山路愛山 Yamaji Aizan

This short story was published in serial form in the Kokumin shimbun from February 28 until 21 of April 1895.

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Chapter One: Local Teachers

Beautiful writing does not consist merely of constructing castles in the air, founded upon things that never existed. Even if one writes about things exactly as they happened, if there is something beautiful in them, something sorrowful, or something that stirs the human heart, that alone is sufficient to make them worth reading. I have received the gift of life as a human being and have come to understand something of its vicissitudes. Among the events that have passed before my eyes and disappeared, like clouds and mist, only to be followed by others, surely there must be some worthy of being recorded and communicated to others.

The scenery before our eyes is already a picture. The words spoken in ordinary conversation are already poetry. Come, then, let me arrange the new and old events preserved in my memory and offer them to the appreciation of my readers. The sorrowful and tragic circumstances of the impoverished former warriors surrounded me throughout my childhood.

The older among them, contrasting their present unhappy circumstances with the pleasures of their former lives, could not help but become filled with nostalgia for the past. The men in their prime, driven by circumstances that pursued them relentlessly from behind like a ferocious tiger, were forced to soften the pride and dignity inherited from their ancestors, to suppress their own lofty and noble spirit, and to bow before the officials of the prefecture, many of whom were samurai from Kagoshima Prefecture who had newly assumed authority over them. Only the young people, although materially impoverished, remained spiritually rich. Although they possessed nothing, they had great hopes. Pure, innocent, untainted, and joyfully welcoming the new age that was about to arrive, or was already beginning to unfold, only the young were able to sing in harmony with the coming times.

Like fresh shoots growing beside the fallen trunk of a great tree, they regarded themselves as the sole elements capable of creating a ‘New Shizuoka’ and a ‘Shizuoka Prefecture worthy of its former dignity’.

Some ten or more years ago, Shizuoka was rich in distinguished local teachers. They were either old retainers of the Shōheizaka Academy, or scholars belonging to the direct intellectual lineage of Edo.

My first teacher, Professor Yamamoto Ungun, for example, was a calligrapher who had presented a copybook to Lord Tokugawa Iesato, the former lord of our domain. He was also well versed in the Confucian classics and history, and skilled in poetry and prose. I remember this elderly teacher as a man who, despite his humble circumstances, made no attempt to embellish his appearance or manners. Whether at school or at home, he was always open-hearted and ready to converse with his pupils.

My second teacher, Professor Okumura Ōson, had been a Confucian official of the Tokugawa shogunate. Among the little-known anecdotes preserved in his biography is the story that he accompanied the American diplomatic mission together with the head of the Hayashi family. I cannot forget the appearance of this teacher, who, when drinking sake, would turn red in the face and recite poetry in a low voice, then laugh aloud. He was an uninhibited, easy-going Edo gentleman.

Professor Nemun possessed an intuitive ability to see deeply into people and things. When he embraced me, he did so with extraordinary strength; when he scolded me, his eyes were filled with tears. When teaching me how to punctuate and read classical texts, he would himself wipe the sweat from his forehead. He was a man who extended his sense of conscientiousness and sincerity to every gesture and every step. Indeed, even his enemies could not help but feel his kindness. He was a passionate man, always excited and always in motion. He was proactive and fiery in temperament. He knew how to grieve, how to become angry, and even how to scold and abuse others.

Professor Ōson, by contrast, was what the world would call a thoroughly good-natured man. When receiving something from someone, whether it was good or bad, he accepted it with equal gratitude and never thought to refuse it. And when giving something to others, he made no distinction between what was good and what was not, but gave freely. At the time when diplomatic relations with foreign countries first began, he had probably been a man of passionate patriotic indignation. But by now he had become a person of profound understanding, calmly enjoying the changes of the world, without resentment, hatred, fixed opinions or attachments.

Just as Professor Nemun’s kindness moved people deeply, so too was Professor Ōson’s generosity something that even I could not help but admire. Professor Nemun’s temperament sometimes caused ordinary people to dislike him, but no one could find fault with Teacher Professor Ōson’s broad-mindedness or speak ill of him behind his back.

I am truly grateful to this teacher. For when I was poor and had few books, and when, being a mischievous boy, I frequently damaged the books I possessed, he alone understood my circumstances and opened his entire library to me, allowing me to borrow whatever I needed. Indeed, only Professor Ōson did this.

Apart from these teachers, I also heard the names of the following distinguished scholars: the elderly Professor Hasebe of Oshika village; Professor Hada Masami of Andō village; Professor Taniguchi Kensai of Kutsunoya village; Professor Kubo [given name unclear] of Nakahara village; Professor Serizawa Sen of Takujō-chōl and Professor Urano of Kusabuka-chō.

However, since I did not personally attend the schools of these teachers or visit their homes, I cannot now describe their personalities or characters.

I can say, however, that Professor Taniguchi Kensai was one of the so-called ‘deserters’, the group of former shogunate supporters who fought in Hokkaido alongside Enomoto Takeaki and others. He was therefore not merely a Confucian scholar who devoted himself to the classics. His reputation extended far throughout the country, and his school attracted talented young men from neighbouring provinces, so that it quietly came to exercise supremacy in the literary world of the local region.

As for the elderly Professor Hasebe, he was someone whom our Professpr Ōson greatly respected. I can say that he was very strict in his scholarly judgements and that he did not allow his pupils to read the writings of Rai San’yō.

Thus, Shizuoka, which was so rich in distinguished local teachers, was a place where young people came into contact with the vitality embodied in these scholars. Inspired by their energetic spirit and ambition, they forgot that they were the children of the generals of a defeated army and forgot that they belonged to a country that had been forced to surrender. They devoted themselves wholeheartedly to their studies, looking forward with pleasure to the future. There is perhaps no better expression for their condition than the single phrase: “How touching and pitiable they were!” (28 February)

2. To Forsake One’s Principles for a Petty Reward

A branch that bears flowers for the first time must surely know nothing of the sorrow of falling crimson and purple blossoms. A branch that first bursts into bloom, bending its joints like a humble labourer, must surely be spared the sorrow of fleeting crimson and purple hues. To come into being is to face eventual ruin; to flourish is to face eventual withering; to advance is to face eventual setback. Raised by venerable scholars in the direct lineage of Edo Confucianism and nurtured in health amidst the changing seasonal vistas, the cherry blossoms of Mt. Kiyomizu, the lotus flowers of Shokinuma, and the north winds known as the ‘Fujioroshi’ that carried their kites aloft, the youths of our town could not, as the years advanced, escape having their young lives bound to the joys and sorrows of human existence. The despondency felt when their families were uprooted from Edo, a time that seemed like a dream, had often caused their fathers and brothers to grit their teeth in bitter frustration; yet, because this fate lay beyond the youths’ own awareness, they were able to find happiness.

The poverty of their fathers and elder brothers had made them keenly aware of the biting cold and hunger of destitution from an early age; yet, for those who shared half their lives within a realm of illusion and fantasy, the suffering did not feel quite so acute. Eventually, however, their fathers and brothers lost the meagre capital, sustained only through the inept ‘merchant ways of the former warrior class’, upon which they had barely scraped by, and they grew old. They aged not merely in body, but in spirit as well. The innocent youths were compelled to step forward and confront the realities of life in place of their elders. That poor boy from Shizuoka was thrust from the world of fantasy into the realm of reality all too soon.

To be honest, whenever the term ‘Kyushu man’ reaches my ears, I cannot help but feel a certain sense of melancholy. A son of a Tokugawa warrior being born into a Tokugawa warrior household is much like a ‘Kyushu man’ being born into a ‘Kyushu man’s’ household; the circumstances of their birth are neither to their credit nor their fault. Yet, the ‘Kyushu man’, whether as the child of a victor in war or, even if not a victor, as the child of a distinguished ‘shizoku’ family, possesses family resources and enjoys the backing of influential patrons. He is afforded every advantage in forging his own destiny. In contrast, the son of a Tokugawa warrior is the child of the vanquished, cast into the lot of the outcast; he possesses neither internal resources nor external support.

They were compelled to act in isolation, left to their own devices; in this, I perceive the dual nature of human existence. Naturally, the ambitious young men of Shizuoka never regretted their identity as natives of the prefecture. Yet, when they contrasted their own wretched circumstances with those who, possessing only mediocre talent, occupied positions of prominence, they could not help but harbor deep, pent-up frustrations. It is hardly surprising that such feelings sometimes found expression in words that disregarded social decorum. They were plagued by questions: Why were they forced to submit to the rule of former warriors from Kagoshima, Yamaguchi, and Kochi? Why were people from other prefectures doing everything while they themselves could accomplish nothing? Why were they compelled to accept Mr. Osako as their prefectural governor? And why did they lack the authority to pass judgment on prefectural officials?

In short, they felt as though they were the stepchildren of the new era.

Had they not been utterly destitute, they might well have given voice to their grievances and emerged early on as an opposition force against the Meiji government. Possessing an intuitive critical faculty inherited from their Edo forebears, along with a razor-sharp tongue that spared nothing, they could have made life difficult for the administration; yet, unfortunately, they found themselves in the position of an isolated army cut off from its supply lines, and thus were powerless to act. Lacking the capital to become merchants, the funds for higher education, or the land to farm, their only avenues for a livelihood lay in becoming minor government officials or elementary school teachers. Yet, to become a government official was to immediately bow the knee to the Meiji government. Consequently, the sons of the ‘shizoku’ (former samurai class) known to me, or, to be precise, the majority of my friends among them, were essentially people who lived off tax revenue. For the sake of survival, they had to compromise their dignity.

I have compromised the self-respect handed down by my forebears; unwittingly, I have become a slave to circumstance. I truly blush with shame when I recall a certain senior of mine, a man who held a position of influence in our prefecture’s educational administration. He had imitated Mr. Ōsako, who was the prefectural governor at the time and left-handed, adopting the habit of eating with his chopsticks in his left hand, despite not being naturally left-handed. The mere thought of this makes my blood boil with indignation even now. The era of the venerable elders has passed, giving way to an age of frivolous bureaucrats. And my poor, pitiable friends, driven by the necessities of survival, have utterly forgotten the ancient spirit of the Mikawa warriors. (March 1st)

3. Who Bears the Greater Burden of Sin

It is the vanquished who are cursed. Because we are the children of a defeated army, the world treats us as if our very existence were a crime. The very name ‘Shizuoka shizoku’ was met with derision wherever we went. Consequently, among our own ranks, there were those of weak will and character, much like the effete court nobles of old who, in an age that revered the warrior class, adopted the rough Bando dialect, who sought to learn the grating Kyushu dialect in an attempt to pass themselves off as Kyushu natives. Nothing in life is more contemptible than those who feel ashamed of their own native dialect. The Edo dialect I speak is, without question, the pinnacle of refinement in the land. With its light, airy cadence and its fluid, expressive inflections, it represents the absolute zenith of the Japanese language for conversation. Why, then, would anyone trouble themselves to learn the Kyushu dialect, the speech of a remote backwater? I could not help but feel indignant at their frivolity and lack of steadfastness. Yet, when I reflect on the reasons that drove them to such lengths, I realize this, too, was an unavoidable consequence of the fate of the defeated; the fault was not theirs alone.

