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Translated by Željko Cipriš

KOBAYASHI
TAKIJI

A N D OTH ER NOVELS OF STR U GGLE

THE CRAB
CANNERY
SHIP
THE CRAB
CANNERY SHIP
and OTHER NOVELS
OF STRUGGLE
 THE CRAB
CANNERY SHIP
and OTHER NOVELS OF STRUGGLE

kobayashi takiji

Translated by
ŽELJKO CIPRIŠ

With an Introduction by
KOMORI YŌICHI

University of
Hawai‘i Press
Honolulu
© 2013 University of Hawai‘i Press
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America

18 17 16 15 14 13   6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kobayashi, Takiji, 1903–1933, author.

[Novels. English. Selections]
The crab cannery ship and other novels of struggle /
Kobayashi Takiji ; translated by Željko Cipriš ; with an
introduction by Komori Yoichi.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-0-8248-3667-2 (cloth : alk. paper) —
ISBN 978-0-8248-3742-6 (pbk.)
1. Political fiction, Japanese—Translations into English.
I. Cipris, Zeljko, translator. II. Kobayashi, Takiji, 1903–1933.
Kanikosen. English. III. Kobayashi, Takiji, 1903–1933.
Yasuko. English. IV. Kobayashi, Takiji, 1903–1933.
Toseikatsusha. English. V. Title.
PL832.O3A2 2013
895.6’34—dc23
2012029634

University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-

free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and
durability of the Council on Library Resources.

Designed by Julie Matsuo-Chun

Printed by Edwards Brothers, Inc.
To Shane Satori Cipris and
Ljubomir Ryu Cipris, and
to a better world in which
the free development of each
is the condition for the free
development of all
Contents

Translator’s Preface ix
Introduction by Komori Yōichi 1

The Crab Cannery Ship 19

Yasuko 97
Life of a Party Member 221

Glossary 295
Works by Kobayashi Takiji 301
 Translator’s
Preface

Incorrigible internationalism and love of travel take me to various

points of the globe; so it was that I happened to be in Montevideo,
Uruguay, in May of 2008 when a Japanese friend—a single mother
and newly unemployed factory worker—informed me by e-mail
that Japan had a brand new best-selling book: Kani kōsen (The Crab
Cannery­Ship) by Kobayashi Takiji. This was astonishing news in
light of the fact that the book was almost eighty years old—it had
been written in 1929! How did a famous anti-establishment book
from the early twentieth century become a best-seller so many de-
cades later? What enabled it to sell hundreds of thousands of copies
and to generate a number of manga (i.e., comic book) versions, theat-
rical productions, a remake of the movie, and new words like kanikō
suru—meaning,­roughly, “to slave away?” Clearly, something about
the old novel struck its many new readers as most timely.
Not that Takiji’s novel had ever been entirely forgotten. It occupied­
a secure position in Japan’s modern history as the best-known literary
product of the proletarian movement, a major cultural­and political

ix
x že l j k o c i p r i š

current of the 1920s and early 1930s—a time when labor activism,
socialism, feminism, and antimilitarism were briefly in the ascendant,
while paintings, posters, prose narratives, poetry, and plays depict-
ing the lives and struggles of the dispossessed enjoyed a considerable
degree of popular interest and critical esteem. By the mid-thirties,
however, as the country’s elites led the nation ever closer to an all-out
war on the Asian continent, this progressive groundswell had been
largely obliterated through a combination of internal dissension,
government propaganda, and intensified repression: arrests, beat-
ings, imprisonment, and censorship. Though the proletarian move-
ment made somewhat of a comeback at war’s end, it lacked its former
scope and eventually faded amid the officially encouraged consumer-
ism and conformism that came to dominate much of postwar Japan.
Takiji’s­novel lived on in libraries, bookstores, and school curricula,
often as little more than a worthy historical curiosity and a reminder
of the bad old days that would never return, as the country’s econ-
omy kept on growing and its citizens seemed to bask in the glow of
corporate-­induced prosperity.
By the early 1990s, a number of factors including sheer industrial
overcapacity brought decades of economic growth to an end, usher-
ing in the “lost decades” of recession, marked by insecurity, unem-
ployment, a drop in the standard of living, and a rise in the number of
suicides. In 2008—the year Takiji’s novel skyrocketed to fame—over
thirty thousand Japanese people killed themselves, tens of thousands
were homeless, some three million were unemployed, twenty million
were living in poverty, and more than a third of the active labor force
comprised irregular workers who were poorly paid and could easily
be fired. This does not explain why a fiercely anticapitalist novel burst
into light at this particular moment, but it does provide a highly re-
ceptive background of frustration, outrage, and smoldering rebellion
that warmly welcomed its fiery call for united, collective action. (For
the fascinating conjunction of circumstances that triggered the boom
see the Takiji-related articles by Norma Field and Heather Bowen-
Struyk in The Asia-Pacific Journal at japanfocus.org.)
Suddenly, the infernal atmosphere of The Crab Cannery Ship
struck millions as a fitting metaphor for their own predicament—that
 Translator’s Preface xi

of human beings trapped within a soulless system totally dedicated

to the accumulation of profit, a system that deems them valuable
only so long as they can be utilized to help maximize that profit, but
otherwise­considers them disposable. For many, Takiji’s novel offered
eye-opening­insight into the core of a profoundly chilling status quo.
Takiji’s­standpoint is neither conservative nor liberal. To a conservative,
capitalism is the best of all possible worlds; to a liberal, it is the worst
economic system except for all the others. Though both conservatives
and liberals essentially agree with Baroness Thatcher’s proclamation
that “There is no alternative,” liberals commendably strive to make
the dominant system humane, as—had they been born in a different
age—they might have heroically striven to do for slavery, feudalism, or
Stalinism. Takiji, however, goes beyond this: for him, a socioeconomic
system that divides most of humanity into those who own and control
life’s productive resources—factories, plantations,­mines, etc.—and
those who are compelled to sell themselves daily­on the labor market
in order to survive is inherently inhumane. Though it can and should
be reformed to the greatest possible extent, it must ultimately be tran-
scended through solidarity and struggle, to be superseded by a world-
wide cooperative commonwealth in which emancipated humanity
can for the first time begin to live to its fullest potential.­
Japan, once widely looked up to as demonstrating one of the most
successful forms of capitalism on earth—a veritable paradise of happy
salarymen, content housewives, boisterous gangsters, and a beaming
emperor—now began to resemble an angry purgatory, as the foreign
press printed articles with titles like “Japan economy angst boosts sales
of Marxist novel” (Reuters, August 11, 2008), “Japan’s young turn to
Communist Party as they decide capitalism has let them down” (Daily
Telegraph, October 18, 2008), and “Communism on rise in recession-
hit Japan” (BBC, May 4, 2009). And playing the role of catalyst in this
tentative turn to the left was the engagé work of Kobayashi Takiji, a
revolutionary organizer and writer come startlingly back to life.

in june 2008, on a stroll through the sloping grounds of a lovely

Buddhist temple in Kyoto’s western hills, the subject of Takiji came
up in a conversation with Professor Gunilla Lindberg-Wada, Chair
xii že l j k o c i p r i š

of Japanese­Studies at Stockholm University. Somewhat to my sur-

prise, Professor Lindberg-Wada stressed that there is a strong need
for a new English translation of Takiji’s classic novel. A partial Eng-
lish translation of Kani kōsen, based on a heavily censored edition
and done by an anonymous translator—who turned out to be a young
New Zealander named Max Bickerton—had appeared as early as
1933, and the first to produce a complete translation (along with an-
other work by Takiji) was Professor Frank Motofuji of University of
California at Berkeley, in 1973. I had enjoyed both translations—as
well as a lively online rendition of Chapter 1 by Matt Treyvaud—but
my Swedish colleague’s comment gave me something to think about.
The extant English versions of Takiji’s novel had become somewhat
difficult to come by and, even more importantly, a prominent novel
surely deserves multiple translations. When Professor Norma Field
of the University of Chicago, a scholar of proletarian literature and
author of a book on Takiji, told me that she too would welcome a new
translation, I resolved to move ahead. I was already working on two
other Takiji novels—Yasuko­and Tōseikatsusha (Life of a Party Mem-
ber), both included in the present volume and never before translated
into English—so now The Crab Cannery Ship would join them to of-
fer a peerless introduction to Takiji’s literary work: The Crab Can-
nery Ship, the most famous of the three, is experimental in avoid-
ing individualized characters; Yasuko is the culmination of a series of
works about tenant-farmer workers, poor women sacrificed to rich
boys, and their sisters at the dawn of a political awakening; Life of a
Party Member shows the cost of life in the party for a man—and his
family—but also continues to explore female participation, depicting
both the fulfillment and the agonies that involvement in revolution-
ary activism brings to women. The trio of novels can also be seen, as
an anonymous reader for the University of Hawai‘i Press pointed out,
as a virtual how-to primer on raising consciousness, organizing, and
engaging in focused local political actions. Possibly, in addition to
being enlightening, Takiji’s highly readable oeuvre may even inspire
some readers to action!
My approach to the translation has been extraordinarily simple: I
have tried to imagine and construct the sort of literary text that Takiji
 Translator’s Preface xiii

himself would be most likely to produce were he writing now, and in

English. Takiji’s style tends to be unadorned, dynamic, and cinematic,
with frequent paragraph breaks that enliven the reading pace. The
text, though not oversimplified, is accessible and inviting to a broad
audience, and possesses a vigorous vitality that grips the reader. It can
be read “on the run,” and one suspects that some of its early readers—­
many of them members of the then-illegal Communist Party—had
no other way of reading it. German writer Erich Kästner, whose
books were burned by the Nazis as “contrary to the German spirit,”
once noted that his own writing aims at sincerity of feeling, clarity
of thought, and simplicity of expression. The same qualities, I think,
characterize Takiji’s work, and it is my ardent hope that this transla-
tion will do him justice. For, to paraphrase Victor Hugo’s preface to
Les Misérables, so long as there shall exist artificially created hells on
earth, books like this cannot be useless.

this book owes much to many people, so now for some words of
heartfelt gratitude: first I wish to thank the Takiji Library (2003–
2008)—especially to Mr. Sano Chikara, its founder and director, and
Mr. Satō Saburō, its curator—for a magnanimous translation grant
and for their continuous encouragement. (Additional thanks to Mr.
Satō for identifying Takiji’s first English translator, Max Bickerton!)
Outstandingly constructive has been the selfless and tireless sup-
port of my colleague Norma Field who has read the manuscript in
its entirety, and made countless suggestions toward its improve-
ment. Many thanks also to Professor Komori Yōichi of Tokyo Uni-
versity for his wonderful introduction, and for taking the time out
of his hectic schedule to write it. Thanks too to Ms. Aiko Kojima
who kindly transcribed Professor Komori’s beautifully handwritten
manuscript into printed form, making it so much easier for me to
translate. I am most grateful to Professor Gunilla Lindberg-Wada of
Stockholm University­who first gave me the idea of translating The
Crab Cannery Ship, to Norma Field who did the same for Yasuko, and
to Professor Chia-ning Chang of University of California at Davis,
a specialist in modern Japanese literature, who suggested I translate
Life of a Party Member.­(With colleagues like this, the book almost
xiv že l j k o c i p r i š

writes itself!) I am also tremendously­thankful to my fabulous editors

at the University­of Hawai‘i Press, Pamela Kelley and Ann Ludeman,
to the keen-eyed copy editor Wendy Bolton, and to the two readers
for the Press, who all provided excellent counsel in making this book
as good as it could be. I would like to thank Shoko Hamano for send-
ing me a copy of Yasuko that I used for the translation and to Mutsuki­
Miyashita­for first calling my attention to the astounding Takiji
boom—and for everything­else. A special and loving thank-you goes
to Chiba Sen’ichi Sensei whose boundless thoughtfulness and erudi-
tion will always be of greatest inspiration to me. To the consistently
supportive J. Thomas Rimer, a superlative scholar and lovable patron
saint of Japanese literature, a deepest bow of affection and admira-
tion. Infinite thanks to my parents Dr. Divna Popović-Cipriš and Dr.
Marijan Cipriš for bringing me into a most fascinating world, and to
my sons Shane and Ryu for making their old man euphorically happy.
For being my muse, a big thank-you and a kiss to Kobayashi­Ryōko.
Solidarity and gratitude to the people of Japan—may you never­
experience­another Fukushima! Warmest thanks also go to friends
and comrades around the globe, too numerous to mention by name,
who are doing their powerful utmost to change the world.
 INTRODUCTION
Komori Yōichi

Kobayashi Takiji was born on October 13, 1903, in the village of

Shimokawazoi­in Akita Prefecture, a snowy agricultural region of
northern Japan. It was the year before the outbreak of the Russo-
Japanese­War. His father Suematsu was the second son of a small
landholder, but his older brother Keigi had invested family funds in
business and failed, leaving Suematsu to deal with the consequences
after he himself moved to Hokkaido. In the Kobayashi family history
we see that stage in the capitalist development of Japan when small
landowners and independent farmers, driven into bankruptcy and
loss of their lands, were being sent into the industrializing cities and
colonies to become wage laborers.
In 1907, when Takiji was four, his family emigrated to Otaru in
Hokkaido—Imperial Japan’s first colony—to earn a living helping
Keigi who had gone into business baking and selling bread under a
sign that read “Mitsuboshidō Co of Otaru, Purveyors to the Impe-
rial Navy.” After completing elementary school, Takiji continued to
work at his uncle’s bakery, in exchange for which he received financial

