This short story was published in the Kokumin shinbun from March 26 to May 20, 1893.
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This is the reason why I have written these notes. I have known people who joined political parties only to become thieves; some who vanished after falling into ruin; some who squandered their fortunes and were reduced to beggary; some who fell from grace through arrogance; and others who rose to success despite poverty. All of this has led me to lament the impermanence of human life. Is life truly impermanent? I observe that the sole law of Heaven, governing the cycles of adversity and prosperity, of decline and resurgence, runs through it all. Perhaps I might reveal something of the nature of these workings here.
March 11, 1893.
Chapter 1
‘Heaven’, benevolent ‘Heaven’, bestowed parents upon me. How did those earthly parents fulfill their duty?
In a village within Suruga Province, there lived a man named Sakata Shuntarō; he was the son of a rural warrior. A letter of commendation, bestowed upon his ancestor for distinguished service while serving Imagawa Yoshimoto, remained a cherished family heirloom; and although an ancestor three generations prior had squandered half of the hereditary farmlands due to his excessive benevolence, the remaining holdings, yielding an annual income of several hundred koku, ensured that the family had not yet lost the luster of its lineage. He was a young man of twenty-three, living in his hometown with a passionate nature. Possessing an emotional maturity beyond his years, he had already found a lover by the age of eighteen. Young love is the most poignant and flavorful of all loves; he had all but forgotten the rest of the world, making love his entire universe. He could not say precisely when he had first known love, yet he perceived that, through loving, all of creation had taken on a fresh aspect. His hometown, blessed with beautiful scenery, had once held no significance for him despite his birth there, but now it had become a place dear to his heart.
As he walked through the spring grasses with the woman of his heart, listening to the skylarks soaring in the sky, he felt as though he had entered a realm of pure bliss. Yet, sorrow was drawing near; the very outcome he had dreaded came to pass. His father, a man of rigid and unyielding nature, looked down upon his lover’s humble station and forbade any further connection between them. It was perhaps natural that she was held in low regard, for she was the daughter of a village tenant farmer, a girl who ran errands and performed menial labor, though she was truly a hidden gem of rare quality. How exactly their bond was severed is a tale of the past, and I need not recount the details here. Seeking to turn his son’s heart elsewhere, his father arranged a marriage with the beloved daughter of a wealthy family in a neighboring village. Fearing his son might resist, the father seized the opportunity while the young man was staying with relatives to bring the bride into the home; when the son returned, he was simply told, “This is your wife,” leaving him no room to protest.
Although the young wife was treated coldly by her husband, she endured it patiently and remained submissive to him; having been raised in a family of upright character, she regarded absolute obedience to one’s husband, no matter how cruel his behavior, as a woman’s virtue, and she was determined not to forsake that virtue. Her uncle, deeply pained by her plight, urged her to divorce while there were still no children, but she replied, “I am resolved to die in this house.” Amidst this unhappy marriage, a son was born to the couple. She passed away due to complications following childbirth, and while relatives discussed sending the infant to her family, the father-in-law, who understood the steadfastness of her devotion, insisted that the boy, as his eldest grandson, was destined to carry on the family line; he firmly kept the child in the household and engaged a wet nurse to raise him.
On the day his wife died, Sakata Shuntarō was carousing in the pleasure quarters of Sunpu; still in the throes of a hangover, he had, while lost in his own world, laid to rest a woman as lovely as a flower. Remorse soon seized his heart. Even though her cruel father had forced her into marriage with him, she had been unaware of the coercion; she had come to his home willingly. Despite the coldness with which he treated her, she had always responded with a warm heart. Reflecting on this, he realized she was a blameless, sincere, and gentle woman. Yet he had mistreated her; while she offered him smiles as radiant as blossoms, he had met her with words as stiff and unyielding as the gnarled roots of a chrysanthemum. “Alas, I killed her,” he thought, “and yet she never once uttered a word of complaint.” Tormented by these thoughts, he suffered deeply.
A person’s virtue is extolled after death, and a prophet’s tomb is erected by posterity; just as the true nature of a flower’s spirit is revealed only when its color and fragrance have faded, so too is one’s integrity truly known only when the bloom of life has passed. One day, as he sat in his room, lost in quiet reflection on the past, the nursemaid happened to enter, cradling an infant in her arms. Seeing the baby sleeping so soundly, he found, quite to his own surprise, a single tear fall upon the child. Ever since learning of his wife’s pregnancy, he had maintained a stony silence regarding the baby, offering only a cold, mocking sneer; yet now, moved by the sight of the infant’s innocent face, he had shown a moment of genuine warmth. The nursemaid, being a woman of easily stirred emotions, responded to that single tear with a flood of her own.
‘Darkness’ and ‘Light’ vied with one another to claim him. Had the bond between father and son been freer and warmer, he might have used this very remorse as a springboard toward a life of light. Yet, unhappily, such was not to be. Just as the father cherished the virtue of his deceased daughter-in-law, he loathed the dissolute ways of his living son with equal intensity; he loved his eldest grandson yet detested the boy’s father.
Of course, the father’s harsh discipline did not stem from a heart devoid of mercy; rather, he sought to chastise his son out of a sense of righteous duty. Being a man of strict rectitude, he viewed the son’s taking of a mistress as a grave disgrace to the family name, a stain upon his ancestors’ honor, and regarded the mistreatment of his virtuous young wife as an act that violated the fundamental moral order of humanity; thus, he deemed no punishment too severe for such transgressions. Yet, in truth, such heavy-handed correction was ill-advised; harsh penalties often serve only to breed resentment in the offender. Torn between conscience and temptation, his heart a turbulent mix of loneliness, remorse, and a pride that hindered his reform, the son found not solace but scorn from his father; and so, before he could ever bring himself to confess his repentance, he was swiftly ensnared by the devil.
He frequented the pleasure quarters with increasing frequency, and his alcohol consumption rose; dissolute drinking became his very atmosphere, a state without which he could no longer exist. His reputation as a prodigal son of Sakata spread far and wide, leaving no one willing to arrange a second marriage for him; the destructive momentum of his debauchery drove him into ruin, eventually causing his stern father to disown him. In the end, he wandered the Tōkaidō road and became a common laborer, a mere drifter. This happened some twenty-five or twenty-six years ago. (March 26, 1893)
Chapter 2
The son born to Shuntarō and an unfortunate woman was named Kin’ya and was raised by his grandparents. While grandchildren are often loved even more than one’s own children, frequently leading to a somewhat undisciplined upbringing, Kin’ya grew into an increasingly earnest and steady man, thanks to his grandfather’s strict and dignified nature. As Kin’ya grew older and began to understand his own identity, he started asking about his parents. His grandmother, unlike his grandfather, could not bring herself to completely sever ties with Shuntarō; even after he had been disowned, she would occasionally send him supplies to help him get by. Shuntarō, for his part, would sometimes write letters, solely to his mother, asking for money. Through this, Kin’ya learned for the first time that his father was still alive, yet living a truly wretched existence.
