Eight

My master's study faces south, and along the southern boundary runs a bamboo fence, beyond which stand some seven or eight paulownia trees. While paulownias may be tall, tall trees bring broad leaves, and come autumn when those leaves begin to fall, they drift onto the veranda and pile up in the garden, becoming a considerable nuisance to sweep away. These paulownias belong to the landlord Denbei next door, and I once heard my master say: "What a dunderhead that Denbei is — his paulownias have grown so magnificently tall that if he sold them to a furniture-maker he'd get five or six yen at the very least, yet there they stand, of no benefit to anyone." On hearing this I thought Denbei rather a dunderhead as well.

　Beyond these paulownias, and beyond the fence itself, lies a certain establishment. It is a private middle school known as the Rakuunkan. Though I cannot vouch for its academic reputation, in terms of the number of pupils enrolled it mustered upwards of eight hundred. That there were eight hundred pupils is a matter of considerable significance to the development of this narrative and may not be passed over lightly.

　The students of this establishment, whenever the weather was fair, played baseball on their school grounds. As the school grounds lay immediately adjacent to the south side of my master's study, the crack of the pitcher's ball, the thud of the batter's swing, and the spirited cries of the students came sailing in at him, making quite a racket. My master was quite correct when he said that with such a commotion he could not attend to his books, and from the outset he nursed a profound grievance against the Rakuunkan. While my master harboured this grievance, he was but a poor schoolteacher, and the Rakuunkan was a well-funded institution of considerable standing; the disparity in power left him with no recourse but to endure. That said, had my master been a man of milder disposition the matter might not have progressed so far, but unfortunately his character was of a rather perverse stamp, and his resentment toward the Rakuunkan deepened by degrees.

　Deep resentment naturally seeks expression. The expression it took was this: when the mischievous students climbed through the fence to retrieve their balls, my master confiscated them. At first he merely kept whatever balls had flown in of their own accord; but before long disputes arose even when students climbed in after their balls, and one thing led to another until both parties regarded each other with the rancour of hereditary enemies. To an impartial observer it was nothing more than a pointless and unreasonable friction between a poor teacher and eight hundred students, yet to my master and the students of the Rakuunkan the matter was one of utmost gravity, each side convinced it was entirely in the right and the other entirely in the wrong, with all the earnest readiness for mortal combat of sworn enemies.

　To trace the origins of this dispute from the beginning, there is a certain logic to it. At first there was no fence on the south side of my master's study, and the students of the Rakuunkan could come and go freely through the open space beneath the wall when retrieving balls, creating no friction whatsoever. My master erected the fence purely because he disliked having strangers wandering in and out, with no particular intent to antagonise the Rakuunkan. The students at first seemed to understand his intentions and took care not to let balls fly into the garden. Several months later, however, whether the students' self-restraint had weakened or their baseball skills had yet to ripen, balls began to land inside the fence with increasing frequency. They took it as a matter of course that what fell in must be retrieved, and that what was retrieved must be returned, and continued to climb in and out as before.

　My master at first raised no objection and would sometimes even smile and toss the balls back himself. But at some point his attitude changed abruptly, and he began confiscating every ball that came in, returning none of them. The students naturally objected, and the dispute began in earnest. As the dispute escalated, the students began piling rubbish against the fence as provocation. My master wrote to the headmaster of the Rakuunkan, complaining of the students' rudeness. The headmaster was apparently a man of some reasonableness, for he responded and the students' behaviour showed some temporary restraint. However, this restraint was superficial, and by the following spring their provocations had revived in full force, outdoing anything that had come before. My master was enraged; he wrote to the headmaster again and added a four-eyed bamboo fence — a yotsume-gaki — along the south side of the garden. The term "four-eyed" is a technical term from baseball warfare, meaning a fence with wide gaps through which one can see, and does not refer to the headmaster having acquired four eyes of his own. This time the headmaster's reply was slow in coming, and while my master fretted, the students of the Rakuunkan paid not the slightest heed to the new fence and showed no sign of halting their incursions even into the third day.

