“Look at that pine; its trunk is straight and spreads its top branches like an umbrella. Isn’t it a Turnersque picture?” said Red Shirt. “Yes, just like Turner’s,” responded Clown, “Isn’t the way it curves just elegant? Exactly the touch of Turner,” he added with some show of pride. I didn’t know what Turner was, but as I could get along without knowing it, I kept silent. The boat turned to the left with the island on the right. The sea was so perfectly calm as to tempt one to think he was not on the deep sea. The pleasant occasion was a credit to Red Shirt. As I wished, if possible, to land on the island, I asked the boatman if our boat could not be made to it. Upon this Red Shirt objected, saying that we could do so but it was not advisable to go too close the shore for fishing. I kept still for a while. Then Clown made the unlooked-for proposal that the island be named Turner Island. “That’s good. We shall call it so hereafter,” seconded Red Shirt. If I was included in that “We,” it was something I least cared for. Aoshima was good enough for me. “By the way, how would it look,” said Clown, “if we place Madonna by Raphael upon that rock? It would make a fine picture.”
“Let’s quit talking about Madonna, ho, ho, ho,” and Red Shirt emitted a spooky laugh.
“That’s all right. Nobody’s around,” remarked Clown as he glanced at me, and turning his face to other direction significantly, smiled devilishly. I felt sickened.
As it was none of my business whether it was a Madonna or a kodanna (young master), they let pose there any old way, but it was vulgar to feign assurance that one’s subject is in no danger of being understood so long as others did not know the subject. Clown claims himself as a Yedo kid. I thought that the person called Madonna was no other than a favorite geisha of Red Shirt. I should smile at the idea of his gazing at his tootsy-wootsy standing beneath a pine tree. It would be better if Clown would make an oil painting of the scene and exhibit it for the public.
“This will be about the best place.” So saying the boatman stopped rowing the boat and dropped an anchor.
“How deep is it?” asked Red Shirt, and was told about six fathoms.
“Hard to fish sea-breams in six fathoms,” said Red Shirt as he dropped a line into the water. The old sport appeared to expect to fetch some bream. Bravo!
“It wouldn’t be hard for you. Besides it is calm,” Clown fawningly remarked, and he too dropped a line. The line had only a tiny bit of lead that looked like a weight. It had no float. To fish without a float seemed as nearly reasonable as to measure the heat without a thermometer, which was something impossible for me. So I looked on. They then told me to start, and asked me if I had any line. I told them I had more than I could use, but that I had no float.
“To say that one is unable to fish without a float shows that he is a novice,” piped up Clown.
“See? When the line touches the bottom, you just manage it with your finger on the edge. If a fish bites, you could tell in a minute. There it goes,” and Red Shirt hastily started taking out the line. I wondered what he had got, but I saw no fish, only the bait was gone. Ha, good for you, Gov’nur!