Pathway to Japanese Literature

He wanted to show her how Tatsuzō had grown into adulthood.
He wanted to have even the two-year-old Matajirō meet Grandmother for the first time.
His wife Riejo had long been waiting.

The grandmother—who had been enticed to visit the capital with each letter sent, using her grandchildren’s affection as bait—had finally resolved to come. Having departed Hiroshima on March 3rd, stopped at Kan Chazan’s Kōyō Rakuyō Sansha along the way, and arrived in Hyōgo by boat on the 14th as notified by Uncle Harukaze, Sanyo stayed the previous day at Gotō Shōin’s residence in Osaka and set out at dawn to meet her in Mikage, Settsu.

"Oh, how had they found out about this?"

When he arrived at the tea shop, Sanyo—who had come to meet his mother—found himself instead surrounded by a crowd of acquaintances and friends who had come to greet him.

Shinozaki Shōchiku’s face was also visible; painters such as Okada Hanko and Oda Hyakukoku, along with the master of Kenzuribi from Itami, had also come.

“As always, your kind heart—how delighted Madam Bai Shi must be.”

“For the Aoi Festival, I would very much like to request that you stay at my humble residence.”

“When you visit Osaka, please use my humble cottage as lodging. And it’s close to the corner theater.”

“You could stay at Kashiwatei, or even around Uji—wouldn’t that be fine? One evening, relaxing with your mother at the center, hearing tales of Professor Sanyo’s wild youth in Miyajima and the hardships of your house arrest days—now that would surely be nostalgic.”

By now, such discussions had been exchanged everywhere.

Sanyo dispensed lively conversation equally to all during that time, but occasionally, laughter erupting from literati-style witty banter swirled around him, marking the passage of time.

To tell the truth, he felt somewhat inconvenienced by today’s unexpected kindness from acquaintances.
The reason was that three years prior—when he had first welcomed his mother Bai Shi to Kyoto, shown her his stable life, and taken her touring through the capital’s streets and beyond—a faction of Confucian scholars, overwhelmed by Sanyo’s rapid rise to fame, had grown resentful,

“He even parades some old woman from a melon field as a prop for his fame-chasing.”

Since there had been instances where they’d implicitly branded such acts as hypocrisy, he’d intended to come today without informing anyone.

But just as Nobunaga—whom he so admired—had risen to prominence, this Rai Kyūtarō too had emerged from a Confucian scholar's household in the Aki Domain. The young scholar who once fled to the capital after scrawling his defiant farewell—*"Mountains ordinary, waters foolish, master dull"*—on the walls of Kan Chazan's academy where he'd been sent to study now stood as both titan and enfant terrible of the Western Capital's literary circles, his name Rai Jō (styled Sanyō Gaishi) etched indelibly into Japan's cultural memory.

Being Sanyo meant that whenever he left his Sanshisuimeisho study—that sanctum perpetually under the nervous scrutiny of those around him—even news of this trivial nature could not possibly remain secret.

Even as he stood there among these eccentric figures—scholars, literati, and painters who had each established their own schools—merely nodding with a silent smile, none of his features failed to evoke the luster of superhuman achievements he had accomplished by age forty-five: his haggard face marked by drink; the thin topknot incongruous against his large head; the dark brown silk haori; the indigo-striped hakama he always wore to calligraphy gatherings; every seemingly casual detail of his bearing.
Even he—who detested those reeking of provincialism and scholars reeking of pedantry—possessed that awareness.
While striving to comport himself as a great scholar and attempting to maintain dignity within this complex pride, today’s inconvenience was not, after all, an entirely unpleasant sensation.

“Ah, she has arrived!”

Then, from the shore of Hyogo, Bai Shi’s palanquin arrived.

Bai Shi immediately sent back the young attendant she had brought with her on the boat and, remaining alone, received the welcome from her child and her child’s acquaintances.

From the other palanquin, there was no sign of anyone alighting. It contained only souvenirs meant for her grandchildren, daughter-in-law, and acquaintances.

Just as the spiteful Confucian critics had sneered about “some melon-field crone,” she appeared no more than an utterly plain country grandmother. Only the overgarment draped about her shoulders and the finely wrought ivory-headed cane she gripped upon exiting the palanquin hinted at her identity as Rai Shunsui’s widow.

“Jō?”
“You’ve had a trying time.”

Having met Sanyo’s eyes to speak these words alone, Bai Shi then skillfully addressed all further remarks to those present who were not her son.

There were those who drank their tea and soon departed.
Having promised to meet again at a later date, most of the people left.
It was at this moment that—taking advantage of Shinozaki Shōchiku’s kindness, who had arranged accommodations in Osaka’s Yao-cho for the night—only five or six close relatives were preparing to move to the palanquins.
A dōshin-like official, accompanied by two men, strode up,

“Would that not be Professor Rai’s honored mother residing there?”

the dōshin-like official called out.

“That is correct.”

Goto Shōin’s disciple stood up and,

“Is there some business?”

“I am one who boarded the same vessel as your honored mother from Murato. Might there be any lost items?”
“—even something from your person?”

