I too hoped he would bring to my sister this feeling as his travel gift to her.
The next letter, from Akashi, is somewhat more intricate and therefore indicates more distinctly Ichizo's character.
I came here this evening. The moon is up and the garden is bright, quite a contrast to my room in the shade, which seems gloomy. I had my supper and I was smoking and looking out toward the sea—it's just in front of the garden. As it's a calm evening without even a ripple of wave, the beach looks scarcely distinguishable from a riverside or the edge of a pond. One of those barges people sit on to enjoy the evening cool came drifting by. The figure of the boat was hardly perceptible in the darkness, but with its broad flat bottom it had so gentle a shape that I could hardly imagine it was floating on the sea. I suppose it must have had a roof over it, for hanging from its eaves were a number of painted paper lanterns. Beyond the faint light from these lanterns some people seemed to be sitting. I heard the sound of a samisen too. But on the whole it was very quiet and slid away before me as if it were enjoying its smooth movement.
As I quietly followed its shadow with my eyes, I was reminded of an anecdote about my grandfather in his young days. Of course I think you must remember it, the story of his having gone boating to enjoy moon-viewing as men about town are said to have done during the Edo period. My mother told it to me a few times. It went something like this, didn't it? He had a boat with a roof over it rowed up the Sumida as far as the Ayase. Standing in the midst of the perfect harmony of the silent moon and the silent water reflecting the moonlight, each enhancing the other's beauty, he hurled up into the light of the moon an unfolded silver fan he had brought along with him especially for that purpose. The fan turned round and round on its pivot, its silver-painted paper gleaming until it dropped onto the water. What a beautiful spectacle that must have been! And not only that single fan, but each of the others in the boat tossed up his own flickering glimmer, each fan competing with the other—a scene of weird beauty even in imagination.
Grandfather was said to be such an extravagant man that he had a copper boiler used for warming bottles of sake filled with sake instead of water, and he made them throw away the sake in the boiler afterward. For the kind of man he was, he probably didn't care in the least if as many as one hundred silver-gilt fans were tossed away at one time. For that matter, whether it's something hereditary or not, you, dear uncle, in spite of your not being wealthy—pardon the liberty I've taken in saying that!—have something extravagant about you. And from way back I've noticed that my shy, retiring mother has, oddly enough, a trait of liking things that are gay and merry. Only I alone— you're probably coming to the hasty conclusion that I'm bringing up that subject again, but please be at ease because I don't think I'm troubling myself as much about it as you may be anxiously thinking I am. When I mentioned 'I alone,' it wasn't said at all with any bitterness. What I wanted to say was that I was born along lines different from yours and mother's. Raised in relative ease as a child enjoying material comfort, I was happy and lived a carefree life of luxury without knowing it was luxury. I took it for granted I'd have clothing I could wear in public without feeling ashamed, clothes my mother took care of. But that assumption was due to my own ignorance fostered through long habit, and once I become aware of this, I suddenly grow uneasy. Aside from the question of clothing and food, I become frightened, as I did the other day for example, when I heard about a man of great wealth who recklessly squandered his money. He had gathered round him a great many geisha and professional jesters. From his briefcase he took a bundle of money, tore it into shreds, and gave it to them, their tip he called it. On another occasion, completely dressed in an elegant kimono, he plunged into a hot bath and later gave his clothes to the bath attendant. I heard of more instances of his debauchery, all of which flaunted an arrogance that had no fear of heaven. I detested the man when I heard about him. Or rather, lacking in spirit as I am, I feared him more than hated him. The way I see it, his conduct seems to be similar to that of a burglar threatening innocent people by sticking a drawn sword into tatami. I do fear in a truly religious sense that such acts wrong heaven or humanity, God or Buddha. That's how timid I am. Even while viewing extravagance from afar, I'm frightened to death imagining what would happen to a man riding at the summit of luxury after a momentary turn of Fortune's Wheel.
