My brother came down from the mountains, where he had been entrusted with supervising the mines. Now he was quietly living out his old age in the town. His eldest grandson was nineteen, and the young man had applied himself so assiduously to his studies that he’d developed pleurisy. His father, my brother’s adopted son, his beard lightly peppered with gray, had attained the rank of lieutenant colonel. His wife, my niece whom I hadn’t seen for many years, had grown plump and was bustling about, unconcerned with her appearance, displaying the cheerful efficiency of a woman long accustomed to managing household affairs.
Several years earlier, my brother had been very sick, but his health was improving now, though he sometimes was unsteady on his feet. His wife was a frail person, and recently some pernicious disease had begun to eat away at her insides. The only effective cure was surgery. But because of her age, she had decided on pharmaceutical treatments.
In any case, the house was extraordinarily lively compared with my visit a year before. It was no longer a household of old people. The family was more complicated now. When a house and property are involved, people feel obliged to designate someone as a head of the household to inherit. It’s only natural that the heir be encouraged to stay close to home. Although the adopted heir was an army officer, his primary responsibilities in the military appear to have been administrative.
A separate vegetarian meal was prepared for my brother, and he didn’t join our dinner party. He peered in from time to time, a pleased expression on his face. One of the reasons I returned was to comfort my brother, who was left more isolated by the death of our sister. I promised my sister-in-law that I would rush to her side should something untoward happen to him, but in truth, no one could be certain which of us would succumb first to a serious illness. In any case, there’s little doubt that the four of us—including my sister-in-law from Osaka—were approaching the end of our lives. My brother was more than twelve years my senior, however.
After dinner, we retired to the room off the kitchen to drink tea and indulge in leisurely conversation. I had been invited, in a way I couldn’t refuse, to attend the Buddhist rites for my sister on the third day after her death. I would have to stay for two more days.
“Perhaps I should go to a hot spring resort,” I thought to myself, but then I remembered that when I was leaving my house in Tokyo the day before, I had been obliged to lend money to an acquaintance, and I didn’t have enough to make such a trip. Even if I did, the luxurious, leisurely atmosphere typical of a hot spring resort seemed somehow boring and meaningless given my present situation.
We talked about the utensils used in the tea ceremony which were on the tray set out in front of me. This led to a conversation about antiques. The adopted heir, who was knowledgeable about such things, showed me a sword guard he’d been polishing with a scrap of soft cloth. Even I could see that it was a rare object with remarkable engraving. The texture of the metal was smooth and fine.
“This was an exceptional find,” he said, after polishing it vigorously, and he gazed with appreciation at the oval guard.
“How much was it?” my brother asked, smiling.
“What do you think it cost, Father?”
“I don’t know.”
He went out to the warehouse to fetch a set of swords, one large and one small, that he had purchased cheaply from a soldier’s family while he was stationed in a neighboring prefecture. When he returned, he removed the swords from their embroidered cloth covers. The ornamentation was elaborate. Picking up the largest, I removed it from its scabbard. I too can appreciate the value of a superior sword. But I couldn’t determine the quality of this one.
The walls were decorated with carvings that the adopted heir had collected when he was posted in Taiwan. A tea cabinet made of a famous Taiwanese wood stood in the corner. I noticed that the surfaces of our trays were crafted from the same material.
I went upstairs to the living quarters of the adopted heir and his wife. The entire house seemed far more spacious than during my previous visit. The two rooms downstairs that once served as a living space for my aging brother and his wife had been enlarged and opened to the light.
A pair of magnificent Taiwanese chests were set against the wall in one room upstairs. Several other furnishings were clearly not domestic products.
“We don’t have much space, so I’ve stored what we don’t use in the warehouse,” he remarked.
I marveled at the way he lived, so utterly different from my infantile preconceptions of a military man. His life bore no resemblance to my own harried, urban existence, which was precariously lived out on successive waves of change.
Some time ago, I heard that he planned to resign his commission, but at the moment, he seemed busy, preoccupied with his official duties.
We went downstairs again.
“Will there be a war?” I asked.
“Of course not!” he replied, apparently suspicious of why I’d raised the question.
I was thinking about the dance hall. The night before, I inquired at the restaurant and learned from a waitress that there was at least one place to go dancing in town.
I longed for some kind of physical activity.
The dance hall was located in another part of town, but it was not far enough to require a vehicle.
“I’ll walk!” I announced and left the house. Dressed in my winter trousers and cashmere suit coat, I hurried down the now familiar street. All was quiet in town as dusk fell.
The neighborhood I was searching for was located behind a bustling commercial avenue. Izumi Kyōka, the novelist, had been raised there. I walked up and down the street several times, but I could find nothing resembling a dance hall. The day before, I had learned from the Buddhist priest that the establishment was under the “management” (perhaps that’s a grandiose overstatement) of Matsumoto Junzō, a sculptor and Kanazawa’s only Dadaist. This piqued my interest, too.
At last, I discovered a sign announcing “Social Dancing” in red letters and illuminated by an electric light. Through the frosted glass that faced street, I could make out the shadows of figures dancing. Jazz drifted into the street, disturbing the quiet of the neighborhood.