1
2 komori yōichi

assistance­that enabled him to enroll in the municipal Commercial

School. It was there that Takiji developed a strong interest in literature
and the arts. Graduating fifth in his class in 1921, he entered the Ota-
ru Higher School of Commerce. From this point on Kobayashi Takiji’s
life was riven by multiple conditions, which at times coexisted in a
state of contradiction, at others in outright conflict or disjunction: his
family were former landholders and ruined farmers; once mainland
farmers and now colonial wage laborers; close relatives of the owner
of a bakery but part of that bakery’s proletariat. Consequently, he
himself belonged both to the proletariat and to the intelligentsia that
aspired through elite education to join the petty bourgeoisie. Aware-
ness of these cleavages in his existence became deeply etched in Ko-
bayashi Takiji at the time he began his higher schooling. He himself
would later compare such a condition to “holding dual citizenship.”
While serving on the editorial board of the school’s alumni maga-
zine, Takiji began to publish stories in journals such as The Novel Club
and New Literature. Still full of literary aspiration, he nonetheless took
a job upon graduation in 1924 with the Otaru branch of the Hokkaido
Colonial Bank. This bank began as a semigovernmental, semiprivate
enterprise whose object was the colonial development of Hokkaido
and Karafuto (southern Sakhalin Island). Its initial capital was three
million yen, and it extended long-term loans using as collateral the
agricultural and residential land that the immigrants had plundered
from the native population. From the time of the Russo-Japanese
War, before Takiji’s family had moved to Otaru, the bank began is-
suing bonds and during World War I, it grew into a trust company.
Beginning­with the “cultivation of Hokkaido,” a euphemism for a war
of colonial aggression, and with each subsequent war—Sino-Japanese,
Russo-Japanese, World War I—the Hokkaido Colonial Bank expand-
ed its operations and increasingly became an institution dedicated to
financing imperialist ventures.
Six months into work at such a bank, the twenty-one-year-old
Kobayashi Takiji met sixteen-year-old Taguchi Takiko at the Yama-
kiya, a small eatery whose principal business was in fact prostitu-
tion. The experience of falling in love with a woman from the lowest
stratum of capitalist society’s class system—a woman who had been
 Introduction 3

driven to commodifying her own sexuality—while working in a bank

at the center of that system, imposed manifold disjunctions on Takiji.
It also provided the germ of what would grow to become the core of
his literature.

Hokkaido
4 komori yōichi

Just about the same time, in 1925, a young writer named Hayama
Yoshiki published a story called “The Prostitute” (Inbaifu), which
became a virtual manifesto of the proletarian—i.e., working-class—
literature­in Japan: it made possible the linkage of prostitution with
the growing class-consciousness of workers that labor power entailed
the coerced transformation of their bodies into commodities. Read-
ing the story in the autumn of 1926, Takiji wrote in his diary: “A
straight punch to the heart!” He began to write short fiction with such
titles as “Those Left Behind” (Nokosareru mono, 1927) and “Takiko
and Others”­(Takiko sonota, 1928), dealing with the reality of women
at the bottom rung of society who were forced to sell their own sex-
ual bodies as commodities. Later dubbed “the Takiko stories,” these
pieces depict not only a refusal to surrender to conditions in which
fighting back seemed all but impossible, but a tenacious search for
avenues of opposition and resistance.
Meanwhile, in 1927, three thousand people took part in Otaru’s
second May Day celebration, making it the largest in scale north of
Tokyo. A key impetus for this upsurge in the movement was the Iso-
no tenant farmers’ strike, a signal event within the growing agrarian
struggles in colonial Hokkaido. The previous year’s disastrous har-
vest caused by cold weather had led to a grave crisis for Hokkaido’s
tenant farmers. One after another, furious strikes demanding reduc-
tion or exemption from tenancy rents broke out. A certain Isono
Susumu, who operated a farm in Furano and was president of the
Otaru chamber­of commerce as well as a city council member—a
perfect example of the “absentee landlord,” situated at a comfortable
remove from the life-and-death struggles of his tenant farmers—not
only refused­to lower the rent but announced an increase, and when
the tenant farmers refused to accede, he initiated a lawsuit demand-
ing confiscation of their property and return of the land. The tenant
farmers formed a strike group and prepared for action.
On March 3, 1927, the strike group made the arduous journey
from Furano to Otaru. When Isono refused to negotiate, the strik-
ers appealed directly to the citizens of Otaru, distributing leaflets and
giving speeches, generating a flurry of verbal activity. All the speeches
attracted overflow crowds, with thousands of people showing up.
 Introduction 5

In response, the citizens of Otaru sought every conceivable form of

action in solidarity with the strikers. The result was an arbitration
signed on April 9 that actually exceeded the strike group’s demands,
extending to guarantee of the tenant farmers’ right to cultivate their
rented land. That year, in other words, the slow spring days leading to
International Workers’ Day—May 1—were marked by a historic joint
struggle by tenant farmers and the united labor union that produced
victory in the international port city of Otaru.
June saw the beginning of the Otaru harbor strike, the first gen-
eral strike by an industrial union in Japan. It started with a demand
by 36 barge stevedores for a wage increase. The workers of Otaru,
however, had already tasted victory achieved by waging a united cam-
paign. Harbor workers of various occupations, indeed the majority,
began to join the strike. Their families organized mass meetings, ele-
mentary school students went on strike, and the contents of the work-
ers’ demands were widely publicized among the citizens. Drawing on
the experience of the joint farmer-worker struggle during the Isono
strike, the Japan Farmers Union called on all its Hokkaido branches
to act in solidarity with the Otaru workers.
Kobayashi Takiji was directly involved with the strikers, helping
to write publicity leaflets on his way home after work at the bank.
He began taking part in study classes with labor and farmer activists.
This experience of a revolutionary struggle by an alliance of workers
and farmers would bear fruit in his novella The Absentee Landlord
(Fuzai jinushi), published January 1930, in the prestigious magazine
Central Review (Chūō kōron), an indication both of his rising stature
as a writer and of the general public’s interest in proletarian literature.
The general election held in the year following these strikes
marks the next step in Takiji’s growing political engagement. In
1925, along with the draconian Peace Preservation Law, a General
Election Law was enacted, providing for Japan’s first general election
based on universal male suffrage. It was announced for February 20,
1928. Takiji actively involved himself in the electoral campaign of the
Communist Party member Yamamoto Kenzō, who ran as the Labor
Farmer Party’s­official candidate from Hokkaido’s first district. That
experience was to find vivid expression in the novella Journey to East
6 komori yōichi

Kutchan (Higashi­Kutchan kō), published in the December 1930 issue

of the mainstream general-interest magazine Reconstruction (Kaizō).
The proletarian parties won 8 seats out of 466 in the general
election. The government authorities took a grim view of the open
electoral activities by the supposedly outlawed yet reorganized Com-
munist Party that had evidently reconstructed itself. Beginning at
dawn on March 15, they launched a nationwide wave of mass arrests
directed against activists affiliated with the Communist Party and the
Labor Farmer party. More than 1,600 people were arrested overall,
most of them in Tokyo, Osaka, and—third in the number of those
detained—Hokkaido. Kobayashi Takiji portrayed this act of massive
repression as one of psychological and physical violence in his story
“March 15, 1928” (1928-nen 3-gatsu 15-nichi). He paid particular at-
tention to depicting the distinct psychological responses to interroga-
tion and torture on the part of his characters, who differed from one
another in terms of class origins and way of life.
The preceding year, 1927, Takiji had taken the initiative to join
his abiding interest in literature with his strengthening commitment
to the labor movement by taking on the responsibility of serving as
executive secretary of the Otaru branch of the Worker and Farmer
Artists Federation. The following spring, after the March 15 Incident,
he took time off from the bank and went to Tokyo to meet Kura-
hara Korehito of the Japanese Proletarian Arts Federation (NAPF).
Kurahara was the leading theorist of the Japanese proletarian litera-
ture movement. It was that meeting on May 5, 1928, that led to the
submission and publication to instant acclaim of the novella “March
15, 1928” in the November and December issues of The Battleflag
(Senki), the organ of NAPF. In February of 1929, Takiji was elected
to the central committee of the Japanese Proletarian Writers League,
formed through a reorganization of NAPF, and quickly followed up
with the publication of The Crab Cannery Ship in the May and June
issues of The Battleflag.

the crab cannery Ship (Kani kōsen) was written on the basis of a
painstaking investigation into an actual incident that took place in
1926. In a letter to Kurahara Korehito, dated March 31, 1929, Takiji
 Introduction 7

provided a detailed discussion of seven points concerning the novel’s

“intent.” First, its protagonist was not a single character, but rather a
group of workers. Second, there was “no depiction of individual per-
sonality or psychology” (emphasis in the original). Third, “various ef-
forts had been made with respect to form” in order to facilitate “pop-
ularization of the proletarian arts.” Current efforts in this direction
had the air of a superficial intellectual attempt at popularization; this
work, by contrast, sought to be “overwhelmingly worker-like.” Fourth,
it “dealt with a unique form of labor,” taking place aboard a crab can-
nery ship. Such labor involved “a type of exploitation typical of colo-
nies and undeveloped areas,” and it had “the advantage of making
transparently clear” not only “the conditions of Japanese workers” but
also the “international, military, and economic relations” constituting
those conditions. Fifth, the novel “dealt with unorganized workers.”
Sixth, it showed how capitalism, while “seeking to keep the workers
unorganized,” was ironically “causing the workers (spontaneously) to
organize.” Seventh, even though it was said that “the proletariat must
unconditionally oppose imperialist wars,” few workers understood
why this was so. To meet this need the novel had to touch on “the eco-
nomic foundation of imperialist wars, the machinery of imperialism
that sets the army itself in motion.” For this purpose, a “crab cannery
ship offered the best setting.”
In my judgment, these seven points provide the most systematic
and precise commentary on the basic characteristics and structure of
the novel. Nonetheless, I must underscore the significance of Takiji’s
recognition that the crab cannery ship presented “a unique form of
labor.” This was none other than the discovery of the crab cannery
ship as a temporal and spatial zone in which the rule of law had been
suspended.

Crab cannery ships were considered factories [factory

ships], not ships. Therefore maritime law did not apply to
them.
. . . Moreover the crab cannery ships were factories
pure and simple. And yet factory laws did not apply to
them either. Consequently, no other site offered such an
8 komori yōichi

accommodating­setting for management’s freedom to act

with total impunity.

Neither ships nor factories! The novel’s narrative makes clear to the
reader the double sense in which the rule of law had been suspended.
What is more, since the ships were operating around Kamchatka,
along the boundary of the Japanese and Soviet territorial waters,
neither­country’s domestic laws applied. Thanks to its nature as a
time-space zone absolutely beyond the constraint of law, the crab can-
nery ship made possible unlimited exploitation and plunder in “an
accommodating setting,” with “total impunity.”
Takiji discovered the crab cannery ship to be a battleground—the
site where, as Carl Schmitt points out, the rule of law is suspended.
Yet because this battleground was not the site of a war being waged
between nations, even the laws of war failed to apply on board the
crab cannery ship. At the same time, however, a naval warship ac-
companied the cannery ship. The workers on board did not have the
option of surrendering and withdrawing from the front. It was these
characteristics of the crab cannery ship that Takiji identified as ren-
dering the “international, military, and economic relations” transpar-
ently clear.
In the crab cannery ship, none of the laws pertaining to ordinary
society apply. The workers aboard are not treated as human beings.
“The Stuttering Fisherman,” a man singled out among the fishermen
by this linguistic feature, had first begun to stutter when the radio op-
erator confronted him with the reality that manager “Asakawa doesn’t
think of you fellows as human beings.” Being stripped of every shred
of dignity that should be supported by law and confronted by condi-
tions of constant exposure to naked violence had triggered a disorder
in that very ability to use words that defines a human being.
Of the “group” controlling and managing the crab cannery
ship, the only individual given a proper name is the fishing opera-
tion’s manager Asakawa. The character who falls victim to his homi-
cidal violence is a youth belonging to the factory hands, the weakest­
“group” among the workers. He too is given a name, Miyaguchi. In
other words, proper names are accorded only to the highest and
 Introduction 9

lowest­members of the strata wherein naked violence is exercised by

the strong over the weak. The others are only indicated by attributes
that distinguish them within the group.
A personal name is used, however, to mark an important turning
point at which the formerly “unorganized workers” begin to organize
themselves. A fisherman who “had come through an agency in the
Nippori section of Tokyo together with ten or so of his friends” and
“who had long been bedridden with beriberi” dies. “Everyone,” we
read, “resolved to stay up for the wake.” The incident occurs after ev-
erybody has taken “turns offering incense,” and the sailors and fisher-
men are sitting about “gathered in small groups.”
The Stuttering Fisherman steps up to the body and declares, with-
out stuttering:

I don’t know the sutras. I can’t console Yamada’s spirit by

chanting sutras. But I’ve been thinking a lot, and here’s what
I think. I’ve thought about how much Yamada didn’t want to
die. . . . No, to tell the truth, I’ve thought about how much he
didn’t want to be killed. There’s no denying that Yamada was
killed.

