Five Stories by Kunikida Doppo

Author(s): Kunikida Doppo and Jay Rubin

Reviewed work(s):
Source: Monumenta Nipponica, Vol. 27, No. 3 (Autumn, 1972), pp. 273-341
Published by: Sophia University
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/2383917 .
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byKunikidaDoppo
FiveStories
0
GenOji
; AR X
' dt
Hitobito1,
Wasureenu
X A
4
K5gai xP
Sh5jikimonoiE
TakenoKido it

M:

7i

0)

Old Gen
Unforgettable
People
The Suburbs
An HonestMan
The Bamboo Gate

TRANSLATED

BY JAY RUBIN

TRANSLATOR'S

INTRODUCTION

Doppo (1871-1908)was an irregularly

employed
journalistwho publishednearlyeightystoriesbetweentheyears1896
and 1908.His majorwriting
appearedduringthatlongtransitional
ofmodernJapanese
fictionbetweenTsubouchi
periodin thedevelopment
call forartisticfiction,
Sh5setsu
Shoyo's(1859-1935) epoch-making
Shinzui
(The Essenceof the Novel) of 1885, and the suddenriseto prominence
of the firstindisputablymodernJapanese writers,men like Natsume
Soseki (1867-1916), Tayama Katai (1871-1930), and ShimazakiToson
(1872-1943), followingthe Russo-JapaneseWar of 1904-5. In thesetwo
decades of furiousliteraryactivityit was Doppo alone who produceda
coherentbody of matureworksof fictionthatstillspeak to the modern
UNIKIDA

reader.'

This is not to suggestthatDoppo's storieswere consistently

excellent;
even the bestofthemare flawed.But Doppo's are the errorsofa serious
literaryartist.We can evaluate his writingby the degree to which it
fulfilshis intentions.In the case of his contemporaries
it is more often
we call intoquestion.Doppo wrotein an age when
theirveryintentions
an ingeniousplot and an elegant style were the most sought-after
teachesJapaneseLiterature
at Harvard University.
1 Otherworksofthe era important
fortheir
intrinsic literary value include Futabatei
Shimei's (1864-1909) Ukigumo(The Drifting
THE TRANSLATOR

Clouds, 1889), Higuchi Ichiy6's (1872-96)

Takekurabe(Growing Up, 1895-6), Izumi
Ky6ka's (1873-1939) Koya Hzjiri (The K6ya
Priest, 1900), and Nagai Kaful's (1879-1959)
rumeno Onna(The Woman of Dreams, 1903).

274

Monumenta
Nipponica,
XXVII, 3

qualitiesin fiction.Since fewpublisherswerewillingto riskprintingthe

full-length
novel of an unknown,all but the most prestigiouswriters
foundthemselves
workingin shortfiction,in whichattemptsto spell out
a convolutedseriesof incidentsoftenresultedin littlemore than plot
summaries.It was to the creditof Izumi Kyaka and Kawakami Bizan
(1869-1908)that,in theirstoriesof1895-6,theyattemptedto scale down
the intricatesagas of their teacher, Ozaki Kaya (1867-1903), and
concentrateon one or two centralincidentsof a melodramawith a
quickly summarizedbackground.Along with Hirotsu Ryiuro(18611928) theybroughtto theshortstorya certaindegreeofcorrespondence
betweenformand material.They learnedto disciplinetheirstorytelling
unit. Their accomplishand make each workan intense,self-contained
ments,however,were merelytechnical.Having nothingto say which
consideredimportant,
bizarre
theythemselves
theyinventedincreasingly
incidents.Ryfir5,especially,favoreddisfiguredcharacters,grotesquely
scarredmen, or idiot dwarfswith abnormalsexual inclinations.Bizan
resortedto goreand necrophilia.Murderand suicidebegan to seemlike
suchunpleasantcharactersand incidents,
normalbehavior.In presenting
thesewritersfelt-and the criticsseem to have agreedwiththem-that
theywere being more realisticthan Koyo with his brave heroes and
beautifulheroines.The morerespectablestoriesofthisperiodwerecalled
sh5setsu2(idea fiction)because they attemptedto expresssome
kannen
clearlyarticulatedidea. Bizan's Uraomote
(Behind the Facade, 1895),
forexample,warnsus thatin societythingsare notalwayswhattheyseem
who is in reality
on the surface.He depictsa well-knownphilanthropist
a housebreaker.(The truthis discoveredwhen he burglarizesthe home
of his innocentdaughter'shigh-mindedlover.) Kyaka's Gekashitsu
(The
OperatingRoom, 1895) challengesconventionalideas oflove by showing
a pair who die for an 'illicit' spiritualpassion: 'I ask you, o men of
religion,is it possiblefor these two, bearing such guilt, to ascend to
heaven?' Shinkoku
shosetsu
(seriousfiction)or hisanshosetsu
(distressing
fromkannen
in thattheysoughtonlythe bizarre,
fiction)differed
shosetsu
withoutany saving'idea' .3
Never in Doppo's storiesdo we findsuch sensationalevents.Doppo
seeks to conveyhis poetic vision of the world and man's place in it.
The simple,impressionistic
sceneshe sketches,
the simplecharactersand
Kenkyu7
(T6ky6d6 Shuppan, Tokyo, 1955), i,
For a discussion of pp. 54-7. E. Seidenstickeruses the term'dis'
these genresand a summaryof theircritical tressingnovel' when he discussesRyfur6in
no KaffitheScribbler
reception,see Yoshida Seiichi, Shizenshugi
(Stanford,1965).
3 5tJ4,

RUBIN:

Five Storiesby Kunikida Doppo

275

imageshe abstractsfromhis experience,need no morethan a fewpages

to realize theirexpressivepotential.Where the writersof 'idea fiction'
had to pare down complicatedmelodramas,to disciplinethemselves,
Doppo could be direct and lyrical. Nor was Doppo an unbridled
romantic.The clarityof his mind kept his storiestightlyorganized
around a centralthemeand gave them organicintegrity.His earliest
story,Takibi(The Bonfire,1896),4was a poem recastin prose,yetin it
can be seen certainimages and essentiallythe same ideas expressedin
the best of his later,moredramatic,writing.
Writerslike Bizan changed stylesdrasticallyfromone storyto the
next and conveyednothingof a consistentpersonalvision. Doppo, on
the otherhand, had a lyricismwithJapanese roots,givenformby the
example of Turgenev. He respondedto the lyrical narratorof 'The
Rendezvous',translatedby FutabateiShimeiin 1888 as Aibiki,and used
thesame personalvoice,oftendramatizingthenarratoras an observeror
interlocutor,
in mostof his stories.Where otheryoungwritersseem to
have beenfascinatedby 'The Rendezvous','Three Meetings',and 'Assya'
for their love themes (whatevermore literaryviews they may have
recordedin retrospect),
Doppo foundin Turgenev'snarratortheperfect
vehicleto expressin prosethe view of the worldhe had culled fromhis
readingin Englishliterature.5
More thananythingelse,whatdistinguishes
is that he had a personalview of the
Doppo fromhis contemporaries
worldand feltthatfictionwas theproperplace to conveyit.6Many ofhis
ideas come fromWordsworth,
but theycan oftenbe traced as well to
Japaneseexperienceand Doppo's own responseto the modernworld.
For Doppo, natureperse is indifferent
(ifnot hostile)to man, its vast
forcesa frightening
reminderof his helplessnessand his individual
mortality.The untamed wildernessof Hokkaido is a symbolof this
view of naturein Sorachigawa
no Kishibe(On the Banks of the Sorachi
River, 1902) and otherstories.But when it is softenedby the human
imprintnaturecan be a movingreminderofman's spiritualimmortality.
4 For a translationsee Monumenta
Nipponica,
xxv (1970), pp. 197-202.
5 For a more general discussionof Aibiki,
see M. G. Ryan, Japan'sFirstModernNovel,
Columbia, New York, 1967, pp. 115-24.
Kimura Ki wroteofAibiki:'It maywell be the
only instance in world literaturethat the
translationof such a brief short story has
called forthsuch a great response.'See Meiji
Bungakuo Kataru,Rakur6 Shoin,Tokyo, 1934,
pp. 193-4.

Tokutomi Roka (1868-1927), Doppo's

Min'yfisha colleague, wrote Shizen to Jinsei
(Natureand Man, 1900),an extremely
popular
seriesoflyricalessaysoftenpairedwithDoppo's
Musashino.It consistsprimarilyof overwritten
literarylandscapes with a veneer of maudlin
noble sentiments('Ah, a bamboo leaf comes
floating.Alexander and Napoleon were just
like this leaf. 0 where are theynow?'). See
ArthurLloyd's translation(Kogakukwan,Tokyo, 1913), p. 64.
6

276

Monumenta
XXVII, 3
Nipponica,

Doppo's famouslyricalessay,Musashino(Musashi Plain, 1898), sketches

the gentlelandscape in lovingdetail, a sea of rollinghills dottedwith
farmhouses
and cultivatedfields,and covered with a networkof dirt
paths.One rarelyencountersindividualsalong theseroads,the narrator
tellsus, yettheymustkeep coming,generationaftergeneration,or else
the roads would not be there.In MusashinoDoppo describesa typical
village on the edge of the plain, neitherpart of the city nor wholly
submergedin nature.These littleplaces whichblend natureand human
activityhave a peculiar power to move us, he says,forthey are like
microcosms
whereall of lifeis played out beforeus. They show us that
man registerssmall against nature'svastness,his presenceis a subtle
thing.In KJgai (The Suburbs, 1900), a long sketch,Doppo takes a
leisurelyand lightheartedview of such a microcosm.The only such
rambling'slice of life' that he ever wrote,KJgaiviews life and death
withoutthe seriousMeiji writer'sobligatoryponderousness.
In Takibiand GenOji (Old Gen, 1897) we see humanscrushedinto
oblivionby nature.They may achieve a briefmomentof happinessin
life,but naturewrestsit fromthem.A group of boys and an old man
indirectlyshare the joy and warmthof a bonfirein Takibi.But they
knownothingofeach otherand neverwill.Beforelongthetiderisesand
all signsof theirexistenceare erased fromthe beach by 'the eternal
waves'. The teacherin Gen Oji is ironicallyunaware of the old man's
death, his destructionat the hands of inhumanforcesembodiedin the
idiotboy Kishfiand in thestormthatdestroysGen's boat.7Yet Gen does
have his momentof triumph.In the boat he reassertshis determination
his son.8'Planting
to end his exilefromhis fellowman by makingKishuT
his footagainstthe side of the boat, he pulled stronglyon the oar, and
in the nextmomentGen had burstintosong.' Gen dies in the end, and
his love forKishuiis based on selfdeception('I can see what is in his
heart'), but throughit he reassumeshis part in the ongoing'still,sad
music of humanity'.Gen is one of many charactersin Doppo whose
music suggestsa positive spiritualitythat is unaffectedby personal
oblivion.Nature'svictoryover man is by no means complete.
Whateverthe fateof the individual,forDoppo man as a community
is at least as immortalas nature.Withoutthe continuedexistenceofthe
human mind, all creationceases to exist. In 'The Recluse', a poem
speaksofcreationas thatwhichthemind
Doppo knewwell,Wordsworth
7,8 This aspect of the storyis nearlylost in
the abridged translationof Gen Oji found in

Donald

Keene's

Modern Japanese Literature,

Grove Press,New York, 1956, pp. 111-21.

RUBIN:

Five Storiesby Kunikida Doppo

277

and the externalworld 'withblended might/Accomplish'.9

Betweenthe
human communityand nature thereis a 'deep understanding'(fukai
yakusoku):nature gives man life, while man gives nature its very
existence.Naturewithoutman is meaningless.Man's role in creationis
essentiallyethical,not simplybiological.'0
Insofaras he is an individual,isolated fromothers,turnedin upon
himself,a man takesno part in the 'deep understanding'.Reduced by
forceof habit to thinkingonly of his personalneeds, consciousonly of
himself,man is a finitebeing withoutmeaning.In Akuma(The Devil,
1903) Doppo goes so far as to suggestthat consciousnessof selfis the
devil thatstandsbetweenman and the infinite.The child,as yetfreeof
theweightofcustom,stilluncursedwiththeburdenofconsciousselfhood,
has an intuitivesense of man's compact with nature. Age and social
demands graduallycrushhis intuitiveopenness.As an ordinaryadult
he may have lost contactwiththe 'intimationsof immortality'
forever.
StorieslikeMukyu(Infinity,1899) and E noKanashimi
(Sorrowin Pastel,
1902) presentchildrenand lost childhoodas Doppo had learnedto see
themfromWordsworth.
The moresensitiveindividual,in the presenceof a suitablereminder,
a naturalpanorama withtinyhumanswho seem an indispensablepart
of it, may experienceintuitivemomentsof oneness with nature and
knowthathis life,as part of somethinglarger,does have meaning.
Any intuited sense of meaning-in the pangs of conscience,for
example--maybe painfulto an individualwho has argued away the
existenceof ethical values in life in order to justifyhis own immoral
behavior. Excusing his actions by appeal to 'fate' or 'heredity',he
cannot but sufferwhen his intuitiontellshim that he is not simplya
passive toy of mechanicalforces.A man like Sawamura of Sho/jikimono
(An Honest Man, 1903) wants thereto be no meaningto life,but he
cannothelp knowingthathe is it. Nor is the protagonistofShuchu
N'ikki
(A Drinker'sDiary, 1902) able to obliteratehis sense of guilt.
Doppo's later stories,such as Sho/jikimono
and Take no Kido (The
Bamboo Gate, 1908), tendto be dramatizationsof themesthathis early
storiestreatlyrically.TakenoKidois Doppo's mostsuccessfulattemptat
dramaticfiction.In it he abandons the restricted
point of view seen in
mostof his storiesafterWasureenu
Hitobito(Unforgettable
People, 1898)
9 See lines816-24.

10 See KunikidaDoppo Zenshui(10 vols.;

Gakushui Kenkyfisha, Tokyo, 1964-7) vi, pp.

314 & 408 forentriesin Doppo's Azamukazaru

no Ki whichevidencethe influenceof Wordsworth. The term 'fukaiyakusoku'appears in

Wasureenu
and Akuma.
Hitobito

278

Monumenta
Jfipponica,
XXVII, 3

and broughtto its highestdevelopmentin the unreliable narrator

Sawamura.Told by an omniscientnarrator,TakenoKidois the storyof
seen primarilythroughthe experienceof Sawamura'svictim.
Shkjikimono
Both Oshin of Shojikimono
and Ogen of Take no Kido are destroyedby
ofmysteriously
introverted
mentowardswhosemoodiness
theindifference
theyhave foundthemselvesattracted.Isokichiis an enigmaticfigure,
and Doppo's arbitrary
perhapstoo vaguelydefinedto be trulyeffective,
handlingof him vitiatesmuch of Take no Kido's dramaticimpact. We
feel at the end that Ogen's death is a reasonable outcome of their
correct.ButIsokichi'ssymbolicmeaning
butnotdramatically
relationship,
is clear. Afterhis wife'sdeath, Isokichigoes on as before.The life of
Ogen, like thatof Old Gen (;5, 'essential'man) has leftno moremark
on theworldthantheboysor thewandererof Takibiwhentheirfireand
are washedaway. The beach (R iso/Isokichi)is neverchanged
footprints
any longerthan the rhythmofthe tideswill allow. Like Kishu, Isokichi
in whichthe individuallives.
symbolizesthe cosmicindifference
Doppo createdyet anothertypeof protagonistthat he handled with
varyingdegrees of success. These were the philosophicalor poetic
individualslike the teachersin Gen Oji and Haru no Tori (Birds of
Asami Kensuke of
Hitobito,
Spring, 1904),11 Otsu Benjira of Wasureenu
toJagaimo(Meat
Akuma,and theludicrouslyintenseOkamotoofGyuniku
and Potatoes, 1901)12 and Okamotono Tech/(Okamoto's Notebooks,
1906). Convincedby his rationalitythat death makeslifemeaningless,
As he
ofimmortality'.
a man likeOtsu Benjirawelcomesthe'intimations
'I am not a happyman. AlwaysI am torturedby life's
describeshimself,
great questions and by my own overwhelmingambitions.' But in
momentsof profoundloneliness,'my inflexibleegoismseemsto shatter,
and the thoughtof otherstouches me deeply.' He thinksof certain
people who have leftdeep, lastingimpressionson him. 'No, I see not
I see themas figuresin thebackgroundofa much
thepeople themselves.
part of a moment.'
largerscene. They are part of theirsurroundings,
Like the tinyhuman shapesin Orientallandscape paintingtheyare all
but faceless.They are importantnot fortheirindividualtraitsbut their
sheerhumanness.They and theirdwellingsamidstthe soaringhillsand
grassy fields give the land its softnessand its meaning. For Otsu
Benjira,all too aware of the isolationin which men live, this Eastern
12 For a translationsee R. N. McKinnon,
11 For a translation,
viii
see PacificSpectator,
(1954), pp. 249-55, or Monumenta
Nipponica, ed., TheHeartis Alone,Tokyo,1957,pp. 49-73.

xxvi (1971), pp. 195-203.