Latticed sliding doors formed an elegant entrance, with two different strips of stained glass. Inside, the ticket taker sat next to a curtain blocking the view of the dance floor to the right. The rules governing the establishment were posted on the wall to the left.
The hall was Matsumoto’s atelier. The fortysome square yards of floor space was paved in concrete.
I didn’t hesitate to buy tickets. Compared with the dance halls in Tokyo, one was free here to dance with whomever one chose. I took a seat across from three young women who seemed to be professional dancers, a fortyish woman wearing a Western-style dress and a slightly younger lady in a Japanese kimono. Two couples were dancing. Both knew the correct steps of the standard dances.
With the exception of a huge, gold statue of a Western-style military man towering in a corner of the atelier, there was no decoration on the walls or streamers or the colorful lamp shades that one usually finds in such places.
The sound of my shoes scrapping on the gritty concrete floor bothered me, but I went ahead and danced the fox-trot twice with a young woman. She was a second-rate dancer at best.
I assumed that the long-haired, middle-aged man confidently dancing in a pair of straw sandals must be the manager Matsumoto. I approached to give him my card.
“Will you be in town long?” he asked.
“No, I plan to return to Tokyo the day after tomorrow on the night train. There’s no one to talk to here.”
I learned that the young woman I was dancing with was Matsumoto’s daughter, the other beautiful woman was his niece, and the young person who was his partner was their friend.
“I opened this place in hopes of teaching people to dance properly. I believe social dancing will spread in this town,” he stated.
“The lack of a wooden dance floor is
a little disappointing,” I replied.
“I thought of putting one in, but . . .”
“Who comes to dance?” I asked.
“All sorts. That gentlemen over there’s a doctor. That one’s a lawyer.”
After I cooled off, I stepped out again on the dance floor, but the gritty sensation under my feet was unpleasant. I felt like I hadn’t danced at all.
I sat down and smoked a cigarette.
The older woman in Western-style dress, who was watching the dance floor, came striding over.
“You’re the author Tokuda Shūsei,” she declared. I looked up at her, trying to remember who she was.
“Yes, I am. And what was your name, again?”
“Yamaoka. I used to live near you in Tokyo.”
I still couldn’t place her, but then at last it came to me. She was the coowner, with her husband, of a prosperous beauty parlor, Institute Paris, on the main commercial street close to my home. The husband was a modern gentleman who had studied in the West. I wasn’t certain what had become of the couple.
“What brings you to Kanazawa?” I asked, trying to find out.
“I was sent to the woman’s section of the local Mitsukoshi Department Store. If you have a chance, please pay us a visit.”
“I may. . . . Do you dance?” I inquired.
“No, I’m just watching.”
I thought she was returning to her seat, but then I saw her and a woman friend leave.
I remembered her husband. The expensive involvement in politics had resulted in his selling their shop, and he moved to the suburbs. If his wife had come to the provinces to work, that probably meant their married life was not happy. From her speech, I also sensed that she was almost certainly a native of the neighboring province. Perhaps her transfer had something to do with a desire to be close to her parental home.
A young man dressed in a dirty black suit entered alone as the two women left. He sat down beside me.
“How does this place operate?” he asked.
“On a coupon system, I believe.”
“Is it OK to ask those young ladies to dance?”
“I’m sure it is.”
The young man went over to the ticket taker, bought tickets, and approached the young women, and bowed obsequiously. Then he started dancing with one of them. His movements were blatantly erotic, a style of dancing both rough and fake.
“I’ve discovered a wonderful place. I’m overjoyed that the town has produced such a fine source of entertainment!” he declared as he burst into a dark, sarcastic laugh.
I left the atelier with two tickets still in my pocket.
The exercise had refreshed my tired, depressed state of mind. As soon as I returned to the house, I crawled into my bedding under a wide expanse of mosquito netting and fell into a sweet sleep.
TOKUTOMI ROKA
Tokutomi Roka (1868–1927) was the younger brother of Tokutomi Sohō (1863–1957), who at that time was a celebrated progressive journalist. Roka was a great admirer of the novelist Leo Tolstoy, and in 1906, Roka even managed a difficult journey to Russia in order to meet his hero. Like Kunikida Doppo and others, Roka was influenced in his responses by his Christian faith, and his novels and stories suggest both a deep feeling for nature and a penchant for social criticism.
Roka’s story “Ashes” (Kaijin, 1900) concerns events after the Satsuma Rebellion, during which the famous patriot Saigō Takamori (1827–1887) and his army of southern Kyushu youth marched more than a hundred miles from Kagoshima to Kumamoto, only to be driven back over the mountains and eventually annihilated by government forces in September 1887. At the time, Saigō’s followers were seen as rebels, even traitors to the national government, but eventually they were given legendary status.