On a certain day each month, the grandfather would invariably take Kin’ya to the family temple and have him pay his respects at his mother’s grave, telling the boy, “Your mother was a good woman.” When Shuntarō abandoned their daughter, the person who grieved most deeply was Kin’ya’s maternal grandmother; although she heard that Shuntarō had acted improperly in casting off her beloved daughter, she heard no word of complaint from the daughter herself, and thus remained unaware of the immense fortitude the young woman had displayed. Consequently, upon learning that Shuntarō had banished his daughter from the home, Kin’ya’s grandmother, saddened that her own grandchild Kin’ya would now be left without parents, secretly resented the heartless conduct of her son-in-law in Sakata.
Upon hearing of Shuntarō’s downfall, she was overcome with pity; whenever she met his mother in Sakata, the two would weep together. As Kin’ya grew, he became an exemplary student at the village elementary school. His grandfather would often say that, having inherited his mother’s capacity for endurance, the boy would one day carve out his own destiny and restore the family fortunes. Yet, a shadow of melancholy always lingered on his face. The estrangement from his father was a sword that pierced his heart; having no parents of his own to turn to, he cherished the very idea of a father and mother. One New Year’s Day, when he was nine, his grandfather gathered the entire household to celebrate and share a ceremonial drink; Kin’ya slipped out into the garden and wept, whispering to himself, “How happy I would be if my father were here, too.”
The grandfather forbade Kin’ya from visiting his maternal grandmother, maintaining that treating a child with excessive tenderness was not treating him as a human being, but rather as a dog or a cat; while beasts might rejoice at such coddling, he believed humans should not be treated in this manner. He established a daily routine that Kin’ya was required to follow. He also dictated Kin’ya’s choice of friends; if the boy associated with any child in the village known for mischief or bad behaviour, the grandfather would display a look of such terrifying rage that it was unbearable to behold, declaring that keeping company with bad friends led to one’s ruin. Such harsh lessons drove Kin’ya apart from the other children, leaving him isolated and lonely.
What Kin’ya dreaded most was hearing bad news about his father. Whenever a letter from a distant relative arrived for his grandfather, he would worry that it might concern his father. Even when children raised a commotion claiming someone had collapsed and died in the pine grove along the road, he lacked the courage to go and look, terrified that the victim might turn out to be his father. On one occasion, his maternal grandmother visited his paternal grandmother; as they chatted quietly in a room, tears welled up in both their eyes. Yet, the news was not tragic. Shuntarō, who had long worked as a rickshaw puller, had happened to win the favour of a nobleman and rise in the world; he was now an executive at a company and enjoyed a reasonably prosperous life, and the letter had come to convey this news.
Kin’ya’s joy upon learning this news was immense; the long-standing anguish that had bound him fast, with no apparent means of release, dissipated, and as he stood between heaven and earth, he felt a newfound sense of ease and confidence. Upon hearing of Shuntarō’s transformation, his grandfather shed a tear, yet he could not bring himself to revoke the disinheritance; for Shuntarō was a notorious drunkard, and the grandfather had declared that the family estate could not be entrusted to him unless he first reformed his dissolute, alcohol-fueled ways. Consequently, the lifting of that disinheritance, a matter that lay at the very heart of his grandmothers’ deepest wishes, remained unfulfilled. Before long, however, death began to take its toll; when Kin’ya was seventeen, his maternal grandmother passed away prematurely, and his grandfather, too, fell critically ill. Realizing his condition was beyond recovery, the grandfather transferred his entire estate to Kin’ya and entrusted the management of future affairs to the uncle of Kin’ya’s mother, appointing him as guardian.
The grandmother sent a letter summoning Shuntarō, and he arrived the day after the grandfather’s death; Kin’ya was struck by a strange, overwhelming emotion, a mixture of the sorrow of losing his grandfather and the joy of meeting his father. He could not hold back his tears. (March 28, 1893)
Before discussing the life that lay ahead for Kin’ya, let us first consider his friends. Elementary school is a club for young gentlemen; it was there that the children of the former warrior class and commoners first shook hands, and where the children of landowners and tenant farmers first came to know one another. Had it not been for this ‘club’, which his grandfather had secured for him, Kin’ya might well have remained entirely isolated from others; yet, school did provide him with a few friends. Kin’ya’s sympathies were first drawn toward a pitiable child of the former warrior class.
He was two years younger than Kin’ya. He displayed exceptional talent at elementary school, possessing a wide range of abilities; indeed, astute teachers remarked that he was capable of learning anything, and eager to do so. Yet, what truly set him apart from the other children was his indomitable spirit and an insatiable drive to win. One sweltering summer day, the schoolchildren went together to the Warashina River to swim; despite knowing absolutely nothing about swimming, he immediately stripped off his clothes and plunged into the water.
Unable to defy the laws of nature, he was on the verge of drowning when Kin’ya reached out and saved him. Yet, undeterred in the slightest, the very next day, ignoring his friends’ attempts to restrain him, he plunged into the same spot again; this time, however, he managed to keep his head above water. He was given the nickname ‘The Stubborn One.’ His character was reflected in his appearance; he was striking, with a square face, round eyes, thick eyebrows, and a firm mouth. He rarely smiled and seldom spoke. He always seemed to be deep in thought. I knew little about his family background; the only facts I gathered were that his father had been a retainer of the Shogunate and had relocated to this town at the time of the Meiji Restoration. Fate had not been kind to him.
He lived with an uneducated father who was out of step with the times, a mother raised in a genteel, leisurely household who was ill-equipped to manage a poverty-stricken home, and two innocent older sisters. His father worked as a messenger at the village office, earning a monthly salary of two yen; by combining this with the interest from a small amount of government bonds, which he refused to sell, he barely managed to keep the family of six fed. Yet, deeply regretting his own lack of education, his father was determined that his son should receive a proper schooling; the sacrifices he made were immense. No matter how dire their straits, the government bonds were not to be sold; for if they ever let go of them, they would inevitably be reduced to beggary.
In the end, if they did not sell them, how could they possibly relieve the destitution that pressed upon them day by day? When he turned fifteen, his father, no longer able to shoulder the burden of the entire household alone, wished for him to help with the family finances; he tearfully pleaded with the village headman to secure him a position as a clerk at the local office. It was at the end of that same year that his youngest brother was born. By the time he was preparing to leave school, he was no longer attending regular classes but was studying at the private academy of a certain teacher. One day, he visited Kin’ya, explained the unfortunate circumstances of his family, and spoke of his intention to abandon his studies for a time to support his parents. Kin’ya sympathized with his plight, yet offered him the best advice he could: “I fear that if you once become entangled in family affairs, the burden will weigh so heavily upon you that you will ultimately find it impossible to break free.” (March 29, 1893)
The saying that ‘he who has the will shall ultimately succeed’ is not a maxim applicable to all of life. Just as water fails to serve the purpose of irrigation if it finds no channel, so too do brilliant minds grow old in obscurity if they lack opportunity. I once returned home through a desolate village at night; a verse came to mind: ‘Who is that reading in the thatched hut by the roadside, by the dim light of a lamp?’ How many people are there who, like that student, ultimately bury their great ambitions within the confines of a home unknown to the world? How many possess the burning desire and the innate talent to become great, yet, constrained by poverty or heavy family burdens, stifle their aspirations and emotions, enduring a life of ceaseless toil for the sake of parents, spouse, children, and siblings? There is a saying in the world: ‘Happiness lies in having ears.’ If that is so, how many there must be who, because their ears were too dull to hear, have needlessly buried their fine bones in the green hills.