Men of Kyushu, I do not deny the achievements of some among you regarding the political revolution. Yet, regarding the social transgressions committed by some of your number, I am compelled to speak out. Who was it that caused Edo, once the centre of Japanese culture and morals, to regress from civilization into barbarism? Who drove the geisha of Edo, women of integrity and refined grace, into a state akin to that of common prostitutes? Who transformed the once-orderly local customs of Edo into a culture where men openly kept mistresses and dallied with courtesans without a hint of censure? When the warriors of Mikawa built Edo, they adhered to strict discipline and upheld their personal dignity. But the men of Kyushu, who transformed Edo into Tokyo, caused the city to abandon its moral integrity; they turned Edo’s maidens into concubines and degraded the honour of its people. I observe that ever since men of Kyushu became the masters of Edo society, the city has lapsed into barbarism. If anyone deems my words harsh, I ask only that they compare the state of Edo society before the rise of the Satsuma and Chōshū factions with its state thereafter. The people of Edo, who once possessed their own code of conduct and their own laws, saw those norms shattered and their laws abolished upon the invasion by the Satsuma and Chōshū forces; was Edo not thereby transformed into a mere backwater? Yet this was not limited to Edo alone. Who was it that taught men that seeking out women for pleasure and indulging in drink was a mark of honour, even in a place that had been pure, innocent, and untainted by vice? Who was it that, at the age of fifty, would have a sixteen-year-old girl wait upon him, strutting with pride in his own renown? Victory in war drives men to madness. For the victors of the Meiji Restoration, the years around 1882 and 1883 were a time of truly perilous temptation. The shocking tales of immorality published in journals like Tokyo Shinshi during that era largely recounted the antics of these triumphant, influential figures in Edo, antics that, to our eyes, appear not merely farcical but tragic. It was because these victors squandered their wealth to purchase the favours of courtesans that the unfortunate ‘era of Tokyo Shinshi came into being.

In contrast, the outcome of the Edo gentry’s relocation to Shizuoka was something truly worthy of pride. While Edo was thrown into turmoil by the people of Satsuma and Chōshū, Shizuoka was elevated by the Edo gentry. The Suruga dialect, once clamorous and lacking in refinement, was beautified through their influence. The local populace, previously uneducated, received instruction from the Edo gentry. Most notably, relations between the sexes became increasingly wholesome following the arrival of the Edo gentry. Before their arrival, locals thought nothing of young men and women meeting on the streets at dusk; however, as the number of Edo migrants grew, this custom changed completely. In this respect, Shizuoka moved in the exact opposite direction of Edo: Shizuoka took on the character of Edo, while Edo began to resemble the countryside. Do not mistake my words for mere partisanship toward the Edo gentry. I simply lament the fate of these people, who were more refined than the men of Satsuma and Chōshū, after they were relegated to the status of the defeated. It is not my intention to enumerate the misdeeds of the Satsuma and Chōshū men. Cursed for being ordinary

I say this to demonstrate that the people of Edo were, in terms of their ‘sins,’ no worse than the men of Satsuma and Chōshū. Having placed myself in the position of a ‘scorned Shizuoka native,’ I have come to understand the fate of the vanquished. Standing by the pond, where rain slips off the sheltering trees, I have tasted a bitterness unknown to the children of the victors. It was not I alone; every child of the Tokugawa warriors once mocked as the ‘foolish eighty-thousand-strong hatamoto cavalry’, has known this taste. It is a bitterness far more acrid than gall. In a world that assumes the child of a defeated general is inherently incompetent, how much agony did I endure as I strove to stand tall? The only thing accompanying and encouraging us was our own resolve. Yet the world sought to cast us aside using a logic devoid of justice. They claimed we were a vulgar lot, simply because our fathers and brothers had lost the war. They claimed we were deceivers, simply because our fathers and brothers were schemers. Sympathy is a sentiment the victor bestows only upon the victor. For the defeated, there is nothing but slander. Nothing but sneers. (March 3rd)

4. A game of Chance Played While Travelling

On the eighteenth of this month, I boarded a train intending to return to Tokyo from Totomi. However, wishing to visit the scenic spots of Kuno and Miho, I disembarked at Shizuoka. I ordered a carriage to take me along the Hachiman Kaido road; upon catching sight of the range of hills stretching out to the south, I was overcome by a deep sense of nostalgia. The locals of Shizuoka call this range Mount Udo. During my time in Shizuoka, I was a young man fond of composing poetry while traveling, and I had visited this mountain many times. I recall one windy winter day when I climbed the southern slopes alone. Clouds had obscured the sun, and the cold was biting; the wind even began to whip up the flurries of snow known locally as kazahana, ‘wind-flowers.’  Seeking warmth, I stepped into a small watchman’s hut made of straw, only to find the surroundings utterly desolate, save for the sight of dry fallen leaves chasing one another in the wind. I recall a time when the layered clouds thinned out, looking much like peeled layers of paper, revealing patches of blue sky; the setting sun, reflected far off in the estuary of the Abe River, cast a silvery sheen that contrasted sharply with the darkening gloom gathering in another part of the heavens, creating a truly extraordinary spectacle that deeply stirred my heart with the beauty of nature. Yet, the melancholy I feel now does not stem from the memory of that excursion. Reader, allow me to speak briefly of a personal family matter. This mountain holds a truly unforgettable significance for me. Having lost my mother in early childhood, I was an orphan; my maternal grandmother, moved by pity for my plight, loved me, her daughter’s child, even more deeply than the other grandchildren who played at her side. As a young child, I listened as she recited waka poetry, such as the verse about how ‘there are many things beyond one’s reach when one looks upward’, and she read to me the chronicles of the Battle of Mikatagahara, teaching me to admire Tokugawa Ieyasu as a heroic figure. Indeed, I owe a great deal of my spiritual upbringing during those early years to her. She was truly a benefactor to whom I owed a debt of gratitude for my education, and a woman whose kindness I could never forget. It was she who composed the following verses. When I first came to Tokyo, I borrowed the manuscripts she had left after her passing from her home to write them out, I discovered these two poems among them.

Even as I write out many things, saying, ‘I shall earn my livelihood by brush and ink,’
I should gather up the seaweed washed ashore on the strand of Suma,
and pile up my coins.

Gathering together the fallen leaves of the dragon trees on Mount Udo,
it is a peaceful thing to be one whose smoke rises from the fire.

In this, I have come to understand the true meaning of her words. My maternal grandmother, already an elderly woman of sixty at the time, was the mother of a soldier from a defeated army; despite having been born into wealth, she supported her son’s livelihood by working as a professional scribe. Though only her cheerful smile remains in my childhood memories, the poem reveals that she, too, had endured the bitter hardships of life. Her self-description of finding ‘peace of mind’ only serves to highlight the profound lack of peace she actually experienced. While I cannot judge the technical merits of the poem, I can look back to the time of its composition and imagine the arduous effort it entailed. Whenever I read these lines, I am overcome with a sense of melancholy, for they tell the history of the misfortune that befell the people of Shizuoka. And now, I stand upon the very mountain that inspired my grandmother’s poem. How could I not be filled with a boundless sense of emotion? Some seven or eight years ago, while I was living in Shizuoka, I invited a friend to join me on an excursion. We crossed the Abe River, travelled along the Shizuhama Highway, passed Omae, left Shirokoshi behind, and arrived at Tanaka just as the sun was setting. Tanaka was the site of the former castle of a certain lord; a few dozen houses were scattered across the fields. Unable to find our way, we followed a small stream, a scene of rural tranquillity filled with bamboo fences and thatched-roof cottages. By chance, we came upon a woman washing a pot by the water. She wore a soiled cloth wrapped around her head and humble, coarse clothing; at first glance, she appeared to be a typical countrywoman. We approached to ask for directions. She removed the cloth from her head and politely explained the route. To our surprise, she spoke with the distinct accent of Edo. Ah, yet it was only natural; this place, too, had once been home to many people from Edo. Though she retained the speech of an Edo native, her appearance had undergone a drastic transformation, a change far more extreme than the proverbial ‘tiger turning into a mouse.’ Such is the fate that has befallen so many of the people of Shizuoka. Toil rather than ease, facing the hazards of the road, such was the game of chance on their journey. (March 5)

5. Charming Optimism

I have observed a living testament to the fact that circumstances shape the individual in the Edo-ites who settled in Shizuoka. Descendants of the Edo breed, raised in the nation’s capital and possessed of a spirited, bold nature, became timid and faint-hearted after being confined to the small ‘sheep-pen’ that was Shizuoka.

One might observe that truly great figures emerge only from either vast metropolises or remote villages; a small city like Shizuoka is ill-suited for producing such individuals. In remote villages, there is little to satisfy human desires; consequently, capable people living there are compelled to seek a broader stage for their activities, naturally driving them toward progress. In contrast, a place like Shizuoka, though small, it serves as a prefectural political hub with some measure of enterprise and social interaction, tends to make capable individuals content with modest renown, minor prosperity, and humble positions, leading them to define their success solely within that limited sphere. Had Shizuoka been as small as Numazu, the people from Edo who migrated there would surely have found the confines intolerable; they would have quickly resolved to seek their fortunes elsewhere. Unfortunately, however, the place was just large enough to offer a semblance of opportunity. Seduced by these immediate prospects, the Edo transplants attempted to build lives within that limited sphere; consequently, those who succeeded were content with modest gains, while those who failed merely exhausted their energies. I need not dwell here on those who failed; as for the successful ones, they became nothing more than petty men of means, possessing a small patch of woodland and a pittance of cash, or usurers, minor bureaucrats, or schoolteachers. Should you, the reader, visit Shizuoka, you might see young men strolling leisurely through the city, wearing ‘geta’ clogs fitted with straw mats and carrying ‘fukugasa’ umbrellas, whose very appearance instantly reveals them to be optimists. Alas, these are the descendants of the Mikawa warriors who once held the realm in their grasp.