RUBIN:

Five Storiesby Kunikida Doppo

279

visionofunitybringssalvation.'Only at thesetimesdo I feelsuchpeace,

such liberation,such sympathytowardsall things.'
Hitobitoexplicitlydenies the individual his immortality.
Wasureenu
But it entertains
thepossibility
ofmomentswhen,egoismovercome,one
can feel a part of an ongoing whole. By settingthe story's three
impressionistic
momentsin an intellectualized
framework
Doppo defines
his view of the human conditionand takeshis place amongthe modern
heirsto theJapanesetradition.
*

*~~~~~~~~~~~~,

280

Monumenta
Jfipponica,
XXVII, 3

GenOji
Old Gen
1
To the littletownof Saiki in Kyushu came a youngteacherfromthe
capital. He dwelt in Saiki fornearlya year, teachingEnglish to the
childrenthere.He arrivedin mid-autumnand leftin mid-summer.
Early in summerhe feltwearyof townlifeand founda new dwelling
place some distanceaway on the shoreofKatsura Harbor. For a month
the teacherlived by the seaside,wherehe knew veryfew people and
spoke with almost no one. On occasion he would conversewith the
keeperof the inn wherehe was living.
Once, at twilight,the wind rose,bringingwithit rain, and the surf
rushedagainstthe beach moreroughlythan usual. It stirreda senseof
lonelinessevenin thereticentyoungman who so prizedhis solitude.He
came downfromhisroomto theveranda,wherehe foundtheinnkeeper
and his wife relaxingin the cool eveningair. They had not troubledto
lightthe lamp but sat in the deepeningdusk,fanningaway mosquitoes
as theytalked.They seemedpleased at theteacher'sunexpectedappearance and cordiallybeckonedhimtojoin them.The threetalkedofmany
things,refreshedas the eveningbreeze lightlyswept theirfaces with
dropletsofrain.
The teacherwenthome to the capital and manyyearswentby. One
winter'snighthe sat beforehis writingstand composinga letter.The
hourwas past one. The letterwas foran old friendin his nativevillage.
face wore an unaccustomedflush.Oftenhe
Tonighthis pale, thoughtful
stared away into the distance, as though tryingto see something
shroudedin mist.
In the mistan old man stood.
The teacherset his pen aside and read what he had written.He read
the letter,then closed his eyes. He turnedhis gaze withinand again
saw the old man. In the letterhe had written:'The innkeeperin Saiki
told me about thisold man quite casually.There is nothingremarkable
about him. One findsmanylikehimlivingin all partsofthecountry,in
themountainsor by thesea. Yet stillI cannotforgethim.He seemsto me
likea box thatno one can open,withsomesecrethiddeninside.Perhaps
I am simplyimaginingthings.It does notmatter.WheneverI thinkofthis
old man an emotionstirswithinme like that of a travelerhearinga

Doppo: GenOji

281

distantfluteand longingfor home. Or yet again, I feel as one does

gazing at the limitlesssky afterreadinga poem of loftycontent.'
And yet the teacherreallyknewverylittleabout the old man. The
innkeeperhad toldhimonlythebeginnings.Unable to fathomhisyoung
guest'scuriosity,
he merelyansweredas he was asked.
'The harboris verywell suitedto the town.As you see, thereare not
many houses. Fewer than twentypeople live here. It is alwaysjust as
desolateas it is tonight.But imaginehow verydesertedit was when old
Gen's was theonlyhouseon thebeach. The pine treeby his houseoffers
itscool shade now to summertravelerson thebroad new road. But long
ago, tenyearsago or more,thewaves sometimesused to lap at itsroots.
A greatboulderused tojut outintothesea, and alwaysthepeoplewaiting
forGen's boat wouldsiton it. The cliffwas dangerous,though,and they
blastedit away.
'No, he did not alwayslive alone.
'His wifewas verybeautiful.Her name was Yuri-'lily'. She was born
on theisland.Half ofwhatpeoplesaid about Gen and Yuri was false,but
thisI knowis true,because I heardit fromGen himself
once whenhe was
drunk:one springnight,verylate, wheneven the lamps of the Myoken
Shrinehad been extinguished,
therewas a knockon his door. (Gen was
twenty-nine
then.) It was a woman. She wantedhim to take her to the
island. In the waning moonlighthe could see that it was Yuri, a girl
fromthe island.
'In thosedays therewere many men operatingferryboats to points
along the coast, but everyoneknew about Gen. He was a strapping
youngfellow,and just as kind and honestas he was bold. But thatwas
not all; therewas a deeperreasonwhyhe was knownso farand wide.
I wish you could have heard Gen's singingvoice then! People used to
takeGen's boatjust to hearhimsingas he rowed.Then as now,however,
he rarelyspoke.
'Only Myoken-sama,lookingdown fromhis shrineon the hill above
them,could knowwhat was in Yuri's heartwhen she took Gen's boat
late at night.I askedhimiftheystoppedand talkedon theway,but not
even liquor could loosen Gen's tongue.He only smiled and two deep
wrinklescrossedhis forehead.There was somethingterriblysad in his
smile.
'Afterthat Gen's voice took on a new serenity.The youngcouple's
marriedlifepassed by like a joyfuldream.When theironlyson Kasuke
was seven,Yuri died in hersecondchildbirth.
A merchantfromthetown
offeredto adopt Kosuke and raise him to carryon the familybusiness,

282

Monumenta
Nipponica,
XXVII, 3

but Gen refused.He had lost his darlingwife;he could not bear to be
partedfromhis only child. Alwaysreticent,Gen now spoke to people
less and less. He almost never laughed, and would sing as he rowed
onlyifhe had had some drink.His richvoice mightresoundamidstthe
loveliestmoonlitscene,yet even thenit would carrya trace of sadness.
Nor was thissimplyin the mindsof thosewho knewhis story.When he
lostYuri it nearlybrokehis spirit.
'On gray, mistydays, Gen hated to leave Kasuke behind in their
lonelyhouse. He would take him on the boat withthe otherpassengers.
People feltsorryforthe boy. Often a motherwho had bought some
sweetsin townforher own child would open the bag and share them
with the orphaned Kosuke. Gen, pretendingnot to notice, never
expressedthanks.People attributedthisto his griefand did not resent
him forit.
ofthe harborwas halffinishedand
'Two yearswentby. Construction
my wifeand I moved here fromthe island. We built this house and
began to takein guests.The footofthe hillwas blastedaway fora road,
and the highwaythat passes by Gen's house was built. Morningand
eveningthe harborwould echo with the whistleof a steamferry.And
suddenlythe barrenshorewhichhad neverknownso much as a drying
fishnet became as you see it today.
'Gen, however,wenton as before,rowingback and forthbetweenthe
island and the town,fromthe town to the coastal villages. Once the
harbor was opened and the road completed,people began to pass
throughhere in great numbers.Compared to the old days, thisplace
too had becomejust anotherpartofthefleeting,
changingworld,but Gen
seemedunmovedby this-neitherhappy nor sad.
'Three more yearswentby. Kasuke was twelve.One day as he was
swimmingwithhis friendstherewas an accidentand Kosuke drowned.
Frightened,the other boys ran home and told no one what had
happened. When Kasuke did not appear by sunset we all became
alarmedand startedto searchforhim. By thenofcourseit was too late.
Oddly enoughwe foundhis poor littlebody lyingon theharborbottom
underold Gen's boat.
'Afterthat Gen stoppedsingingentirely.He even avoided speaking
to the people he knew best. The years went by and old Gen never
spoke,neversang, neversmiled. The world soon forgetssuch people.
He rowed his boat as he always had done, but the passengersriding
with him seemed to forgethis very existence.And I too sometimes,
when I would see old Gen returning
fromthe landingwithhis oar on

Doppo: GenOji

283

his shoulder,hiisroundeyeshalfclosed,would findmyselfthinking-oh

yes, Gen is still alive. You are the firstone who has ever asked
about him.
'Yes, of course,if you were to invitehim fora drinkhe mightsing
forus. But I doubt that we could understandthe words. No, he does
not whine or complain,but now and then he heaves a mournfulsigh.
He is a pitifulsoul. ...'
This was all the teacherlearned fromthe innkeeper.Even afterhe
had gone back to the capital he did not forgetabout old Gen. Oftenat
nightwhen he sat beneaththe lamp, listeningto the rain, his thoughts
would flyto the old man. He wonderedwhat Gen mightbe doing: was
he sittingalone by the fire,his round eyes shut tight;was he thinking
about thatspringnightwithYuri long ago as he listenedto the sound
of the waves? Or was he absorbed in memoriesof Kosuke? The
teacherdid not knowthatduringthe yearshe had been thinkingabout
Gen, many winternightshad seen sleet showeringdown upon the old
boatman'sgrave.
While the young teacherwent on turningthe pages of his memory
as thoughreadinga book of poems,thingssadder yet had befallenthe
old man and he was no longerof thisworld.The teacher'spoem thus
lacked a finalstanza.
2
It was summerwhen the childrenof Saiki parted withtheirteacher
on the Katsura Harbor pier. The monthswent by, a new year came.
Early one day at the end ofJanuaryold Gen had businessin the town.
The sky was overcast.Soon it would snow-a rare occurrencein
Kyushu except on the coldest days. Ordinarilythe river that runs
throughthe town would be lined with boats. People fromvillagesup
and down the coast would be landing or departing,therewould be
singingand cursing.But that day the normallybustlingriverbanks
were desolate. Ripples moved across the water. The clouds covered
in grayshadows.The streetsof the townwere deserted.The
everything

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Monumenta
Nipponica,
XXVII, 3

In a broad intersectionwhere, on festivaldays, a stage mightbe

erected,some poor men's childrenplayed, theircolorlessfaces exposed
to thewind.A fewstoodwatchingwithhandsin theirpockets.One boy
called out to a beggarwho came upon the scene,'Kishu!' But he paid
the boy no heed. The beggar looked perhaps fifteenyears old. His
unkempthair coveredhis neck. He had a long face withsunkencheeks
and a pointed chin. He stared dully beforehim, his clouded gaze
shifting
listlesslyas he walked. The wet and tatteredskirtsof the lined
kimonohe wore barelycoveredhis shins.An elbow like thejoint of a
grasshopper'sleg protrudedfromhis sleeve, tremblingas he moved
along. Just then,fromthe oppositedirectioncame old Gen. The two
in themiddleoftheintersection.
Gen staredat thebegger,
came together
his eyesopen wide. 'Kishu,' he called. His voice was softbut deep.
The young beggar raised his head to bring his gaze upon the old
boatman.He lookedat Gen's eyesas he mighta stone.They stoodstill,
lookingat each other.
Gen reached inside the sleeve of his kimonoand drew out a small
package of brown bamboo-sheath.From it he took a rice snack and
held it out to Kishu, who receivedit in his beggar'sbowl. Neitherhe
who gave nor he who took said a word. Neithershowedjoy or grief.
Kishfiwalked on withoutlookingback. Old Gen watchedhim go until
he disappearedaround a corner,then looked up at the skyto see the
firstfewflakesof snow. Once again he glanced afterKishuiand heaved
a sigh. Old Gen did not notice the boys who were watchinghim,
back theirlaughter.
elbowingeach otherand fighting
It was dusk when old Gen reached home. The frontwindowof his
one-roomcottagefacedtheroad but he neveropened theshutters.
Dark
as it was inside,he did notlightthelamp. He sat beforethehearth,put
hisstubbyhandsto hisface,hunghis head and sighed.He put a handful
of drytwigsintothefireplace.A fragileflameno biggerthan a candle's
jumped fromone branch to the next, catchingand dying.Whenever
it flaredup the room brightenedfora moment.The old man's black
shadowdanced againstthewall. On thesootywall a colorprintemerged
fromthe darkness.It had been hangingin the same place formore
than tenyears. Yuri had broughtit forKasuke fromherparents'home
when he was five or six. Now it seemedto be coveredwitha layerof
soot.
There was no wind that night,no sound of waves upon the shore.
Gen listenedto the desolatewhisperingof sleet all around the house.
He sighedand looked about the room.

Doppo: GenOji

285

Lightinga kerosenelamp, Gen steppedoutside.He feltthe cold pierce

him to the marrow,accustomedthoughhe was to rowingon winter
nights.The mountainswereblack.The sea was dark.Wherevertheglow
of hiislamp reached, Gen saw a veil of glitteringsnowflakes.The
groundwas frozenhard. Two youngmen came walkingfromthe town,
engagedin conversation.As theycaughtsightof the old man standing
at the gate with his lamp, they called out a friendlygreetingand
remarkedon thecold. Yes, it is cold,old Gen agreed,and he turnedaway
to gaze in the directionof the town.
Continuingon, one youngman whisperedto his companionthatGen
seemedeven strangerthanusual tonight;a younggirlseeinghimwould
surelyfaint.Yes, his friendsaid, who knows-tomorrowmorningwe
mightfindthe old man danglingin thatpine tree.The two shuddered
and lookedaroundto findthelightgone fromtheold boatman'sgate.
The nightwore on. Snow, then sleet,then snow again fellin fitful
starts.From Mt Nadayama the moonrose,itslightenvelopedin thesea
ofclouds.The castletownbelowseemedlikea vast,witheredgraveyard.
There were villages nestled among the hills and in each village a
cemetery.The gravesnow were awake. The villagers,asleep, met the
dead in a dreamworld,they laughed with them and cried. Now a
shadowy figurecrossed the broad intersectionand stepped onto a
footbridge.A dog sleeping beneath the bridge raised its head and
silentlywatched him pass. He was a ghost escaped fromthe grave,
wanderingperhapsin searchofsomeone,someonewithwhomhe could
speak. He was Kishui.
In the autumn of the year Gen's son Kosuke drowned,a beggar
womanfromHyuga wanderedintoSaiki. She broughtwithhera boy of
eiglht.She begged fromhouse to house with the child by her side,
receivingmany gifts.The people here were generous,she found,more
generousthan elsewhere.It would be a good place for the child to
grow up, and forhis sake, when springcame, she lefthim behind in
Saiki. No one ever saw her again, but a pilgrimto Dazaifu told of
seeinga beggarwoman therewho looked like her. Dressedin rags,she
and a wrestlerwerebeggingnear the shrinegate. Everyonewas certain
and
it was the motherof Kishi. They despisedher forher heartlessness
pitied the child more than ever. And so it seemed the mother'splan
had worked.
But this was not to be. The villages had their share of religious
trappings,but therewas a limitto people's charity.All agreed Kishfu
was to be pitied,but none would take him in. Now and thensomeone

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Monumenta
XXVII, 3
Nipponica,

would use him to clean the gardenand treatedhim humanely,but not

forlong.
himwithgifts.
At firstthe boy criedforhis mother.People comforted
Their charityonly servedto make him forgethis mother,but no one
The townspeoplefoundmany pretexts
tookher place in his affections.
things,theysaid, he is an idiot,he
ofhim: he forgets
fortheirtreatment
is unclean,he steals.They succeededonlyin reducinghimto permanent
beggarhoodand sealinghim offfromthe worldof human emotions.
Once, as a game, someonetaughtKishfithe alphabet. He learnedit
well.Someoneelsetaughthimto read. He memorizeda passage
perfectly
or two. He could singthe children'ssongs.He laughed and talked and
He told
played like any otherchild. At least he seemed no different.
peoplethathe was bornin theprovinceofKishfiand soonhe was known
to all as Kishui.He came to be treatedas a possessionof Saiki, and the
childrenplayingon the streetsknewtheywould alwaysfindhim there.
In thisway, Kishui'sheartwitheredwithinhim beforeanyonerealized
it. They believed that he and they were living in the same world,
wherethemorningsunshinesand thesmokeofthehearthfirelingersand
people have fathers,brothers,wivesand friends.But quietly,imperceptibly,he had movedhis nestto a desertisland and therehe had buried
his heart.
He stopped thankingpeople for what they gave him. He stopped
smiling.No one ever saw him become angryor cry. He knew neither
He was merelyalive: he walked,he ate. If someone
joy nor resentment.
shouldask him how he liked what he was eating,Kishfiwould answer
dullythathe likedit. If in jest someoneshouldwave a stickat him, he
would smilefaintlyand move away like a dog withits tail betweenits
legs. Unlike a dog, however,he would never fawn over anyone. One
could not pity him in the way one pitied ordinarybeggars. It was
impossibleto see him as anotherman driftingthroughlife until he
drownedin its waves. He was beneaththe waves, a creaturecrawling
the ocean bottom.
MomentsafterKishficrossedthe footbridgeheading away fromthe
peeringaround
centerof town,someoneenteredthe broad intersection,
in all directions.He was holding a small boat lamp. Each time he
turnedits shininglens, a fan-shapedbeam of light darted along the
surfaceof the thinlypiled snow. The circleof lightflewto the houses
illuminatingthe shadows of the eaves.
that enclosed the intersection,
He strode
Suddenlya policemanappeared fromthe main thoroughfare.
towardsthe man and demandedhis name. The policemanraised
swiftly

Doppo: GenOji

287

the broad
his lantern.Its lightfellon the roundeyes,the deep wrinkles,
nose of the powerfulold boatman.
'Old Gen?' The policemanseemedsurprised.
'Yes,' he repliedhoarsely.
'Who could you be lookingforso late?'
'Have you seen Kishui?'
'What do you want withhim?'
'It is so cold tonight.I thoughtI would take him home.'
'Not even the dogs know where Kishuisleeps. Be carefulyou don't
catch cold yourself.'
warningthe policemanwalked away.
Afterthisfriendly
Old Gen walked along, sighing,until he came to the bridge. The
They seemed fresh.It mustbe Kishu.
lanternshowed him footprints.
No one else would walk barefootin the snow. The old man hurried
along in the directionof the footprints.
3
When people heard that Gen had taken Kishuiin, theyrefusedto
believeit at first.Disbeliefgave way to amazement,and laughteralways
followed.'Imagine the two of them facing each other over dinner,'
mockedone who heard the news.Once again people weretalkingabout
the old boatmanwhoseveryexistencehad nearlybeen forgotten.
A week or morehad gone by since thatsnowynight.In the brilliant
light of the settingsun, the distantisland of Shikoku seemed to be
floatingon the waves. White sails bobbed offTsurumi Cape. Plovers
were flyingnear the shallowsof the rivermouth.
Withfivepassengersaboard,old Gen was about to castoff.Two young
mensuddenlygallopeddown thepier and gotintothe boat. Now it was
full. Two girls,apparentlysisters,were returningto the island. They
on theirheads and carriedsmallbundles.The others
bothworekerchiefs
in the boat were froma village down the coast. In additionto the two
young men therewas an old couple and theirgrandchild.Everyone
talkedabout eventsin thetown.One youngman mentionedthe theatre.
The elder girl remarked that the costumes were supposedly very
beautifulthis year. Few people on the island had seen the play, she
said, but the reportswere favorable.The old woman spokeless well of
the play but agreed that it was superiorto last year's.The youngman
asked if it was true that all the island girls were so eager to see
Kumegora, a handsomememberof the cast. The sistersblushed and
the old woman laughed aloud. Gen went on rowing,his gaze fixedon

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Monumenta
XXVII, 3
Nipponica,

some distantpoint.Here, too, the laughterof the fleetingworldof men

resounded,but old Gen pretendednot to hear. He said nothing.
'I hearyou have takenKishuiin to livewithyou,'said one youngman,
'Is it true?'
remembering.
'It is,' the old boatman replied,lookingstraightahead.
'Everyoneis wonderingwhy you broughta beggarinto your house.
Were you reallyso lonely?'
'Yes.'
'But surelyyou could have foundsomeoneotherthan Kishuito live
withyou, a child of the island or the town,a good child.'
'Yes, you couldhave,' theold womansaid,lookingup at Gen. He wore
a thoughtful
expression.For a while he said nothing.He seemed to be
staringat theshimmering
blue ribbonsofsmokethatrosestraightout of
the hillsto the west,illuminatedby the settingsun.
'Kishuiis a childwithoutparents,brothers,
or home. I am an old man
withneitherwifenorchildren.If I becomehisfather,thenhe willbe my
son. Perhapswe can be happytogether.'Gen spokeas ifto himself.The
otherslistenedin amazement.Neverhad theyheardold Gen speak with
such ease.
'How the years go by, Gen,' the old woman sighed. 'It seems like
yesterdayI saw Yuri standingon the beach with her baby. How old
would K6suke be if he had lived?'
'One or two yearsolder than Kishui,'Gen answeredcalmly.
'How can you tell Kishui'sage? It is buriedin his filth.He could be
ten,or he could be eighteen.'
Everyonelaughedheartily.
'I don'tknowhowold he is,' Gen said. 'Someonetoldme he was almost
seventeen.I supposeno one but his mothercan knowforcertain,poor
child.' As he spoke,Gen looked around at the old couple's grandchild,
a boy ofsix or seven.Hearing the tremorin his voice, the othershalted
theirlaughter.
The old man answeredGen, perhapsto dispelthe awkwardmoment
butnotwithoutsincerity,
'The futureshouldbe happyforyou,ifyou and
the boy growclose. To see Kishuias someone'schild,to see him waiting
foryou at the gate whenyou are overduefromthe island,would bring
tearsto the eyesof all of us.'
'How splendidthatwill be,' Gen answeredwithfeeling.
'Wouldn'tyou like to take Kishuito the play?' one of the youngmen
said, moreto amuse the girlsthan to make funof old Gen. The sisters,
concernedforthe old boatman,smiledfaintly.

