Sanshiro Read online

  Sanshirō was shocked at his cool delivery of this harsh criticism. The fellow’s name was Sasaki Yojirō. He said he had just started taking courses at the University as a special student after graduating from a private college. He invited Sanshirō to visit him some time. The address was No. 5, Higashikatamachi, care of Hirota. Was it a rooming house? Sanshirō asked. “Not on your life. Professor Hirota teaches at the First National College.”

  *

  For a while after that Sanshirō attended classes faithfully, but he felt that something was missing. Sometimes he would go to lectures beyond his course requirements, but the feeling persisted. He started sitting in on courses that had nothing whatever to do with his field of specialization. Most of these he would attend no more than two or three times, and in no case did he stay with a course for a full month. Nevertheless, he averaged forty hours a week. Even for Sanshirō, a hard-working student, this was a little too much. He felt himself under constant pressure, but whatever was missing stayed that way. The fun had disappeared.

  One day he mentioned his dissatisfaction to Sasaki Yojirō. When he heard that Sanshirō was attending classes for forty hours a week, Yojirō’s eyes popped. “You idiot! Do you think it would ‘satisfy’ you to eat the slop they serve at your rooming house ten times a day?”

  “What should I do?” Sanshirō pleaded.

  “Ride the streetcar,” Yojirō said.

  Sanshirō tried without success to find Yojirō’s hidden meaning. “You mean a real streetcar?” he asked.

  Yojirō laughed out loud. “Get on the streetcar and ride around Tokyo ten or fifteen times. After a while it’ll just happen—you’ll become satisfied.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Well, look at it this way. Your head is alive, but if you seal it up inside dead classes, you’re lost. Take it outside and get the wind into it. Riding the streetcar is not the only way to get satisfaction, of course, but it’s the first step, and the easiest.”

  That evening Yojirō dragged Sanshirō out to ride the streetcar. They boarded at Yonchōme20 and went to Shinbashi. At Shinbashi they turned back and went as far as Nihonbashi. Yojirō led Sanshirō from the streetcar and asked, “How’s that?”

  Next they turned into a narrow side street and entered a restaurant called Hiranoya, where they had dinner and drank sake. The waitresses all spoke in the Kyoto dialect, which gave the place a rich, heavy atmosphere. Outside, the red-faced Yojirō asked again, “How’s that?”

  Next, Yojirō said he would take Sanshirō to an authentic variety theater. They turned into another narrow side street and entered a place called Kiharadana. They heard a storyteller whose name was Kosan.21 When they came out after ten o’clock, Yojirō asked once again, “How’s that?”

  Sanshirō could not say he felt satisfied, but neither was he totally unsatisfied. Yojirō then launched into a discourse on Kosan. Kosan was a genius. Artists of his caliber were a rarity. He seemed common enough because you thought you could hear him whenever you liked, which was doing him a disservice. It was our great good fortune to be alive at the same time as Kosan. If we had been born a little earlier or a little later, we could never have heard him perform. En’yū was good too, but his style was different. When En’yū played a jester, you enjoyed it because it was En’yū as a jester. Kosan in the same part was enjoyable because he became a character quite separate from Kosan himself. If you were to hide the En’yū part of a character that En’yū was playing, the character would disappear. You could hide the Kosan part of Kosan’s character and the character would still be there as lively as ever. That was what made Kosan great.

  “How’s that?” Yojirō asked.

  Sanshirō had not in fact appreciated Kosan. Nor had he ever heard this “En’yū” person perform. He could say nothing either for or against Yojirō’s theory. He was, however, quite impressed with the comparison that Yojirō had made, so shrewd one might call it literary.

  When they parted in front of the College, Sanshirō said, “Thanks, that was very satisfying.”

  “The only thing that will satisfy you from now on,” said Yojirō, “is the library.” He turned the corner into Higashikatamachi. This final remark made Sanshirō realize for the first time that he could go to the library.