With such thoughts in mind, I was watching that boat quietly floating by in the evening cool, and it occurred to me that such a diversion was best suited to life. As you once advised me, little by little I'm becoming frivolous. Please praise me for this.
I was told that the guests in an upper room facing the moonlight were on a visit from Kobe. They used only that Tokyo speech I dislike so much, and occasionally they recited Chinese poems. Mixed into their talk were the coquettish voices of some women, but about twenty or thirty minutes ago it suddenly grew quiet in their room. A maid told me they had already gone back to Kobe. It's getting quite late, so I'll retire now too.
I wrote you last night, but today as well I'm reporting what has happened since this morning. Seeing me write so continuously only to you, dear uncle, you'll certainly say to yourself with a sarcastic half-smile, "Poor boy, he's got no one to write to, so he's forced to spend all this time writing so diligendy only to me and his mother." As I put my brush to the paper, that thought occurred to me. If I had a sweetheart, though, and you received no letters from me, you'd probably bless me for it. I think I'd be happier too if I neglected writing you because of that. In fact, when I went upstairs after waking this morning to look down toward the sea, one such happy couple was walking along the beach toward the west. Perhaps they're staying at this hotel. It was with envy that I looked at their receding figures, the woman with her cream-colored parasol over her and the skirt of her kimono slightly tucked up as she walked barefoot with the man through the rippling water. Since the water's clean, the sea near the shore when you look down at it from a high place is as transparent as air in sunlight. You can even see jellyfish floating in it. Two of the hotel guests are out swimming now. Every single movement of their limbs is distinctly visible, all to the detraction of their expertise as swimmers. (7:30 a.m.)
This time a European's in the water alone. A young woman has come outdoors after him. Standing in the water, she keeps calling to another foreigner who has remained upstairs. She uses such English as "You come here!" And again and again she says something like "It is very nice in water." Her English is skillful, fluent, enviably good. I'm listening to her with admiration; she speaks far better than I ever could. Whether this young woman couldn't swim or didn't want to, she was only standing in water up to her chest. Then the foreigner who had gone into the water took her by the hand and tried to lead her in deeper. Apparently she held back, refusing to go. Finally he lifted and cradled her in the water. The splashing of the struggling woman and her giggling, shrieking voice were audible way in the distance. (10:00 a.m.)
A little while ago a guest in a room downstairs who had brought two geisha with him came out to row. Where he had rowed his boat from I didn't know, but it was very small and quite unreliable. He tried to urge the two into the boat, saying he'd row, but they were afraid and wouldn't get in, though at last they were persuaded to. The air of exaggerated surprise the younger geisha put on was ludicrous. When he rowed them once around and returned, the older geisha called aloud toward a Japanese-style boat moored close to the rear of the inn, "Mr. Boatman, is your boat free?" This time she intended to carry some refreshments on board and head out to sea again. As I was looking on, she ordered some maids from the inn to bring beer, fruit, and a samisen onto the boat, and finally the geisha themselves got on board. But this patron of theirs, apparently quite a vigorous man, was still rowing offshore. He seemed to have failed to get anyone else to accompany him, but he had captured a naked dark-skinned village boy. The older geisha kept looking toward the rowboat, her face aghast for some time until she called at the top of her voice, "You fool!" Then he beg
an rowing back. I found the geisha amusing, and the guest too. (11:00 a.m.)
Dwelling on these trifles as though they were rarities will likely as not earn your mocking smile over my whimsical curiosity. But take this as proof that I've improved, thanks to my trip. For the first time I'm learning how to make a companion of the free air. Doesn't my not hating to write in detail about such trivia indicate that I can, after all, observe without thinking? To look without thought is now the best remedy for me. If I say this short journey is curing me of my nervousness, I'm ashamed at how inexpensive the recovery is. I do wish my mother had borne me ten times more cheaply, though.
A great many white sails, like so many pieces of cloud, are passing in front of Awaji Island. I understand that on a hill of pine over against the sea, there's a shrine dedicated to the poet Hitomaro. I don't know much about him, but if I can find the time, I may as well visit his shrine before I leave.
