I need help

I need help

294 Monumenta Nipponica, XXVII, 3

Wasureenu Hitobito

Unforgettable People

Just beyond Futago, where the road from Tokyo crosses the Tama
River, was an old post town called Mizonokuchi. Midway through the
town, there was an inn, the Kameya.

It was the beginning of March. The sky was overcast and a strong

wind blew from the north. The town, always bleak, seemed more cold
and desolate than usual. A blanket of snow remained from the day

before. From the southern edges of the unevenly thatched roofs, droplets
of melting snow fell and were scattered by the wind. Even the muddy

water-filled sandal tracks seemed to shiver as the wind set tiny ripples
in motion. The sun went down and soon most of the shops closed up for

the night. The town lay silent, huddled along the dark road. The inn, of
course, was still open. A light shone brightly against the paper windows

of the Kameya. But inside nothing stirred. Few travelers had stopped to
spend the night, it seemed. Now and then the tap of a heavy metal pipe
bowl against a charcoal brazier broke the silence.

Without warning the sliding door shot back and a rather large man
eased himself across the threshold. Before the innkeeper could shake off
his reverie and look up from the brazier, the man had taken three long

strides across the dirt-floored entranceway and stood full before him. The
newcomer seemed somewhat less than thirty years of age. He wore a

European-style suit and cloth cap, but his thong sandals and gaiters
exposed his bare feet. He carried an umbrella in his right hand and
with his left he hugged a small satchel.

‘I want a room for the night.’

Still absorbed in examining his guest’s outfit, the innkeeper said
nothing. Just then a handclap sounded from the back.

‘Take care of number six!’ the innkeeper bellowed. Then, still leaning
against the brazier, he asked, ‘And you, sir, are . . ?’

The man’s shoulders stiffened and a scowl crossed his face. But then,
smiling slightly, he answered, ‘I am…. from Tokyo.’

‘And you are on the way to …?’
‘Hachioji.’
The traveler sat down on the raised wooden floor and began to untie

his gaiters.
‘This is an odd way to be going to Hachioji from Tokyo.’ The

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Doppo: Wasureenu Hitobito 295

innkeeper looked at the man as though with newly aroused suspicions
and seemed about to speak. Sensing this, the traveler broke the silence.

‘I live in Tokyo but today I’m on the way back from Kawasaki. I
started out late and now it’s dark already. Let me have some hot water,
please.’

‘Bring some hot water right away,’ the innkeeper shouted. ‘It must

have been cold on the road today. Hachioji is still pretty cold.’ His
comments were friendly enough, but his manner evidenced little warmth.
He was about sixty years old. He wore a heavily-quilted jacket over his

stout frame. It made his broad head jut out as though attached directly
to his shoulders. His eyes, set into a wide, genial face, drooped at the

corners. There was something tough and inflexible about him, but he

impressed the traveler at once as a straightforward old fellow.
The traveler washed his feet and was still wiping them when the

innkeeper shouted, ‘Show the gentleman to number seven!’
To the gentleman himself he had nothing more to say. Nor did he

glance at him again as he retired to his room. A black cat appeared from
the kitchen, crept onto the master’s lap, and curled up. The old man
seemed to be unaware of this. His eyes were shut tight. A moment later

his right hand edged towards the tobacco holder. Stubby fingers began
to roll some tobacco into a little ball.

‘When number six is through with the tub take care of number seven!’
The cat was startled and leaped down.
‘Not you, stupid!’

The frightened cat disappeared into the kitchen. A large clock struck
off eight slow gongs.

‘Grandma, Kichiza must be tired. Put the warmer in his bed and let
him go to sleep, poor fellow.’ The old man himself sounded sleepy.

‘He’s in here,’ came the voice of an old woman from the kitchen. ‘But
he’s still studying.’

‘He is? Go to bed now, Kichiz6. You can get up early tomorrow and
do that. Put the warmer in his bed now, Grandma.’

