his eyes, the heart-wrenching woman was already a distant figure.
The town, as if anticipating the coming war’s devastation, was shrouded in shuddering dust that enveloped mounted riders and spear-bearing warriors.

A modest farewell gathering amidst snow-laden bamboo grass.

Grieve not—Banzai with one sho of sake

Like a symbol of Bakumatsu Japan, Mount Asama was spewing smoke.

At the foot of the mountain there, seven samurai—including Koroko Taizō and Shiotsuya Yoshimoto of the Akimoto Domain in Tatebayashi, along with Aiba Tomoatsu and others—had gathered.
Tasaki Sōun of the Ashikaga Domain, having joined from Edo, brought the auspicious news of the unified opinion of the domain to his allies at their secret military council.

The Eastern Expedition under the Imperial Banner was now only a matter of time.

In coordination with Chōshū in the west, all communications had been established.
And amidst the northeastern domains dominated by pro-Shogunate leanings, these two domains—small though they were—swore to unite under Imperial Loyalism.

Having coordinated all preparations, Sōun returned to Ashikaga.
First among his undertakings was forming a militia—the Red Sincerity Brigade—centered on the Eleven-Man Group of young men who had earlier sworn their oath.

Yamafuji Sannosuke, Togano Kakuzō, Sumizu Hirokichi, Ogino Satarō, Ōyama Iwanjirō, Yamaguchi Kitarō.
To these men—Sōun’s disciples along with merchant and peasant youths—over two hundred gathered almost immediately.

At that time, the new breech-loading rifles cost twenty-five ryō per unit.
In the impoverished Toda Domain, even when the brigade was formed, they could not afford to buy new-model firearms for their soldiers.

The militia soldiers had to provide their own military expenses and uniforms.
From the domain came only a provisions allocation of one sho of rice per person per day.
Bullets, swords—even straw sandals—all had to be self-supplied.
Yet still many volunteered to gather, their martial spirit burning fiercely.

Boshin—had this Red Sincerity Brigade militia not been organized, before the Battle of Yanagida Streets, the shogunate army’s infantry would have surged in—Ashikaga would have been ravaged by war, and Ashikaga would not exist as it does today.

Meanwhile, in Edo, flames rose over Ueno.

In the sea of raging flames, gruesome blood flowed as ceaselessly as early summer rain.
Ueno was charred black, and the Shōgitai Brigade met a merciless end in annihilation.

Kakutarō never revealed his true feelings to his father, but through academic peers centered around their private school, he had long been drawn into the pro-Shogunate faction.—Drenched in blood, rain, mud, and bullets fired by government forces, the young man was discovered among the wretched defeated soldiers crumbling away from Ueno.

He had fled alongside seven academy comrades—Matsuura Takeshirō, Kishida Ginkō, Kurita Manjirō, and others—but along the way, they were all scattered.

He fled to his mother O-Kiku’s family temple.
It was Imado Shōfukuji Temple.
In the dark spider’s web, holding his breath and chewing dried rice for over seven days, he had been hiding.

Mother rests in the soil of this temple.
Father—wife—child—Kakutarō eventually vanished without a trace.

In just half a year, society changed drastically.
Everything was imbued with the atmosphere of the new imperial regime.

Under the name of Kakutarō Tasaki and his wife, a circular letter was circulated to their surviving comrades-in-arms.

It stated that they wished to hold an evening gathering where they could reminisce about those times.
The location was set as Negishi’s Sasa no Yuki.

“So Tasaki had been safe too?”

Kishida Ginkō obtained this news for the first time after they had parted.

Without delay, when he went there that very day, about six surviving comrades had gathered.

“Oh, you’re alive.”

“You too.”

In that manner,

“What about Tasaki?”

“He has brought his beloved wife.”

“Hmm… Ms. O-Fusa, then?”

“That’s right. The infant—poor thing—died, I hear, but Ms. O-Fusa remains as beautiful as ever.”

“That bastard’s come here to show off.”
“Hey, let’s call him over and take him down!”

Amidst the commotion, the couple quietly arrived and exchanged greetings for the first time since their parting.
O-Fusa wore a kimono patterned with the seven autumn grasses along its hem.
Kakutarō was neatly dressed in a pale haori over a kosode and hakama, yet both husband and wife carried a shadow of loneliness about them.
Even their laughter lacked the heartfelt quality of the others'.

Perhaps because the hosts remained subdued, the sake took on a somber tone as they parted ways.

Not long after that, Kishida Ginkō became a passenger on a ship departing from Yokohama to fulfill his long-cherished ambition of traveling to France. During the tedium of the voyage, he idly opened a book, and from within it emerged an unopened letter.

“That’s right—this was what they handed me that night when I went to Sasa no Yuki at the Tasaki couple’s invitation… About a month later, they told me to open it when something came to mind, but I’d completely forgotten—what could it be?”

When he opened it, he found it was Tasaki Kakutarō and his wife’s final testament.

“A suicide note… A suicide note—ah, so no one realized it then.”
“This changes everything.”

The thought struck him as the ship cut through the Pacific waves.

× × ×

Two samurai from Ashikaga domain—Yuzawa Kengyū and Yasuda Jidayū—exited the main gate of the domain residence and relieved themselves together with a splashing sound at the crossroads toilet in Yukiwakōji.

After that,

“Excuse me, might I ask…”

There was someone who spoke up.

"What?"

After finishing their business and turning around, they saw a man wearing a red raincoat with a document box hanging from his neck,

“In this honorable residence, would a sensei by the name of Tasaki Sōun be residing?”

“Hmm, we’ve just returned from visiting sensei ourselves.”

