人格の養成 English

After a long absence I had returned to Tokyo, and was looking forward to resting in peace — when, quite out of the blue, I received a summons.

I thought perhaps there would be some fine dinner waiting for me; instead, upon reaching the second-floor staircase, I found myself ordered to deliver a speech.

Having only just come back from Taiwan, I am hardly in any condition to offer an entertaining address; but neither did I leave my tongue behind in Taiwan, nor have I forgotten the Japanese language, and so I cannot flatly refuse to speak at all.

Nevertheless, as Mr. Yokoi has just given us such a valuable and kind talk, I find nothing left for me to add — and besides, I rather suspect that you have all already paid your insurance premiums.

I myself have frequently been pressed by people from insurance companies — one would insist I join their firm, and no sooner had they gone than a man from another company would appear. They are remarkably persistent.

In your case, however, Mr. Yokoi's was most likely the first solicitation you have received, and I dare say any that came after would strike you as a nuisance.

So let me assure you: I have no insurance to sell you today. On that point, please set your minds at ease.

Today was described to me as a graduation ceremony, and since I see you all clutching your scrolls, I take it the ceremony has already concluded.

That means there are among you some who are about to go out into the world.

I came here as it happened, and intend to spend ten or fifteen minutes addressing a word to those departing for the world, and then a further word to those who remain.

The conditions for success in the world have already been spoken of; the essential question is whether they can actually be put into practice — and that is what matters.

The power of women is a formidable thing. An acquaintance of mine who has watched the world for a long time once told me that the world is governed by three things, each ending in the syllable -pou.

The first is the gun — teppou — as anyone can see by picking up a newspaper any day.

The second is the sermon — seppou — meaning religion, as is plain from the Honganji temple and the churches springing up everywhere.

The third is the wife — nyoubou — and she, it seems, wields an awesome power.

These three -pou govern the world, so the saying goes.

Of these three, the most powerful — the wife — is presumably produced in some measure right here in this institution.

Others too produce her in quantity, but she comes from here as well.

And even those who do not become wives: in a broad sense, 'wife' simply means 'woman' — it is not limited to someone's spouse.

How, then, does a woman in this broad sense succeed? That is to say — if she happens to be someone's wife, how is she to manage, to firmly handle, her own husband? What sort of insurance might there be for that kind of success?

If one were to follow the conditions Mr. Yokoi laid out, one could not only keep one's husband in hand but govern the whole world — he offered that merely as one element.

Take, for instance, the matter of keeping one's body in good health: the most direct way is to eat well. It is quite true that one cannot build a sturdy constitution on nothing but taro and pumpkin. That was excellent advice, and I imagine you all agree. The practical question, however — how one goes about eating well — is a real and difficult problem.

In putting into practice the other points he raised as well, what will determine the outcome? It comes back, I think, to making use of the very knowledge he spoke of — and thereby fulfilling the role of woman as woman, that is, becoming a force capable of moving the great currents of the world.

Knowledge, therefore, is an exceedingly useful thing. As for acquiring it — you have already obtained your diplomas, you have completed your course of study at this school, and so now comes the matter of applying what you have learned.

The power to read books is a formidable thing: as long as one can read, almost any problem that arises can somehow be met with a judgment.

I myself go about with the air of someone who knows agronomy; all manner of questions come my way — 'What fertilizer would be best for daikon radishes?' or the like. The daikon I grow myself turns out stringy and quite unfit for anyone's digestion. So I puzzle over it, open a book, and there it is, written out clearly.

There are many people in the world far cleverer than I, who have spent years studying the best methods of fertilizing daikon.

It may sound rather foolish, but clever people do exist, and if one follows what they say, the result is nothing like the stringy daikon I describe in my lectures. More than once — in fact, constantly — I have gotten through difficult questions by consulting a book and making do with what I found there, and it has served me more often than not.

If one has the power to read, one can generally muddle through most things in life.

Therefore, what I would most like those of you graduating today to take to heart is this: do not lose the power to read. Do not fall into the thinking that all is now settled, that having graduated from school and received this scroll — or paper, or whatever it is — one has become a scholar and may rest content as though in paradise. There is, I believe, a poem by a certain nun — I cannot quite recall her name — a nun said to have attained enlightenment, and in it she expressed something to this effect.