How is it, then, that they are so content to settle here in such unhurried ease? It is simply because they have found a modest contentment within this small world of theirs. I have seen them abandon the study of English to indulge in playing the lute. I have seen them devote the precious years of their youth to mastering the game of Go. I have seen them gather with friends for lavish feasts to celebrate becoming minor officials earning a monthly salary of ten yen. Truly, I cannot help but envy their happiness. Why are they so happy? It is because they remain unaware of their own wretched fate. I rejoice in the happiness of these descendants of Mikawa warriors, happiness born of their inability to perceive their own miserable lot. Had they the capacity for reflection, to look back upon their ancestors and compare that legacy with their present state, they would surely be consumed by bitter indignation at the misfortune of having become fallen angels. That they are spared this anguish is a matter for which I, in my heart, both rejoice on their behalf and grieve.

The one trait they have inherited from their ancestors, and have yet to lose, is a penchant for living beyond their means. I recall a young man among them who, despite having to support a family of five, earned a mere five yen a month; yet, he would walk about wearing spotless white ‘tabi’ socks, looking for all the world like a young nobleman. Long ago, someone composed a haiku about Edo actors: ‘Clad in brocade robes, yet beggars upon the tatami mats.’ Even here, amidst the ‘Shizuoka-fied’ natives of Edo, I cannot help but be reminded of those words. Dear descendants of Edo warriors, forgive me for speaking so bluntly. It saddens me to see people who squander so much money on their present lifestyle while harbouring no hopes, and making no preparations, for the future. I have heard that a recent survey of officials at the Shizuoka Prefectural Office revealed that only a handful were free of debt. I am well aware that many of our prefecture’s officials are of Edo stock, and it grieves me to see the extravagance to which their lifestyles have descended. During my time in Shizuoka, the young men there did not belong to the dissolute class; indeed, among my own circle of acquaintances, those who never once set foot in the pleasure quarters were few and far between. I see in this fact a certain endearing optimism characteristic of the people of Shizuoka. They were like a timid dog that, though it might roam wild in the deep mountains without fear of man, would wag its tail before a child the moment it found itself among people. It was precisely because they had been granted small favours that these descendants of Mikawa warriors, once the very ‘flowers of Edo’, had transformed into such carefree optimists. Truly, the power of circumstance to mould a person is profound. (March 6)

6. Something Like a Flower Becomes Something Like Mud (Part 1)

Among the descendants of Mikawa warriors who had fallen into reduced circumstances, there was a man named Kōsai. When I first encountered this family during my youth, they still maintained the dignity befitting a warrior household. However, before long, misfortune befell them; the entire family was plunged into destitution, and the eldest daughter met a tragic, untimely death. Let me recount what I witnessed regarding their decline.

The first step in their descent began with the growing size of the family. Had they lived in the Edo era, the birth of a child would have been a cause for unalloyed celebration; yet, stripped of their prosperous hereditary stipends and granted only meagre government bonds, assets that were quickly squandered on the ill-fated business ventures typical of former warriors, these children became a source of increasing hardship for their survival. Kōsai had five children, a number that would not necessarily be burdensome for a person leading an ordinary life. For Kōsai, however, whose financial resources were steadily drying up, it was an overwhelming strain. Another factor that accelerated their ruin was the fact that Kōsai’s wife was a woman devoid of any force of will. Her lack of resolve was simply the result of having been raised as a young lady of privilege, nurtured by gentle hands; having never known the hardships of life, and having lived in a vanity that led her to believe gold coins flowed as freely as water, she suddenly found herself in reduced circumstances, with no idea how to conduct herself in such a position. Vanity does not ennoble a person. Because the superficial lifestyle of her youth kept her ignorant of life’s realities, it failed to instil in her the nobility that superficial observers might have expected. She became a woman who was quick to anger and quick to laugh, a mother who would raise her voice to berate her own children. She became a woman who thought nothing of resorting to mere stopgap measures; a woman who bought food on impulse and ran up debts. She stands as a cautionary example for those who believe that an aristocratic upbringing can make a woman noble. Such an education merely renders a woman foolish; it certainly does not ennoble her. Faced with this dilemma, and considering that if it were possible to elevate the status of women, the daughters of high-ranking hatamoto ought to have become ladies of refined dignity in Shizuoka, one realizes that the higher their family’s stipend, the more likely they were to transform into the sort of uncouth, rustic wives derisively known as ‘hizuzuri’ (drag-tails). This reveals that the true elevation of a woman’s status depends solely on the extent to which she understands the real world, not on the degree of artificial refinement she adopts.

Thus, the family struggled, burdened first by a large brood of children and second by a wife devoid of reason, and drifted daily closer to ruin. Meanwhile, the eldest daughter had blossomed into the prime of her youth; she was a flower blooming in their midst. As a youth who knew nothing of the world of drink, I lacked the experience to articulate a precise description of her beauty, that of a flower half-hidden in bloom, yet I could never forget the utter loveliness of her eyelids, tinged with a soft, peach-pink hue. Those who knew her at the time would say her only flaw was a quick temper, much like her mother’s; yet I knew her to be a gentle, radiant maiden, pure as a gem. Eventually, she married a local man. Her husband took her to Tokyo, though they soon returned. During that time, we heard rumours that she had become brazen and shameless. Before long, she was suddenly sent back to her father’s house. Her return came about because her mother and older brother repeatedly visited the husband’s home to make unreasonable demands; exasperated, the husband’s family had effectively driven her away. That moment marked the watershed, the point where she, lovely as a flower, began her descent into a life of shamelessness. The wife of a certain man named Ko, a woman adept at incurring debt, was not content with merely ruining her husband’s household; she sought to encroach upon her son-in-law’s home as well, thereby plunging her beloved daughter into the sorrow of a broken marriage.

Having thus been cast into marital ruin, the daughter became the concubine of a high-ranking local official, a native of Kagoshima Prefecture. It is not my intention to speak well of him simply because he hailed from Kagoshima. I admire him because, despite his high official rank, he would, in his spare time, carry buckets of night soil himself to irrigate the fields, setting an example of industriousness that commanded the respect of the local gentry in Shizuoka. I also commend him for not using his position to engage in cronyism by favouring fellow natives of his prefecture. Yet, seeing this elderly man, nearing sixty, induce such a radiant young woman to compromise her virtue, I cannot help but smile wryly at his vigorous virility. I do not know whether the young woman seduced him, he seduced her, or her parents acted as go-betweens; I simply observe that this high official, a man of many years, engaged in such a passionate escapade, and I smile at the amorous fortune enjoyed by this ‘victor.’ I do not know whether that laugh of mine was a sneer, or, deep down, the sort of smile that masks tears. In any case, knowing that laughter befits a man more than weeping, I chose to laugh. Yet, her loss of virtue had utterly transformed her character. Whenever she returned to her father’s house, she would glare haughtily at the household members; she had become so arrogant that she would even order her own mother about. Living nearby, I often heard her scolding her mother, and there were times I thought that had she been my own sister, I would have struck her across the head with my fist. Meanwhile, the neighbours would remark on her good fortune in enjoying the patronage of a high-ranking official. Such, indeed, is the pride of the Mikawa warrior. (March 7)

7. Something Like a Flower Becomes something Like Mud (Part II)

The wheel began to turn. Turn after turn. The maiden who was like a flower transformed into a wanton woman of the streets. She wandered from place to place, mingling with the common herd. Her virtue, already tainted, grew blacker still. Her very appearance betrayed her character. Years later, I happened to pass her on the street; she had become the embodiment of a loose, seductive vice, and the sight pained my heart. Her family home had vanished, and her reputation had melted away like spring snow. Some years after I came to Tokyo, I heard the story of her life: she had sunk lower and lower until she became a prostitute. I was deeply shocked, yet, was this not the inevitable path for a woman in her circumstances? Her family was destitute; her mother, foolish; her brother, a convict; she had received no education; her virtue was lost; and, to her misfortune, she was beautiful. It was, of course, these external pressures that drove her to such a state. Yet, I do not absolve her of all blame. Long before she lost her virginity, the people of my hometown already spoke of her spiteful, clamorous, and volatile nature; indeed, it seems undeniable that she possessed an innate tendency toward vice. Yet I ask: who among us lacks the seeds of sin? Who is not a child of the fallen Adam? Just as all timber is combustible, are not all human beings prone to sin? Had she been blessed with wise parents or siblings, I am convinced she would have lived out her life as a lovely bride, a capable homemaker, and a serene matriarch devoted to her children. Truly, upon hearing this news, I could not hold back my tears.

I recall that during my childhood, the name “O-Kei-san” was frequently on people’s lips, ‘O-Kei-san’ being the name of a local woman who became the first female to appear on stage as an actress. Among the many dramatic spectacles staged by the descendant of Mikawa warriors, who, tormented by the demons of daily existence, sought an outlet for her anguish, none was quite so mortifying to witness. The dance she performed, undoubtedly taught to her in childhood as a genteel pastime for her parents; amusement, underwent a radical transformation; she eventually found herself in the tragic plight where ‘one’s art becomes one’s livelihood’ leading her to become an actress. I once saw the house where she had lived; it was the sort of dwelling typical of the local inhabitants, presenting nothing remarkable or unusual.

In today’s Tokyo, where the public applauds educated young men who apply stage makeup and perform, it might not be particularly shocking for a woman of the former warrior class to become an actress. Yet, consider the time before Mr. Saigo Shingo set out for the Taiwan expedition, back when General Saigo hunted rabbits in the fields of southern Satsuma, and the honour and dignity of the samurai class were still fully intact. To think that the daughter of a Tokugawa warrior, raised in a world of stern propriety, far removed from the coquettish ways of the demimonde, would expose her face to a thoughtless crowd, becoming an actress amidst jeers, ignorant praise, frivolous criticism, sneers, and applause…

I regard this as a truly shameful turn of events. I do not look down on the profession itself; however, I cannot say that the role of an actress, who was, at that time, little more than a plaything for men, was a fitting vocation for a woman of warrior lineage. I later heard that she swindled a wealthy man from Kai out of a fortune and contracted a venereal disease. Counting back, this all happened twenty years ago. Though I retain no memories of this actress other than the mundane, a single incident can reveal the whole story.

The ruin of the defeated and the crimes born of it can be clearly understood through this one event alone. Let me speak again of this girl from my hometown who plunged herself into a sea of ​​filth. A few months after hearing she had become a prostitute, I learned of the tragic end to her story: she had been killed by her lover, a man from the Tokaido region, because she had been unfaithful and disappointed his ardent devotion. Heartless local newspapers recounted her long-life story with the same gleeful fervour a starving hawk might show upon catching a sparrow. I read these detailed reports in the Min’yūsha publication. The drama scripted by Heaven had reached its final act. Let me say just this: had she not been forced to compromise her virtue for the sake of a high-ranking official, who is to say she would not have avoided tumbling into this abyss? (March 8)

8. The Two Treasured Jewels Were Shattered for Nothing (Part 1)

A mountain temple in spring. The tolling of the evening bell. Reflections in the quiet chamber. Thoughts on impermanence.