Doppo: GenOji

289

'That would be funto see,' the old womanlaughed and pounded the
boat.
Gen answeredsolemnly,'WhyshouldI takemyson to a play likethat
and have him cry?'
'Who is "my son"?' the old woman asked with mock innocence.'I
thoughtKosuke drownedrightover there.' She turned and pointed
towardsthe shadow cast by Mt Myaken. The otherslooked in that
direction.
'My son is Kishui,'Gen declared,reddening.He stoppedrowingfora
momentand gazed in thedirectionofHikodakePeak. An emotionwelled
up withinhim,an indefinablemixtureof anger,sorrow,shameand joy.
on the
Plantinghis footagainstthe side of the boat, he pulled strongly
oar, and in the next momentGen had burstinto song.
The sea, the mountainshad not heard thisvoice fora long,long time.
Long, too, sincethe boatmanhimselfhad heard it. His voice seemedto
spreadin gentlypulsatingripplesacrossthefaceofthecalm eveningsea,
dissolvinginto the distance.The ripplesstruckthe shore and echoed
an echofromthepast.It seemedas thoughtheGen ofthirty
faintly,
years
ago had wakened froma lengthyslumberand called now fromthe
mountainsto the Gen alive today.
The old couple declared that Gen's singingwas as fineas ever. The
youngpeople listened,spellbound,to the voice theyhad knownonlyin
legend.Old Gen forgotthe presenceofthe sevenpassengersin his boat.
When the sistershad gottenoffat the island,the two youngmen lay
down in the boat, bundled up in a blanket. The old couple talked
quietlyof familymattersand gave theirgrandchildsome sweets.Gen's
boat turnedinto the creekthatled to theirvillage.Smokefromkitchen
fireshungupon thevillageand mingledwiththe stream'seveningmist.
Gen had no passengerson the way back to Saiki. When his boat
emergedonce again into the open sea, he feltthe chillingwind from
Hikodake. He turnedto see the lightof Venus scatterin his wake. The
eveningfiresbegan to flickeron theisland as he passed.He rowedalong
gently,and his black shadowfellacrossthewater.The prowofthe boat
slapped lightlyagainst the waves. Gen half listened to the lulling,
melancholywhisperand enjoyedhishappythoughts.
Wheneveranything
sad or worrisomecame to mindhe would gripthe oar tightlyand shake
his head to driveit away.
Someone waits forme at home, Gen said to himself.Perhaps he is
dozing by the fire.Perhapshe is staringplacidlyat the lamp, his heart
softenedby thewarmthand happinessofmyhome,changedfromwhen

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Monumenta
XXVII, 3
Nipponica,

he was a beggar.Has he eaten supperwithoutme? He nodded happily

whenI said I would teach him to row. His reticenceand broodingare
only habits he has had until now; he will grow out of them. As the
monthsgo by he will growrobustand rosy-cheeked.
But....
Gen shookhis head. No, he is someone'schild now, he is my child.
I long forthe day when he will sing as well as I. And if some moonlit
nighthe shouldrowout alone witha girl.. . . he is likeanyman'sson..
he surelywill want to see her again. I can see what is in his heart. Of
thattherecan be no mistake.
When he pulled into the landing, old Gen, with the eyes of a
dreamer,watchedthelong,liquid glow ofthe shorelightson thewater.
Securingthe boat, he rolledup his seat mat, tuckedit underone arm,
hoistedthe oar to his shoulder,and steppedonto the shore.
The threedocksidewarehouseshad closed theirdoors shortlyafter
sunset.No one could be seen. There were no voices. Old Gen walked
along with his eyes shut. He opened them wide and looked around
when he reached the frontgate.
'My boy,I am home,'he called. Settingtheoar in itscustomaryplace
he wentinside.The house was dark.
'What is this?Here I am, myson. Quickly,lightthelamp.' Therewas
no answer.All was silent.
A cricketcalled mockingly,
'Kishu! Kishu!'
Old Gen strucka matchand the room brightenedforan instant.He
saw no one. Again the roomwas dark.A senseofforeboding
seemedto
riselikemustyvaporsfrombeneaththefloorand filltheold man's breast.
He lit the lamp and gazed about him dully. He strainedto catch some
sound.'My son,' he called out hoarsely.He felthisbreathingquicken.
The fireplacecontainedonlycold,whiteashes,no signthatKishudhad
cooked and eaten. Gen turnedslowly,peeringinto the cornersof the
soot-smearedroom. The lanternlightcould not penetratethe shadows
where,wantingto see Kishu,old Gen thoughtforbriefinstantshe could.
He buriedhisfacein hisarmsand sighedprofoundly.
The thoughtstruck
him thenthat Kishuimighthave run off.He startedup, not pausingto
wipe the tears runningdown his cheeks. He lighted the boat lamp
hangingon the post and dashed out, headingforthe town.
Gen stopped at the blacksmith's,where sparkswere flyingthrough
the darkness.He asked if Kishuihad passed by. A youngman wielding
a hammerlookedup questioningly
and said he had not noticed.Afraid
the smith'swork,Gen smiledpolitelyand hurried
he was interrupting
on. The road he tookwas verystraight.
A fieldlay to therightand a row

Doppo: GenOji

291

on theleft.A shortway
ofancientpine treesstoodatop theembankment
down theroad, Gen caughtsightofsomeonewalkingahead of him. He
ran forward,holdingthe lanternhigh. The lightrevealed that it was
indeed Kishu. He was walking hunched over, with his arms folded
acrosshis chest.
'Kishu?' Gen laid a hand on his shoulder.'Where are you going all
alone?' His questionseemedto cloak sorrowand joy, angerand endless
despair.Kishfishowedno surpriseon seeingGen. He looked at the old
man as one mightstareat passersbyfromthe frontgate. Startled,Gen
could not speak at first.
'You must be cold. Come home with me, son.' He took hold of
Kish-a's hand and led him home. As they walked, Gen questioned
Kishu: had he feltlonelywhen Gen did not come home on time? Why
had he not eaten the supper on the shelf?Kishuisaid nothing.Gen
sighedbitterly.
At homeGen builta blazingfireand seatedKishulnextto it. He placed
a low table beforetheboy and preparedsupperforhim. Gen himselfdid
not eat. Kishuiate everything
he was given,includingthe old man's
portion.Now and thentheold man would look at theboy,closehis eyes
and sigh.Whenhe finished,
Gen said,he shouldwarmhimself
by thefire.
How did he likehissupper?Kishfilookedat Gen sleepilyand nodded.If
he was sleepy,Gen said gently,he shouldgo to bed. Gen spreadout the
beddinghimselfand coveredthe boy. Once Kishuiwas asleep, Gen sat
alone by the fire,eyesclosed,unmoving.The firebegan to die, but he
made no move to replenishit. The red glow of the flamesflickered
uncertainlyacross his face, a face exposed for fiftylong years to the
ocean winds. A tear ran down his leatherycheek, sparklingin the
The wind swept past the house, howlingin the branchesof
firelight.
the pine treeat the gate.
Early the next morningGen preparedbreakfastforKishu, but took
onlywaterhimself.His head ached and histhroatwas dry.Feel how hot
I am, he said, and broughtKish-a'shand to his forehead;I have a cold,
it seems.Eventuallyhe lay down. Illnessrarelybroughtold Gen to bed.
'I will be bettertomorrow.Come here, I will tell you a story.'Gen
forcedhinmself
to smile. He had Kishuisit by his pillow and, sighing
often,told him many things.He spoke as one mightto a boy of seven
or eight: 'You have never seen a shark,I am sure. Sharks are big,
dangerousfish....' And so the timewentby.
'Do you ever miss your mother'? Gen asked, peeringat the boy.
Kishuiseemednot to understand.

292

Monumenta
XXVII, 3
Nipponica,

'Stay alwaysin my home. Think of me as yourfather-' He gasped

forbreathand went on, 'In two nightsI will take you to see a play.
They tell me it is called Awa no Jurobe.I am certainwhen you see it
you will long foryourfatherand mother.I want you then to thinkof
me as yourfather.I amyourfather.'
Old Gen told Kishuithestoryoftheplay,whichhe had seenlong ago,
and sang forhim quietlythe Pilgrim'sSong. How sad it is, Gen said
tearfully.
Kishuiseemedto understandnone of this.'
'No matter,no matter.You cannotunderstandmy words,but when
you see it withyourown eyes,you too will weep.'
Speaking made him shortof breath. When he was through,Gen
heaved a long sighof relief.Exhaustedfromtalking,he dozed offfora
while. When he awoke, KishuXwas gone. As he ran along shouting,
'Kishu! My son!' a beggar woman appeared fromnowhere,half her
face painted red. Kishuais my child, she said, but she changed before
Gen's eyesinto a younggirl.Yuri! What have you done withKosuke?
You let him run away somewherewhile I was sleeping.Come, help me
findhim. Look, therehe is, diggingpieces of radish out of a garbage
heap! Gen startedto cry,when he heard behind him a voice calling,
My child! It was his mother.She pointed:look at the stage. The stage
was ablaze withcandle light.He wonderedwhyhis mother'seyeswere
red fromcrying,but all he did was eat his candy. At last he lay his
littlehead on his mother'slap and fellasleep. She began to shakehim,
and his dream was shattered.
dream I have
Old Gen raisedhis head. 'My boy,what a frightening
had.' He looked about. Kishfuwas gone.
'My son!' he called hoarsely.There was no answer. The shutters
rattledin thewind. He could notbe certainifhe was awake or sleeping.
He thrustaside the quilt and startedup, calling to Kishu. Overcome
withdizziness,he fellback onto the bedding.He feltas thoughhe was
sinkingin a bottomlesssea, withthe waves crashingover his head.
That day old Gen stayedin bed underthecovers,eatingnothing.The
windthathad risenin the morninggrewgraduallymoreturbulent.The
waves pounded the shoremercilesssly.
No one came to hireGen's boat.
As nightfellthewavesbecameincreasingly
violent,and it soundedat one
point as thoughthe landinghad been destroyed.
1 The play referred
to hereis properlycalled
Keisei Awa no Naruto,by ChikamatsuHanji
(1725-83). First performedin 1768, it con-

cernsa father'sunwittingmurderofhis longlost child. The Pilgrim'sSong was a popular

scene, oftenperformedindependently.

Doppo: GenOji

293

Beforedawn, when the easternskywas just beginningto lighten,the

peopleofSaiki lefttheirhouses.Wearingraincoatsand carrying
lanterns,
theygatheredat the landing.The pier itselfwas unharmed.The wind
had abated, but the ocean stillroaredlike thunderand the sprayfrom
the crashingwaves felllike rain. The people searchedfordamage from
thestormand founda smallboat thathad been tossedontotherocksand
brokenin half.
'Whose boat is that?' one man asked.
'I am certainit is old Gen's boat,' a youngman said. People lookedat
each otherin silence.
'Someone oughtto go get him.'
'I will.' The youngman set his lanterndown and ran off.When he
came withinten paces of it he could see some strangeobject dangling
fromthe pine treeby the road. He strodeboldlyup to it and saw what
it was. Old Gen had hanged himself.
Not far fromKatsura Harbor thereis a small graveyardnestledin
the hillson an eastwardslope. The gravesof old Gen's wife,Yuri, and
theirson, Kasuke, are there.Anothermarkerhas been erected,with
theinscription,
'Here Lies Ikeda Gentaro.'The threegraveslie in a row
with Kasuke's in the middle. Oftenon winternightsthe sleet showers
down upon them,but the youngteacherin the capital does not know
this.He thinkswithpityofold Gen, livingalone hereon the beach and
weepingforhis wifeand child.
Kishfiis the same as he alwayswas. The people of Saiki stillthinkof
him as a possessionof the town. And still he wandersat nightlike a
spiritfromthe grave. Once someonetriedto tell him thatold Gen had
hanged himself,but all he did was stareback in silence.

294

Monumenta
Nipponica,
XXVII, 3

WasureenuHitobito

Unforgettable
People
Just beyond Futago, where the road fromTokyo crossesthe Tama
River,was an old post towncalled Mizonokuchi.Midway throughthe
town,therewas an inn, the Kameya.
It was the beginningof March. The skywas overcastand a strong
wind blew fromthe north.The town,always bleak, seemedmore cold
and desolate than usual. A blanket of snow remainedfromthe day
before.Fromthesouthernedgesofthe unevenlythatchedroofs,droplets
of meltingsnow felland were scatteredby the wind. Even the muddy
water-filled
sandal tracksseemed to shiveras the wind set tinyripples
in motion.The sun wentdown and soon mostofthe shopsclosedup for
the night.The townlay silent,huddledalong the darkroad. The inn,of
course,was stillopen. A lightshonebrightly
againstthe paper windows
ofthe Kameya. But insidenothingstirred.Few travelershad stoppedto
spendthe night,it seemed.Now and thenthe tap of a heavymetalpipe
bowl againsta charcoalbrazierbrokethe silence.
Withoutwarningthe slidingdoor shot back and a ratherlarge man
eased himselfacrossthe threshold.Beforethe innkeepercould shake off
his reverieand look up fromthe brazier,the man had takenthreelong
stridesacrossthedirt-floored
and stoodfullbeforehim. The
entranceway
newcomerseemed somewhatless than thirtyyears of age. He wore a
European-stylesuit and cloth cap, but his thong sandals and gaiters
exposed his bare feet.He carried an umbrellain his righthand and
withhis lefthe huggeda small satchel.
'I want a roomforthe night.'
Still absorbed in examininghis guest's outfit,the innkeepersaid
nothing.Justthena handclap soundedfromthe back.
'Take care ofnumbersix!' theinnkeeperbellowed.Then, stillleaning
against the brazier, he asked, 'And you, sir, are .

?'

and a scowl crossedhis face. But then,

The man's shouldersstiffened

smiling slightly,he answered, 'I am....

'And you are on the way to ...?'

from Tokyo.'

'Hachioji.'
The travelersat down on the raisedwooden floorand began to untie

his gaiters.

'This is an odd way to be going to Hachioji fromTokyo.' The

Doppo: Wasureenu
Hitobito

295

innkeeperlooked at the man as thoughwithnewlyaroused suspicions

and seemedabout to speak. Sensingthis,the travelerbrokethe silence.
'I live in Tokyo but today I'm on the way back fromKawasaki. I
startedout late and now it's darkalready.Let me have somehot water,
please.'
'Bringsome hot water rightaway,' the innkeepershouted.'It must
have been cold on the road today. Hachioji is stillprettycold.' His
commentswerefriendly
enough,but hismannerevidencedlittlewarmth.
He was about sixtyyearsold. He wore a heavily-quilted
jacket overhis
stoutframe.It made his broad head jut out as thoughattacheddirectly
to his shoulders.His eyes,set into a wide, genial face, drooped at the
corners.There was somethingtough and inflexibleabout him, but he
impressedthe travelerat once as a straightforward
old fellow.
The travelerwashed his feet and was still wiping them when the
innkeepershouted,'Show the gentlemanto numberseven!'
To the gentlemanhimselfhe had nothingmore to say. Nor did he
glanceat himagain as he retiredto hisroom.A black cat appearedfrom
the kitchen,creptonto the master'slap, and curled up. The old man
seemedto be unawareof this.His eyeswereshuttight.A momentlater
his righthand edged towardsthe tobacco holder.Stubbyfingers
began
to roll some tobacco into a littleball.
'When numbersixis throughwiththetub takecare ofnumberseven!'
The cat was startledand leaped down.
'Not you, stupid!'
The frightened
cat disappearedinto the kitchen.A large clockstruck
offeightslow gongs.
'Grandma,Kichiza mustbe tired.Put the warmerin his bed and let
him go to sleep,poor fellow.'The old man himselfsoundedsleepy.
'He's in here,'came thevoice ofan old womanfromthekitchen.'But
he's stillstudying.'
'He is? Go to bed now, Kichiz6. You can get up earlytomorrowand
do that. Put the warmerin his bed now, Grandma.'
'Yes, rightaway.'
In the kitchen,the old-womanand a maid looked at each otherand
tittered.There was a loud yawn out front.
'He's the tiredone,' the old woman mutteredas she put some coals
into the sootybedwarmer.She was a small woman,perhapsin her late
fifties.
Out frontthe paper door rattledin the wind and a sprinkling
ofrain
sweptlightlypast.

296

Monumenta
Nipponica,XXVII, 3

forthe night,'the old man shouted.Then he

'Betterclose theshutters
mutteredto himself,'Rain again, damn it.'
Indeed,thewindhad grownquite strongand it was beginningto rain.
It was earlyspring,but a freezingcold wind,bearingrain and sleet,tore
acrossthe broad Musashi Plain. All nightlong it raged over the dark
littletownof Mizonokuchi.
Midnighthad come and gone but the lamp in room seven burned
brightly.
Everyonein the Kameya was asleep exceptthetwo guestswho
sat facingeach otherin the middle of the room. Outside, the storm
raged on. The shuttersrattledconstantly.
'If thiskeepsup you won't be able to leave tomorrow,'said the man
fromroom six.
'I wouldn'tmindspendinga day here. I'm in no special hurry.'
warmed
Both men were flushed,theirnosesbrightred. Three freshly
bottlesofsakestoodon thelow table nextto them,and sakestillremained
in theircups. Theysat in comfortable
positionson thematfloor,withthe
brazierbetweenthemas a warmerand ashtray.The visitorwould puff
on his cigarettenow and then and reach out, baring his arm to the
elbow, to shake offthe ashes. They spoke withoutreserve,but it was
had led to a remark
clearthetwohad metthatnight.Perhapssomething
or two throughthe sliding door between their rooms. The man in
number six, feelinglonely, would then have taken the firstmove,
followedby an exchangeof name cards. An orderof sake,some frank
and soon politenesshad given way to the easy speech of
conversation,
friends.
'Otsu Benjira',read the card of the man in room seven. The other's
information
was inscribed,'AkiyamaMatsunosuke'.No further
accompanied eithername.
Otsu was the man in the European-stylesuit who had arrivedafter
sunset.His tall, thinframeand pale face were quite the oppositeof his
had a fleshy,
companion'sappearance. Akiyama,in his mid-twenties,
reddishface.The amiable expressionin his eyesmade him appear to be
Otsu was an unknownwriter.Akiyamawas a painter,
smilingconstantly.
also unknown.By some odd chance these two young men of similar
inclinationhad come togetherin thisruralinn.
'We oughtto get to bed, I think.There is no one leftforus to tear
apart.'
From art to literatureto religiontheir conversationhad ranged.
Absorbedin theirscathingcriticism
oftheday's notedartistsand writers,
theyhad not heard the clock strikeeleven,

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297

'It's still early,' said Akiyama,smiling.'You can't leave tomorrow,

anyway.What does it matterif we stayup talkingall night?'
'What timeis it?' Otsu pickedup his watch. 'It's past eleven!'
'We mightas well stayup all night.'Akiyamawas unperturbed.Eyes
fixedon his sakecup, he added, 'But if you'resleepy,go ahead....'
'No, not at all. I thoughtyou weresleepy.I leftKawasaki late today.
I walked less than ten milesso I feelfine.'
'I'm notreadyforbed either.But I thoughtI'd just borrowthisifyou
were.'
Akiyamapickedup what lookedlike a manuscriptofsome ten pages.
On the coverwas the title,'Unforgettable
People'.
'It's no good,' said Otsu. 'It's like the pencil sketchesyou artistsdo,
nothinganyoneelse can appreciate.'But he made no attemptto retrieve
the document.Akiyamaglanced at a fewpages.
'Sketcheshave theirown special interest,I think.I'd like to read it.'
'Let me see it a minute,will you?' Otsu took the sheetsand leafed
throughthem.Both men were silent.Only thendid theyseem to take
noticeof the storm.Otsu listened,rapt,as he staredat his manuscript.
'This is a writer'ssortofnight,don't you think?'Akiyamasaid. Otsu,
silent,seemed unaware that he had spoken. Akiyama could not tell
whetherOtsu was listeningto the stormor readinghis manuscript or
whether,indeed, his thoughtshad flownto someonefar away. But he
feltthat Otsu's expression,his eyes,werejust what an artistlooks for.
Otsu turnedto Akiyamawiththe eyesof one who has just awakened
froma dream. 'Ratherthanhave you read this,'he said, 'it would make
moresenseforme to talk about what I have written.Shall I do that?
This is nothingmorethan an outline.You wouldn'tunderstandit.'
'That would be even better-to hear all the details from you.'
Akiyama noticed that Otsu's eyes were moistand gave offa strange
gleam.
'I will tell you all I can remember.If you findit dull, though,don't
hesitateto tellme. On the otherhand I won't hesitateto go on talking.
It's odd, but suddenlyI feelthat I would like to have you hear this.'
Akiyama added charcoal to the fireand placed the bottlesof sake,
cool by now, into the warmer.
' "The unforgettable
man is not of necessityone whom we dare not
forget."Look, thisis thefirstsentenceI have writtenhere.' Otsu showed
him the manuscript.'Firstlet me explainwhat I mean by it. That way
you can understandthe overall theme.Actually,I am quite sure you
understandit already.'

