Professor Kinzo Hasegawa of the Faculty of Law at Tokyo Imperial University sat in a wicker chair on the veranda, reading Strindberg’s Dramaturgy. The professor’s area of expertise was the study of colonial policy. Why, then, was he reading about the theory of drama? Professor Hasegawa was renowned not only as a scholar but also as an educator. He made a point of reading books that reflected the thoughts and interests of his students, even if those books weren’t directly related to his area of research.
Students at a higher technical school where the professor served as principal were avid readers. Professor Hasegawa took the time to read works such as Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis and Intentions. It was no great leap from there for him to read a book about European dramatic theater and acting. Some of his students wrote pointed critiques of writers like Ibsen, Strindberg, and Maeterlinck. Among these students were some who had a burning desire to become playwrights themselves so that they could follow in the footsteps of these modern dramatists.
Each time Professor Hasegawa finished reading a sharply written chapter, he placed the yellow cloth-bound book on his lap and glanced over at the paper lantern hanging from the veranda. His thoughts drifted away from Strindberg whenever he focused on the light. Memories of his wife, who had bought the lantern, drifted through his mind.
The professor had married while studying abroad in the United States, so his wife was, of course, American. Her love for Japan and the Japanese people was no less than his own. She was quite fond of Japan’s exquisite arts and crafts in particular. The lantern hung from the veranda specifically because of his wife’s appreciation for Japanese culture. Professor Hasegawa himself might have never thought to hang it there.
Every time he set his book down the professor thought of his wife, the lantern, and the whole of Japanese civilization. He believed that over the past fifty years, Japanese civilization had made remarkable progress in many material ways. Unfortunately, he hadn’t seen much by way of associated spiritual growth. He thought the spiritual health of the nation had declined, given his observations.
As a contemporary thinker of his day, he considered ways of remedying this decline. The professor concluded that the only solution could be found in Japan’s traditional way of the samurai warrior, which was called bushidō. Bushidō should not be regarded as a narrow morality limited to an island nation; on the contrary, it contained many elements that were in harmony with the Christian spirit of Western countries.
If bushidō could be used to guide modern Japanese thought, it would not only contribute to Japan’s spiritual health as a nation but foster mutual understanding between the Japanese and people of Western nations. Such an interchange of common ideas could potentially promote peace and beneficial cooperation. The professor had always aspired to serve as a bridge between East and West in this regard. The harmonious presence of his wife, the lantern, and the Japanese civilization that the lantern represented gave the professor pleasant feelings.
The professor indulged in these thoughts for awhile until he realized that he’d quite lost track of what he’d been reading in Strindberg’s Dramaturgy. Annoyed, he shook his head to clear it and then diligently returned his gaze to the fine print of the book. At that moment, he came across the following passage:
When an actor discovers a suitable way to express the most ordinary emotion and succeeds with this method, he tends to rely on it, not only because it is easy but also because it brings success, regardless of whether or not it is appropriate for the occasion. However, this leads to typecasting…
Professor Hasegawa had never had much to do with the arts. He had seen only a handful of plays in his life, most of them by Japanese dramatists. Once, while reading a novel written by a student, he came across the name Baikō (a famous kabuki actor). Professor Hasegawa prided himself on being well-read and cultured, but he had never heard of Baikō before. He called the student over at the next opportunity and asked about the passage in the novel.
“So, tell me what you know about Baikō.”
The student was carrying a load from Kokura, but he paused to answer the professor’s question politely. “Baikō? Baikō refers to an actor who was attached to the Imperial Theater in Marunouchi. He is currently performing the role of Misao in the tenth act of Taikōki.”
The student’s knowledge of Baikō was shallow, so the professor’s understanding remained likewise shallow. Similarly, he had an interest in Strindberg’s production methods and style, but he had no one with a deep understanding of those methods and styles to talk to. Consequently, the professor had few opinions of his own. He was only able to take some interest in them to the extent that they reminded him of the plays he’d seen in the West during his studies abroad. He was not much different from a middle school English teacher reading a foreign script just to look for idioms. Even so, interest, however slight, is interest.
The elegant paper lantern hung down from the overhanging veranda’s ceiling. Professor Hasegawa stretched out on his wicker chair and read more of Strindberg’s Dramaturgy. It is easy to envision the long shadows and bright sunlight of early summer. The scene was quiet and peaceful, but the professor was by no means bored. To see him as bored is to disregard authorial intent by applying cynicism to the text.
Eventually, Strindberg had to be put aside. Why? Because the maid announced a visitor, disturbing the professor’s peaceful enjoyment of the day. No matter how long the days of summer were, the world seemed determined to keep the professor busy.