A boundless train of associations evoked. A place of quietude compels one to be earnest, to contemplate eternity, and to ponder the nature of destiny; by its very character, a graveyard is a sanctuary for solemn reflection. When ashes return to ashes and earth to earth, when the four elements disperse and revert to their primal forms, what, in the end, becomes of human life? I am no misanthrope, yet I would ask: after one has laboured and agonized, and success has finally been achieved, only to be struck down in an instant, one leaps into ‘eternity.’ The peace that the Creator grants to heal us. A peace where hope proves hollow. A peace where fame and glory are but fleeting rain. Who could contemplate this without a sense of profound pathos?

Last July, while visiting Shizuoka, I walked with friends in the cool of the setting sun to Hodai-in Temple. Located in the southwest of the city, the temple backs onto rice fields crisscrossed by streams, offering views of the gentle slopes of Mount Udo, Mount Shimizu, and Mount Arido, while its front faces the city streets. Once a sacred site for the Tokugawa clan’s ancestral rites, endowed with a ‘shuin’ (official shogunal seal) granting a stipend of 300 koku of rice and standing as a magnificent, imposing temple, it has since fallen into partial ruin, retaining little of its former grandeur. In our youth, I often played at this temple with my childhood friends; we would gather fallen pine cones to use as ‘bullets’ and divide into opposing sides to stage mock battles. Reflecting on those days now, it feels like a lifetime ago. As I shared memories of the past with my companions, we parted the thick, lush summer grasses to reach the graveyard, where the headstones of our departed friends stood scattered about. Just then, the faint tolling of the evening bell echoed as the sun sank behind Mount Tokuganji; a gentle breeze, common to summer in Shizuoka, swayed the grass and brushed against my sleeves. Overcome by a profound sense of nostalgia and melancholy, I could not help but dwell on the fates of the friends resting here.

What moved me most deeply was the thought of two particular friends, promising young men whose ambitious spirits were laid to rest here in vain. One was of my own generation, yet because he was well-versed in the Chinese classics, I always looked up to him as a senior and treated him like an elder brother. The other was a favourite pupil of Professor Ouson and was four or five years my senior. Both carried the pure blood of the warrior in their veins, and in both heart and spirit, they lived true to the warrior code. Alas, they are a pair of gems, now lost. Let me call the younger one ‘Kōsai’ and the older one ‘Otsubō,’ and speak of the two who remain in my recollections.

I have previously described how the gentlemen of Shizuoka, being descendants of Edo samurai, held a fondness for flowers; Kōsai was no exception to this.

At a time when the standard attire for a young man from Shizuoka consisted of a silk-covered parasol, white tabi socks, and wooden clogs with straw soles, he felt no shame in walking about with a rugged air, carrying a traditional parasol and wearing geta made of mountain paulownia wood. What particularly impressed me was that he engaged in such unconventional behaviour quite unconsciously. Deliberate eccentricity in dress rarely escapes the taint of affectation; such displays often betray the pettiness of the person adopting them. His greatness lay in the fact that, while his actions set him apart from others, he himself remained unaware of being different. Like the hero described by Emerson, he deemed such matters as what to wear or what to eat unworthy of serious concern. Thus, despite his unconventional appearance, he remained a man of utter naturalness. No one who met him could fail to be struck by his guileless, innocent, and unpretentious spirit.

As for his reading habits, he was truly a man who cherished every spare moment. I recall smiling involuntarily when I saw him strolling through the rice fields, his eyes fixed intently on a book held open in his hands as he walked and read. I also observed him at the Normal School library, the only library in Shizuoka at the time. silently reading and taking notes on works such as the Yantielun (Discourses on Salt and Iron). Although the library was open to the public, hardly anyone other than a few of us, myself included, ever visited it; most young people in the city were not even aware of its existence. At the Shizuoka English School, I saw him reading Quackenbos’s History of the United States. Yet, English books were not his primary interest; he delved into virtually every Chinese classic available in Shizuoka and retained the material remarkably well. I heard a story that when an elderly scholar named Uetsuji came from Kyoto to Umetani-cho to lecture on the Santai-shi (Anthology of Three Styles of Poetry), he visited the man to discuss the subject; he argued, with such precise scholarship that the scholar was left speechless, that the ‘nindō’ (honeysuckle) mentioned in the text was not, in fact, a plant that sheds its leaves. He was even well-versed traditional herbal remedies. I am not the sort of person to be intimidated by someone who seems the very embodiment of encyclopaedic knowledge; yet, regarding his diligence and his steadfast refusal to squander even a fleeting moment of time, even I, with my own competitive spirit, could not help but feel a sense of deep respect. (March 9)

9. The Two Treasured Jewels Were Shattered for Nothing (Part 2)

What I admire above all is that, despite being such an avid reader, one might even say an extreme one. he was willing to set aside his personal aspirations for the sake of his family and felt no shame in engaging in productive enterprise.

To ‘disdain productive work’ was the fundamental malady afflicting all warriors and the Tokugawa warriors in particular. I, too, am ashamed when I recall my own youth: I was wholly given over to idle pleasures and held little hope for my future as a student. When my father expressed his wish for me to learn the merchant’s trade and explained his intentions, I was terrified by his command; I cried out that I would sooner commit suicide than become a lowly merchant, a declaration that left him at a loss regarding my obstinacy, leading him to yield to my wishes for a time. In my youth, had I but had the opportunity to read even a single copy of Seikoku Risshi-hen (Conditions in the West), I would have gladly heeded its teachings. Unfortunately, however, I still believed at the time that the status of a shizoku who ‘lived in idleness’ was nobler than that of a merchant who ‘sweated for a living.’ That misguided sense of pride has left me, even today, an unproductive wanderer with much to be ashamed of in the eyes of the world; it is a fate that cannot be helped. In this regard, Kōsai was wiser than I. He would help his father sell noodles and corn at the Ogushi Shrine festival; while tending the corn roasting over the fire beneath the lantern that beckoned customers, he showed not a trace of shame. When a young girl mocked him, saying, “That young man walking over there is the one who was selling noodles at Ogushi Shrine last night”, he simply received her words with a smile. And when uncomprehending friends curled their lips in scorn to revile his ‘menial labour,’ he simply turned a blind eye and walked on. Whenever I recall his demeanour, utterly unconcerned with convention, completely unreserved, and standing out distinctively among the common herd, I cannot help but be grateful that such a fine man was born into my circle.

His reputation soon rose high among us; “Who is the greatest talent in Shizuoka? Is it not that extraordinary fellow, Kōsai?” became a frequent topic of conversation in our group. His teacher, Masami Hada, a man of unyielding character who rarely bestowed praise, spoke of him, saying, “Kōsai is my Yan Hui.” A friend of mine whom I deeply respected, a contemporary of his, heard me speak of him so often that he prepared a tuition offering to study under him; after attending a lecture on Han-style Chinese prose, he returned to tell me, “It is exactly as you said; he is already a true master.” Considering that this friend was himself an outstanding talent among Shizuoka’s brightest, one can appreciate just how far Kōsai’s scholarship surpassed that of his peers.

I could envision nothing but a brilliant future for such a gifted man. I believed that he was destined to be counted among the greatest fruits of the ‘Mr. Sato Era’ and that he would bring lustre to the name of the often-disparaged ‘people of Shizuoka.’ I had already heard that, thanks to the financial support of a benefactor, he was pursuing his studies at university, and that he had distinguished himself as an outstanding student in the Classics department. I rejoiced for him; this was a significant step in his progress. I predicted that he, who had long been like a strange creature dwelling in a pond, would eventually transform into a dragon. One summer, he returned home for the vacation. I visited him while he was gathering with fellow students in a small pavilion for a literary meeting, and we exchanged a few words. Little did I know that this would be the last time I ever saw him.

Before long, the news arrived: he had died of beriberi. At first, I could not bring myself to accept it; the immense hopes I had pinned on him made it impossible for me to believe such a report could be true. Yet, the reality did not dissolve into a dream. I saw his fresh grave at Hodai-in Temple. What I found most regrettable was that the local newspapers, which would make a great fuss over even the appointment of a police officer, wrote not a single word of condolence for him; this was simply because the editor-in-chief hailed from another prefecture. Deeply saddened by his passing, I sent my calling card to his father, whom I had never met, hoping to offer some small measure of comfort; yet, as expected, the father was not a man to let his spirit be broken by the death of his promising, beloved son. While the old man thanked me for my kindness and spoke of his son’s life, he uttered not a word of boastfulness nor a word of lamentation, nor did he indulge in any weak, tearful complaints. The ivy does not sprout in surprise; the child is truly the image of the father. (March 10)

I must offer an apology to my readers. Having accepted an invitation from the Nakakura Youth Association, I travelled there for a few days starting on March 9th; consequently, I was unable to take up my pen for this manuscript for some time. Now that I have returned to my humble cottage south of the capital, I ought to resume the narrative of my tragic recollections. Yet, the scenes I witnessed during my journey compel me to speak of them. Perhaps interjecting a digression—even one entirely unrelated to the main subject—might serve to provide you with some pleasant diversion. Allow me, then, to pause my reminiscences of the past and recount the story of my trip to Nakakura.

A Monotonous Landscape

I have travelled back and forth between Tokyo and Maebashi no fewer than a dozen times, and I have never failed to remark upon the monotony of the scenery. East of the Hakone mountains, the plains expand—stretching out like the mouth of an open sack as they reach Musashino. Mount Fuji and Mount Tsukuba stand facing one another across the expanse, tracing a line that is nearly perfectly horizontal; the terrain is so vast and level that the waters do not rush, but flow sluggishly. The mountains here do not loom menacingly; wherever one looks, there are rice fields, and wherever one goes, one sees thatched cottages framed by bamboo fences. At first, one appreciates this pastoral scenery, but in time, one grows weary of its monotony. Compared to the mountains and waters of the Tōkaidō, where the landscape is varied and irregular, offering distinct themes within a unified whole, this scenery makes it difficult for the traveller to endure its ordinariness. On this day, a dreary rain fell; nearby woods and distant hills were alike shrouded in mist and invisible. I closed the train window and dozed off.

