Nine (1/3)

by Natsume Sōseki

The master has pockmarks on his face. I have heard that pockmarks were common before the Meiji Restoration, but in this era, especially now that the Anglo-Japanese Alliance has been established, such a face feels somewhat outdated. The decrease in pockmarks has been progressing in inverse proportion to the increase in population, and it is concluded from medical statistics that in the near future, even the traces of them will disappear. It is a well-founded argument that leaves no room for doubt, even for a cat like me.

I do not know how many people on Earth currently have pockmarks, but as far as I know, there are none among my feline companions. There is only one human who has pockmarks. That one person is none other than my master. It is truly a pity.

Every time I see my master's face, I wonder. Why does he have such a strange face and shamelessly breathe the air of the twentieth century? It might have been somewhat acceptable in the past, but now, as all pockmarks have been relegated to the upper arms, continuing to linger on the nose and cheeks is not only nothing to boast about, but rather a matter concerning the dignity of pockmarks. If possible, it would be better to remove them while there is still time. The pockmarks themselves must feel insecure. Or perhaps, like a fallen party, they are attempting a final resistance. Thinking this way, the pockmarks are certainly not something to be despised; they may be seen as a symbol of indomitable resistance against fashion and worthy of our respect. The only drawback is that they look unsightly.

When my master was a child, there was a renowned doctor named Asada Sōhaku in Yasukuni's Yamabushimachi. It is said that when he visited patients, he always rode in a palanquin and made slow visits. However, after Sōhaku passed away and his adopted son succeeded him, the palanquin was quickly replaced by a rickshaw. If the adopted son died and another adopted son took over, the herbal medicine might change from Kakkontō to Antipyrin. Even in Sōhaku's time, riding in a palanquin while walking in Tokyo was not a very impressive sight. Such things were only done by old-fashioned ghosts, pigs being loaded onto trains, and Sōhaku himself.

The master’s pockmarks, in terms of their presence, are similar to the basket of a monk; while they may seem unfortunate to others, the stubborn master continues to expose those pockmarks, attending school every day and teaching Riddle.

In this way, he stands at the podium, etched with the remnants of the last century on his face, undoubtedly imparting great lessons to his students beyond just the lessons themselves. Rather than repeating "a monkey has hands," he effortlessly interprets the major issue of "the impact of pockmarks on the face," providing the answer to his students in the silence that follows. If a person like the master were to cease existing as a teacher, the students would have to rush to libraries and museums to study this issue, expending as much effort as we do to recall the ancient Egyptians through mummies. From this perspective, the master's pockmarks are unknowingly bestowing valuable merit.

However, the master did not plant the pox on his face to bestow this merit. In reality, he intended to plant the pox on his arm, but somehow it ended up infecting his face as well. As a child, he was said to have scratched his face indiscriminately, complaining of itchiness, without the charm he has now. It was as if a volcano erupted, covering his face with lava, ruining the face given to him by his parents. Occasionally, the master tells his wife that he would have been a handsome boy if it weren’t for the pox. He even boasts that he was so beautiful that Westerners turned to look at him at the Kannon in Asakusa. While that may indeed be the case, it is unfortunate that no one can vouch for it.

No matter how much merit or lessons there are, something dirty is still dirty. Since I became aware of my surroundings, the master has been greatly worried about his blemishes and has tried every means to hide this disgrace. However, unlike the basket of the monk, it cannot be suddenly removed just because one dislikes it. Even now, it remains clearly visible. Perhaps because this concerns him, the master seems to count the blemished faces every time he walks through the streets. Today, he records in his diary how many blemished faces he encounters, whether their owners are men or women, and whether the location is in Kogawacho's factory or Ueno Park. He is convinced that he will never yield to anyone in his knowledge about blemishes. The other day, when a friend returned from overseas, he asked, "Do Westerners have blemishes?" The friend pondered while tilting his head and replied, "Well, not often." The master pressed on, asking, "Even if it's not often, is there a little?" The friend, with a disinterested expression, said, "If there are, they are likely beggars or tramps. Educated people seem not to have them." The master responded, "Is that so? It seems a bit different from Japan."

Taking the philosopher's opinion into account, the master refrained from quarreling with Rakugunkan and subsequently retreated to his study, repeatedly pondering something. He may be accepting the advice and attempting to passively cultivate a spiritual essence through meditation. However, given his inherently timid nature, sitting there gloomily with his hands in his pockets is unlikely to yield good results. Realizing that it would be much better to pawn his English books and learn some trumpet tunes from a geisha, I decided to leave him be, knowing that such a stubborn man would not heed the advice of a cat.