It is when this fisherman breaks out of the naked violence and pro-
ceeds to correct his choice of words from “to die” to “to be killed” as
a declaration of his anger, that the sailors—members of a different
group—respond in agreement, calling out, “You’re right.”
By 1933, The Crab Cannery Ship had been translated into Chi-
nese, Russian, and English, and came to be read throughout the world.
Since then it has been buffeted by the vicissitudes of history: sup-
pressed during the years of intensifying repression and war, revived in
the postwar years, and increasingly neglected in the depoliticization
of society from the mid-1970s. Then, in twenty-first-century Japan,­
where the systematic dismantling of laws regulating employment
had begun in 1995, The Crab Cannery Ship sparked a great boom.
This boom reached a peak in late 2008 and early 2009, when activ-
ist groups that had previously campaigned separately combined into
an “Anti-Poverty Network” and organized a “Dispatch Workers’ New
10 komori yōichi

Year Village” in Hibiya Park, right in front of the Ministry of Health,

Labor and Welfare. At Hibiya Park, unorganized workers gathered
together for the first time, helping each other to organize, creating
anew a social community in the form of a “village,” and giving rise to a
movement that directly confronted the state with the demand to heed
the constitutionally guaranteed right to life. Kobayashi Takiji’s theory
of collective action continues to be valid in the twenty-first century.

during the second wave of repression directed against the Com-

munist Party and its supporters known as the “April 16 Incident” of
1929, forty people were arrested in Otaru. Takiji himself was taken
into custody on April 20 and his house searched. In September the
Hokkaido Colonial Bank demoted Takiji from researcher to teller,
and on November 16 he was fired. In March of 1930, Takiji moved
from Otaru to Tokyo and became deeply involved in the activities of
the Writers’ League. From the middle of May, together with Eguchi
Kiyoshi, Kishi Yamaji, Kataoka Teppei, and other writers, he took part
in a lecture tour of Kyoto, Osaka, and Mie Prefecture to raise funds
for the defense of the journal The Battleflag. Suspected of financially
assisting the Communist Party, Takiji was arrested on May 23 by of-
ficers of the Shimanouchi police station in Osaka and kept in deten-
tion for two weeks, during which time he was tortured. On August
21, charged with violation of the Peace Preservation Law, Takiji was
incarcerated at the Toyotama prison, and released on bail on January
22, 1931.
In July, having been elected member and secretary general of the
standing central committee of the Writers’ League, Takiji rented a
house in Mabashi, in Tokyo’s Suginami ward, sent for his mother from
Hokkaido, and set up a household with her and his younger brother.
From August 23 to October 31 he serialized his first newspaper­novel,
A Portrait of New Women (Shin josei katagi), in sixty-nine issues of
Miyako Shinbun. This novel, whose title was later changed to Yasuko,
was never suppressed and was published without a single word cen-
sored.
The narrative begins with a court scene in which Taguchi Sango,
a poor tenant farmer and older brother to the sisters Okei and Yasuko,
 Introduction 11

is sentenced to six months’ imprisonment. A love triangle involving a

girl named Kiyo has caused Sango to stab landlord Yoshimine’s son, a
fellow coordinator of the Sunada Village Young Men’s Association. In
the course of the investigation, a court officer closely questions Sango,
insinuating that more was involved than resentment at having a girl
taken away. “Didn’t your hatred of him as your landlord also play a
part?” The officer is trying to ascertain whether Sango had commit-
ted a simple criminal offense, or whether there was the possibility of
a political offense.
At this point Sango recalls being told by a woman from his
village—­who with no land to till even as a tenant, lives as a day laborer­
and works in a “cheap noodle restaurant” in town—that “love affairs
demand the luxury of free time.” In order to pay overdue rent to the
landlord, Sango had been toiling at all sorts of manual work to earn
wages: performing hired labor, piling up gravel, cutting timber, dig-
ging irrigation ditches, and fishing for herring. Consequently, he does
not possess “the luxury of free time” that he could devote to “love
affairs.” Under wretched conditions of employment, wage laborers
cannot even have a love life. This fact exposes the exploitation and
plunder­that characterize the class relations between landlords and
tenant farmers. Yet it had never occurred to Sango to demand a rent
reduction from the landlord Yoshimine. When a strike of tenant farm-
ers broke out in the neighboring village of Tsukigata, he had gone as
coordinator of the Young Men’s Association to conduct arbitration.
The person most dissatisfied with such a brother is his younger
sister Yasuko. She was an excellent student and head of her class at a
school attended by pupils from Sunada and Tsukigata villages, but she
had been confronted with the reality that only a rich child can go on
to a higher school. It stands to reason that when, in the course of the
Tsukigata strike, night soil is thrown at the house of a landlord whose
daughter is one of the group going on to middle school, Yasuko ends
up dreaming that she herself had done it. Around the time that the
rich children advance to middle school, Yasuko begins work at an
eatery that is frequented by workers in Otaru’s factory district.
A different experience makes her older sister Okei confront the
reality of being a woman. While her brother is being interrogated,
12 komori yōichi

Okei notices that “little Yamagami Yoshi,” daughter of a family that

lost the tenancy dispute in Tsukigata, has been arrested for engag-
ing in prostitution to earn “one yen and fifty sen.” A policeman tells
her that with Yoshi’s father punished for the strike and unable to find
employment, the family is making a living with the money that the
young woman brings in. As Okei wonders what kind of life lay ahead
of her now that her brother was to be gone, she cannot help thinking
that selling one’s body might become a part of it.
When men who support a family by selling themselves as labor
power become unable to sell that commodity, the only way for that
family to survive is for its women to take on much cheaper forms
of wage labor agonizingly close to prostitution. The only choices are
working at an eatery or a cheap noodle restaurant, and after that, sell-
ing one’s body. Okei and her mother, having been driven out of Suna-
da, move to Otaru where Yasuko is living. With the help of the owner
of the restaurant where Yasuko works, Okei gets a job on a piecework
basis at a pea-sorting factory where green peas are handpicked for
export. As a wage laborer doing her best to support her mother, Okei
works from six thirty in the morning until five in the evening to earn
about seventy sen, or as much as one yen when she works until nine.
Meanwhile, Yasuko, who has been receiving an education about
the labor movement from Yamada, the “union man” who comes to
the eatery, is asked to persuade her sister to allow the room shared
with their mother to be made available for clandestine meetings. Hav-
ing permitted the union people to use the room, Okei comes to agree
with Yamada’s view that working-class women must be liberated from
the “double chains” of men and capital. She is thrown into turmoil
when she hears Yasuko’s confession that she is “moving in” with Ya-
mada and devoting herself full time to the union.
Yamada thinks that unless millions of women like Okei can be
helped, the movement will not truly take root. As Okei tries to give
Yamada and Yasuko’s activities what support she can, she receives a
declaration of love from Yamada’s fellow activist Sasaki. While she
tries to find a way to participate in the movement without abandon-
ing life with her mother, the ensuing wholesale arrests throw the char-
acters’ relationships into chaos.
 Introduction 13

The novel Yasuko explores the whole range of literary subjects

that Kobayashi Takiji had taken upon himself to pursue as a writer:
state power and the legal system, criminal offenses and political of-
fenses, resistance and slavery, cities and farming villages, class con-
flict and class consciousness, wage labor and prostitution, men and
women, production and reproduction, spiritual love and sexual love,
political consciousness and political practice. These subjects are de-
lineated in the vivid changes taking place in Okei’s body and mind,
and they are constructed so that readers take them on as their own
issues.

in october 1931, while in the process of completing Yasuko, Ko-

bayashi Takiji joined the illegal Japanese Communist Party. The inva-
sion of Manchuria, a vast region of northeast China, by the Japanese
Kwantung Army was in full force. On January 28, 1932, the war of
aggression expanded to Shanghai, and the puppet state of Manchu-
kuo was “founded” on March 1. Between late March and May, two
leading figures in the Japanese Proletarian Culture League, Kurahara
Korehito and Nakano Shigeharu, were arrested. Around this time,
Takiji supported a campaign to revoke the dismissal of temporary
workers at Fujikura Industries in Gotanda, which would become the
setting for Life of a Party Member (Tōseikatsusha). On April 3, after
consulting with Miyamoto Kenji and other comrades, Takiji made the
decision to engage in underground activities in order to rebuild the
culture movement in the face of ever intensifying repression. Toward
the middle of that month he married Itō Fujiko, who had helped to
connect him with the workers at Fujikura. At the end of August, he
completed Life of a Party Member.
In postwar Japanese society, this work became the basis for a
negative evaluation of the novelist Kobayashi Takiji. Literary critic
Hirano Ken charged that the treatment of “Kasahara” in this novel
reflected the existence of a “housekeeper system,” and that it revealed
“a contempt for human beings whereby the end justified any means.”
Detecting within the text “the supremacy of politics” of the Japa-
nese Communist Party, Hirano expanded his critique into a debate
on “politics and literature.” Critic Ara Masahito also condemned the
14 komori yōichi

“masked egoism” of the protagonist, who, lacking a “personal life of

his own,” was willing to sacrifice Kasahara for his causes.
Such criticism holds true only on the basis of a most peculiar
premise: that among the novels by Kobayashi Takiji, a writer who did
not use the “I-novel” technique that treats the author and the pro-
tagonist as one, only Life of a Party Member equates the protagonist
with the author, and moreover makes the author identical with the
organization that is the Japanese Communist Party. What cannot be
overlooked, however, is that Life of a Party Member is structured in
such a way that the first-person protagonist’s narration is subjected to
the criticism of other characters and relativized by their words.
In the course of a conversation between the first-person narrator/­
protagonist Sasaki Yasuji, a male comrade called Suyama, and a female
comrade named Itō Yoshi, the talk turns to Itō’s marriage. Suyama
says, “I hear she’s planning to wait till after the revolution. When our
comrades marry, even though they’re Marxists, a three-thousand-
year-old consciousness still latent makes them try to turn Yoshi into a
slave.” To this, Itō icily retorts: “You’re just making a confession about
yourself!” It is here that an important theme of Life of a Party Member
manifests itself.
A “slave” is an instrument capable of speech, whose human
rights and liberties have all been stripped away, who under a master’s
rule and command performs compulsory labor without compensa-
tion, and who moreover is bought and sold as a commodity. Itō sees
through to the desire concealed in the men’s joking, and “with a chilly
expression,” rejects it. Though the change in her expression lasts only
an instant, “I”-Sasaki does not miss it. Should we deal with our fellow
human beings sympathetically as individuals like ourselves, or should
we utilize them only as implements to serve our own desires? The
very relations among the novel’s characters pose this fundamental
question to the “party members.”
What is important is that the activities that “I,” “Suyama,” and
“Itō” are engaged in within “Kurata Industries” constitute a move-
ment demanding workers be treated not as implements, but as human
beings who possess individuality and dignity. When the war against
China began, the factory “stopped manufacturing the electric wires it
 Introduction 15

had been making, and began to manufacture gas masks, parachutes,

and airship fuselages.” In view of the war’s expansion, the hastily im-
provised war plant hires six hundred temporary workers and after
supplying the army with the products, plans a mass dismissal of as
many as four hundred. At this point, party members “I,” “Suyama,”
and “Itō” move in, and while using the factory newspaper to protest
the long hours and low wages that prevail at the plant, seek “to clarify
the substance of imperialist war through everyday dissatisfactions.”
Of course, war turns human beings into instruments of murder,
namely soldiers, and suspends the enforcement of laws. The party
members make it clear that a similar thing is occurring on the home
front, too, right there at the factory. At first they try planting assistants
in order to turn the words and human relations manifested in every-
day conversations at the factory into instruments for the purpose of
organizing the workers. One time, the “assistant” at a gathering of
women workers remarks that under the present working conditions
“we can’t even whisper words of love!” and other voices chime in with
“That’s right” and “That’s true!” As they continue, these voices begin
to change into voices of human anger and demand: “Not that we can
do much with the kind of daily wage we’re getting!” “This company is
heartless, and that’s the truth!”

Even Itō was surprised by this. Before she herself had

noticed­it, the talk of “whispering about love” had trans-
formed itself into a discussion of the workers’ treatment by
the company. The “assistant,” too, was astonished. Without
any prodding, the conversation had turned into an attack on
their maltreatment by the company.

The intent of the party members to try to turn words, logic, and
women­workers into instruments is completely overturned. The
remark “we can’t even whisper words of love,” deploying humor to
denounce conditions that disavow human individuality and dignity,
causes a shift in the logic by which the women workers themselves
perceive those conditions. Through words that prompt them to recall
that they are human beings endowed with individuality and dignity,
16 komori yōichi

the women workers acquire on their own the logic to denounce the
company’s treatment of people. The party members are astonished by
this process.
Let’s compare this scene with the one in which Kasahara has lost
her job, and the narrator’s life with her has reached a dead end. “I”
proposes that she consider “becoming a café waitress.” Kasahara, “not
looking at me, her voice surprisingly calm and low,” says “You mean,
for the sake of your work, don’t you?” And then she screams, “I’ll do
anything, I’ll become a prostitute!” There is no question that Kasa-
hara’s outraged scream is a thoroughgoing criticism of the narrator.
It is a denunciation of his regard for her only as an instrument, of his
refusal of mutual understanding.
The word “sacrifice” that “I” uses in relation to Kasahara when he
reflects “I, too, was sacrificing nearly my entire life” is in fact a cen-
tral concept in the dispute between the company men and the party
members over the collection of money for comfort packages to be
sent to the front, and as such is positioned at a pivotal point in the
novel. A reformist leader, who is using such money collecting as a
screen for “Red hunting,” points out that “on the factory floor our
comrades were exploited by capitalists, but once on the battlefield,
they are being sacrificed to enemy bullets.” Therefore, given that sol-
diers were fellow workers, “collecting money for the comfort pack-
ages was a legitimate response.”
Sacrifice denotes offering one’s life for the benefit of others. The
“enemy” having been established, it comes to mean that the soldiers
at the battlefront are fighting for the people, in other words “for the
whole nation.” Itō and Suyama make it clear to everybody that such
an assertion is nothing but “a trick to make us think” that something
is true when in fact it is not. Suyama declares, “In every single situ-
ation, we are sacrificed for the benefit of the capitalists.” He posi-
tions this question as “a turn from quantity to quality.” What is being
challenged is the quality—the actual substance—of “sacrifice”: for
whose benefit, and for the sake of what, are we to offer our lives? Fur-
thermore, as “I” himself realizes, “we must conduct our struggle not
through dogma, but through consent.” Logic that concerns itself only
with the quantity and greatness of sacrifice and ignores its substance
 Introduction 17

is bound to lead to an affirmation of war. This is at the heart of the

novel’s criticism.
How Takiji might have developed the theme of the antiwar strug-
gle in relation to solidarity that insists on human dignity and indi-
viduality can never be known. The text as we have it concludes with
the words “End of Part One” and a dedication to “Comrade Kurahara
Korehito.” Takiji was tortured to death at the Tsukiji police station
in Tokyo on February 20, 1933. His novel was published in the April
and May issues of the magazine Central Review under the title Tenkan
jidai (Times of Change), for there was no way that Takiji’s preferred
title could be printed under the circumstances. As it was, the hand-
written manuscript, comprising 80 pages of 400 characters each, was
censored in 758 places, with nearly 14,000 characters suppressed.
The editorial postscript to the April issue of Central Review con-
tains the following words: “In our literary section, we are publishing a
posthumous masterpiece by Kobayashi Takiji, a leading light among
our country’s creators of working-class literature! As we remember
Takiji’s years of hard struggle and his heartbreaking death, it is pre-
cisely this interrupted work that we regard as his truly monumental
achievement.”
 THE
CRAB
CANNERY
SHIP