298

Monumenta
/ipponica,
XXVII, 3

'No, nevermindthat.Justgo ahead. I will listenas thoughI werean

ordinaryreader. Pardon me if I lie down....'
Witha cigarettebetweenhis lips,Akiyamastretchedout on the floor.
Restinghis head on his righthand he lookedat Otsu withthe traceofa
smilein his eyes.
'We cannotsimplyreferto parentsand childrenor to friendsor to the
teachersand othersto whomwe are obligated,as unforgettable
people.
These are people "whom we dare not forget".But then there are
whomwe have made no pledge of love,
others completestrangers--to
to whom we are not dutybound. To forgetthemwould implyneither
neglectof duty nor want of compassion.Yet these are the very ones
whom we cannot forget.I would not say that for everyonethereare
such unforgettable
people, but forme therecertainlyare. Perhaps for
you,too.'
Akiyamasimplynodded.
'It was the middleof spring,I remember,when I was nineteenyears
old. I had not been feelingwell,and had decided to leave Tokyo,where
I was at school,and go home fora rest.I took the regularInland Sea
steamerfromOsaka. There was no wind on that springday, and the
sea was calm. But all of this happened so long ago. I can remember
nothingabout the other passengers,or the captain, or the boy who
kind
No doubt there was some fellow-passenger
served refreshments.
enough to pour my tea, and otherswith whom I passed the time on
deck,but none of thisis leftin my memory.
'Because ofthestateofmyhealth,I mustsurelyhave been depressed.
at least,thatI daydreamedabout thefuturewhileI roamed
I remember,
the deck,and thoughtofthefateofmen in thislife.I supposethisis the
sortofthingall youngmen do at such times.I heard thepleasantsound
oftheship'shull cuttingthroughthewater,and watchedthesoftglowof
the springday meltinto the sea's oil-smooth,unrippledsurface.As the
ship advanced,one smallisland afteranotherwould riseout of the mist
on eitherside ofus, thendisappear.The islands,each draped in a thick
brocade ofyellowflowersand greenbarleyleaves,seemedto be floating
deep withinthesurrounding
mist.Beforelong theshippassed notfifteen
hundredyardsfromthe beach of a small island offto the right,and I
at the island. There seemed
steppedto the rail, gazing absentmindedly
to be no fieldsor houses,onlygrovesofsmall,low pine scatteredoverthe
hillside.It was low tide. The damp surfaceof the hushedand deserted
beach glistenedin the sun, and now and then a long streak perhaps
the playing of little waves at the water's edge-shone like a naked

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299

sword,then dissolved.From the faintcall of a lark high in the air

overthehill,one could tellthattheislandwas inhabited.I remembered
myfather'spoem, "The soaringlark betraysa farmbehindthe island's
face," and I thoughttheremustcertainlybe houseson the otherside.
And as I watchedI caughtsightof a lone figureon the sunlitbeach. I
could tell it was a man, and not a woman or a child. He seemedto be
pickingthingsup repeatedlyand puttingtheminto a basketor pail. He
would take two or threesteps,squat down, and pick somethingup. I
watched carefullyas he wandered along the deserted little beach
beneaththe hill.As the ship drewfurther
away, the man's formbecame
a black dot, and soon the beach, the hills,and the island all fadedinto
the mist.Almosttenyearshave passed,and I have thoughtmanytimes
of thisman at the edge of the island,the man whoseface I neversaw.
He is one of thoseI cannotforget.
'The next one I will tell you about I saw five years ago. I had
spentNew Year's Day withmyparentsand setout thefollowingday for
Kyushu. I crossedthe island,fromKumamoto to Oita, on foot.
'I had promisedto takemybrotheralong.The twoofus leftKumamoto
earlyin the morning,preparedforour trekwithsandals and gaitersand high spirits.That day we walked as far as Tateno, arrivingwell
beforesunset.Therewe stayedthenight.We leftbeforesunriseand soon,
as we had hoped,thewhitevolcanicsmokeof MlountAso was therein the
distanceto guide us. Trudgingalong the frosty
ground,crossingbridges
suspendedamongtherocks,losingour way now and then,we made the
lowerpeaksofAso bynoon. It musthave been one o'clockby thetimne
we
reachedthe crater.The whole Kumamotoarea is warm,of course,and
that day it was clear and windless.Even near the top of the mountain,
5,000 feethigh and in mid-winter,
we feltquite comfortable.Steam
out
of
the
crater
and
poured
driftedup to the highestpeak, Takadake,
where it froze,gleamingwhite. There was scarcelya patch of snow
anywhereelse on the mountain.Dead grass,faintwhitestirrings
in the
breeze. Sharp cliffsof earthburntred and black, remnantsof the vast
ancientcraterthatonce gaped fifteen
milesacross.I could nevercapture
thison paper, the desolation.Only a paintercould conveythe scene,I
think.
'We climbedto the edge of the craterand fora while stood looking
intotheterriblepit and enjoyingthepanoramaall aroundus. Up there,
of course,the wind was unbearablycold. Soon we retreatedto the little
standnextto Aso Shrine,below the craterrim.Invigoratedwitha little
tea and rice,we climbedagain to the crater.

300

XXVII, 3
Monumenta
Nifipponica,

'The sun by that time was near the horizon,and the plains to the
westwereblanketedin a haze thatcaughtitsflamingred. The mistwas
the color of the charredcliffthat formedthe westernedge of the old
crater.The cone of Mount Kujui soared high above the flockof hillsto
the north.The plateau at its base, a carpet of witheredgrass that
stretchedformiles,caught the glow of the settingsun. The air there
was so clear one mighthave seen a horsemanat thatgreatdistance.The
earth and sky seemed like a singlevast enclosure.The ground shook
beneathus and a thickcolumnof whitesmokeshotstraightup, angled
offsharply,grazingTakadake, and dissolvedinto the distance. What
could one call such a spectacle?Magnificent?Beautiful?Awesome?We
stood,silentas stonefigures.These are the momentswhen one cannot
help but sense the vastnessof the universeand the mysteryof man's
existence.
'What mostenthralledus was thegreatbasin thatlay betweendistant
Mount Kujuaand Mount Aso wherewe stood. I had oftenheard that
thiswas theremainsoftheworld'slargestvolcaniccrater.Now withmy
own eyes I could see how the plateau beneathKujui droppedsuddenly
away to formthe sheer cliffwall that continuedfor miles along the
northernand westernrim of the basin. Unlike the Nantai craterin
Nikka,whichhad changedinto the beautiful,secludedLake Chuizenji,
this enormouscraterhad, throughthe ages, become a vast garden of
inthebasinnowcaughtthe
and wheatfields
grain.The villages,theforests
slantingraysofthesettingsun. Down there,too,was thelittleposttown
of Miyaji and the promiseit held out to us of a night of restful,
untroubledsleep.
'We thoughtfora whileofsleepingthatnighton the mountainto see
the glowingcraterin the dark. But I was due in Oita. We startedthe
descentto Miyaji. The downwardslopewas muchgentlerthantheclimb
had been. We hurriedalong a path thatsnakeditsway throughthe dry
and ravines.As we nearedthevillageswe passedmore
grassofthefoothills
and more horsesloaded down withbales of hay. All around us on the
pathsleadingdown the mountainwere men leading horses.Everything
was bathed in the lightof the settingsun. The air was filledwith the
tinklingof harnessbells. To everyhorse was strappeda load of hay.
Near as the footof the mountainhad appeared fromabove, we seemed
to be makingno headwaytowardsthevillages.The sunwas almostgone.
We walked fasterand faster,and finallybrokeinto a run.
'When we enteredthe nearestvillage the sun was down and the
twilightwas fading.The day's end activitytherewas remarkable.The

Hitobito
Doppo: Wasureenu

301

grownupswerehurrying
about,finishing
up theday'swork.The children,
laughingand singingand crying,had gatheredin the darkcornersofthe
fences,or beneaththeeaves wheretheycould see thekitchenfires.It was
the same here as in any countrytownat dusk,but I had neverbeen so
struckwithsuch a scene,havingraced down fromAso's desolationinto
the midstof thishumanity.We two draggedourselvesalong, knowing
how long the road was thatlay beforeus in the dark,but feeling,too, a
senseof homecomingas we headed forour night'slodgingin Miyaji.
'WVehad not gone far into the woods and fieldsbeyondthe village,
whenthe twilightturnedto dark. Our shadowsstoodout clearlyon the
ground.Behindus, thenew moonhad risenabove a peak ofAso. Almost
benevolently
it seemedto cast itsclear,pale raysupon thevillagesin the
basin. Directlyoverhead,the volcanic smokethat in the daylighthad
risenin white billowsshone silverygray in the lightof the moon. It
seemed to strikeagainst the opaque blue-greensky,an awesome and
beautifulsight.We came to a shortbridge-it was broaderthan it was
long and, glad of the chance to rest our feet,leaned for a while
againsttherail,watchingthechangingshape ofthesmokein theskyand
half listeningto the far-off
voices of the village people. Just then the
soundofan emptycartcame echoingfromthewoodsthroughwhichwe
had passed a few momentsbefore.It drew closer,resoundingin the
stillness,untilit seemedclose enoughto touch.
'Soon we could hear drawingnearer,along with the rattleof the
emptycart,the clear, ringingtone of a teamster'ssong. Still gazing at
the streamof smoke,I listenedforthe song and waited halfconsciously
forits singerto reach us.
'A man appeared out of the darkness.He sang, drawingout each
note of the tune,"Miyaji's a fineold place, underthe mountain,"until
he reachedthe bridgewherewe stood. I feltdeeplymovedby the tune
and the man's sad yet stirringvoice. A sturdyyoungman in his midtwentiespassed by, leading his horse,withoutso much as a glance in
our direction.I lookedsteadilyat himas he walkedalong.Withthemoon
at his back, even his profilewas obscured.But I can see even now the
black silhouetteof his powerfulbody.
'I watchedhimuntilhe disappearedintothedarkness,thenlookedup
once again at the smokeof Mount Aso. The youngman is one of those
I cannotforget.
'This nextone I saw in Mitsugahamain ShikokuwhenI was waiting
fora ship. It was the beginningof summer,I remember.I leftthe inn
firstthingin themorning,and whenI heardthattheshipwouldbe arriv-

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Monumenta
XXVII, 3
Nipponica,

ing in theafternoon,
I decidedto take a strollalong thebeach and then
throughthe town. Since Mitsugahama is not far fromthe city of
it is a thriving
Matsuyamain theinterior,
harbortown.The fishmarket,
which operatesin the morning,was especiallycrowded. The skywas
brightand cloudless. The morningsun shone gloriously.Everything
sparkledin its light.Colorsseemedmorevibrantand the bustlingscene
took on added gaiety. There was shoutingand laughter,curses and
cheers.Buyersand sellers,youngand old, men and women,all hurried
back and forth.All seemedabsorbedand happyin theirwork.A line of
foodstallswaited forcustomerswho would eat standingup. The food
theyofferedhardlybears description.It was what you would expect
for the sailors and drifterswho ate there. Scattered all around the
marketarea were seabreamand flounder,eels and octopus.The harsh
odor of raw fishstirredand shiftedwith each rush of the boisterous
crowd.
'I was a totalstrangerin the town.There was not a facein the crowd
thatI knew,not a bald spot thatlookedfamiliar.My anonymity
in the
midst of this scene aroused a strangeemotionin me, and I felt as
witha new clarity.Not caringwhereI
thoughI was seeingeverything
went,I strolledalong as part of the crowd and came to the end of a
ratherquiet street.
'SuddenlyI heardmusic.There,in frontofa shop,an itinerantmonk
stood,playinga lute. He seemedto be in his mid-forties,
a short,heavy
man witha broad,squareface.The expressionon hisface,thelookin his
eyes,matchedperfectly
the mournfulsound of the lute. His low, heavy
voice followedsluggishlybehind the muffledwail of the strings.Not a
personon the streettooknoticeofthe monk,and no one came out from
any of the houses to listen.The morningsun shone. The world went
about its business.
'But I watched the monk and listenedto his playing.The narrow
yetbusystreetwithitsramshacklehouseshad littlein commonwiththe
monk and the lute, but somewhere,I could feel, there was a deep
betweenthem.The lute's sobbingtonesdriftedbetween
understanding
the rows of houseson eitherside of the street,minglingwiththe bold
criesof peddlersand the sound of hammeringfromsomewherenearby.
And when I heard the music, flowinglike a currentof pure spring
waterthroughsome muddypond, I feltthat everyone of thesepeople
on the streetwith theirgay, busy-looking
faces was part of the tune.
This monk,then,withhis lute, is one of thoseI cannotforget.'
At thispointOtsu brokeoffhisnarrative.He setthemanuscriptdown

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Hitobito

303

gently.For a whilehe seemedlostin thought.Outside,thestormroared

on as before.Akiyamasat up.
'And then... ?'
'I thinkI'll make thatthe last one. It's gettingtoo late. There are so
I saw in China, a
manyleft-a minerin Hokkaido,a youngfisherman
riverboatman witha wen in Kyushu-I could talk untilmorningand
not get to themall. But moreimportantis whyI can neverforgetthem,
whytheyappear, again and again, as imagesin mymind.It is thisthat
I want to make clear to you.
'I am not a happy man. Always I am torturedby life's great
ambitions.
questionsand by my own overwhelming
'In the deepeninghoursofa nightsuch as this,alone, staringintothe
lamp, I feeltheisolationin whichmenlive,and I experienceunbearable
sorrow.At thesetimesmy inflexibleegoismseems to shatter,and the
thoughtof otherstouchesme deeply.I thinkof my friendsand of days
long past. But more than anythingelse, images of thesepeople I have
intomymind.No, I see not the people
describedto you come streaming
themselves.I see them as figuresin the backgroundof a much larger
scene. They are part of their surroundings,part of a moment. I
rememberthesepeople and fromdeep withinme the thoughtwellsup:
fromanyoneelse? Part of the lifewe shareis from
How am I different
hand in hand,
heaven,and partofit is fromearth.All ofus are returning
And
when this
along the same eternaltrack,to that infiniteheaven.
realizationcomes to me, I find myselfin tears,for there is then in
truthno Self,no Others.I am touchedby memoriesof each and every
one.
'Only at these times do I feel such peace, such liberation,such
towardsall things.Only thendo worldlythoughtsoffameand
sympathy
the struggleforfortunedisappearso utterly.
'I want verymuchto writeon thisthemeand expressexactlywhat I
have in mind.I believethatsomewherein thisworldtheremustbe men
who feelas I do.'
Two yearspassed.
Circumstanceshad broughtOtsu to make his home in Tohoku. His
acquaintancewiththe man Akiyama,whom he had met at the inn in
Mizonokuchi,had long since ended. The timeof year was what it had
been thenin Mizonokuchi.It was a rainynight.Otsu sat alone at his
desk,lostin thought.On the deskwas the manuscriptof 'Unforgettable
People' thathe had shownto Akiyamatwo yearsbefore.A new chapter

304

XXVII, 3
Monumenta
NJiipponica,

had been added, 'The Innkeeperof the Kameya'.

There was no chaptercalled 'Akiyama'.

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305

The Suburbs
1
Sensei-ProfessorTokita-everyone called him. He was the
of
principalof the grammarschool in thislittlevillageon the outskirts
Tokyo. Shortand stocky,witha square jaw, bushy eyebrows,and a
large mouth,he was none too popular with the girls. His students,
however,liked him very much. So did theirparentsand the village
officials.
He had an ineffablegentlenessabout him. He neversaid much,
but one knew at a glance that he could never tell a lie. It was the
way his eyesseemed always to be smiling.
The mayorof the village-and he was not alone-had oftenurged
seriously.
Tokita Sensei to marry.He had nevertakenthesesuggestions
and
in
a
rented
but
this no
he
still
room,
Now
was thirty-one
living
longerseemedto botheranyone.
Tokita Sensei lived upstairsin a cottage on the propertyof Ume's
family.Downstairswas a storagespace. A ladder-likestairwayled from
entranceto the Sensei's singlelarge room. The family
the dirt-floored
had offered
to servehimhismealsthere,buthe declinedand wentalways
to the main house. He ate with the othersand paid littleattentionto
what was served.
Ume had been a pupil ofthe Sensei'sfromthe age often,but she left
school withoutgraduatingand he did nothingto stop her. Now her
brother,Toki, was in the Sensei's second-gradeclass. He seemed quite
in awe ofhis teacherat school,but at home he could-and did-do just
as he pleased.
There was a mill in town. From Tokita's room one could see only
part of the roof,but the sound of the waterwheel could be heard quite
He,
clearly.A youngman named K6kichiwas theson oftheproprietor.
too, had been a pupil of Tokita's,and aftergraduatinghe continuedto
come foreveninglessonsin-feudalhistory.Lately,however,he had been
spendingmostof his timeat the mill. The mill was not, of course,the
littleshed with a water wheel that one sees in the mountains.It had
several millstones,each of which produced some fifteenyen worthof
hulled rice a month,and a stable of half a dozen horsesto pull their
wagons.Ume's motherand theothervillagerscould neverquitesuppress
theirenvy.
TOKITA

306

Monumenta
XXVII, 3
N/ipponica,

'Well then,whydon't you setup a millofyourown?' Tokitasaid one

day quite seriously.It was not like him to speak ofsuch matters.
'You mean like K6kichi's?That's a regularcompanywithstocksand
If you could set up a millwheneveryou feltlikeit, everyone
everything.
would do it.' Ume's motherlaughed a littlesadly.
'That's true,I suppose,'Tokita said, impressedwith her logic. 'You
reallydon'thave anyplaceto put one.' That exhaustedthesubjectofrice
mills.Kakichi himselfwas next.
Ume's motherdeclaredher veryhighopinionof Kokichi,whichwas
howtheirconversations
about himalwaysbegan,and thistimeshe added
her observationthathis stepmother
seemedto be an awfulwoman and
doubtlesstreatedK6kichiterribly.
'This is the old man's thirdwife.I feelsorryforthe children.'
'The third!'Tokita Sensei had been so sure she was the second.
'Kokichi'smotheris dead, of course.'
Just then a slightlybuilt man came amblinginto the entranceway
withoutknockingon the door. He was in his middle twenties,with a
ratherdark complexion,and a gentleexpressionin his eyes.
'Oh, Ka-chan, we werejust talkingabout you!' She had actuallybeen
caughtoffguard and was somewhatflustered.
'Sensei,how are you?'
'Wherehave you been the past fewdays?'
'Busyas usual.'
'Come in, come in. Where did you go today?' said Ume's mother,
noticingKakichi's suit.
'I was overat myuncle'sin Kanda. Sensei,are you goingto be home
tonight?'Kakichi seemeddispirited.
'Yes, of course.Is theresomethingyou want to see me about?'
'No, nothingspecial,nothingmuch....'
'We are going to be singingNaniwabushitonight,'Ume's mother
thesingerBairyfu....'
interjected.
'Whydon'tyoujoin us? You remember
'Oh good. I'll be here. See you tonight,then.' Kakiclli left.
'There is somethingbotheringhim today,'she said. Tokita offeredno
replybut sat therehugginghis kneesand watchingher hands. She was
mendinga tear in one of his shirts.
V\Then
dinnerwas through,the main house echoed withthe clatterof
preparationsforthe musicalgathering.Soon that was replaced by the
clamorofvoicesas the tenementdwellersand othersfromthe neighborhood began to arrive.The sun was downand themoonhad notyetrisen.