Matsukage’s eyes turned to look at Sanyo.

“Mother, the person who shared your passage is making such inquiries. Was there any unusual occurrence during the voyage?”

Bai Shi, without a trace of concern,

“No, nothing at all.”

“Is there any issue with your travel funds?”

“I have not lost anything.”

Upon hearing this, the dōshin-like man bowed politely toward Sanyo and said, “Ah, in that case, that will suffice. To tell the truth, as there was a single malicious individual who had boarded the shared vessel, we feared that taking advantage of your honored mother’s advanced age, some misfortune might have befallen her. So out of an excess of caution, I took the liberty of making inquiries.”

Sanyo stood up from the camp stool,

“That is most kind of you to go out of your way—though pardon my asking, might I inquire as to your affiliation?”

“I serve under Ōshio Heihachirō of Osaka.”

“Ah, Senshin Academy’s—”

“To have unexpectedly met Professor Sanyo in person, I am profoundly grateful. I pray your honored mother enjoys good health and a pleasant stay in the capital.”

“Your particular kindness. Though I’ve yet to meet him in person, please convey my regards to Lord Chūsai as well.”

After seeing them off as they departed, Sanyo—

“As expected.”
“Indeed, there are capable officials under Ōshio.”
“The rumors are true.”

he muttered.

×

In the evening, relaxing in the upper room of Yao-cho and gazing at his mother’s composure, Sanyo found himself immersed in an indulgent feeling for the first time in three years.

It had been eight years since his father Shunsui’s passing.
From when he first became conscious of maternal love until now—nearly forty years—it seemed that back in their Hiroshima residence, his grandson Yoichi’s wife had yet to settle in and still faced endless household struggles.
As he gazed upon sixty-five-year-old skin weathered by a lifetime of love and sacrifice, tears pooled unbidden in Sanyo’s eyes.

Those who had heard later also came sporadically to present their cards and pay their respects here.
However, he—both to avoid losing this moment of respite and fearing his mother’s exhaustion—had them politely decline, including the inn staff.

At that moment, a crate of fresh fish was delivered as a gift between mother and son.

“From whom?”

The inn maid who had relayed the message also made a puzzled face,

“If I say it’s someone who shared your voyage from Murato, you would understand.”
“I failed to recognize you and committed a grave discourtesy.”
“They said, ‘Please accept this as a small comfort,’ and left it here.”

“Then, officials of the Ōshio faction?”

“No, they were fair-skinned townspeople wearing three-shaku sashes, but...”

“And their names?”

“They left without giving their names.”

Sanyo laughed.

“A case of mistaken identity. We’d be in trouble if they come to take it back after we eat! Take it away.”

“But they clearly stated it was for Professor Rai’s honored elder.”

Bai Shi spoke as though rescuing the maid from her troubled expression,

“There, there.
Take it away and have everyone eat it together.”

Even after the meal arrived and Bai Shi, Sanyo, Shōchiku, Matsukage, and the others began quietly exchanging cups, they continued to laugh about the matter.

“Did Honored Mother have any inkling?”

“Well, perhaps there is, but it’s nothing of consequence.”

“Please do tell.”
“For some reason, I find it rather unsettling—given that official under Ōshio cautioned us with those words.”

said Matsukage.

“Most likely, they were what you call petty thieves—pickpockets or such—thieves, I suppose.”
“It seems they came to express their gratitude.”
“What endearing souls they are.”

And so, Bai Shi spoke thus, with a gentle creasing of her wrinkles, as if viewing all those present as children equally.

On the way, when the chartered boat stopped at Kakogawa Port, she once went ashore to the town to complete her shopping and returned to the boat just before its evening departure. In the midst of that commotion, someone attempted to lay hands on the travel funds in her pocket.

Bai Shi noticed, grabbed the man’s wrist, and studied his face closely, but seeing how pitifully he pleaded for mercy, she surmised he must have lacked the fare for the chartered boat.
And so, she bestowed upon him a silver coin.

That was all there was to the story.
However, according to Bai Shi’s interpretation—since a two-shu silver coin would have been excessive for boat fare—they must have brought the fresh fish both as a gesture of gratitude and a token of repentance. In contrast, Shōchiku and Matsukage dismissed this as preposterous: they argued it was undoubtedly a provocative taunt typical of brazen thieves—though thwarted during their voyage from Kakogawa, they would surely return to fulfill their original intent. Thus emerged two conflicting conclusions.

Sanyo had not considered either possibility, but he still felt inclined to let his mother’s interpretation stand as it was.
Yet he could not outright dismiss Shōchiku’s words either—for while possessing a scholar’s disposition, the man also bore many traits of Osaka townspeople, being exact in accounting and versed in worldly matters.

×

After closing the door, the sound of the river waves behind became more keenly audible.

By now, Mother seemed to have fallen asleep.

After Shōchiku and a few others had left, and Matsukage had retired to a separate room to sleep, the chamber where two thick futons lay neatly arranged became a space for Bai Shi and Sanyo alone.

