Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The morning fog began to thin.
Faint sunlight filtered through the Japanese pagoda tree in the garden.
The Master, smoking a rolled cigarette, gazed at the garden with the shoji screens wide open.
Beneath the Japanese pagoda tree, in the large water basin, water lilies floated their round leaves so densely that they left no gaps on the surface, and a single flower bloomed.
Rather than pale crimson, it was as if that pale crimson had dissolved into even finer particles, becoming a delicate flower that resembled a faint red scent.
The Master, entranced by the flower, gazed at it absentmindedly.

The Wife pushed open the garden gate and peered out.
The Wife was thirty-five or thirty-six years old—a tanned woman with a strong-jawed face and an air of sternness.

“Hey you, the young men from Oshima have brought the milker.”

Saying this, the Wife entered the garden.
The Master slowly turned his gaze toward her but immediately barked in a harsh voice:

“Don’t come into the garden in those sunny clogs—you’ll trample the rain-softened soil!”
“What a boorish creature! Here I keep telling you—”

The Master’s scolding overlapped with the Wife’s footsteps. He clicked his tongue and glared, yet she neither altered her expression at his reproach nor offered any defense.
She simply walked to the veranda with steps that seemed to float above the ground.

Although the clog marks had quite noticeably damaged the garden, the Master did not scold again.
The Master was a man who considered losing his temper over trivial matters due to his usual nervous sensitivity to be against his own interests.
Now, having left his scolding of the Wife unfinished, he suddenly felt he had triumphed over himself—forgetting both the water lilies and the garden’s damage—and turned a smile toward her.

The Wife called the maid, had her change from her sunny clogs to regular ones, and sat on the edge of the veranda. And then she ordered the maid to erase the clog marks.

The Wife, no matter how severely the Master might scold her on occasion, would generally neither get angry nor resist over ordinary matters. It was not entirely because she had grown accustomed to the Master’s scolding, nor was it out of fear of him. The Wife would intuitively judge whether the Master's scolding was well-founded or baseless, and when she deemed it baseless, she would never oppose him no matter what he said.

The Master did not hold his Wife in particularly high regard, but he greatly respected her in this particular aspect.

“You have a practical nature.”

he praised.
The Wife also smiled, and

“It’s not that I have a practical nature. Because I’ve resigned myself to loss from the start, it just appears as gain.”

In this world, there are plenty of women who—even when struck by their husbands over some trivial trigger—pay it no mind whatsoever and immediately engage in friendly conversation with them afterward; this may well be a unique characteristic of women.
The Master considered his Wife to be someone who had developed that trait with slightly greater finesse.

When he thought about it this way, he felt somewhat awkward about yelling at his wife over trivial matters. Therefore, recently, even when the Master scolded on certain occasions, he often refrained from following through to the end as he had today.

The milker was a man around fifty with a ruddy face and sturdy build who would only slightly nod his head vertically when meeting people and rarely spoke. So occasionally he would stare at people with large, mischievous eyes. He was a thoroughly unpleasant man—the sort that would have made most women turn their faces away in discomfort.

According to the young men who brought him, the milker was extremely skilled—when it came to waking up in the morning, as long as he were entrusted with a clock, there would be no deviation in time even over one or two years. The only issue was that his mental condition was not quite ordinary, which meant he had never been able to stay long in one place until now. However, if the Master could somewhat comprehend that disposition of his and employ him, he would make an absolutely splendid milker—there was no doubt this master here would surely know how to make good use of him. This was what the man himself had reportedly declared when presenting himself.

After the Wife finished relaying this entire account,

"I must say I don't find him very agreeable, but we simply can't manage without a milker. Let's try keeping him on for now."

she tacked on.
When the Master listened as well, this was Hanamae—a man about whom he had heard some rumors.
He was said to be an eccentric beyond control yet also pitiable—a milker who had drifted between dairy farms in the prefecture.
The Master thought for a moment and then,

“That’s the eccentric milker I’ve heard rumors about.”
“If he can wake up reliably and milk skillfully, why don’t we try using him?”
“If things don’t go well, we’ll handle that when the time comes. For now, let’s just try keeping him.”