  *

  From the following day, Sanshirō cut his forty hours of class time nearly in half and started going to the library. It was a big, long building with a high ceiling and many windows on both sides. Of the stacks, only the doorway was visible. From outside it seemed there must be all kinds of books in there. As he stood looking, someone would emerge from the stack entrance every few minutes with two or three thick volumes in his arms and turn left into the faculty reading room. One man took a volume from the shelf, spread it open and, still standing, proceeded to look something up. Sanshirō envied them. He wanted to go into the recesses of the library. He wanted to climb up to the second floor, the third floor, far above the streets of Hongō, amid the smell of paper, without a living thing nearby—and read. But faced with the question of what to read, he had no clear idea. It did seem that there ought to be many things inside that he would want to read.

  As a first-year student, Sanshirō was not allowed to enter the stacks. He had to use the card catalogue. Stooped over the cabinet, he went through one card after another. No matter how many titles he flipped past, a new one took its place. Finally his shoulders started to ache. He straightened up for a moment and surveyed his surroundings. The library was silent, as a library is supposed to be. In the reading room there were many people. He saw those at the far end as a black blur of heads, their features indistinguishable. Beyond the high windows he could see a few trees and a patch of sky. The sounds of the city came from afar. Standing there, Sanshirō thought to himself how very quiet was the scholarly life, and profound. Then he went back to his room.

  The following day, Sanshirō ended his daydreaming and borrowed a book as soon as he entered the library. It was a poor choice, however, and he returned it immediately. The next one he borrowed was too difficult and he returned it also. He took out at least eight or nine books a day like this. Some of them he even read a little. He was surprised to find that every volume he took out had been read at least once. They all had pencil markings. In pursuit of an unread book, he took out a novel by someone called Aphra Behn. This one would be untouched, he was sure—until he opened it. Again he found the careful pencil markings. This was more than he could bear. Just then a marching band passed by outside and put him in a walking mood. He went out to the street and ended up at the Aokidō.

  There were two groups of students in the café and a man sitting alone in the far corner, drinking tea. Glimpsed in profile, he looked very much like the one who had eaten all those peaches on the train to Tokyo. He did not notice Sanshirō. With an unhurried air, he would take a sip of tea and follow it with a puff on his cigarette. Instead of the light summer kimono, he now wore a suit, which did not make him any more impressive to look at. Perhaps his white dress shirt put him a cut above Nonomiya-of-the-light-pressure. The more Sanshirō looked, the more certain he felt that this was the peach man himself. Now that he was attending lectures at the University, the things the man had said to him on the train had suddenly come to seem very meaningful. He wanted to approach and say hello, but could find no opening. The man kept looking straight ahead, sipping and puffing.

  Sanshirō continued to stare at the man’s profile. Then, draining his glass of wine, he dashed outside and hurried back to the library.

  *

  Thanks to the wine and to a kind of mental excitement, Sanshirō enjoyed his studies that day as never before. This made him happy. He had been absorbed in reading for two hours when he realized it was time to leave. Gathering his things, he flipped open the cover of the one volume he had yet to read that day and found something wildly scribbled in pencil across the entire flyleaf.

  “When Hegel lectured on philosophy at the University of Berlin, he had not the slightest
intention of selling his philosophy. His were not lectures that simply expounded the Truth, they were the lectures of a man who embodied the Truth, lectures not of the tongue but of the heart. When Truth and the individual are joined together in a pure union, that which the man expounds, that which he speaks, is not a lecture for the sake of lecturing, but a lecture for the sake of the Way. Only when it attains to this is a philosophical lecture worth hearing. He who plays with the Truth on the tip of his tongue leaves nothing but an empty record on dead paper in dead ink, a thing without significance… Swallowing my anger, swallowing my tears, I read this book now for the sake of an examination—for my daily bread. You must never forget how I clutch my throbbing head and curse the examination system for all eternity!”

  The writer had not signed his name, of course. Sanshirō found himself smiling at the end. And yet, in one way or another, he felt enlightened. This was something true not only of philosophy, but of literature as well. He turned the page to find still more.

