Kabanata Kabanata 5 · “Won’t you go fishing?” asked Red Shirt. He talks in a strangely

. “Won’t you go fishing?” asked Red Shirt. He talks in a strangely

womanish voice. One would not be able to tell whether he was a man or a

woman. As a man he should talk like one. Is he not a college graduate?

I can talk man-like enough, and am a graduate from a school of physics

at that. It is a shame for a B.A. to have such a squeak.

I answered with the smallest enthusiasm, whereupon he further asked me

an impolite question if I ever did fishing. I told him not much, that I

once caught three gibels when I was a boy, at a fishing game pond at

Koume, and that I also caught a carp about eight inches long, at a

similar game at the festival of Bishamon at Kagurazaka;—the carp, just

as I was coaxing it out of the water, splashed back into it, and when I

think of the incident I feel mortified at the loss even now. Red Shirt

stuck out his chin and laughed “ho, ho.” Why could he not laugh just

like an ordinary person? “Then you are not well acquainted with the

spirit of the game,” he cried. “I’ll show you if you like.” He seemed

highly elated.

Not for me! I take it this way that generally those who are fond of

fishing or shooting have cruel hearts. Otherwise, there is no reason

why they could derive pleasure in murdering innocent creatures. Surely,

fish and birds would prefer living to getting killed. Except those who

make fishing or shooting their calling, it is nonsense for those who

are well off to say that they cannot sleep well unless they seek the

lives of fish or birds. This was the way I looked at the question, but

as he was a B. A. and would have a better command of language when it

came to talking, I kept mum, knowing he would beat me in argument. Red

Shirt mistook my silence for my surrender, and began to induce me to

join him right away, saying he would show me some fish and I should

come with him if I was not busy, because he and Mr. Yoshikawa were

lonesome when alone. Mr. Yoshikawa is the teacher of drawing whom I had

nicknamed Clown. I don’t know what’s in the mind of this Clown, but he

was a constant visitor at the house of Red Shirt, and wherever he went,

Clown was sure to be trailing after him. They appeared more like master

and servant than two fellow teachers. As Clown used to follow Red Shirt

like a shadow, it would be natural to see them go off together now, but

when those two alone would have been well off, why should they invite

me,—this brusque, unaesthetic fellow,—was hard to understand. Probably,

vain of his fishing ability, he desired to show his skill, but he aimed

at the wrong mark, if that was his intention, as nothing of the kind

would touch me. I would not be chagrined if he fishes out two or three

tunnies. I am a man myself and poor though I may be in the art, I would

hook something if I dropped a line. If I declined his invitation, Red

Shirt would suspect that I refused not because of my lack of interest

in the game but because of my want of skill of fishing. I weighed the

matter thus, and accepted his invitation. After the school, I returned

home and got ready, and having joined Red Shirt and Clown at the

station, we three started to the shore. There was only one boatman to

row; the boat was long and narrow, a kind we do not have in Tokyo. I

looked for fishing rods but could find none.

“How can we fish without rods? How are we going to manage it?” I asked

Clown and he told me with the air of a professional fisherman that no

rods were needed in the deep-sea fishing, but only lines. I had better

not asked him if I was to be talked down in this way.

The boatman was rowing very slowly, but his skill was something

wonderful. We had already come far out to sea, and on turning back, saw

the shore minimized, fading in far distance. The five-storied pagoda of

Tosho Temple appeared above the surrounding woods like a needle-point.

Yonder stood Aoshima (Blue Island). Nobody was living on this island

which a closer view showed to be covered with stones and pine trees. No

wonder no one could live there. Red Shirt was intently surveying about

and praising the general view as fine. Clown also termed it “an

absolutely fine view.” I don’t know whether it is so fine as to be

absolute, but there was no doubt as to the exhilarating air. I realized

it as the best tonic to be thus blown by the fresh sea breeze upon a

wide expanse of water. I felt hungry.

“Look at that pine; its trunk is straight and spreads its top branches

like an umbrella. Isn’t it a Turnersque picture?” said Red Shirt. “Yes,

just like Turner’s,” responded Clown, “Isn’t the way it curves just

elegant? Exactly the touch of Turner,” he added with some show of

pride. I didn’t know what Turner was, but as I could get along without

knowing it, I kept silent. The boat turned to the left with the island

on the right. The sea was so perfectly calm as to tempt one to think he

was not on the deep sea. The pleasant occasion was a credit to Red

Shirt. As I wished, if possible, to land on the island, I asked the

boatman if our boat could not be made to it. Upon this Red Shirt

objected, saying that we could do so but it was not advisable to go too

close the shore for fishing. I kept still for a while. Then Clown made

the unlooked-for proposal that the island be named Turner Island.