The professor put down his book and glanced at the small business card the maid had just brought in. On the ivory paper, the name “Nishiyama Atsuko” was written in fine script. Apparently, the visitor was not someone he had met before. The professor had a wide circle of acquaintances; he ran through their names in his mind to try to place the name of his visitor. No familiar face came to mind. He placed the card between the pages of his book and set it down on the chair. The professor, feeling unsettled, adjusted the front of his Meisen silk kimono and glanced again at the lantern hanging above his nose.
As is often the case in such situations, the host waiting to receive the guest feels more impatient than the guest being kept waiting. The professor was usually strict with his time, so he would be impatient even if the visitor was already known to him.
The professor checked the time with some anxiety. Then he opened the door to a parlor. He released the doorknob as he took in the woman sitting in the parlor. She appeared to be about forty years old. She stood up when she saw him. The professor took in her slate-gray single-layer kimono, which she wore under a black haori. The haori was fastened in the front with a jade clasp that had a striking design. Her hair was styled in an old-fashioned, very traditional marumage style. She was a Japanese woman with a typically round face, amber-colored skin, and the air of a wise mother. The professor thought that he had seen her face somewhere before.
“I am Professor Hasegawa,” he said, greeting her politely. He hoped that if they had met before today, she would mention it.
“I am Nishiyama Kenichirō’s mother,” the woman said, speaking in a clear voice. She returned his greeting with equal courtesy.
The name Nishiyama Kenichirō was familiar to the professor. He was one of the students who wrote critiques on Ibsen and Strindberg. If Professor Hasegawa was remembering correctly, his major was German law or some such thing. He’d often visited the professor to discuss philosophical issues. That spring, he had been hospitalized with peritonitis at the university hospital. The professor had visited him once or twice. It was no coincidence that the professor had felt like he had seen this woman’s face before. She looked astonishingly similar to that energetic young man, “like two peas in a pod,” as the idiom goes.
“Ah, so you are Mr. Nishiyama’s mother.” The professor nodded to himself and gestured to a chair across the low table. “Please have a seat.”
The woman apologized for her sudden visit. She bowed politely again and sat in the indicated chair. As she did so, she pulled something white from her sleeve—her handkerchief. Seeing this, the the professor promptly offered her the Korean fan on the table and then took a seat in the chair opposite her.
“You have a lovely home.” The woman looked around the room a bit theatrically.
“No, it’s just spacious, that’s all. It’s nothing special.”
The professor was accustomed to visitors. He had the maid bring in cold tea. That done, he turned the topic of conversation to his guest.
“How is Mr. Nishiyama? Has there been any change in his condition?”
“No…” She folded her hands modestly in her lap. She was calm and composed when she said, “I came today regarding my son again, but, as it turns out, he didn’t make it. While he was alive, we were much indebted to you, professor…”
Interpreting her reluctance to take the tea as a sign of reserve, the professor decided to drink some himself rather than urge her. Before the cup touched his soft mustache, the woman’s words sank in. He was startled. He wondered for a moment whether he should drink the tea or not. This fleeting thought was entirely incongruous with the thought of the young man’s sudden death.
The professor couldn’t just keep holding up the cup forever. He drank half the cup in one gulp, furrowed his brow slightly, and said in a slightly hoarse voice, “I see.”
“Even while he was in the hospital, he would often speak of you. I know you must be busy, but I wanted to let you know and express my thanks.”
“I’m not busy at all. Thank you for coming.” The professor set the cup down and picked up the blue-lacquered fan instead. He appeared rather dejected. “I’m sorry things… didn’t work out. Your son was just at the age when life was about to really get going. I hadn’t been in touch with the hospital for a while, so I just assumed he had recovered. When did he pass away?”
“The day before yesterday was the seventh day since his passing.”
“So it was at the hospital.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“How terrible and unexpected.”
“In any case, we did everything we possibly could. There’s nothing left to do but accept it. Whenever I think about it, I have so many regrets.”
While they were exchanging such words, the professor noticed an unexpected fact. This woman’s manner and bearing did not seem in the least like those of a woman speaking of her own son’s death. There were no tears in her eyes. Her voice was uninflected. There was even a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Had one merely looked at her appearance without hearing what she was saying, anyone would have thought that she was speaking of some commonplace household matter.
This was strange to the professor. It reminded him of the time when he had been studying in Berlin. Wilhelm I, the father of the present Kaiser of Germany, had recently died. The professor heard the news at a coffeehouse he frequented, but it made little impression on him. With a cheerful face and his cane tucked under his arm, he returned to his lodgings.
The moment he opened the door, the two children of the house clung to his neck and burst into tears together. One was a twelve-year-old girl in a brown jacket; the other, a nine-year-old boy in short navy blue trousers. The professor, who was fond of children, did not understand what had happened. Stroking their light-colored hair, he asked repeatedly, “What is it? What is it?”
The children would not stop crying. Sniffling, they said, “They say His Majesty has passed away.”