Today marks exactly seven days since then. In Zen circles, there are those who demonstrate great enlightenment after seventeen days, so I wondered if the master had changed in some way, whether he was alive or dead, or if something had been settled. I slowly approached the entrance of the study from the porch, trying to sense the activity inside.

The study is a six-tatami room facing south, with a large desk placed in a spot that receives plenty of sunlight. This desk is not just any ordinary large desk. It measures six feet in length, three feet and eight inches in width, and its height is proportionate, making it truly a large desk. Of course, this is not a commercially available item. It is a rare piece specially made by a local carpenter as a desk that doubles as a bed. The reason for acquiring such a large desk, and why the owner thought to sleep on it, can only be understood by asking him directly. Perhaps it was just a momentary whim that led to the introduction of such a cumbersome item, or it could be that, as a form of mental illness, he fused two unrelated thoughts to combine the desk and the bed. In any case, it is an eccentric idea, but its flaw is that it is merely eccentric and not practical. I once saw the owner take a nap on this desk and, while turning over, fall off the side. Since then, this desk has never been used as a bed again.

In front of the desk is a thin Merino cushion, which has about three holes burned into it from a cigarette. The cotton visible inside is a dark shade. Sitting upright with his back turned is the owner. He has a mouse-colored, dirty obi tied in a knot, with the ends hanging down loosely to the soles of his feet. Just recently, I was suddenly hit on the head by this obi as it playfully swayed. It is not an obi that one should approach lightly.

Still lost in thought, despite the saying that a fool's thoughts are poor, when I peeked from behind, I saw something shining oddly brightly on the desk. I couldn't help but blink two or three times, but thinking this was strange, I endured the brightness and stared intently at the shining object. Then, I realized that the light was coming from a mirror that was moving on the desk. But why is the master using a mirror in the study? Normally, mirrors are found in the bathroom. In fact, I had just seen this mirror in the bathroom this morning. I specify this mirror because it is the only one in the master's house. Every morning, after washing his face, the master uses this mirror to part his hair. — Some might wonder if a man like the master would part his hair, but in reality, he is only lazy about other things; he takes great care of his hair. Since I came to this house, the master has never had a buzz cut, no matter how hot the day is. He always keeps it about two inches long, proudly parts it on the left side, and slightly flips the right end to tidy it up. This might also be a sign of a mental illness. I think such a pretentious way of parting hair does not harmonize at all with this desk, but since it does not harm others, no one says anything. He seems quite pleased with himself. Setting aside the fact that his way of parting hair is stylish, I wondered why he keeps his hair so long, and it turns out there is a reason for this. His blemishes not only invade his face but have also sunk deep into his scalp long ago. Therefore, if he were to have a buzz cut or a crew cut like an ordinary person, dozens of blemishes would appear from the roots of the short hair. No matter how much he strokes or rubs, the spots won't come off. It's like releasing fireflies into a barren field; it might be poetic, but the wifeThere is no way he would like it. If he just kept his hair long, he could avoid being exposed, so there is no need to willingly reveal his flaws. If possible, he would even want to grow hair on his face to hide his blemishes. Therefore, there is no need to pay to have the hair that grows for free cut, while proclaiming, "I have been afflicted by smallpox up to my skull." — This is the reason why the master grows his hair long, and growing his hair long is the cause of him parting it, which is the reason he looks in the mirror, and that mirror is in the bathroom, and the fact that there is only one mirror.

Since the mirror that should be in the bathroom, and which is the only one, has come to the study, it must be that the mirror has been afflicted with soul separation disease, or the master must have brought it from the bathroom. If he brought it, what could be the reason? Perhaps it is a tool necessary for that passive cultivation. Long ago, when a certain scholar visited in search of knowledge, the monk was polishing a brick with both sleeves rolled up. When asked what he was making, he replied, "I am currently working hard to create a mirror." The scholar was surprised and said, "Even a great monk cannot make a mirror by polishing a brick," to which the monk laughed and replied, "Is that so? Then I will stop. No matter how many books you read, you won't understand the way." Perhaps the master heard something like that and brought the mirror from the bathroom, proudly waving it around. I am quietly observing as things are gradually becoming more dangerous.

The master was intently staring at a mirror. Mirrors are inherently eerie objects. I have heard that it takes considerable courage to look into a mirror alone at midnight by candlelight. When I was first pressed against a mirror by the young lady of the house, I was so startled that I ran around the estate three times. Even during the day, if one stares at their own face as seriously as the master does, it is bound to become frightening. In fact, just looking at it, it is not a very pleasant face.