The rumors about Uncle Kyohei, news of Harukaze, and the matter concerning Sanyo's eldest son Yoichi and his wife—who had been left behind at their hometown residence though he was already twenty-four—their household affairs still unresolved.

As he inquired about one thing after another in their bedside talk, Bai Shi began breathing softly in slumber and ceased to respond.

“She must have been disappointed.”

Sanyo，thinking this，suddenly noticed the cane placed like a bedside sword beside Mother’s futon.

She was carrying a rare cane.
At Mikage Tea Shop, it had immediately caught the eye, but given how preciously it seemed to be regarded, she kept it close even in her sleeping quarters.

He smiled innocently at his elderly mother’s feelings, much like a parent might laugh at a child’s naivety, and with the shadow of that smile still on his face, he drifted into a blissful sleep.

The next morning, even as they were eating breakfast, there was already a rush of visitors.
That day, Sanyo met with everyone who came, responding in the buoyant tone he adopted when in good spirits as he engaged them in conversation.
Bai Shi likewise expressed feminine pleasantries about their long absence to each guest.
Mother and son spent a hectic half-day together in the same room entirely occupied with external matters; during that time, they unpacked their luggage, entrusted Matsukage with various chores, and finally boarded the afternoon Thirty-Koku Boat.

As they ascended the Yodo River by boat toward Kyoto, Sanyo felt for the first time that his mother’s visit this time carried not merely the leisurely nature of an elderly woman’s travels but what seemed like an issue she wished to confront him about.
That this constituted a rebuke directed at himself could be inferred from the occasional glimmers of autumn frost—harshness surfacing within her warm maternal demeanor.
After Shunsui’s death, he had seen in his elderly mother both a maternal tenderness bordering on blind adoration toward her child and a stern love that rejected such indulgence—the two locked in a struggle even within the characters of her letters.
That conflicted expression—Sanyo now gazed upon it vividly in Bai Shi as she sat silently clutching her cane aboard the boat gently making its way up the Yodo River.

Sanyo secretly dreaded.

Even at forty-five years of age, he recognized his own immaturity—still incapable of making his mother’s worries his own.

What could have provoked his elderly mother’s anger?

Rumors persisted that malicious slander from decadent Confucian scholars who resented Sanyo’s reputation had reached even his provincial hometown.
Yet faced with her countenance brimming with maternal devotion, he found himself unable to use such pretexts to deceive his own heart.
Without needing to pose the question explicitly—through his mother’s eyes—the man called Rai Jō must have appeared transparently flawed in countless ways.
There were undoubtedly several offenses warranting her rebuke.

To soften her expression, throughout the journey to Kyoto, Sanyo aboard the boat ceaselessly attended to Bai Shi’s mood—pointing out Kawachi’s scenic vistas, chatting with fellow passengers’ children about his grandchildren, composing impromptu verses to solicit his mother’s critique—all while maintaining unbroken attentiveness.

And then, they arrived at the Higashi-Sanbonki residence.
Leaning against the Kamo River cliff, with Higashiyama glimpsed through the garden trees, Suisaishō—purchased for 230 gold pieces the winter before last—was the house Sanyo took pride in.
Bai Shi was now surrounded by her two grandchildren and daughter-in-law Riejo, arranging souvenirs one moment and taking Tatsuzo into her lap the next—a scene of innocent mother-in-law rapport.

Upon returning home, Sanyo immediately entered his study. When he saw its quiet and undisturbed state, he felt an ease akin to settling into his rightful seat.

“I fear I’ve been too blessed.”
“However much I receive, blessings will keep piling up, I tell you.”

Bai Shi often said this.

From the day after arriving at her child’s home in Sanbonki—beginning with a family outing to view cherry blossoms at Arashiyama—she spent nearly every day over the next half-year, from summer through autumn, sightseeing and attending various invitations.

The banquet at Hakuyōtei was especially enjoyable.
More than being entertained herself, she found joy in seeing Sanyo surrounded by the respect of Kyoto’s eminent figures.

“Jō, Jō.”

Both when coming and going, she called him Jō.

And the ivory-tipped cane she had brought from her hometown also invariably accompanied Bai Shi wherever she went.
People said to one another that it must be a memento of Shunsui.

On the day they went to see the play at the corner theater, Riejo also accompanied them.
Tatsuzo, now five years old, sat quietly on Granny’s lap, his eyes wide as he watched Baigyoku-zaō’s *Chūshingura*—a performance his father Sanyo favored.

At that theater, a man emerged from the crowd and gave a casual bow toward Bai Shi, prompting Goto Matsukage—who had accompanied them that day as well—to...

“Who was that just now?”

he inquired curiously of Bai Shi,

“Oh, that’s the thief from the other day.”

“Eh?”
“Could that be the petty thief who sent fresh fish to the match-fixer?”
“Petty thief?”

Riejo also looked back over her shoulder, as did Takei Jukusei, scanning the dimly lit earthen floor.
Amidst countless human necks, the pale-complexioned, grinning face of a man viscerally registered in their eyes.
“Don’t look, don’t look.”

