Six

Summer has arrived at last.

　In my opinion, each step forward in human civilization brings with it one more layer of human suffering. The savage has no central heating, no gas, no electric light — one can only call that pitiable; yet the anguish of having no central heating is at least finite. The city dweller fully equipped by civilization has, in summer, nowhere to escape, and that is truly a sorry state of affairs. The country peasant walks in the shade of great trees in the fierce heat, looks up at the sky, and feels not the slightest inconvenience. Wanting for nothing, he passes the summer at ease, living through each day as it comes — whether this is happiness or misfortune, I leave aside — but he may well be cooler than the fashionably suited gentleman riding the electric tram.

　The more human beings progress, the more the individual's freedom is constricted and the more the scope of movement narrows; should they at some point fail to know how to reconcile these contradictions, it is quite possible that they would find themselves crushed together in a heap on this vast earth. In Tokyo's high summer nowadays, city dwellers can scarcely move, and everyone seems to have fled to the countryside. But the countryside too is being gradually overrun by city people; one summer may not yet be critical, but if this continues, eventually the countryside will fall. At that point city people will probably be driven overseas, sailing by steamship across the Pacific to flee to the Americas; but the Americas are not empty land without inhabitants, and the people there will presumably greatly object to this behaviour. What then? Fly into the sky in an aeroplane, or dive into the deep sea in a submarine — either way, it seems remarkably inconvenient.

　My master, in his customary fashion, is in the study in a state of ill humour — not ordinary ill humour, but literary ill humour — writing something about Yamato-damashii, the Japanese spirit. What Yamato-damashii actually is my master cannot satisfactorily explain, but since the expression is constantly on the lips of the vulgar masses, he feels impelled to satirise it, and has taken up his pen. When one considers it, a schoolmaster in his study moved to write about the Japanese spirit is a considerable self-contradiction; but then, there is nothing in this world without contradiction, and my master picks up his pen with equanimity.

　At this moment Meitei arrives at the front hall, freshly shaved, head gleaming.

　"Is the master in?"

　"In the study." O-San says so and goes off.

　"Ah, busy at something, are we? What is it?" Meitei plants himself beside him.

　"This? Yamato-damashii."

　"Yamato-damashii? What's that?"

　"I don't know either."

　"Ha ha ha — writing about something you can't explain, that's impressive. Ha ha ha — yes, that's rather your style."

　My master continues writing in silence. Meitei changes the subject.

　"You know, speaking of summer — summer is a thoroughly interesting season. The hotter it gets, the more people rush to the water or flee to the mountains."

　"Mm."

　"I had a bath today, and felt marvellous. Bathing, you know, was a pleasure the ancients also enjoyed. Heracles of Greece, I'm told, was very fond of a bath."

　"Heracles?" My master puts down his pen. "What has he to do with bathing?"

　"Everything. It's that Heracles — the one who drove cattle, the half-divine one — thirty head of cattle, wasn't it? Stolen by Cacus."

　"And after they were stolen?"

　"Nothing after; just stolen, and that's the end of it."

　"What does any of this have to do with bathing?"

　"Nothing, I'm simply saying that the Greeks enjoyed bathing. The ancient thermal baths — called thermopolion, was it? — in any case — a magnificently grand bathing establishment."

　"I see."

　"But you know, today's bathing — not today specifically — Japanese public baths — speaking of Japanese public baths, what a peculiar product of civilization they are. The moment you go in, there is no partition to speak of: front is water, back is water, right is water, left is water..."

　"Indeed?" My master picks up his pen again.

　"Above is the ceiling, below is the wooden floor. Nothing particularly remarkable in that, perhaps; but to be immersed in warm water and rolled about — indescribably pleasant. Homer's epics contain bathing scenes, did you know? The Odyssey — oh, you don't read Greek, so let me put it another way — it is a scene of a hero bathing, quite magnificent. Greek bathing had a symbolic solemnity."

　"Mm."

　"By comparison, the Japanese public bath — did you go to the bath today?"

　"I did not."

　"You didn't? One must go to the bath frequently in summer. Speaking of the bath — I saw Kangetsu there today."

　"Oh, is that so?"

　"That Kangetsu is quite seriously researching something. Do you know what? Glass balls. He is researching glass balls."

　"Researching glass balls? Whatever does that mean?" My master finally puts down his pen.

　"It means polishing glass balls to a perfect sphere and studying their refraction, dispersion, and so forth — making that the theme of his doctoral thesis."

　"There's no such thing as a doctoral thesis on that."

　"There is, there is. It's optics — do you know optics? Optics. Quite a formidable field of study. But when I asked how far along he was, he said probably another ten or twenty years."

　"That fellow — ten or twenty years won't do it; he'll probably die before he finishes."

　"You may well be right; let him take his time. The problem is that the Kaneda family has gone to Oiso. What do you make of that?"

　"The Kaneda family has gone to Oiso?" My master's eyes flicker slightly.

　"Yes, so Kangetsu says — the Kaneda family has gone to Oiso."

　"Kangetsu knows the Kanedas' affairs?"

　"It seems they have some acquaintance; that is to say, the young lady of the house has something of a feeling for Kangetsu."

　"Is that so. And what does Kangetsu intend to do?"

　"I don't know — I didn't ask in detail. But on the matter of the Kanedas going to Oiso, there is rather a problem there too. They say they're going to Oiso, but the Kaneda mistress — you know, the nose —"

　"I know the nose."

　"Well, she didn't she recently receive a matchmaking proposition from some Giday performer's daughter from Echigo, presenting some young man and asking for her approval?"

　"I've no idea what you're talking about." My master looks completely at a loss.