ASHES (KAIJIN)
Translated by David O. Mills
Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth where moth and rust doth corrupt and where thieves break through and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt and where thieves do not break through or steal. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
I
Win and you become a hero—lose and you are a traitor, as the saying goes. It was just last February when fifteen thousand stalwart youth burst out of Kagoshima Castle, scattering the new-fallen snow-like blossoms, only to suffer death or injury in great numbers along the way, until finally, snarling like a wild boar beset from all sides, the few who remained took refuge in the nearby town of Nagai. Out of ammunition, out of provisions, and out of strength, most ran up a white flag, but one intrepid group of about three hundred vowed that they would kick their way out of there, even if it were the last thing they did, and make it back to their homeland to be buried with their beloved leader. So they tightened the thongs of their straw sandals and on August 17, 1877, set out on the moonless path over Mount Kawaigatake.
They left behind all their belongings. Each grabbed a provisions bag, strapped on his sword, swung a rifle over his shoulder, and set out in silence without so much as a torch. Kirino was the point man, with a local for a guide. Their leader wore his unlined Satsuma robe with a short dark blue sash and a dagger at his waist. His robe was tucked up in back, and he smoked a pipe surrounded in the middle of the pack by his lieutenants Murata, Kijima, Beppu, Kono, Nomura, Yamano, Sakata, and Masuda, while Henmi’s bunch brought up the rear. They had a look of determination—almost a grim smile—believing that no matter what seemingly impenetrable obstacle they might encounter, they would kick it in.
It was 4:00 P.M. when they set out on their march. By the time the leaders had reached the foot of Kawaigatake, night had fallen. The Milky Way stretched overhead, the mountains were black, the moon was hazy, and the wind and the dew were chilly on the skin. The enemy was not asleep. A string of signal fires burned on the far hillsides like stars in the dark, and from peaks left and right, rifle shots from enemy sentries on the prowl echoed constantly. More than five miles to the top. Hurrying to arrive before dawn, they were not deterred by the dark steep path, and even when one of the men in the rear slipped on a rock and tumbled into the valley, no one noticed. Six hundred straw sandals continued to trudge through valleys and up mountains whispering, “Before dawn.” “Before dawn.” Scrambling through underbrush and dead leaves, gradually going higher, higher, higher—the moon moved closer to the horizon and the short night was about to end.
II
Just as the moon was going down, the sky behind the mountains lightened. In the faint glow of dawn, the soldier who had fallen lay next to a boulder. A cool breeze softly moved the leaves, and drops of dew fell on his cheek and trickled into his mouth. His lips trembled, his arms and legs moved, he murmured something. Then suddenly he said, “Mom, I’m home.”
Startled by his own voice he opened his eyes, slowly raised himself up and looked around. He raised his eyes to the sky and took a deep breath. “I thought I was home. I guess the fall knocked me out. It’s almost light.”
He straightened himself, pounded his shoulders and back with his fists to wake up, waved his arms and stamped his feet, retrieved his rifle that had fallen nearby, and was about to set out when at that moment he heard the cries of battle far away. Unable even to cry “Damn! I’m too late!” he quickly tied up his sandals, hitched up the sword on his back, and planting his feet carefully on the slippery ground, he scrambled out of the ravine, ascending from branch to branch.
Every few steps he stopped to listen and then climbed some more and listened again. By the time he had crossed the valley and climbed the steep hillside, night had given way to morning across the layered mountains, and quietly, brilliantly, the sun appeared. The calls of the mountain crows could be heard from all sides. Stopping to catch his breath, he leaned on his rifle amid the roots of the red pine and strained his ears. All of eighteen and looking a bit thin but with an air of innocence, he was clad in a dirt-stained uniform with a white cotton short sash, leggings, and sandals. A net bag
and an extra pair of sandals hung from his waist. A sword with its red-lacquered sheath dangled from his shoulder on a thick Sanada cord.
He listened for a while, but the sounds had stopped. A look of disappointment crossed his face. “I can’t hear a thing. They’ve probably already broken through. I’m too late, too late. I’m sure they were to head for Mitai, but which direction is it?”
Muttering weakly to himself, he trudged on along the mountain trail not knowing where it would lead him. After a bit, the mountains became even quieter. Just once he thought he heard a gunshot in the distance, but that, too, stopped, and all that was left was the sound of dewdrops falling from the leaves.
Several times he stopped and listened, but there was nothing. He continued climbing, and after about a mile he emerged from a dark stand of cedars and started up a tree-covered slope. All at once he heard the sound of feet running down the hillside, and before he knew it, fifteen or sixteen soldiers in Western-style uniforms with yellow trim descended on him. Both sides stopped momentarily and looked at each other, but immediately one of the group shouted, “Rebel! Rebel!” as they recovered from their surprise, and he heard the sounds of weapons being cocked.
In desperation he took on the one coming at him and, brandishing his gun in both hands, hit him with a sidewise blow and knocked him down. Flustered at such an unexpected attack, they lined up to capture him, expecting an easy time with just one person. However, the lone youth tossed aside his gun, threw down one of the attackers with both hands, slipped past another who was left grasping only the sword that had been on his back, and escaped around a boulder and down the same path he had just come. The soldiers yelled, “He’s getting away. Shoot him! Shoot!”
With no attention to the curses and shouts or the bullets that whizzed past his head, the young rebel went leaping and sliding down the hillside with all the speed he could muster and disappeared into the stand of cedar trees.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 43