　The students' tactical operations thereafter escalated steadily from retrieving balls that crossed the line into a full-scale baseball bombardment campaign. The bombardment was not literal artillery — it consisted simply of deliberately or incidentally knocking balls into my master's garden for the sport of it. When the balls came in, they could not be retrieved, as my master was there to prevent it; yet leaving them meant losing a ball. In this back-and-forth, my master kept a tally on paper of every ball he confiscated, and on one day it is said the count reached sixteen. I cannot personally verify this, but I can testify that the sight of my master rushing in and out every day yelling "They're at it again!" was one I witnessed at close quarters on a daily basis.

　The human fondness for teasing has a long history, and the spirit of teasing is stronger today than ever. Why has teasing become so prevalent? I have pondered this at some length and arrived at the following conclusion for your edification. Teasing flourishes when two conditions are met: first, the object of teasing must react to the teasing; second, while reacting, the object must be incapable of retaliating. In short, teasing is the pleasure of stimulating one who cannot fight back. Human beings do not tease stones because stones show no reaction; they do not tease tigers because tigers are capable of retaliating. Once there was a man who kept a camel and a small dog together in the same yard. Every day the owner fed the dog scraps of meat, and the dog, having eaten, would fawn and flatter, and the owner, delighted, would pet and stroke it repeatedly. The camel looked on with envy and thought it might try the same approach to win the owner's affection. One day, accordingly, this enormous creature attempted to fawn on its owner, raising its great front hoof and planting it on the owner's shoulder. The owner was terrified and leapt back, calling repeatedly for a stick to drive the camel away. A teacher is in the same position as a monkey on a chain. Any object that can be teased freely — that responds to stimulation, and is constrained by its circumstances from retaliating — becomes prey for teasing without limit. Which is to say, schoolteachers are precisely what the practitioners of teasing love most. A schoolteacher, when provoked, can do no more than scold a little; he has no power over the students. The students know this perfectly well and therefore set to it with additional relish.

　Having explained the mechanics of teasing, let me now describe my master's response. My master has a certain affliction: when pushed beyond a certain point, the blood rises to his head and he becomes confused and agitated, as one struck by a fit. He seems to be aware of this tendency himself, for whenever it strikes him he cries out "I'm going to blow, I'm going to blow!" — a state he calls "gyaku-jō," the reverse-surge of blood. The English word "enthusiasm" is a polite name for this condition — which is to say, a temporary mild madness. This was Plato's assertion, that all true inspiration is a form of divine madness. Whether that is correct or not, it is true that certain people, in a state of mild madness, are roused to creative powers beyond the ordinary and accomplish great things. Hugo is said to have completed a work on the deck of a rolling vessel; Stevenson is said to have written lying face-down. My master's gyaku-jō, naturally, falls far short of divine madness; it is simply the condition in which, when stimulated past his limit, blood surges to his head, his whole body trembles, and he doesn't know what he's doing.

　One day, my master was as usual reading in his study, and the students of the Rakuunkan were as usual playing baseball and making their usual noise. That day my master was evidently more sensitive than usual; the more he read the more restless he became, until finally, unable to bear it any longer, he cried "I'm going to blow!" and flung his book on the desk, sprang to his feet, and rushed out of the study in a fury. I slipped quietly after him. The garden was still; the osmanthus was in bloom. My master went to the fence and peered through the gaps, and saw a student from the Rakuunkan on the point of climbing through. My master seized the student by the collar with a bellow, and the household came running — the wife, the maidservant O-San, the children, all tumbling out to form an audience. The students of the Rakuunkan, seeing their comrade captured, were inflamed with righteous indignation, and twelve of them leapt the fence into the garden. My master, one man against twelve, was at a severe disadvantage in terms of numbers, but being the sort of man who, once his blood was up, cares nothing for odds, he held his ground. The situation grew ungovernable and the school was obliged to send out an ethics teacher to mediate, who talked the students back one by one. When they had all departed, my master was left alone in the garden, the magnificent climax of a great drama having resolved itself into the most anticlimactic of endings — a dragon's head and a snake's tail. I had observed the whole affair from a comfortable distance and understood it completely.