Bai Shi shook her head while still facing the stage.
Amid such happenings, when April arrived Kyoto saw the Aoi Festival, followed by seasonal observances—listening to water rails at Chōkian, receiving invitations to Maruyama’s lodgings, attending Gion’s child procession.
Through summer came frequent invitations—to Yodo’s net fishing excursions, evening coolings along Shijo and Tadasu rivers, gatherings in Uji—an endless parade of diversions meant to keep her entertained.
All through this period she found herself invited to every welcome party for Kyoto newcomers and farewell gathering for Edo-bound acquaintances, along with countless private celebrations; by mid-June she had already begun insisting she would return to Hiroshima daily—yet Obon passed, the Fifteen Nights came and went, until September arrived.

Sanyo’s life during this time became entirely separate from his mother’s. He found himself increasingly drawn out—against his will—to gatherings with poetry society friends and farewells for departing acquaintances, returning home each time in a state of heavy intoxication.

When at home, he would invariably seclude himself in the four-and-a-half-mat Sanshisuimeisho study—either practicing calligraphy with vigorous brushstrokes, struggling through poetic verses, or else buried within the monumental draft of *Japanese Chronicles*, into which he had poured over twenty years of his lifeblood, devoting entire nights to editing it.

Sanyo’s existence never extended beyond these two poles: the fleeting euphoria of drunken revelries outside and the candlelit vigils within his study.

To Bai Shi sleeping in the main house, his labored breathing felt indistinguishable from her own.

On yet another evening, the sound of counting money could be heard in Sanyo’s living room.
At such times, Bai Shi wept quietly by herself.
For her—who understood her own child’s heart all too well—hearing Sanyo secretly counting money at night made her fear that even her son might already know his time was near.
In Sanyo’s late-night figure, she seemed to see mirrored the same concern her late husband Shunsui had felt three or four years before his death—a concern solely for his surviving family.

Faintly, the rain pattered against the eaves on an autumn evening,

“Mother, shall I give you a bit of a massage?”

Having left his study, Sanyo—complaining of back pain—approached his mother who had retired early.

Bai Shi nodded without reservation, but—

“You seem tired too.”

“No, my fatigue will be dispelled with a sip.”
“Since autumn rain must be particularly unpleasant for your elderly body.”

“I think it’s about time I return to Hiroshima.”
“These six months have passed like a dream.”

“As Kyoto’s winter brings bone-chilling cold, I believe you should indeed spend the season at the Hiroshima residence.”
“Yet after such an extended stay, the loneliness that follows will cut doubly deep.”

As he spoke, Sanyo’s hands moved slowly and methodically over his mother’s bony frame—from her shoulders down to her waist—with a plaintive tenderness as he massaged her.

Bai Shi had her eyes closed in apparent contentment—so much so that one might even think she had fallen asleep—when suddenly,

“Jō.”

she called,

“Yes.”

“It’s been long since you last massaged me.”

“Nearly twenty-some years.”
“When we were at the Hiroshima residence, I did occasionally tell you bedtime stories, though…”

“And even that back then—those were just your way of pestering me for money to fund your revelries.”
“Then you’d leave the residence and join your bad friends—spouting mad verses or whatnot—all laughing together at this old woman’s softness.”

“Ha ha ha.”
“Ah yes, that verse... ‘Mother’s a waste to trick, but easy to fool’—the one that appeared in Yanagidaru.”
“It was Teshima’s son who had been eavesdropping.”

“Mother’s a waste to trick, but easy to fool.… Indeed, such twisted scholarship isn’t found in Chinese studies.”

“It embodies the aspect Father could not comprehend.”

“I don’t know either.”

With that, Bai Shi fell silent for a moment, but—

“But when raising children—one must still become a stern disciplinarian like Father.”

“However, what has brought me to where I am today is not only Father’s rigorous education but also Mother’s indulgent love—limitlessly sweet and ever-forgiving.”

“Then I suppose this old woman must now hold both.”

“In this world, having no one to scold oneself—there is nothing as lonely as this.”
"It was something I felt the moment Father passed away—we humans may constantly whip ourselves, but by our own strength alone, we cannot awaken."
"In such moments, I find myself longing for that stern, severe countenance—wishing that fearsome Father’s power would strike me down and chastise me."

“……”

“Especially now, I stand at a crucial juncture.”
“The revisions to Japanese Chronicles—a work I’ve devoted over twenty years of my life to, staining my hands with ink and vermilion—are nearly complete enough to send forth into the world within a year or two. Yet Sanyo cannot die content with such trifling achievements.”
“Japanese Ballads, Political Records—the work of compiling histories could consume years beyond count.”
“The revolution in Chinese studies remains undone; my poetry undone; my calligraphy undone—Sanyo is a man of ‘not yet’ in all things.”
“A man poised at the crossroads between amounting to something or nothing henceforth.”
“Yet I find myself gasping.”
“Intoxicated by fame, dragged into indulgence, seeking solace for this exhaustion.”
“All while knowing full well its wrongness—I ruin my body.”
“Mother—scold me… as you did Kyūtarō of old. Scold me.”

