ironic tale that a Rakugo storyteller told me. Two noblemen were once hunting a falcon near Meguro. After riding about all over the place, they grew hungry. Unfortunately, no meal had been prepared for them, and as their servants were far away it was impossible for them to satisfy their appetite. The only thing they could do was go to a squalid farm nearby and ask the people there for something to eat. An old peasant and his wife, taking pity on them, grilled a samma, a sort of mackerel, which they had to hand and served it with rice mixed with barley. The two noblemen made a hearty meal of the fish and left the farm. The next day, the strong smell of samma lingered in their noses and they could not forget its delicious taste. So one of the noblemen invited the other to dinner and promised him a samma. The servants were astonished by the order, but as it came from the master, there was no question of opposing it. On their command, the cook, with the aid of a pair of tweezers, removed all the little bones from the fish one by one, soaked it in rice wine, grilled it and served it to the nobleman and his guest. But they were no longer hungry, and the ridiculous care which had been taken in the preparation of the samma had made it lose its taste. They took a few mouthfuls of this strange meal with their chopsticks, but it was failure. They looked at one another and said, “To savor a samma, we must go to Meguro!” These words, which may seem strange to you, are the conclusion of the story.
You who are in this excellent institution, the Gakushōin, are constantly in contact with excellent teachers. So now that a person like me has been asked to come and give a lecture, will you not, having waited from spring until the end of autumn for me, be disgusted by the delicious party dishes that are served here and would you not, consequently, like to taste the Meguro samma?
I see Professor Ōmori sitting in this room. We left university more or less at the same time—one year apart, I think. Mr Ōmori once told me that his pupils did not listen attentively to his lectures and that he found this irritating. They were also not conscientious and this was very annoying. I remember that his criticism was not of pupils at the Gakushōin but of those at some private school. I responded to him in a way that was, at the least, discourteous.
I am ashamed to repeat it here, but I said to him, “Is there, in any country anywhere, a student who wants to listen to your lectures or even those of anybody else?” Perhaps Mr Ōmori did not fully understood my point at the time, so I am taking the opportunity today to dispel the misunderstanding, if there was one. When we were students and were the same age as you—we may have been older—we were much lazier than you. It would be no exaggeration to say that we never attended the professors’ lectures. I am, of course, only talking about my own experience and what my friends were doing: it may not apply to others. However, when I look back at the past today, it seems to me there is some truth in all this.
As for myself, I gave the impression of being docile, but I was not at all an attentive student: I just lazed about. With such recollections in mind, I never have the courage to criticize, like Mr Ōmori, the conscientious students I see today. And it was in wishing to express this feeling that I made such a thoughtless suggestion to Mr Ōmori. In coming here, I had no intention of making excuses for my conduct towards Mr Ōmori, but I am taking the opportunity to make amends to you all.
I have wandered off on to an unanticipated topic, so I am going to try to return to my speech.
You are in a famous institution. Famous professors are constantly guiding you in your studies. Every day you are taught by them, in general or specialized subjects. I suppose you have intentionally invited someone like me to come from outside and lecture to you because you wanted to try something new, exactly as the two nobles wanted to eat the Meguro samma. But in truth, I think that the lectures by the professors you see every day are much more useful to you and much more interesting than anything someone like me can say to you. If I were a teacher in this establishment, my suggestions would not be stimulating because of their novelty. Such a large audience would not be assembled and my lecture would not give rise to such enthusiasm, nor such curiosity, it seems to me. What do you think?
Why am I making such suppositions? Well, to tell you the whole story, many years ago I wanted to teach at the Gakushōin. It was not I who made the first move: a friend who worked here recommended me. At the time, I was a scatterbrain who had no idea what direction to take after university to earn my daily bread. Now, when you set out on life, if you just fold your arms and do nothing, the money to pay your rent does not simply turn up out of nowhere. I did not question whether or not I was qualified to be a teacher: it was absolutely necessary for me to fit in somewhere. When my friend told me he had recommended me, I got in touch with your school and took the first steps towards putting in my application. At that moment, another candidate appeared, but my friend told me that my application was going well and there was nothing to worry about. Thinking that my appointment was no longer in doubt, I enquired what a professor should wear. He told me that a jacket was necessary for classes, so, before my appointment had been confirmed, I ordered a jacket. At the same time, I had only a very vague notion of where the Gakushōin was.
It is very odd, but, when the jacket was ready and against all predictions, my application was refused. The other professor was chosen for the post of English professor. I have now completely forgotten his name, but the resentment I felt was probably not too intense: I think it was someone who had just come back from the United States. If this person had not been appointed, if I had become, by a stroke of luck, a professor in the Gakushōin and had taught here up to today, perhaps I would not have received your kind invitation and I would not have had the chance of addressing you from this platform. Does not the fact that you waited to hear my lecture from spring until November prove that, even though I failed to get into the Gakushōin, you see something novel in me, as if I were the Meguro samma?
I should like to say a few words to you about what happened to me after my application to the Gakushōin had been rejected. It does not logically follow from what I have just said, but it is a very important part of the lecture I am giving today. I would therefore like you to listen carefully to my words on this matter.
I had been refused. I had nothing left but the jacket I was wearing. Apart from that, I had no other Western clothes. That was how it was! Where do you think I was going in those clothes? In those times, unlike today, it was very easy to find a job, probably because there was a lack of available employees at the time. Wherever I turned there were suitable vacancies. In my own case, I received two offers simultaneously: one was from First Higher Secondary School and the other was from the University Teacher Training College. I half agreed with the plan of my professor friend, who had recommended me to the Higher Secondary School, but at the same time I had thoughtlessly made polite inquiries at the Teacher Training College. So I was in a fine mess. I was young, so I made mistakes and was careless. It was clear that I would have to face the music, but I really did feel at a total loss.
I was summoned by my professor friend, an experienced teacher in the Higher Secondary School, who gave me a dressing down:
“You say that you are coming here. At the same time you contact another establishment. So I, acting as your intermediary here, am in a very difficult situation!”
Pushing stupidity to the point of anger, because I was young, I told myself it would be better to refuse both posts at the same time and began to take steps in this direction. Then I received a message from Mr Kuhara, who was at the time headmaster of the Higher Secondary School and is now president of the Kyoto University of Sciences. He asked me to go and see him at his institution. I hurried over and found the headmaster of the University Teacher Training College, Mr Kanō Jigorō, in his office together with my professor friend who had presented my application. Mr Kuhara informed me that an arrangement had been made: I had no need to be embarrassed as regards the secondary school and it was preferable that I should work in the Teacher Training College. Under the circumstances, I could not refuse and I replied that I would accept the suggestion, but I could not help feeling that I was in an irritating situation. I must tell you that at the time I did not think much of the Teacher Training College. Of course, when I think about this today, it seems completely unjustified.