The Wife agreed with her own reservations, and so it was decided to keep the milker.
At the cowshed, they had separated the parent cows and calves and taken them out to the exercise yard, so the parent cows and calves called out to each other and mooed.
The dairy cows, released outside for the first time in two or three days, excitedly darted about the exercise yard.

To the Wife’s eyes, preoccupied with the laundry, neither the moist charm of the rain-freshened garden nor the water lilies’ lovely blossoms registered as matters of concern.

“In that case, that’s settled.”

Leaving behind that one remark, the Wife went out through the gate once more.

II

The time for midday milking arrived.
The woman woke the young men.
The Wife came to give Hanamae a full set of instructions.
The other two youths began bringing the dairy cows back into the exercise yard.
The sound of cows stomping on wooden planks mixed with clattering noises could be heard.
The Master also went out to the cowshed.
The dairy cows each entered their stalls; one began cleaning while another began feeding.
The Master met Hanamae there for the first time.

Fifty years old yet lacking composure, Hanamae—utterly destitute—contrary to expectations of a disheveled appearance, had his hair cut short, his beard neatly trimmed, and wore trousers paired with a somewhat refined vest. He rolled up his white shirt to the elbows and donned a pure white coarse cotton apron—an efficient attire.

The Master found this first immensely pleasing.
Hanamae, to the Master as well, merely gave his usual slight bow.
Contrary to expectation, it was the Master who offered the friendly overture.

“Hanamae, I’ve caught wind of you now and then. You’ve come at an opportune time—I’ll be relying on you.”

Hanamae offered no verbal assent, acknowledging him only through his gaze.
The Master outlined the household’s customs and general procedures before decreeing, “I’m placing this scope of work in your hands.”

Hanamae set to work with what could only be called an auditory acknowledgment.
In one hand he held a milking bucket and stool; with the other he drew water for udder-washing and immediately began milking.
Hanamae too was there,

“Which ones should I milk?”
he asked the Master.

The Master pointed to this one and that one, counting them off one after another—there were over ten cows that produced milk. He then instructed that since the third black-and-white spotted cow from the west side would raise its leg, feed should be given beforehand and milking must be done. Under these instructions, Hanamae immediately began milking the first red cow. The Master found Hanamae’s milking posture remarkably agreeable.

He inserted his left leg up to the cow’s chest area, hooked his right leg into a bent position to cradle the bucket on his knee, and pressed his shoulder against the cow’s flank; neither his hands nor body moved as milk cascaded into the bucket like a waterfall. He milked over four shō in about five minutes. The milk he had squeezed was white as snow with its high-rising foam, free of even a speck of dust from the hair tips. The Master involuntarily praised it as splendid skill.

Having received the milk and begun straining it, the Wife too was astonished to find not a speck of dust atop the cloth,

“Indeed, Hanamae is skilled at milking,” she said, leaning toward the Master’s side to offer her praise.

Hanamae showed no reaction. He had never uttered a single word from the beginning. Appearing wholly detached from both Master and Wife, he turned his attention to the next black-and-white cow. The Master summoned Kanekichi and commanded him to feed this cow before milking commenced. Holding the milking bucket in his left hand, Hanamae stroked the dairy cow’s shoulder with his right while murmuring soft reassurances two or three times.

The dairy cow trembled its legs slightly but, upon receiving the feed, began eating single-mindedly.
Hanamae began milking with a somewhat guarded demeanor.
Fully understanding what to do, Hanamae milked the restless cow without any difficulty.
At the same moment he felt relieved, the Master found himself scrutinizing Hanamae’s countenance and demeanor, unable to suppress a peculiar emotion.

Hanamae, resolute as if he held some unshakable conviction, had indeed attained divine mastery in his craft.
However, when he considered that not only was Hanamae being employed by others but that even he himself as Master could not maintain a composed position as an employer, he could not help but perceive a great contradiction therein.

From what he could see, Hanamae had reached a point where he hardly needed to speak; beyond acting exactly as he thought fit, he seemed to have nothing left to consider. When he considered this, our ordinary lives consisted of nothing but prioritizing expediency, making him feel somewhat ashamed before Hanamae.