From Takasaki North to Yokokawa

At Takasaki, I changed trains and turned off the main line. The route was rugged, winding between two mountain ranges. The rain turned to snow, and the cold became intense. The train carriage was cramped and packed with passengers, making it impossible to move freely. We arrived at Yokokawa. The plum blossoms by the roadside were still tightly sealed in their buds, lagging nearly a month behind the blossoms at Kōmukai and Kamata, which had already scattered. Many of the passengers were pilgrims bound for Zenkō-ji Temple; struggling to understand their regional dialects, I realized they were travellers from afar. They conversed animatedly, their voices a lively hum that commanded attention. Suddenly, the snow let up, and sunlight streamed through the train windows. “Thanks to the setting sun,” they remarked, “we can now picture the sky of our hometown.” Where the sun sets and the stars shine, the traveller is moved to remember his homeland.

Mount Myōgi

As the air grew heavy and humid, I beheld the surrounding peaks all adorned in snow; facing Mount Myōgi, I was struck by its exceptional, distinctive beauty. The long train journey, tedious as it often is, was redeemed by the sight of this mountain, which soothed the weariness of the trip. I cannot hope to paint the scenery; let me simply record what I felt. For Mount Myōgi is no ordinary hill rising from and anchored to the earth; it is a majestic form that seems to have descended from the heavens to stand alone. Its ridges do not meet in obtuse angles, but in sharp, acute ones. Its purpose is not to be put to practical use, but to inspire awe and wonder. Its shape is not the result of mere accumulated earth, but the manifestation of infinite genius. It does not invite one to climb it but compels one to contemplate the divine. It possesses not a human air, but the aura of immortals. It is no wonder that pilgrims throughout the ages, struck by the mountain’s majestic spirit, have been moved to profound and mystical reverie. What more is there for me to say? I only regret that I did not have with me the poet of nature, Mr. Kosho-shi. (March 16)

The Twenty-Six Tunnels

The Usui Pass has been pierced by twenty-six tunnels to allow the passage of trains; the engineering here is even more refined than that of the Ashigara Tunnel. While the Ashigara railway has a gradient of one-in-forty, the Usui line is twice as steep, one can well imagine the difficulty of the terrain. Locomotives are attached at the rear to push the train up the slope; thus, even while passing through the tunnels, there is no need to close the carriage windows. The mountains are filled with snow; withered trees, cold crags, and gushing springs abound.

From Karuizawa Station to Ueda

That evening, I stayed at the Uedaya inn near Karuizawa Station and set out for Ueda the following morning. The train passed the base of Mount Asama, where round stones and sand created a vast, desolate wilderness—a landscape formed by the times in the past when Asama’s eruptions reduced villages to ash. This morning, the fog was heavy, obscuring the mountain from view. I took out my notebook and brush to compose a poem:

Arriving in Shinano, where the spring colors unfold,

I find the view of Asama veiled in smoke and cloud;

For a while, I shall let the thoughts in my heart subside,

Content that the mountain itself remains unseen.

I arrived in Ueda. Mr. Tachikawa Unpei (President of the Chushin Youth Association), my schoolmate Mr. Denshiro Masuno, and the Reverend Kobayashi Itaru of the Church of Christ in Japan were there to meet me. We proceeded together to the inn; upon our arrival, we found Mr. Ehara Soroku already present. He, too, had come in response to an invitation from the Youth Association. That afternoon, the inaugural ceremony and lecture meeting of the Nakakura Youth Association were held at the Nakamura-za theater. Mr. Tachikawa explained the purpose of the gathering; I spoke on the subject of education; and Mr. Ehara discussed the endeavours appropriate for young people. The audience numbered over seven hundred; whenever a key point was made, the theatre erupted in applause. Mr. Tachikawa’s impassioned sincerity and Mr. Ehara’s seasoned, composed gravity deeply moved me. It is said that, apart from a political lecture meeting once held here by a group led by Mr. Kono Hironaka, there had never been such a magnificent gathering. I could not help but feel that a bright future awaited the Nakashuku Youth Association. That day, Messrs. Masuno and Tachikawa treated Mr. Ehara and me to soba noodles; the taste was exquisite.

Zenko-ji

On March 11th, Mr. Ehara returned to the capital, while Mr. Masuno and I boarded a train for Nagano. Pointing out the window, Mr. Masuno said, “That area is where the Sai and Chikuma rivers meet; this place is Sarashina. Nestled against the mountains is Matsushiro, and that over there is the home of the famous Shozan.” I merely nodded in response, recording nothing in particular; as one scene passed and another appeared,

there was scarcely a moment to catch my breath.

Upon arriving in Nagano, I visited my friend Mr. Hashimoto Mutsujuki, and the three of us went to visit Zenko-ji Temple. It is essentially a larger version of the Asakusa Kannon Temple. We then proceeded to Shiroyama-kan. Situated atop a hill, the inn offers expansive, misty views; the landmarks pointed out by Mr. Masuno stood out clearly before our eyes. Through binoculars, I gazed toward Matsushiro; it appeared to be no more than a single station away. Mr. Hashimoto explained that the scenery is at its finest when bathed in moonlight, that ascending the inn to watch the moon illuminate the mountains and fields evokes a feeling of transcending the mortal realm to become an immortal being. I could well believe in the truth of his words. I remarked to my companions that human artifice can never surpass nature: one might construct a Nikko out of gold, but one could never create a Lake Chuzenji. I declared that I cared nothing for the gold-dusted sacred walls of Zenko-ji, loving only the natural vistas of Shiroyama-kan; we shared a laugh over this. That night, Mr. Masuno and I gave speeches at a gathering in Nagano, and the following day, I returned to the capital.

I have already recounted the general outline of my journey; now, to delve into the main subject, I must summon back memories that are painful to recall. (March 17)

The Two Treasured Jewels Were Shattered for Nothing (Part 3)

Another friend of mine, whom I shall designate ‘Otsubō’ perished from pulmonary tuberculosis. If I were to compare Otsubō with Kōsai, who was rugged and unadorned, the latter was like a poignant autumn mountain, while the former was like a purifying spring sea. Kōsai belonged in an autobiography of self-made men; Otsubō belonged in a chronicle of beautiful youths. While both shared a noble character and extraordinary intellect, Otsubō’s demeanour was exquisitely refined, resembling a sheltered maiden, and bore no resemblance to Kōsai’s rustic, country-bumpkin air. Yet, one need not wonder at this; outward bearing is a reflection of one’s lineage.

To speak of Otsubō’s ancestry, he was the son of a distinguished hatamoto (direct retainer of the Shogun) who held a fief of three thousand koku. The misfortune of the vanquished fell most heavily upon the high-ranking samurai. In contrast, the so-called ‘low-ranking’ warrior, who, even while in Edo and proud of their status as direct retainers of the Shogun, had long supplemented their meagre stipends by raising goldfish, tending bonsai, whittling toothpicks, and the like, were like coastal pines accustomed to harsh winds; they were not easily toppled by the gales of a changing world. Yet, the high-ranking samurai, who had idled away the years as hatamoto in an era of peace, manipulated by their stewards, toyed with by their retainers, and swayed by their maids and attendants, were suddenly overtaken by an unexpected revolution and plunged into a state of utter, pitch-black bewilderment. They grasped nothing of the meaning of life and knew nothing of the nature of labour. Having long dwelt in a world of hollow pretences, their eyes were blind to the real world; consequently, they sank to the very depths of degradation, teetering on the brink of beggary. Indeed, I actually saw some of them, clad in rags that left them nearly naked, begging for food in the streets.

Fortunately, I did not become such a wretched figure in tatters. Although he succeeded to the family estate while still a mere youth, he was blessed with a wise guardian to oversee the succession; thus, for a long time, he never once brought disgrace upon the family’s honour. Having been respected in our community since childhood as an avid scholar, I could not help but pin great hopes on his future.

Was he not the very embodiment of the ‘local scholar’ ideal, a figure in whom the people of Edo could take true pride?

When I was a mischievous child, I would often make a fuss every morning about going to my teacher’s house, dragging my feet in protest. He, however, was already a fine young man by then, wearing his hair in a traditional tabusa topknot and dressed in hakama and haori. He would pass by my house, smile upon seeing my sullen face, approach me quietly to offer a few words of gentle counsel, and then take me along with him to our teacher’s home, an occurrence that happened more than once. I do not record here what he discussed with me; yet, at the time, I was so deeply impressed by his dignified and graceful bearing, and by his remarkable ability to read through any text, no matter the book, simply by scanning the characters, that my innocent, childlike heart felt compelled to listen with reverence to whatever words he spoke, regardless of their specific meaning. My father and grandfather were traveling in a certain region of China at the time, leaving me at home; consequently, my grandmother would often ask him to oversee my studies. (March 23)

In him, I saw the very embodiment of ‘gentle affection.’ If there is any softness in my own nature, it is a noble legacy he left me through our friendship. I knew him for fifteen years, and for five or six of those years, we shared the same teachers and the same classroom; yet, in all that time, I never once saw an angry look upon his face. He was simply too benevolent to give way to anger.

He not only refrained from speaking ill of others, but, what is more, he harboured no ill thoughts toward them in his heart. His manner was always calm and composed, and his voice invariably gentle. I recall a particular instance involving a notoriously obstinate man in our circle, someone disliked by all and who refused to listen to anyone else, yet he would listen attentively to this man’s words; it was considered a marvel and became a frequent topic of conversation among us. Indeed, he possessed a gentleness that could melt the hardest of hearts.

Once, wishing to read Shiji (Records of the Grand Historian) but unable to purchase a copy, I attempted to borrow it from Kyōson; however, I was dismayed to find that his copy had already been borrowed by someone else. Left with no other choice, I approached an acquaintance to ask for the loan of the book. He glared at me and declared that he could not lend it to someone like me, someone careless enough to damage books. Recognizing the validity of his point, and sensing that his words were meant as a well-intentioned lesson to correct my habits, I refrained from pressing the request further. A certain person, whom I shall call ‘Otsu-bō,’ was present at the time. I remain grateful to Otsu-bō; seeing the look of bitter disappointment on my face after being so bluntly refused, he was moved to tears. Truly, I shall never forget those precious tears for as long as I live. As I write this, I am overcome with such deep emotion that my pen struggles to advance. At one point, a certain acquaintance secretly took me aside and said, “I have the Book of Han at home but not the Records of the Grand Historian; if you wish to read the Book of Han first, I can fetch it for you.” I politely declined the offer, fearing that accepting it might hurt the feelings of a certain person connected to the matter. Yet, in the end, that very person, without any prompting, came to entrust the Records of the Grand Historian to me.

