This essay was written by Yamaji Heishirō and published in Waseda Kōron in June 1965.
……….
I was the youngest of five siblings, and I lost my father in the spring when I was thirteen. That was a long time ago, how much could I possibly remember? My own direct impressions have become blurred and hazy, mingled with stories I heard later from my mother and others. In the years since, as I read my father’s books, there were moments when I realized, “Ah, so that is what that was all about.” Be that as it may, the only two people left who can speak of my father are myself and my second-eldest brother, who is three years my senior.
It seems the Yamaji household was not a place where daughters thrived; my second-eldest sister passed away within ten days of her birth, and my eldest sister, Yayoi, died not long after she married. My eldest brother, Kanazō, might still be remembered by some of his old colleagues from his days as a newspaper reporter. He possessed a heart that was guileless and innocent, at times almost childlike or petulant, and he was entirely devoid of any trace of malice or spite. Like his grandfather, he sought out an unconventional life, only to meet his end in misfortune. Some years ago, Shimozawa Kan mentioned my eldest brother in one of his essays. A friend sent me the magazine containing the piece, which included a note: “Kin-chan, if you happen to read this, please do get in touch.” I was deeply moved by the author’s heartfelt concern for his old friend, but by then, my eldest brother had already passed away. I intended to write back to express my gratitude and share the news of his death, but, regrettably, I never did. To this day, I feel a sense of remorse and guilt for that failure.
My second brother, Hisaburō, was also not the type to fit into any conventional mould. He lived a rather wild and turbulent life, constantly defying expectations, but he has since settled down and now works for a newspaper in Osaka. Mr. Nakamura Taishinro, a former friend of my father’s, once remarked on the three Yamaji brothers: “The eldest is the most ‘eccentric’, he ended up completely outside the bounds of conventional society. The second brother comes next; he’s walked a precarious path, yet he’s managed to make a living as a newspaper reporter.” I once heard from someone else that my father, being the youngest in his family, had ended up working as a schoolteacher, and I found myself thinking, “That makes perfect sense; that’s exactly how it would be.” My only surviving older brother was just sixteen when our father passed away. In terms of actual memories of our father, he and I are much the same, there is little to distinguish between us. Thus, my current endeavour, tracing back through distant memories to write about my father, is, in a sense, a task that could not have been undertaken by anyone else.
I do not recall ever being scolded by my father. Perhaps it was because I was the youngest, but the same was true for my older brothers and sisters. In a memorial piece written about my father, Professor Uchiyama noted that he was ‘kind and gentle, and his children all regarded him as a friend’, a description that can be taken quite literally. The only time my father would ever offer anything resembling a sermon was once a year, on New Year’s Day. On such occasions, my father would display portraits of our ancestors, such as Saisuke Tokufu, Chikuzaemon Morotoki, and Kinnojo Akitsune in the tokonoma alcove. He would have us children sit properly before them and explain, one by one, who these men were and what they had accomplished. He taught us that the warriors of old considered cowardly behaviour to be the ultimate disgrace, and he admonished us never to act in a cowardly manner, no matter the circumstances.
Strangely, this left a profound impression on me. Yet this was not because he sought for us to achieve great worldly success or advancement. Years later, my mother recounted a story: someone once asked my father why he had given his sons such plain, simple names. My father replied, “So that they might be suited for any path in life. After all, if a humble shopkeeper, someone who sells simple meals, had an overly grand or imposing name, it might actually hinder his business.” Hearing this, I felt a sense of relief.
My father often told me various stories, most of them about the great heroes and legendary figures of the past. In the preface to Hōtaikō (The Story of Toyotomi Hideyoshi), published in 1909, it is mentioned that the book aims to ‘baptize’ the youth of the nation in the spirit of heroism; perhaps that was my father’s intention as well. I was told stories about the boyhood of Tokugawa Ieyasu time and time again. When he spoke of the ‘stone-throwing battles’ along the banks of the Abe River, he would even ask me, “Which side would you have watched from?”
In those days, boys were avid readers of the Tachikawa Bunko series. According to those books, Ieyasu was a villain, a man plotting to usurp the realm from the Toyotomi clan, who was pursued by the ‘Ten Braves of Sanada’ and forced to flee for his life; his reputation in those tales was abysmal. I, however, would take up the cause, fighting a lonely battle to defend Ieyasu and plead his case. My enduring impression of my father from my boyhood is that he lived by a simple, robust philosophy: read well, write well, sleep well, and eat well. A world map was tacked to the wall of the bathroom, and my father would gaze at it at his leisure. I recall how Shizuki Katsumi, a man from Shizuoka University who passed away some years ago, once spotted a note beside the map that read, “Fu-chan, stop your mischief!” and made it the talk of the entire elementary school; I was quite mortified at the time. My father loved a lukewarm bath, he would slip in just as the water was beginning to heat up and soak for a long while, and he would invariably bring a book with him, muttering to himself as he read. It seems these moments were his most cherished times.
