Vita Sexualis (13 page)

I returned home after eating the buckwheat mash. I was seen off at the main entrance by the man and wife and young girl.

On our way back Annaka pressed me for a definite answer about the girl, but I wasn't able to say anything. That was because I myself didn't know how to reply. I didn't feel she was very beautiful. Still, I did think she was quite nice. Certainly she had charm. I couldn't tell about her real personality, but I felt there wasn't a bit of stubbornness or peevishness in her. She seemed gentle. But when I asked myself if I wanted to marry her, I hadn't the least desire to. In no way did I dislike her. If she had been someone who had no connection to my future and I had to comment on her, I would have said she was the type of person I liked. But I couldn't bring myself to marry her. She was certainly a very nice girl, but such girls could be found anywhere. I wondered why I had to marry just that one in particular from among them. I refuted my argument by thinking that if I felt this way, I would never bring myself to marry anyone. Nevertheless, I still didn't feel like marrying her. I wondered how other young men made their decisions on such occasions. I sus pected that some probably decided under the stimulus of sexual desire. Because I was deficient in this area, I guessed that even if I felt the young lady was quite nice, the deficiency was probably why I didn't want to marry her.

Seeing I was worried, Annaka said, "I'll come again and inquire." We parted at Kudanzaka.

When I returned home, my mother was waiting for me. "How was it?" she asked. I hesitated.

"Well, what did she look like?"

"Let me see. Her looks were quite decent. Eyes a little slanted. I don't know anything about kimonos, but hers was sort of black with a white neckband under it. She reminded me of the kind of woman who might carry a dagger concealed in her obi to protect her honor."

The figure of speech I had suddenly come out with pleased my mother very much. My saying the girl seemed likely to be carrying a dagger made my mother feel she was chaste and reliable. Thereupon my mother earnestly recommended her. Annaka also came two or three times for an answer. Yet I couldn't give him anything definite.

Later the girl became the wife of an official I knew, a man in the Department of the Imperial Household, but about a year after her marriage she died from some illness.

*
*
*

There was talk I would finally go abroad to study next year. As usual I idled away my time in our house in Kosuge.

In Senju we had a poetry-writing group, each member taking turns having the monthly meeting at his house. One day at one of our gatherings I became acquainted with the poet Seiha Miwazaki. He told me he was in charge of writing the poetry column for the
Jiyu
newspaper and asked me if I wouldn't write something for him, anything I wanted. I begged off. But he kept urging me to. When I asked him if I could write anonymously, he said that would be fine. I agreed on condition he rigidly adhere to his promise.

After returning home that evening, I lay on my bed wondering what would be good to write, but I couldn't come up with anything. The next day I forgot about it. The following morning, as I was reading the
Yomiuri
newspaper, which I had subscribed to at home ever since Masao Suzukida became its editor, I came across my name in the paper. They had written that I, Shizuka Kanai, having graduated from the university with honors in philosophy and so on and so forth, would write for the
Jiyu
. I was startled as I thought back to that previous night. I remembered I had promised to write with the understanding that the other party would keep my name secret. And now that he had not done so, I felt no need to write anything.

Then Seiha sent me a letter urging me to comply. I replied that since the terms of our agreement had been broken, I wouldn't. Finally Seiha himself came to see me.

"I'm really sorry about that item in the
yomiuri.
Please overlook it and write something for us. If you don't, I'll have to eat my words in front of the entire staff!"

"I see. But after all I said to you, why on earth did you advertise me to the
yomiuri?"

"What makes you think I'm the one who did the shouting?"

"Then how come my name appeared there?"

"It's like this. I talked about you at the paper. Of course before I said anything to you, I discussed it at the office. When I mentioned I had met you at the poetry meeting I'd been invited to, the president of the paper was the first to ask me to have you write something for us. Without even hesitating, I guaranteed him you would. Then when I spoke to you, I found you were quite touchy. I talked you into it with the eloquence of a Demosthenes. That's why on returning to my office, I reported on my mission so triumphantly. I guess someone on our paper let the
Yomiuri
in on it. I don't know for sure. I'm willing to bear that crown of thorns. I'll prostrate myself before you. Only please write for us!"

"Well all right. I'll do it. But I don't understand the way you newspaper people think. My name came out in the papers either because I was the youngest ever to graduate from the university or because I graduated with honors. I suppose they just wanted to let me write something, anything, no matter what. They couldn't care less whether I write skillfully or miserably. What's sensational would probably be sensational anyway. But don't you as a member of the managing staff of a newspaper think that's an awfully shortsighted thing to do? I'm not talking about what's good or bad for me. I'm talking about what's at stake for your newspaper. It's better to let my article appear anonymously without comment. If it's clumsily done, it'll die out in its own way. No matter how clumsy my article may be, I doubt your paper will be that much criticized for letting it appear. And if by chance it's good, your readers might want to know who the writer was. At that time it would be all right to introduce me by name. So if it turns out that some person in your company happened to discover me, then maybe that would be to the credit of your company, wouldn't it? Not that I think things will go this smoothly! Still, I'm speaking this way because I don't believe it's the business of your paper to put any so-and-so on display simply because he's a bachelor of arts!"

"Yes, you're absolutely right in everything you've said. But that's the same as trying to force the rulers of warring states to set up codes on etiquette and music."

"You think so? It seems to me there are unexpectedly great numbers of stupid men swarming around newspaper offices."

"O my! Thanks for the compliment!" And he laughed.

Seiha returned after our talk. Immediately following his departure, I sat at my desk, wrote an article long enough to fill about two newspaper columns, and sent it off by mail. In a way, I couldn't deny feeling some sort of pride in writing this kind of article without even thinking it necessary to polish my draft.