If anything, Hanamae appeared so thoroughly disgusted by the sheer scale of human deceit that he scarcely deigned to acknowledge the world—it seemed he might even have come to despise himself in his heart of hearts. And yet, entrusting his fifty-year-old self to others while being utterly incapable of interacting with people, he seemed a truly pitiable soul in this world.

While the Master fell into delusion and stood idly by, Hanamae steadily milked two or three cows one after another.
He carried out his duties with resolute determination.
While Hanamae was undoubtedly a pitiable human being in one respect, the Master, whenever he looked upon Hanamae and reflected on himself, found himself unable to suppress the shame of his own spiritual hand-to-mouth existence—a life devoid of conviction.

“Master, the dung’s splashing! Could you please step over here a bit?”

Kanekichi, having already finished feeding, set about cleaning the manure-covered planks. He applied force to the stable broom and swept the filth—a mixture of excrement and urine—downward step by step.

“The water’s boiled, so stir the bran, Kanekichi.”

At the Wife’s call from the washing area, Kanekichi set down his broom and ran over.
Gorō scattered fodder all at once to the dairy cows.
Seventeen or eighteen dairy cows burst into commotion, vying to eat the grass all at once.
Even amidst this, Hanamae did not relax the intensity of his actions in the slightest.
Before long, the Master left the cowshed because there was a guest in the back rooms.

III

During that evening’s dinner, the Wife began voicing her complaints.

“Now listen here—we’d heard he wasn’t ordinary, but this goes beyond ordinary! Even when you speak to him as Master, he acts like he doesn’t want to reply at all. What are we to make of that?”

“Hmm, we took him in knowing he’s an eccentric—it’s too soon to start complaining now. We won’t know a thing unless we try using him for ten or twenty days.”

“That may be so, but...”

“Ah well, if we can just figure out the nature of the eccentric, there ought to be a way to put him to use according to his own eccentric ways.”

With that, the conversation came to an end, but the Master found himself growing interested in contemplating this Hanamae. That night too, he pondered various things.

He could not have been an eccentric from the very beginning. For him to have ended up like that, he must have had an arduous history. If one could understand that, they might take even deeper interest in his present condition—but since it could not be known, even just from today’s observation alone, he remained an intriguing eccentric. Upon observing his complexion and demeanor, it was clear that he had not been a mad fool from the start.

He acted as if he possessed conviction in his actions, yet the very foundation of that conviction was hollow—this constituted the reason he was an eccentric. However, whether he held any conscious awareness of this conviction was another matter; it stood to reason that one who lacked awareness of conviction should not perceive its hollowness. He most likely had no conscious awareness of what constituted conviction. Even without conviction or awareness, his actual actions proceeded resolutely with a tense spirit. The extent and scope of their coherence and unity would not become clear unless observed a while longer, but at least some degree of coherence and unity could be sufficiently recognized. What a strange eccentric he was.

To those who had nothing exceptional about them, such people were indeed more interesting.
Among those who harmonized too well with others, there were no decent people—yet it was strange how those very indecent ones tended to be the happiest in this world.

Comparing myself with Hanamae created an interesting contrast.
We discerned between major and minor problems and were always glossing over the trivial ones, but Hanamae had no concept of such distinctions from the outset and could not compromise on anything whatsoever.
Therefore, while we were always ambiguous about our immediate surroundings—left, right, front, and back—there was some coherence and unity in the distant past and future, as well as the broader environment.
When it came to Hanamae, that became the opposite: the immediate left, right, front, and back were always clear, while the distant past and future and broad surroundings were plunged into utter darkness.

Admittedly, this manner of differentiation might appear somewhat discriminatory, but maintaining ambiguity in one’s immediate surroundings could hardly be considered something to take pride in when navigating the world. Ultimately, the Master concluded there was much to learn from Hanamae.

It was the next morning.

The Wife entered the Master’s living room, carrying a long pipe on a tobacco tray.

“Does Hanamae have a guarantor? From what the young men from Ōshima say—that he has no relatives or family and is all alone—he might not have one.”

“Hmm.”

“Since it doesn’t involve money, that’s one thing—but if he were to fall ill, wouldn’t that pose a problem?”

“Well now, there’s no such thing as him having a guarantor... In that case, let’s have Hanamae summoned.”