If he wasn’t reading, he was writing. For his notes, he used handmade booklets, sheets of kairyō-washi (improved Japanese paper) cut into eighths and joined at three points with paper strips—and he would fill them densely with writing using a mame-fude (a tiny brush pen) that he had sent from Shizuoka, a tool he had been accustomed to using since childhood. His handwriting was so minuscule and difficult to decipher that, as Professor Sojo once remarked with a sigh, “The characters he records are so tiny and complex that no one else can make them out.” Upon seeing his work, someone once remarked that Aizan-san must have had something wrong with his eyes, but it wasn’t just his eyes; contrary to his rugged appearance, he was, in fact, remarkably dexterous. He was particularly skilled at making koyori (twisted paper strings), a craft he used to rely on for extra income during times of poverty. He once boasted with a laugh that he was quite adept at making them. He would also produce neat, detailed sketches of exhibits he had seen at museums. Discovering these later, I felt as though I had caught a glimpse of a different side of my father.
He wrote with great speed; I recall being taken by my mother to the Somaya shop in Kagurazaka to buy manuscript paper. He used to say that it was faster to write things himself than to hire a stenographer and wait for the work to be transcribed. In the sweltering heat, he would strip to the waist, gulp down water, and, while slapping his own chest to keep a rhythm, set to his writing. Though it seems he took on some truly gruelling writing assignments, I cannot recall a single instance where he failed to appear for the family’s morning meal.
My father did not drink alcohol. Although he was reportedly raised with the maxim, ‘One should drink sake and wield weapons; he who does not drink is no true man,’ he never once touched a cup throughout his entire life. This was not solely because he had converted to Christianity in his youth. His grandfather had attempted to join the Shōgitai (a pro-shogunate militia) but failed; he later followed Enomoto Takeaki to fight at Goryōkaku in Hakodate. Following their defeat, he spent a period as a wanderer, during which he became a heavy drinker, and a belligerent one at that. It is said that witnessing this behaviour firsthand was the reason he abstained. While he did not drink, he was known for his hearty appetite.
Like many people of the Meiji era, my father was particularly fond of tempura; he also enjoyed bonito sashimi, loach soup, and grated yam soup, the latter often topped with dried green seaweed, which would prompt him to ask for multiple helpings. He seemed almost proud of his hearty appetite. Standing just under five feet tall and weighing about 67 kilograms he was, quite literally, short and stout. Because of his prominent belly, he had to tailor his own kimono, adding extra fabric to the front panels to accommodate his girth. As a young child, I assumed his stoutness was simply the result of how much rice he ate; I would gaze at the folds and indentations of his belly, sometimes giving it a playful pat. He would often take me to a restaurant in Komagata, and on the way home, we would stop at a street stall on a corner in Tawaramachi to eat eel liver. As we ate, he would warn me, “Hey, watch out, sometimes a fishhook turns up in these!” When I brought the food home, wrapped up as a souvenir, my mother, upon hearing the whole story, looked displeased; my father, however, just brushed it off, saying, “What does it matter?” On another occasion, a publisher came by and suggested, “Sensei, let’s go get something to eat,” then turned to me, who happened to be there, and asked, “What would you like?” I promptly replied, “Eel livers.” My father burst into laughter and said, “You don’t have to be so specific, just say ‘eel’! Asking for ‘only’ the livers is a bit much.” It is a fond, distant memory.
My father didn’t have any particular hobbies, but he did enjoy shogi (Japanese chess). His usual opponent was a neighbour, Mr. Mizukami Umehiko, a man who tended to get quite absorbed in his interests; he even boasted about having earned a first-dan rank from Ono Gofu in Yurakucho, yet he could never easily defeat my father. That said, my father’s shogi style was remarkably consistent, he would always employ a ‘central rook’ opening and a ‘Mino’ castle so, looking back on it now, he probably wasn’t all that strong.