If there is a blemish on Otsubō’s biography, it lies in the fact that he once set foot in the pleasure quarters. However, with but one or two exceptions, this was a fate that few natives of Edo could escape. Indeed, the pursuit of pleasure in the demimonde was a vice ingrained in the very bones of the Edo people; those who remained entirely untouched by it were virtually excluded from their social circles. Young people who did not indulge in such pleasures were treated as eccentrics, and, in truth, they were people for whom the label of ‘eccentric’ was entirely justified. I, for one, confess as much. Even a stern young man like myself held the view at that time that while one should never indulge in the pleasures of the pleasure quarters, heavy drinking was the only vice worth pursuing. Consequently, I could not bring myself to respect Otsubō any less simply because he indulged in the life of the pleasure quarters. Moreover, when he engaged in such pastimes, he showed not the slightest trace of the vulgarity common to other young men; he never uttered a single risqué word. the kind that might corrupt others. even in the relaxed company of friends, always maintaining the dignified air of a true warrior. Seeing him as the very embodiment of refined sophistication, I found my admiration for him deepening all the more. Perhaps this intense admiration of mine was a sort of malady—a ‘mania for admiration,’ if you will. Yet, anyone who beheld him, a solitary crane amidst a flock of chickens, felt exactly the same way.

Then, a heartless illness shattered this man, precious as a flawless gem, and returned him to the dust. How could anyone who visits his grave today, or who knew him and weeps at the memory of his warmth, fail to be overwhelmed by a multitude of emotions? (March 24)

The So-Called Shizuoka Incident

The issue of Kokumin no Tomo dated July 15, 1887, contained the following article, one that I can never forget.

The Shizuoka Incident

A public trial was recently held at the Tokyo Criminal Court regarding a robbery case involving Minato Shotaro, a former shizoku resident of Shizuoka Prefecture, and twenty-five others. If these individuals had committed robbery with the sole intent of criminal gain, I would have one thing to say. However, from what I hear, they are all men of public spirit who harboured various planned objectives, and the robbery was merely a means to achieve those ends. Whether this is truly the case or not. if it is, I cannot help but heave a deep sigh. Did the ancients not say that one should not straighten a crooked ‘hiro’ (fathom) by distorting the ‘shaku’ (foot-rule)? How much more reprehensible is it, then, for one to personally commit such a shameful crime while claiming a desire to serve the nation? Witnessing the emergence of such lawless elements in our political sphere fills me with profound dismay. Is the prevalence of such incidents not perhaps because these ‘men of public spirit’ lack steady employment, stable property, and, consequently, a steadfast moral heart? Is it not also due to the delusion that achieving a sensational feat is enough, regardless of the morality of the means employed? There are proper ways to serve one’s country; why resort to robbery? Ishikawa Goemon, that petty rascal, is by no means a figurehead for any political movement.

For the sake of the reputation of the people of Shizuoka, I lament the affair known as the ‘Shizuoka Incident.’ I grieve that this group of spirited men, having been rounded up in a single sweep, could not secure even a single defence attorney; that they committed shameful crimes, crimes for which there were no grounds for a legitimate defence, and were ultimately forced to see their promising futures buried in darkness.

“They were driven to this pass by a lack of funds resulting from debauchery; they harboured no political objectives whatsoever.” Such was the conclusion reached by the investigating officials, and indeed, on the surface, the circumstances appeared to leave no other interpretation. For the ringleaders, men such as Suzuki Ototaka and Minato Shotaro (do not be surprised that I use honorifics when referring to men who committed such shameful crimes), frequently visited brothels while in the midst of their robbery spree; and it is an indisputable fact that they tormented the proprietors of these establishments through their violent behaviour and the accumulation of massive debts. The report that there was a teahouse, which had been driven to ruin after they ran up debts they never repaid, reached my ears at the time as a truly shocking piece of news.

Yet, consider the facts: these were men with some education, men who, had they conducted themselves normally, would have enjoyed an abundance of food and clothing; men who were the sons of samurai (both Suzuki and Minato came from warrior families). That they would commit robbery simply for the sake of debauchery is a proposition that defies the common sense of any rational person. Cause and effect must align. Can the mere spur of carnal desire truly be the cause that drove men of such prudence, judgment, and capability to commit robbery? Character is the mother of action; action is the outflow of character. For men like Minato, raised in warrior households and schooled in the teachings of the “Go-sensei era”, to be portrayed as if robbery were their very nature: is this not an inexplicable contradiction?

While I sympathize with these men who sought to overturn the social order, I recognize that to encourage such rebels and outlaws would be an act no responsible person should commit. Before discussing their crimes, one must first consider the circumstances that led them to commit those acts. A crime remains a crime regardless of how it is interpreted; it is not something that warrants, or indeed can elicit, sympathy. Yet, recounting the many twists and turns that precede the commission of a crime often transforms one’s hatred for the act into a feeling of compassion. While judges and police officers, the embodiments of the law, must view a crime strictly as a crime, society, conversely, ought to consider with deep empathy the path that led the perpetrators to commit it. (March 26)

The Shizuoka Incident was not an isolated phenomenon. As a reporter for Kokumin no Tomo argued, such ‘lawless elements’ were emerging from the political landscape of the time. Incidents such as the Osaka Incident, the Fukushima Incident, and the Kabasan Incident demonstrate just how prevalent this phenomenon was in the history of that era. Similar phenomena imply similar causes.

What, then, drove the emergence of such phenomena? Was it, as the Kokumin no Tomo reporter suggested, simply because these activists lacked regular employment? Or was it because they were driven by the delusion that achieving a single, spectacular feat was enough? I do not deny that these were among the contributing factors. However, the primary cause lay in their failure to perceive the true nature of the political world they inhabited. At the time, they keenly felt the mounting weight of political pressure. The pressure had intensified to such a degree that even Mr. Hironaka Kono, a senior figure in the Liberal Party known for his mild-mannered nature and gentle disposition, felt the situation had become intolerable. ‘One who would bow for a mere peck of rice’, from where did such voices cry out? Who could have foreseen that yesterday’s friend would become this morning’s enemy? A rift lay within the alliance; just as the list of ‘criminals’ compiled by Sulla existed, so too did a roster of these activists rest in the hands of state spies. It was no rare tale to hear of being stalked by terrifying figures in the dark on the way home from a political rally. Like men startled by the shadows of their own heads and tails, they would startle in alarm, feeling a black hand constantly resting upon their shoulders, though perhaps this was nothing more than a figment of their melancholia. Yet, the cause that gave rise to such a state of gloom was certainly not their own doing.

To the enlightened observer who viewed the times with detachment, such a rise in political tension likely appeared as a mere passing phenomenon of the era. Even when mountains piled upon mountains and waters seemed to block the path ahead, there was surely reason to believe that a paradise of dark willows and bright blossoms awaited further on. Yet, they lacked the wisdom to perceive the times in such a light. Ignorance breeds panic. They observed the rising political atmospheric pressure, destined to dissipate like mist, and interpreted it as an omen of an impending gale and torrential storm. They believed this to be a period of great contraction preceding a time of massive destruction and upheaval; a great silence before the great outcry. It was then that they dreamed of a French Revolution. Bloodshed, plunder, the proclamation of rights, and the establishment of a new government, these became the realities of their imagination. Startled by the fluctuations of the political barometer, they sought to embark on a disastrous adventure, much like reckless speculators.

On moonlit nights, even a man of refined taste like Sono Kikaku would, unless he veiled his face, lose himself in drink at a tavern; many patriots compromised their principles to enter government service. If it is human nature that even the dignified Horikawa Ohashi would not hesitate to urinate in the street on a dark night, then it is hardly surprising that these patriots, foreseeing only darkness and ruin ahead, abandoned their self-restraint. They had merely read in history books that the heroes of revolutions often committed acts indistinguishable from those of bandits, but they also heard vague accounts regarding figures of the present day. Though I record here the story of those swashbucklers who once roamed Edo, intimidating wealthy merchants, the historians of a century hence will surely write of them with a distinctive pen. They took as their ideals those heroes who, condemned for crimes akin to banditry simply because they had succeeded, had fallen into ruin while foreseeing a cataclysmic upheaval.

This, surely, is the primary reason why they banded together and became ‘outlaws’. (March 27)

Naturally, I am not privy to the full scope of the plans behind the Shizuoka Incident. I suspect that even the architects of this tragedy themselves likely lacked a clear understanding of the chain of events and the progression that led to this outcome. As an outsider, I have no grounds to claim clear knowledge of the incident, nor do I have the authority to speak of it definitively. I shall recount only what is set down in my own notes. If my account seems disjointed or the chain of cause and effect unclear, it is simply because I lack a deep understanding of the matter. Yet, a discerning reader will surely be able to grasp the general outline of events despite my imprecise narrative.

Mr. Minato Shotaro did not come from a happy home. I regret that I am compelled to state this based solely on the following facts. While imprisoned in Tokyo, he wrote to his father, from whom he had long been estranged, entrusting him with the future of his mother and younger sister; his father refused the request. His sister had once been a student at the first girls’ school established in Shizuoka; however, before the “Shizuoka Incident” occurred, she had secretly become intimate with a young artisan and fled to Tokyo, abandoning both her mother and her brother.

It is hardly surprising that such a family environment should give rise to a crime born of despair. It was Tokimasa who incited his fury; yet, it was the shipwreck of his family life that drove him to commit the crime. In this record of my reflections, I wish to present a portrait of him to all. I saw him as a bank executive. I saw him as a political commentator. I saw him affecting the air of a refined man of letters, aloof from the times; I saw him when he had fallen on hard times. He changed professions repeatedly, and with each change, he descended to a lower station. While a young man who shared his name gradually won the respect of the local community, his own name came to be regarded with scorn. or rather, with pity.

At that time, there was a group among us young men known as the Shūri-sha, dedicated to speech-making and debate. As a young member, I frequently attended their gatherings, eagerly engaging in spirited arguments with my seniors. The venue was the auditorium of an elementary school behind Tenjin Shrine in the city’s Baba-chō district; looking back, it was nothing more than a cramped, dingy little room, yet to us then, it felt like a magnificent forum for debate. We would launch into impassioned speeches, our voices carrying outside to make passersby stop and stare in bewilderment, a common occurrence in those days. He was truly one of the most skilled debaters in this society, and his sharp eloquence commanded the quiet respect of its members. It was during this time that I came into close contact with him. I had the opportunity to observe his character as we engaged in spirited debates. Unlike the rowdy, frenzied activists often seen in those days, he was a man of composure who reflected deeply and calmly. No matter how fiercely he was challenged, he never betrayed the slightest agitation, always maintaining a steady, resolute presence of mind. Observing the unexpected depth of his convictions, I could not help but feel a sense of respect for him, despite my own callow immaturity.

