So it read. My master coldly rolled up this solemn letter and tossed it plop into the wastebasket. It is a pity that Shinsaku's nine bows and his sleeping on brushwood and tasting gall were all in vain. We move on to the third letter. The third letter radiates a most unusual brilliance. The envelope is striped red and white, and in the middle, as gaudy as the signboard of a candy shop, is written in bold eight-part script: "To Mr. Kusamakuri, beneath the tiger skin." I cannot vouch whether an Ota-san will emerge from within, but the exterior alone is quite splendid.
If I were to measure heaven and earth by myself, I could drain the waters of the West River in one gulp; if heaven and earth were to measure me by themselves, then I am but dust upon the roadside. One should ask: what intercourse is there between heaven and earth and me? … The first man to eat a sea cucumber is to be revered for his nerve; the first man to eat a puffer fish is to be esteemed for his courage. He who eats sea cucumber is the reincarnation of Shinran; he who eats puffer fish is the avatar of Nichiren. As for Mr. Kusamakuri, he knows only dried gourd shavings in vinegar miso. I have yet to see a man of the realm who became a gentleman by eating dried gourd shavings in vinegar miso. …
Your friends will sell you. Your parents will be partial to you. Your lover will abandon you. Riches and honor are, of course, not to be relied upon. Titles and stipends may be lost in a single morning. The learning you treasure in your head will grow mold. What will you depend upon? What in heaven and earth will you trust? God? God is but a clay idol fabricated in man's desperation, a stinking corpse condensed from human excrement. You call yourself safe relying on the unreliable. Ha! A drunkard spouts nonsense at random, reeling toward the grave. The oil is spent, the lamp extinguishes itself. The karma exhausted, what remains? Mr. Kusamakuri, do have some tea. …
He who thinks not of others as men has nothing to fear. Yet he who thinks not of others as men resents a world that thinks not of him as himself—how strange. The powerful and successful seem to have gained their place by thinking not of others as men. They merely scowl in anger when others fail to regard them as themselves. Scowl away as you please. Blockhead! …
When I think of others as men, and others think not of me as myself, the malcontent descends from heaven in a fit. This fitful activity is called revolution. Revolution is not the work of malcontents. It is willingly brought forth by the powerful and successful. Korea has much ginseng—why, sir, do you not take it?
In Sugamo, Tendō Kōhei, with two bows.
Shinsaku gave nine bows, but this man offers only two. Since it is no request for a donation, he saves himself about seven bows of windy posture. It is no donation request, but in its place it is quite incomprehensible. It is of ample value to be rejected by any magazine, yet contrary to expectation, my master—who is famed for his opaque intellect—instead of tearing it to shreds, turns it over and over, reading it again and again. Perhaps he thinks there is meaning in such a letter and is determined to fathom it. Among heaven and earth there are many things unknown, but none to which some meaning cannot be attached. However difficult the prose, if one tries to interpret it, it is easily interpreted. Whether one says man is a fool or man is wise, it is readily understood. More than that—to say man is a dog or man is a pig is no proposition one need suffer over. To say mountains are low is no matter; to say the universe is narrow is no offense. That a crow is white, Komachi a plain woman, and Mr. Kusamakuri a gentleman may pass as well. Thus even such a meaningless letter, if one attaches some mosquito-like reasoning, can be made to mean something. Especially a man like my master, who has forced explanations out of unknown English by sheer violence, is all the more eager to assign meaning. When a student asked him why he said "Good morning" in bad weather, he pondered seven days; when asked what the name Columbus is in Japanese, he spent three days and nights devising an answer—such a man will find meanings springing up everywhere, whether dried gourd shavings in vinegar miso make a gentleman of the realm, or eating Korean ginseng stirs a revolution. After a while, my master seemed to have swallowed these cryptic words in the manner of "Good morning," and praised them highly: "Profoundly meaningful. He must be one who has studied philosophy deeply. Splendid insight." This one remark reveals my master's folly, yet on reflection there is some justice in it. My master has a habit of revering what he does not understand. This is not solely his failing. In the unknowable lurks something one cannot dismiss, and at the unfathomable a certain noble feeling arises. Thus the vulgar proclaim their understanding of the unknown, while scholars explain the known as if unknown. Even in university lectures, he who speaks of the incomprehensible is well regarded, while he who clarifies the comprehensible is unpopular—as is well known. My master's reverence for this letter is not because its meaning is clear, but because its purport is well-nigh impossible to grasp. Suddenly sea cucumbers appear, then human excrement—that is why. The sole reason my master honors this prose is the same general reason a Taoist honors the Tao Te Ching, a Confucian the I Ching, a Zen monk the Linji Lu: he understands it not at all. Yet since he cannot rest without some understanding, he appends his own annotations and puts on a face of comprehension. To revere the unknown as if known has been a pleasure since olden times.—My master respectfully rolled up the fine eight-part script and, leaving it on his desk, folded his arms and sank into meditation.