‘Yes, right away.’
In the kitchen, the old-woman and a maid looked at each other and

tittered. There was a loud yawn out front.
‘He’s the tired one,’ the old woman muttered as she put some coals

into the sooty bedwarmer. She was a small woman, perhaps in her late
fifties.

Out front the paper door rattled in the wind and a sprinkling of rain
swept lightly past.

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296 Monumenta Nipponica, XXVII, 3

‘Better close the shutters for the night,’ the old man shouted. Then he
muttered to himself, ‘Rain again, damn it.’

Indeed, the wind had grown quite strong and it was beginning to rain.
It was early spring, but a freezing cold wind, bearing rain and sleet, tore

across the broad Musashi Plain. All night long it raged over the dark
little town of Mizonokuchi.

Midnight had come and gone but the lamp in room seven burned
brightly. Everyone in the Kameya was asleep except the two guests who
sat facing each other in the middle of the room. Outside, the storm
raged on. The shutters rattled constantly.

‘If this keeps up you won’t be able to leave tomorrow,’ said the man

from room six.
‘I wouldn’t mind spending a day here. I’m in no special hurry.’
Both men were flushed, their noses bright red. Three freshly warmed

bottles of sake stood on the low table next to them, and sake still remained
in their cups. They sat in comfortable positions on the mat floor, with the
brazier between them as a warmer and ashtray. The visitor would puff
on his cigarette now and then and reach out, baring his arm to the
elbow, to shake off the ashes. They spoke without reserve, but it was
clear the two had met that night. Perhaps something had led to a remark
or two through the sliding door between their rooms. The man in
number six, feeling lonely, would then have taken the first move,
followed by an exchange of name cards. An order of sake, some frank
conversation, and soon politeness had given way to the easy speech of
friends.

‘Otsu Benjira’, read the card of the man in room seven. The other’s
was inscribed, ‘Akiyama Matsunosuke’. No further information accom-
panied either name.

Otsu was the man in the European-style suit who had arrived after
sunset. His tall, thin frame and pale face were quite the opposite of his

companion’s appearance. Akiyama, in his mid-twenties, had a fleshy,
reddish face. The amiable expression in his eyes made him appear to be

smiling constantly. Otsu was an unknown writer. Akiyama was a painter,
also unknown. By some odd chance these two young men of similar
inclination had come together in this rural inn.

‘We ought to get to bed, I think. There is no one left for us to tear
apart.’

From art to literature to religion their conversation had ranged.
Absorbed in their scathing criticism of the day’s noted artists and writers,
they had not heard the clock strike eleven,

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Doppo: Wasureenu Hitobito 297

‘It’s still early,’ said Akiyama, smiling. ‘You can’t leave tomorrow,

anyway. What does it matter if we stay up talking all night?’

‘What time is it?’ Otsu picked up his watch. ‘It’s past eleven!’
‘We might as well stay up all night.’ Akiyama was unperturbed. Eyes

fixed on his sake cup, he added, ‘But if you’re sleepy, go ahead….’

‘No, not at all. I thought you were sleepy. I left Kawasaki late today.
I walked less than ten miles so I feel fine.’

‘I’m not ready for bed either. But I thought I’d just borrow this if you
were.’

Akiyama picked up what looked like a manuscript of some ten pages.
On the cover was the title, ‘Unforgettable People’.

‘It’s no good,’ said Otsu. ‘It’s like the pencil sketches you artists do,
nothing anyone else can appreciate.’ But he made no attempt to retrieve
the document. Akiyama glanced at a few pages.

‘Sketches have their own special interest, I think. I’d like to read it.’
‘Let me see it a minute, will you?’ Otsu took the sheets and leafed

through them. Both men were silent. Only then did they seem to take
notice of the storm. Otsu listened, rapt, as he stared at his manuscript.

‘This is a writer’s sort of night, don’t you think?’ Akiyama said. Otsu,
silent, seemed unaware that he had spoken. Akiyama could not tell
whether Otsu was listening to the storm or reading his manuscript or
whether, indeed, his thoughts had flown to someone far away. But he
felt that Otsu’s expression, his eyes, were just what an artist looks for.