Doppo: KJgai

307

Tokitasat leaningagainsta pillar,one leg thrownacrossthethresholdof

his darkenedroom,staringout into the night.
'Sensei!' It soundedlike Ume callinghim. He did not answer.'He's
nothere,'she mutteredand left.Perhapsfiveminuteswentby. He gazed
steadilyat the woods to the east. When he saw the lightof the moon
and straightened
comefiltering
throughthebranches,he rosedeliberately
thefrontofhiskimono.Snatchingup his clothcap, he hurrieddown the
stairway.
Tokita rounded the hedge and practicallyran into Ume, who was
does it make? I can
shoutingshrilly,'Don't ask me! What difference
gossipall I want and you've gotnothingto say about it! Isn't thatright,
Sensei?'
Startled,Tokita caughtsightof a man standingin the shadow of the
trees.The figurequicklydisappearedbehind the tenementhouse.
'Who was that?' he asked.
'That awfulboy Genka. He's gottenreallyfreshthesedays. Are you
goingfora walk,Sensei?' She movednearerto Tokitaand peeredat him.
'If Kokichishowsup, tell him I've gone fora walk and will be back
soon,will you?' Tokita wentout throughthe gate. Ume followedhim.
is here.Oh, look at themoon!'
'Don't stayout too long,Sensei.Bairyud
Ume stoppedshort.Tokita crossedthe bridgeand wentofftowardsthe
fields.
Perhapstwohourshad elapsedbeforehe came back. In themoonlight
he could dimlymake out Ume standingon the bridge.
'Sensei,wherehave you been? Kakichi has been waitingforyou.'
'What are you doing here,Ume?'
'Waitingforyou. What does Kakichi want to see you about?'
'I have no idea. What does it matterto you?'
'He seemsa littledepressed.I thoughtmaybe...
'It's gettingcold.'
The two walked as far as Tokita's cottage.At the main house the
secondpart of the Naniwabushiseemedto be ending.It was veryquiet
here,exceptforthe voice of the lead singer,to whom the othersmust
have been listening.
'Tell KokichiI am back,willyou please?' Tokitawentin throughthe
gardengate. Ume ran over to the entranceof the main house. Kakichi
was standingthere.
'Is he back?' Kokichiwhispered.
'Yes. When you are throughtalkingwith him come back here, all
right?'

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'Thanks.'Kakichi hurriedaway withoutlookingup. Ume kneltdown

in a dark cornerof the room and listenedto the singing.She did not
laugh,however,when the othersdid. The singingended and suddenly
everything
became noisy,withpeople runningoffto smokeor go to the
toilet.
'Ume!' her mothercalled out, peeringaround the room.
'What do you want?' she shouted.
'Wherehave you been?'
'Righthere. I was listeningto the music,but thenI got a headache.'
She wrinkledher nose and lightlytapped her forehead.
'Why don't you go to bed, then?You can stillhear the singing.'Her
mothersoundedworried.Ume said nothingand stayedwhereshe was,
kneelingon the mat floor.She listenedfora while once the thirdsong
had started,but soon headed forthe door.
'Go to bed, will you?' her mothersaid, all but scoldingher. Ume
looked ready to burstinto tears. She shookher head and ran out. The
moon was shiningwithsuch clarityit made thisseem like an autumn
night.The shadowsofthe treesweresharplyetchedagainstthe ground.
She tiptoedto the hedge in frontof Tokita's cottageand peeredoverit.
The upstairsroom was silent.Justthen a loud laugh echoed fromthe
main house.Ume steppedintotheroad, grumblingto herself--how
long
were theygoingto keep that up? She heard voices on the bridge.She
foundTokita Senseithere,leaningon the railingand lookingup at the
sky.
'Are you alone?'
Tokita gruntedin affirmation.
'Did K6kichi go home?' Ume, too, leaned against the railing and
peeredat Tokita.
'Justnow.' He yawned. 'Why aren't you listeningto the singing?I
thinkI'll go over.'
'Oh, forgetit. It's so stupid. I got a headache and ran away.'
For a whiletheybothwere silent.A shortdistancedownstreamfrom
the bridgetherewas a sluicewaythat divertedwater to the mill. The
waterthatwas backed up in it formeda kind of long,narrowpond. A
thickgrowthofbusheslined its banks.Their overhangingbranchescast
dark shadowson the water. The surfaceshone like a mirrorwherever
themoonlightfellupon it. Insectsmusthave been flitting
overthewater.
Now and thenlittlerippleswouldformand disappear.Ume was looking
steadilyat the river,but finallybrokethe silence.
'What did Kokichiwant?'

Doppo: KEgai

309

'He wantsto go live withhis unclein Kanda fora while.He askedme

what I thoughtofit.'
'What did you tell him?' She looked at him as she spoke,her voice a
bit unsteady.Tokita seemednot to notice.He answeredalmostcasually.
'I thoughthe'd betterstayhere.Otherwisethingswould probablyget
I toldhimnotto go. Poor fellow,he was
evenworsewithhisstepmother.
crying.'
'Crying?That's terrible.'Ume herselfwas about to cry.Of this,too,
Tokita was unaware.
'I didn't get all the details,but it seems that his stepmotherhas a
daughtersomewhere.I guess she is a maid in the house of some rear
admiral.The motherwantsKokichito marryher,but he wantsnothing
to do withthegirl.His stepmother
apparentlysensesthisand treatshim
verybadly. Imagine how he mustfeel.'
'I know,it's awful. I heard somethingabout it. To forcehim like
that . . .' Beforeshe could finish,she was interrupted
by a youngman
who passed themon the bridge,staringat her.
'Oh it's you, Ume. How areyou?' he said, withimpliedsignificance.
Reachingthe end of the bridgehe turnedaround. 'I almostforgot.Say
hello to Kokichiforme.'
'I don't know what you're talkingabout. Betterhurry,Okiku is
waiting.'
He burstout laughing.'Thanks a lot,' he said, and disappeared.
'Okiku is the grocer'sdaughter,isn't she? The one by the train
crossing,'Tokita asked. Ume simplynodded.
2
That day the weatherwas unusuallyfine,but next morningthe sky
had the ominouslook it takes on just beforethe springrainyseason.
Afternoon the muggyweatherturnedto rain. Most people would spend
such a day grumblingabout theirruinedSunday,but it botheredTokita
Sensei not at all. He sat on his heels at his low desk,gradingstudents'
papers,lookingovertheircompositions,
checkingthe attendancecharts.
Wheneverhe grewtiredhe would stretchout on the mattedfloorand
stareat the ceiling.
At twoo'clocka visitorcame past. He climbedpartway up thestairs,
pokingjust hishead intoTokita'sroomto announcehis arrival.This was
Eta, a paintersomefouror fiveyearsyoungerthanTokita and something
of an eccentrictoo, to judge fromhis expression.Both were the sons of

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N'fipponica,

formerretainersof the Aoyama family,theirfatherswere close friends,

and they had been companions since childhood. Eto's speech and
manner,however,were more livelythan his friend's.
Tokita threwdown his gradingpencil. Sprawlingout on his back, he
asked,'Did you bringit withyou?'
Eta sat down by the brazierand pouredhimselfa cup of tea. With a
blank expressionhe answered, 'Now let me see, what was it you
wanted. . . ?'
'The copy book, the copy book.'
'Oh, I forgotall about it. I'm awfullysorry.Anyhow,thereis somethingmore importantthan that I want to show you.' He undid the
knoton a cloth-wrappedbundle and peeled offthe layerof newspaper
underneath.It was a painting.He handed thisto Tokita, who simply
staredat it withouta word.
'I have seen this place before,'he said finally.'You did a good
job on it.'
'It's that spot in the woods-looking across fromthe place on the
ImperialEstatewhereyou can see the fieldsand the forest.'
'Yes, that'sit,' Tokita said whilecomparingthe paintingwitha small
watercoloron his wall.
'This one is not as good, of course.I broughtit to showyou because
thereis an interesting
storyattachedto it. Once you have seen it I have
to take it someplaceelse.'
Tokita gruntednoncommittally
as he came overto the brazierwhere
was
The
was
artist
Eto
sitting.
quite accustomedto his friend'smanner
of replyingand thoughtnothingof it.
'It was such a beautifulday yesterdayI wentto the woods as usual.
I had neverpaintedthisscenebefore.I knewnothingmuchwould come
of it but I thoughtI would give it a try.I walked along that path we
alwaystake,dreamingmy usual daydreams.Actually-I mightas well
confessit I've been havingdoubts about myselflately. I mean, do I
reallyhave the talentto be an artist?Could I reallybe a successat it?
Ratherliketakingmyown pulse. I once consideredforgetting
thewhole
thing,but thenI thoughtofyou. Here you are, theprincipalofthislittle
grammarschool,and not even that at first.You startedas an ordinary
teacherand forover ten yearsnow you have gone on just doing your
is an armycaptain,anotherbecamea lawyerand
job. One ofyourfriends
thena judge, but you have neverthoughttwiceabout them.You just did
yourjob. Of courseyourpersonalityhas a lot to do withit. But that's
besidethepoint.I believethereasonyou are a successtodayis thatyou

Doppo: KJgai

311

have workedwithuttersinglemindedness
and devotion.Yes, I mean it,
you are a success!For a teacherthereis no greatersuccessthanthis.You
have thecompletetrustand respectofthosechildren'sparents.Whenever
theycome to you foradvice and they
theyhave theleastbit ofdifficulty
acceptyourjudgement.I doubtthatthereare manyteacherstodaywho
measureup to that. And so it occurredto me that all theseworriesof
mine-do I have the talentor don't I, will I succeed or won't I ?-are
just not worththinkingabout. All you have to do is workwith your
whole heart. Once I realized that,I felta great sense of relief.
'It was thissortof thingI was thinkingabout yesterdayas I walked
along. It did not matterif I ended up paintingsignsor even shrine
plaques. I resolvedto do whateverI could. I wouldgo straightahead and
neverlook back. My head was full of such ideas when I reached the
woods.
'I lookedfora scene to paint. The woods themselves
would not make
a verygood picture,of course. I thoughtI mighttryan angled view,
fromthe edge of the woods on the northwest
horizonto the
stretching
thickgrovesof oak in the low area to the west.
'The road had been terriblyhot. It was a greatreliefto restat the
edge of the woods and feelthe cool breeze blowingfromtheirgloomy
depths.I stretchedout on the grasswherethe sunlightfilteredthrough
theleaves and tooka longlook at thescene.It was beautifully
calm. For
but the tranquilview.
a while I forgoteverything
'And thisis what I painted. I admit it's terrible.But I reached an
agreementwithmyselfbeforeI startedit: I would come back and paint
it again and again ifI had to untilI feltI had done thebestI could. And
then somethingstrangehappened that led me to produce this awful
thing.
'As I workedit seemedto me thatthescenewas so verybeautifuland
my techniqueso veryclumsythat I became more and more agitated.
Could thisthingbe called a picture,or was I just no good? I kepton
painting,utterlyfedup and tellingmyselfagain and again to quit. Then
in thewoodsbehindme I hearda strangerustlingsound.I startedto look
aroundwhenI caughtmyself.This was it! I mustnot turnaround! If I
was no good,thenall themorereasonforme to struggleat mypainting.
What about mydetermination
to do evenshrineplaques? This was what
I had to be able to go on paintingeven
was meantbysinglemindedness:
witha wolfhowlingin myear. How could I manage such concentration
ifI was goingto be distractedby somelittlenoisein thewoods? However
ineptly,I feltI must go on working.The rustlingand crackingdrew

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XXVII, 3
Monumenta
Nipponica,

sound, as
nearer.The tensionwas unbearable. It was a disconcerting
thoughsomethingwere closingin on me, takingadvantageof the concentrationwith which I was workingto sneak up and pounce on me
frombehind.Once thathad occurredto me, the need to turnand look
But no, not foran instantwould I look, and this
was overwhelming.
turnedintosheerdoggedness.I wouldhave been ashamed
determination
to turnaround.Now myveryidentityas an artistwas to be decidedby
whetheror not I made thatmove.
'And thatwas notall, I realized.WhetherI lookedor did notlookwas
beside the point. I should not even hear that sound,let alone concern
by it. If indeed I had put all my
myselfwithit, let alone be frightened
heartand soul intothispaintingand thisnaturalscene,thenI shouldbe
deaf even to the roar of a cannon. I tore into the paintingwith near
But it did no good. My senseswere in the grip of the sound
ferocity.
comingup frombehind.
'And then I thoughtit over. There is no point in makingsuch an
issueofthis.If it botheredme, it botheredme. I shouldjust take a peek,
set my mind at ease and go on painting.What could it be ?-a crow,a
fox,a bandit,a monster,a snake? Maybe a one-eyedgoblinor a giant?
All right,just look and get it over with,I decided,and startedto turn
around.Butit was too demoralizing.If you turnaround,I said to myself,
you'vehad it. As oftodayyou are throughas an artist.Is thatclear? All
right,then,turnaround.Maybe it was thatmad dog I had heardabout.
It was supposedto be in thesewoodssomewhere.What ofit? What ifhe
chargedfrombehindand latchedonto my neck? Well thenI'd die and
If I could not carryit
to hell withit! This was dogged determination.
I
I
no
would
was
accomplishnothing.Now I was
artist,
through,then
mad. Thinkyou can get me to turnaround,do you? I'll show
fighting
you who is going to turn! It seemsridiculousnow, but I reallystood
theregrowlingthesethingsto myselfand paintingall the while.
'The closerit got,the louderthe noise. Now it was rightbehindme,
the sound of somethingmovingthroughthe grass and underbrush.I
felta chill,as thougha bucketof ice-coldwaterhad been poured over
me, and I could feelmyselfcringing.My armpitswere streamingwith
sweat. It was sheertorture.
'I wenton paintingas thoughin a trance.My eyesand hands moved
like machines.All my attentionwas focusedto the rear. Then whatever
it was came up untilit was practicallytouchingme, and stopped.I could
senseitsbreathingnextto myear. Is thereanyonewhowouldn'thavejust
shriveledup in my place? Of courseI don't know about sluggishtypes

Doppo: KJgai

313

like you no, not really-but I feltI was suffocating

and my eyeswent
out offocus.Had thisgoneon forthirty
secondsI would have passedout.
But just then,rightnext to my ear, someoneshouted,"You're pretty
good,sonny!"
'I spun aroundwitha start.It was an old man in his sixties,leaning
forwardslightlyto peer over my shoulder.I roared at him, "What do
me like that?" He was utterly
you thinkyou're doing, frightening
unperturbed.He put down the big bundle of kindlinghe had strapped
to his back and askedifI was an art teacher.I told himno, I was stilla
student,which drew a look of great admirationas he examined the
picture.'
Eta brokeoffhisnarrativeand lookedsteadilyat Tokita Sensei.Then,
as thoughhe had just realized something,he slapped his knee. 'That's
it, damn it! I should have done a picture of the old man.' It was
probablyagainstthe law forthe local farmersto go into the Imperial
Estateto gatherfirewood,but theydid it quite openly.BothTokita and
Eta knew of the practice.If Eta had stopped to thinkabout it fora
momenthe certainlyshouldhave realizedthatthe rustlingin thewoods
was just that.
'Anyhow,I feltterriblyashamed of myselfand went back to my
paintingwithgreatgusto.When it was about finishedI lit a cigarette.
The old man had been watchingquietlyall thetime.I don't knowwhat
he had in mind,but suddenlyhe asked witha veryseriouslook on his
face if I would give him the painting.It was reallysomething,
the way
he put it. He wantedto dedicateit to the Yoyogi Hachiman Shrinein
honoroftheirrecentrenovation.While he wenton and on about whata
wonderful
job theyhad done on theshrine,I thoughtabout otherthings.
This paintingwas goingto be a trulymemorablethingin my life,and
theold farmer,too,was someoneI shouldalwaysremember.I could give
thepictureto himand let himofferit to theshrine.Then, ifeveragain I
was plagued withdoubts,I could go to see my paintingat the shrine,
thinkabout what had happenedthatday, and renewmy enthusiasm.I
decided to give him the painting.He was overjoyedand said he would
take it home immediately.I told him I could not let him have it right
away. I had to keep it one more day to add the finishing
touches.He
insisted,then,thatI go withhimto hishouse,whichwas nearby,and he
startedoffbeforeI could say a word. It mightbe fun,I thought,and
followedalong. His house was largerthan I had expected.There were
piles of cut barleyin the frontyard, and an old woman and a young
couple werebusywiththeharvest.Everyonegatheredaroundto look at

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XXVII, 3
Monumenta
Nfipponica,

thepictureand have sometea. It turnedintoquite a commotion.Before

I leftI promisedI would bringback the picturetoday. Look at the
weather,too! But I supposetheyexpectme and I shouldn'tdisappoint
them.I had betterbe going.'
Tokita had been listeningall thistimewithhardlya comment.When
Eta had finishedhe askedgravely,'Was therea daughterin thefamily?'
'Oh, yes,yes therewas,' Eto said simply.'She was eightyearsold.'
'Ah, that's too bad. If only she had been some seventeen-year-old
beautywho wouldpose foryou. It would have been likea novel,'Tokita
said witha snort.Everyonce in a while Tokita Sensei would come up
witha remarkmostunlikehim and followit withjust such a laugh.
'Things don't work out that way,' Eta laughed. 'Well then,I'll be
goingnow. Thanksforputtingup withall thisnonsense.'As he stoodup
theycould hear voicesfromthe otherside of the hedge.
'There was anotherone last night.Did you hear about it? Justsome
guy in his thirties.Now when it's a girl seventeenor eighteen,sayyou've got somethingto talk about. Sure, it's the weather.You know.
It getshot and the blood goes to yourbrain.' This was the grocer,the
one knownas 'the grocerat the crossing'.He seemedto be shoutingto
someonein the tenement.
'That's right,'came the answer.'And that'snot all. If you've got no
padding in your wallet to keep your heart warm the same thing
happens.1That's whytheygo crazy,I'll bet.'
'There's a cleverfellow,'Eta muttered.
'I drinka big quart bottleof "medicine" everynight.To keep the
blood down whereit belongs.Damned ifI'm evergoingto throwmyself
under a train,'the grocersaid with a heartylaugh.
'Are you surethat'senough?Make yourwifegiveyou anotherglassor
two tonight.'
'Good idea. That walletof minewon't be keepingout the chill much
longer.'He laughed oddly.
3
It was sometimeaftereightthatnight.A softdrizzlewas falling.'The
grocerat the crossing'had closed up forthe nightand the familywas
seated around the brazier. The masterof the house sat cross-legged,
1 There are no pocketsin a kimono.Wallets
and the like are oftencarriedin the foldsof
the bodice. Hence the expression'futokoro
ga

atatakai','the bosom is warm', i.e., 'to have a

fatpurse'.

Doppo: KEgai

315

pouringa drinknow and then fromhis bottleof 'medicine'. His wife

occupied herselfwith watchinghim. Next to her sat theirdaughter,
Okiku,busywithneedlework.Occasionallyshe would look up fromher
sewingand peer in the directionof the frontdoor.
'He was right.A quart is not enough.'
'Who was right?'The grocer'swifesounded annoyedwithhim.
'That fellowI was talkingto today. Says I'm not taking enough
medicine.'
'What are you talkingabout?' She did not seem to understand.
'Okiku, go buy me anotherpint.'
'Don't be silly,'hiswifescolded.'You've had enough.'She checkedthe
sakewarmer.'Besides,thereis stillsome left.'
'So what? Get me another pint. I don't want to tell any lies
tomorrow.'
'Lies? Who do you have to lie to?'
'What a cleverfellow.I went to that shop, the Tsutaya,today and
told themwhat happenedlast night.This fellowin the tenementsaysif
you haven'tgot any paddingin yourwalletto keepyourheartwarm,all
the blood rushesto yourhead. Clever,no? I told himI drinka quart of
"medicine" everyeveningto guard againstthat and I'm not about to
jump in frontofany damnedtrain.He tellsme I'd bettergetyou to buy
me an extrapinttonight.'
'Justtellhimto mindhis own business,'said thegrocer'swife,but she
could not help smiling.Okiku smiledtoo.
'Anyhow,I want thatpint.'
'Please, not tonight.You can't send Okiku out when the roads are
so bad.'
'It's all right,'Okiku said, settingaside her work.'I'll go.'
The grocerstaredat his last cup of sake.His eyeswereblearyand he
held himselfunsteadily.
'So all I get is a quart?'
For a while the threeof themwere silent.Outdoorsit was verystill.
The drizzlefellalmostsoundlessly.
'The medicinehas alreadytakeneffect,hasn'tit?'
The grocerlaughed heartily.'Well, I supposeso. Anyhow,you won't
catch me jumpingunderany trains,no matterhow muchblood goes to
my brain. I'll get to heaven the easy way-while I'm asleep. Probably
thatone last night-his ghostis stillwanderingaround the tracks.'
'Oh stop it! You're givingme the creeps.We ought to move away
fromhere,'she protestedfeebly.