The next morning I received the newspaper in which my article appeared on the front page. Later I learned that because my manuscript had reached them at night, they had gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange it. Seiha's letter of thanks was sent along with the paper.

I expect the copy of that newspaper is even now somewhere among my possessions, but even if I felt like reading it at this moment, I wouldn't be able to find it. I still remember I wrote something quite odd in that article. It had neither a beginning nor a conclusion. In those days every newspaper had a column of miscellaneous items. The
Choya
was selling quite well because of the miscellany of the famous Ryuhoku Narushima. In with his serious research were mixed puns and witticisms. He was always careful to keep his discussion original. He aimed at sentences that were sharp, pointed. Occasionally his epigrams were on everybody's lips. At that time I had been reading Eckstein's book on the history of the
feuilleton,
a book I had borrowed from a professor, and so I had written my article in the form of a miscellany but with the additional flavor of European
feuilleton.

What I wrote attracted some attention. In two or three newspapers some anonymous notices came out, blindly following each other's lead. What I had written was part lyrical, part novelette, part scholarly. If I had written it at the present time, the critics would have called it a chapter in a novel. And after arbitrarily calling it that to satisfy themselves, they'd have probably said it was inferior to a miscellany. Though the word "passionate" had not yet been coined in those days, if it had been, they would have said it had no passion. And even though the word "pedantic" was not yet in fashionable use, if it had been, they would have used that term in this instance. Furthermore, the word "self-vindication" used in conjunction with persons charged with crimes had not yet been coined. I don't believe any work of art can escape the label "self-vindication." For man's life is his attempt at vindicating himself. For the life of each and every living creature is a self-vindication. A tree-frog resting on a leaf is green, but a tree-frog resting on a wall is sallow. A lizard appearing and disappearing in a cluster of bushes has a line of green along its back. A lizard living in the desert is sand-colored. Mimicry is self-vindicating. Writing is self-vindication for the same reason. Fortunately I didn't receive any criticism of that sort. My writing managed to get by without any doubts being cast on its right to exist. That was because in those days there hadn't yet been any of the so-called "criticism," which was so hard intellectually and emotionally that it denied any creative writer his due and which could not even justify its own existence.

About a week passed when Seiha visited me again one afternoon. He asked me to accompany him since the head of his newspaper wanted to treat me to dinner to thank me for my recent article. Seiha said the poet Ansai Haraguchi would be a fellow-guest and that he himself would serve as a substitute host for the president.

I hired a jinrikisha and followed Seiha's. We came to a restaurant near the Kanda Myojin Shrine and went in. Ansai had come earlier and was waiting for us. Sake was brought in. Geisha entered. I couldn't drink any of the sak£. Nor could Ansai. Seiha drank by himself and created his own happy uproar. Each of us looked like a cross between a political henchman and a dependent-student, though the one who seemed most like the henchman was Seiha and the one who looked most like the typical dependent-student was Ansai. Both men were wearing a
haori
over their wadded kimonos, which were dark blue with a pattern of white splashes. Ansai was modest, but he was clever, and even though he didn't join in Seiha's boisterous merrymaking, he did talk with the geisha. He even exchanged cups of sake with them.

I was the one left out of the party. In those days, part of my everyday clothing consisted of a crested black silk coat which my father had worn on formal occasions in his native province, the coat having become mine after my mother had tailored it to fit me, its cloth, she said, being quite durable. It was in this coat that I had been led to the restaurant by Seiha. I had brought along an iron smoking pipe about two feet in length. When I had come to feel no further need to carry along that protective dagger I mentioned earlier, I had this pipe made as a kind of self-protection device the moment I started smoking. So from my pouch, which looked like a bag containing tinder, I dragged out some Kumoi tobacco, and I began smoking. I wasn't drinking any sake. Nor was I saying a word.

Because the Kobusho geisha of those days were accustomed to meeting eccentric students, they were not particularly surprised by my conduct. With their loud voices, all of them were having a noisy enjoyable time with Seiha.

It got to be about eleven-thirty. A maid came in to tell us that all our jinrikishas were ready. I thought her statement odd, but I didn't take any further notice of it. Seiha led the way to the front gate and got into his. Ansai and I got into our separate ones. "To Kosuge beyond Osenju," I told the man, but without replying he lifted the shafts.

Seiha's jinrikisha started running first. Then Ansai's next and mine in the rear as the three vehicles rolled along as if in flight. Shouting to keep time, their paper lanterns swaying, the jinrikisha pullers went toward Ueno through Onarimichi. Most shops on both sides of the street were closed. Occasionally I could see the flickering lights in the paper-covered lanterns of the eating houses or the candles through those small shutters inlaid in the wooden doors of the chandler shops, and it seemed to me as if those lights were in reverse. The streets were almost deserted. The people we happened to come across turned to look at our jinrikishas as if their doing so had been prearranged.

My jinrikisha was obviously heading somewhere. Though I had no experience with jinrikisha men, I knew what the answer would have been if I had asked mine where he was going by running in this manner.

When we turned the corner toward Nakacho after passing Hirokoji, Ansai looked back at me from his jinrikisha up ahead of mine and said, "Let's get out of here!" His jinrikisha turned towards Nakacho.

Ansai had inherited some sort of chronic disease. His body wasn't as strong as that of other men. He couldn't have gone to the type of place we were headed for.

I said to my jinrikisha man, "Follow that one." If I wanted to get back to Kosuge, it was no good for me to be turning toward Nakacho, but if I could at least break away from Seiha, I thought I could manage it later. My runner hesitated, but he turned the shafts toward Nakacho.