Otsu turned to Akiyama with the eyes of one who has just awakened
from a dream. ‘Rather than have you read this,’ he said, ‘it would make
more sense for me to talk about what I have written. Shall I do that?
This is nothing more than an outline. You wouldn’t understand it.’

‘That would be even better-to hear all the details from you.’

Akiyama noticed that Otsu’s eyes were moist and gave off a strange
gleam.

‘I will tell you all I can remember. If you find it dull, though, don’t
hesitate to tell me. On the other hand I won’t hesitate to go on talking.
It’s odd, but suddenly I feel that I would like to have you hear this.’

Akiyama added charcoal to the fire and placed the bottles of sake,
cool by now, into the warmer.

‘ “The unforgettable man is not of necessity one whom we dare not
forget.” Look, this is the first sentence I have written here.’ Otsu showed
him the manuscript. ‘First let me explain what I mean by it. That way
you can understand the overall theme. Actually, I am quite sure you
understand it already.’

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298 Monumenta /ipponica, XXVII, 3

‘No, never mind that. Just go ahead. I will listen as though I were an

ordinary reader. Pardon me if I lie down….’

With a cigarette between his lips, Akiyama stretched out on the floor.
Resting his head on his right hand he looked at Otsu with the trace of a
smile in his eyes.

‘We cannot simply refer to parents and children or to friends or to the

teachers and others to whom we are obligated, as unforgettable people.
These are people “whom we dare not forget”. But then there are

others complete strangers–to whom we have made no pledge of love,
to whom we are not duty bound. To forget them would imply neither

neglect of duty nor want of compassion. Yet these are the very ones
whom we cannot forget. I would not say that for everyone there are
such unforgettable people, but for me there certainly are. Perhaps for
you, too.’

Akiyama simply nodded.
‘It was the middle of spring, I remember, when I was nineteen years

old. I had not been feeling well, and had decided to leave Tokyo, where
I was at school, and go home for a rest. I took the regular Inland Sea

steamer from Osaka. There was no wind on that spring day, and the
sea was calm. But all of this happened so long ago. I can remember
nothing about the other passengers, or the captain, or the boy who
served refreshments. No doubt there was some fellow-passenger kind
enough to pour my tea, and others with whom I passed the time on
deck, but none of this is left in my memory.

‘Because of the state of my health, I must surely have been depressed.
I remember, at least, that I daydreamed about the future while I roamed

the deck, and thought of the fate of men in this life. I suppose this is the
sort of thing all young men do at such times. I heard the pleasant sound
of the ship’s hull cutting through the water, and watched the soft glow of
the spring day melt into the sea’s oil-smooth, unrippled surface. As the
ship advanced, one small island after another would rise out of the mist
on either side of us, then disappear. The islands, each draped in a thick
brocade of yellow flowers and green barley leaves, seemed to be floating
deep within the surrounding mist. Before long the ship passed not fifteen
hundred yards from the beach of a small island off to the right, and I
stepped to the rail, gazing absentmindedly at the island. There seemed
to be no fields or houses, only groves of small, low pine scattered over the
hillside. It was low tide. The damp surface of the hushed and deserted
beach glistened in the sun, and now and then a long streak perhaps
the playing of little waves at the water’s edge-shone like a naked

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Doppo: Wasureenu Hitobito 299

sword, then dissolved. From the faint call of a lark high in the air
over the hill, one could tell that the island was inhabited. I remembered
my father’s poem, “The soaring lark betrays a farm behind the island’s
face,” and I thought there must certainly be houses on the other side.
And as I watched I caught sight of a lone figure on the sunlit beach. I
could tell it was a man, and not a woman or a child. He seemed to be
picking things up repeatedly and putting them into a basket or pail. He
would take two or three steps, squat down, and pick something up. I
watched carefully as he wandered along the deserted little beach
beneath the hill. As the ship drew further away, the man’s form became
a black dot, and soon the beach, the hills, and the island all faded into
the mist. Almost ten years have passed, and I have thought many times
of this man at the edge of the island, the man whose face I never saw.
He is one of those I cannot forget.