“That’s good. We shall call it so hereafter,” seconded Red Shirt. If I

was included in that “We,” it was something I least cared for. Aoshima

was good enough for me. “By the way, how would it look,” said Clown,

“if we place Madonna by Raphael upon that rock? It would make a fine

picture.”

“Let’s quit talking about Madonna, ho, ho, ho,” and Red Shirt emitted a

spooky laugh.

“That’s all right. Nobody’s around,” remarked Clown as he glanced at

me, and turning his face to other direction significantly, smiled

devilishly. I felt sickened.

As it was none of my business whether it was a Madonna or a kodanna

(young master), they let pose there any old way, but it was vulgar to

feign assurance that one’s subject is in no danger of being understood

so long as others did not know the subject. Clown claims himself as a

Yedo kid. I thought that the person called Madonna was no other than a

favorite geisha of Red Shirt. I should smile at the idea of his gazing

at his tootsy-wootsy standing beneath a pine tree. It would be better

if Clown would make an oil painting of the scene and exhibit it for the

public.

“This will be about the best place.” So saying the boatman stopped

rowing the boat and dropped an anchor.

“How deep is it?” asked Red Shirt, and was told about six fathoms.

“Hard to fish sea-breams in six fathoms,” said Red Shirt as he dropped

a line into the water. The old sport appeared to expect to fetch some

bream. Bravo!

“It wouldn’t be hard for you. Besides it is calm,” Clown fawningly

remarked, and he too dropped a line. The line had only a tiny bit of

lead that looked like a weight. It had no float. To fish without a

float seemed as nearly reasonable as to measure the heat without a

thermometer, which was something impossible for me. So I looked on.

They then told me to start, and asked me if I had any line. I told them

I had more than I could use, but that I had no float.

“To say that one is unable to fish without a float shows that he is a

novice,” piped up Clown.

“See? When the line touches the bottom, you just manage it with your

finger on the edge. If a fish bites, you could tell in a minute. There

it goes,” and Red Shirt hastily started taking out the line. I wondered

what he had got, but I saw no fish, only the bait was gone. Ha, good

for you, Gov’nur!

“Wasn’t it too bad! I’m sure it was a big one. If you miss that way,

with your ability, we would have to keep a sharper watch to-day. But,

say, even if we miss the fish, it’s far better than staring at a float,

isn’t it? Just like saying he can’t ride a bike without a brake.” Clown

has been getting rather gay, and I was almost tempted to swat him. I’m

just as good as they are. The sea isn’t leased by Red Shirt, and there

might be one obliging bonito which might get caught by my line. I

dropped my line then, and toyed it with my finger carelessly.

After a while something shook my line with successive jerks. I thought

it must be a fish. Unless it was something living, it would not give

that tremulous shaking. Good! I have it, and I commenced drawing in the

line, while Clown jibed me “What? Caught one already? Very remarkable,

indeed!” I had drawn in nearly all the line, leaving only about five

feet in the water. I peeped over and saw a fish that looked like a gold

fish with stripes was coming up swimming to right and left. It was

interesting. On taking it out of the water, it wriggled and jumped, and

covered my face with water. After some effort, I had it and tried to

detach the hook, but it would not come out easily. My hands became

greasy and the sense was anything but pleasing. I was irritated; I

swung the line and banged the fish against the bottom of the boat. It

speedily died. Red Shirt and Clown watched me with surprise. I washed

my hands in the water but they still smelled “fishy.” No more for me! I

don’t care what fish I might get, I don’t want to grab a fish. And I

presume the fish doesn’t want to be grabbed either. I hastily rolled up

the line.

“Splendid for the first honor, but that’s goruki,” Clown again made a

“fresh” remark.

“Goruki sounds like the name of a Russian literator,” said Red Shirt.

“Yes, just like a Russian literator,” Clown at once seconded Red Shirt.

Gorky for a Russian literator, Maruki a photographer of Shibaku, and

komeno-naruki (rice) a life-giver, eh? This Red Shirt has a bad hobby

of marshalling before anybody the name of foreigners. Everybody has his

specialty. How could a teacher of mathematics like me tell whether it

is a Gorky or shariki (rikishaman). Red Shirt should have been a little

more considerate. And if he wants to mention such names at all, let him

mention “Autobiography of Ben Franklin,” or “Pushing to the Front,” or

something we all know. Red Shirt has been seen once in a while bringing

a magazine with a red cover entitled Imperial Literature to the school

and poring over it with reverence. I heard it from Porcupine that Red

Shirt gets his supply of all foreign names from that magazine. Well, I

should say!