Just then from the entry comes a loud voice requesting admission: "Help, help!" The voice resembles Meitei's, but unlike Meitei, he keeps urgently asking to be announced. My master has heard the voice from his study all along, yet with arms folded he makes no move. Perhaps it is his principle that answering the door is not the master's duty, for he never calls out from his study. The maid has gone out to buy washing soap; the mistress is indisposed. Thus the only one to answer the door is myself. I have no wish to go either. Then the visitor leaps from the shoe-stone to the step, throws open the sliding door, and strides in. The master is a master, but the guest is a guest indeed. Thinking he had gone to the parlor, he opens and shuts a couple of sliding doors, then makes his way to the study.
"Here now, this is no joke. What are you doing? There's a visitor!"
"Oh, is it you?"
"Oh is it you—nonsense. If you're there, say something. It's like an empty house."
"Well, I was thinking."
"You could at least say 'come in' even if you're thinking."
"I could say it."
"Your nerve is as ever."
"I've been cultivating my spirit since the other day."
"How quaint. If spirit cultivation leaves you unable to reply, callers are in trouble. You sitting so calmly is a nuisance. Actually I didn't come alone. I've brought a remarkable guest. Do come out and meet him."
"Who have you brought?"
"Whoever—just come out and meet him. He says he absolutely must see you."
"Who is it?"
"Whoever—just stand up."
My master, arms still folded, stood abruptly and said, "You're going to fool me again," and stepped onto the veranda, absentmindedly entering the guest room. There, facing the six-foot alcove, sat an old man in solemn repose. My master involuntarily drew his hands from his sleeves and plopped himself down by the paper door, facing west like the old man—so neither could exchange greetings. In olden strict folk, etiquette was exacting.
"Now please, over there," the old man urged, pointing to the alcove. My master, until two or three years ago, had thought one might sit anywhere in a room, but after hearing an explanation of the alcove—that it is a variation of the upper seat, where a lord sits—he never goes near it. Especially with an unknown elder firmly seated there, it is no mere seat of honor; he can hardly even bow. He inclined his head once and said,
"Now please, over there," repeating the other's words.
"No, then I cannot offer my greetings. Please, over there."
"No, then … please, over there," my master vaguely mimicked the elder's phrasing.
"Indeed, such modesty embarrasses me. I am the one abashed. Pray do not hesitate—now, please."
"Your modesty … I am awed … pray," my master flushed, mumbling. Spirit cultivation seemed of little effect. Meitei, laughing from behind the door, had been standing watching; deeming it time, he pushed my master's rear from behind, saying, "Come out. If you stick to the paper door, I've no place to sit. Don't stand on ceremony, come forward," and forced his way in. My master reluctantly slid forward.
"Kusamakuri, this is the uncle from Shizuoka I always mention. Uncle, this is Kusamakuri."
"Why, pleased to meet you. I hear Meitei often troubles you; I had thought to call and hear your wise words, and today, passing nearby, I came to pay respects and thanks. Pray know me hereafter," he delivered in fluent old-fashioned style. My master, narrow in acquaintance and taciturn, had rarely met such an antiquated gentleman; from the start somewhat overawed and vexed, he was now flooded with this torrent, forgot all about Korean ginseng and the candy-striped envelope, and in desperation gave odd replies.