The professor found it strange that the death of a nation’s sovereign should be mourned so deeply, even by children. This event made him reflect upon such questions as the relationship between the imperial family and common people. Since coming to the West, the impulsive expression of feeling among Westerners, which had moved him deeply many times, once again astonished the professor, who was Japanese and a believer in bushidō.
The feeling he had then—a mixture of perplexity and sympathy—was one that he could not forget, however much he might try.
He found this woman’s failure to weep strange.
Soon after his first unsettling discovery, a second followed.
His conversation with his guest switched topics from recollections of the deceased young man to details of his daily life. As he was about to mention more of his recollections of the young man, the Korean fan slipped from the professor’s hand and fell with a thud upon the parquet floor.
The conversation was, of course, not so pressing that it could not endure an instant’s interruption. So the professor leaned half his body forward from the chair, looked down, and stretched his hand toward the floor. The fan had fallen under a small table beside the woman’s white tabi socks, which were half-hidden beneath her indoor slippers.
The professor saw the woman’s knees. Upon them rested her hands, which were holding a handkerchief. That was a mundane discovery, hardly worth mentioning.
At the same time, the professor noticed that the woman’s hands were trembling violently. Perhaps because she was trying to suppress the agitation of her emotions, she was gripping the handkerchief on her lap so tightly with both hands that she nearly tore it apart. He noticed that the crumpled silk handkerchief was moving as if stirred by a breeze, its silk embroidery shifting beneath her fingers. The woman smiled, but in truth she was weeping with her whole body and had been for some time.
When he picked up the fan and raised his face, the professor’s expression changed subtly. It was an exceedingly complex expression, somewhat theatrically exaggerated. He felt reverent, like he had seen something forbidden. A certain satisfaction arose from such a feeling.
“I understand your grief well, even though I have no children,” the professor said in a low voice full of emotion. He threw back his chin like an actor on a stage and looked at the woman as though she were something dazzling.
“Thank you for your words,” the woman said, her smile fixed in place. “Nothing we say now can change anything.” She bowed her head slightly.
Two hours later, the professor had taken a bath, finished dinner, and nibbled on cherries after the meal. Once again at ease, he sat down in a chair on the veranda.
The long summer twilight lingered; darkness would not come soon. The broad veranda’s glass doors were flung open. The professor sat in the dim light with his left leg crossed over his right, his head resting against the back of his wicker chair. He gazed absentmindedly at the red tassel of the Gifu lantern. Though he had picked up Strindberg again, he had not read a single page.
That was only natural. The professor’s mind was filled with Mrs. Nishiyama Atsuko’s admirable conduct.
While eating dinner, the professor had told his wife the whole story. He praised Mrs. Nishiyama as the bushidō of Japanese women. His wife, who loved Japan and the Japanese people, listened to this story with great sympathy.
The professor was pleased to have found his wife an eager listener. His wife, the woman from earlier, and the Gifu lantern—these three now rose in his mind set against a certain ethical background.
The professor did not know how long he had been absorbed in such happy recollections when he suddenly remembered that a magazine had asked him to contribute an article. The magazine was called A Letter to Modern Youth. It solicited opinions on general morality from leading authorities from all walks of life. He would use today’s incident as material, promptly write down his impressions, and send them in. Thinking this, the professor scratched his head.
The hand that scratched was the hand holding the book. Noticing the book that had been left open until now, the professor opened to the page he had been reading, using the business card he had inserted earlier as a bookmark.
Just then, the maid came and lit the Gifu lantern above his head, so that the small print was not troublesome to read. The professor idly lowered his eyes to the book, not much caring to read at the moment. His eyes fixed on this passage:
In my younger days, people spoke of the handkerchief of Madame Heiberg, which apparently came from Paris. It was a double performance where she would smile with her face while tearing a handkerchief in two with her hands. We now call this affectation (Mechen).
The professor placed the book on his knees. The business card bearing the name Nishiyama Atsuko still lay exactly in the middle of the open book. But the professor was no longer thinking about that remarkable woman, nor was he thinking about his wife or Japanese civilization. Some unknown thing sought to disrupt his tranquil harmony.
The method of performance condemned by Strindberg and problems of practical morality were, of course, different. Yet the suggestions he’d received from what he’d read disturbed the professor greatly, shifting him out of the relaxing comfort he’d felt after his bath. Bushidō and its methods and forms—
The professor shook his head unhappily two or three times. Then he looked up again, his eyes fixing upon the Gifu lantern painted with autumn flowers.
(September, Taisho 5 [1916])
Translator's Notes
The lantern that the professor gazes at is a Gifu lantern. Gifu paper lanterns are a special product of the city of Gifu in Gifu Prefecture, Japan. They are considered to be one of Gifu’s traditional crafts.
Taikōki is a biography of Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who rose to the office of taikō during the Azuchi–Momoyama period of Japanese history (1568 to 1600).
Marumage is a traditional Japanese married woman’s hairstyle, with an oval chignon on top.
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