For some time, Red Shirt and Clown fished assiduously and within about

an hour they caught about fifteen fish. The funny part of it was that

all they caught were goruki; of sea-bream there was not a sign.

“This is a day of bumper crop of Russian literature,” Red Shirt said,

and Clown answered:

“When one as skilled as you gets nothing but goruki, it’s natural for

me to get nothing else.”

The boatman told me that this small-sized fish goruki has too many tiny

bones and tastes too poor to be fit for eating, but they could be used

for fertilising. So Red Shirt and Clown were fishing fertilisers with

vim and vigor. As for me, one goruki was enough and I laid down myself

on the bottom, and looked up at the sky. This was far more dandy than

fishing.

Then the two began whispering. I could not hear well, nor did I care

to. I was looking up at the sky and thinking about Kiyo. If I had

enough of money, I thought, and came with Kiyo to such a picturesque

place, how joyous it would be. No matter how picturesque the scene

might be, it would be flat in the company of Clown or of his kind. Kiyo

is a poor wrinkled woman, but I am not ashamed to take her to any old

place. Clown or his likes, even in a Victoria or a yacht, or in a

sky-high position, would not be worthy to come within her shadow. If I

were the head teacher, and Red Shirt I, Clown would be sure to fawn on

me and jeer at Red Shirt. They say Yedo kids are flippant. Indeed, if a

fellow like Clown was to travel the country and repeatedly declare “I

am a Yedo kid,” no wonder the country folk would decide that the

flippant are Yedo kids and Yedo kids are flippant. While I was

meditating like this, I heard suppressed laughter. Between their laughs

they talked something, but I could not make out what they were talking

about. “Eh? I don’t know……” “…… That’s true …… he doesn’t know …… isn’t

it pity, though …….” “Can that be…….” “With grasshoppers …… that’s a

fact.”

I did not listen to what they were talking, but when I heard Clown say

“grasshoppers,” I cocked my ear instinctively. Clown emphasized, for

what reason I do not know the word “grasshopers” so that it would be

sure to reach my ear plainly, and he blurred the rest on purpose. I did

not move, and kept on listening. “That same old Hotta,” “that may be

the case….” “Tempura …… ha, ha, ha ……” “…… incited ……” “…… dango also?

……”

The words were thus choppy, but judging by their saying “grasshoppers,”

“tempura” or “dango,” I was sure they were secretly talking something

about me. If they wanted to talk, they should do it louder. If they

wanted to discuss something secret, why in thunder did they invite me?

What damnable blokes! Grasshoppers or glass-stoppers, I was not in the

wrong; I have kept quiet to save the face of Badger because the

principal asked me to leave the matter to him. Clown has been making

unnecessary criticisms; out with your old paint-brushes there! Whatever

concerns me, I will settle it myself sooner or later, and they had just

to keep off my toes. But remarks such as “the same old Hotta” or “……

incited ……” worried me a bit. I could not make out whether they meant

that Hotta incited me to extend the circle of the trouble, or that he

incited the students to get at me. As I gazed at the blue sky, the

sunlight gradually waned and chilly winds commenced stirring. The

clouds that resembled the streaky smokes of joss sticks were slowly

extending over a clear sky, and by degrees they were absorbed, melted

and changed to a faint fog.

“Well, let’s be going,” said Red Shirt suddenly. “Yes, this is the

time we were going. See your Madonna to-night?” responded Clown. “Cut

out nonsense …… might mean a serious trouble,” said Red Shirt who was

reclining against the edge of the boat, now raising himself. “O,

that’s all right if he hears ...,” and when Clown, so saying, turned

himself my way, I glared squarely in his face. Clown turned back as if

to keep away from a dazzling light, and with “Ha, this is going some,”

shrugged his shoulders and scratched his head.

The boat was now being rowed shore-ward over the calm sea. “You don’t

seem much fond of fishing,” asked Red Shirt. “No, I’d rather prefer

lying and looking at the sky,” I answered, and threw the stub of

cigarette I had been smoking into the water; it sizzled and floated on

the waves parted by the oar.

“The students are all glad because you have come. So we want you do

your best.” Red Shirt this time started something quite alien to

fishing. “I don’t think they are,” I said. “Yes; I don’t mean it as

flattery. They are, sure. Isn’t it so, Mr. Yoshikawa?”