After a while, the master muttered to himself, "I see, it's an ugly face." Acknowledging one's own ugliness is quite a commendable thing. From the looks of it, it certainly seems like mad behavior, but what he is saying is the truth. If this goes a step further, the horror of one's own grotesqueness can become terrifying. A person cannot be called a person of hardship unless they deeply feel the fact that they are a dreadful villain. Without being a person of hardship, one cannot achieve liberation. By this point, the master might say, "Oh, how frightening," but he does not say it. After saying, "I see, it's an ugly face," for some reason, he puffed out his cheeks. Then, he slapped those puffed cheeks two or three times with his palm. I do not know what kind of incantation it was, but at that moment, I felt as if there was something resembling this face.

Upon closer inspection, it was the face of Gosan. By the way, to introduce Gosan's face a little, it is very puffed up. Recently, someone brought a fugu lantern as a souvenir from Anamori Inari, and it is puffed up just like that fugu lantern. The puffiness is so cruel that both eyes are lost. However, while a fugu puffs up evenly and roundly, Gosan's case has an originally polygonal bone structure, and it puffs up along that structure, resembling a hexagonal clock troubled by moisture. If Gosan heard this, he would surely be angry, so let's leave it at that and return to the master.

Thus, the master, with puffed cheeks, once again slapped his cheeks with his palms and muttered, "When the skin is this tense, even blemishes don't stand out."

This time, he turned his face sideways and reflected the way light hit half of his face in the mirror. "Looking at it this way, it stands out quite a bit. After all, the side that gets sunlight looks flatter. It's a strange thing," he seemed impressed. Then he stretched out his right hand, holding the mirror as far away as possible and quietly gazing at it. "When it's this far away, it doesn't bother me so much. It really is too close that it becomes an issue. --It's not just the face, it's the same for everything," he said, as if he had realized something.

Next, he suddenly tilted the mirror to the side and scrunched his eyes, forehead, and eyebrows towards the center, with the bridge of his nose as the focal point. It seemed that an unpleasant appearance had been created, and realizing this, he quickly stopped, saying, "No, this won't do." He suspiciously pulled the mirror closer to his face, wondering, "Why does my face look so toxic?" He stroked his nostrils with his right index finger and pressed that finger onto the blotting paper on the desk. The absorbed nasal grease formed a round shape on the paper. It was quite a performance.

After that, the master turned the finger that had applied the nasal grease and forcefully flipped the lower eyelid of his right eye inside out, skillfully performing what is commonly known as a "beccan-kou." It is somewhat unclear whether he was studying blemishes or just staring at the mirror. Given the master's capricious nature, it seems he comes up with various ideas while watching. But that's not all. If one were to interpret it benevolently in a Socratic manner, the master might be acting out various gestures in front of the mirror as a means to reflect on himself. All human studies are nothing but the study of oneself. The heavens, earth, mountains, rivers, sun, moon, and stars are merely different names for the self. There is nothing else to study besides oneself that anyone can discover. If a person could leap beyond themselves, at that moment, the self would disappear. Moreover, no one else can study the self. No matter how much one wants to help or receive help, it is an impossible consultation. That is why all the great heroes of ancient times became great through their own efforts. If one could understand oneself through the help of others, one should be able to feed a proxy beef to judge whether it is tough or tender.

Listening to the law in the morning, listening to the way in the evening, and holding a scroll under the light of the parasol are merely means to attempt this self-verification. There is no reason for the self to exist within the law preached by others, or within the way argued by other people, or behind the piles of moth-eaten paper exceeding five vehicles. If there is, it is the ghost of the self. However, in some cases, a ghost may be superior to a non-spirit. Chasing a shadow does not preclude the possibility of encountering the body. Many shadows usually do not stray far from the body. In this sense, if the master is twisting the mirror, he is quite a talkative man. I think it is far better than pretending to be a scholar by swallowing Epictetus whole.

The mirror is a tool for gazing at oneself, and at the same time, a tool for boasting. If one gazes at the mirror with vanity, there is no tool more foolish to incite such folly. Throughout history, two-thirds of the cases where people have hurt themselves and others by overestimating themselves can indeed be attributed to mirrors. Just as the peculiar doctor who improved the guillotine during the French Revolution brought about great sins, the first person who made a mirror must have surely had nightmares.

However, there is nothing more medicinal for the heart than looking into a mirror when one has lost affection for oneself and the ego is shrinking. The moment one sees their own face and realizes, "I have lived with such a face," is the most precious moment in a human's life. There is nothing more noble than having this awareness. Before one who understands their own foolishness, any arrogant person must bow their head. Even if the person themselves intends to despise and mock themselves, from the perspective of others, that posture appears to be bowing instead.

The master is not a sage who realizes his own foolishness by looking into the mirror, but he is a man who can fairly read the pockmarks engraved on his face. Becoming aware of the ugliness of one's face is also the first step to understanding the baseness of the heart. He is a reliable man. This may also be the result of being bested by philosophers.

