The next day, it rained. I got up and went to my oldest brother's drawing room. He was showing the son-in-law a picture. The golden folding screen had two parts decorated with elegant scenes. On one was drawn a wild cherry blossom tree. On the other was the landscape of the countryside. I saw the artist's seal and signature but couldn't read them.
"Who's this by?" I timidly asked while blushing.
"Suian," said my brother.
"Suian," I said still clueless.
"You don't know him?" said my brother, calmly without scolding, "He is the father of Hyakusui."
"Really?"
Of course, I heard that the father of Hirafuku Hyakusui was an artist but did not know the father Suisan drew such fine pictures. It's not that I don't like paintings. I'm not knowledgeable about paintings. I don't hate them. No, if I hate anything, it is my intention to become an authority. My great blunder was I never heard of Suian. My eyes saw the folding screen and I was in awe. If I whispered Suian, my brother may have viewed me differently. I regret asking, "Who's this by?" in a dopey voice. I agonized over the fact that could not be undone. Taking no notice of me, my brother said quietly to the son-in-law, "He's a celebrated artist in Akita."
"You could say he is like Ayatari of Tsugaru," I said timidly to redeem my honor and to flatter. The painters of Tsugaru are in the same class as Ayatari. In fact, on an earlier visit to Kanagi, my brother showed me a painting by Ayatari he owned. That was the first time I knew Tsugaru had an artist this great.
"Well, he's different," said my brother sounding completely uninterested and sat on a chair. The son-in-law and I stood gazing at the paintings on the folding screen, but my brother took a seat. The son-in-law sat in the opposite chair. I sat on the sofa beside the door a slight distance away.
"This man, it seems, has this as his main theme," said my brother to the son-in-law of course. My brother rarely spoke directly to me.
With him saying this, given his feelings on the significance of Ayatari, he seemed a little troubled by Ayatari's work falling into simple folk art.
"What is cultural tradition?" asked my brother as he rounded his back and stared at the son-in-law, "Naturally, the roots are deep in Akita."
"Is Tsugaru bad?"
No matter what I said, the result was awkward, and I gave up and talked to myself.
My brother surprised me with a question, "What will you write about Tsugaru this time?"
"Oh, well, I don't know much about Tsugaru," I said stumbling, "Are there any good reference books?"
"Let's see," said my brother smiling, "I have little interest in local history."
"There are probably popular guidebooks about famous sites in Tsugaru. I know absolutely nothing."
"No. None," said my brother shaking his head and smiling as though appalled by my carelessness.
He stood and said to the son-in-law, "I'll be going to the agricultural association for a while to consult some books. The weather will get worse today," then he left.
"Is it busy at the agricultural association around this time of year?" I asked the son-in-law.
"Yes, quite busy. Right now, they're determining the delivery quota for rice," said the son-in-law.
Although young, he was a landowner and well versed in this field. He explained various detailed numbers to me, but I couldn't grasp half of it.
"These days, I don't think seriously about rice. In this age, I gaze alternating between joy and sorrow at the rice fields from the train window as if they were mine. It's been a bit chilly until now this year, so has the rice been planted?"
My habit is to brandish my superficial knowledge at experts.
"It will be all right. If it gets cold around now, it will be cold, and the measures to take will be considered. The seedlings are sprouting normally."
"Is that so?" I said nodding and trying to look like I understood, "My knowledge was gained only from staring at the Tsugaru Plain yesterday from the train window. Now does tilling with horses leave plowing the field to the horse? It often appears to be left to oxen. When I was young, not only horses tilled, but handcarts were used. Everything was done by horses; the oxen helped but almost never plowed. When I first went to Tokyo, I saw oxen pulling carts. It was a strange sight."
"That's true. Horses have become scarce. Most were sent to war. This may be related to the ease of raising cattle. But from the perspective of work efficiency, oxen have half the efficiency of horses, no, it's probably much, much worse."
"Going off to war, have you…"
"Me? I've already received two warrants, but I was discharged and sent home both times. It's shameful."
The healthy young man had an untroubled, smiling look on his face. He said in a breezy, natural tone, "I don't want to be discharged the next time."
"Are there great men worthy of heartfelt praise hidden in this land?"
"I'm not sure, but they may be found among the hard-working farmers?"
"Yes, that's true."
I wholeheartedly agreed.
"My reasoning is sloppy, but we'd like to live with the single-minded determination of industrious farmers. However, we have petty vanity and, in practice, end up smug. But isn't it harmful to stamp farmers with a cumbersome label like industrious farmers?"
"That's true. The newspaper companies irresponsibly raised a clamor and dragged them out to be lectured and ended up turning the valuable, hard-working farmers into strange men. Nothing good happens when they become famous."
"That's right," I said in sympathy, "Man is a sorrowful creature and has a weakness for fame. Originally, journalism was the invention of capitalists in America and is irresponsible. The moment they become famous, they mostly become simpletons."
I swept away the resentment about my personal matters at a strange place. Although this complainer speaks this way, caution is required because I tend to have the desire