  “The students who flocked to Berlin to hear Hegel’s lectures”—this fellow was obviously a great admirer of Hegel—“were not driven by ambition. They did not intend to exploit the lectures to qualify themselves for making a living. No, they came because their hearts were pure. They knew only that a philosopher called Hegel transmitted from his lectern the ultimate universal Truth and, their quest for Truth a pressing need, they sought at his feet to resolve their disquieting doubts. And when they listened to Hegel with pure hearts, they were able to determine their future, to remake their personal destiny. What magnificent conceit it is for you, a Japanese University student, to equate yourself with them, you and your kind who go to lectures with empty heads, who graduate and leave the University with empty heads! You are nothing but typewriters, greedy typewriters. Whatever you do or think or say is finally unrelated to the urgent life force of a changing society. And that is how you shall always be: empty-headed until death! Empty-headed until death!”

  This put Sanshirō into a deeply meditative mood until someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Yojirō. Notwithstanding the advice he dispensed on the importance of the library, Yojirō was a hard man to find here.

  “Nonomiya Sōhachi was looking for you,” he said. Sanshirō had never imagined that Yojirō knew Nonomiya. Did he mean Nonomiya of the Faculty of Science? He did. Sanshirō left his books and hurried out to the newspaper area, but he did not see Nonomiya. He went to the front door, but Nonomiya was not there, either. He walked down the stone stairway and stretched to see in all directions, but found no trace of Nonomiya. He gave up and went back. Yojirō was standing by his seat, pointing at the discourse on Hegel.

  “He really let himself go,” he whispered. “Must be one of the old-time graduates. Those guys were wild men but kind of interesting, too. Just like this.” Yojirō grinned. He seemed very pleased with the piece.

  “I couldn’t find Nonomiya.”

  “That’s funny, he was at the door a minute ago.”

  “Do you think he wanted to see me about something?”

  “Maybe so.”

  They left the library together. Yojirō told Sanshirō how he knew Nonomiya. The scientist had once been a student of Professor Hirota, in whose house Yojirō himself was now living, and he often came to visit. He was a devoted scholar and had published a good deal. Everyone in his field was acquainted with the name of Nonomiya, even in the West.

  Recalling the story of Nonomiya’s teacher, Sanshirō asked if Professor Hirota was the one with the mean-tempered horse. It might well have been him, Yojirō laughed. The Professor was not above such things.

  *

  The next day happened to be a Sunday, which meant that Sanshirō would not be able to find Nonomiya on campus. He kept wondering, though, what Nonomiya could have wanted with him the day before, until it finally occurred to him that a visit to Nonomiya’s new house would be the perfect excuse for finding out.

  Sanshirō hatched his plan in the morning, but what with reading the newspaper and dawdling, he was still at home at noon. He was on his way out after lunch when the friend from Kumamoto put in a rare appearance. By the time the friend left, it was after four o’clock—a little late, but Sanshirō decided to go anyway.

  Nonomiya’s house was far away. He had moved out to Ōkubo several days before. By commuter train, however, it was an easy trip, and the house would not be hard to find. It was supposed to be near the station. But Sanshirō had been making terrible mistakes on the streetcar ever since his outing with Yojirō. Once, he got on at Hongō Yonchōme to go to the Commercial College in Kanda, went past his stop all the way to Kudan, from there to Iidabashi, where he transferred at last to the Sotobori Line, went from Ochanomizu to Kandabashi and, unaware that he had missed his stop again, hurried down Kamakuragashi to Sukiyabashi. After that he felt leery of streetcars. The Kōbu Electric Line, however, was just a single stretch of track, and he took it with an easy heart.

  Getting off at Ōkubo, he walked along Nakahyakunin Street away from the Toyama Military Academy. Just across the tracks he turned into a narrow lane. From there it was an easy climb to a sparse bamboo grove with a house at both its near and far ends. Nonomiya’s was the nearer one. The modest front gate stood at an angle that had nothing to do with the direction of the road. The house, too, proved oddly placed. The gate and the entrance must have been added later. A fine hedge shielded the kitchen end of the house, while the garden itself had no enclosure at all. Only a single large bush clover, grown taller than a man, partially concealed the veranda. Nonomiya had brought a chair onto the veranda and was sitting there, reading a foreign magazine.