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Monumenta
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Nipponica,

'What are you talkingabout? It's not our faulttheykill themselves.

We do a good businesshere. We're "the grocerat the crossing".We
can'tjust move away. Wherewould we go? Let all the idiotswho want
to die do it righthere at the crossing.It getsaround and it's good for
business.'
Having exhaustedthisoutrageoustopic,thegrocergot up to go to the
toilet. 'I'll pay them back with a little prayer fromthe bathroom
window.'
She and Okikulookedat
'Oh, you'reterrible,'said hiswife,frowning.
one another.Okiku lookedveryserious.She said nothing.
The groceropened the bathroomwindow.It was rainingoutsidebut
themoonwas up and he could make out vague shapesin the pale light.
The tracksranjust underthewindow.A man withan umbrellahad been
standingby the tracks,but when the groceropened the window he
darted away, pressingup against the side of the house. The grocer
caughta glimpseof him.
"No matterwhat happens,the main thingis to stay alive,' the grocer
began talkingto himselfout loud. 'I supposeanybodywho wantsto die
musthave had a bad timeof it. But once you go and kill yourself.
well. ... you'redead.'
The grocerfailedto noticethesoundofa desperately
strangledlaugh.
'As long as you're alive you can always manage something.If your
money is gone, you can work. If your woman leaves you, you can
alwaysfindanother.But ifyou'redead you'vegotnothingto startwith.'
Okiku came to the bathroomdoor. 'What are you talkingabout?'
She seemedsomewhatunnervedby all this.
'The main thingis to stayalive. It's true,it's true.This isjust thekind
ofnightthatDeath likesto takepossessionofyou. You've got to go home
rightaway, calm down and thinkit over.'
'Father,what is it?'
'Make a freshstart.Or at leastifyou are goingto killyourself
do it on a
nice night,say,when the moonis big and bright.Do it withstyle.'
'He's in a funnymood tonight.'Okikuhurriedback to thelivingroom.
'A freshstart.A freshstart.That's whatyou need. Well, so long.' The
grocerstaggeredback to the livingroom and sprawledout next to the
brazier.Almostimmediatelyhe was snoringloudly.
'We really ought to move away fromhere. It gives me the creeps.
Nothinggood can come of stayingin this place. Don't you thinkso,
Okiku?' Okiku's motherhad startedon some sewing,but she was an
earlyriserand it was notlongbeforehereyesbegan to close.

Doppo: KJgai

317

'I guessyou'reright,'Okiku answeredhalfheartedly.

'Last night'swas the thirdone thismonth.It looks like thereis bad
luck connectedwiththiscrossing.'
Okiku did not answer.The two continuedtheirworkin silence.Now
and then her mother'shands would stop movingand she would nod
Aftera whileshe slippedaway
asleep. Okikuwatchedherunobtrusively.
to thefrontdoor.It was open a fewinches.She movedit back noiselessly,
just enough to lean out and look around. Then she darted outside.A
youngman was standingbeneaththeeaves. He was theone whomUme
had been teasingthe nightbeforewithher 'Greetingsto Okiku'.
'Iso? Why are you standingthere?Come inside,'she whispered.
'I'd betternot tonight.I got caught,'he said witha sly smile. 'Your
fatherwas tellingme to make a freshstart.'
'Oh, it was you? I thoughthe was sayingsome prettystrangethings.
Anyhow,come on in. It's all right.'
'No, we'll have to "make a freshstart" some othertime. If I hang
around here someone else will thinkI'm waitingto kill myself.'He
startedto go.
'You thinkeveryoneelseis so stupid-' but beforeshe could finish,her
motheryawnedand spoketo her.
'I'm goingto bed, Okiku. Lock the door, please.'
'It looks like the clouds are breakingup. The rain is going to stop,'
Okiku lied.
'Oh. What are you doing out there?Hurryup and lock the door,'
she snapped.
'I can see a fewstars.'Okiku smiledat her youngman.
'Go inside. Hurry up,' he said. He ran towardsthe crossingand
quicklydisappeared.Okiku peeked out fromunder the eaves and this
timeshe reallydid look up at the sky.There were no signsof clearing.
A few chillingdrops of the mistyrain went down the neck of her
kimono.'Stars!' she mutteredto herself.She slammedthedoor shutand
in a momentthe house became utterlystill.

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XXVII, 3
Monumenta
Nipponica,

Shojikimono
An HonestMan
To look at me you would say I was an honestman. But morethan that:
you would thinkme unusual,even eccentric.
I am not,however,honest.I have spenthalfa lifetimesucceedingin
and simplybecause othersare so certain
themostterribletransgressions,
of my honesty.
In themirrorI can see easilyenoughwhatit is about mylooks.There
is no hintofangularityin myface. No distinctcoloration.My eyebrows
are thick,mybeard is heavy.I have a roundnoseand thicklips.Thereis
vacantin myexpression.
The cornersofmyeyeswrinkledeeply
something
whenI smile,lendingto mycountenance and thisis themostdespicable
thing-an ineffablecharm.I am quite a large man. Kimono sleevesare
neverlong enoughforme. My bonywristsalwaysprotrudeinelegantly,
in myappearance.Those ofsmaller
any hintofsophistication
destroying
and are takento be as insignificant
inwardly
buildminceaboutofficiously
as theyseem outwardly.But men of large physique-be theyfoolsor
villains,it does not matter-are alwaystakenseriouslyby others.And I
am no exception.
Loquacitymightyethave been a savinggracein me,but I have always
been a reticentman. Not thatI am incapable ofvolublespeech.At times
I will matchmyeloquencewithany man's. But mostoftenI am content
(due, perhaps,to an inborntrait)to listenquietlyto others,responding
withthewrinklesnear myeyes.In thatway I can understandeverything
that othermen say. I can make my guessesand have my suspicions.I
can knowwhat theysay and what theymean.
One encountersmanymen like me in the world.Each playsa partin
the situationin whichhe findshimself in his social class,forexample.
Rarely is such a man (and thisincludesme) able to escape fromhis
situation.This veryinabilityto escapelendshimdignity,and he comesto
play his part withincreasingskill.
Owing to the lownessof mysituationand to a certaininborntraitof
mine,the drama in whichI play my part has come to be a trulyugly,
despicablething.The traitofwhichI speak will come clear to you soon
enough.I need not enlargeupon it here.

Doppo: Shojikimono

319

I do not hold
But I mustsay this to preventany misunderstanding.
to thenotionthatall theworldis a stage.As I explainedearlier,thoseof
us who possessmy kind of characterhave a certaincoldness.We are
whateverintrudesupon us.
calmlyand objectively,
capable ofobserving,
And thus,while maintainingconcernedand sincereexteriors,we are
to suit ourselves.That sounds
able to manage thingsquite skillfully
I should think:we manage thingsskillfully.
rathertheatre-like,
Well now, let me tell you a fewthingsabout myself.
My fatherwas an old-guardscholarofEnglish.For yearshe taughtin
a middle school. While his classmatesemployedtheirnewlyacquired
knowledgefromtheWestto ascendto positionsofsocial importance,my
fatherbecame and remaineda language teacher.In the end, therewas
nothingelse he could do. He spent his life-until the springof my
twelfth
year as a purveyorof brokenEnglish.
My father'sdeathmade me an orphan.I had neverknownmymother.
at home. There
Aftershe died my fatherkepta successionof mistresses
musthave been a good dozen ofthem,because I can stillrememberfour
myself.He neverdid remarryand set up a properfamily.
I have no idea whymyfatherlived so immorally.But it seemsto me,
judging fromthe characterI inheritedfromhim, that he kept women
hislustforflesh,thatideas like'home' and 'family'never
simplyto satisfy
movedhim.
of
in myfather'streatment
bit ofaffection
There was not the slightest
While I myselfdo a bit of
others,and thisincludesthe fourmistresses.
as reticentas I am, my
a
and
touched
never
drop;
drinking,my father
fatherwas stillless prone to speak. The house was always silent,even
when he was home. If he was not staringvacantlyinto the brazier,
smoking,he would be at his desk, turningthe pages of some English
book.
wouldspenda monthor twotryingto engage
Each new mistress-maid
in
or
me
conversation,then she would learn to endure the
my father
silence.
I grewup in thischillingatmosphere,in thisgloomyshadow,never
I was
findingit sad or trying.My father'scharacterwas mine.In effect,
alive.
he
was
while
even
an orphan
no relativesI could turnto whenmyfather
Withno brothersor sisters,
ofhis,a teacherofJapaneseat thesame
a
friend
in
I
was
taken
by
died,
middleschool.His name was Kata. He toldme thatmyfatherhad asked
him to take care of me.
I cannotsay thatKat6 treatedme withremarkablekindness.Nor was

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he unkind.I lived like any studenthouseboy,studyingEnglishat night

schooland JapanesedirectlyfromKato whenhe had thetime.I had no
ofme. I
particularfeelingsone way or the otherabout Kato's treatment
was used to solitude.
'Your fatherwas a verygood man,' Kato said to me any numberof
sad to say. He
times.'But he was so withdrawn.He neverdid anything,
let his talentsgo to waste. But you mustgo out in the world and accomplishgreatthings.The way theworldis today,no amountoflearning
will do you any good unlessyou exertyourself.'His narroweyeswould
flashas he spoke.
And therewere indeed timeswhen I feltthat Kata was right,that I
mustdo as he said. But heredityis not a thingto be foughtagainst.The
impactof words,the leverofideals werenot such thingsas could easily
movemyoppressivenature.I merelylivedfromday to day, makingthe
best of each new change in my situation.This was my fate.
year Kata fellill and in a fewweeks
In the autumnofmynineteenth
passed away. He was sixty-seven.He had had a ratherlong life, I
suppose.Justbeforehis death he called me to his bedside.
'Your fathergave me somewhatless than fourhundredyen. Add to
and books, and the
that the two hundredyen I got forhis furniture
seventyyen.
to
five
hundred
moneyI tookchargeofalongwithyou comes
He askedme to care foryou as long as the moneylasted,usingit to pay
foryourmeals. In the eightyearssinceyou weretwelve,the moneyhas
just about givenout. One hundredyenis left,and thisI willgiveback to
you now. AfterI am dead you must take this moneyand seek your
independence.'
I fullyunderstoodwhatKato was tryingto tellme. Once he was dead
I mustleave his houseand use the moneyto make myway in the world
alone. Seeingthisall frommypresentvantagepoint,it seemsodd to me
that Kata should have givenme the hundredyen. For indeed,had he
penniless,I would have obeyed him
orderedme to leave immediately,
Far fromobjecting,I would have thoughtit quite
unquestioningly.
reasonable. When I received the money, then, I was actually very
happy. A week afterKato died I leftthe house that I had grown
accustomedto, withoutfindingit especiallysad.
I founda roominghousenear theX ElementarySchool in Kojimachi.
With Kato's assistanceI had become a teacherof English there.My
salary was ten yen a month,and room and board came to sevenyen.
Financially,I was not hard pressed.
My facewas ratherfullerand morehandsomein thosedays thanit is

Doppo: Shojikimono

321

now. I was a quiet, likeable young man, thoughtverywell of by the

school principaland the otherteachers,and treatedexceptionallywell
by my landlady. The average man lets a situationlike thisgo to his
is at its height.
head-especially someoneat that age when affectation
withanger
petulantmoods,abusingothersand flushing
He allowshimself
forno reason at all. Playfully,perhaps,he dangleshis titlein frontof
everyone.I was neverlikethat.Morningand eveningI came and went,
my mannerneverchanging.As soon as I removedmy betterclothing
afterwork I foldedit up and put it away. I must have seemed an
admirableyouth,and verysteady.
My landladywas in her middlefortiesthen.A widow,she lived with
son, rentingroomsto
her maturingdaughterand her fourteen-year-old
supportthem.Therewereonlyfourroomsin thehouse,and noneofthem
veryhandsome.The daughterresembledher mother.She had a long,
pale, rathersicklyface,but her dark eyeswere striking.They were the
nicestthingabout her,I mightadd. She had a habit of lookingat you
quite steadily,thensmilingfaintly.Her name was Oshin. We called her
Shin-chan.
The landladywas notone to fawnoverpeople,but she was kindto all
of her boarders.She was especiallynice to me. Not many monthshad
gone by beforeshe was treatingme as she mighther own son. But I,
had neverexperiencedthe love thatpasses betweenparent
regrettably,
and child. I was glad enough of her kindness,but was not especially
movedby it.
There is nothingquite as strangeas thehumanheart.Unmovedby so
much kindness,I maintainedan attitudethat differedin no way from
thatofthefirstday I arrivedat the boardinghouse.This made a strong
on thelandlady,whoseadmirationforme increaseddailyand
impression
whose beliefin my honesty,proprietyand modestywas unshakable.
Oshin, like her mother,said nothingto indicateit but I could tell
fromher behaviorthatshe believedin me just as strongly.
Thinkingback on it now, the one who was trulyhonest,properand
but thisyounggirl.I don't thinkofheras
modestwas not me, certainly,
the perfecthuman, but even now I believe that thereare fewwomen
who come up to her level. Her poor healthhad somethingto do with
it, I am sure, but there was an ingenuous quality about her, a
her speech and bearing,her
in everything-hermovements,
tenderness
verynature.
but
Oshin was two yearsyoungerthan I-not much of a difference,
while I seemed older than my years,Oshin was ratherchildlikeand

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lookedperhapstwo yearsyoungerthan she reallywas. I could see that

she felt about me as her mother did, but caught a suggestionof
playfulness
in her manner.
Oshinoftenused to come to see me whenI was alone in myroom.We
went
would talk, oftenlate into the night.Our eveningconversations
somethinglike this:
'What was yourfatherlike?' Oshin once asked.
'Well, I reallydon't knowhow to describehim. He liked to smokea
lot.'
'He musthave been a verygood person.'
'Why?'
'Well. ... he was yourfather.'
Another time when, despite my protests,Oshin was foldingmy
clothes:
'You hardlyeversay anythingunlesssomeonespeaksto you first.'
'Oh really? I don't mean to be like that.'
'Mothersaid so too.)
'Well then,I'll have to be more carefulfromnow on.'
'Oh, I didn't mean to criticizeyou.'
'No, no. It reallyis quite wrongof me. My fatherwas always like
that. He hardlysaid a word to me untilthe day he died.'
'I'm surehe was verykindhearted.
Mothersayshe musthave beenvery
muchlike myfather.'
'What was he like?'
'He never said much but he was always smiling.He almost never
scoldedmotheror me.'
'My fatherneversmiled.'
'Then he was verystern?'
'No, not at all. He just kept quiet all the time. He never even
botheredto scold me.'
'And yourmother? Oh, I forgot.You neverknewyourmother.'
Oshin was silentfora moment.Then she asked,'What do you think
of my mother?'
'She is verynice. I thinkof her as my own mother.'
'Oh my. That's wonderful.She will be so happy to hear that.'
This was more or less the way we spoke. But Oshin, afterall, was a
maturegirl.She could notgo on simplybeingkindto me likehermother.
As the monthswent by I could see her drawingcloser to me, with
feelingsthat went beyond kindness.Her mothersuspectedwhat was
butforsomereasonsheseemednotat all concerned.
happening,certainly,

Doppo: Shojikimono

323

And whatwere
Indeed shejoined Oshin in showeringme withaffection.
myfeelingsforOshin,you are wondering.My passiondid not come up
to a tenthof hers.You mustthinkI treatedher verycoldly,then,blut
thatis not the case. I simplylet herthinkwhatshe wantedto thinkand
do what she wantedto do.
And whatdid thiscometo in theend? It was thenightofFebruary15,
an unforgettable
night.The hour was past twelve.The lodgerswere
asleep,ofcourse,and so wereOshin'smotherand brother.The housewas
utterlystill. Outside, the snow was fallingheavily.At timesthe wind
would riseand sweep the snowpast the shutters.Oshin had been in my
roomsincenine. A fewminutesafterthe clockstrucktwelveshe got up
to leave.
'All right?You will ask motherin the nextfew days, won't you? I
knowshe'll agree rightaway. Please be sure to ask her,' she beggedme
repeatedly.I can stillrememberthe look on her face.
betweenOshin and
That nightmarkedthebeginningofa relationship
me that we had to conceal not only fromthe boardersbut fromher
mothernow as well. Oshin evidencedsatisfaction
at hopesrealized,but I
and a vague,inexpressible
couldsee in her,too,bothstrongdetermination
fear. She mightbe laughinglike a child one momentand sighingthe
next,her face deadly pale. For my own part,I changednot at all. The
desirethat I had been harboring,the desirethat flaredup with evereach timeOshin'sbodydrewcloseto mine,thedesire
increasingintensity
I had been intenton fulfilling
as soon as the chance arose-the great
of havingattainedthisdesirewas mine. But my heartwas,
satisfaction
as ever,untouched.Of coursetherewas no changein my expressionor
mybehavior.
Oshingave herself
to me bodyand soul. She loved me. She trustedme.
She neverdoubtedme foran instant.She would plead withme to speak
withher mothersoon and ask forpermissionto marry,but was satisfied
withmy assurancesthat I would take care of everything.
When I said earlierthatI have a certaininborntrait,I was speaking
of lust. A man like me withno stronginclinations,who could proceed
of the passingscene,was yetunable, whenit came to
coolly,unmindful
mattersof sex, to maintainhis equanimity.Once I had taken Oshin's
to whetherit
virginityI continuedto satisfymy desire, indifferent
pleased her or not, restrainedonly by the need forsecrecy.Oshin felt
thiswas due to the violenceof my love.
You will assumethat I had no intentionof marryingOshin, but this
was not the case. There weretimeswhen I thoughtI mightgo through

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XXVII, 3
Monumenta
Nipponica,

withit,but theresolveto approachOshin's mothernevercame. I knew

verywell thatshe would give her consentmostgladly,but I hesitated.
Two monthswentby.
Then, at the end ofApril,somethinghappened.It was a Sunday and
I had been visitingwithanotherteacher.By the timeI got back to the
roominghouseit was eighto'clock. I foundOshin waitingin myroom.
The momentshe saw me she threwherselfdown, which could hardly
have failedto startleeven me. I hurriedlykneltdown beside her.
'What is it? What's the matter?' I saw that she was crying.'Shinchan, tellme what is wrong.'
'It's mother.She said somethingawful.'Oshin lookedup and indeed
tearswerestreamingdownherface,but I could nottellwhethershe was
laughingor crying.
Somewhatrelieved,I asked, 'What did she say?'
but I thinkshe suspectsus.'
'She didn'tcome rightout withanything,
'Did she say something?'
'All ofa suddenshe askedme what I wantedto do. Do about what,I
said. You cah tell your motherat least, she said. Don't you and Mr
Sawamura have some kind of understanding?I didn't say anything.
is, and that
Then she startedtellingme how importanta girl'svirginity
sortof thing.I startedto cry. She said if I wanted to marryyou she
wouldn'tobject,that she is fondof you too. All I had to do was tell
hermymindwas made up and she would come to see you-tonightif I
liked.I almostaskedherto do that,but I thoughtifshe mentionedit to
you withoutwarningit mightconflictwithwhateveryou had in mind.I
didn'tknowwhat to tellherso I didn'tsay anything.Then she stopped
talkingand thatmade me feelworseand I wenton crying.I knewI had
so finallyI askedher to talk to you but to let me see
to say something,
you first.Do what you like, she said, but I could see she was a little
annoyed. Then I came righthere and I've been waitingforyou ever
since.'
At a timelikethisanydecentpersonwould
dumbfounded.
I was utterly
Oshin and resolvedto see her motherwithoutdelay. In
have comforted
My characterbeingwhatit is,
mycase theresolvewas not forthcoming.
I cannotsuddenlybecome excitedin a situationlike this.
You thinkperhapsI blurtedout some callous remarkbeforeOshin,
but I did not.
'Well, then,yourmotherwill be comingup soon to talk to me. We
can workit out,' I said calmly.I began to strokeOshin'sback as, leaning
againstthe brazier,she wiped away the tracesofhertears.Immediately