"I too … I too … had meant to call … pray treat me well," he finished, and raised his head slightly from the mat—only to find the old man still prostrate, started, and pressed his head down again.
The old man timed his breath, lifted his head, and said, "I once had a residence here and lived long in the capital, but since the downfall I went over there and have scarce returned. Coming now, I am quite lost as to direction—without Meitei to guide me, I could do no errands. Though they say the world changes, since your lord's entry three hundred years, that general's house …" Meitei, deeming this tedious, cut in:
"Uncle, the general's house may be admirable, but the Meiji era is fine too. In old times there was no Red Cross."
"That there was not. No such thing as Red Cross, and to behold a prince's face was impossible but for the Meiji reign. I have lived long and thus attend today's assembly, hear the prince's voice—I may die content."
"Just seeing Tokyo after so long is gain enough. Kusamakuri, the uncle came specially from Shizuoka for the Red Cross assembly; we went to Ueno together today, and this is on the way back. Hence this frock coat I ordered at Shirokiya the other day," he pointed out. True, the old man wore a frock coat—but it fit not at all. Sleeves too long, collar gaping, a pool in the back, armpits hitched up. However badly made, one need not ruin the shape so thoroughly. Moreover white shirt and white collar parted, and tilting back revealed his Adam's apple. First, whether the black necktie belonged to collar or shirt was unclear. The frock was tolerable, but the white-haired topknot was a rare sight. Wondering about the famed iron fan, I looked—it lay neatly by his knee. My master, now recovered, applied his spirit cultivation to the elder's attire and was rather astonished. He had thought it not as bad as Meitei said, but in person it exceeded the tale. If his own pockmarks were material for historical study, this old man's topknot and iron fan were surely of greater worth. My master wished to ask the fan's origin, but could not abruptly question, nor break the talk, so he asked plainly:
"Quite a crowd, I suppose?"
"A great crowd, and all stared at me—people are curious nowadays. Not so in old times."
"Yes, indeed, not so in old times," said the old man-like thing. Not that my master pretended knowledge; it was but language flowing vaguely from a foggy brain.
"And they all eyed this 'kaburi-wari.'"
"That iron fan must be rather heavy?"
"Kusamakuri, do hold it. Quite heavy. Uncle, let him."
The old man lifted it weightily, said "Pardon," and handed it over. Like a pilgrim at Kuromon in Kyoto receiving Saint Renshō's sword, Mr. Kusamakuri held it a while, said "Indeed," and returned it.
"All call it iron fan, but this is a 'kaburi-wari,' quite another thing …"
"Ah, of what is it made?"
"For splitting helmets—struck when the foe is dazzled … used since Kusunoki Masashige's time …"
"Uncle, is that Masashige's kaburi-wari?"
"No, whose is unknown. But old—perhaps a Kenmu-era piece."
"Maybe Kenmu, but Kangetsu was troubled. Kusamakuri, on the way back we passed through the university and dropped by the physics lab—because this is iron, the magnetic instruments went wild."
"Nonsense. This is Kenmu iron, fine iron; no such fear."
"Fine iron or not, it can't be helped; Kangetsu said so."
"Kangetsu—that man polishing glass spheres? Pity the youth. He might do something else."
"Poor thing, but it's research. Polishing that sphere makes a fine scholar."
"If polishing a sphere makes a scholar, anyone can. I can. The glass-shop owner can. In China such were called 'jade workers,' of low station," he said, turning to my master for silent assent.
"Indeed," my master deferred.
"All modern learning is mere material study—fine seeming, but of no use in crisis. In old times, the samurai's trade was life-risking; to avoid panic, they cultivated the mind. As you know, not easy as polishing jade or twisting wire."
"Indeed," still deferring.
"Uncle, is mind cultivation sitting idle with folded arms instead of polishing jade?"
"That is the trouble. Not so simple. Mencius spoke of seeking the lost mind; Shao Kangjie taught releasing the mind; the Buddhist master Chūhō spoke of non-retrogression. Hard to grasp."
"Quite impossible. How then should one proceed?"
"Have you read Zen master Takanobu's 'Record of the Wondrous Non-Moving Mind'?"