  “Over here,” he said when he noticed Sanshirō, as in the cellar of the Science building. Sanshirō hesitated: should he walk straight in through the garden or use the front door?

  “Over here,” Nonomiya said again. Sanshirō went in through the garden. Nonomiya was sitting outside his study, a comfortable eight-mat room. Many of his books were in foreign languages. He left his chair and sat on the matted floor near Sanshirō, who began with small talk. What a quiet place this was, a surprisingly quick trip from the University. How was the experiment with the telescope going? Then he said, “I heard you were looking for me yesterday. Was it anything important?”

  “No, nothing at all,” he said, looking apologetic.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Did you come all the way out here just for that?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Well, I did receive a present from your mother. Her note thanks me for looking after you. It was such a nice gift I thought I would like to thank you for it, too.”

  “Oh, I see. She sent you something?”

  “Yes, some kind of red fish pickled in sake lees.”

  “Oh, it must be hime-ichi.” That was nothing for her to send him! But Nonomiya asked all about it. Sanshirō’s explanation concentrated on the cooking of the hime-ichi. It was broiled together with the lees, but you had to remove the lees the second before you transferred it to the plate or the flavor would be lost.

  In the course of this dialogue on hime-ichi the sun went down. Sanshirō was about to take his leave when a telegram arrived. Nonomiya opened and read it. “Oh, no,” he muttered to himself.

  *

  Sanshirō could not act unconcerned, but neither did he want to pry. He said only, “Is something the matter?”

  “No, it’s not important.” Nonomiya showed the telegram to Sanshirō. “Come at once,” it said.

  “Will you be going out now?”

  “I suppose so. My sister’s in the University Hospital. She’s the one who wants me to ‘come at once.’ ” He was perfectly calm, unlike Sanshirō, who found the news disturbing. Nonomiya’s sister, her illness, the University Hospital, and the young woman he had seen by the pond all coalesced in Sanshirō’s mind.

  “It must be very serious, then.”

  “No, I’m sure she’s all right. My mother is taking care of her. If she were really sick,
the quickest way to let me know would be for my mother to run out here on the train. No, Yoshiko is just playing games, I’m sure, the silly thing. She does it all the time. I haven’t been to see her since I moved out here, and she was probably expecting me today because it’s Sunday. That’s the answer.” He cocked his head to one side thoughtfully.

  “Still, you really ought to go, don’t you think? What if it were serious?”

  “I can’t imagine such a sudden change in four or five days, but I suppose you’re right. Maybe I’ll go.”

  “That would be best, I’m sure.”

  This decided, Nonomiya had a favor to ask of Sanshirō. If by any chance his sister’s condition really had taken a turn for the worse, he could not come back tonight, which meant the maid would have to stay alone in the house. She was very timid, however, and the neighborhood was not as safe as it should be. Fortunately, Sanshirō was here. If it wouldn’t interfere with tomorrow’s classes, could he spend the night? Of course Nonomiya would return immediately if there were nothing to the telegram. Had he known this was going to happen he could have asked Sasaki to stay, but now there was no time for that. He realized he was asking more than he had any right to of such a new acquaintance, but…

  Sanshirō was not a man who required such lengthy explanations. He consented immediately.

  Nonomiya left both his guest and his dinner. To the maid he announced only that he would not be eating, and to Sanshirō he said, “Sorry, but you can eat without me.” A moment after he had gone out, his voice boomed through the dark bush clover, “Read any of my books you like. There’s nothing much good, but have a look. I’ve got a few novels, too…” and he vanished. When Sanshirō thanked him from the veranda, he could still discern each bamboo shaft in the sparse little grove.

  A few minutes later he was seated cross-legged on the matted floor of the study, eating dinner from a small lacquered table the maid had set out for him. Nonomiya’s hime-ichi was there. He liked the way it smelled of home, but the rest of the meal was not as good. Kneeling nearby to serve him, the maid was a timid-looking creature, as Nonomiya had said.