Mr. Mantaro Kubota

Among the Edo-born men I know, if I look for those connected with the literary world, the first is Mr. Sueo Goto, the second Mr. Jun Tsuji, and the third Mr. Mantaro Kubota. These three gentlemen, each in his own way, differ in character; yet their appearance as Edo men and their temperament as Edo men seem to spring, broadly speaking, from one and the same source. Among them, the one who, even by later cultivation, has not forfeited the name of Edo man is, to my mind, Mr. Mantaro Kubota. At the very least, the one who carries none of the odor of the rustic outskirts, and is rich in the distinctive flavor of the town, is Mr. Mantaro Kubota.

An Edo man lives in resignation. Since he lives in resignation, it hardly needs saying that he is not positively strong. Mr. Kubota’s art, together with Mr. Kubota’s life, may be said to display this trait. Mr. Kubota’s protagonists are always nameless men and women of the streets and alleys, living in a moral half-light. Such men and women often show their faces in Chekhov’s works as well, but Chekhov’s protagonists quite often make us readers burst into laughter. Mr. Kubota’s protagonists are more plaintive than Chekhov’s, just as Japanese cut tobacco is softer than Russian cigarettes. Not only that: even the landscapes in his works, when they come from Mr. Kubota’s brush, are always elegant pale washes. And if I look further at Mr. Kubota’s life, I must be one of those who know it in the most superficial way. Yet within his smile, I cannot help feeling his whole life. “Bitter little smile” is a new compound that Mr. Masao Kume has added to the Japanese vocabulary. The smile that sometimes appears on Mr. Kubota’s face may well be called a bitter little smile. Only, if I may say so, I cannot help thinking it might be more apt to call it a sad little smile.

Since he lives in resignation, it hardly needs saying that he is not positively strong. Yet, again, there can be no one more passively strong than a man who lives in resignation. Once let Mr. Kubota resign himself to something, and neither lever nor pole will move him. This is so even in casual talk and laughter. It is all the more so when, drunk, he becomes a tiger. Mr. Kubota’s protagonists, too, never lose this measure of stubbornness. This is another reason they differ in character from Chekhov’s protagonists. Mr. Kubota and his protagonists may be bent if one wishes to bend them, but they are by no means easy to break. One might say they have the same quality as bamboo bowed down beneath snow.

This trait of being strong because not strong may not be the whole face of the Edo man, but it seems close to the whole face of the Edo man. I am a student raised in Tokyo who has lost the qualifications of an Edo man both by birth and by upbringing. Therefore I cannot fully understand Mr. Kubota’s artistic and moral attitude. Nevertheless, in the respect and affection I feel for his novels and plays, I do not think I necessarily fall behind anyone. That is why I have drafted this three-page-on-manuscript-paper essay on Mantaro Kubota. Mr. Kubota, will you be kind enough to nod your assent, or not? And if you do not nod your assent, well, I already know that once you have set something down, neither lever nor pole will move it. Why, then, should I try to force your assent? Why, then, should I try to force your assent?

Incidentally, it is known to all the world that Mr. Mantaro Kubota the novelist is also the haiku master San’u. Some time ago I showed Mr. Kubota the verse: “Thinly, thinly / the sky begins to cloud over / on a starry moonlit night.” Master San’u pronounced it good. A few days later, I revised the previous verse to: “Chill upon chill / the clouds rise and gather / on a starry moonlit night.” Master San’u shook his head and said, “That won’t do.” Yet in the end I did not discard the later verse. Nor, in the end, did Mr. Kubota accept the later verse. Does this not come close to showing the difference between us?