Standing on this shore of destitution and gazing toward the far shore of happiness, one sees only a vast, boundless expanse of water. How many have drowned attempting to navigate the great gulf separating these two states of existence? How many have been buried in despair?
Do not view life with pessimism; yet, it is true that half of life presents a landscape shrouded in darkness. One of Kin’ya’s friends, was certainly someone who struggled within this dark half of life. Whether or not he would ultimately become a great figure was, of course, a question veiled by the curtain of the future; yet, he undeniably possessed a ‘fire.’ Even though that ‘fire’ was but a tiny spark, had it been fed with wind and grass, it would surely have blazed up to cast a brilliant, towering radiance, but instead, that ‘fire’ fell upon a barren bed of sand and stone.
He was highly regarded for his performance as a scribe at the village office. If a man’s character is revealed through his work, then one must say he displayed a noble character even in the humble task of a scribe. I have heard from the village elders that every morning, without fail, he would walk to the office brushing the dew from the roadside grass, always carrying a volume of a book in his hand and reading as he went. He cherished his spare moments, for those were the only time that was truly his own; yet, while at the office, he never once laid down his brush, working diligently at his duties without ever showing a sign of weariness. When the time came to leave, he would not waste a moment in idle chatter; instead, he would tidy his paper and brushes, finish checking the ledgers, and then pick up his book once more as he departed.
Upon returning home, he would carry his young sister on his back to the village temple, doing so for his mother’s sake, and while she played, he would read books; thus, he strove to educate himself even while fulfilling his familial duties. Time flew like an arrow; by the time Kin’ya’s grandfather passed away, the young man had already reached the age of twenty. Kin’ya regarded him as a scholarly peer worthy of respect and lent him books from his own collection to read. Kin’ya was astonished by the young man’s intellectual aptitude; despite his disadvantaged circumstances, he possessed a deeper understanding of the subjects Kin’ya favoured, such as the theories Kin’ya loved to discuss, than did other youths who were wealthy enough to have ample funds for their education. Kin’ya once attempted to devise a way to secure educational funding for him, but the plan was thwarted by his father’s opposition.
As his learning and abilities advanced, the needs of his household grew; meanwhile, his father had become too frail to endure the physical strain of his duties. The blameless old warrior wished to continue in his role, but his son, unable to bear the sight of his father’s aging frame and failing legs, firmly insisted that he stop. He then took on a double share of labour himself. There was an Asama Shrine in the village where Kagura performances were held once a month; he personally petitioned the shrine officials and was appointed to perform the Yamato-mai dance. There was also a night school where village children gathered to review their daytime lessons; he asked the village headman for the position and became their teacher. Furthermore, there was a role involving staying in the night-watch hut during the three winter months to keep watch over the village; he wished to undertake this task as well, but the village headman dissuaded him.
In this small village, he did everything within his power, taking on any task that might earn him money. Kin’ya warned him, “If you go on like this, you will surely die; you must spare yourself some exertion.” Though he appreciated the advice, he could not heed it, for without such toil, he could not support his household of six. The village girls made him the object of their secret amusement. In a village where social mores were lax, many of the young women had lovers, yet he was no one’s lover. While he was a mature adult in all other respects, in matters of love, he was but a child. Few young men in this world possess such steadfast character; those who knew him said that his scholarly pursuits had turned him into an eccentric. Yet, Kin’ya alone wept to see that he had grown to adulthood without ever finding the opportunity to let romantic love blossom within him. (March 30, 1893)
Another of Kin’ya’s close friends had become an elementary school teacher; he, too, was the son of a former warrior family that had settled in this village. I knew him as well. I faintly recalled how, in the past, he used to swagger through the village, his sash tied in a large knot, a sword at his waist, and his shoulders squared defiantly. Even then, he was known as a young man who detested the new ‘civilization.’ He had a slightly protruding forehead, sharp eyes, and thick lips; he possessed a commanding eloquence and immense physical strength, making him the natural leader of the village youths. Yet, he never bullied the weak and was always open-hearted with everyone. Whenever he visited Shizuoka, he would lament how the young men were drifting toward frivolous, dissolute ways, and he invariably sneered at any man he saw wearing Western-style shoes.
Given his habitual conduct, the story that he wept when, urged by his father, elder brother, and friends, he cut off his queue and adopted a modern hairstyle, is far from being a fact one could confidently assert. Apart from the time he completed a one-and-a-half-year training course at a normal school, he had never once picked up a translated book or read a newspaper. He used to say that reading newspapers drove him mad; yet, he disliked orthodox Neo-Confucian teachings and preferred reading the works of Han Fei.
I often visited his home and listened to his arguments; indeed, among all the people I have encountered, few possessed a mind as brilliant as his. He was a man of rare learning, unrivalled not only in the village but throughout the surrounding countryside. Although there was a teacher at the village school who held a position senior to his, he wielded an influence that was, in effect, that of a principal. His intellect harboured a seemingly irreconcilable combination of traits: an unyielding conservatism and a remarkably keen power of observation. When he read, his gaze seemed to pierce right through the paper; yet, for all that, he was unable to read the signs of the times.
Some of his friends had gone to Tokyo early on to pursue modern studies, yet he felt no envy toward them; he dismissed those who read English books as merely succumbing to self-indulgence, and he scoffed at the friends who had struggled through such studies and supposedly become wiser than himself. Whether his friends could read English or not, he remained their superior; he possessed a commanding eloquence and formidable physical strength, making him the undisputed leader of the local youths. He never bullied the weak, and he was always open-hearted with everyone.
Whenever he visited Shizuoka, he would look with deep indignation upon the young men who were drifting into frivolity; he invariably sneered at any male he saw wearing Western-style shoes. It is said that he wept when, at the urging of his family and friends, he cut off his topknot and adopted a modern hairstyle—a story that seems entirely plausible given his usual conduct. Apart from the year and a half he spent completing the training course at the normal school, he had never once picked up a translated book or read a newspaper. He used to say that reading newspapers drove him mad; yet, he disliked orthodox Neo-Confucian teachings and preferred to read the works of Han Fei.