1
“buddy, we’re off to hell!”
Leaning over the deck railing, two fishermen looked out on the
town of Hakodate stretched like a snail embracing the sea. One of
them spit out a cigarette he had smoked down to his fingertips. The
stub fell skimming the tall side of the ship, turning playfully every
which way. The man reeked of liquor.
Steamships with red bulging bellies rose from the water; others
being loaded with cargo leaned hard to one side as if tugged down
by the sea. There were thick yellow smokestacks, large bell-like
buoys, launches scurrying like bedbugs among ships. Bleak whirls
of oil soot, scraps of bread, and rotten fruit floated on the waves as
if forming some special fabric. Blown by the wind, smoke drifted
over waves wafting a stifling smell of coal. From time to time a harsh
rattle of winches traveling along the waves reverberated against the
flesh.

19
20 kobayashi takiji

Directly in front of the crab cannery ship Hakkōmaru rested a

sailing ship with peeling paint, its anchor chain lowered from a hole
in its bow that looked like an ox’s nostril. Two foreign sailors with
pipes in mouth paced the deck back and forth like automatons. The
ship seemed to be Russian. No doubt it was a patrol vessel sent to keep
an eye on the Japanese cannery ship.
“I don’t have a damned penny left. Shit, look.” One of the fish-
ermen moved closer to the other, gripped his hand and pressed it
against the pocket of the corduroy trousers beneath his jacket. The
pocket seemed to contain a small box.
The other man silently watched his mate’s face.
“He, he, he,” chuckled the first man. “They’re cards.”
The ship’s captain was smoking a cigarette and strolling along the
deck like an admiral. The smoke he exhaled broke into sharp angles as
it passed the tip of his nose, and flew away in shreds. Sailors draggling
wooden-soled zōri were bustling in and out of the forward cabins,
food pails in hand. Preparations had been completed and the ship
was ready to sail.
The two fishermen, peering down through the hatch into workers’­
quarters in the dim bottom of the ship, saw a noisy commotion inside
the stacked bunks, like a nest full of birds’ darting faces. The workers
were all boys of fourteen or fifteen.
“Where’re you from?”
“X District.”
They were all children from Hakodate’s slums. Poverty had
brought them together.
“What about the guys in the bunks over there?”
“They’re from Nambu.”
“And those?”
“Akita.” Each cluster of bunks belonged to a different region.
“Where in Akita?”
“North Akita.” The boy’s nose was running with thick, oozing
mucus, and the rims of his eyes were inflamed and drooping.
“You farmers?”
“Yeah.”
The air was stifling, filled with the sour stench of rotten fruit.
 The Crab Cannery Ship 21

Dozens of barrels of pickled vegetables were stored next door, adding

their own shit-like odor.
“From now on you can sleep hugging your old Dad here,” smiled
the fisherman lewdly.
In a dim corner, a mother was peeling an apple for her son who
lay prone on his bunk. The mother wore a triangular scarf and a la-
borer’s jacket and trousers. She watched the child eat the apple, and
ate the spiral peeling. While talking to him, the mother kept untying
and retying a small cloth-wrapped package that lay next to her child.
There were seven or eight mothers. Children from the main island
whom no one had come to see off stole occasional glances in their
direction.
A woman took caramels out of a box and handed two each to the
nearby children, saying, “You be good to my Kenkichi, and work to-
gether like friends.” The woman’s hair and clothes were covered with
cement dust. Her hands were ungainly, large and rough like roots of
a tree.
Other mothers were blowing their children’s noses, wiping their
faces with hand towels, and talking to them in subdued voices.
“Your boy looks so strong,” said one of the mothers.
“I guess.”
“Mine’s so weakly. Wish I could do something . . .”
“We’re all worried.”
With some relief, the two fishermen drew their faces back from the
hatch. Suddenly mute, they returned sullenly to their trapezoid-shaped
“nest” situated closer to the prow than the hole that held the workers.
With each rise and fall of the anchor everyone in the nest was tossed up
and then thrown together, as if dumped into a concrete mixer.
In the dim interior, fishermen lay about like pigs. The nauseating
stench itself was that of a pigsty.
“Damn, it stinks here!”
“It sure does, thanks to us.”
A fisherman whose head resembled a red mortar was pouring
sake from a half-gallon bottle into a chipped teacup. He munched on
a cuttlefish as he drank. Next to him a man lay on his back eating an
apple and looking through a pulp magazine with a torn cover.
22 kobayashi takiji

Four men sat drinking in a circle. A man who hadn’t yet had
enough to drink wedged himself among them.
“Damn, we’re going to be at sea for four frigging months. I knew
I’d have no chance to get laid so . . .” The sturdily built man licked his
thick lower lip and narrowed his eyes. He raised a shrunken money-
pouch that looked like a dried persimmon and swung it at eye level.
“Look at my wallet. That widow might be a skinny little slut but she
sure knows how to fuck!”
“Hey, just shut up about that!”
“No, no, we want to hear.”
The man laughed merrily.
“Look at those two over there. Isn’t that a sight for sore eyes?”
A drunken man pointed with his chin, fixing his bleary eyes on a
bunk directly across. A fisherman was handing money over to his
wife. “Look at that!”
The two had laid out crumpled banknotes and silver coins on a
small box, and were counting them. The man was writing something
in a small notebook, repeatedly licking his pencil.
“For crying out loud, can you believe that?”
“I got a wife and kids myself!” growled the fisherman who had
spent his money on the prostitute.
A young fisherman spoke up loudly from a bunk a little way off.
His face was swollen with a hangover and his hair hung long over his
forehead. “I thought I wouldn’t set foot on a ship this time. But I got
a runaround from the employment agency and ended up penniless.
They’ll keep me at this till I drop dead.”
A man with his back to him, evidently from the same region,
whispered something to him.
A pair of bowlegs appeared at the top of the cabin stairs, and
a man shouldering a large old-fashioned cloth bag came down the
steps. His eyes darted around. Spotting an empty bunk he climbed
into it.
“Hullo,” he said, bowing to the man next to him. “I’ll be joining
you.” His face was oily and black, as if dyed with a dark substance.
Later on, they were to learn the following story about this man.
Shortly before coming on board, he had been working as a miner at
 The Crab Cannery Ship 23

the Yūbari coal mine and had almost got killed in a recent gas explo-
sion. Similar things had happened many times before, but this time
the miner had suddenly grown frightened and quit the mine. At the
time of the explosion, he had been at work pushing a coal car along
the rails. He had loaded the car with coal and was shoving it toward a
man at a relay station when it happened. He thought that a hundred
magnesium flares had burst before his eyes at once. In a fraction of
a second he felt his body float up into the air like a scrap of paper.
Several coal cars blown by the blast flew past his eyes more lightly
than matchboxes.­That was the last thing he knew. After some time,
the sound of his own groans woke him up. Foremen and miners were
building a wall across the shaft to keep the flames from spreading. At
that moment he clearly heard other coal miners’ voices from beyond
the wall, pleading for help. Their cries tore unforgettably into his heart.
There was still time to rescue them! He suddenly rose, jumped into the
middle of his comrades, and began madly to scream, “Stop, stop!” (In
the past he too had built such walls, but it hadn’t bothered him then.)
“You damned idiot! If the fire gets to us, we’re dead.”
Couldn’t they hear the voices growing fainter and fainter? Hardly
knowing what he was doing, he began to run frantically along the
mineshaft, waving his arms and crying out. He stumbled and fell
countless times, struck his head against overhead beams, grew soaked
with mud and blood. Finally he tripped over a railway tie, somer-
saulted like a thrown wrestler, and crashed against the tracks, losing
consciousness.
Hearing the miner’s story, a young fisherman said, “Well, things
are not much better here either . . .”
The miner gazed at him with the yellowish, lusterless eyes com-
mon among people who toil underground, and said nothing.
Some of the “fishermen farmers” from Akita, Aomori, and Iwate
sat around with legs loosely crossed, arms akimbo, ignoring every-
one. The rest leaned against pillars, hugging their knees, innocently
watching others drink and listening attentively to their idle chatter.
The task of feeding their families, impossible despite working in the
fields from before dawn, had forced them to come here. They had left
the oldest sons behind, still short of food, and sent the daughters to
24 kobayashi takiji

work in factories. Even the second and third sons had to go somewhere­
to work. Masses of such surplus people, like beans scooped up in a
pan, were driven away from the countryside and flowed into the cit-
ies. All of them dreamed of saving up a bit of money­and returning
home. But once they began to work—in Hakodate,­Otaru, and other
cities—they struggled like fledglings trapped in sticky rice–cake until
they were thrown out of work as stark naked as the day they were
born. They could not go home again. To survive the winter in snowy
Hokkaido where they had no relatives, they had to “sell” their bodies
as cheaply as dirt. Though they had done it over and over, they would
calmly (if such a word is appropriate) do the same again the follow-
ing year.
Three people now entered the workers’ quarters: a woman with
a box of sweet bean-jam buns on her back, a druggist, and a ped-
dler who sold small daily necessities. They spread out their respective
wares in the center of the cabin, in a place marked off like an outly-
ing island. The workers in all the surrounding bunks, high and low,
leaned forward to joke and tease.
“Got something sweet for me, honey?”
“Hey, what’re you doing?!” The woman jumped up with a scream.
“Don’t grab my butt, you pervert!”
The man, embarrassed at drawing everyone’s eyes to himself,
roared with laughter. “This here woman’s a real sweetie,” he mumbled
through a mouthful of sweets.
A passing drunk, tottering back from the toilet with one hand
holding onto the bulkhead, poked the woman’s plump sunburned
cheek with his finger.
“What do you want?!”
“Don’t get all sore. . . . I just want to get hold of you and show you
a good time,” he clowned, to general laughter.
“Hey,” shouted someone loudly from a distant corner. “Hurry up
and get me those buns!”
“Coming right up!” The woman—a rarity in such a place—replied­
in a clear, penetrating voice. “How many would you like?”
“How many would I like? How the hell many do you have? Just
get your buns over here!”
 The Crab Cannery Ship 25

Everybody burst out laughing.

“The other day a guy called Takeda dragged that woman
someplace­there was nobody around,” said a young drunk man. “It
was so funny. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get anywhere
with her. She was wearing drawers, so Takeda ripped them off with
all his might. But there was another pair underneath. Would you be-
lieve it, she was wearing three pairs!” The man shrugged and began
to laugh.
This man worked in a factory during winter, making rubber boots.
When he lost his job in the spring, he went to work in Kamchatka.­Be-
cause both jobs were “seasonal work” (as was nearly all work in Hok-
kaido), whenever there was night work it went on without a break.
“I’ll be thankful if I can live on for another three years.” His skin was
the lifeless color of coarse rubber.
Among the company of fishermen there were some from Hok-
kaido’s cultivated interior, others who had been sold into railway
construction, wanderers who had gone broke in countless places, and
still others who were content so long as they could just get enough
to drink. Mixed among them were also farmers from around Ao-
mori who had been chosen by worthy village heads and were honest
and ignorant as tree roots. It was highly convenient for the employ-
ers to assemble such a crew of unorganized migrant workers. (Ha-
kodate’s labor unions were desperately trying to place organizers on
crab cannery ships and among the fishermen who were heading to
Kamchatka.­The Hakodate unions were connected with the Aomori
and Akita unions. This sort of thing worried bosses the most.)
A cabin boy in a gleaming-white starched jacket stepped busily in
and out of the saloon called “Friends,” carrying beer, fruit, and glasses
of foreign liquor. The saloon was filled with corporate honchos, the
cannery ship’s captain, the manager, the commander of the destroyer
charged with keeping an eye on Kamchatka, the chief of the maritime
police, and one or two walking briefcases from the seamen’s union.
“Sons of bitches are drinking their heads off,” said the cabin boy
sulkily.
The fishermen’s shit-hole was lit by feeble electric lights. Its air was
thick with tobacco smoke and the odor of crowded human bodies;­the
26 kobayashi takiji

entire cabin stank like a toilet. People moving about in their bunks
looked like squirming maggots. With the fishing company’s manager
leading the way, the ship’s captain, the factory agent, and the fore-
man came down the hatchway stairs. The captain kept patting his up-
per lip with a handkerchief, fretting about the tips of his upturned
moustache.­The passageway was strewn with discarded apple and
banana skins, a crushed hat, straw sandals, and wrappers stuck with
grains of rice. It was one clogged gutter. The manager glanced around,
and unceremoniously spat. The visitors all seemed drunk, their faces
flushed red.
“I’d like to say a word,” declared the manager. He had the power-
ful build of a construction worker. Placing one foot on a partition
between bunks, he maneuvered a toothpick inside his mouth, at times
briskly ejecting bits of food stuck between his teeth.
“Needless to say, as some of you may know, this crab cannery
ship’s business is not just to make lots of money for the corporation
but is actually a matter of the greatest international importance. This
is a one-on-one fight between us, citizens of a great empire, and the
Russkies, a battle to find out which one of us is greater—them or
us. Now just supposing you lose—this could never happen, but if
it did—all Japanese men and boys who’ve got any balls at all would
slit their bellies and jump into the sea off Kamchatka. You may be
small in size but that doesn’t mean you’ll let those stupid Russkies
beat you.
“Another thing, our fishing industry off Kamchatka is not just
about canning crabs and salmon and trout, but internationally speak-
ing it’s also about keeping up the superior status of our nation, which
no other country can match. And moreover, we’re accomplishing an
important mission in regard to our domestic problems like overpopu-
lation and shortage of food. You probably have no idea what I’m talk-
ing about, but anyhow I’ll have you know that we’ll be risking our
lives cutting through those rough northern waves to carry out a great
mission for the Japanese empire. And that’s why our imperial warship
will accompany us and protect us all along the way. . . . Anyone who
acts up trying to ape this recent Russky craze, anyone who incites oth-
ers to commit outrageous acts, is nothing but a traitor to the Japanese
 The Crab Cannery Ship 27

empire. And though something like that could never happen, make
damned sure all the same that what I’m saying to you gets through to
your heads . . .”
The manager sneezed repeatedly as he began sobering up.