　"In any case, it was a marriage arrangement; only it fell through. The reason being that the young man wore a wig — and in consequence — subsequently, Madame Kaneda — the nose — in short it did not succeed, and so this trip is taking the daughter to Oiso to recover her spirits. All of which, in the end, amounts to that."

　"I see."

　"Kangetsu knows all this — no wonder he carries on polishing his glass balls with perfect composure."

　At this point Tōfū makes his appearance. Tōfū is a young man who has recently secured a position as poetry editor at some newspaper. He has thick hair, a slender build, and he enters with a face rather flushed.

　"Ah, Sensei, I have a favour to ask. This time I have published a collection of poetry —" — he produces a slim volume from his sleeve — "and would like you to write a brief notice for it."

　"I'm not competent for that — I can't do it." My master says.

　"Oh, come now, you're too modest. Even a line or two would do..."

　"I'm not much good at haiku —"

　"This isn't haiku; it's new-style poetry. Please..."

　"I'm even less competent at new-style poetry. Ask Meitei to write something."

　"Well now, I don't mind — all right then, let me have a look —" Meitei takes the book and examines it — "Mm — Dedicated to Tomiko — well well, the dedication is sorted at any rate."

　"Ho, you've dedicated your poetry collection to Tomiko? Who is Tomiko?" My master asks.

　Tōfū flushes deeply and stammers: "She, well — she is the young lady of the Kaneda household, named Tomiko..."

　"Oh!" My master and Meitei exclaim in unison.

　"And what is your connection with Miss Tomiko?" Meitei enquires.

　"Well, that is — it's nothing particular — it's just that I greatly admire her..."

　"Splendid, splendid — a species of poet's devotion. Though the said Miss Tomiko is currently in Oiso, I should mention. Kangetsu knows too."

　"What, really!" Tōfū seems greatly dismayed. "When will she be back?"

　"Unknown — that depends on the Kaneda mistress's nose, and so can't be said."

　"Well then — Sensei, I have a request." Tōfū turns to my master. "I have started a composition in the newspaper called Haieki — I hope you might participate."

　"Haieki? What is that?"

　"It is haiku linked in succession. For instance, you might begin: The old pond — a frog leaps in — sound of water — and then the next person follows with: Trailing willows — over the surface — a crow perched — and so on and on..."

　"I'm not suited to that kind of thing."

　"It's purely for enjoyment — please..."

　"Show me a sample first, so I can see how it's done."

　"Very well. For instance: Willows, willows — on the bridge's edge — a single crow — and then next: the bathing beauty — ah, no, I'd better not say."

　"Ha ha ha, out with it — it becomes more interesting that way." Meitei laughs heartily. "What comes next?"

　"Well... the bathing beauty, white and soft her skin — it's indecorous to say it..."

　"All the funnier for saying it — ha ha ha. The bathing beauty, white and soft her skin... nothing terribly improper, rather agreeable really, ha ha ha."

　My master says from the side: "Well, that isn't poetry; that's just erotica."

　"Ha ha ha — you know, for someone who has read so many books, you cannot to this day distinguish between art and erotica. That is a classical figure of speech, do you understand? A classical figure. The Greeks had Agnodice —"

　"Who?"

　"Agnodice — a woman physician in Athens. According to what I've read, the women of ancient Athens..."

　"All right, all right, I don't want to hear it." My master cuts him off. "On the topic of Yamato-damashii — I wrote something today. Would you like to hear it?"

　"Yamato-damashii — ha ha ha — still at that, are you? Let's hear it then — what sort of thing?" Meitei says.

　My master clears his throat and reads what he has written. It begins with the Russians — how formidable the Tsar, how fervent the officers, how brave the soldiers. "Oh, so you're praising Russia?" Meitei interjects. My master ignores him and reads on. The fall of Port Arthur, the bravery of the Japanese forces, the victory at the Straits of Tsushima. "Oh, so now you're praising Japan?" Meitei interjects again. My master ignores him and reads on. Admiral Tōgō is Japan's Nelson; and then the aftermath of the war, the peace, and the future of Yamato-damashii. "Well then, the final word on Yamato-damashii — what does it say?" My master reads to this point, then stops and says: "This Yamato-damashii is nothing especially extraordinary — it existed before Meiji and it exists after Meiji; it is nothing more than the spiritual character of the Japanese people; it is simply a name, and there is no call for all this fuss about it, nor any need to worship it especially."

　"Well, that conclusion — hmm — yes, indeed, hmm..." Meitei reflects. "Rather interesting, actually. However..."

　"However what?"

　"However, you know, at the moment the Japanese are very worked up on account of the war, and at such a time this sort of thing could cause you some bother. Not that you intend to publish it, presumably?"

　"And what if I publish it?"

　"Ha ha ha — in that case, do as you like. It makes no difference to me. Only there are fools in the world who boil over with patriotic excitement the moment they hear the words Yamato-damashii, and if a piece of this sort were to appear at such a time, those fellows would be furious."

　"What of it?"

　"Nothing, nothing. I say this only for your sake. In any case — having written this Yamato-damashii piece, what do you intend to do with it?"

　My master is silent a moment, then says: "Submit it."

　"Ha ha ha — well then, good for you. By all means, submit it."

　At this point I slip quietly out of the study and stroll alone in the summer garden. The oleanders have just come into bloom, their crimson flowers bright and vivid in the fierce summer light.

　Human beings are strange creatures. When they are vexed they write; when they are content they write. When they are angry they speak; when they are sorrowful they speak. Whatever the occasion, they cannot be without words. I have no need of any of that. To simply sit quietly in this summer garden, feel the sun warm on my fur, and listen to the cicadas — that is quite enough.

　The cicadas grow louder and louder. In the distance, rain clouds are slowly building.