I often visited his home and listened to his arguments; indeed, among all the people I have encountered, few possessed a mind as brilliant as his. He was a man of rare erudition, unrivalled not only in the village but throughout the surrounding countryside. Although the village school employed a teacher who held a position senior to his, he wielded an influence that was, in effect, that of a principal. His intellect harboured a seemingly irreconcilable combination of traits: an unyielding conservatism and a remarkably keen power of observation. When he read, his gaze seemed to pierce right through the paper to the very essence of the text; yet, he was unable to read the signs of the times. While some of his friends had gone to Tokyo early on to pursue modern studies, he felt no envy toward them; he dogmatically believed that those who read English books merely succumbed to moral laxity, and he would sneer at the friends who had struggled through such studies and supposedly become wiser than himself.
He held the view that his friends were no less foolish after they had gained the ability to read English books than they had been before. He looked askance at friends who advanced daily with the tide of civilization, while he himself continued to read Han Fei just as before. Kin’ya held him in deep respect; his stubbornness was not a trait that Kin’ya disliked. Kin’ya’s grandfather regarded him as a teacher in the truest sense of the word,a man to whom he should entrust his life’s course. Indeed, he was a man who would never betray a friend; under no circumstances could he bring himself to break his word.
His family was by no means poor among the warrior class; indeed, they owned a respectable amount of land. At the northern edge of the village lay a pond that served as a water reservoir, and his home stood beside it, enclosed by a hedge. In the pristine garden grew a single pine tree that seemed to constantly produce the whispering, zither-like sound of the wind. He lived there with only his parents and a younger sister, a girl who was the very flower of the village. He would open the study that faced the pond, allowing the clear, resonant sound of his reading aloud to drift outside. Kin’ya was frequently invited to visit his home, and from summer through autumn, he would wander over night after night to watch the fireflies flitting above the water. Although his friend was seven or eight years his senior, he was a man who treated everyone equally and without a shred of discrimination; he regarded Kin’ya simply as an ordinary friend, never once assuming the air of a mentor.
He was far too modest to speak of his own merits; he considered himself to have no rival in the village, yet he never stooped to the folly of boasting about his modest learning. Believing that his natural character was sufficient to distinguish him among others, he felt no need for ostentatious attire. When with children, he was like a child; when conversing with the young, he was like a young man; and when speaking with the elderly, he was like an elder. There are a few anecdotes that illustrate this distinctive quality of his. On one occasion, a certain man from the capital arrived in Umeoka and, having alighted, began composing poetry; suddenly, a young student appeared from nowhere and engaged him in a discussion on verse, even arguing that coltsfoot was not the same as butterbur, thereby humbling the poet who had been so proud of his own expertise. No one knew who the student was at the time, but it was later revealed to be him.
When Mr. Sata Kaiseki arrived and began advocating the geocentric theory, he would frequently make the long round-trip journey of three miles to attend Mr. Sata’s lectures; he deeply endorsed the theory and held the man himself in high regard, continuing to exchange letters and share views even after Mr. Sata had departed. He never used a Western-style umbrella, nor did he ever wear a formal frock coat. (March 31, 1893)
Chapter 3.
Nature and Humanity, how vast the gulf between them! While humans pant under the heavy burden of existence, why does Nature display such beauty? Where a single thread of destiny stirs, a sense of sorrow inevitably arises; yet why do the mountains smile and the waters beckon with such charm? Consider the birds of spring, flitting from branch to branch and forest to forest, pouring forth their heaven-sent melodies, and then consider humanity, whose tear-stained cheeks never truly dry. How is it that we breathe the same universe? Oh, Great Creator, did You fashion Nature to mock humanity with a cold smile, or did You fashion humanity to envy Nature?
In my youth, I often wandered the hills that curve around the southern edge of this village. What still rises clearly in my memory is a hamlet where wisps of smoke curled gently into the air. Climb the hills and look to the right, and Mount Fuji stands towering amidst the surrounding peaks, its summit crowned with snow. Ever since Kakinomoto no Hitomaro sang of gazing up at the vast heavens, where the light of the passing sun is obscured and the glow of the moon is hidden, how often has Mount Fuji served as a subject for our poets? A legacy of the time when the mountain spewed forth fire and terrified the primitive folk remains here in the village in the form of the Asama Shrine. In an age when all things in nature were believed to possess a divine will and emotion, how powerfully must this sacred mountain, combining an aspect of majestic solemnity with that of fiery wrath, have held sway over the human heart?
The veil of mystic reverie has been cast aside, and those who once worshipped her have lost that sense of awe; her height cannot be measured by trigonometry, nor her nature fathomed by the geologist. Yet, can the ocean truly be measured by a dipper? From Lyell to Huxley, humanity has sought to interpret nature through observation and logic, yet nature remains an enigma. Though Mount Fuji is no longer worshipped as a deity, the secrets it harbors remain inviolate; and while the age of prophets, like the age of revering sacred peaks, may never return, the spirit of nature lives on within the mountain, bestowing inspiration upon all who gaze upon it.
I cannot fully articulate the emotions I feel toward Mount Fuji; yet, when I step out of the schoolhouse weary from my studies and gaze upon that majestic peak exhaling clouds, I instantly feel my headache vanish. When I am overwhelmed by countless vexing cares, so burdened I can barely hold up my head, I need only lift my eyes to see it standing serenely against the sky; then, I feel as though I am silently riding the clouds, wandering alongside immortals and looking down upon the misty world of men. Its image is reflected in the hearts of farmers shouldering their loads as they hurry home, soothing their toil; it grants a sense of wonder to children catching fish in murky waters, touching the beautiful chords of their souls. An old saying goes that no beauties are to be found in the thirteen provinces from which Fuji is visible, for when the mountain towers high, the moon appears small. Before the grandeur of nature, and especially before Mount Fuji, in which nature has concentrated all its beauty, it is only natural that any human presence should pale into insignificance.
Directly in front of the hills lies the village of Hei; at its western boundary stands a grove of pines, and the “Shin-zuka” (Monkey Mound) located at the foot of the slope is the very spot where villagers would come to see off departing friends or welcome arriving guests. A single narrow road winds and twists, threading its way through other hamlets to connect this village with Shizuoka. Fuchu Castle, where a great hero once enjoyed his retirement, looms discreetly amidst the townscape, while Mount Shizuhata, celebrated in the Man’yōshū for the cries of its deer, towers behind the castle. To the left, beyond the vast, sandy expanse and long stretch of the Abe River, the peaks of Tokugan-ji and Ōkuzure come into view. Long ago, as I crossed the long bridge over the Abe River on horseback and gazed up at the mountains ahead, it being the start of summer, with Kirishima azaleas blooming in wild profusion, I found myself reciting the verse about trees in the deep mountains whose true nature remains unknown; it was these very mountains that inspired those words.