The place where we lived was 902 Naka-Shibuya, Tanimura, Toyotama District, an address that was later changed to 15 Udagawa. Previously, they had travelled by rickshaw from Azabu Kasumi-cho to the offices of Min’yūsha in Kyōbashi Hiyoshi-chō; however, as the rickshaw fares became quite costly, they decided to move. A new railway station called ‘Tani’ had recently opened between Shinagawa and Shinjuku, and they reasoned that commuting to Shimbashi by train from there would help reduce their travel expenses. This was before the birth of the eldest brother, Kinjirō. At that time, Takekoshi Sansa was already living in Tanimura, and Kunikida Kōho later moved there as well, it was, in effect, a small ‘Min’yūsha village.’
The location was near what is now a freight station, an area that, in those days, was considered the outskirts of town. It is rather charming to note the order in which they settled there: first Sansa, then Aizan, and further in, Kōho. Sansa’s house was situated in the direction of the Yoyogi plains. Turning left at this spot, one finds a small shrine for a Jizo statue atop a cliff on the right. Passing along a dim, shadowed path beneath the cliff, one emerges to see, on the left, a stretch of open rice paddies lying at a lower elevation. Beyond these, a pale, distinct path, leading toward the College of Agriculture, can be seen winding across the rolling, open hills. The Uda River, now enclosed in a culvert, once flowed through these paddies, forming a pool known as “Isezō no Hiraki.” In the warmer months, this pool, filled with water, served as a perfect swimming spot for local children. Originally, this pool had been created to provide the water power necessary to turn a mill wheel for polishing rice.
My father’s house was tucked away slightly back from the nearby road, reached by a narrow, recessed approach, much like a private alleyway, that branched off to the right. It is said that whenever my father was away on business in the provinces, the house was occupied by Mr. Suzuki Umetarō, a rising young scholar from the College of Agriculture. The Neko-ho house was located further along the road toward Yoyogi-Hachiman; one would pass a farmstead called ‘Seimin-ken’ and, just as the path began to reach the open fields of Yoyogi, the house would appear on the right. It stood right beside what is now the ‘Udagawa’ bus stop.
By the time I was old enough to understand the world around me, the Sansa family had already moved away from the valley, but I was told that this was where they had once lived. My father would often take my older brother’s friends along to the Udagawa or Tama rivers, having them scoop up small fish and shrimp, which he would then order to be cooked down into ‘tsukudani’ (preserved, simmered delicacies). When my mother expressed her displeasure, he would declare, with a perfectly straight face, that Japan’s population would eventually grow so large that food would become scarce; he claimed he was merely researching what was edible and what tasted sweet. My mother would just laugh, remarking on how dramatic he was being.
My father had a volatile temper; if someone treated him rudely or unkindly, he would fly into a rage and shout, regardless of where he happened to be. When I accompanied him, I was often left feeling deeply embarrassed or anxious. Yet, at the same time, he was a man of great, tender-hearted vulnerability, he simply could not bring himself to pretend he wasn’t home when someone came to call. Many of the former retainers of the Shogunate had fallen on hard times, and since my father was relatively better off than most, they frequently turned to him for help. Whenever my mother pointed out the strain this placed on our own household finances, he would scold her, insisting that “warriors must look out for one another.” My mother, for her part, was not one to be outdone; she would retort that in this day and age, a piece of dried bonito was worth far more than any so-called ‘warrior’. Whenever such sharp-tongued exchanges occurred, my father, calling her by her name, would declare, “Otane! I’m leaving!” He would then snatch his favourite thick-handled walking stick from the umbrella stand, and, banging it loudly against the gate and anything else in his path, he would storm out. Yet, within an hour, he would return as if nothing had happened, saying, “Otane, I was in the wrong, forgive me.” He would then retreat to his study and, with great diligence, set back to work on his manuscripts.
“Even so, having been born into a life of isolation, lacking support, formal education, and connections, and having fallen into hardship from the very start, he was compelled to sustain not only himself but his family as well. That he should have worn out his own life while toiling in the fields, that was, in the nature of things, perhaps inevitable.” Reading this passage from the preface to the Collected Writings of Aizan penned by Uchiyama Shōzō, I am reminded of such scenes, and I cannot help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love for my father. I had hoped, at the very least, that he might complete his life’s work, A History of the Japanese People. Yet even more gratifying was the noble manner in which he met his end. Thirty minutes before he passed, he recited a farewell poem: “Though this world is one I find so hard to leave, I shall now depart for the realm that existed before I was born.” This is truly what it means to face death with perfect composure. It left a profound impression upon the hearts of us children, a memory that remains as vivid today as if it had happened only yesterday.