However, during this period, his circumstances began to decline significantly. His appearance took on a dishevelled, down-and-out air. It was around this time that his younger sister became notorious for her promiscuity. As I never once visited his home, I knew little about his sister. I only knew that she had been a student at the same elementary school as I, though two grades my junior, and that when a girls’ school was established in Shizuoka, she left the elementary school along with the daughters of local notables to attend it. I recall attending school day after day, wearing the purple hakama trousers that were fashionable at the time, and occasionally crossing paths with him. When Mr. Minato fell into trouble with the law, local newspapers sympathized with him and portrayed his sister as a virtuous, refined young woman; I, however, could not share that view. A bad home environment can turn a maiden, pure as a flower, into something as foul as mud. She was undoubtedly a woman of keen intellect, yet because her father had abandoned her and her brother neglected her, she behaved more brazenly than even an unlettered woman, shocking and distressing the local community.

I had not seen Mr. Minato for a long time after that, but one day at dusk, I spotted him walking along the road. He turned to me and said, “I am about to set out for Gishu.” Yet, seeing his clothes, soiled and tattered, I could not bring myself to mention the matter of travel money for the journey. It was not long after that encounter that he was arrested in Tokyo. (March 29)

Comparing Mr. Suzuki Otokō with Mr. Minato Shōtarō, Suzuki is fire while Minato is water; the former is dynamic vibration, the latter, stillness. The former is a man who cannot restrain his own outbursts of passion; the latter is one who exercises self-control, betraying no hint of emotion in his countenance. The former is a man of action; the latter, a man of keen intellect. Yet, it was Mr. Suzuki who stood at the heart of their faction.

I conversed closely with Mr. Suzuki on no more than one or two occasions. I cannot recall exactly when it was, but at the time, a certain Bachelor of Arts, renowned as a brilliant talent and a lecturer at a specialized college, had arrived to become the editor-in-chief of the Shizuoka shimbun. To mark the occasion, a group of interested parties gathered to hold a celebratory banquet for him at a local restaurant. Over a hundred people attended, and Mr. Suzuki and I found ourselves seated side by side in a corner. It was then that I first beheld the appearance of Mr. Suzuki, a man notorious for his mischievous nature. He was a short, stout, and swarthy man with a glistening complexion; as he sat there surveying the gathering, he exuded an air of sombre melancholy. A cloud of gloom seemed to hover between his brows, while his eyes revealed a spirit that refused to bow before any superior. He possessed a somewhat worldly, or rather, intensely human, air; in his eyes, everyone seemed base, everyone seemed a fool.

He was a man of earnestness. He seemed incapable of grasping the art of deceiving others through the glibness, the eagerness to please, and the superficial mannerisms often found among the people of Edo. He was a man who had not lost his wild, untamed spirit, guileless, artless, and utterly sincere. He was a man who acted impulsively on his true feelings, heedless of what others might think. His virtue lay in his frank honesty; his fault, in a brazen disregard for those around him. He was not the sort of man to be popular in polite society, yet among friends, he was undeniably a natural leader. Where he surpassed Mr. Minato was, perhaps, in the steadfastness of his character. Compared to Mr. Minato, however, he was far more self-centred. His self-confidence was profound, deeper than that of almost anyone else. He possessed the mettle to stand empty-handed against the entire world, never flinching at the prospect. If there is such a thing as the temperament of a ‘mastermind,’ he truly embodied it. This is not merely my own arbitrary judgment; it is the consensus of those who knew him intimately. As I sat knee-to-knee with him at the banquet, his demeanour convinced me of the accuracy of that assessment.

Under the dazzling lights, the tables were laden with food and drink. Crimson-clad geisha moved gracefully among the guests, their alluring songs and melodies captivating everyone present. Yet, what struck me as truly bizarre was the host, a certain scholar, who had inscribed a poem of his own composition onto the calling cards of a young geisha and distributed them to each guest’s place setting. Was this a gathering to promote a young geisha, or a meeting of distinguished patriots? I was utterly bewildered. And yet, not a single gentleman there uttered a word of criticism, such was the nonchalant, spirited ease with which they carried themselves.

Before long, the scholar rose to speak. He discoursed at length on the state of British political parties, arguing for the necessity of party unity. He was a charming, engaging figure. Dazzled by his reputation for brilliance, the audience erupted in thunderous applause. He was acclaimed from all sides, and every word he spoke was listened to with rapt attention. I kept my eyes fixed on Mr. Suzuki’s face. He remained cool and composed.

Speaking quietly to me, he said, “He is a man who states the obvious… talking about political parties as if it were something new. I, for one, have been devoting my efforts to this for five or six years.” I, too, was among those who found it irksome to hear a lecture on political party theory, delivered as if it were a novel concept, from a ‘man of talent’ of the day, of whom I had heard that Count Ōkuma held a high opinion. (March 30)

Mr. Yabu Shigeo was the most timid among the members of the ruling party. Yet, to speak honestly from my own observation, he was the most promising young man in that party. I recall that when he committed a theft alongside Raku, he betrayed his fear through his trembling demeanour; consequently, Mr. Suzuki Otokata singled him out, saying, “He is the one most likely to expose our party’s secrets,” and it was even proposed that “his life must be taken to prevent the scheme from unravelling.”

However, the fact that he displayed such trepidation while committing the crime was not a weakness; rather, it was a quality that set him apart from others. When a man destined for salvation strays from the proper course of his life and enters the path of sin, he is inevitably tormented by boundless remorse and sorrow, the price he pays for having committed acts contrary to his true character. Precisely because he possesses a profound understanding of right and wrong, he feels the greatest dread of sin; precisely because he has walked the path of integrity, he is all the more prone to stumbling onto the crooked path. The very conscience that impels a person toward good can also drive them toward evil. To embody both good and evil is the way of the chivalrous adventurer, not the noble gentleman.

When I first heard that he had joined Mr. Yabu’s faction, I could not help but feel that here was a man of true gravity and substance. I listened to his speeches on several occasions. His tone was solemn, entirely devoid of superficial embellishment. He was not the sort of man who held his audience in contempt, nor one who sought to bask in triumph by merely stirring up hot-blooded passions with a glib tongue. He faced his listeners with utter sincerity; without ever wavering in his composure, he spoke earnestly of the things he wished to convey. Honesty and faithfulness radiated from his words and his very countenance, compelling everyone to admire his spirit. I have also seen a number of his articles in local newspapers. His writing, much like his speeches, is consistently earnest and deeply sincere; one finds no trace of self-importance, arrogance, or affectation in his words. If his ideas lacked richness, it was simply due to his youth and limited breadth of experience. Yet, even if his ideas were not profound, he wrote directly from the heart, laying his innermost feelings bare. I do not know everyone involved in the ‘Shizuoka Incident,’ but from what I have seen and heard, he possessed a truly good nature.

While both Mr. Suzuki and Mr. Minato were men of promise, they could not escape a certain rough, disreputable air; Mr. Yabu, on the other hand, truly carried himself like a gentleman. Had there been someone to guide him and cultivate his talents, I have no doubt he would have achieved great depth of insight. (March 31)

I have heard that there was a government spy among the faction involved in the ‘Shizuoka Incident.’ I know this only by hearsay; I cannot say for certain whether it was true or not. However, it is an undeniable fact that at the time, individuals known as ‘state-affairs informants’ operated among groups of like-minded activists; furthermore, the prevalence of scoundrels who would feign close friendship while secretly plotting to betray their associates was a deplorable sign of the nation’s lack of moral integrity. Of course, I do not mean to suggest that the use of informants should be absolutely forbidden; it goes without saying that their employment is sometimes unavoidable for the sake of maintaining social order. Yet, the practice of singling out one or several individuals from a close-knit circle of friends—inducing them to betray their own comrades—is…

To employ a person of compromised character in the hope of obtaining honest information is not only unmanly but also unwise. Can one expect integrity from a man who would betray a friend to secure an official post? Can one expect honesty from someone willing to compromise their principles and waver in their moral steadfastness? Such occurrences may be rare, but should a government ever compel a person to betray a friend, I would be filled with dread at the thought of the grave damage inflicted upon the character of the citizenry. Political conflict is a contest among men, and the methods employed must be worthy of that status. Ideally, I would wish for the complete abolition of the practice of political parties employing state-affairs informants. If that is not possible, I hope at least that such practices are limited to a degree that minimizes their impact on the moral conscience of the people.

However, it is not my intention here to engage in a treatise on the subject of informants; I have merely touched upon the matter because I recalled the rumours circulating at the time of the ‘Shizuoka Incident’ that there were informants within the ranks of the ruling party. I have no way of knowing exactly which of them acted as government informants; even if I had heard rumours, I could not record them here without concrete evidence. In any case, news of their plotting leaked to the government through someone’s agency.

I also heard about a certain man within their faction, a person of weak will and irresolute action. He had sheltered a political activist who had escaped prison in his own home, but, fearing the government spies’ vigilance and realizing he could not keep the fugitive hidden forever, he secretly informed the authorities. Yet, deeming it too risky to have the man arrested inside his own house, he sent him out, citing the danger of prying eyes, and had the authorities lie in wait to capture him on the road. To ensure his own safety, he sacrificed a desperate fugitive. I am well aware that the law does not punish such an act. Yet I also know that men of honour and public conscience will inevitably turn their backs on him. And it is the misfortune of Mr. Suzuki to have such a cowardly man among his followers. (April 3)

How did this band of spirited men descend to the level of common bandits? How did they come to cast aside honour and affection, stifle their consciences, and launch midnight raids on the homes of decent citizens? Who instigated the deed, and who joined the chorus of assent? What infinite conflicts and agonies must have raged within their hearts? Only the times themselves, and the sins of society, can unravel this mystery. They foresaw a revolution; this was the primary factor that drove them to liken themselves to the heroes of Water Margin. They lacked suitable leadership; this was the second factor. Treated coldly by society as its stepchildren, their minds became warped; this was the third factor.

While I lived in a humble cottage at the foot of Mount Shizuwata, seeing nothing of the world beyond Shizuoka, I had occasion to mingle with four or five men from Kyushu who were visiting the area on official business, and I was able to observe their characters. At the time, it was said that men from Kyushu were easy to deal with. They knew only how to follow their seniors. To put it bluntly, they were merely slaves to their seniors, men completely under their seniors’ sway. They lacked the resolve to stand independently and forge their own character. The only thing to fear about them was their capacity for collective action; had they been forced to face us as solitary individuals, we would have triumphed in every encounter. Their strength lay in the training provided by their seniors, whereas ours lay in self-cultivation. They sought to make their way in the world through the strength of their ranks, while I sought to do so through self-cultivation.

I believed that final victory would ultimately be ours. I could not help but smile at the thought of those Kagoshima warriors, those pitiable youths, who were so fanatically devoted to the name of Saigō Takamori.