How did people live in this village, so remarkably endowed with natural beauty? It was not only his friend, who sacrificed his own desires solely to support his family, who endured the bitter hardships of life; Kin’ya, too, had plunged into an even more terrifying abyss. The stars were strewn across the sky, yet the human heart held sway. What was the abyss into which Kin’ya had fallen? It was the ‘anniversary of his father’s death’, he was tormented by the memory of the father he had once welcomed with joy. The reader can surely surmise that the son of a wealthy man who led a sober, upright life and a prodigal son cast out from his home would find it difficult to reconcile their temperaments. One can only imagine the agony of an upright child suffering under a profligate father in a society where paternal authority was generally absolute; that is the agony Kin’ya had now begun to endure. (April 1, 1893)
Chapter 4
How many tears have been swallowed by the world because of this ‘catastrophe’? It is a gaping abyss in human life; a household that falls into it becomes the most wretched on earth. Even a new, warm home, once visited by this scourge, is instantly transformed into a bed of needles. Innocent, rosy faces are ravaged by it; the bright, spirited voices of loved ones suddenly lose their lustre, turning into dry, lifeless, and hollow sounds, such is the havoc it wreaks upon the world. A noble prince left his palace to wander in exile because his countenance displeased his royal father, causing him to lose his father’s love. A mighty giant of the world mobilized armies and built hills of corpses, all because that same countenance had inflamed his wrath.
‘The Curse of Ennui’, ennui is a poison to life; it muddies the pure stream of existence, turning it black at the source. It causes the flower of life to wither and fall to the earth.
Human temptations are not necessarily things impossible to withstand. Even when poverty cuts to the bone, it does not poison the spirit; one can still find quiet joy in the heavens, even if lacking a day’s bread. Though slander and ill repute may hem one in on all sides, one can endure them in silence. Yet, when one falls under the assault of ‘ennui’, the battle is not against an external foe but a war within the spirit; the suffering and misery it brings are enough to drive any mind to ruin. As the young Goethe wrote, and as the poets of old sang, this world is in a sense a vast, arid plain, monotonous and unchanging, a place that drives one to the brink of unbearable boredom. When ‘home’ that ultimate sanctuary of rest, transforms into a den of ‘ennui’, what, then, must be the agony of the man himself?
One shrinks from even imagining such a wretched scene, let alone writing about it. Yet, given that such ‘homes’ for the destitute truly exist in this world, I have no choice but to depict this reality and appeal to the compassion of the public. Shuntarō returned just as he had always been; the passage of more than twenty years had taught him nothing. He felt not a shred of affection or respect for the father who had disowned him, for his father had bequeathed the family estate to Kin’ya rather than to him, treated him as if he did not exist, and appointed a separate guardian to oversee matters. It was, of course, only natural for his father to treat Shuntarō this way. A life of vagrancy had only made him increasingly reckless with money and dissolute in his conduct. His capacity for alcohol grew with the years, and he developed a habit of flying into a violent rage whenever he drank.
Shuntarō’s feelings toward Kin’ya could not be measured by the ordinary standards of the father-son bond. Kin’ya expected Shuntarō to act like a typical father, yet Shuntarō found himself unable to view Kin’ya as a father normally views his son. How could he possibly regard with the same affection a child born to the woman whose death he had caused through his own coldness, a child he had neglected for over twenty years, as he did the child he had raised with his own hands? Moreover, Kin’ya’s temperament, stern and solemn, much like his grandfather’s, was the polar opposite of Shuntarō’s own dissolute nature. To make matters worse, Kin’ya stood as the head of the household, backed by other guardians, while Shuntarō, the father, was relegated to the position of a mere guest. It is hardly surprising, then, that an awkward, misty estrangement had settled between father and son.
Confucian principles held a deep sway over Kin’ya’s mind. He had been taught that a father possessed absolute authority over his son; thus, when he welcomed his father back to the village, he wished to have him take over the management of the estate from his grandfather, and he first consulted the family guardian about the matter. The elderly guardian, however, shook his head. “There is something about your father’s conduct that makes it difficult to feel at ease,” he said. “If you were to turn the family affairs over to him, the estate your grandfather entrusted to you would likely not remain secure. While I do not question your filial devotion, you owe more to your grandfather than to your father, and the ancestral home is more important than the man himself. For the sake of the spirits of the Sakata ancestors, I cannot agree to your proposal.” Yet, Kin’ya was not satisfied with this counsel.
“Even if my father has committed a wrong, this family estate is rightfully his to hold; and as I am his son, it would be an act of grave impropriety for me to usurp his position and take control of the household. No matter how precious the family fortune may be, it is something that naturally accumulates and disperses over time; the fundamental bond between father and son, however, is immutable. How could I possibly contest this?” He planned to leave a letter and abandon his home. Yet, even as he harboured these thoughts, he came to realize the error of his reasoning. (April 2, 1893)
Chapter 5
O poets who sang of and depicted filial sons and loyal retainers; who portrayed blissful households and gentle mothers-in-law; who sang for the sake of prosperity and the ordinary bonds of human relationships, why do you fail to see the other side of life? Do you not know that there are tyrants within the home? Do you not realize that despotic rulers, far more intolerable than Charles I, still exist in this world? You, who vindicated Cromwell for resisting an oppressive monarch and cast a brilliant, towering light upon the causes of liberty and humanity, why do you not utter a single word for the child who suffers under an oppressive, cruel father, whose heaven-sent conscience is stifled, and who has nowhere to turn for redress?
In this world, there are many who add flowers to brocade, lavishing praise upon the already successful, yet few who bring charcoal in the snow, offering aid to those in dire need. Many flock to the wealthy, while few inquire after those in distress; is this not one of the great injustices of human existence? A father’s tyranny and the gross inequity within the family, these are things found everywhere. Yet, why do people pointlessly demand filial obedience while failing to challenge a father’s unreasonable conduct? Why do they insist on absolute submission from the child while tolerating the father’s arbitrary exercise of power? There is no social sanction more unfair than this. The notion that one must accept masters and parents as inevitably unreasonable, is this truly a maxim to be followed as an absolute truth, or is it merely a pretext for the strong to oppress the weak?
How many young women have been buried in misery after their fathers thwarted their romances? How many ill-fated unions were forged simply because the couple was driven to it by a father’s interference? How many brilliant minds saw their potential stunted by a father’s misguided prejudices? I have wept upon hearing of those who sold their bodies because of their fathers, and I have felt bitter indignation upon learning of those forced to sever ties with the women they loved most. Are there not many young women who sacrifice even their virtue to satisfy their fathers’ craving for alcohol? Yet, society remains indifferent to this plight. Why does society look on with cold indifference as, day after day, hundreds or even thousands of uneducated young people surrender themselves to the selfish desires of abusive fathers?
When shall the era of ruling others by force pass away? When shall the era of governing through virtue arrive? When shall the age of commanding others give way to an age of serving them with love? Should not love and command be one and the same? Love is warm; it seeks the well-being of others. Command is cold; it seeks one’s own gain. Is there any love in the heart of a father who, priding himself on his position, treats his child as a slave? Is it wrong for the mistreated to harbor resentment? Is it right for the oppressor to feel anger? Oh, unjust society, we cannot help but be incensed by your lack of discernment.