‘The next one I will tell you about I saw five years ago. I had
spent New Year’s Day with my parents and set out the following day for
Kyushu. I crossed the island, from Kumamoto to Oita, on foot.

‘I had promised to take my brother along. The two of us left Kumamoto
early in the morning, prepared for our trek with sandals and gaiters-
and high spirits. That day we walked as far as Tateno, arriving well
before sunset. There we stayed the night. We left before sunrise and soon,
as we had hoped, the white volcanic smoke of Mlount Aso was there in the
distance to guide us. Trudging along the frosty ground, crossing bridges
suspended among the rocks, losing our way now and then, we made the
lower peaks of Aso by noon. It must have been one o’clock by the timne we
reached the crater. The whole Kumamoto area is warm, of course, and

that day it was clear and windless. Even near the top of the mountain,
5,000 feet high and in mid-winter, we felt quite comfortable. Steam

poured out of the crater and drifted up to the highest peak, Takadake,
where it froze, gleaming white. There was scarcely a patch of snow
anywhere else on the mountain. Dead grass, faint white stirrings in the
breeze. Sharp cliffs of earth burnt red and black, remnants of the vast
ancient crater that once gaped fifteen miles across. I could never capture
this on paper, the desolation. Only a painter could convey the scene, I
think.

‘We climbed to the edge of the crater and for a while stood looking
into the terrible pit and enjoying the panorama all around us. Up there,
of course, the wind was unbearably cold. Soon we retreated to the little
stand next to Aso Shrine, below the crater rim. Invigorated with a little
tea and rice, we climbed again to the crater.

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300 Monumenta Nifipponica, XXVII, 3

‘The sun by that time was near the horizon, and the plains to the
west were blanketed in a haze that caught its flaming red. The mist was
the color of the charred cliff that formed the western edge of the old
crater. The cone of Mount Kujui soared high above the flock of hills to
the north. The plateau at its base, a carpet of withered grass that
stretched for miles, caught the glow of the setting sun. The air there
was so clear one might have seen a horseman at that great distance. The
earth and sky seemed like a single vast enclosure. The ground shook
beneath us and a thick column of white smoke shot straight up, angled
off sharply, grazing Takadake, and dissolved into the distance. What
could one call such a spectacle? Magnificent? Beautiful? Awesome? We
stood, silent as stone figures. These are the moments when one cannot
help but sense the vastness of the universe and the mystery of man’s
existence.

‘What most enthralled us was the great basin that lay between distant
Mount Kujua and Mount Aso where we stood. I had often heard that
this was the remains of the world’s largest volcanic crater. Now with my

own eyes I could see how the plateau beneath Kujui dropped suddenly
away to form the sheer cliff wall that continued for miles along the
northern and western rim of the basin. Unlike the Nantai crater in

Nikka, which had changed into the beautiful, secluded Lake Chuizenji,
this enormous crater had, through the ages, become a vast garden of
grain. The villages, the forests and wheatfields in the basin now caught the
slanting rays of the setting sun. Down there, too, was the little post town
of Miyaji and the promise it held out to us of a night of restful,

untroubled sleep.

‘We thought for a while of sleeping that night on the mountain to see
the glowing crater in the dark. But I was due in Oita. We started the
descent to Miyaji. The downward slope was much gentler than the climb
had been. We hurried along a path that snaked its way through the dry

grass of the foothills and ravines. As we neared the villages we passed more
and more horses loaded down with bales of hay. All around us on the

paths leading down the mountain were men leading horses. Everything
was bathed in the light of the setting sun. The air was filled with the
tinkling of harness bells. To every horse was strapped a load of hay.
Near as the foot of the mountain had appeared from above, we seemed

to be making no headway towards the villages. The sun was almost gone.
We walked faster and faster, and finally broke into a run.