Once you are aboard the boat, you need neither oar nor pole — so long as the waves at Katase carry you along, you can drift in peace and sleep easy.

Such was the nun's poem: enter the way of enlightenment and your mind is at rest.

Many among you, too, may hold the notion that once you have left school and set out into the world with your diploma in hand, you need neither oar nor pole — and though they say aloud, 'Oh, not at all, there is still so far to go,' inwardly they feel quite secure.

But there is a poem composed in reply to that nun's verse, by a monk.

However safely you may be aboard the boat, he said, so long as the waves rise and fall there is no room for carelessness — you may be lifted up or plunged under at any moment — and that, I think, is precisely the spirit in which you must go out into the world.

I myself have graduated from two or three schools, and each time fancied myself quite a distinguished person; yet as it turned out, I was far from distinguished — unable even to grow a decent daikon. A diploma is no grounds for complacency.

As for the power to read books — one may feel confident that one can handle real and pressing questions, but that power has a strange tendency to evaporate; and especially if one keeps opening one's mouth, it slips away all the faster.

Close your mouth firmly, and without letting your guard down, keep up the habit of reading.

To that end, whether one becomes a wife or not, every woman ought to carve out time — even ten or twenty minutes a day — to read. That much is essential.

I was in Taiwan for about three months until recently, returned to Kyoto ten days ago, and when I met with some foreigners and tried to speak English, I found it harder than usual — not that I speak particularly fluently at the best of times — and that is simply how it is: scholarly ability and the power of reading evaporate remarkably quickly.

In Taiwan I kept my mouth open the whole time, so the evaporation was particularly swift.

Please take good note of this point, and for the practical application of it: make it a firm habit to read for twenty or thirty minutes each day.

Twenty or thirty minutes can always be found, however one tries — with a bit of ingenuity, at mealtimes or anywhere else — though I should add: do not rush through your meals on that account.

Just as Gladstone chewed each mouthful twenty times, and just as the Fletcherism craze of recent years — after a man named Fletcher who insisted on thorough chewing — has been much in vogue, nevertheless do steal the time and read your books.

Twenty or thirty minutes a day can always be managed.

Even if it feels disagreeable, one must do it by force of will.

Next, here is something else I recommend.

This too is a practical matter: keep a diary, and write it in English — five or ten lines will do perfectly well.

When an unfamiliar word appears, look it up in a dictionary; a good one can be had for fifty sen these days, a modest outlay.

Read through it, search out the words you do not know, and then compose your diary entry. This too is one method of steadily building up the power to read.

But there is something still more important than all of this.

It is what Mr. Yokoi spoke of at the very end of his talk: the cultivation of character.

To be sure, reading books and keeping a diary — if these become mere technical accomplishments, mere crafts by which one earns one's bread, the person who treats them as such is still low.

To nourish the mind through good books, to cultivate character, to elevate one's thoughts — for this there is nothing better than learning English, and Mr. Yokoi has said as much; I am entirely of the same view.

That said, one might wonder whether I, having dabbled in English studies myself, am therefore a person of elevated character. I am not.

I am only half-formed, and a genuinely fine character of the kind that lies utterly beyond my reach — that, I believe, is within your power to achieve.

When you hear me say such things, you may well think: if the man himself turns out like that, then by all means excuse me from the same path. But the truth is that I am a person of poor natural material — bad clay, a flawed foundation.

By rights, at this stage of life I ought to be wearing a red prison uniform and loitering about somewhere near Ichigaya, or rattling around inside the Sugamo gaol — yet because I have read a little English, here I am wearing a frock coat and affecting an air of dignity.

Given that your natural character is far superior to mine, I am willing to insure you on that point alone.

It is with the cultivation of thought as the first principle that I ask you to read English.

Once you go out into the world, there will be no end of vexing things — probably more vexations, I should think, than men face.

At such moments, the high-minded thoughts you have absorbed through the books you read here at school, and through the daily twenty or thirty minutes of reading I spoke of just now, will come to bear — and you will think to yourself: 'Ah, this is exactly it.'