“Jō… Jō…”

Bai Shi pressed her face into the pillow and cried.

“I must apologize to you.”
“I was, after all, just a mother.”
“This old woman cannot wield the strong hand of a father.”

“Mother, please do not concern yourself.”

“Ah, no… This is the first time I’ve said this, but it was this old woman who, from the moment I departed Hiroshima, journeyed to the capital intending to scold you.”
“I would scold you without mercy—hardening my heart—with this cane…”

Bai Shi sat up.
And then she placed the cane—the one she never let leave her side—before Sanyo.

×

In the castle town of Geishu, scholars and artists traveling to Kyushu or Hiroshima would often stop over, and since the land was Sanyo’s hometown, malicious slanders from those who resented him naturally spread.

There were those who said he was a money-grubber.
If you went to his house and alcohol was served, the snack was always salted salmon.
Yet he complained about the food’s simplicity, but when others treated him, he indulged in all-night revelry.
It was all so transparently obvious, wasn’t it?

And there were also those who slandered him thus.

As for Japanese Chronicles—that work was not yet complete, so it wasn’t the time to critique its contents, but its general outline could be surmised.
He had been skillfully promoting it even before publication, with no intention other than to profit.
He had even been currying favor with Matsudaira Rakuō, harboring ambitions of becoming a bakufu-appointed scholar.
Not only *Japanese Chronicles*—his poetry, his calligraphy—all were commodities.
At the entrance of Suisaisho, wasn’t it said that prices for half-size scrolls and folding screens were posted?

There were also those who mocked and presented their theories.

"Rather than that," they argued, "isn't the longstanding friendship between Sanyo and his female disciple, Ms. Ema Saiko, the real issue here?"

"Do you know?"
"There can be no one who doesn’t know."

Their relationship had begun over a decade ago—it was no recent affair—and though there was Riejo, his virtuous wife, and even two children between them, they still exchanged letters incessantly between Gifu and Kyoto. On occasion, that aging woman who fancied herself a poetess would go so far as to adorn herself in finery and openly visit Suisaisho to meet him.
Outside as well, weren't they using poetry gatherings and calligraphy meetings as pretexts to arrange their rendezvous?
At their worst, even in public, someone like Sanyo would go so far as to write showy, lovestruck inscriptions on Ms. Saiko’s clumsy ink bamboo paintings.

The pitiable one was the kind-hearted Riejo.
Sanyo acted composedly, wiping his mouth, but Ms. Saiko—with her beauty, her noble lineage, and her talents in poetry and painting—remaining unmarried even into her thirties was the clearest evidence of all.
After all, Sanyo had been a notorious libertine during his days as a dependent—such things were only to be expected; their absence would have been strange.

—Such rumors, such malicious slander.

Bai Shi was terribly worried.

Living as the chaste widow of Shunsui in a rural corner of Geishu, she could not comprehend the ways of the city, the complex tactics of social strife among adults, the jealousy between men that surpassed that over women, or their mutual enmity. Such wholehearted anxiety was not unreasonable. She stayed awake, ceaselessly worrying about her child in Kyoto.

One day.
――She, driven to desperation,

“Master Chasan, are you at home?”

Amidst autumn leaves and the setting sun of the village cottage, she visited Kan Chasan’s academy and requested a poem for the cane.

Kan Chazan heard Bai Shi’s worries,

“Most reasonable.”

he sympathized.

“Are those various rumors circulating in society truly grounded?”

“That man’s innate nature, it would seem.”

Kan Chasan tacitly affirmed.

Bai Shi’s eyes clouded,

“To bend his heart, I earnestly request a poem or song from you, my esteemed senior.”

And with that, she produced the aforementioned cane.

When asked for the reason, she explained that while the cane had never been used, it was the cherished cane of her late husband Shunsui.
And she explained that during this visit to the capital, she intended to strike Jō and admonish him in place of his father.

Kan Chasan was slightly perplexed.
Indeed, from Bai Shi’s perspective, she likely believed that Sanyo—having been her disciple at her academy, however briefly—would take a teacher’s admonishment to heart. But this was the same man who had even dismissed his own father Shunsui as a moralistic scholar and ridiculed Chasan himself.
He was not the sort of man to be moved by a mere admonitory poem of his own.

Having thought this,

“Ah no—in that case, rather than mine, there exists an excellent poem among your ladyship’s.”
“As for the carving—let Chasan handle that.”

And taking up a small knife, he carved the characters into the cane’s surface for her.

That was Bai Shi’s old work.

During the time when Sanyo was still called Kyūtarō and living as a dependent, after indulging in dissipation to his heart’s content and breaking the clan’s confinement to abscond, his mother Bai Shi had composed this poem amidst such anguish that her body wasted away and sleep eluded her at night—a poem that Chasan had remembered.

The poem read: Had I not thought to see—yet here I stand—only now on this night have I wept beneath the moon.

×

In mid-October, Bai Shi left Kyoto—a place that grew harder to part with the longer she stayed—and resolutely returned to Hiroshima.