　Some time after this I came to understand the truth behind the whole affair. One day, near the Rakuunkan, Madame Kaneda was in conversation with her intermediary, Suzuki Tōjūrō, and the details of the dispute emerged. Madame Kaneda explained that her husband had long had a poor opinion of this teacher named Kushami, and had used the Rakuunkan students as his instrument to make things unpleasant for him and grind him down. Lowering her voice, she added: "That man refuses to yield no matter how politely he's approached, so this was the only way. Suzuki-san, go over and see what condition he's in — find out how he's faring, and come tell me." Suzuki assented.

　Suzuki Tōjūrō was a classmate of my master's from middle school, now working at some company. A smooth and sociable man. His sudden appearance after so many years surprised my master at first, but the two of them fell into reminiscence of old times and got along well enough. I lay in a corner of the study and heard every word of their conversation.

　"Haven't seen you in ages — what have you been up to?" Suzuki asked.

　"Same as always," my master replied.

　"Health keeping up? I heard you have stomach trouble?"

　"The stomach's not very good, that's true."

　"Must take care of yourself. It must be a strain. Still alone?"

　"Hardly — I've got a wife and children."

　"Oh! How many children?"

　"Three."

　"Three! That must be a struggle. By the way, I read that piece you published in Tōzainanboku — very well written. How much do those articles pay you?"

　"Articles like that pay practically nothing — not enough to live on."

　"I see. Well then, you'd better make your living through your proper trade. Teaching may be modest, but a steady income is a steady income — that much is secure, isn't it?"

　"Mm."

　"As long as one works diligently one won't starve. That's the so-called iron rice bowl. But see here, old fellow — I've always thought: round things roll easily. Square things catch on every corner, making progress painful. Round things, though — whichever way they're set rolling, they go smoothly. Don't you think so, old fellow?"

　"Mm."

　"Take me, for example — I'm an easy-going sort by nature, I never clash head-on with anyone. Put plainly, I'm a round thing. I roll wherever there's room. Ha ha ha. Old fellow, why not try being a bit more round yourself? Life becomes so much easier. You're a bit too angular at times — that puts you at a disadvantage. Speaking frankly, a man like Kaneda-san carries considerable weight in today's world; he's not someone you want to make an enemy of lightly. Don't you think so?"

　"Mm."

　"When all is said and done, in this world it's better to be accommodating when one can; head-on collisions never end well. I've learned that much in my own experience. Think of it this way, old fellow — there was a Greek philosopher named Chrysippus who literally laughed himself to death. Ha ha ha — that's an exaggeration of course —"

　"Chrysippus? How did he die?"

　"That Chrysippus — one day he watched a donkey eating figs from a silver bowl and was so overcome with laughter that he departed this world on the spot. Ha ha ha — quite a man —. But to return to the subject: you're an educated man, a man of discernment, and you surely understand that in this society, men of means and power have their own logic. For ordinary men like you and me, knowing which way the wind blows is the most important thing. Don't you think so?"

　My master said "mm" and after that was silent.

　Suzuki, finding my master unmoved, launched into further windy speeches about roundness and squareness before taking his leave — all amounting to urging my master to be sensible and capitulate — and then departed.

　A few days later another visitor arrived — a certain Doctor Amaki Gaishi. Doctor Amaki practised internal medicine and was apparently an old acquaintance of my master's. My master received him with tea, and they talked of the stomach complaint.

　"How is your appetite these days?" Amaki enquired.

　"Not very good."

　"No appetite for your meals?"

　"Sometimes tolerable, sometimes none whatsoever."

　"I hear you're prone to irritability?"

　"Yes — very much so lately, especially because of the students from that school —"

　"Prone to irritability — medically speaking, that's usually a gastric matter. When the stomach is weakened, the nerves become tense, and irritability follows. You should take more exercise."

　"I take exercise, and it makes me even more irritable."