‘When we entered the nearest village the sun was down and the
twilight was fading. The day’s end activity there was remarkable. The

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Doppo: Wasureenu Hitobito 301

grownups were hurrying about, finishing up the day’s work. The children,

laughing and singing and crying, had gathered in the dark corners of the

fences, or beneath the eaves where they could see the kitchen fires. It was

the same here as in any country town at dusk, but I had never been so

struck with such a scene, having raced down from Aso’s desolation into

the midst of this humanity. We two dragged ourselves along, knowing
how long the road was that lay before us in the dark, but feeling, too, a

sense of homecoming as we headed for our night’s lodging in Miyaji.

‘WVe had not gone far into the woods and fields beyond the village,
when the twilight turned to dark. Our shadows stood out clearly on the
ground. Behind us, the new moon had risen above a peak of Aso. Almost

benevolently it seemed to cast its clear, pale rays upon the villages in the

basin. Directly overhead, the volcanic smoke that in the daylight had
risen in white billows shone silvery gray in the light of the moon. It

seemed to strike against the opaque blue-green sky, an awesome and

beautiful sight. We came to a short bridge-it was broader than it was
long and, glad of the chance to rest our feet, leaned for a while
against the rail, watching the changing shape of the smoke in the sky and
half listening to the far-off voices of the village people. Just then the

sound of an empty cart came echoing from the woods through which we
had passed a few moments before. It drew closer, resounding in the

stillness, until it seemed close enough to touch.
‘Soon we could hear drawing nearer, along with the rattle of the

empty cart, the clear, ringing tone of a teamster’s song. Still gazing at
the stream of smoke, I listened for the song and waited half consciously
for its singer to reach us.

‘A man appeared out of the darkness. He sang, drawing out each

note of the tune, “Miyaji’s a fine old place, under the mountain,” until
he reached the bridge where we stood. I felt deeply moved by the tune

and the man’s sad yet stirring voice. A sturdy young man in his mid-
twenties passed by, leading his horse, without so much as a glance in

our direction. I looked steadily at him as he walked along. With the moon
at his back, even his profile was obscured. But I can see even now the

black silhouette of his powerful body.
‘I watched him until he disappeared into the darkness, then looked up

once again at the smoke of Mount Aso. The young man is one of those
I cannot forget.

‘This next one I saw in Mitsugahama in Shikoku when I was waiting
for a ship. It was the beginning of summer, I remember. I left the inn
first thing in the morning, and when I heard that the ship would be arriv-

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302 Monumenta Nipponica, XXVII, 3

ing in the afternoon, I decided to take a stroll along the beach and then
through the town. Since Mitsugahama is not far from the city of
Matsuyama in the interior, it is a thriving harbor town. The fish market,
which operates in the morning, was especially crowded. The sky was
bright and cloudless. The morning sun shone gloriously. Everything
sparkled in its light. Colors seemed more vibrant and the bustling scene
took on added gaiety. There was shouting and laughter, curses and
cheers. Buyers and sellers, young and old, men and women, all hurried
back and forth. All seemed absorbed and happy in their work. A line of
food stalls waited for customers who would eat standing up. The food
they offered hardly bears description. It was what you would expect
for the sailors and drifters who ate there. Scattered all around the
market area were seabream and flounder, eels and octopus. The harsh
odor of raw fish stirred and shifted with each rush of the boisterous
crowd.

‘I was a total stranger in the town. There was not a face in the crowd
that I knew, not a bald spot that looked familiar. My anonymity in the
midst of this scene aroused a strange emotion in me, and I felt as
though I was seeing everything with a new clarity. Not caring where I
went, I strolled along as part of the crowd and came to the end of a
rather quiet street.