The Wife ordered the maid to summon Hanamae.
Before long, he sat down outside the sliding door, neatly dressed in trousers and a vest.
As usual, he gave a slight silent bow and, true to form, remained wordless while looking elsewhere.
Hanamae’s complexion showed neither unease nor reassurance.
The Master unintentionally softened his expression and spoke lightly,

“Hanamae, do you have a guarantor?”

“There isn’t.”

Hanamae answered resolutely without hesitation and remained unperturbed.
Even the Master, who was accustomed to leaving conversations unresolved, found himself at a loss upon hearing this simple “There isn’t.”
If it were someone normal, he would undoubtedly retort immediately with “Then what do you intend to do?”—but since Hanamae was recognized as an eccentric, saying that to him would be futile, so
“Hmm, I see.”

Having said that, he remained silent for a while.
The Wife, with an air of impatience,
“You’ve been in Tokyo for quite a long time—have you no close acquaintances?”

Hanamae turned his eyes slightly toward the Wife, but his lips did not move.
This was because the Wife’s question was ill-conceived.
Someone who had lived as an eccentric through and through would hardly be likely to have close acquaintances.
The Master, having no choice,

“Ah well—let’s leave that matter for later. Come now, Hanamae.”

“If having no guarantor makes it impossible, I will leave.”
“No—if you leave, that would be a problem. Stay and work here, Hanamae. Here’s what we’ll do—I’ll become your guarantor. So keep working here.”

The Wife blinked rapidly and looked at the Master’s face.

The Master silenced the Wife with a look.
In the kitchen, the child began crying, so the Wife left.
Hanamae too started to rise but then resumed his seat,

“Since I was born in this country, becoming its burden is simply unavoidable.”

The Master looked down fixedly at Hanamae.
Indeed, he thought, Hanamae possessed some kind of belief.
With even greater composure,

“Exactly—now I understand your spirit. So I’ll be your guarantor. Work here without worry. There’s still time before midday milking—take some rest.”

Having been told this, Hanamae stood up without a word in response.
It seemed Hanamae’s situation was not due to a lack of potential guarantors.
It appeared he believed that when someone like him could no longer work, it should be the state rather than individuals that ought to take care of him.
If that were so, then his line of reasoning held together, the Master thought.
The Master watched his retreating figure and found this eccentric growing ever more intriguing.

Four

Five or six days had passed since then.
Hanamae’s manner of working differed scarcely at all from a waterwheel’s rotation.
Whether in temporal sequence or work progression, it was entirely mechanical.
He performed not a single unnecessary action, yet showed not the slightest laxity in required tasks.
The Wife felt somewhat reassured and finally concluded he was an exceptional milker.

However, Hanamae’s reputation arose vigorously from both the young workers and the kitchen staff.
Hanamae had never once spoken to his two colleagues up to now.
He rose precisely on time without a minute’s discrepancy yet never roused his colleagues.
And so he still had never once laughed.
Therefore, whatever people did, he showed not the slightest concern.
He would do only his own tasks and briskly finish up.

That said, if someone were to ask Mr. Hanamae to do this or that, he wouldn’t oppose it.
He was extremely fastidious about his own body, washing things like shirts and aprons every day.
The Master laughed and said that if those were the only issues, then it was perfectly fine.

The kitchen gossip was also amusing.
The maid first declared that Mr. Hanamae was a great man.
She said it was pitiful how people mocked him as an eccentric.
If no one told him it was mealtime, he never came to eat.

A day or two before, when the maid had carelessly forgotten to call him, he ended up not coming to eat.
The young workers, thinking the matter settled, apparently did not invite him.
When the maid belatedly noticed this late at night and went to check, she found he still had not eaten—after which he came to have his meal.

The maid regretted having done something thoughtless. Hanamae’s meals were also waterwheel-like, always following the same sequence. He would always wash the rice and soup bowls he had designated for himself in order before eating his meal. He carefully kept a white cloth and ivory chopsticks, never allowing anyone else to lay hands on them. Everyone was astonished by the ivory chopsticks. They were made of slightly flattened ivory of the finest quality, adorned with gold maki-e lacquer work. The Wife remarked that she had never seen such a thing. According to the maid’s account, when she remarked, "Mr. Hanamae, your chopsticks are truly splendid—they seem like they must have some story behind them," he reportedly gave a faint smile.