Kin’ya recognized that he could not possibly turn the family estate over to his father; for his own conduct was far from exemplary, and were he to transfer the estate, his father would immediately squander it. Kin’ya deliberated on the matter within himself and reached a conclusion: to let his father ruin the family would be to saddle him with a shameful reputation, an act of filial impiety. He resolved that, until his father changed his ways, he must absolutely refuse to hand over the estate. Even the prodigal son has a pretext for his behaviour: he uses his dissatisfaction with his family or society as an excuse to indulge in drink and carnal pleasures. Yet, his immorality plunges him into an even more wretched state, driving him to ever-greater depths of dissipation. Does the prodigal truly take pleasure in his own immorality? Rather, he drinks to escape the stinging pangs of conscience; the alcohol leads him to commit further transgressions, which in turn torment his conscience more severely, until finally, he kills his conscience altogether. A nameless conflict rages within their hearts.
His father regarded Kin’ya as cold-hearted toward him; at times, he would tearfully complain to his doting mother about the harsh treatment he received from his own son. When angered, he would remain silent all day, then leave the house at dusk to spend time in Shizuoka. He would squander his days, sometimes a week or ten days, in disreputable haunts, sending someone home to demand money before eventually returning in a dazed state. Each time, Kin’ya would open his purse, albeit reluctantly, without uttering a word of complaint. When drunk, his father would pick unreasonable quarrels with Kin’ya, yet Kin’ya never defied him, simply obeying in silence. Observing this behaviour, his father would call him a “frightening fellow,” never once truly understanding his son’s intentions. The Sakata family fortune dwindled steadily, like a stone rolling down a mountainside, yet Kin’ya remained utterly submissive to his father. (April 6, 1893)
Chapter 5
A ‘Liangshan Marsh’, a sanctuary for the defiant, can exist anywhere; it is found in a world of injustice where the faces of men shift between high and low, and human sentiments fluctuate between cold and warm. It is a refuge for those who, finding no outlet for their anguish when court politics are in disarray, justice has vanished, and petty men run rampant while the times go increasingly awry, are compelled to carve out a separate world of their own. There, they dwell with kindred spirits, stalwarts who look upon the established order with cold disdain. Surely, such figures are not limited to the heroes of Water Margin alone.
Consider the poem by Li Bai: ‘You ask why I dwell in the emerald mountains; I smile and offer no reply, yet my heart is at peace. Peach blossoms drift upon the flowing waters, carrying their fragrance away; here lies a separate world, apart from the realm of men.’ Li Bai lived in an era following the Tianbao period, a time when the way of the petty man flourished while the way of the noble man declined. Unable to bear the weight of his concern for the sovereign and his love for the world, he turned to wine and wandered the rivers. Was this ‘separate world of peach blossoms and flowing waters’ not, in essence, Li Bai’s own Liangshan Marsh? And what of Byron, who declared that while he did not love mankind less, he loved Nature more? Was his Liangshan Marsh not found in Nature itself?
Man is a creature that seeks a kindred spirit; if he cannot find one at home, he seeks it among others; if he cannot find it among the living, he seeks it in nature; if he cannot find it in the present, he seeks it in the ancients.
Kin’ya would open his purse strings whenever the occasion demanded, never once uttering a complaint. When the man drank, he would often pick quarrels with Kinya and make unreasonable demands, yet Kin’ya never defied him, simply remaining silent and complying. Observing Kin’ya’s behaviour, the man would call him a terrifying fellow, never once truly understanding his heart. The Sakata family fortune dwindled away, much like a stone rolling down a mountainside, yet Kin’ya remained utterly obedient to his father. (April 6)
Humans are beings who seek a kindred spirit. If they cannot find one within the home, they seek it in the outside world; if not among the living, they seek it in nature; if not in the present age, they seek it in the ancients; and if not in reality, they seek it in imagination. Those lacking wise elders seek good friends; those lacking friends seek them in biographies. The monk of Narabi-ga-oka made the ancients his companions beneath the dim lamplight; Confucius dreamed of the Duke of Zhou; and Tao Yuanming, gazing at clouds drifting from the mountain peaks, was moved to a state of profound serenity where he forgot his very self. Is this not a matter of sympathy, a communion of souls? Without this, a person could not survive for even a single day. And yet, one cannot simply remain forever at Liangshan Marsh.
The elementary school in the village is an impressive structure by local standards. It was built after the prefectural governor, two predecessors before the current incumbent, toured the countryside and encouraged the villagers to undertake the project. Although there were initially many complaints and arguments that the building was far too extravagant for the village’s economy, the school’s benefits have since become widely recognized; the villagers, otherwise frugal in all matters, are now so diligent that there is not a single case of unpaid school fees. This elementary school serves not merely as a place of learning; it is the venue for village council meetings, public speeches, and agricultural exhibitions, effectively functioning as both the village assembly hall and a public meeting place. Indeed, it was only after the school was built that the villagers first learned of the very concept of public speaking. Ambitious young men from the area would gather there once a month to hold debates. A teacher, a friend of Kin’ya mentioned earlier, naturally assumed the role of association president, and Kin’ya himself was a member. Kin’ya found great solace here; it was a place where he could heal the emotional wounds he had suffered at home. How deeply it must have revived their spirits to cast off the worldly cares of the moment and converse with a kindred soul, and all the more so given the president’s keen powers of observation and his skilful conversation, which afforded a delight beyond words.
Can the discussion groups of village youths be lightly dismissed? It is here that the sound judgment of the entire community finds expression. If properly nurtured, they could produce heroes capable of moving the world. As Gray sang, there may be those possessing the genius of a Milton or the capability of a Cromwell who, for lack of opportunity and cultivation, remain ‘mute inglorious’ figures; just as a beauty born in a remote hamlet remains unknown until fate guides her to the bustling streets of the wider world. How, then, could one look down upon rural discussion groups? (April 8, 1893)
A person’s actions reveal their aspirations. When spring arrives, the wild geese depart; when the moon is full, the festival rites subside; every single movement of a person is a manifestation of their inner spirit. If one observes a child spending much time wandering outside while rarely staying at home, one must surely consider the underlying cause. Why do so many rural youths flock to the cities? Why do promising young men fail to rise to the ranks of officialdom? If there is a happy ‘home’, if the household holds true joy, and the father is benevolent while the mother is wise, who would ever seek their happiness elsewhere?
Plants growing in the shade of objects will creep toward the sunlight; likewise, people naturally gravitate toward places that are warm and free.
Kin’ya spent increasingly less time at home. Villagers would often see him gazing at the setting sun from beneath the willows, his face pensive and veiled in haze. He would stand there counting the fish in the stream or watching birds rise from the marsh, lost in a daze as if he had forgotten everything. At times, he would let out a long, resonant cry that startled the young girls out cutting grass; he seemed like a dreamer, seemingly unaware of his own actions. On the rare occasions he did stay indoors, he would simply drift in a drowsy, listless slumber.