Doppo: Shojikimono

325

the old passion began to flame up and I drew near to her. What a
despicableexcusefora human being I am.
At thatmomentthedoorslid back and in came Oshin'smother(or,as
I and two or threeof the otherboarderscalled her,'Mother').
In thepast fewmonths,Motheralmostnevercame to myroomwhen
Oshin was there.I was taken offguard and quicklydrew away from
lefttheroom.Mothersat downand I turnedto
Oshin,who immediately
face her acrossthe small charcoal brazier.
'There is somethingwe ought to talk about,' she began without
air but it was, afterall, a
hesitation.She triedto affecta business-like
difficult
subjectto broach. She facedme, smilinguncomfortably.
'Yes . . .' Even thisresponseI managed onlywithgreatdifficulty.
'I thinkyou knowwhat I want to say. I am veryworried.I have to
knowwhat yourfeelingsare.'
'No, my opinionis of no importance.It is what you feelthat-'
'I myselfhave no objections.If you want to spend your life with
Oshin ... I have always admiredyour characterand would be very
pleased.'
'But I am such a-'
'Then let's settleit now. If we . . . ifwe don't . . . of courseyou of all
people would neverdo such a thing,but what would people say about
you two youngpeople underthe same roof,and who knowswhat they
would thinkat yourschool... ?'
'Yes, yes,that'swhy I, what shall I say, I thoughtI mightjust, tell
the,telljust the principaland ask his advice ...
'A verygood idea. Yes, that would be the best thing,to have the
principalbecometheofficialgo-between.'And so thematterwas settled.
would workout.
Oshin's motherno longerdoubted that everything
She was convincedthatall would end well once I had spokenwiththe
principal.By suggestingthis solutionI had opened an escape route.
'Honest' men like me are alwaystossedby the waves,yetwe manage to
ride them.
livedin the
AfterOshin'smotherhad gone back to herroom (I myself
one-roomsecondstory)I sprawledout on thefloorand lay therein a fog
at the ceiling.Exceptforan
forsometwentyminutes,staringmindlessly
occasionalloweringand raisingofthe eyelids,I did not move. I waited,
fairlycertainthat Oshin would come back upstairs.When therewas
no sign of her, I spread out the beddingand wentto sleep.
up myroom.She behaved
The nextmorningOshincame to straighten
just like a wife.She said verylittle,speakingmostlywithher eyes.She

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my clothesand just beforeI went out said quietly,'You

straightened
will talkto the principaltoday,won'tyou?' There was not the slightest
hint of doubt in her voice. A talk with the principal,she assumed,
involvednothingmorethan brieflydescribingthe situationto him.
When classeswereover I tookthe principalaside and told him about
the marriageplans. Of course I said nothingabout my relationswith
Oshin. I merelytold him thatmylandladyhad asked me to marryher
daughterand asked him what he thoughtI should do. Anyoneelse he
would have immediatelysuspectedof having seduced the girl,but he
trustedme.
'Do you want to get married?'
'Eitherway,itdoesn'tmatter.But I thoughtI shouldaskyouropinion,'
I answeredcasually.
or -six
'Well, I'm againstit. You are tooyoung.Ifyouweretwenty-five
butyou aren'tevenoflegal age. Of coursethereare
it wouldbe different,
notso matureas you,but let'sfaceit. You are simply
people twenty-five
too young.'
'Well anyway,I told her I wantedto talk to you about it first. ..
'That's fine.I will refuseforyou.' He was quite offhand.
'It won't be that easy, I think.They are verydetermined.'
'Yes, I had heard the woman was quite takenwithyou, but now it is
reallyserious.Wait a minute,then,theremustbe something...' He
smiledto himselfas he thoughtit over.
'Ah, I have it. Whenyou go hometoday,tellherthis.I am in favorof
the marriagebut I thinkit will not look good foryou to be livingin a
boardinghouse and marryingthe proprietor'sdaughter.Tell her that
instead,you shouldstaywithme fora whileand aftera monthor so I can
go as a propergo-betweenand ask forthe girl'shand. That way it will
look rightand of coursethe conventionswill be served.Tell her sinceI
was kind enough to advise you, you want to do as I say. That will
convinceher,I'm sure.Then you movein withme rightaway. You can
stay with my brotherin the three-matfrontroom. It will be a bit
cramped,but you can make do forthe timebeing. Once you are at my
place you don't go back to the boardinghouse. Aftera monthI will go
and see the woman and findsome reasonforending things.She won't
have any objectionsand you will be in the clear. Yes, that'sit. There is
no otherway.'
I wentback to the boardinghouse. When I presentedthe principal's
was dejectedbut
plan to Oshin'smothershewas overjoyed.Oshinherself
therewas nothingshe could say. She stayedin myroomthatnightuntil

Doppo: Sh-jikimono

327

aftertwelve.I can stillrememberhowsad and lovelyshewas. She begged

me repeatedlyto marryher,notin a monthbut rightaway. When I told
herthatI could notcome back fora monthshe askedme to meetherin
Kudan Park now and then.I agreed.
I movedintotheprincipal'shouse.A monthwentby. I neverwentto
the boardinghouse,but I met secretlywithOshin fourtimes.The last
timewe parted Oshin was radiant. 'Tomorrowis the day. He'll come
tomorrow.And if the principaldoesn'tcome, you can. Please ...'
Justas she had hoped, the principalwent next day to the boarding
house. I waited forhim nervously.All that worriedme, however,was
withOshinmightbe discovered.The principalcame
thatmyrelationship
back soon.
'It wentmorequicklythan I had expected.That landladyofyoursis
woman.'
quite an intelligent
I heaved a sighof relief.
'Did she say anything?'
'What could she say? I toldheryou weretoo youngformarriage,that
we want to postponeit forthe time being-not because you object to
marryingthe girlbut because I want you to studya fewmoreyears.If
you and the girl are meant to marry,then it will be some yearsfrom
now we can't be surewhen,so ifin themeantimeshe receivesanygood
she shouldgo ahead and marry.That was all I said. She certainly
offers
could not object.'
'Was her daughterthere?'
'No, as soon as I came in she wentupstairs.'
'What did her mothersay?'
'Her expressiondid changesomewhatwhen she heard what I had to
say, but she tookit calmly.She was a judge's wife,she said. She would
notbe unreasonable.She askedme to conveyherregardsto you. I didn't
knowshe was a judge's widow. A veryimpressivewoman.'
'Did you see the girlafterwards,
as you were leaving?'
'No, I didn't see her. She was waitingupstairs,poor thing.'
I have never seen Oshin since then. One night,a week afterthe
principal'svisit,I passed by the boardinghouse in secret.It had been
locked up, and in the gloom I could dimly make out the sign, 'For
Rent'.
This is one exampleofan honestman's activities.Some day let me tell
you a fewmore.

328

Monumenta
XXVII,3
Nipponica,

Take no Kido
The BambooGate
1
livedin a Tokyosuburband commutedto his officein the
Ky6bashisectionof the city.It was over a mile fromhis house to the
trainstop,but he coveredthe distanceeach morningon foot.The walk
was perfectexercise,he insisted.Alwaysgood-natured,Shinzo was well
likedat the office.
At home, therewere five othersbesides Shinza: his very sprightly
hiswife's
hiswife,aged twenty-nine;
mother,who was nearlysixty-eight;
daughter,Rei-chan; and finally
youngersister,Okiyo; hisseven-year-old
the maid Otoku, who had been withthemfornearlysix years.
Shinzo'swiferarelydid any housework.She was rathersickly.Okiyo
and Otokuran thekitchen,withhelp fromShinza's mother.Otoku,who
wielded great authoritywithinthe household.
was only twenty-three,
of one who had
She broughtto her workthe energyand determination
this
set
often herwordabove
resolvedto devoteherlifeto thefamily,and
even that of the venerableold mother.Okiyo complainedon occasion
that the maid was far too willful,but therewas never any doubting
Otoku's intentions.She wanted what was best for the family.The
victorywas alwayshers.
Beyondthe Obas' back hedge stooda small cottagethatlookedlike a
storageshed. A gardenerand his wifelived there.He was in his late
twentiesand she was about the same age as Otoku. The two women
engagedin back fencegossipas thoughit weresomesortofcontestto see
whichone could outdo the other.
When the gardenerand his wifemoved in, theyasked permissionto
use the Obas' well. The Obas consideredthisa reasonablerequestand
allowedthemto draw waterwhenevertheyneededit. Two monthslater
openingin
thegardenerand his wifeaskediftheymightcut a three-foot
the hedge. Then theywould not have to walk around to the frontgate
each timetheycame to thewell. This requestwas receivedlesscordially
at the Oba house. Otoku, especially,was opposed to the idea. She
insistedthatsuch an openingwould be like a doorwayforburglars.But
won out in theend. They could cut throughthe
Shinzo'skindlyinstincts
hedge on conditionthattheybuild a sturdywoodengate and take care
OBA SHINZO

Doppo: TakenoKido

329

to close it properlyeach time.All thegardenerdid, however,was to cut

sometwigsofstill-green
bamboo fromtheunderbrush
nearbyand weave
themtogetherwithsome shaggycedar branches.
'Is thisa woodengate?' Otoku said loudlywhenshe saw it. 'Whereis
the latch? We would be just as well offwithnothingat all.'
The gardener'swife,Ogen, was at the well,scrubbingout a rice pot.
'It is a perfectly
good gate,' she retorted.'You certainlycouldn'texpect
us to do a professional
job. My husbandis no carpenter.'
'Then you shouldhave gottena carpenterto do it.' Otokuknewquite
well thatthe gardenercould neveraffordto hireanyone,but Ogen had
made herangry.
'If we werein a positionto get a carpenterwe would,' Ogen snapped.
'All you have to do is sendforone. It's easy.' Otokuhad thelastword.
Her sarcasmenragedthe proud Ogen, but the gardener'swifeknew
Otoku'sinfluencein theOba household.She could onlylose by opposing
her.Controlling
hertemper,shespoketo Otokuin moreapologetictones.
'Please don't be angry.Look at it thisway. I will be the onlyone going
in and out. As long as I am carefulto keep the gate closed,everything
should be all right.Besides,if a real burglarwanted to get in nothing
would stophim-not the hedge,not even thefrontgate. A woodengate
here wouldn'tmean a thingto him.'
'Well, I supposeyou are right.I won'tworryas longas you makesure
to closethegate. I supposeyou knowabout theburglarsand junkpickers
who are alwayslurkingin the neighborhood.You can't be carelessfora
second.You knowMr Kawai, don'tyou,the armyofficer
who livesnear
the new bakery?Justtwo or threedays ago, I heard,someonemade off
witha brand new copperwashbasinfromhis place.'
'How did thathappen?' Ogen stoppeddrawingwaterand turnedto
Otoku.
'The maid was usingit at thewell. She wentto hang something
up to
drybehindthe house,and in the splitsecondshe was gone,theygot it.
She had leftthe gate open,just a crack.'
'You reallyhave to be carefulnowadays.Don't worryabout me-I'll
watch out. But you, too, Otoku. Make sure you don't leave anything
worthstealingunguarded,even fora second.'
'Oh, I certainlydon't intendto. But it slips your mind sometimes.
Watch out forjunkpickers,Ogen. Anyonecomingin the back gate will
have to pass yourhouse.'
'Oh, I'll be careful.It makesyoufeelso stupidwhentheytakeeventhe
littlestthing-a piece of firewoodor a lump of charcoal.'

330

Monumenta
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Nipponica,

'Well, a lump of charcoalis not such a littlethingthesedays. This is

Sakura we use. One sack costs85 sen.' Otoku pointedto the bags of
charcoalbeneaththe eaves. They formeda line runningfromthe well
to the kitchendoor. 'How much do you get in one sack, afterall?
Imaginewhat one piece is worth.It's like burningmoney.And all ofit,
thisexpensivecoal and thecheap kind,too,coststwiceas muchas it did
last year. How can we go on like this?' she sighed.
'The six ofyou mustuse a lot,too. Isokichiand I don't need so much,
but stillI findmyselfbuyingthreesen worthone day, fivesen the next.
I just don't know....'
Meanwhilethetwohad forgotten
Otokucluckedsympathetically.
their
quarreloverthe gate. They wenton chattering
at each otheras always.
It was late in Novemberwhen the days are shortest.The sun was
beginningto set when Shinzo arrivedhome. When he heard that the
gate was finished,he slipped on his clogs withoutbotheringto change
intoJapanese clothesand went out to the back yard. He stood there
lookingat the bamboo gate, smiling.
Otoku walkedover to offerher comments.'That's quite a job he did,
isn'tit?'
'Did the gardenermake this?'
'Yes, he did.'
'It's a funnygate, but not a bad job fora gardener.'He gave it a
shake. 'Strongerthan it looks. It's betterthan nothing,I suppose. We
can get a carpenterto come overand build us a real one some time.Oh
well,a bamboo gate is stilla gate.' He wentintothe house,laughing.
In her cottageon the otherside of the hedge, Ogen listenedto their
conversationand laughed to herself.'What a smartman Mr Oba is.
There aren'tmanyas kindheartedas thatnowadays.I like his wife.His
mothercan be fussyat times,butshe is nice,too. Okiyois a divorceeand
a littlehard to get along with,but she is basicallykind.' Then Ogen's
led herto Otoku. She rememberedthemaid'ssarcasticremarks.
thoughts
'If we didn't have to depend on themforwater,I wouldn'tlet her get
away withtalk like that. She is nothingbut a farmgirl who has let a
littlegood treatmentgo to her head. "That's quite a job he did," she
says. It servesher rightMr Oba just ignoredher.
'But still,you have to admireher. She is not bad looking,and she is
about myage. She couldstillgetmarriedanytimeshewantedto,butshe
worksheartand soul forthe family.No ordinarywoman could do that.
And she is so honestit is almostfrightening.
The Obas are makingno
mistakewhen theytrusteverything
to her....'

Doppo: TakenoKido

331

Withsuch thoughtsrunningthroughherhead, Ogen lit thelamp and

picked up the charcoal basket. There was not a piece leftin it. She
touchedthe sootyold kettleand was relievedto findit stillhot. 'I hope
Iso getsback beforethe watercools off.If he doesn'tget that advance
We can managea fire,though.
therewillbe no firetonightor tomorrow.
We can always burn leaves. What we haven't got is tomorrow'srice.'
pitiful,sittingalone underthe
She heaved a sigh. Ogen seemedterribly
duskylamp, ashen-faced,her hair in disarray.
Just then her husband Isokichicame slouchingin. Ogen asked him
immediatelywhetherhe had gottenthe advance. Withouta word, he
handed her his wallet. She opened it.
'Justtwo yen?'
'Uh-huh.'
'What can we do with two yen? As long as you were gettingan
advance, why didn't you ask forfiveyen?'
'I did.'
'I am sure your foremanwould have loaned it to you if you had
reallypressedhim forit. Look.' She showed him the emptycharcoal
basket.'There's no moreleft.And ifwe buy ricetonighttherewill be no
moneyleft,either.'
Isokichipuffedsilentlyat his pipe, then knockedthe ashes into the
brazier.He drewthe littletable towardshim and startedto eat without
waitingforOgen to servehim. Instead of the customarytea, he poured
plain hot water on his rice and sloshedit down. He seemedto findit
quite delicious.
Stunnedinto silence,Ogen sat and watched. Isokichidevouredone
moundofrice afteranother,and showedno signsofstoppingevenwhile
workingon his sixthbowlful.Amazed at first,Ogen began to findhim
comical.
'Are you reallyso hungry?'
'I didn'thave anythingto eat thisafternoon,'Isokichisaid, fillinghis
bowl forthe seventhtime.
'Why not?'
'When I got to worktodayaftermakingthegate,theforemangave it
to me forcominglate at such a busy time. I told him about the gate.
He said he doesn'tgive a damn what I do at home. I got so mad I tore
intomywork.I neverlookedup whenthegirlscame aroundwithsnacks
later on. Afterall thisI hated to go to him formoney.But I knewI'd
have to, and at quittingtimeI asked him to loan me fiveyen. "It must

332

Monumenta
Nipponica,
XXVII, 3

take a lot of nervefora loaferlike you to ask foran advance," he said.

He told me to be satisfiedwithtwo yen. What could I do?'
Thus, in a singleburst,Isokichiexplainedboth his hungerand his
failureto bring home more than two yen. As his storyended, his
came to rest.
chopsticks
Isokichiwas normallya reticentman, and wheneverhe spokehe did
so withdifficulty.
But when the occasion demandedit, as thisone did,
he could expresshimselfwith great animationand pepper his speech
withstronglanguage. Such outburstsdelightedOgen immensely.And
yet,thoughtheyhad been marriedalmostthreeyears,Ogen could not
be sure whetherIsokichiwas a loaferor a hard worker.As a Tokyo
woman of changeablemoods,she was contentto live withuncertainty.
She told herselfthat 'my Iso' mighttake three,four,even ten days off
fromwork,but that he could do the work of threemen if the need
arose. Howeverbad the situationmightbecome,theywould not suffer,
she believed. Yet she had never consideredwhat constituteda 'bad'
situation.She trustedIso to resolveemergencies
witha boldnessofwhich
he and no one else was capable. And yetshe had doubts.Sometimeshe
seemedutterly
arosewhenevershewas feeling
spineless.These misgivings
their povertymost keenly,and the combinationwas simplytoo depressing.She stroveto banishthemfromher thoughts.
Isokichiwas one of those'inscrutable'men. The Oba womenfound
his presencevaguelyunnerving.Even Otoku treatedhim respectfully.
Whenevershe seemedhesitantwithhim,or Okiyo was overlypolite to
him,Ogen fairlyburstwithdelight.
But afterall, Ogen was fed up with their never-endingpoverty.
This was the time of life when Isokichishould be bringinghome his
best wages, yet still they were withouta decent, settledhome. The
places theylived in were nevermuch more than sheds or the corners
of old warehouses.Soon the wivesof the othergardenerscame to think
of Ogen as an 'inscrutable'woman-a fool.
When Isokichihad finishedeating,Ogen rushedout with a basket.
She returnedwitha fewchunksofscrap charcoal.While she workedat
startingthe fire,she chatteredon and on about the bamboo gate, what
had happened with Otoku, what Shinza had said when he saw it. Iso
offerednot a singlecomment.
Soon Isokichiwas yawningbroadly. Ogen spread theirthin,soiled
beddingon the floor.Their two bodies huddled togetheras one, they
drew the single blanketup over theirheads and went to sleep. The
cold nightwind blew in throughthe cracks in the walls and floor.