The maid laughed, saying that to make Mr. Hanamae smile, one only needed to praise his chopsticks.

However, even labeling him an eccentric, Hanamae's impeccably proper countenance prevented the Wife and children from even playfully inquiring about the chopsticks.
For reasons unclear, the Wife still regarded Hanamae solely as eerie and appeared incapable of mustering any pity toward him.

The Master, compiling these accounts, found himself unable to ward off a cruel and tragic impression taking root in his mind.
Undoubtedly a mentally ill man—yet Hanamae proved no human detritus through his complete mastery of dairy cattle matters; not only did this pose scant inconvenience, but in certain aspects he achieved what ordinary people could not.
Recalling that earlier statement—"being a person born in this country"—might he not hold some perspective on worldly affairs?
If he indeed maintained such philosophical views while enduring his present circumstances, then his fate grew all the more pitiable.

Thus thinking, the Master would occasionally invite him to the inner room to offer tea and sweets, attempting various conversations—yet he could find no resonance in the man’s heart.
No matter what was asked of him, he would only respond with a curt “Hah” and never continue with any words.
The Master exhausted every means to draw out some thread of conversation from phrases like “being a person born in this country,” but his attempts always ended in failure.
Even when facing the Master, he would stand up without delay.

When he tried speaking to him about those ivory chopsticks on one occasion, just as the maid had said, he moved a faint smile across his sturdy face.
However, this too ended with just a laugh; he said nothing more beyond that.
The surrounding darkness remained unchanged.

In this way, Hanamae remained absolutely incapable of interacting with others, yet those around him gradually came to accept the eccentric. Accustomed to his peculiarities, they managed an interaction without true engagement—like wrapping a stone in cotton.

Thus, several months passed without incident.

Five

In interactions with people, even the emotionless Hanamae would strangely take good care of the cows.
Whether he cherished them out of love or tended to them out of habitual routine remained somewhat unclear—in any case, his care for them was no ordinary matter.
Moreover, his work being both systematic and skilled meant that within two months of his arrival, not only had the cowshed taken on a completely transformed appearance but also—with the Master having now fully digested his eccentric nature—everything proceeded with smooth convenience.

The motion of a waterwheel proceeds with utmost smoothness during uneventful ordinary times, but if even the slightest thing touches its rotating wheel, a minor malfunction will disrupt its entire operation.

The Master finished reading and took exercise in the garden.
The autumn grasses had completely decayed, leaving only a few Chinese bellflowers and wild chrysanthemums remaining.
He stood still for a while, letting the cold air cool his heated head.
As he contemplated the remaining plants and flowers—weathered and withered by dew and frost—an inexpressible pathos welled up within him, and the Master found himself growing inexplicably sad.

At times like these, he was strangely prone to startle at things; the Master pricked up his ears and caught the sound of rough shouting coming from the cowshed.
Soon the Wife also showed her face at the gate and told him to come.
When he went to see, Kanekichi and Gorō were just dragging Hanamae out of the cowshed, the two of them working together.

Hanamae kept trying to shake the two off.
The two desperately grasped each of Hanamae’s hands and would not let go.
The two finally dragged Hanamae before the Master and lodged their complaint.
Kanekichi:

“I was hit by this lunatic! Even if I tried to hit back, there’s no way I could take this guy on alone without Gorō-san holding him down… I can’t stand being around this madman any longer—I’m quitting.”

“I struck him because this youngster hit the cow.”

“I didn’t hit the cow…”

The Master restrained the two with a quiet “Now, now.”

In these lonely days of autumn’s passing, it was a quarrel between a reckless youth and a lunatic.
The Master shuddered involuntarily.
Hanamae remained composed,

"There is no justification for striking cows."

After declaring this emphatically, he did not open his mouth again.
The two kept getting beaten by that lunatic and whatnot, so they screamed they couldn’t stand it any longer.

To summarize the incident: When Kanekichi tried to pass behind the urine board, a cow had stepped back and stood blocking his path; unable to get through, he merely gave its hindquarters a light slap with his open hand. Hanamae, who took meticulous care of the cows, apparently became enraged at what he perceived as Kanekichi roughly striking the animal.
Then, true to his silent nature, he suddenly punched Kanekichi from behind.