The cane was given to Sanyo at that time.

“I have nothing else to scold you for—but Jō, do not overindulge in drink. It’s a bit too much for that body of yours,” she said as her parting words.

“Lord Ōshio Heihachirō has earnestly requested—through my acquaintance Lord Kondo Kijigorō—to meet with you on two separate occasions. What would you say to paying him a visit?”

Shinozaki Shōchiku came and said this.

After seeing Bai Shi off to Hiroshima, the year came to an end, and it was not long after that—in the New Year—that this occurred.

The meeting between Ōshio and Sanyo had long been a pending issue among their colleagues, anticipated to materialize someday.
Sanyo had also considered that a meeting might be acceptable.
No—rather, he even felt a desire to draw closer.
However, he found the idea of currying favor with his influence distasteful.
The bureaucratic hue of an Osaka magistrate; the number of disciples at Senshin Academy; the reputation as a leading authority of the Wang Yangming school.
These things always caused Sanyo to hold his head a little higher.

That day, as Shōchiku persistently urged,

“Very well, I shall attend.”

he replied.

Soon, a written notice arrived informing them of the meeting date.
When the consent was communicated in advance, Chūsai declared with great delight that he would await the day.

Moreover, there was one more matter added.

Who he had heard it from—Shōchiku wrote that it was likely from a Senshin Academy disciple or someone else. It seemed there was a cane that had been presented to Professor Rai by your esteemed mother some time ago. Given the recent heartwarming tales and particularly that it was a relic of the late Master Shunsui, Chūsai expressed his hope that you would kindly bring it on the day and allow him the honor of viewing it.

He consented, deeming it a simple matter.

Sanyo promptly sent his reply.

It was early February.

It was a fine morning, with hints of spring beginning to sprout in the water, the sunlight, and all things of the earth.

As promised, he boarded the Thirty-Koku Boat at Yodo with Bai Shi’s Cane.
As it was early spring, the boat was relatively crowded—at every landing place, groups of seven or eight passengers boarded and disembarked.
When they arrived at Tenma in Osaka and were about to go ashore, Sanyo noticed for the first time.

The cane was gone.
Even after all passengers had disembarked and every inch up to the straw matting of the floor mats had been swept through, the cane remained nowhere to be found.

As he had an appointed time, he hurried to Senshin Academy regardless.

At the Ōshio household, it seemed they had cleaned the entrance and waited for a single guest,

“Welcome.”

Chūsai himself came out to welcome him and led him to the study.

Kakunoshin came and offered his greetings.
Various disciples appeared.
Before long, food and drink were served, and the conversation turned to relaxed chatter.

Sanyo’s first impression of Chūsai was remarkably favorable.
Surprisingly, he found himself drawn to the absence of bureaucratic pretension.
In his words, a tone suggesting he wished to leave bureaucratic service in the near future could be detected.

“Now then—from our very first meeting—I find myself compelled to apologize for breaching our agreement—”

Seizing the moment, Sanyo brought up the matter of the cane.
And because the ivory head was fitted with a gold ring, he said it might have been stolen aboard the boat.

“What a shame—truly a shame.”

Chūsai repeatedly said,

“Upon hearing your account, your esteemed mother’s devotion is truly heartrending.”
“If you were to lose that cane of maternal love, even if I went to the trouble of inviting you, our conversation would lack depth.”
“I’ll have it sent for immediately. Until it arrives, let’s have another drink.”

“Come now, how about a little more?” he said, offering a cup.
Then, he summoned a constable, whispered something in his ear, and sent him away.
“As for the sake, I’ve selected Kenbishi—the one you prefer.”
“It suits my palate well enough,” I replied, “but I’ve resolved not to indulge too much of late.”
“You’re being modest,” he countered. “Your reputation as a heavy drinker is praised as openly as your poetry.”
From beside him, Kakunoshin also urged.

“No—I’m not holding back.”

Chūsai gracefully shifted his words, and the conversation ranged from one topic to another.

However, neither side broached the subjects of Yangming studies or historiography.

And before they knew it, just as the lamps were being lit.

“I apologize for the delay.”
“Would this be the lost cane?”

With that, the same constable crouched by the sliding door.

“Ah, you’ve done well.”
“Professor Rai, would that be the cane in question?”

Sanyo marveled inwardly at Ōshio’s influence.
Within just two hours, the stolen cane had returned before him without him having to move a muscle.

After declining the palanquin and walking five or six blocks from the Ōshio household’s gate, he came upon the shadow of a dimly lit estate wall—

“Master of Sanbonki! Professor of Sanbonki!”

There was a man who called out, mixing "Master" and "Professor" together.

Sanyo stopped and waited.

“I must apologize for causing you such undue concern earlier.”

A pale-complexioned man with a faint dimple removed his face covering and settled onto the end of his three-foot sash.

“You say ‘earlier,’ but I have no memory of it.”
“Who are you?”

“Today on the Thirty-Koku Boat, I was seated beside you—the petty thief, at your service.”