the destroyer’s intoxicated captain, stepping jerkily like a spring-

loaded marionette, tottered down the gangway to a waiting launch.
Supporting the skipper from above and below as if he were a canvas
bag filled with rocks, sailors barely managed to get him on board. The
captain was waving his arms, bracing his legs, shouting random non-
sense, and repeatedly spraying the sailors’ faces with saliva.
“Always making fancy speeches,” murmured a sailor, glancing at
the captain while untying the rope from the gangway, “and look at the
sorry sack now.”
“Do we toss him overboard!? . . .”
The two caught their breath for a moment . . . and then simulta-
neously burst into laughter.

2
Far off to the right the light of the Shukutsu lighthouse, flashing
each time it revolved, penetrated the gray expanse of sea-like fog. Its
long and distant silvery beam swept mystically for miles around as it
pivoted.­
Off the coast of Rumoi a thin, drizzly rain began to fall. Fisher-
men’s and laborers’ hands grew numb as crab claws as they worked,
forcing them to thrust them occasionally into their pockets, or to cup
them over their mouths and blow on them. Endless threads of brown
viscous rain fell into an opaque sea of the same color. As the ship
neared Wakkanai, raindrops turned into grains, the sea’s broad sur-
face began to wave like a flag, to swell, and to grow jagged and restless.
Wind struck at the masts with an ominous howl. The ship creaked
endlessly as though its rivets were coming loose. Entering the Sōya
Strait, this vessel of nearly three thousand tons began to move jerk-
ily as if seized by a fit of hiccups. Hoisted high by a wonderful force
28 kobayashi takiji

the ship floated in space for a moment only to sink abruptly to its
original position. Each time this happened it triggered a disagreeably
ticklish sensation, an urge to urinate such as one experiences at the
instant an elevator drops. Workers wilted, their eyes looked unhappy
and seasick,­and they vomited.
The hard outline of the snowy mountains of Karafuto could be
glimpsed now and then through the round porthole windows streaked
with spraying waves. But the sight was soon obscured by swelling
waves that rose like icy alpine peaks. Deep cold valleys formed and
rushed up to the portholes, crashing against them and breaking up
into torrents of foam, then flowing away, sliding past the windows
like a diorama. From time to time the ship’s entire body shuddered
like a feverish child. All sorts of objects fell smashing from shelves,
things bent and squealed, the ship’s sides boomed colliding with the
waves. The constant throb of the motors ringing out from the engine
room transmitted its vibrations through the motley utensils and sent
mild tremors through bodies. Sometimes the ship rode the back of a
wave, making the propeller spin in the air and stabilizer fins slap at
the water’s surface.
The wind continued to grow stronger and stronger. The two
masts whistled and kept bending like fishing poles. The waves, like a
band of rampaging thugs, swarmed unopposed from one side of the
ship to the other. The cabin’s hatchway abruptly turned into a torren-
tial waterfall.
Mountains of water rose up in a flash lifting the ship like a toy to
the top of a huge slope and turning it slightly sideways. Tumbling for-
ward, the ship pitched to the bottom of the ravine. It was sure to sink!
But in the depths of the valley a new wave heaved up high, slamming
with a thud against the sides of the ship.
As the ship reached the Sea of Okhotsk, the color of the water be-
came a clearer gray. The chilling cold penetrated the laborers’ cloth-
ing and turned their lips blue as they worked. The colder it became,
the more furiously a fine snow, dry as salt, blew whistling against
them. Like tiny shards of glass, the snow pierced faces and hands of
the laborers and fishermen who worked on all fours on the deck. Af-
ter each wave washed over them, the water promptly froze, making
 The Crab Cannery Ship 29

the deck treacherously slippery. The men had to stretch ropes from
deck to deck, and work dangling from them like diapers hung out on
a clothesline. The manager, armed with a club for killing salmon, was
roaring like mad.

Sea of Okhotsk
30 kobayashi takiji

Another crab cannery ship that had sailed out of Hakodate at the
same time had gotten separated from them. Even so, whenever their
ship surged to the summit of a mountainous wave, two masts could be
seen swaying back and forth in the distance like the waving arms of a
drowning person. Wisps of smoke torn by the wind flew by skimming
the waves. Intermittent howls of the other ship’s whistle were clearly
audible amid the waves and shouts. Yet the next instant one ship rose
high and the other fell away into the depths of a watery crevasse.
The crab cannery ship carried eight fishing boats. The sailors
and fishermen were forced to risk their lives tying down the boats
so that the waves, baring their white teeth like thousands of sharks,
would not tear them off. “Losing one or two of you won’t matter a
damn, but if a boat gets lost it can’t get replaced,” shouted the man-
ager distinctly.
The sea of Kamchatka seemed to be waiting for them, surprised
they had made it this far. Its huge waves leapt upon them like greedy,
starving lions. The ship seemed frailer than a rabbit. The blizzard cov-
ering the entire sky looked like an enormous white flag billowing in the
wind. Night was approaching but the storm showed no signs of abating.
Once the work ended everyone crept back into their shit-hole.
Hands and feet hung from bodies like radishes, frozen and devoid of
sensation. The men all crawled into their bunks like silkworms, no
one uttering a single word. Throwing themselves down, they grabbed
hold of the iron rails. The ship bucked and shook desperately, like a
horse struggling to drive a biting horsefly off its back. The fishermen
cast hopeless glances at the ceiling whose white paint had turned yel-
low with soot, and at the bluish-black portholes that were almost sunk
underwater. Some gazed blankly into space, their mouths half open as
though they had lost their minds. No one was thinking of anything. A
dazed, anxious awareness made everyone sullenly silent.
They drank whisky lying on their backs, straight from the bottle.
Bottle edges occasionally glimmered in the dull and turbid amber
of the electric light. Empty whisky bottles, thrown from the bunks
with the drinkers’ whole might, hit the aisles and burst like successive
bolts of lightning. Other men merely turned their heads to follow­the
bottles with their eyes. Someone was angrily shouting in a corner.­
 The Crab Cannery Ship 31

Broken up by the storm, the words came through as incoherent­

fragments.­
“Guess we’ve left Japan,” said someone wiping the porthole win-
dow with a sleeve.
The shit-hole stove merely sputtered and smoked. Barely alive
human beings shivered with cold as though they’d been mistaken for
salmon and trout and thrown into a refrigerator. Great waves splashed
thunderously, sweeping across the canvas-covered hatchway. The re-
verberation of each blow within the shit-hole’s iron walls was as deaf-
ening as the inside of a drum. At times heavy thuds rang out directly
beside the sprawling fishermen, like mighty shoves from a powerful
shoulder. Now the ship was writhing within the sea-storm’s raging
waves like a whale in its death agonies.
“Chowtime!” The cook stuck his torso into the doorway and shout-
ed encircling his mouth with both hands. “No soup ’cause of the storm.”
“What’d he say?”
“We’re serving rotten salted fish!” The cook withdrew his face.
They struggled to their feet as best they could, like convicts seized
by a voracious craving for food.
Sitting cross-legged and placing plates of salted fish across their
legs, they blew against the steam, filled their cheeks with hot bits of
fish, and rolled them around inside their mouths. The food was the
first hot object they had been near all day, and their noses kept run-
ning, threatening to drip into the dishes. They were still eating when
the manager walked in.
“Stop swilling it like pigs, damn it. You couldn’t even do a decent
day’s work, and now you think you can stuff yourselves?” He glow-
ered at the upper and lower bunks before strutting out of the cabin,
his left shoulder swinging forward as he walked.
“What the hell gives him the right to talk to us like that,” mum-
bled a former student, a youth gaunt with seasickness and overwork.
“That Asakawa acts like he owns the ship.”
“The Emperor is up above the clouds so he can do whatever he
likes, but Asakawa better not think that he can do the same.”
“You stingy fucker, like you give a shit about a bowl or two of rice!
Let’s kick his ass!” shouted someone furiously.
32 kobayashi takiji

“Wonderful, wonderful! Say the same thing in front of Asakawa,

and it’ll be even more wonderful!”
Though they were still angry, everyone laughed.
It was quite late at night when the manager, wearing a raincoat,
stepped into the quarters where the fishermen were sleeping. Holding
on to the bunk frames to steady himself against the ship’s tossing, he
walked through the aisles with a lantern. Sleepers’ heads rolled from
side to side like pumpkins. Rudely turning each face toward him, the
manager shone the light on it. They would not wake up even if he
stepped on them. Done with his inspection, the manager paused and
clicked his tongue. He seemed puzzled but soon went on to the galley.
With each sway of the lantern, the fan-like bluish shaft of light flick-
ered over segments of the squalid bunks, tall waterproof boots, hang-
ing jackets, and wicker trunks. Then the light moved on, trembled
at his feet, stopped for a moment, and shifted the circle of its round
projector-like beam onto the door of the galley. The next morning the
men found out that one of the workers was missing.
Recalling the previous day’s horrendous work, everyone
concluded­that the man had been swept away by the waves. It made
them feel awful. They were forced to resume work before dawn and
had no chance to talk about it.
“Who the hell would jump into that freezing water? He’s hiding
someplace, that’s where he is. I’ll beat the living crap out of that son
of a bitch when I find him.” The manager searched through the ship,
twirling his club like a toy.
The storm had passed its peak. Even so, each time the ship plowed
into a swelling wave, the water swept over the foredeck as effortlessly
as if stepping over a threshold. Looking badly wounded by a day and
night of struggle the ship made an oddly limping sound as it advanced.
Clouds resembling thin smoke drifted so low they seemed within a
hand’s reach, struck the masts, broke into sharp angles and blew away.
A chilling rain continued to fall. With each rise in the surrounding
angry waves, the pouring rain could be clearly seen pelting the sea. It
felt more eerie than being lost in a rainstorm in a primeval forest.
Hemp ropes were hard and cold to the touch, like iron pipes.
While cautiously crossing the deck and clutching the rope to keep
 The Crab Cannery Ship 33

from slipping, the student met the cabin boy who had come bounding
up the gangway ladder two steps at a time.
“Come here a minute,” said the cabin boy, pulling him into a
corner­out of the wind. “I got something interesting to tell you.”
It was around two in the morning. Waves were leaping thunder-
ously onto the deck at regular intervals and pouring like waterfalls.
At times the waves’ bared teeth shone bluish-white in the darkness.
No one could sleep because of the storm. That was when it happened.
The radio operator had rushed into the captain’s cabin.
“Captain, sir, awful news. We have an SOS!”
“SOS? Which ship?!”
“It’s the Chichibumaru. They were running parallel to us.”
“That’s a leaking old tub, that one!” Asakawa, still wearing his
oilskin raincoat, sat in a corner straddling a chair with his legs wide
apart. Mindlessly tapping the floor with a tip of his shoe, he chuckled.
“Of course, all the other ships are just the same.”
“They sound desperate, sir.”
“Hmm, this is very bad.” In his hurry to get up to the bridge, the
captain reached for the door without bothering to put on his coat. He
was about to open it when Asakawa grabbed his right shoulder.
“Who gave the order to change course and waste time?”
Who gave the order? The captain would give it, of course. For a
moment the captain looked dumbfounded, yet he swiftly recovered.
“I will, as captain.”
“As captain? You don’t say!” exclaimed the manager with rising
contempt, blocking the captain’s way. “Who the hell do you think
owns this ship, eh? The corporation chartered it, and is paying for it.
The company agent Mr. Suda and I myself are the only ones who’ve
got anything to say here. As for you, you may act big calling yourself
captain but you’re worth less than the shithouse paper. You got that?
If we bothered with things like that worthless ship, we’d lose a whole
week. Screw that! I’m not going to be even a day behind! Plus, Chi-
chibumaru’s insured for a lot more money than the damned thing’s
worth. If that tub sinks, it’ll actually turn a profit.”
“Now we’re in for a terrific fight!” thought the cabin boy. No way
was this going to be the end of it. But the captain stood motionless­
34 kobayashi takiji

and mute as though his throat had been stuffed with cotton. Never­
before had the cabin boy seen him look like this. Damn, it just
couldn’t happen that the captain wouldn’t have the last word! Yet it
was happening. No matter how hard he tried, the cabin boy couldn’t
understand it.
“International competition is never going to be won by acting
nice, and you got no business sticking your nose into this!” The man-
ager twisted his lips hard, and spat.
In the radio room, the receiver kept on transmitting signals,
sometimes giving off little bluish-white sparks. Everyone crowded
into the radio room to see what was happening.
“They’re really keeping it up. Signals have gotten faster,” explained
the radio operator to the captain and manager who were looking over
his shoulder. Everyone’s eyes were riveted on the radio operator’s fin-
gertips, following their nimble moves over the switches and buttons
of the wireless. They all stood still, unconsciously tensing their shoul-
ders and jaws.
With each roll of the ship, the light that was precariously affixed
to the bulkhead glowed and dimmed. The thud of the waves pound-
ing against the ship’s flanks and the constant ominous hoot of the
foghorn sounded through the iron doors, sometimes receding on the
wind and sometimes approaching directly overhead.
Sparks scattered with a crackle, leaving long tails. Then the sound
abruptly stopped. At once everyone’s heart gave a jolt. The operator
frantically twirled the knobs, anxiously prodding the apparatus to
work. But nothing more was heard. The tapping had stopped.
The operator swiveled around in his chair.
“They’ve sunk . . . ,” he said, taking off the headset, and quietly­
adding, “ ‘Crew of four hundred and twenty five. It’s all over. No
chance of rescue. SOS, SOS’—they sent this message two or three
times, and then the signal broke off.”
At his words the captain thrust his hand under his collar, shook
his head as if suffocating, and tried to stretch his neck. Casting a blank
gaze all around, he turned toward the door. Then he pressed his hand
against his chest, close to the knot of his necktie. The cabin boy could
not bear to look at him.
 The Crab Cannery Ship 35

