This final chapter, by far the longest, illustrates various aspects of go in contemporary life in Japan over a span of many centuries (the prints themselves, it will be remembered, were produced from the 18th through the 20th century). Go began in Japan, as can best be determined from the evidence, with Buddhist monks and nuns. It was taken up next by court aristocrats, then by the upper ranks among the warrior classes, and finally by the urban middle class. At each step a new group of enthusiasts joined the pool without replacing any previous group, so that eventually the go-playing public made up a broad cross-section of society. (An exception must be made for farmers and laborers, of course the most populous class of all. Their customary pastimes were shogi and gambling.)
As the knowledge of go spread, so did a liking for go themes in various art forms. The chunky shape of the go board lent itself to miniature reproduction in different materials designed for use as decorative boxes and water-droppers (ceramic bowls containing water, as drops mixed into the ink stone and used in the painting of sumi-e). Board and stone designs also appeared on kimono. Traditional themes such as the Immortals and the Four Accomplishments were depicted in netsuke, porcelain and metalwork. I once saw a magnificent three-tiered inro, or medicine box, depicting a board with inlaid black and white stones cascading down the sides, made of oxidized silver and mother-of-pearl -- an allusion, of course, to Go-Board Tadanobu. Completely original subjects are rare, but the little study in wood of a skeleton crouched over a board (below) is a delightful whimsy executed with a fresh imagination by a contemporary carver of netsuke.
During the Edo period a go club, like a tea ceremony room or a kyoka poetry meeting, was a place where rank, station and sex were irrelevant. What mattered were the depth of commitment and the skill of the participants. People who came to such clubs came as near to forming a genuine meritocracy as was possible in class-conscious Japan in those days, and this must have been a large part of the appeal of go for new players.
The fact that go requires deep concentration over a long period of time naturally leads to absent-mindedness in everything unrelated to the game at hand. The absent-minded go player is a stock figure for jokes in Japan much as the absent-minded professor is in the West. A fine example of this is the story Go Dorobo (The Go Burglar). It comes from an old native tradition of comic story-telling, called Rakugo, by a narrator seated in a small hall on a cushion which he never leaves, with a folding fan as his only prop.
Two friends who were addicted to go and were pretty evenly matched used to play every night until very late at the home of one of them, so wrapped up in their games that they were oblivious to everything but the board. Needless to say, this was a great nuisance to their families. But the worst part of it was their habit of pipe-smoking. They were always spilling hot ash, you see, and burning holes in the straw mats as they absent-mindedly lit their pipes from the live coal in the tobacco tray.
Their wives kept scolding them about this until finally they had to quit playing altogether. But they couldn't keep from thinking about it and wishing they could find some way to play again. Then one evening they hit upon a plan.
Let's just stop smoking while we're actually playing! We'll go outside and have a pipe after each game!
Brilliant idea, no doubt -- but of course they forget all about it as soon as they get well into their next game and start fiddling with their pipes. After a while one of them notices something.
Oy! he calls out. There's no coal in the tobacco tray!
The wife thinks to herself, If I put a coal in the tray they'll start burning holes in the tatami all over again. I'll find something red and put that in instead.
So from the kitchen she brings a small red vegetable called a snake-gourd and carefully pokes it down into the ashes of the tobacco tray, where it looks for all the world just like a bit of burning coal. The two men don't notice a thing, and so after a while the wife goes to bed, thinking she has nothing more to worry about.
On and on the two friends play, frowning and muttering at the board, and sucking away contentedly at their pipes just like old times.
Later that night a burglar sneaks into the back of the house. He stealthily fills a bag with everything he can get his hands on and hoists it over his shoulder. Just as he is about to take off he hears the click of a go stone.
What can I tell you? The burglar is a go player too. When that sound comes to his ears it arouses an irresistible curiosity. With the bag still slung over his shoulder he tiptoes toward the room where the two friends are playing, and peeks in.
At first he just stands there, watching. But then he moves slowly closer, bit by bit, until he's right beside them. One player is about to make a move. The burglar simply can't control himself.
No, no! he exclaims, putting down his bag. You ought to play over there, on that side! A typical kibitzer's remark.
The two players are studying the board. One of them says, a little crossly, Onlookers are supposed to keep quiet. This happens to be a crucial moment in the game. He glances up briefly. Who might you be, anyway? And click goes a stone onto the board.
All three study the move. It's a tense moment.
A burglar, comes the reply. Silence, then another click.
Hmm. Yes. . . Click. Well, make yourself comfortable . . .