“Hmm… So you’re the one who stole the cane.”

“Yep, that’d be this lowly one.”

He grinned slyly.

“Then perhaps it was also you who followed my mother long ago when she came from Hiroshima on that chartered boat?”

“After that, I delivered some fresh sea bream and bass to Yao-naga. Did you deign to partake of them?”

“Was that also you?”

“That’d be this one.”

“Why did you do such mischief?”

“It’s a matter of pride among comrades. If you masters were to hear it, it’d sound like a trifling tale—but for folks like us living in that world, it’s a pride we can’t let go of.”

“How interesting.”

Sanyo, led by his curiosity—

“Were you waiting for me just to talk about that?”

“You must be joking—I’ve no such idle inclination.”
“Well now, Professor—there’s actually a written statement I’d like you to provide.”

“A poem?”

“Such things ain’t nothin’ but useless trinkets to petty thieves like us.”
“What I’m askin’ ya to write’s a written statement confirm’n the cane was proper stolen.”
“So how ’bout it? Will ya write it for me?”
“If ya don’t write it for me, I’ll just swipe that cane again from somewhere and take it with me.”

Sanyo gazed intently at the petty thief’s face but found himself thinking the man was oddly endearing.
Moreover, what he said was amusing.

“Very well, I’ll write it for you.”
“Explain why.”
“After all, I can’t have you stealing this cane again.”

He too spoke with frank informality.

“So here’s how it is, roughly speaking,”

And so the petty thief began his tale.

×

At Murotsu Port, five or six petty thieves lay sprawled across the sandy ground like dried sardines. When they spotted a refined old woman passing by, they placed a wager.

“Can that cane be stolen?”

It began when one of them said,

“We can steal it.”

“We can’t steal it.”

And so, a dispute broke out.

The one who insisted it couldn’t be stolen was a man who had honed his skills among petty thieves for over half his life. When they heard his explanation—based on observations—of how he concluded it couldn’t be stolen, they understood that cane was profoundly imbued with the old woman’s spirit. Moreover, features like the ivory and gold rings adorning it made it appear nothing like an ordinary cane.

Since it was likely something the old woman cherished more than her own life, he deemed it unstealable.

“Quit your bullshit! I’ll steal it for sure!”

The one who had insisted was a pale-complexioned petty thief from Sanuki named Shirōji,

“I’m off.”

He immediately followed after the old woman. That old woman was Bai Shi.

Shirōji failed.
Thinking that suddenly grabbing the cane would be unwise, he pretended to reach into Bai Shi’s bosom amid the bustle of the docks, but in truth attempted to steal the cane.

However, the moment his hand was caught, a single nanryō silver coin was pressed into his palm, and he was lightly released.

Soon his comrades surrounded the dumbfounded Shirōji,

“What’re you gonna do about the cane?”

They jeered.

The previous man, who had once taken great pride in his discerning eye,

“With your current skills, Shirōji, even if you spent a year, you’d never steal that cane.”
“Why? The old woman’s a far better actor than you.”

Thus, they shamed him.

“For sure?”

“Bring it here! I’ll stake my head on it!”

“Alright, give it your best shot.”

Shirōji then jumped into a ferry that was already about to cast off its moorings.
But try as he might, he couldn’t steal Bai Shi’s cane.

Reflecting on it, he realized she had once bestowed upon him two shu of nanryō silver without reason.

Now that it had become a matter of professional pride, he found receiving such money distasteful. On the day he arrived in Osaka, after confirming the match had been fixed, he wrapped it as a gift of fish and returned it.

Since then, he had followed Bai Shi wherever she went like a fly true to its name, yet never found an opening to steal that cane.

Shirōji’s stubborn pride gradually transformed into restless energy.
Before long, Bai Shi went to Hiroshima.
It was clear the cane had been left behind at the Sangi residence, but sneaking into that place would leave him unable to boast properly to his comrades.

He waited for an opportunity to steal it using the methods of a petty thief when he spotted Sanyo going out today carrying it.
And so he promptly carried out the job.
Contrary to expectations, he had achieved his heart's desire with surprising ease.

However, no sooner had he obtained it and walked through Osaka's streets for less than two hours than frightening eyes began to glare at him from every neighborhood watch post.

Having arrived at a certain suspicion, he immediately discarded the cane, stood outside the Ōshio residence where he had taken it, and waited for Sanyo to return.
And so Shirōji the petty thief laughed, finally venting his resentment.

“Heh.”
“Amusing world you scholars have.”
“Can’t even manage Yangming studies right—no room for jealous Master Dōka’s backbiting neither.”
“Raw as uncut timber.”
“Born in the Warring States era? Might’ve made decent material for this lowly one’s chronicles.”

“Regardless—write that down.”

“Plan to parade that paper before your gang?”

“Took half a year—no bragging rights there—but at least my face stays saved.”

“Very well, I shall write it for you.”
“There exists neither brush nor ink here.”

“Master—nay, Professor—if you’ll pardon the impertinence, might this one suffice?”