“i see,” said the student. The story amazed him. Yet it filled him with
a dark feeling, and he averted his eyes from the sea. The sea was still
heaving with great swells. Just when the horizon was about to sink
underfoot, the ship would be dragged down till the sky looked as nar-
row as it might from the bottom of a valley.
“I guess it must have really sunk,” he said to himself. It troubled
him to no end. And it infuriated him that the ship they themselves
were riding was not a bit more seaworthy.
Crab cannery ships were all old and battered. It didn’t matter a
damn to executives in some building in Tokyo’s financial district that
workers were dying in the northern Sea of Okhotsk. Once capital-
ism’s quest for profits in its usual places comes to a deadlock, then
interest rates drop, excess money piles up, and capital will literally do
anything and go anywhere in a frenzied search for a way out. Given
those circumstances it was no wonder that capital’s profit-seekers fell
in love with the crab cannery ships, each one able to bring in count-
less hundreds of thousands of yen.
Crab cannery ships were considered factories, not ships. There-
fore maritime law did not apply to them. Ships that had been tied up
for twenty years and were good for nothing but scrap iron, vessels
as battered as tottering syphilitics, were given a shameless cosmet-
ic makeover and brought to Hakodate. Hospital ships and military
transports that had been “honorably” crippled in the Russo-Japanese
War and abandoned like fish guts turned up in port looking more
faded than ghosts. If steam was turned up a little, pipes whistled and
burst. When they put on speed while chased by Russian patrol boats,
the ships began to creak all over as though about to come apart at any
moment, and shook like palsied men.
But none of that mattered in the least, for this was a time when it
was everyone’s duty to stand tall for the Japanese Empire. Moreover
the crab cannery ships were factories pure and simple. And yet fac-
tory laws did not apply to them either. Consequently, no other site
offered such an accommodating setting for management’s freedom to
act with total impunity.
Brilliant executives wedded such work to “the interests of the
Japanese­Empire.” That way, fabulous sums of money rolled whole-
Other documents randomly have
different content
an appearance of bulk, even if worn sufficiently easy-fitting to be
slipped on and off at a moment’s notice; while ill-cut garments,
unnaturally strained and tightened, will make figure and extremities
look absolutely larger than they really are. Who, for instance, that
has ever seen a No. 6 glove stretched upon a hand that ought to
take at least four sizes larger has ever been deceived into believing
that there was not something painfully amiss? Straining seams,
fingers only half drawn on, and ominous gaps, yawning and wide,
where the first buttons ought to fasten, attest the “vanity of vanities”
against which we have been warned. With boots and corsets it is
just the same,—and yet, despite the uncontrovertible evidence
brought to bear upon the matter, ladies still persist in destroying the
symmetry of their appearance, undermining their health, and leaving
themselves exposed to disparaging observations, rather than give up
the follies into which an undue desire to appear “slim” have by
degrees drawn them. After all, when we come to consider the
subject, is it really worth while to undergo suffering and
inconvenience in order that one or two persons may, perhaps, say,
“That girl has small feet”; or “What a slender waist that lady has?”
Ten to one the utterers of such remarks never think a second time
about them, but turn away to make their comments upon the next
person who chances to come in their path—and for this trifling
gratification, distress and pain are borne, and the seeds of inward
disease are in some instances suffered to take root. If anything that
I can say, in this or future chapters, shall have even a trifling
influence in deterring my sisters from destroying the natural
attributes which a wise Creator has apportioned to them, I shall
deem myself happy in having written it, and feel that my efforts
have not been altogether in vain.
The Newmarket coat, for going to covert, is, I think, the only article
of which I have not now fully spoken. The nicest of these are made
of dark strong melton, or beaver cloth—the latter wears splendidly—
and are lined all through with good satin, being well quilted about
the bodice to keep out the cold. Some ladies affect the coachmen’s
garment, a drab coat, with double capes, but I have a strong
objection to it myself. The collar should be made pretty deep, so as
to be capable of turning up about the neck in wet or chilly weather,
and the skirts should come quite down to the feet. It is almost
superfluous to say that an overcoat of this description should be cut
so as to fit very easily over the habit, nor need I add that the task of
fitting should be entrusted to none save a really first-class tailor.
Ladies have frequently inquired of me, by letter and otherwise, what
ought to be the price of various articles of riding apparel. Indeed, to
judge by the number of communications which have from time to
time reached me, a great and stirring interest appears to be centred
in the matter, and the fact that I at times delay answering the
multitude of writers who ask questions and beg for immediate
replies is not really attributable to any discourtesy, but is rather the
result of over-work, coupled with a sense of difficulty in detailing the
average cost of a variety of articles which are manufactured in every
quality—good, bad, and indifferent—the cheapest, or lowest priced,
being in all cases the dearest in the end. A thoroughly good article
will look respectable to the very last bit, while a cheap one can never
be made to do so at all. I can, for my own part, see no virtue in the
so-called “bargains” in which many ladies are so curiously fond of
investing. I use the word “curiously” advisedly, for to me it is most
strange how sensible practical women, who on most subjects have
their wits well about them, are nevertheless afflicted with a positive
craze for bargain-hunting, and are willing to bear any amount of
pushing and trampling upon, in slummy shops with “Selling off”
emblazoned in large letters all over the windows, for the very
doubtful satisfaction of carrying home some three or four pairs of
half-soiled gloves at one shilling per pair, or a few yards of mildewed
ribbon at something very much too dear for it.
The average cost of riding gear, every article being of the best and
finest description, may be thus set down. Silk hats, from £1 1s.
each; jerry ditto, 14s.; soft felt, 12s. 6d.; melton riding habits, £12
12s. each; rainproof ditto, £10 10s.; ordinary cloth, £10 10s.;
summer cloth, £8 8s.; gingham or holland, £5 5s.; riding breeches,
£4 4s. per pair; buckskin, £6 6s. to £8 8s.; trousers (chamois lined),
from £2 2s. to £3 3s. Chemises, 8s. each. Web drawers (silk), £1
10s. per pair; (cotton), 7s. 6d.; vests (silk), £1 1s. each; (cotton),
5s. Corsets (satin), £4 4s.; sateen (red), £2 10s.; sateen (white), £2
2s. Wellington boots, £3 3s. per pair. Wool stockings, 3s. 6d.; pure
silk, ditto, 16s.; spun silk, 6s. 6d. Latchford spur (plated), £1 1s.;
japanned, 9s. 6d. Gloves, 5s. 6d. per pair. Celluloid collar and cuffs,
4s. Rainproof jacket, £2 2s. Cape, £1. Warm over-jacket, with
braiding, £6 6s. Newmarket covert-coat, from £10 to £12. It would
be impossible to lay down any rule for the price of whips, as much
must necessarily depend upon the mounting; but I have always
thought that with them, as with all other articles of riding apparel,
the plainer they are the better. A good hunting-whip with long lash
attached averages from £1 10s. upwards.
Every article that I have named may be had at a very much lower
price; in fact for half (or even less) the ordinary cost that I have set
down, but the question of course remains, “Are cheap things, as a
rule, worth purchasing?”
 CHAPTER XVII.
ECONOMY IN RIDING DRESS.
To economise well is a great art, and unfortunately very few persons
understand it. The public mind wavers as a rule between two views
of the matter—excessive parsimony, or continual hunting after cheap
things. When I say “cheap,” I mean low-priced; for brummagem
articles, no matter of what description, are always the very reverse
of cheap. “I have got such a bargain,” says one dear friend to
another, displaying some trumpery thing which would have been
dear at half the price given for it; and away goes the friend and
invests in a similar treasure, only to regret her want of wisdom when
too late to retract.
The true secrets of economising are: first never to buy anything that
you do not absolutely require; second, to purchase every article of
the very best description; and third, to take care of your things when
you have got them. These three rules will go far if attended to, but,
like the Siamese twins, separate them and they will die. A word,
then, about each—taking them in rotation as named.
Buy nothing that you do not want. It is a general weakness with
ladies to infringe this rule. They are fond of shopping, and shopmen
know it, and pander to the familiar infirmity—not only detaining
them twice as long as is necessary at every counter, but showing
them an endless variety of articles, by way of tempting them to buy.
The artifice succeeds only too often, and the consequences are a
lightened purse, and an unnecessarily burdened wardrobe.
To have too large a stock of clothes is in every way a mistake. They
become old-fashioned before they are half worn out; they encourage
and engender moths; they form a cumbrous baggage if compelled to
move; and they are a source of embarrassment and trouble if taken
away with one on visits—seeing that in this age a lady rarely enjoys
the luxury of a wardrobe in her bedroom, except in her own house.
Most of us consider such a commodity a necessity when at home,
but when we go visiting it is a luxury absolutely denied us. I do not
mean to say that there is not an imposing piece of furniture so
styled in the sleeping apartment allotted to us; there almost always
is; it looks quite magnificent, generally, with its shining panels and
tempting mirrored centre—but, alas, it is a delusion and a snare! We
find that the doors are immovable: they are locked; the hostess has
it filled with her own fineries, and has either forgotten to remove
them, or has said to herself that it would be too great a trouble to
do so: the visitor can manage very well without it—has she not got
her imperials, and the bed-rail—and the drawers of the toilet-table to
keep her brushes and things in, and what more can she reasonably
want? To say that this is not the way in good houses is both foolish
and untrue; for it is so in the very best. It may be the fault of my
lady’s maid, or housekeeper—probably it is, in many instances—but
it is my lady’s fault in a great measure also, inasmuch as she has
neither seen to the comforts of her guest, nor made inquiries
concerning them. However this may be, or with whomsoever the
fault may lie, the wardrobe is a sealed book, into which we are not
permitted to peer, and so we cast our despairing eyes around us for
some substitute, and brighten as we perceive a tempting-looking
chest of drawers; but it likewise is a deception, for it is found to
contain articles of children’s clothing folded away in the top
receptacles, while the lower ones have toilet linen in them, and the
big deep one at the bottom contains a bolster doubled in two, like a
huge sausage put away to keep. This being the case, we shake a
dismal head, and proceed to lay out our neat habit-skirts and other
things on the bed-rail, and on the backs of the chairs; and by-and-
by, when we return to our room to dress for dinner, we find that a
remorseful hostess, or a conscience-stricken maid, has unlocked one
of the mighty doors of the mysterious “sealed book,” and has
graciously crammed three or four satin gowns on to one of the back
pegs, leaving the front ones free to hold whatever we may be
pleased to hang upon them. Sometimes even this small boon is not
vouchsafed, and we run the tether of our visit with only chair-backs
to depend upon for hanging purposes, and with the cheerful
consciousness that all the maids in the establishment have tried on
and admired themselves in every single article belonging to us for
which we have been unable to find room in our trunks. I once
caught a smart abigail in an English house pirouetting before the
cheval-glass, dressed in my riding-breeches, and grinning
delightedly, with a hand on each side of her waist. By way of
punishment, I made her divest herself of the trifles in my presence,
and by so doing found that she had augmented the evil by making
an entirely wrong use of one of my silk vests—while as an end to all
bitterness, she had actually fitted on my stockings and boots.
It being then an established fact that a superabundance of clothing
is both an encumbrance and an extravagance which leads to waste,
I think I have succeeded in proving that the first on my list of
theories—namely, to buy nothing that is not absolutely required—is
at least worthy of consideration. Of course, there is no rule that has
not an exception, and there may be times—although they come but
rarely—when there will be a perceptible advantage in purchasing
clothing in advance: for example, when one is obliged to go for a
lengthened period to some out-of-the-way place where things are
absolutely not obtainable. In such, or similar cases, the regulation
practice may be broken through, although even then it will be better,
if possible, to secure the services of a friend who will purchase and
send them out according as they are required.
The second point on which I have given advice—namely, to buy
none save the best articles—is one upon which I must resolutely
hold by my opinion, despite the fact that my expression of it in a
sporting journal in which, some time ago, I quoted a list of probable
prices, called down upon me such a vortex of letters—some of
inquiry, others upon the extravagance of my ideas—that I fairly sat
down under the shower in a state of bewilderment, and felt that the
only way in which I could reply to such a multitude, or at all hope to
satisfy them, was to select the first opportunity of writing a
disquisition on economy—the present venture being the result.
I have, as stated, been repeatedly and anxiously pressed to say
what I thought the price of sundry articles of riding-gear ought to
be, and as the subject was a difficult one to propound, have thought
it best to give the amount usually paid for goods of first-class
description, leaving it, of course, to the intelligence of the reader to
surmise (even when not plainly stated) that prices vary according to
quality, and acknowledging that it is quite possible for a lady to
furnish herself with a complete hunting outfit at a very much lower
scale of charges than that which I cited in my last. It is just a
question of how long she expects her things to wear, and how well
she expects them to look when the first gloss (always an arrant
deceiver) has worn off them. Low-priced articles never stand the
test; they may look fairly well to the eye when first put on, but time
and weather place a stamp upon them with which the owner cannot
but feel disappointed. Take a few examples. It seems to many a
great extravagance to give a seemingly high price for a riding-hat,
when at half the shops in town a fairly good-looking one can be
bought for half the money. Quite true. But place the two hats side by
side together after a hard season’s continual wear and tear, and see
whether the Lincoln and Bennet or Madame White will not be
bravely holding its own, when the other is only fit for the dustman’s
cart. In like manner, you may purchase a riding habit for five
guineas,—I have seen them made to order scores of times at that
price—but I have never yet seen one of such articles able to hold up
its head after immersion in a muddy stream, while very many of
them could not even stand a heavy shower of rain without showing
spots or “cockles,” or both. Then, again, you can get a Newmarket
covert coat for £3—not at all a bad-looking one either—quite a
jaunty article, in fact; a neat plaid if you like it, and gorgeous big
buttons if your fancy happens to turn that way,—but just think of the
seams that are all machine-stitched, ready to act shabbily by you at
the most inconvenient moments, and of the uncertain nature of the
material, which is dreadfully wont to wear “tender” in highly
important places: under the arms, for instance, and where the collar
fastens in front; and of the awful moments which you will have to
endure, tugging hard at it, or getting somebody else to do so, in
order to work it off; and think of the still more painful and
embarrassing ordeal that awaits you in endeavouring to draw it over
your habit-bodice, to which it seems to cling as provokingly as
though birdlime had been scattered over both,—all because it has
not any nice, smooth, slippery satin lining to make it slide easily over
the garment that it is meant to cover. Even if perchance your
persuasions have induced the maker of the wonderful thing to
augment its monetary value by the insertion of a satin lining in the
bodice, you perceive with horror, after an incredibly short period of