Doppo: TakenoKido

333

They drewin theirlegs and armsas besttheycould, but Isokichi'sback

was stillno morethan halfcovered.
2
Decembercame,and theweathersuddenlyturnedcolder.The suburbs
ofTokyoshowedthesignsofwinter.Pondsfrozeoverand needlesoffrost
dottedthe ground.This came as a surpriseto thosespendingtheirfirst
winterin the newlyfashionablesuburbs.But Oba Shinzo, to whom it
was a familiarexperience,simplypulled on his boots,got intohis heavy
overcoat,and commutedto workas usual.
The firstSunday of the monthwas like an Indian summerday. The
skywas a clear, deep blue, the sun shone brilliantly,and the air was
perfectlycalm. Shinza's motherand wife decided to spend the day
shopping.They tookRei-chanand Otoku downtownwiththem,leaving
Shinza and Okiyo at home.
The ladies of the Oba familyrarelylefthome. A tripdowntownthey
forsuchan excursioninvolvedgreat
called 'goingto Tokyo'. Preparations
commotion.The house was throwninto an uproar as the fourwomen
dashed about changingtheirclothesand gettingready. Once theyhad
gone, the house fell utterlysilent, as though all signs of life had
disappeared.
Still in a quilted house-kimono,Shinza lay in his sunfilledstudy,
reading the paper. Before noon he was bored. Stepping onto the
veranda he walkedidlyup and down.
Shinzo heard Okiyo calling to him throughthe paper door of her
room.
'What is it?'
'I knowyou are lookingforlunch,'she said playfully.'Well, we don't
have a thing.'
'I see.'
' "I see"! We reallydon't have anything.'
Shinza slid back thedoor to Okiyo'sroom.He foundhersewingaway
busily.
'You seem to be workingveryhard.'
'It's a littlecoat forRei-chan. Prettymaterial,isn'tit?'
Shinzo did not answerher. He was lookingabout the room. 'You
oughtto be doingthatin a sunnierroom.You don't evenhave a brazier
here.'

334

XXVII, 3
Monumenta
JNipponica,

'It's not as thoughmy hands werefreezing.Besides,we are tryingto

economizethesedays.'
'Economize? On what?'
'Charcoal.'
'I admit charcoal has gottenexpensivelately,but not so expensive
thatwe suddenlyhave to starteconomizing.'
Shinzo knew nothing of such problems. He had no interestin
householdaffairs.
'Shinza, don't you realize that we spent more on charcoal than on
rice last month?And we are just gettinginto the coldestseason. We
mustbe verycarefulhow we burncharcoaloverthe nextthreemonths.
It could reallyget out of hand. Otoku does nothingbut complain all
day long how muchwe are spending,and I see what she means.'
'Yes, but what's the good of catchingcold foreconomy'ssake?'
'Oh come now, thatwon't happen.'
'No, not today.Today it happensto be warm out. Not even mother
yawningdeeply. 'I
could catch cold when it is like this.' He stretched,
wonderwhat timeit is.'
'It mustbe near twelve.Shall we eat lunch?'
'No, I'm not the least bit hungry.Funny,at the officelunch always
seemsso far away....' Shinza wanderedoff,peekingidly into all the
rooms.Whenhe gotto Otoku'sroomhe walkedin. He had neverbeen in
the maid's roombefore.He foundthe windowhad been leftwide open.
When he leaned out to have a look around,he came face to face with
Ogen fromnextdoor. She had lookedup just as Shinzo'shead emerged
fromthewindowabove her.She flusheda deep red and finallymanaged
word or two.
a flustered
'I see you use verygood charcoalhere....' She was holdinga piece of
Sakura charcoal and startedto juggle it. The open charcoal bags were
lined up in theirplace beneaththe window.Ogen had to pass by them
on her way fromthe bamboo gate to the well.
Flounderingin searchof an
Shinzo,too, became somewhatflustered.
women
knowmoreabout....'
he
'I
think
the
said,
comment,
appropriate
and, smilingamiably,drew himselfback inside.
Shinza wentstraightto his studyand thoughtoverwhat he had seen.
to reach a conclusion.It was impossiblefor him
He foundit difficult
to hold to his initialjudgment-that Ogen had been on the verge of
stealingcharcoal. Perhaps she had in fact been merelylookingat it.
Perhapsshe had picked it up quite innocentlyas she walked by, then
when she foundsomeone lookingat her. And of
blushed instinctively

Doppo: TakenoKido

335

courseit was the masterofthe house himselfpeeringdown. That might

have surprisedher. Shinz6 wanted very much to believe the less
damaging explanation,which seemed more reasonable the longer he
consideredit. Eventuallyhe was able to. He decided in any case to
mentionthisto no one.
If she had actually been stealing,however,the consequencesof
ignoringit could prove unpleasant,Shinza thought.But having been
seen once, she could hardlygo on doing it. The best thingwas to say
nothing.He was sure of it now. In any case, Otoku was right: they
shouldneverhave let the gardenerput up the bamboo gate.
Shortlyafterthree,the shopperstroopedin fromdowntown.They
gatheredin the livingroomfora noisyreviewof theirexcursion.Okiyo
had to join them, and Shinz6 too was expected to listen and make
suitableresponses.Rei-chanhad embarrassedthembyloudlydemanding
a large doll at a bazaar in Shimbashi;a drunkhad botheredeveryone
on the streetcar;Shinza's wvvife
had boughthim Daitoku's bestimported
undershirtbecause of his sensitivity
to the cold; and everyoneagreed
thatit was impossibleto keep to one's budgetwhenshoppingdowntown.
They wenton withoutstopping,thetalkersenjoyingthemselves
farmore
than the listeners.
At the firstbreakin the commotion,Otoku got up as thoughshe had
suddenly rememberedsomethingand went out the back door. She
returneda momentlaterwitha strangely
seriousexpressionon herface,
her eyesopen wide.
'It's true!' she muttered,
staringat each oftheothers.They waitedfor
an explanation.
'It's true,'she said again. She lookedat Okiyo. 'You didn'tuse any of
the charcoalfromoutsidetoday,did you?'
'No, just what was in the basket.'
'Then I was right!It has been botheringme the way we run out of
charcoalso fast.I thoughtfora whilethecoal man mightbe cheatingus,
packingjust the bottomof the bag full. But even so, it shouldn'tbe
disappearingat this rate. Then I had a thought.Yesterday,when
Ogen was out, I peeked into theirplace througha hole in the paper
door.And do you knowwhat I saw?' Otoku loweredhervoice. 'In that
old, crackedbrazier of theirs,therewere two pieces of Sakura neatly
bankedwithashes.That clinchedit. I was goingto say something,
but I
thoughtit would be betterto set a trap and make absolutelysure.
That's what I did today.' She smirkedat the others.
'A trap?' Okiyoseemedconcerned.

336

XXVII, 3
Monumenta
JNipponica,

'Beforewe lefttoday I put markson the top pieces of charcoal.Just

now I foundfourpieces of markedSakura and two big chunksof soft
coal missing.'
'What does it mean ...?' Shinzo's mother
Okiyo was flabbergasted.
and wifelooked at each otherin silence. Shinza himselfrealized that
thingshad come to a head but decided not to say anythingas yet. He
simplydid not have the heartto revealwhat he had seen earlier.
Otoku had expectedher shockingnews to touch offan uproar but,
aside fromOkiyo's exclamation,no one said a thing.With a note of
she asked, 'Well, now we know who has been stealing
disappointment
the charcoal. What shall we do about it?' The silencecontinued.
'What do you mean?' Okiyo asked the maid. 'What wouldyoudo?'
Somewhatannoyed,Otoku replied,'The charcoal! Unless we move
the charcoal theywilljust go on takingall theylike.'
'Why not put it under the kitchenporch?' Shinzo0suggested.He
knewthatOgen would no longerbe able to steal charcoal,even ifthey
leftit where it was. But having once decided not to reveal what he
knew,therewas littleelse he could do but show concern.
Otoku dismissedhim curtly.'It is full.'
'Is thatso?' Afterthat Shinzo remainedsilent.
'Why don't we do this?' Shinza's wifehad an idea. 'We can clear out
thebottomofOtoku'swardrobeand, forthetimebeingat least,put the
coal in there.Otoku's thingswe can put in the wardrobein the middle
room.'
'Let's do that,'Otoku immediatelyagreed.
'But,' Shinzo's wifeadded, 'it will be veryinconvenientforyou.'
'Not at all. I preferthatwardrobeto my own.'
'That settlesit, then,'the old woman spoke up. Then she startedto
complain.'I have been tellingShinzoformonthsto have someonemake
a storageshedforus. He keepsputtingit offand now thishappens.None
of thishad to happen.'
Shinza smiledand scratchedhis head.
'No, thisis all because-ofthe bamboo gate,' Otoku insisted.'I said it
would be like makingan entranceforburglarsif you cut throughthe
hedge.Now it looksliketheburglarsmade theirown entrance.'Without
realizingit Otoku had been speakingin her usual shrilltones.
'Quiet! Quiet! She can hear you,' the old woman brokein. 'I was
againstlettingthem cut the opening,but what's done is done. If we
suddenlycloseit up now,therewill onlybe hard feelings.Look at it this
way: theyare not going to live in that shack forever.We can always

Doppo: TakenoKido

337

fixup thehedgeaftertheymove.Now we have to go on as iftherewere

nothingwrong.Otoku, you mustnot say a word to Ogen. We didn't
And besides,nowit isjust a matterofhaving
reallysee hertakeanything.
a littlecharcoal stolen.Let's not make it any worse.Believe me, when
you have people like that hatingyou, you lose more than charcoal.'
Okiyo sharedthe old woman's apprehensions.'I agree. I know how
readyyou are withyournastyremarks,Otoku,but don'tsay anythingto
Ogen. Thereis no tellingwhatshe would say or do in return.It could be
terribleforus. And thathusbandof hers,Iso. What a strangeone he is.
He is the kind thatwould get back at you no matterwhat it costhim.'
Shinz6's mother,too, was worriedabout Isokichi,althoughshe had not
said as much.
from
'What do you mean?' said Shinzo,gettingup. 'He is no different
anyoneelse. Still,it would be bestnot to get involvedwithhim.'
Shinza went back to his study.The charcoal questionhaving been
settledforthe moment,Otoku and Okiyo hurriedto preparesupper.
Otoku waitedforOgen to appear, as she alwaysdid in theevening,to
draw water. How would Ogen look tonight,she wondered. Otoku
thoughtit strangewhen the hour came and no one emergedfromthe
bamboo gate.
An hour aftersunsetIsokichicame to draw water.
3
Ogen knewthatShinza had seen her,but she feltshe had managed to
deceive him. She had gottenthe lump of softcoal into her sleeve and,
holdingthe Sakura wrapped in her apron againstherself,she was just
aboutto takeone morepiece whenShinzalookeddownfromthewindow.
soul thathe was,he probablyhad notrealizedwhatshe
Innatelytrusting
was doing,Ogen believed. Still,when dusk came, she could not bring
herselfto go to thewell.
BeforeIsokichicame homefromworkOgen put out the beddingand
lay down. She foundit impossibleto sleep. At nightshe could sleep with
Isokichi,even on theirthin,soiled mattress.The warmthof theirtwo
bodiesmade thecold bearable.Alone,thestiff
quiltwould notfitclosely
around her and she feltcolder than if she had been up and about.
Startingto shiver,she curledup intoa tightlittleball. One would never
have guessedthatthe thinglyingtherewas a human being.
she became increasingly
As shelay awake thinking,
upset.Accustomed
as she was to being poor, she was stillnot accustomedto being a thief.

338

Monumenta
Nipponica,
XXVII, 3

The actualvalue ofwhatshe had stolenduringthepast fewdays did not

amountto much,but thiswas the firsttimeshe had ever calculatingly
taken anythingfromanyone. When she thoughtabout what she had
done,Ogen felttroubledin a way she had neverknownbefore,and with
her unease were mingledfearand shame.
She recalledvividlythescenein theyard.She could see Shinzolooking
down at her. And when she thoughtof her clumsyattemptat nonchalance, her jugglingof the lump of coal, she felther face burning.
'What have I done?' she cried aloud. Graduallyshe edged towards
delirium.'What if theyfindout?' 'They can't findout. Mr Oba is too
good a personto tell.' 'You can't counton that.' 'Good people are fools.'
and soon she was shouting
She wenton in a franticdialoguewithherself,
again, 'Fools! Fools! Great big fools!'To thisshe added, 'They'll never
findout.'
She lookedout fromunderthequilt. The sun had gone down and the
moonwas shiningon thepaper door.She did notgetup to lightthelamp,
but curled up under the coversagain. It was then that Isokichicame
home.
She told him that she was in bed with a bad headache. Neither
angrynor surprised,Isokichidid the choreshimself.He lit the lamp,
added charcoalto the brazierwhen he foundthe kettlelukewarm,and
wentto draw water.He puffedaway at his pipe while waitingforthe
waterto boil.
'How is yourheadache?'
She did not answer.He staredat the mound of bedding.
'How is yourheadache, I said.'
Stillshe did not answer.Iso said nothingmore..Soon the watercame
to a boil. As usual he pouredplain hot waterover cold rice and started
eatingas thoughhe could wait not a momentlonger.
Under the quilt Ogen began to sob, but Iso, munchingon his pickles
and sloshingdown his rice in gluttonousecstasy,could not hear her.
And by the timehe was througheating,her cryinghad stopped.
Iso startedknockinghis pipe againstthe edge of the brazier,and in
responsethe mound of bedding began to shift.Beforelong Ogen was
sittingup, halfwrappedin the quilt. Her kneesprotrudedslightlyfrom
the open frontof her kimono,but she made no attemptto coverthem.
Her face was flushedand her eyes moistwith tears. She was sobbing
steadily.
'What is thisall about?' Iso demanded. He seemednot the least bit
surprisedor upset.He was being Iso.

Doppo: TakenoKido

339

'Iso, I can't standit any more,'she began. Her voice became choked
withtears.'We have been togetherforthreeyears,and in all thattime
therehas neverbeen one day any different
fromall the rest.We just go
on and on withbarelyenoughto keep fromstarving.I neverexpected
thingsto go easyforus, but thisis too much.We live likebeggars.Don't
you see?'
Iso said nothing.
'All we do is eat to go on living,but anyone can do that. No one
starvesto deathanymore.A lifelikethisisjust too awful.'She wiped the
tearsaway withhersleeve.'You are a perfectly
good workmanand you
have only me to support.But what are we doing? We live in constant
poverty.And not just poverty-we have never once lived in a decent
house, always in some shed like thisor-'
'Oh shutup, will you!' Iso slammedthe ashesout ofhis pipe. Stillhe
did not look at her.
'Go rightahead and get angry if you want to!' Ogen burst out.
'TonightI am goingto have my say.'
'Nobody likesbeingpoor,you know.'
'Then why do you take offfromwork ten days everymonth?You
don't drink,you don't have any otherbad habits.If onlyyou would go
to worklike you oughtto we wouldn'tbe so poor.'
Iso staredsilentlyat the ashes in the brazier.
'Justworka littleharderand thingswon't be so miserable.We can't
even affordscrap charcoal thesedays....'
Ogen threwherself
ontothequiltin a rushoftears.Isokichistartedup.
He steppedintothestrawsandalslyingin the dirt-floored
foyerand ran
out. It was a clear,moonlitnight.The air was stillbut piercinglycold.
Iso hurriedalong to thenew road. Half a milefurther
on he reachedthe
house of anothergardener,Kinji. They played chessuntilafterten. As
he was leaving,Iso askedfora loan. He wantedone yen. Kinji could get
the moneyforhim tomorrow,but not tonight.
On the way home Iso passed a charcoal shop. Here theysold sake,
firewood,and scrap charcoal.The Oba familyboughtSakura coal and
firewoodat thisshop and here too Ogen came to buy charcoal. The
shop had closed early,which was commonpracticeforstoresin new
suburbs.Iso ambled up and down out frontwherethe sacksof charcoal
were piled under the eaves. Then he nimblyhoisteda sack onto his
shoulderand darteddown a side road among the ricefields.
He rushedhome. Enteringthe dirt-floored
foyer,he droppedthesack
witha thud.Ogen, who by thenhad criedherselfto sleep,awoke at the

340

Monumenta
XXVII, 3
Nvipponica,

sound.It made no impressionon her. She said nothingand Iso too was
silentas he crawledinto bed beside her.
The nextmorningOgen was surprisedto findthe sack of charcoal.
'Iso, wheredid thischarcoal come from?'
'I boughtit,' he answered,stillin bed. He nevergot up untilbreakfast
was ready.
'Wheredid you buy it?'
'What difference
does it make?'
'Well I can ask, can't I ?'
'At a storenear Hatsu's.'
'Whydid youbuyit so faraway? You didn'tspendtoday'sricemoney,
I hope?'
Iso got out of bed. 'You were being such a nuisanceabout charcoal
last nightthatI wentto Kinji's fora loan. He didn'thave any moneyso
I wentstraightto Hatsu's. He was glad forthe chance to showme what
a big shothe is. "Justa bag of charcoal?" he says. "Go to mysakeshop
and tell themI sentyou." They gave me the charcoal and I broughtit
home. We should have enoughthereforfouror fivedays.'
'At least,' Ogen said happily. She wanted to open the sack right
away,but decidedto wait. As she brisklyset about makingbreakfast
she
said, 'That much coal shouldlast us morelike ten days.'
AfterIsokichihad leftthe house the nightbefore,Ogen's troubled
thoughtshad led her to some realizations.If she was goingto urge her
husbandto workharder,she could notsimplylie in bed feelingsorryfor
herself.In addition,she had bettershowherface nextdoor in ordernot
to arousefurther
suspicions.
With thisin mind,Ogen went about her houseworkas usual. After
sending Isokichi offwith his lunch, she ate breakfastand tidied up
briefly.Then, takinga bucketalong, she opened the bamboo gate.
Okiyoand Otokuwerein theback yard.Okiyosaid, 'You lookso pale,
Ogen. Is somethingthe matter?'
'I caughta littlecold yesterday....'
'Oh, that'stoo bad. You musttake care of yourself.'
Besides a curt 'Good morning',Otoku said nothing.She watched
Ogen's expressionchange as she noticedthat the charcoal sacks were
gone. Otoku smirkedat Ogen, who caughtthisand glaredback. Otoku
was readyfora fight.With Okiyo close by she had to restrainherself.
Just then a deliveryboy fromthe Masuya walked in throughthe
bamboo gate. The Masuya was the store fromwhich Isokichi had
stolenthe charcoal.

Doppo: TakenoKido

341

'Good morning,ladies,' he said, and noticed immediatelythat the

place. 'Are you keeping
sacksofcharcoalweregonefromtheircustomary
the charcoalsomewhereelse now?'
Otoku piped up as thoughthis were the opportunityshe had been
waitingfor,'We put it all in the house. It's not safe to keep it outside
any more. The price of charcoal is so high nowadays,you feelstupid
gettingrobbed of a singlepiece.' She looked at Ogen. Okiyo glared at
the maid. Ogen had drawnherwaterand takena fewstepstowardsthe
gate when the deliveryboy spoke up.
'You're rightabout that. Someone stole a bag fromus last night.'
'How did thathappen?' Okiyo asked.
'Because we alwaysleave it piled up outside.'
'What did theysteal?' Otoku asked, her eyes rivetedon Ogen.
'The verybest charcoal Sakura.'
Ogen staggeredthroughthe gate, grittingher teethas she listenedto
the conversation.
Once inside,she threwdown the bucket and hurriedlyopened the
sack.
'Oh! It's Sakura!'
Shinza's wifeand motherbothscoldedOtoku severely.When the sun
began to set and Ogen did not appear to draw water,Okiyo became
worried.She went next door to comfortOgen and ask afterher cold.
It was too quiet inside. She called, 'Ogen, Ogen.' There was no reply.
She timidlyslid back the paper door. The charcoal sack stood in the
entranceway.Ogen had used it to stand on,
middleof the dirt-floored
it seemed. She hungfroma sash tied to the centralbeam, dead.
Two dayslaterthebamboo gate was torndown.The hedgeeventually
grewback to coverthe opening.
When two monthshad passed,Isokichimarrieda woman of Ogen's
age. They wentto live in Shibuya-mura,in yetanotherhovel.