When something troubling arises, you will recall a passage from Shakespeare and think: 'He was writing about just this sort of thing.'

I try to cultivate this habit myself — the habit of never losing that sense of 'Ah, this is it.'

Most people — even a person of poor character such as myself — when they see something slightly attractive that belongs to someone else, feel a flicker of the urge to take it... which is perhaps a strange thing to say, but the thought 'I want it' does cross one's mind for a moment.

If at that moment one actually acts on it, things go badly wrong.

But if instead one thinks 'Ah, this is the moment' — even with one's hand already half-extended — one draws it back.

Similarly, in your dealings with others, someone may say something that strikes you as disagreeable and you feel a surge of irritation.

You may think, shall I scratch them, shall I snap at them?

At such times, think 'Ah, here it is,' and recall that anger is wrong, that taking what is not yours is wrong.

When the occasion arises, apply what you know: 'This is exactly that moment.'

Most people do not do this habitually, and so they drift like a gourd floating down a river.

Think fully, just once: 'This is the moment' — and keep in mind the elevated thoughts found in the English literature you studied here at school.

People often complain that girls who have been to a women's school lose all practical common sense and do nothing but argue; that sending a daughter to such a school means she cannot even make a pot of miso soup, or that the soup she does make is too salty. Well, a miso soup that is a little too salty is something one can put up with; and if it does turn out too salty, there are books that tell you exactly how many sho of koji to how much salt — so one may simply apply one's reading power to solve the problem.

No one comes to a women's school to learn how to make miso soup.

What matters far more is the cultivation of thought. One may be clumsy at making miso soup, but when a political question arises, one reasons through it — and when a question of livelihood arises, one reasons through that too.

As Mr. Yokoi said a moment ago, keeping one's sense of direction true — that is surely a rare and precious talent, and it is that talent which must be cultivated.

The world, after all, is a game of jan-ken-pon — from birth to death, one is always playing jan-ken-pon.

Scissors beat paper, but stone beats scissors.

Does that mean stone beats everything? No — stone loses to paper.

Around and around it goes, winning and losing in turn — you may put out scissors and lose to stone, but scissors still beats paper.

In the matter of miso soup you may lose; but in that far more important matter — the interpretation of life itself — you win.

And in exchange, the old woman who beats you at miso soup will lose to you in those weightier matters. Such is the jan-ken-pon world we live in.

I do not think that need trouble you greatly.

The most important thing is to keep one's thoughts sound — I have always believed this.

There are beautiful words in English; there are beautiful poems and songs in Japanese too. But as a parting word to those of you graduating today, I have a line from a poem I am very fond of — I do not know who wrote it, but I think it remarkably penetrating.

You have all studied English and you are graduates, so there is perhaps no need for me to translate it; the gist of it is this: however great the hardship one faces, one must never flee it, never run away — one must endure it.

As was said a moment ago, one must cultivate in advance the power to endure. There is a tendency, when difficulties arrive, to run away — but one must not run.

When you enter the world you will encounter many hardships; but it will not do to be crushed under their weight, to grow weak simply because the burden is heavy.

The poem I have in mind was written with the spirit of using hardship to elevate one's own character — (the original verses are omitted) — and they are truly splendid words.

Once you go out into the world, that is where hardship begins; for some of you it has already begun.

At such times, what best nourishes the spirit? For Christians, it is the Bible; for those who are not Christians — and I say this to those of you now graduating — it is the works of English literature you have studied here at school, where thoughts of this very kind appear at every turn. Make it a habit to mark good passages carefully, page by page.

With those words I send off those of you graduating today.

Whatever hardships you encounter, do not flee them; rather, use them as one more instrument for cultivating your character — apply English literature to elevate your character — it is my earnest hope that you will take this to heart.

I had intended to say a word to those remaining in school as well, but what was meant to last five minutes has grown considerably longer, so I shall leave those who remain to another occasion — they will no doubt live long, and I intend to live even longer still, so perhaps I shall come up and deliver another tiresome speech one of these days.