Since Kanekichi couldn't match Hanamae in physical strength, he asked Gorō for assistance.
It might indeed have been Kanekichi who struck the cow, but their account remained unchanged.
Losing both workers at once would cause problems—so the Master led them into the garden.

“Right… Since he’s a lunatic, bear with him for my sake—I’ll pay compensation. Though mad, Hanamae’s misunderstanding comes from caring for the cows—there’s something pitiable there. So I’ll apologize. Why don’t you two stick together from now on and leave him alone? Have a drink on this and endure—agreed?”

When told by the Master that he would apologize on their behalf, neither Kanekichi nor Gorō could voice any objections.
With a single coin for sake, they nonchalantly regained their good humor.
The waterwheel’s rotation continued without needing to be stopped.
If one was engaged in their livelihood, the Master deeply felt the absurdity of being startled by trivial matters.
The Wife also came out,

“I was truly startled—those shrill voices were unbearable! I thought the lunatic had done something dreadful… Oh, so that’s what happened? Well, thank goodness. Still, Hanamae gives me such an uneasy feeling…”

The Master dismissed his wife’s words,

“Since we understand Hanamae’s madness, there’s nothing unsettling about it. This time, it’s impossible to tell who’s right or wrong. Since he’s a milker who cares for the cows, even if he’s mistaken, you can’t hate him for it.”

The Wife,

“I suppose that’s true, but…”

Although she still couldn’t fully accept it, the Master said,

“Even though he puts on such grand airs, doesn’t he look pitiful with his backside showing? Have some compassion for him.”

After the Wife had left, the Master thought it strange that Hanamae—who never displayed any emotion—had gotten angry, though he couldn’t discern the reason.

The maid who had first made Hanamae laugh—persistent in her meddling—insisted he must talk about the ivory chopsticks, kindly making conversation and attempting to draw him out, but all she managed was to elicit a thin smile; beyond that, nothing came of it.
The maid laughed that she’d already exhausted her efforts.

Thus, as the waterwheel rotated ever more smoothly, an unexpected farce brought laughter to the household, and even Hanamae—stolid as stone—gradually settled into life at this home.

One day came when the Master was absent from home.

An inspector from the Metropolitan Police Department suddenly arrived to inspect the cowshed.
He abruptly drove his carriage before the cowshed and barked with extreme authority, "Is the Master here?"

Kanekichi and Gorō were washing utensils.
Hanamae appeared before the Inspector with his usual resolute manner.
Naturally assuming him to be the Master, the inspector began discussing the matter with some courtesy.

Hanamae only occasionally moved his head without speaking a single word.
The Inspector grew intensely furious and issued several more imperious orders, but true to form, Hanamae remained coldly unresponsive.
In his rage, the inspector completely failed to grasp Hanamae's essential nature.
Unable to endure further, he declared they couldn't converse there and moved toward the entrance.
He appeared determined to formally reprimand this discourtesy.

At the entrance, the Wife came out, politely informed him of the Master’s absence, and offered a tobacco tray and such. The Inspector, upon learning there what made Hanamae who he was, became greatly embarrassed, and with his face twisting into a scowl, fled away. That night, after the Master returned home, the entire household broke into such uproarious laughter they nearly collapsed. Kanekichi and Gorō took turns mimicking the Inspector’s and Hanamae’s mannerisms to everyone’s amusement. The Wife’s unease toward Hanamae vanished completely from that moment onward.

Six

The year ended and spring came, summer came and then autumn arrived.
Hanamae had already spent a full year there.
Throughout this time, no changes whatsoever could be observed in Hanamae’s personal circumstances.
In the Master’s contemplative mind—like Hanamae—there existed no continuity between yesterday and today, let alone between today and tomorrow.
Moreover, there was no such thing as the meaning of time spans like a year or a month; his was a life where he worked not to live but because he was alive—no concept of time beyond today, no notion of life beyond himself.
No—he wasn’t even conscious of today or himself.

Considering this, he had no concept of obligations or responsibilities, nor any constraint, worry, or anxiety.
Just as demons do not dwell in bright places, in a life like Hanamae’s there was no room for falsehood or sin to take root.
Was that what they called complete enlightenment?
Was that what they meant by absolute peace of mind?
There was a story of a chancellor who resigned to devote himself to creating gardens for others; Hanamae evoked a comparable impression.