‘Suddenly I heard music. There, in front of a shop, an itinerant monk
stood, playing a lute. He seemed to be in his mid-forties, a short, heavy
man with a broad, square face. The expression on his face, the look in his
eyes, matched perfectly the mournful sound of the lute. His low, heavy
voice followed sluggishly behind the muffled wail of the strings. Not a
person on the street took notice of the monk, and no one came out from
any of the houses to listen. The morning sun shone. The world went
about its business.

‘But I watched the monk and listened to his playing. The narrow
yet busy street with its ramshackle houses had little in common with the
monk and the lute, but somewhere, I could feel, there was a deep
understanding between them. The lute’s sobbing tones drifted between
the rows of houses on either side of the street, mingling with the bold
cries of peddlers and the sound of hammering from somewhere nearby.
And when I heard the music, flowing like a current of pure spring
water through some muddy pond, I felt that every one of these people
on the street with their gay, busy-looking faces was part of the tune.
This monk, then, with his lute, is one of those I cannot forget.’

At this point Otsu broke off his narrative. He set the manuscript down

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Doppo: Wasureenu Hitobito 303

gently. For a while he seemed lost in thought. Outside, the storm roared

on as before. Akiyama sat up.

‘And then … ?’
‘I think I’ll make that the last one. It’s getting too late. There are so

many left-a miner in Hokkaido, a young fisherman I saw in China, a
river boatman with a wen in Kyushu-I could talk until morning and
not get to them all. But more important is why I can never forget them,

why they appear, again and again, as images in my mind. It is this that
I want to make clear to you.

‘I am not a happy man. Always I am tortured by life’s great

questions and by my own overwhelming ambitions.
‘In the deepening hours of a night such as this, alone, staring into the

lamp, I feel the isolation in which men live, and I experience unbearable

sorrow. At these times my inflexible egoism seems to shatter, and the
thought of others touches me deeply. I think of my friends and of days
long past. But more than anything else, images of these people I have

described to you come streaming into my mind. No, I see not the people
themselves. I see them as figures in the background of a much larger
scene. They are part of their surroundings, part of a moment. I
remember these people and from deep within me the thought wells up:
How am I different from anyone else? Part of the life we share is from
heaven, and part of it is from earth. All of us are returning hand in hand,
along the same eternal track, to that infinite heaven. And when this
realization comes to me, I find myself in tears, for there is then in

truth no Self, no Others. I am touched by memories of each and every
one.

‘Only at these times do I feel such peace, such liberation, such
sympathy towards all things. Only then do worldly thoughts of fame and
the struggle for fortune disappear so utterly.

‘I want very much to write on this theme and express exactly what I
have in mind. I believe that somewhere in this world there must be men

who feel as I do.’

Two years passed.
Circumstances had brought Otsu to make his home in Tohoku. His

acquaintance with the man Akiyama, whom he had met at the inn in
Mizonokuchi, had long since ended. The time of year was what it had
been then in Mizonokuchi. It was a rainy night. Otsu sat alone at his
desk, lost in thought. On the desk was the manuscript of ‘Unforgettable
People’ that he had shown to Akiyama two years before. A new chapter

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304 Monumenta NJiipponica, XXVII, 3

had been added, ‘The Innkeeper of the Kameya’.
There was no chapter called ‘Akiyama’.

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• Contents

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• Issue Table of Contents

Monumenta Nipponica, Vol. 27, No. 3 (Autumn, 1972) pp. 245-357

Front Matter

The Newly Discovered Takamatsuzuka Tomb [pp. 245-251]

Notes on Japanese Tolerance [pp. 253-271]

Five Stories by Kunikida Doppo [pp. 273-341]

Book Reviews

Review: untitled [pp. 343-344]

Review: untitled [pp. 344-345]

Review: untitled [pp. 346]

Review: untitled [pp. 347-348]

Review: untitled [pp. 348]

Review: untitled [pp. 349]

Review: untitled [pp. 350-351]

Review: untitled [pp. 351-352]

Review: untitled [pp. 352-353]

Review: untitled [pp. 354]

Review: untitled [pp. 355-356]

Review: untitled [pp. 356-357]

Back Matter