time, that the silk facing has completely worn off it, and that long
stretches of discoloured cotton threads are intersecting the fabric in
every inconvenient direction.
With boots and gloves it is just the same; you can get them very
cheap. I have seen capital-looking boots in shop windows ticketed
eight shillings per pair, and gloves 1s. 6½d. (always a ha’penny,
when it is not three farthings), and I have no doubt that plenty of
people buy them—they must do so, or such things would not be so
numerous; but an important query remains behind: namely, how
long can these articles be made to last—even such of them as look
moderately decent at the first go-off?
There are, however, without doubt, very many ways in which small
economies may be justifiably practised, with results by no means
discreditable to the appearance of even the most dashing
equestrian. If, then, you want to appear at all times fairly well turned
out, and yet cannot command sufficient capital from your dress
allowance to enable you to extend your custom to first-class houses,
you can take a “tip” or two from the following hints:—
Look carefully over the columns of the various leading journals which
contain an “exchange and mart,” and you will be almost certain to
see some advertisements of riding habits made by high-class makers
and only worn a few times—occasionally never worn at all, and only
parted with because the owner has been compelled to give up
riding, or is going away. If the size of the waist seems to suit you,
answer without delay, and if, when sent on approval, you find that
the cut and quality are good, close at once with the bargain, and get
such alterations effected in the article as may happen to be required.
I have known one or two ladies with very moderate dress allowances
who secured really excellent riding habits in this way,—but, of
course, everything will depend upon the maker; a high-class house
rarely or never turns out an indifferent cloth, and the cut is certain
to be good.
Again, you may be able to borrow a pair of well-made riding trousers
from some intimate lady friend, and if you are smart and can make a
couple of pairs for your own use by the pattern lent you, it will be a
great saving of expense. Breeches will be more difficult to
accomplish successfully: in fact, I regard the cutting of them by
amateurs as very nearly impossible, so perhaps they had better not
be attempted: but, with proper self-measurements and a good
pattern before you, I can see no reason why comfortable riding-
trousers should not be creditably turned out. When making these,
cut the linings for the different parts the exact size of the various
pieces, and take care to tack piece and lining together before
running up the whole. If this is not done you will experience great
difficulty in adjusting the linings when the garment has been put
together—indeed, you will probably fail completely, for it is a most
difficult thing to do, and the plan I have named is a very good one,
although the seams cannot (when it is adopted) look quite as neat
on the inside as if a tailor had had the doing of the job. If you want
to avoid the trouble of arranging linings at all, procure some strong
soft chamois leather, make your trousers of it, and cover them from
a short distance above the knee with cloth similar in colour to that of
which your habit is composed. Use silk thread for seam-sewing—
strong, and of the best quality—and when putting on the buttons
wind the thread round and round the stems after you have stitched
them firmly to the garment, so as to form a sort of artificial shank;
then fasten off very securely upon the wrong or inner side.
If your resources are extremely limited, do not buy silk hats at all.
Low-priced ones are mere delusions, and it will be better for you to
invest the amount usually given for second-rate articles—say from
12s. to 15s.—in a good, serviceable felt, or billycock, which will
stand a large amount of ordinary knocking about.
By wearing riding trousers instead of breeches you can dispense
with Wellingtons, and be content with ordinary boots; anything that
you can walk comfortably in will do, but remember I do not believe
that any woman has ever yet been able conscientiously to say that
she walked “comfortably,” or indeed otherwise than miserably, in
narrow-waisted, high-heeled boots, with toes an inch wide (or
something less) at the tip. A street or two may be traversed in such
articles without actual pain, or any perceptible show of
inconvenience, but a walk of five miles will probably necessitate the
services of a chiropodist, while half the distance will show a
decidedly altered gait.
The third item of advice which I have given you, namely to take
good care of your things when you have them, is one to which you
will do well to take heed. Negligence concerning the guardianship of
one’s wearing apparel generally proceeds from one of two causes:
either from a natural carelessness of disposition, which leads to all
sorts of shiftless and untidy ways; or to a foolish desire—if among
wealthy or showy people—to affect an air of indifference concerning
cost. I have seen examples of both these dispositions; a girl who
just stepped out of her riding-gear, and left it there behind her, habit
wet and muddy, hat spotted with rain, veil never folded, boots flung
anywhere, whip and gloves in different corners, sometimes in
different rooms, or on the hall table, to be certainly missing when
next wanted to be used: a sort of girl who kept jam-pots in her
press, and matches in her work-box, and who rooted for everything
she wanted, precisely as a dog does when burying a bone.
On the whole, however, I am not quite certain whether she is not
preferable to one of the vainer sort, who strides over sharp stones,
and plunges in and out of muddy pools when there is any distance
to be walked, rather than have it supposed that she is picking her
way in order to save her boots; who eats bread-and-butter without
removing her gloves, for reasons of a similar sort; and who puts on
a smile of unconcern when her hostess’s lap-dog makes a meal off
her whip-lash, or mistakes the handle of it for a bone.
Few things are more to be avoided than a studied carefulness about
matters of costume—when others are by,—the practice, for instance,
of tucking up a mantle rather than sitting upon it—of smoothing the
back of the skirt before taking a seat—of guarding the hands from
contact with any object that may possibly impart a soil to the gloves
—and so forth, all of which are signs of lack of breeding, and are, as
a rule, peculiar to persons unaccustomed to mix in society,—but the
opposite extreme is quite as little to be admired. The best bred are
those who appear wholly unconscious of having anything on that is
worth fussing about: just as the best dressed are invariably those
upon whose costume no onlooker would ever pass a remark.
To have a set place for everything is economy of both time and
substance: you will then know precisely where to look and where to
find. You should have neat trees made for your boots, and insist
upon the regular use of them being observed. Brush your riding-
habit carefully yourself, unless you have a maid who can be trusted
to do it properly: namely, in a downward direction always, and never
from hand to hand. Should it be wet, hang it in a cool, dry place, but
not close to a fire—and place a stick across the skirt on the inside, in
order to aid the drying process. Do not attempt to brush off mud
spots until the cloth is perfectly dry.
Stretch your gloves upon block hands, made the size and shape of
your own, and if they have been wet, be all the more careful about
doing so. Make a frequent inspection of the stitching of them, and
mend with a fine needle and silk any portions that may have given
way, or seem likely to do so. Look to the buttons also, in order that
you may not be inconvenienced at unexpected times.
If you wear a silk riding-hat, never be induced to allow an iron to
touch it, except when wielded by a professional hand. You can
renew it yourself by wiping it very lightly with a sponge just dipped
in warm water, going carefully round and round, always the one way.
When the hat is dry, brush it gently with a very soft brush, and finish
with a silk handkerchief.
A black veil that has become discoloured by dust may be restored by
dipping it a few times in cold water, shaking the wet from it, and
stretching it neatly out upon a rail or line to dry. It will not require
any ironing if nicely picked out with the fingers. Another way is to
put the veil, when damp, between two soft cloths—old lawn
handkerchiefs will do—and pat it smoothly out with the hands,
leaving it then to dry without hanging.
Your celluloid collar and cuffs will wash beautifully in your basin, and
will require no making-up, beyond a light wiping with the towel on
which you dry your hands. The material is a marvellous invention,
introduced by our friends across the silver streak, and is invaluable
to equestrians in wet weather, as it never becomes limp after rain: a
great improvement upon linen in this respect, as in many others
also.
To conclude my list of economies: If you cannot afford the price of
silk drawers and vests, fine cotton ones in summer, and merino in
winter, will make good substitutes; but silk is not an extravagance in
the long run—it wears so well and feels so delicious next the skin.
Silk underclothing of all kinds is a great luxury, and considering the
benefits that arise from the use of it, I question much whether ladies
of even very moderate incomes will, at the end of twelve months,
find themselves any the poorer for investing in it.
If silk stockings are thought too dear for wearing under or over
cotton ones—and certainly they are an expensive item of dress—fine
cotton ones will do very well; but there are few ladies who do not
possess a supply of silk for dinner and evening wear—and these,
when old, or deficient in colour and freshness, will serve the purpose
quite as well as new ones.
While on the subject of “colour” it will not be amiss to give a hint or
two about the proper method of washing silk and woollen
underclothing. Silk stockings, vests, chemises, pocket-handkerchiefs,
and so forth, ought to be washed as follows:—Mix six tablespoonfuls
of bran with four quarts of water, put it to boil, and stir while boiling.
When ready, pour into a tub, place the articles in it, and move them
lightly about with a stick until the water is cool enough to bear the
hand; then wash rapidly in the usual way, but without using soap.
Rinse in three or four waters, hang out to drain in a bright, dry
atmosphere, and iron while damp, placing a piece of fine muslin
between the iron and the article on which it is used. This receipt will
be found to answer admirably also for white flannels or woollens. For
coloured ones the water must be in a lukewarm state. Neither silk
nor woollen garments should ever be wrung.
On the subject of corsets I have from time to time received a vast
number of letters, most of them wailing over my well-known
abhorrence of cheap goods. Surely the matter is one of which ladies
ought to be able to judge for themselves. I did not know that it was
possible to obtain a really good corset, made specially for one’s-self,
of best materials, and by a superior artist, for less money than I am
accustomed to quote,—nor do I believe that it is. At the same time,
corsets (like everything else) will be found ready manufactured in
various qualities, and at different rates of charge. I have seen
windows full of them in London, and even at expensive Eastbourne
and Bournemouth, ticketed 1s. 11½d.! After this, who need
complain of prices? The papers teem with advertisements of “ready-
made corsets” of all patterns and descriptions, and I have heard
many persons say that they have found them answer perfectly well.
This being the case, I cannot see why the articles should not be
given a trial, or why ladies of limited resources, and with figures
easily fitted, should pay two or three guineas for a corset, when
“perfect treasures,” or, at all events, something that will suit quite
well (and that will not go to pieces all at once), can by all accounts
be had for less than an eighth of the sum.
I once went to a famous London oculist, to consult him about the
right sort of glasses to be used for extreme short-sightedness, and
was quite prepared for his prescribing some rather costly affairs;
but, to my surprise, he said, very pleasantly, “Just go to an optician
and suit yourself. Don’t mind what he says; select something that
you can see well through, and that does not in any way distress your
sight, or cause your eyes to feel on the strain. Years ago,” he added,
“I found that I wanted glasses myself, and coming across an old
man sitting at the corner of a street with a tray of them before him,
I chose a pair for a shilling, and I’m wearing them now.”
On this excellent principle I advise corset-buyers to act. Purchase
what suits you, and if your means are limited, do not trouble about
any particular maker, or price.
To wind up, never be ashamed to exercise a reasonable and honest
economy. There are really very few among us who do not require to
practice it, especially during these difficult times—and there is not
anything to blush for in the fact. It is a very false shame indeed
which induces us to launch out into extravagances that we can ill
afford, rather than say candidly, “I must content myself with
something cheaper.” Believe me, there is more shame in owing an
honest tradesman five shillings, than in wearing cheap corsets,
cotton stockings, and mended gloves—in place of the better or
costlier ones which that same five shillings would have helped to
buy.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
HACKS AND HUNTERS.
I am wonderfully fond of a good hack, and very wroth at times that
ladies will persist in mistaking the meaning of the term, and in
thinking that it signifies something that is meant to be abused. They
take this idea, I have no doubt, from expressions associated with
their childhood: hacking out their clothes, for instance,—in other
words, abusing them. “Don’t throw it away, it will do very well for a
hack,” meaning for very hard usage on second or third-rate
occasions. Such a thing as a valuable hack, one not on any account
to be subjected to rough treatment, they have never believed in, or,
indeed, thought about at all. I was once bemoaning the loss of a
favourite of this description to a lady acquaintance, and although
she pretended to sympathise with me, I heard her, when I turned
my back, say, “What a fuss over a thing that had come to being a
hack! Not worth fourpence, most likely.”
Now, it is for ladies who do not know much about hacks, yet who
want to learn, that I am writing this chapter. The subject is a very
useful one, and might be readily enlarged upon, but I shall be as
concise as possible.
Hacks in the olden days were capable of immense hardship; the
distances they travelled, the weights they carried, the amount of
endurance they displayed, would be deemed marvellous in the
present century, and cruel if put to the test. Such animals—and they
are very rare—are only now to be met with in the stables of stirring
farmers of the wealthy class, who go over their lands before
breakfast, and overlook hundreds of acres on the backs of these
useful creatures. Occasionally, too, they are to be found with country
doctors, well-to-do parsons, and others whose daily work cannot be
accomplished on animals less enduring or strong; but the ordinary
seeker looks for them almost in vain.
A good hack is a most trustworthy companion. His rider may drop
the reins to him on the very worst roads, and yet feel certain that he
will put his feet in precisely the right places, and make no mistakes.
His fore-feet are always well formed, and whatever the pace may be
they fall straight, and flat, and even upon the ground. His action
when trotting is from the shoulders, his fore-legs working strictly
from them, and just sufficiently bent to enable the rider to see his
knees as they are raised, but not to see under them. Chin-knocking
action may do for a park hack, but not for a roadster; indeed, I don’t
admire it myself in any class of horse, but in a covert-hack it is
decidedly objectionable. The wonder of my life is how so many
extraordinary goers, such as one sees throughout every hunting
season, contrive to jig along, or jog, or pound, as the case may be,
without coming down like logs upon the ground; but they do: just as
drunken men, though staggering, manage to get home without a
fall.
The paces of a thoroughly good hack are characterised by perfect
regularity and ease; his shoulders are well set, sloping, and strong;
his feet well formed, his back somewhat short, his loins muscular,
and his hips wide. The shoulders at the withers are thick and firm—
their tops well back—and a good long space between the pommel of
the saddle and the termination of the mane.
Fore-leg action of the proper sort is an actual necessity in a hack
intended for a lady to ride, because the safety of the rider is
dependent upon it; but in selecting such an animal look to his hind-
leg action as well. If the hock joints do not, when moving, seem
pliable, and as though they were bent with perfect ease, bringing his
hind legs well forward, reject him at once, no matter how good his
front action, or how perfect his forehand may appear.