The Master once again thought as follows.
When I look back and examine my own life, I find myself truly a pitiful prisoner of constraints.
Whenever I move my hand or foot even slightly, I must consider the consequences.
Whenever I speak even casually, I must watch people’s expressions.
Dependents cling to me from all sides.
In everything I do, I cannot act based solely on my own standards.
Since I am ultimately a component of the social structure, I am never permitted to act entirely alone under any circumstances.

So in the end, I have to keep doing half-hearted things and keep making stopgap statements. This is because if one were to seriously and honestly consider obligations and responsibilities, there would literally be no place for a human to stand. It’s no different from having one’s hands and feet bound and being placed underwater. To escape these painful bonds and act with even slight autonomy, one must become a criminal excluded from human society. The more we think about it, the more absurd it seems—yet this inability to change anything defines our living condition.

The more I thought this way, the less I could comprehend how much I truly surpassed Hanamae. Rather, I’ve come to want to try living like Hanamae, even just once. In short, the problem lies in being too strongly conscious of myself. Being too strongly conscious of myself makes the world constricting. The Master had concocted this conclusion, but it immediately grew fuzzy afterward. No matter how I consider the distinction between myself and Hanamae, it can only come down to the presence or absence of consciousness. If having no self-consciousness would allow me to become Hanamae as I am now, then Hanamae is by no means someone to envy.

The difference between complete enlightenment and Hanamae was that of existence and non-existence.
Hanamae was the form of complete enlightenment but not its heart.
The Master had finally reached a conclusion.
Despite having reached this conclusion, when he tried to consider how much value his own life held, he still found himself unable to comprehend it.
Hanamae and complete enlightenment were two sides of the same coin, but between himself and complete enlightenment, there seemed to be a gap as vast as that between Chiba and Tokyo.

The garden, having escaped flood damage for the past year or two, now had autumn grasses growing more abundantly than the previous year.
It seemed there was still some time before the flowers would reach their peak.
The Master took his morning stroll in the cool of the garden once again.
Looking at the water lilies, he recalled that Hanamae had also arrived in autumn last year.
On this day, the Master heard unexpected news concerning Hanamae from his Wife.

Hanamae had carried Tamiko and walked about for a while this morning.
The story went that the Wife—and naturally the young workers down to the maids—had all at once found it strange.
That was indeed undoubtedly strange.
For Hanamae up to now, holding a child was something that had to be called an utterly unprecedented event.

According to the maid’s account, Ta-chan had apparently been going to Hanamae’s place from time to time even before this, calling out “Hanamae, Hanamae,” and Hanamae too had seemed to eat the snacks she brought.
The Master listened to this story with immense interest.
He could not help but think that some kind of change would now occur in Hanamae.

Afterward, when I myself paid attention and also listened to what the household members were saying, I noticed that Hanamae would always hold Ta-chan at least once each time.
Ta-chan too went to his room to play, calling out “Hanamae, Hanamae” more and more frequently.
Hanamae had finally begun buying sweets himself to give to Tamiko.
At times, he would give a lonely smile and call out to Ta-chan once.
When he thought this and observed, Hanamae’s resolute expression seemed to have softened somewhat lately.
According to the young workers, it seemed Hanamae’s vigor had declined of late.
Nevertheless, there was still not the slightest change in those waterwheel-like movements of his.

And so about a month passed with Hanamae's new tendencies showing no significant development, and autumn finally grew cooler.

Seven

A person claiming to be Hanamae's friend suddenly visited, and Hanamae's background finally became clear.

The person claiming to be his friend was a gentleman around forty-five or forty-six years old, dressed in Western attire and bearing a business card that identified him as a certain Andō, a director of some company.
The Master courteously invited him into the inner room and both inquired about and discussed Hanamae’s personal circumstances.

When Andō began speaking, he first noted that Hanamae, whom he had met a year ago and today, had changed considerably.
"I have been close with Hanamae since my teens and received no small measure of his care, but I too have devoted myself to him far beyond what was ordinary.
When he fell into his current circumstances, while there was no one to visit and console him, I alone continued to visit him."