Conclusion
Keitaro's adventures began with a story and ended with one. The world he had wanted to know was at first lying far off. Of late it lies just before his eyes. But in the long run he looked like an outsider who could neither enter that world nor play any part in it. His role was merely that of a kind of reporter who constantly puts a telephone receiver to his ear to listen to "the world."
Through Morimoto's lips he heard fragments of the vagabond life. But these fragments were quite superficial, composed only of outline and surface. And so they served only to inflate Keitaro's mind with innocent diversions, a mind already filled with wild curiosity. Yet through a gap in that mind inflated with fuzzy tales of adventure, Keitaro was able to catch sight of the image of Morimoto as a human being hovering between dream and reality. In addition to this knowledge of a form of human life, Keitaro had acquired both a sympathy and antipathy to Morimoto as a human being.
From Taguchi, that practical man of affairs, Keitaro learned something of the way a man views society. And at the same time he heard from Matsumoto, who had called himself a high-class idler, a portion of his view of life. Engraved on Keitaro's mind was the contrast between these two persons who, though connected by close social ties, were utterly opposite types. Knowing them made him feel that his own worldly experience had widened somewhat. But that experience extended only in breadth, hardly in depth.
Through the lips of a woman called Chiyoko, Keitaro heard about the death of a child. The death described by her was different from death as he imagined the world takes it to be. It drew out his finer feelings as though he were observing a beautiful picture. But mingled in that fine feeling were tears—tears not so much forced to try to escape pain, but shed in the sense of desiring to embrace a sorrow as long as possible. As an unmarried young man, Keitaro had little sympathy for young children. Still, the death of a beautiful child buried in a beautiful way aroused in him feelings of pity. It was the sad tale of an infant girl born on the eve of the Doll's Festival as though her fate had been that of a doll.
From Sunaga, Keitaro was surprised to hear of the slight dissonance between a mother and son. Keitaro had his own mother in his own hometown. But their relationship, while far from being as intimate as Sunaga and his mother's, did not have as entangled a fate as that of his friend. Keitaro had absolutely no doubts about how to understand the relationship with his own mother, since he was her child; at the same time he had been resigned to its prosaic quality. A more complicated relationship between parent and child, even though he could imagine it, could not really be felt by him in its reality. He thought his view of such connections had been much more deeply delved into, though, through learning about Sunaga's situation.
He heard too from Sunaga about his relationship with Chiyoko. And he wondered if eventually the two were made for one another as husband and wife, or whether they were to continue as intimate friends, or else remain at odds as enemies. These doubts had made Keitaro, driven half by curiosity, half by goodwill, run to Matsumoto. He unexpectedly discovered that Matsumoto was not merely a bystander observing the world with an imported pipe in his mouth. Keitaro heard a detailed report from him on what he had thought of Sunaga and how he had dealt with him. And Keitaro had also been fully informed as to why Matsumoto had felt compelled to treat Sunaga as he had.
In retrospect, Keitaro's career since his departure from school, at which time he had aspired to come into contact with the real world, was nothing more than his proceeding here and there among various people and listening to their tales. The one instance in which knowledge or feeling had not been imparted to him through the ear was limited almost entirely to the time he had stood at the Ogawamachi streetcar stop with the precious cane in his hand and had followed the man in the salt-and-pepper cloak after he had left the streetcar and gone into a Western-style restaurant with a young woman. Even that moment, when viewed at present on the board of memory, was mere child's play, hardly to be designated as adventure or exploration. True, it was through this experience that Keitaro had found a job. But as a man's experience the action proved serious only to himself; to the eyes of others it was ridiculous in its significance.
In short, all the knowledge and feeling Keitaro had recently received about life came by way of his eardrum. A series of long tales beginning with Morimoto and ending with Matsumoto had moved him at first widely and superficially and then, by degrees, deeply and subtly until the series of tales ceased abruptly. But, after all, Keitaro himself could not enter their world. And that was the point where he felt something unsatisfactory and at the same time something felicitous. In one sense he cursed the snakehead for his dissatisfaction and in another blessed it for his happiness. And then looking up at the great firmament, he thought of how this drama, which seemed to have come to a sudden halt, would hereafter flow and turn forever.