Reflecting on it now, I see that this was merely a manifestation of my own provincial pride. My conviction that standing alone was a virtue was simply a testament to my own unfortunate circumstances. At a time when the revered Saigō had aged and fallen out of step with the changing times, I lacked a mentor to guide me; I had no choice but to make self-reliance and self-cultivation my guiding virtues. I had no other means to shape my destiny than to open my own eyes, survey the path ahead, and forge forward relying solely on myself and so, I simply cultivated a mindset of total self-reliance. The danger for those who rely solely on themselves lies in moments when they are compelled to press forward, groping through the darkness, or when they stand upon the brink of a sheer precipice, oblivious to the peril beneath their feet. Men such as Minato, Suzuki, and Yabu are examples of those who plunged into bottomless abysses because they attempted to navigate the pitch-black night without a guide.

I have heard of the distinguished figure who surrendered Edo Castle, saving a million lives through calm and reasoned negotiation. I have heard of the notable leader who fought a series of battles in the wilds of the North and stirred the nation with a brilliant naval victory. I have heard of the statesman who offered loyal counsel within the Imperial Court, restoring dignity and solemnity to the atmosphere of the throne. I am grateful to these men for proving that the final chapter of the Edo warrior was not merely a tale of disgrace. Yet, I find myself wondering: why did these eminent figures turn a blind eye to the descendants of their former comrades, who had been abandoned to the wilderness? Why, despite possessing the stature to stand alongside the men of Satsuma and Chōshū (once their bitterest foes) in the halls of power, did they instead choose to retire to remote mountain villages and riverside hamlets, finding contentment solely in the education of talented youth? Had there been but one senior among us, a man of sincere, generous, and magnanimous character who truly cherished his subordinates, we would never have witnessed the incident known as the Shizuoka Affair. (April 9)

The cause of the regrettable Shizuoka Incident lay in the fact that the brilliant young men of my home region lacked suitable guides. Misled by the times and misunderstanding the era, they sought to emulate the heroic outlaws of Water Margin amidst the enlightened order of the Meiji period; this occurred because there was no one to sympathize with, soothe, and nurture them, no one to lead them onto the righteous path.

‘A life without a guide’, how terrifying a prospect that is! I would not characterize a gentleman of Count Katsu Kaishu’s stature as a traitor who sold out the Shogunate, nor would I dismiss a hero like Mr. Enomoto as a man content to feed on the cold leftovers of the Satsuma and Chōshū factions. I wish to declare to the world that Count Katsu, with his extraordinary insights into the times, was destined to be a retired sage of the Meiji era. I also wish to acknowledge, along with the public, the magnanimity of Mr. Enomoto, whose heart was as vast as the ocean, even as he adapted to the changing times and served as a mere figurehead minister. Yet, it is a lamentable fact that the brilliant youths of my region gained nothing from these men, just as they gained nothing from the likes of Saigō, Kido, Kuroda, or Inoue. It is a truly regrettable state of affairs. Before I had even reached the halfway point of this manuscript, a certain person hailing from a certain village, sent me the following letter, attempting to lift the gloom that weighed upon my heart.

My Dear Aizan,

I have just read your esteemed piece, ‘Is It Crime or Fate?’ and I find myself in deep sympathy with your arguments. As for myself… I stand as a ‘loser’ in the realm of [—] as an individual, and likewise as a ‘loser’ in the realm of [—] as a member of the Progressive Party; having tasted the bitterness of defeat, I can appreciate your position to some extent. In particular, upon arriving here [in —], I found the situation to be a tangled mess, like interconnected potato vines spreading in every direction, leaving me utterly helpless, unable to make a move. There are times when I am moved to anger, times when I am moved to laughter, and times when I am simply bewildered. Yet, believing that the true test of steadfast endurance in life lies in moments such as these, I feign ignorance, indifference, and blindness; I pretend not to feel, and at times, I even join hands with ‘them’ to move forward. Such is the mindset of a man of true mettle, knowing when to yield slightly in order to make a great advance. I wished to offer you my sympathy, yet I find myself pouring out my own pent-up frustrations instead. I know not what prompted this outpouring, but I ask only for your understanding; I hope you will reflect on this and find your own solace.

In haste, [Signature]

I offer my thanks to this man for his heartfelt sympathy. Yet, I find neither cause for sorrow nor amusement in the fact that ‘Potato Summer’ or ‘Hagi-no-Mochi’ (sweet rice cakes) might become the prevailing trend. My only regret is that we lacked seniors to guide us, that fate compelled us to squander both time and capital by walking our path without a guide. If there is anyone in this world I harbor resentment toward, it is not the people of Satsuma or Chōshū, but rather those who should have been our seniors. Yet, do not misunderstand me; I am not a man who bears grudges against anyone.

In short, the social philosophy of the gentlemen of Shizuoka is one of individualism. No matter how noble their objectives may seem, they exist solely to elevate the self. Their primary concern is how to conduct their own lives, and their ultimate concern is the same. They harbor not the slightest desire for revenge, nor the slightest impulse to repay a kindness; they possess the magnanimity to turn the other cheek when struck on the right, yet lack the spirit to sacrifice even a single hair for the sake of a friend. Some among them have enriched themselves by exploiting this very principle; the world calls this ‘success’, but alas, is this truly success? Such a social philosophy ought to be shattered at its very foundations. (March 10)

I have often remarked that the social character of the people of Shizuoka is defined by individualism. and that such a character must, of course, be overcome. Yet, I feel a deep sense of sorrow. For the root cause of this social character lies not in the fault of the people of Shizuoka, but is, in truth, a sin shared by the entire nation.

Human beings are cruel creatures; or, at the very least, human judgment is cruel. People mistreat the weak, then sneer at those who cower from that very mistreatment. They drive others into circumstances where they are forced to betray their principles, only to mock them for their lack of integrity when they finally yield to the pressure. They are like a cat that torments its prey, only to despise the creature for its cries of agony.

The world reproaches the people of Shizuoka for leaning too heavily toward individualism. Yet, for those standing amidst the warring factions of political parties, striving to preserve their own wealth and status, is there any path other than individualism that they could possibly choose? In an era when even students, who ought to have remained aloof and uncoloured by partisanship, took pride in the might of their respective factions, was there any path for them to take other than self-preservation? When men from Satsuma and Chōshū, like northern barbarians invading Rome, swept across the land with the fury of a gale and a storm, was there any course of action open to the defeated other than to look to their own survival?

Defeat implies disbandment; disbandment implies the preservation of the individual. To remain unified after defeat implies resistance; resistance implies risk; risk implies the peril of punishment. Was it not, then, inevitable that they would lean toward individualism?

The world faults the men of Shizuoka for being sensitive to trifles yet dull to matters of great import. Yet, this is not truly their fault. They are the descendants of the Mikawa warriors, a breed of victors, a race of rulers, men who once commanded the realm. The blood of the father flows in the son; the spirit of the ancestor is reborn in the descendant. Grant us position, and we are fully capable of achieving what Saigō, Kido, Itō, and Inoue accomplished. If you harbor doubts, compare the administration of the Kan’ei and Shōhō eras with the governance of the men from Satsuma and Chōshū. Which side displayed greater boldness and daring? Which possessed the more far-sighted vision? Which truly captured the public imagination?

If the men of my home region appear inept in minor matters, it is simply because they have had no outlet to apply their talents to such things; if they seem sluggish regarding great affairs, it is because they have not been entrusted with them. No matter how skilled a sailor one may be, if never given the chance to test one’s mettle amidst wind and waves, one loses the opportunity to prove—and consequently to further hone, that very skill.

In an age when even a police officer could hardly function without adopting the Satsuma accent, is it any wonder that the descendants of the Mikawa samurai came to be regarded as fools? (April 11)

I have countless things to tell. Yet, for the moment, I shall lay down my pen here and present myself to the reader with a new subject. I wished only to record what I had seen and heard. And yet, I could not refrain from offering commentary. I feel a sense of shame that this piece, which began as nothing more than a personal record of my impressions, unwittingly evolved into a history of the moral and social decline of the people of Shizuoka.

Indeed, the former warriors of Shizuoka were living out a tragic history defined by their own life stories. I recall the children of once-proud warriors, men who had lived by the spear, clad in rags that left them half-naked, staggering to my home with unsteady steps, driven by hunger to beg for the scraps from my kitchen. I recall, too, the child of a high-ranking Shogunate official, a position equivalent to today’s Chief Cabinet Secretary, who met a death bordering on starvation, and whose lovely daughter remains mired in a wretched existence to this day. The side of life I touched upon was but one half, the dark half. The living history I witnessed was the history of the defeated. When I revive my memories, I feel only that I am adrift amidst sorrowful winds and melancholy rains.

Is it sin or fate? Was this state ordained by Heaven, forced by others, or brought upon ourselves? Why is it that the descendants of the Mikawa warriors, who once ruled the realm, cannot secure even a single chair in the current Cabinet? Not merely a chair for a minister of state, but ‘any’ chair at all? Why is the Edo dialect, once our source of pride, less esteemed than the harsh, grating Satsuma accent? Why has the monotonous, uninspired Satsuma biwa come to captivate the tastes of Tokyo’s elite? Why does the world regard men like Saigō Tsugumichi, who was nothing more than Saigō Shingo, and Inoue Kaoru, who was nothing more than Inoue Bunta, as if they were beings from the heavens? Are we merely people born to be ruled, possessing no power to govern ourselves? How long will the world relegate us to the sidelines of politics, high society, and the business world, forcing us to be mere spectators, envious onlookers, and labourers, never the masters of our own destiny? Is this Fate? Or is it sin? An inability to act, or a failure to do so? I am one who asks the fine young men of my hometown, who have read this account—to give it serious, repeated consideration. (End) (April 12)

Regarding ‘Is it a Crime or is it Fate?’

A few gentlemen from Shizuoka have taken issue with my article, but their objections stem, in short, from a misunderstanding. Anyone who reads my writing cannot possibly doubt the deep sympathy I feel for the descendants of the Mikawa warriors. Some have criticized me, claiming I disparaged the fact that these descendants became government officials; yet, I hold that serving as a government official is a calling just as sacred as being a farmer, and I see absolutely no reason to disparage the former. My only aim was to decry the circumstances that confined so many promising young men to the role of mere bureaucrats. In sum: if my writing has angered you, I simply offer my apologies for my clumsiness; if it has moved you to tears, I shall weep alongside you; if it has made you laugh, I shall laugh with you. However, regarding the accusation that I deliberately speak in a way that tarnishes the honour of the Mikawa warriors for that, I can only await that eternity which will clearly reveal the truth. Ah, I can only await that eternity. (April 21st)