“When I met him last year, he was lying in a cowshed somewhere—just muttered ‘Andō?’ without even getting up. But today when he unexpectedly saw me, he stood up looking pleased and said I’d come. To be honest, I’d given up on Hanamae as beyond help, but seeing him today, his mental state had indeed improved somewhat.” He then asked whether Hanamae had been like this since coming to the house or when exactly his condition had begun to improve. Andō was Hanamae’s true friend.

The Master described Hanamae’s recent changes exactly as they were, then noted that there might perhaps be unexpected recovery in the future.
Mr. Andō naturally spoke of his determination to immediately take him in and attempt treatment if there was any prospect, then proceeded to recount Hanamae’s unfortunate circumstances from ten years prior.

Hanamae had been running a mid-sized dairy business in a certain part of Azabu.
He was a passionate livestock enthusiast held in high regard and esteemed among his peers.
His family consisted of a mother, three children, and the couple, making six in total; his wife had been the daughter of a fellow dairy farmer and Hanamae’s beloved spouse.
He owned some land and property, and the family of six had lived a rich and joyful life.

Even before that time, Andō had been receiving support covering even his school fees from Hanamae, who maintained a friendship with him as his closest companion. But in the spring of Andō’s second year at his current company, his mother passed away, and after that, Hanamae’s household was beset by unceasing misfortunes.

During that autumn’s cholera outbreak, all five family members contracted cholera.
In the end, his wife and three children died within about a month, while Hanamae remained hospitalized, scarcely aware of their passing.

Under such circumstances, running the business was out of the question.
I worked diligently and finally managed to transfer the business to someone else.
Since Hanamae had been in the hospital for over two months—they couldn’t keep silent forever—when they told him everything,

“What use is leaving behind one fragment of complete destruction? I who remain am tormented, the society left behind must be tormented too—do something with this single fragment! I absolutely won’t leave this hospital!” he screamed and wept, but when life persists even where death is desired, Hanamae was driven out of the hospital as if pursued.
Even if he left the hospital, there was no home to return to.
There was no one waiting.
Although Andō took him to his own home, there was no way to provide consolation.
Hanamae would sometimes act without regard for those around him,

“It’s all wasted effort anyway.”

He shouted.

Andō, unable to manage him, took him to Yugawara regardless.
And then I too stayed with him for a month and comforted him.
I tried to lead him into religion, but as he had a somewhat logical mind, he simply could not embrace faith.
Precisely because the time before destruction had been rich in warmth and joy beyond the ordinary, the misery that followed was all the more profound.

When I could no longer stay with him indefinitely and returned to the capital, Hanamae remained in that house for a full year and a half.
He had spent all the assets he possessed and returned to Andō’s house with nothing but the train fare for his journey back to the capital.
At that time, he had indeed shown signs of mental disturbance.
With nothing left to say, Hanamae did not speak.

After that, he left Andō’s house without permission and worked as a milker at a household he had previously been associated with.
When they finally found him and went to visit, he would be gone before they knew it.
When they found him again and went to visit, he would disappear again.
At each dairy farm he went to, he was abused and seemed to grow increasingly disturbed.
Declaring it truly pitiable—that there could hardly be a tragedy more profound than this—Andō concluded his lengthy account and sighed deeply.

The Master also expressed sympathy to the utmost of his words.
The kind Mr. Andō, at any rate, declared that if there was even the slightest prospect of treatment, he could not bear to wait another day, and took his leave.

Three days after Andō had left, he prepared a car and came himself to pick him up.
Hanamae did not refuse Andō's request.
When it finally came time to leave the house, he gave a somewhat formal greeting to the Master as well and expressed gratitude for the kindness shown to him.
When he went out to the kitchen and silently picked up Ta-chan, all the members of the household had moist eyes.
After Hanamae left, the maid too wiped her tears, having wanted to ask about those chopsticks but finding herself unable to out of a certain unnameable pity.

About ten days later, the Master took Hanamae to Aoyama Mental Hospital.
Hanamae was very pleased.
According to reports, his mental state seemed increasingly better, but in inverse proportion to that, his body appeared extremely exhausted.

About twenty days later, Mr. Andō notified them that Hanamae had died.