With that, Shirōji formed a circle with his fingers and pantomimed drinking,

“How about a quick one around here? Tonight—since I’ve finally achieved my goal and I’m just overjoyed—this lowly one will treat you.”

Sanyo felt like bursting out laughing.

“Come on, come on. I’ll take you there myself.”

And then they went to Shinmachi.

×

The faces and figures of heavily made-up women broke into fragments and swirled around.
Thick white powder, rouge, eyebrow ink, trailing obi, dance fans, drum skins.

Even the brocade-rimmed plates bore foods in garish hues, arranged to match the lurid atmosphere.
On the vermilion-lacquered candlesticks, one by one, indecent lights rose.

The shamisen’s drumhead throbbed painfully in his head.
Sake, sake, sake, sake.

Such lights and such melodies in Sanyo’s head hazily vanished and danced like crimson dust or greasy bubbles from a ditch.
But in reality, he lay alone in the grand hall—where those phenomena had vanished like vengeful spirits into eerie silence—covered with a Yuzen quilt, sleeping like a corpse.

The cold on his shoulders roused him from sleep.

And as he hazily retraced his painful, hungover consciousness, he dimly recalled how last night—after bringing the petty thief Shirōji into this house—the young poets of the Chaos Poetry Society had gathered in the adjacent room and ultimately formed one large group.
Who had he been with? Now that morning had come, it felt a bit embarrassing.

What had happened?

None of their faces were visible.
Shirōji was not there either.

The morning of shame tormented Sanyo not only with nausea and a headache but forced him to contemplate his meeting with Ōshio.

Why had he—after maintaining what he had upheld until now—bent his attitude yesterday and taken it upon himself to visit Ōshio’s gate?

If he had not held the idea of absorbing both Ōshio’s criticism and the assistance under his influence simultaneously with the publication following the completion of *Japanese Chronicles*, he would certainly not have made yesterday’s visit.

At the same time, the attitude with which the Ōshio father and son had welcomed him was by no means one of blank-paper goodwill.

There was something to this. When he thought about it later, even the matter of the cane had been a kind of demonstration. A stench of bureaucracy.

Sanyo felt his own foolishness cut to the bone.

With an unbearable springiness that made staying composed impossible, he flung off the quilt.

The night was beginning to break.

The patchwork-paneled shoji of the Genji-patterned quilted fusuma had taken on a faint whiteness against the konjac-gray hue.

He grabbed the water jar, poured about two bowlfuls into the bowl, and gulped it down.

“Ah, you’re awake?”

From the neighboring room, Shirōji stuck his neck out like a turtle.
“Ah!” he opened his eyes wide,

“You’re still here?”

“I wished to bid farewell with a word of thanks.”

“Gratitude?”

“Well, what with you writing that for me and me going to all that expense...”

“There’s no need for such formalities.”

“Ain’t never felt joy like this mornin’ in all my born days.”
“That you’re such a big shot—comin’ here hearin’ how them folks talk ’bout you, near knocked me sideways.”
“Plus with that bigwig’s writ in hand—gonna stuff it right in them mates’ faces—feel like I’m breathin’ crystal air.”
“Once day cracks proper, I’ll hitch up new sandals an’ make tracks for Murotsu.”
“You take care now.”

“Hmm. So you’ve completed one job at least.”

As Sanyo muttered this, the labor of *Japanese Chronicles* tormented him—its colossal manuscripts stained eighty to ninety percent with vermilion corrections, wearied even by the remaining sliver—restlessly, like childbirth throes.

Shirōji grinned,

“Why Professor, from this lowly one’s view, that’s a splendid job indeed.”
“Won’t pay a coin, but for the guys—it’ll be a tale told for generations, something that’ll give ’em real sway from here on.”

“Enough with the formalities. Go quickly.”

“Well then, I’ll be takin’ my leave.”

When he got up from bed, Shirōji had new straw sandals on his feet.

“Wait, wait, Shirōji.”

“What is it, Professor?”

“There’s the cane.”

“It’s right here, Professor.”
“Rest assured.”

“No—I didn’t doubt you.”
“I want you to take that cane and strike my entire body.”

“Huh? You’re telling me to hit you?”

“That’s right—hit me so hard it reaches the bone.”

“You must be joking, Professor.”

“I’m begging you—strike me.”
“With this cane, none but you can strike me.”
“My wife hasn’t the strength.”
“Friends would never strike me.”
“Those who go about slandering Sanyo won’t strike me.”
“Mother never struck me either.”
“Strike, Shirōji.”

“Is this truly alright?”

“Ah. Harder.”

“I’ll strike.”

Shirōji raised the cane and struck Sanyo’s shoulder as he sat with straightened knees.

Thwack—at his closed eyes that seemed to demand more, Shirōji’s hand involuntarily brought the cane down three, four, five times in rapid succession.

Suddenly standing up and seizing the cane as if snatching it, Sanyo left the house before Shirōji, did not stop by Shōchiku’s home in Osaka—which he always visited when coming to the city—and breathed in the vibrant morning air aboard the first boat at Yodo.

(Showa 5)