“I should say they are. They’re crazy over it,” said Clown with an

unctuous smile. Strange that whatever Clown says, it makes me itching

mad. “But, if you don’t look out, there is danger,” warned Red Shirt.

“I am fully prepared for all dangers,” I replied. In fact, I had made

up my mind either to get fired or to make all the students in the

dormitory apologize to me.

“If you talk that way, that cuts everything out. Really, as a head

teacher, I’ve been considering what is good for you, and wouldn’t like

you to mistake it.”

“The head teacher is really your friend. And I’m doing what I can for

you, though mighty little, because you and I are Yedo kids, and I would

like to have you stay with us as long as possible and we can help each

other.” So said Clown and it sounded almost human. I would sooner hang

myself than to get helped by Clown.

“And the students are all glad because you had come, but there are many

circumstances,” continued Red Shirt. “You may feel angry sometimes but

be patient for the present, and I will never do anything to hurt your

interests.”

“You say ‘many circumstances’; what are they?”

“They’re rather complicated. Well, they’ll be clear to you by and by.

You’ll understand them naturally without my talking them over. What do

you say, Mr. Yoshikawa?”

“Yes, they’re pretty complicated; hard to get them cleared up in a

jiffy. But they’ll become clear by-the-bye. Will be understood

naturally without my explaining them,” Clown echoed Red Shirt.

“If they’re such a bother, I don’t mind not hearing them. I only asked

you because you sprang the subject.”

“That’s right. I may seem irresponsible in not concluding the thing I

had started. Then this much I’ll tell you. I mean no offense, but you

are fresh from school, and teaching is a new experience. And a school

is a place where somewhat complicated private circumstances are common

and one cannot do everything straight and simple.”

“If can’t get it through straight and simple, how does it go?”

“Well, there you are so straight as that. As I was saying, you’re short

of experience....”

“I should be. As I wrote it down in my record-sheet, I’m 23 years and

four months.”

“That’s it. So you’d be done by some one in unexpected quarter.”

“I’m not afraid who might do me as long as I’m honest.”

“Certainly not. No need be afraid, but I do say you look sharp; your

predecessor was done.”

I noticed Clown had become quiet, and turning round, saw him at the

stern talking with the boatman. Without Clown, I found our conversation

running smoothly.

“By whom was my predecessor done?”

“If I point out the name, it would reflect on the honor of that person,

so I can’t mention it. Besides there is no evidence to prove it and I

may be in a bad fix if I say it. At any rate, since you’re here, my

efforts will prove nothing if you fail. Keep a sharp look-out, please.”

“You say look-out, but I can’t be more watchful than I’m now. If I

don’t do anything wrong, after all, that’s all right isn’t it?”

Red Shirt laughed. I did not remember having said anything provocative

of laughter. Up to this very minute, I have been firm in my conviction

that I’m right. When I come to consider the situation, it appears that

a majority of people are encouraging others to become bad. They seem to

believe that one must do wrong in order to succeed. If they happen to

see some one honest and pure, they sneer at him as “Master Darling” or

“kiddy.” What’s the use then of the instructors of ethics at grammar

schools or middle schools teaching children not to tell a lie or to be

honest. Better rather make a bold departure and teach at schools the

gentle art of lying or the trick of distrusting others, or show pupils

how to do others. That would be beneficial for the person thus taught

and for the public as well. When Red Shirt laughed, he laughed at my

simplicity. My word! what chances have the simple-hearted or the pure

in a society where they are made objects of contempt! Kiyo would never

laugh at such a time; she would listen with profound respect. Kiyo is

far superior to Red Shirt.

“Of course, that’t all right as long as you don’t do anything wrong.

But although you may not do anything wrong, they will do you just the

same unless you can see the wrong of others. There are fellows you have

got to watch,—the fellows who may appear off-hand, simple and so kind

as to get boarding house for you…… Getting rather cold. ’Tis already

autumn, isn’t it. The beach looks beer-color in the fog. A fine view.

Say, Mr. Yoshikawa, what do you think of the scene along the beach?……”

This in a loud voice was addressed to Clown.

“Indeed, this is a fine view. I’d get a sketch of it if I had time.

Seems a pity to leave it there,” answered Clown.

A light was seen upstairs at Minato-ya, and just as the whistle of a

train was sounded, our boat pushed its nose deep into the sand. “Well,

so you’re back early,” courtesied the wife of the boatman as she

stepped upon the sand. I stood on the edge of the boat; and whoop! I

jumped out to the beach.

CHAPTER 6. I heartily despise Clown. It would be beneficial for Japan if