“Which way?”

“Enter through that main gate,” said Yasuda, pointing.

“Once you enter, turn right toward the tenements—the two-story house at the eastern end.”
“Thank you most humbly.”

With that, the man flew off in haste.

“What could it be? Seems like an Edo courier.”

With that, the two saw him off.

“Could it be something concerning Master Kakutarō…”

“Yes… Ever since then, there’s been no word at all.”

“However, if we mention that, sensei will make that disagreeable face.”
“It troubles me, but let us come again another day.”

The two looked back at the domain residence’s tenements and departed.

Having just seen Yuzawa and Yasuda off at the entrance, Sōun immediately ascended to the second floor and was already grasping his brush beneath the south-facing window.

Tasaki Kōtarō—who had commanded the Red Sincerity Militia from horseback—and Sōun—now serenely concentrating on painting silk—appeared as completely different men.

What he worked on now was a composition across three silk panels: a central figure flanked by the seven autumn grasses and the moon.

“Hmm, have I caught a cold?”

Sōun abruptly thought this.
――A chill pierced his spine.
He had stayed up late both last night and the night before working on this painting draft, so he wondered if that was why.

As his eyes had grown too weary, he stretched his spine while still gripping the paintbrush.
Then, on the white fusuma behind him, the seven-grass pattern he was painting seemed to faintly reflect itself exactly as it was.

"It's eye fatigue..."

He muttered this but kept gazing without ceasing.
Not just autumn grasses—a human figure could be seen there.
The seven-colored grasses formed the hem pattern of that silhouette.
Bowed down as if weeping.
And beside it, a young samurai wearing a plain kosode similarly kept his face lowered, hands pressed against the ground.

“Ah… Kakutarō… O-Fusa…”

Thud thud thud.

Downstairs, at that moment, there was someone violently pounding on the door.
When engrossed in painting, he would sometimes keep the door closed even during daytime.

When he went down—

“Oh, Master!”

“Oh, Matsuzō the gardener.”
“…Hmm, I see.”
“Since you’ve come to my house as a courier, it must mean Kakutarō has come to report his seppuku.”

“Huh? How did you—”

“Well, fine. The document box—is that the suicide note?”

“No—it’s from the Ogawamachi domain residence.”

During his time in Edo, Matsuzō, who had been close to Sōun, read his feelings and spoke thus.
Matsuzō thought that if it were a suicide note, he might not even take it in hand.

Taking that, Sōun silently went up to the second floor.
No sound came—

Since he wasn’t told to come up, Matsuzō sat there vacantly—when suddenly, with hurried footsteps, Yasuda and Yuzawa, whom he’d met earlier at the roadside toilet, returned panting for breath.

“Oh—the Edo courier—”

As soon as they spotted Matsuzō,

“Just now, I heard elsewhere—they say the master’s son committed suicide in Edo. Isn’t that true?”
“Is it absolutely certain?”

“Has word already reached the senior councilors?”
“The sorrowful truth is—it has indeed.”

“Hmm… And where did it occur?”

“At Denbō-in’s Hinomisuji Alley—in front of the vacant house where they had resided.”
“The couple sat side by side with their knees aligned—”
“Did the young master perform seppuku?”
“He was cut sideways in a straight line and had fallen forward.”
“From his back, the tip of the sword had pierced through about two inches.”
“And Ms. O-Fusa—”
“With a dagger—she stabbed her breast, then her throat…”

Yuzawa and Yasuda’s hearts were pounding, and they didn’t ask anything further.
To imagine Sōun’s state of mind upon receiving this tragic news became unbearable.

“Then why didn’t you inform Master sooner?”
“Did you at least bring a letter?”

“Yes, I’ve already delivered it.”

“What? You’ve already told him?”
“Strange… Given that, it’s oddly quiet though…”

Suppressing their unease, when the two men went upstairs, they found Sōun exactly as he had been during their earlier visit—his position unchanged, his complexion unaltered by a hair—bent over his silk canvas in single-minded focus.

“Master! Master!”

When they called out involuntarily through sobs, he turned slightly—

“Oh, gentlemen—did you forget something?”

“No… th-that’s not it.”
“We humbly discern what lies within your heart.”

“Do you speak of Kakutarō?”

“Since he has atoned for unfilial sin through suicide, both disloyalty and impiety stand absolved.”
“Make haste with your preparations—depart for Edo.”

“Hmm… Sōun presently holds no affairs requiring Edo.”
“Far weightier is this painting—I must finish it by tomorrow and deliver it unto your hands per our lord’s command.”

“But… but… That is going too far.”

“No—regarding Kakutarō, your sympathy honors me, but speak no more of this.”
“Rather, Sōun rejoices.”
“With this—one enemy of the court has been eliminated!”
“When this painting is complete, we shall drink.”
“Let us drain great cups to celebrate the imperial court’s new reign!”
“Hahaha! Come tomorrow.”
“Rather than weeping for this Sōun or grieving for that disloyal, unfilial Kakutarō—raise a shō of sake for ‘Long Live the Imperial Nation!’—”

he said—

But to Tasaki Sōun’s ears, from earlier on, that voice—the "Mama! Mama!" cries that had often wailed in the back-alley tenements of Yamabiko-bori—would not stop echoing somewhere.

[Author’s Note] This manuscript remains a draft, having been written in great haste with no time to spare.
I hereby express my gratitude at this work’s conclusion to the late Sōun’s esteemed disciples—Mr. Komuro Suiun among them—as well as surviving contributors of written records who provided historical evidence through oral accounts and literature.
(Shōwa 7 [1932])

(Shōwa 7 [1932])