Translator's Afterword
A great deal has been written about the life of Soseki Natsume (1867-1916), so there is perhaps no need to recount a detailed biography here. It may be sufficient to remind readers that his boyhood was psychologically though not materially painful; that he seriously began to study English at the famous First Higher School in Tokyo; that he majored in English at Tokyo University; that he studied for almost two years in London as a government scholar; that he succeeded Lafcadio Hearn as lecturer at Tokyo University; and that he jolted academic and literary circles in 1907 by resigning from the University and other institutions at which he was employed as a teacher and by accepting an offer from the Asahi Shimbun, the largest daily newspaper in Japan at the time, to begin serializing his novels in its columns. His nine major novels were written for the Asahi.
Not enough has been written in English, however, about Soseki's newspaper career. That a prestigious member of a prestigious university could take the "inferior" role of a newspaper novelist did indeed jolt the intellectuals of the Meiji era, a time when a journalist's status was quite lower than it is today, but the move seems typical of Soseki. Early in his career, in 1895, he had taken an "inferior" position as a high school teacher of English in Matsuyama, a town on the island of Shikoku—a relatively remote part of Japan—removing himself by choice from the active literary and intellectual scene in Tokyo. It would seem that life in Matsuyama would be a total decline for one with Soseki's brilliant academic record and artistic, philosophical, and creative bent. Yet because of his own belief in self-assertion and independence and because of his own insistent questioning of life and its perpetual opposites, what seems startling to us had begun in the early Soseki and persisted until his death. Soseki continues to fascinate us because of the tensions between what a public expects and what the writer's own inner world makes immediate and imperative.*
Soseki's life as a lecturer at Tokyo University and a full-time professor at the First Higher School, he discovered, lessened the time that he could devote to writing, despite the fact that he had been able to create his satiric work I Am a Cat (1905-6) and several stories, in addition to poems and scholarly articles. He revealed in letters that teaching brought him le
ss and less satisfaction. On May 9, 1905, he wrote, "I am a teacher, but it seems more agreeable to my nature to establish myself as a hack writer than to be a successful teacher. So henceforth I intend to make an effort to cut a figure in the literary world." And on September 17, 1905: "My time is wasted every day over visitors. On reflection, I've come to remember that I ought not to be doing this until my death. It is going against nature unreasonably to try to do so many things at once—teaching at three different schools, receiving so many guests and visitors, studying freely for myself, and doing creative work as well. I'm essentially a man of few wants who will be content if I am able to write during my whole life two or three works that will seem satisfactory to myself; if this is possible, I don't care in the least about other things. But to do that I've got to eat beef and eggs, and because of such a requisite, it has come about that I have been forgetting my own nature in that I am following, to my infinite regret, a profession against my will. (This sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?) Anyway, what I want to quit is teaching, and what I desire to do is creative work."
It was not until the spring of 1907 that Soseki actually undertook the move to the Asahi. Overtures had been made by the Yomiuri, another influential Tokyo daily, to take charge of its literary columns, and by the Hochi and Kokumin newspapers. In addition, Tokyo University offered Soseki a professorship in March 1907. His rejection of all these had been immediate, for to enter the new profession meant to be plagued by various political aspects of literary partisanship and rivalry that would not allow him the personal freedom he wanted, and to continue in the other meant extending the burden of teaching. Furthermore, he was of course concerned about the welfare of his family if he were to leave teaching, so he was cautious and would not give his consent to any proposal from the newspapers unless they would guarantee following through on all his conditions, namely, that his remuneration (at a level at least equivalent to what he was receiving from teaching) was guaranteed and that there would be no dismissal without cause by the editors or the owner of the newpaper. Evidently, the Yomiuri, Hochi, and Kokumin were not prepared to fully meet these requirements.