Yet, the moment he arrived at the debate venue, he would shake off his dazed air; a light would return to his eyes and colour to his cheeks. The members often wondered why he seemed so full of vitality only at these gatherings. There was no need for wonder, however; it was only here, in this innocent and unpretentious assembly, that he could truly be himself. Only here was he free from the sensation of a sword-point piercing his heart. In truth, the pursuit of pleasure in the pleasure quarters was not for him. His only solace lay in the company of friends; it was only among them that he could find joy. Just as an ordinary man might drink to dispel his brooding melancholy, he would come here to unburden his heart.
He would often retreat to the deep mountains, a sanctuary for his soul, and there, he honed his talents for debate and oratory. As the night deepened and the gatherings dispersed, he would remain behind with the president, conversing on a wide range of topics until the moonlight signalled it was time to depart. He confided his innermost thoughts only to the president; only the president knew his secrets. The president, in turn, offered him deep sympathy.
A poem by Li Bai reads: ‘One kindred spirit departs, and suddenly Chang’an feels empty.’ The warmth of a friend is the sole haven for a troubled soul. In a life that can resemble a desert, a life fraught with sorrow, if there is but one person who loves me, I do not feel the emptiness of the world. Oh skeptics, oh cold-hearted souls: do not doubt that there are those who would die for their friends. In the journey of life, a friend is my very existence, my world, my joy.
The chairman spoke: “You must strive to be like the sage-king Shun; you must not be content merely with a father and mother who are like those of Wu. There is no greater satisfaction in life than to learn from the sages; you must find contentment in your present state.” (April 9, 1893)
Chapter 6
A Singular Tale of Love
There are joys to be found even in this fleeting world; flowers bloom even in the thicket. Thus, the tender sprout of love found its way into the life of the pitiable Kin’ya. His love was never a frivolous thing. Being of such a shy nature that a mere word from a lovely young woman would cause a crimson flush to spread across his face, he was incapable of taking the initiative in romance. He did not pursue love, yet love pursued him; he did not go forth to seek it, yet it came to him.
I cannot truly recount the tale of their romance. How did that refined, educated young woman come to love him? And how did she come to make her advances? The path a snake takes and the path a woman follows to draw near a man are mysteries beyond my understanding; I shall simply relate the details as I heard them, without vouching for their veracity.
As I have noted elsewhere, the association president’s younger sister was the village beauty. She was far more stylish and modern in her sensibilities than her brother, and consequently, she counted many like-minded, modern young women among her friends. The refined, educated young woman in question was one of these friends, a resident of Shizuoka, who would frequently visit her, sometimes staying overnight for a night or two.
The young woman scholar possessed a complexion of striking fairness and cool, clear eyes; with her abundant, jet-black hair, she was a natural beauty. She rarely smiled, appearing instead as though deep in thought. Whenever the young men of the village encountered her, they marvelled at her composed demeanour; some remarked that she was truly a scholar, while others speculated that she carried some hidden sorrow. Kin’ya first saw her at the association president’s house, though they did not exchange a single word. Later, he met her on the road, where they exchanged silent nods of greeting. He subsequently encountered her three more times at the president’s house; on these occasions, they conversed, albeit sparingly. One evening, a letter from Shizuoka arrived for Kin’\’ya, and he read it in the privacy of his room. He immediately penned a reply and posted it. Shortly thereafter, he skipped a scheduled discussion meeting and travelled to Shizuoka.
His friends remarked that his behaviour had changed somewhat, while his household assumed the young master had simply taken up a life of amusement because home had lost its appeal. In truth, however, the outlook for Kin’ya’s future was far from bleak; he had expressed his gratitude for her affection, yet, explaining that his circumstances made it impossible for him to take a wife at that moment, he asked her to give up the idea. She did not doubt his words in the slightest, for she believed him incapable of falsehood. Nevertheless, she pleaded with him to explain the reasons in greater detail, to which he replied that it was a private family matter and he did not wish to speak of it.
She smiled and said, “As for your family affairs, I have heard the details from a certain acquaintance of yours; since he trusted me, he revealed all your secrets. The more I learned of your circumstances, the deeper my love for you grew. It is difficult for a man who has never known hardship to become a true gentleman; he who endures suffering in his youth shall find happiness in his old age. I do not ask to marry you this very moment; I only wish to pledge our future together.” Kin’ya acceded to her earnest request. From that time on, Kin’ya’s heart underwent a complete transformation; the bleak world around him now greeted him with smiles. It had been nothing more than a dream. (April 12, 1893)
A singular tale of love: sexual inclinations sometimes reveal one’s destiny. The pensive look upon the young female scholar’s face stemmed from the inescapable law of heredity, a burden of suffering inherited from her ancestors (a suffering she, too, was destined to feel). Yet, she remained unaware of this. Her father had died while she was still a child, too young to understand the ways of the world. Her mother spoke little of him. Her relatives, and even the talkative old women who frequented the household, would fall silent whenever the subject of her father arose. For a long time, she found this strange. However, as each day brought its own tasks leaving no leisure for deep reflection, the question she had once resolved to investigate was repeatedly postponed, ultimately remaining an unsolved riddle.
Happy is the person who does not know their own station. Just as a creature dwelling in the mire finds contentment there because it is unaware of its own stench, she long remained ignorant of her household’s secret. She could not see the ominous cloud that hung over the roof of her home. And so, she was happy.
At last, the secret scroll was unrolled. She was cast down from the heavenly paradise into a terrifying hell. She, who until then had cherished the same hopes as any other maiden, now beheld a future fate more wretched even than that of Lazarus; she shuddered as she pictured her destiny in her mind. She was seized by a terror so profound it seemed her very limbs might fall away. During the three days that the secret remained known, she was brought to the brink of death. Her pleasant dreams turned into nightmares. The beauty who had once frolicked amidst the blossoms with her lover now saw herself as a wretched beggar, illuminated against a vast, desolate wilderness of white pampas grass. She was mocked, scorned, and shunned by all; the foul stench of the beggar’s breath seemed to press against her very eyelids. From that time on, haunted by nightmares, she scarcely knew a single night of truly restful sleep. It was a mercy that she did not lose her sanity.
Amidst a raging storm of fury, the utmost composure was required; as her home was subjected to repeated assaults, a certain stoic temperament naturally took root within the household. Her calm demeanour truly demonstrated the strength of her will; from the depths of utter despair, she summoned the courage to resist. Just as a valiant hero might plant a standard amidst a routed army to rally allies, her quiet fortitude ultimately prevented her from succumbing to madness.
Yet, at the same time, she grew cold. The love that once seemed like a flower now appeared to her as mere ash. Life, which had once been delightful, turned desolate. Things that had once felt warm now seemed cold. Her demeanour underwent a complete transformation; the lovely maiden became like a Zen monk. She could not bring herself to break ties with Kin’ya, though she had wished to do so many times. She felt it was her duty to sever the relationship. Yet, a lingering emotion, like a faint glow within the ashes, clung to her, preventing her from letting go. To break it off, or not? To confess the shameful disparity in their social standing, or to remain silent and thereby taint his bloodline? A conflict between duty and emotion raged within her heart. Ultimately, however, she made her final decision. She sent him a letter confessing that she had to end their relationship. Upon receiving it, he was plunged into deep despair. (April 14, 1893)
Chapter 7
Education – (The Key Lies in Two Words: ‘Opening’ and ‘Closing’).