　"Ha ha, how extraordinary." Doctor Amaki laughed. "As it happens, I've been studying hypnosis recently with considerable interest. Would you be willing to let me try it on you?"

　"Hypnosis? The Freudian sort of thing?"

　"Not entirely — it's hypnosis in the general sense. The idea is to calm your nerves, relieve the irritability — it may be beneficial for the stomach as well."

　"Very well — give it a go."

　Doctor Amaki had my master lie down and proceeded to administer the treatment by the book. He had my master close his eyes and breathe deeply, then said quietly: "Your hands and feet are growing very heavy, very heavy… your eyelids are becoming heavier and heavier… you are feeling drowsy…" and so on for approximately ten minutes. My master interjected the occasional "mm, mm" to indicate he was listening. At last Doctor Amaki stopped and asked: "Well? Do you notice anything?"

　My master opened his eyes and said: "Nothing in particular — I'm just lying here as usual."

　Doctor Amaki burst out laughing: "Ha ha ha — no effect at all? Well, there's nothing for it — if the technique doesn't take, the blame lies nowhere. Ha ha ha." My master laughed too. And so the matter was concluded with a shared laugh, at that.

　Some time after this, another visitor appeared in my master's study — the philosopher Yagi Dokusen. This was a man with a long face and a thin goat's beard below his jaw, steady in his bearing and with a certain ease of manner all his own. My master appeared to hold him in considerable esteem, sitting up straight in his presence and adopting an air of respectful attention.

　I had quietly observed all three of the recent visitors — Suzuki, Amaki, and Dokusen — and found myself recalling something Meitei had once said. Meitei had said: Suzuki resembles a goldfish bread — moulded into a goldfish shape outside, but ordinary wheat bread inside, all appearance and no substance; Doctor Amaki resembles a konnyaku in its straw wrapping, outer covering in place, inner content unchanged; as for Dokusen, he resembles wild yam buried underground — unseen and unknown, but if you dig him up there is something to him. The comparison, I thought, had its merits.

　Dokusen took a sip of tea and then spoke slowly: "You have been much troubled of late, I understand."

　"Indeed," my master said. "I cannot settle to my books, and my sleep is poor."

　"These are matters of the mind. Most people nowadays are in the same condition — buffeted by external things, not knowing how to collect themselves. Have you read the Fudōchi Shinmyōroku?"

　"I have not."

　"It is the work of the Zen master Takuan — it concerns swordsmanship, but its principles apply universally. When the mind becomes fixed on something, the thought lodges there and cannot move freely. When the mind is not fixed anywhere, it flows freely. When external things press upon you, you remain at ease; when they depart, your mind is undisturbed. This is what is meant by immovable wisdom —"

　Dokusen held forth at length, and my master listened quietly, nodding now and then in assent.

　Dokusen continued: "Western civilisation is at its core aggressive — ever advancing, ever grasping, never satisfied. Since the Industrial Revolution, productive efficiency has risen at every turn; material abundance has increased, yet men's minds have grown more restless than before. Steam makes men travel faster; the telegraph makes men communicate faster; faster and faster, and in the end men live more tightly wound, more agitated, shorter lives — that is the tragedy of Western civilisation. Eastern civilisation, and Japanese civilisation in particular, takes a different path. Rather than seeking outward expansion, it seeks inward cultivation; rather than conquering external things, it cultivates the self. However the external world changes, the mind has its own fixed place. This is the foundation of the Eastern spirit —"

　My master sat quietly, neither affirming nor dissenting. Dokusen drained his tea and rose to take his leave.

　My master saw Dokusen off, returned to the study, and sat in silence. I peered at him from beside his feet, and the expression on his face was that of a man who had absorbed everything and decided nothing.

　My master now had three advisors, each offering a different prescription: Suzuki urged him to go along with the times and yield to money and power; Amaki proposed that hypnosis would calm his nerves; Dokusen taught him to cultivate his inner life through Eastern philosophy. Three methods, each with its logic, yet all of them seemed to have entered my master's ears and gone no further — to have moved him not at all. He continued as before, neither accepting nor refusing, muddling along in his own particular way.