HOCK—BENT. HOCK—TOO FAR BACK.

Good hocks are clear, sharp, and well-defined in their outline, with
bones large and prominent, denoting a similar condition of the
muscles. When too much bent there is generally a liability to sprain,
and when placed very far back there is, as a rule, an absence of
propelling power. I like to see hocks in such a position as shows that
they are right under the centre of gravity. This always enables a
horse to propel himself with confidence, and to bring his hind-legs
properly under him in the trot—at which pace they should be carried
as far forward as they can well be, without hitting the fore-feet. An
animal that sticks his hind toes in the ground, and walks gingerly, as
though his hocks had not any joints, will never be safe or pleasant to
ride. If he possesses strength and evenness of hind-leg action, his
paces will always be agreeable. Good shoulder action and far-
reaching hind legs will ensure delightful ease and pleasure to the
rider. Racehorses, when trotting over turf, carry their hind feet far
before the front ones—and outside them too, as I have proved by
footprints—although some persons have flatly contradicted me about
the matter.

HOCK—GOOD POSITION.

I do not think that a covert hack ought to exceed fifteen hands in

height. He should walk with ease and freedom, trot ten miles an
hour, and canter fifteen, without any trouble, or blowing, or other
symptoms of distress. Of course he cannot do this if his lungs are
not as sound as bells, and his legs and feet perfectly healthy. I may
say, however, that exhibitions of pace are perfectly unnecessary;
nobody really needs to gallop full tilt to covert—but light easy action,
and reliable powers of endurance, ought not to be lightly esteemed.
Beauty may be altogether dispensed with in the covert hack—
although it is generally so coveted that buyers will often ignore many
important defects on account of it. I don’t approve of this. I have
seen most excellent hacks who had coarse heads, blemished bodies,
rat tails, and other undeniably ugly attributes—but what mattered it,
so long as they had perfections of a more important kind? Such
animals are not wanted for show, as are their more gaudy brethren
the park hacks.
I like to see the ribs of all riding-horses long in front of the girths,
and short behind them. This keeps the saddle in the proper place,
which it is hard to do (without the aid of the old-fashioned crupper)
where the ribs in front are short.
The race of genuine covert hacks is, I am sorry to say, apparently
fast dying out. Go, for instance, to any ordinary meet of hounds in
almost any hunting country—you will see votaries of the chase
arriving in every variety of vehicle: in phaetons, dogcarts,
waggonettes, on drags and in broughams, on the backs of horses
that they mean to hunt, on “general utility” animals, on fine park
hacks, brought out to be admired and then cantered home again
along the roadside grasses, or hand-galloped through the fields
where convenient gates abound—but the number of real covert
hacks will be very small indeed. I suppose the reason is, that in this
troublous age, few (in Ireland at all events) can afford to indulge in
luxuries, and a good hack is one, in the very fullest sense of the
term.
I do not believe, although many do, that it spoils a saddle horse to
put him in harness. Were I rich enough to possess a number of
hunters, I should drive them in a four-horse drag during the summer
months, and I believe it would do them an immensity of good. A
covert hack of the useful sort makes an excellent trapper, or one of a
pair in a brougham or waggonette—nor does he lose any of his
saddle qualities by being so made use of.
I may here say that, for country or covert riding, I do not at all
approve of the ordinary half-bred cobs, which so many sportsmen,
and some sporting ladies also, are prone to affect. No doubt they are
strong: it is their only recommendation; but even this very strength
is in one way an objection to them, for it is in many instances
derived from a close connection with cart-horse blood, and on this
account they very soon tire when trotting, and begin to step short,
which occasions them to trip, and very often to come down. Besides,
it is almost a matter of course that their shoulders are straight, and
their fore-feet carried too far under them. In every way, therefore, I
object to these animals for saddle use—especially where ladies are
concerned.
Scarce as riding horses of endurance are in this country, there is no
doubt whatever that we have the breed, and that it only requires
careful cultivation—by which I mean select—in distant Colonies,
where our road and rail luxuries are not, for love or money, to be
obtained. In Southern Africa and distant Australia this has been
proved, as also in the crosses of our horses with Continental ones, in
Italy, Germany, and Spain.
I now come to speak about hunters. In choosing these, do not go in
for outward beauty of form, for it will not stand you in any stead. I
am compelled to impress this upon ladies—especially very young
ones—because they usually select their horses (as they do their
husbands!) for appearance more than for genuine worth. It is such a
perfectly natural weakness that nobody can be blamed for it.
Everybody likes “something to look at,” but there is more than this to
be desired in many respects. I remember either reading somewhere,
or hearing somebody say, that a hunter that combined high courage
with so fine a temper that he would stand while his owner opened
gates or remounted him after a fall—one that liked his trade, cried
“Ha, ha!” at the sound of the huntsman’s horn, went generously at
his fences as if he relished them, picked his places sensibly, had a
good constitution, drank his gruel freely after the day’s work was
over, would stand two ordinary days a week, and three good ones
along with them in the course of a fortnight—was a treasure, even
though he might have an ugly head, a ridiculous tail, an
unfashionable colour, corns at times, and many skin-deep blemishes.
In addition to all this, I may add that if he is a fairly good hack, and
can trot or jog his ten or twelve miles home to his stable after a
hardish day, he is simply an invaluable acquisition, especially to
those who love sport, yet have not the good fortune to possess a
sporting income.
It is rarely, however, that one is lucky enough to meet with so
entirely desirable an animal, and when found he certainly ought to
be prized.
The essential points for a hunter are these: a good constitution, so
that he may bear hardships and hard knocks; good powers of
endurance, to enable him to stand long and tiresome days, and
frequently to travel lengthy distances homewards; good shoulders,
and strong healthy legs and feet. Further good points are, a back
powerful enough to bear any weight that he is meant to carry; hind
quarters with propelling powers to land him safely over his fences; a
good chest, with lungs inside of it sufficiently sound to allow of his
galloping without showing signs of distress; and good eyes to enable
him to see where he is going.
 STRAIGHT FORE LEGS. VERY DEFECTIVE.

Straight fore-legs, such as are shown in the illustration, are an

absolutely essential quality—and they should emerge from the trunk
with plenty of firm muscle as well as good fleshy substance. Legs
that are too close together, or too far apart, are alike defective, and
ought not to be overlooked.
 TOO FAR APART.

A hunter for a lady’s use need not, as a rule, be over fifteen hands in
height, or about 15·2 for a man of ordinary stature. Of course top-
weights of either sex must have something proportionately big to
carry them, but my experience is that clever hunters of 15·2 or 3
can negotiate even the biggest country with safety, and I believe
there are a greater number of perfect fencers of that height than
can be found among those above it. Small horses, whether hunters
or steeplechasers, have distinguished themselves brilliantly from
time to time all over the world, yet the rage for tall ones is very
great. About ten years ago, at the Islington Horse Show, there were
forty hunters (out of 100 entries) that were over 16 hands high, and
they were among the very first sold, some of them to extremely
diminutive purchasers. I was speaking about this a year or two ago
to a dealer, and asking him his opinion respecting the cause, when
he made me laugh by answering, “Well, you see, big horses makes
big fences look a trifle smaller, and that’s something to them as
rides.”
I have always considered it a good plan to select a hunter, with due
regard to the country in which his purchaser intends to hunt. For
example, if hilly, or composed of wide grass lands, or plough, good
breeding will be decidedly essential, because with it good staying
powers will be combined; if trappy, or difficult, requiring constant
pulling up at fences and careful getting over, extreme cleverness will
be far more valuable than blood. Even a broken-winded horse will, if
cautious and clever, be more useful over such a country, than a flyer
or very flippant jumper—because he can catch his wind between his
efforts, and will not be likely to exhibit distress.
If you cannot count upon a horse’s pedigree, when looking for a
blood one, you can generally judge him by his haunch. I think it an
excellent test of breeding. A well-bred haunch and handsomely
carried tail, impart a dignity of appearance which is unmistakable,
and they are certainly far in advance of the rounded quarter and
drooping caudal appendage which my sketch on the succeeding
page represent.
Still further commendable points in a hunter are long shoulders, high
withers, broad hips, and loose flanks: this latter in order (as I have
heard it expressed) that he may “dash” his haunches under him at
the big jumps. He should have good shoulder action, but it matters
little (as I have said) about that of the knees.
WELL-BRED HAUNCH.
 ILL-BRED HAUNCH.

A hunter is thought to be in his prime at six years old, and if this be

the case, every hunter in the kingdom—especially those with which
dealers have anything to do—must be just arrived at that happy
meridian, for surely no one has ever yet inquired the age of such an
animal without being told that he was “just six year old,” or “rising”
it. I have known some admirable hunters, however, who had passed
the familiar landmark by four years or upwards; and in the west of
Ireland I saw one, and rode him too, who was said to be eighteen
years old, and certainly a finer fencer it has rarely been my lot to
handle.
I do not, however, as a rule, recommend young horsewomen to
purchase aged hunters. I have generally found them to be too crafty
and clever, calculating their distances too finely, and leaving
themselves nothing at all to spare. Better mount a young rider on a
young, generous goer, who will give himself a couple of feet or more
over the mark.
Never judge of a hunter from seeing him jump in cold blood,
because many animals that will perform calmly and collectedly over
a schooling-ground, become so tremendously excited in the hunting-
field that they are altogether beyond the powers of a lady to control.
I need not say that horses of this class are not only unpleasant, but
are highly dangerous mounts.
I always advise ladies who have invested in anything that they find
disappointing—either a rusher, refuser, plunger, or anything else—to
entrust him at once to thoroughly competent hands to break him of
the vice. I believe largely in horse-dealing farmers of the straight-
riding sort. A horse given up to one of these will be exercised about
the lands through the summer months, taught to get slowly through
gaps and over difficult fences, made to stand quietly to be mounted,
and ridden temperately but with determination when hounds begin
to run.
A hunter that pulls should never be made use of by a lady, but for
my own riding I have always preferred an animal that gave me
something to do to hold him, to one that stuck his head in the air
and refused to take hold of his bridle. I don’t know anything that
renders a lady more helpless in a quick run than a horse that is too
light-mouthed, and that flings his head up every time he feels the
action of the bit. I would not take a present of such a one for my
own use.
It is an excellent plan for ladies to train their hunters to follow them
when on foot. Suppose that in the course of a run you happen to
come to some awfully cranky place: cramped, difficult, and highly
dangerous to ride, you may find it pleasant and advisable to get off
and scramble it, and your steed will follow you beautifully if you
have him trained. It is quite easy to do it; accustom him to the tone
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