"No, never heard."
"Where to place the mind? Place it on the foe's movement, and it is seized by his movement. Place it on his sword, and it is seized by his sword. Place it on the will to cut, and it is seized by that will. Place it on your sword, and it is seized by your sword. Place it on the wish not to be cut, and it is seized by that wish. Place it on his stance, and it is seized by his stance. Thus the mind has no fixed place."
"You recite from memory well. Uncle has fine memory. It is long. Kusamakuri, understand?"
"Indeed," and indeed he ended.
"Now, as I say. Where to place the mind? Place it on the foe's movement, and it is seized …"
"Uncle, Kusamakuri knows such things well. Lately he only cultivates spirit in his study. He ignores even callers—safe enough."
"Oh, admirable—you should join him a little."
"Heh, no time. Uncle thinks others idle because he is at ease."
"But you are idle."
"Yet in leisure, busyness arises."
"Foolish—there is a saying 'in busyness, leisure,' but 'in leisure, busyness' I never heard. Eh, Kusamakuri?"
"Indeed, never heard."
"Hahaha, then I yield. Uncle, how about eel in Tokyo after so long? I'll treat at Takeba. Quick by tram."
"Eel is fine, but I must go to Suihara now; I take leave."
"Ah, Sugihara? That old man is hearty."
"Not Sugihara, Suihara. You misname—impolite. Mind yourself."
"But it's written Sugihara."
"Written Sugihara, read Suihara."
"Strange."
"Nothing strange. Name-reading, old custom. Earthworm is mimizu in Japanese—'eye-not-see' reading. Toad is kairu, same."
"Ah, astonished."
"Toad killed lies face up; name-reading calls it kairu. Sui-gaki for see-through fence, kuku-dachi for stem-standing—same. Sugi-hara for Suihara is rustic speech. Beware ridicule."
"Then you go to Suihara now? Pity."
"If you dislike, stay. I go alone."
"Alone you can?"
"Walking is hard. Hire a carriage; I ride from here."
My master hastened the maid to the carriage stand. The old man bowed long, set a high hat on his topknot, and left. Meitei remained.
"That your uncle?"
"That is my uncle."
"Indeed," he sat on the cushion, folded arms, and mused.
"Hahaha, a hero. I am lucky for such an uncle. He is ever thus, anywhere. You were astonished?" Meitei rejoiced at his own feat.
"Not so astonished."
"If not, your nerve is set."
"Yet the uncle has greatness. His stress on spirit cultivation is admirable."
"Admirable? At sixty you may be like him, out of season. Stand firm; such backwardness is poor taste."
"You fret over season, but by time and place, out-of-season is great. Modern learning rushes ever forward, no limit, no satisfaction. Eastern learning is passive, with depth—cultivating the mind itself," he spoke as if his own the philosopher's words.
"Serious turn. Sounds like Yagi Dokusen."
At the name Yagi Dokusen, my master started. The philosopher who visited the Dragon's Lair and persuaded him, then departed calm, was none other than this Yagi Dokusen; and my master's solemn argument was wholly his secondhand. Meitei's timely mention thus subtly broke my master's overnight false nose.
"You know Dokusen's teachings?" my master asked sharply.
"Know or not—his teachings are unchanged from ten years school to today."
"Truth changes not; that is trustworthy."
"Such favor keeps him afloat. The name Yagi fits—goat beard and all, from boarding days. Even 'Dokusen' apt. Once he stayed, droned passive cultivation; I said sleep, he said not sleepy, kept on—troublesome. I begged sleep though he need not, and got him down—that night a rat bit his nose. He preached enlightenment yet clung to life, fretted poison spreading. I pasted rice on paper, said German plaster for snakebite, and fooled him."
"How?"
"Said foreign plaster, instant cure; he believed, slept. Morning, thread from plaster hung on his goat beard—comic."
"But he seems greater since."
"You met lately?"
"A week ago, long talk."
"No wonder the Dokusen passive mode."
"I was much moved, and mean to cultivate in earnest."
"Earnest good, but believing all makes fool. Why do you take men's words …