Guanzi stated that the four classes of people should not be allowed to intermingle; for if they mix, their words lose weight and their pursuits become unstable. It was precisely this single strategy that enabled the State of Qi, during the Spring and Autumn period, to transform itself into a massive unified force and dominate the realm. Yet, directing the public mind toward a single path carries both immense benefit and immense harm. The secret of education lies in two words: ‘Opening’ and ‘Closing.’ To ‘open’ means to sharpen the human mind and provide the key to enter the gateways of various endeavours. It is like a craftsman’s son turning away from the well-worn path his father trod to enter the business world, casting aside the axe to take up the abacus. It is like a politician’s son turning his gaze toward the economy, focusing intently on railway stock prices while his father is preoccupied with the heated debates and strategic manoeuvrers of the Diet. It is like a barefoot newsboy resolving to become a literary giant. All these are the effects of education opening their eyes and revealing a world beyond the one inhabited by their forebears.
Heaven and earth are boundless, and human life is limitless; if one views the world with discerning eyes, one can forge one’s own destiny wherever one goes. Even the child of the wind can master the art of acrobatics through training, a skill sufficient to provide a livelihood for a lifetime. I once had a realization while riding a stagecoach from Numazu to Mishima. Having lived in the Suruga region for twenty years, I was intimately familiar with its history and its people, regarding myself as a living chronicle of Suruga. Yet, as I listened to the conversations of my fellow passengers, I heard them speak of a certain man as the foremost merchant in the province, a man whose name I did not even recognize. They spoke of another as the area’s wealthiest tycoon, yet I had never heard of him either. I was struck by a profound sense of humility. I realized that I knew only a handful of officials, scholars, and, perhaps, politicians. The universe is like a ball bound by countless threads; we perceive but a single strand of that web. True education is that which cultivates the human spirit and reveals the various paths one may choose in life. Thus, education expands one’s horizons; and by expanding those horizons, it enables one to discover the position best suited to oneself. Yet, the education found in the world today seems to run counter to this very purpose. Just as water used for washing leaves behind a residue, Zen ensnares the individual in Zen, and Confucianism traps them in Confucianism, confining their vibrant, living souls to a single, narrow path.
It has been said that had Torio Koyata not devoted himself to the study of Buddhism, he might have become an even finer figure; similarly, had Rai San’yo not fixated so intently on literary composition, he might have become a historian free from the kind of errors that drew rebukes from Taguchi Ukichi. Had one not immersed oneself in the study of ancient scripts, one might have made far greater contributions to the literary world. To plunge headlong into one pursuit is inevitably to neglect others. In this sense, education enslaves a person; it narrows the vision, which ought to be capable of turning in all directions, to a single point. This is what I call ‘confinement.’ I wish to discuss a figure whose potential was stifled by education, ultimately leading him to a perilous fate, and to bring this matter to the attention of the discerning. (April 15)
Regarding why I ceased writing the manuscript for Life: A visitor once reproached me, asking why I did not write a sequel to Life. The truth is, I could not bring myself to write it, nor could I bear to face the repercussions. I had many friends, yet, unhappily, two or three of them fell afoul of the law. ‘A’ had a propensity for theft since childhood, whether one calls it a habit or an illness, the fact remains that his father suffered from the same affliction. He deceived his friends with various ruses and was consequently shunned by them. He had several younger sisters; the eldest possessed a beauty captivating enough to bewitch any man. Yet, after enduring various twists of fate and sinking ever deeper into depravity, she eventually became a courtesan, only to have her lovely life cut short when a man she had deceived pierced her chest with a blade. ‘B’ was an incredibly innocent child, but after the mother who doted on him passed away, he was raised by others; later, after entering the army and stealing another’s property, he was sent to the penal colony at Ishikawajima, where he spent bitter days and months in confinement.
Hei was a talented man from his hometown and a newspaper reporter, but he compromised his principles and changed his path; after being dismissed from his post for defying a superior, he left his hometown, and nothing was heard of him for a long time, though later, word had it that he had once been served a meal consisting of four parts rice to six parts barley.
What caused him the deepest sorrow, however, was the fate of the political partisans who were rounded up en masse in what came to be known as the ‘Shizuoka Incident’. Having had occasion to familiarize myself with the details of their alleged offenses, I, far from wishing to curry favour with them or absolve them of blame, must acknowledge the facts: they had indeed committed robbery and lived lives of debauchery. Yet, can there be no underlying reason for what drove them to such extremes? To look merely at the outward appearances and immediately rush to condemn them is something no person of true human feeling could bear to do. I knew three individuals among the group involved in the ‘Shizuoka Incident’ particularly well. One was a brilliant young teacher at the elementary school he attended; later, this man joined a society we had formed for academic research, where we engaged in spirited debate together. Another was a certain lawyer and political commentator; he sat next to my friend at a lecture where a Bachelor of Arts named Ichiro Yamada was speaking about the organization of the Constitutional Reform Party, and whispered to him, “Yamada is talking about outdated ideas.”
Another of them had studied the punctuation and parsing of Chinese classics under a relative of mine and was renowned as a brilliant scholar. All three were young men of great promise, men with whom I had hoped to join forces and accomplish something meaningful. Yet, they all committed robbery; they all faced legal judgment without a single extenuating circumstance to plead in their defence. Though there may have been no such mitigating factors to cite, a close examination of the paths their lives had taken reveals that they were driven to this pass by pressures that were all but inevitable. Do you not know of the rice plant that grows tall but fails to bear grain, its stalk hollowed out by a worm from within? I knew that one of them had suffered greatly because of a wretched home life; his father, a dissolute and wayward man, had abandoned him, his mother, and his sister during his childhood and fled to Tokyo.
Upon his arrest, he wrote to his father asking him to look after his mother and sister, but his father refused. His sister, a bright schoolgirl, the belle of the community, and an idol to the local young men, had eloped with a craftsman; how, in such a ‘home’ environment, could one expect the healthy development of character? I know little else about the man, though I possess fragmentary knowledge regarding them. When I consider the whole picture, I find myself condemning not so much them as the society and family that lured them into this state. Just as human faces resemble one another, so too do human hearts; is it likely that my friend alone is a fool while the rest of the world is wise? It is simply that they were not nurtured in the proper way. I had hoped to capture this story and perhaps garner some public sympathy, but alas, my pen failed to match my intent, which is why I have discontinued the piece. Even had I succeeded in writing it, I lack the boldness to expose a late friend’s secrets to the world; thus, I was bound to abandon the manuscript regardless. The classic text says: “Do not hesitate to correct your errors.” I ask for the reader’s understanding. (May 20, 1893)