As I pondered this, the master, after making a thorough "ah-kan-be," said, "It seems quite bloodshot. It must be chronic conjunctivitis," and began to rub his bloodshot eyelid with his index finger. It was probably itchy, but one should not rub something that is already so red. Before long, it would surely rot like the eyes of a salt sea bream.

Eventually, when he opened his eyes and faced the mirror, they were indeed cloudy, like the overcast winter sky of the northern country. His eyes are not particularly bright even on normal days. To use an exaggerated expression, they are so ambiguous that one cannot distinguish between the black and white parts. Just as his mind seems to be hazy, his eyes also drift vaguely deep within their sockets. It is said that this is due to fetal toxins, or it may be interpreted as the influence of smallpox. It seems that in his childhood, he was troubled by willow caterpillars and red frogs, but thanks to his mother's care, they have remained hazy until today, just as they were when he was born.

I secretly think. This condition is certainly not due to fetal toxins or smallpox. The reason his eyes are so ambiguous and chaotic is that his brain is composed of opaque substance, and its function is dark and murky. Naturally, this manifests in form, causing unnecessary worry for his unaware mother. His murky eyes prove his foolishness. When I think about it, his eyes are a symbol of his heart, and since his heart has holes like Tenpo coins, his eyes must also be largely worthless, just like those coins.

This time, he began to twist his beard. The originally unruly beard grows in various postures. No matter how much individualism is in vogue, being selfish in the town would surely inconvenience its owner. The master also considers this and has been training it greatly lately, making efforts to keep it as orderly as possible. The results are not in vain, and recently, the shape of the beard has finally started to become a bit more refined. Previously, it was just a beard growing, but now it has become something to boast about having grown.

Enthusiasm increases in proportion to results, and the master, expecting the future of his beard, always tends to it whenever he has free time in the morning and evening. His ambition lies in cultivating a beard with a strong desire for improvement, like that of the German Emperor. Therefore, whether the hair follicles are horizontal or downward, he does not care and grips them all together, pulling them upward. The beard must be quite troubled as well. Even the owner, the master, sometimes experiences pain. However, that is the training. Whether one likes it or not, it is forcefully groomed. To outsiders, it may seem like an incomprehensible hobby, but the parties involved understand that this is the right thing to do. It is like an educator forcibly bending the true nature of a student and boasting about their own achievements, and there is absolutely no reason to criticize it.

While the master was diligently grooming his beard, the multi-faceted servant from the kitchen extended his red hand into the study as usual, saying, "The mail has arrived." Grasping his beard with his right hand and holding a mirror with his left, the master turned to look towards the entrance. Upon seeing the beard that seemed to command the tail to stand on its head, the multi-faceted servant suddenly pulled him back to the kitchen, laughing heartily as he leaned over the pot lid. The master remained unfazed, calmly lowering the mirror to take the mail.

The first letter was printed in movable type, with somewhat solemn characters lined up. Upon reading it, it was written as follows.

“Dear Sir/Madam, I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. Looking back, the Russo-Japanese War has restored peace, riding on the momentum of consecutive victories, and our valiant soldiers, now more than half, are singing triumphant songs amidst cheers of 'Banzai!' from the people, whose joy surpasses all else. When the Imperial Decree of Declaration of War was issued, the soldiers who served under the banner of righteousness endured the hardships of cold and heat in distant lands for a long time, devoted themselves to combat with unwavering resolve, and dedicated their lives to the nation; their sincerity must never be forgotten. Furthermore, the army's triumphant return is about to conclude this month. Therefore, our association plans to hold a grand victory celebration on the twenty-fifth of this month, representing the citizens of this district, for the over a thousand dispatched officers and soldiers, and to express our heartfelt gratitude and welcome to the bereaved families of the military personnel. We would be grateful for your support in making this grand event possible, as it would uphold the honor of our association, and we kindly ask for your agreement and enthusiastic contributions. Sincerely,”

The sender is a member of the nobility. After silently reading the letter, the master immediately resealed it and pretended not to notice. It seems he has no intention of making a donation. Just the other day, he had bragged to everyone he met about having donated two or three yen for the poor harvest in the Tohoku region, saying, “I was taken for a donation.”

A donation is originally something one offers, not something that is taken. It is inappropriate to say “taken” as if one were robbed. Nevertheless, it seems the master thinks of it as if he has been a victim of theft. While he speaks of welcoming the army and the nobility's invitation, he does not seem like the kind of person who would part with money just because of a printed letter.

For the master, it is first and foremost about wanting to be welcomed himself. As long as his daily life is disrupted, he seems to intend to leave the welcoming to the nobility. He picked up the second letter and muttered, “Ah, this is also printed.”