Hideyoshi and Rikyū

by Nogami Yaeko

  Hideyoshi no longer practiced tea with Rikyū, but in all matters relating to tea ceremony, Rikyū was still the teacher and Hideyoshi the student. With lords and warriors from all over Japan constantly visiting Jurakudai, tea gatherings were held a couple of times a day. Although these dignitaries were honored to be invited for tea by Kampaku-sama, their real thrill was seeing Japan’s greatest tea master doing tea with famous utensils. In that regard, even though Hideyoshi extended the invitations, the real host was certainly Rikyū. Who else would be allowed to do it?

  Hideyoshi remembered his old lessons with Rikyū, and the fact that his teacher never gave even a little bit of praise, but only ambiguous comments. The frustration and inferiority he had felt at the time had transformed into conceit and satisfaction at being able to give orders to such a skilled, famous man. The old feelings still stabbed sometimes, like a thorn that isn’t felt on a fingertip until it’s rubbed the wrong way. Thus today, as always, Hideyoshi got a small thrill from forcing Rikyū to bow deeply.

  Weeks passed, and the rebellion was easily subdued. It was discovered that Masamune had not been plotting against Hideyoshi after all. Hideyoshi had rebuked Rikyū needlessly.

  Rikyū didn’t particularly care. Although Hideyoshi had asked for his advice about political matters, politics weren’t important to Rikyū, and he didn’t care what the gossips at court said. He had other concerns.

  Hidenaga, who was still very ill, finally held his daughter’s wedding to Tatsuchiyo. The doctors had predicted that he could die any day, but he mysteriously got stronger just before the wedding, as if putting his last reserves of energy into it. Judging from how rushed the wedding plans were, even he must have known he would die soon. Due to his illness, the celebration was limited to their family circle, but despite this, his beloved daughter’s wedding did not lack any splendor. The thirteen-year-old bride and her husband, who had received the new name Chūnagon Hideyasu, approached the sickbed after the ceremony. Hidenaga’s wife helped him sit up from the pillow, and he congratulated the new couple, shedding tears of joy and sadness.

  His family, who had gathered at Kōriyama Castle, felt the sorrow more than the joy. It was the last time that Rikyū, who had come to the wedding along with Hideyoshi, would see Hidenaga.

  At dawn, he was vomiting a great deal of blood. That happened often, but usually he regained his strength afterwards. This time he didn’t. Perhaps he had used all of his energy getting through the wedding. A couple of days later, he passed away.

  The news of his death reached Jurakudai quickly. On that day, the retainers had gathered to discuss the settlement of the dispute in the north, and the tea masters were in the waiting room, ready to perform. Only Rikyū was not there.

  Oda Urakusai, the uncle of Yodo-dono, was scheduled to come to Jurakudai, and Rikyū had been ordered to organize a tea gathering for him and Hideyoshi. But the ceiling of the entrance to the three-mat tearoom that he had planned to use for the gathering had been damaged in a snowstorm the night before. Since the damage was minor, requiring only a piece of replacement cypress, Rikyū had gone home to find a carpenter for a quick repair.

  The message of Dainagon’s death, delivered by a messenger on a horse, created an echo at Jurakudai that reached Rikyū’s ear with a slight delay. As Rikyū hurried back to Jurakudai, Hideyoshi had already gone to visit his mother. Hideyoshi knew his mother would be stricken by the news, and he wanted to tell her himself. He seldom rode a horse at Jurakudai, but this time he spurred his horse so quickly that his followers could not catch up with him. Those who saw him fly past said his face was covered with tears. Throughout Jurakudai, any rooms that held people echoed with a lingering sadness.

  As soon as Rikyū arrived at the waiting room, Imai Sōkyū whispered all the details to him. “You must be especially sad, Ekisan, since he favored you so much.”

  “Yes. That was like a dream.”

  “We know that we have to accept his death, but it’s sad that we lost such an unusually good person,” Sōkyū said. He couldn’t see the tears welling up in Rikyū’s eyes. Sōkyū had truly respected Hidenaga, as many people had, and today he spoke with deep sincerity. Sōkyū’s relationship with Hideyoshi had soured since the battle of Odawara. Rikyū wasn’t certain of the reason. Perhaps when Sōkyū was drunk, he had made some slip of the tongue. Hideyoshi was generous with those who served him well, but it made him angry to hear Sōkyū say that Hideyoshi’s success at the battle of Anegawa was due to Sōkyū’s gunpowder and bullets. There hadn’t been a public rebuke for it, but perhaps Hideyoshi had privately given him a lesson.

  In any case, Sōkyū hadn’t forgotten how to get on in the world. For the sake of appearances, he was a more diligent and faithful tea master than any of the others. Thus he was careful not to openly compare Hideyoshi and Hidenaga, but he spoke often of Hidenaga’s generosity. He told Rikyū that they had lost an irreplaceable man.

  “Even from his sickbed, he was a powerful man. Now that he’s gone, there is a huge vacuum in the castle. Truly, we have to be careful where we step,” Sōkyū concluded.

  There was nobody in the room besides them. The waiting room was plain with light indigo-blue doors that had white chrysanthemum designs on them. In the corner was a big kettle on a three-legged iron brazier, which kept water warm so that a page could bring tea to the samurai guards when needed. It also kept the room warm in the winter, and Sōkyū, who was especially sensitive to the cold, always sat near it. His nose was usually red, since he drank so often, but today he was sober, and it looked black, like a sick chicken’s comb. He huddled against the cold, looking like an old woman next to Rikyū’s big, sturdy build. The more excited he became when he spoke, the more he stuck out his chin and his prominent nose.

  In whispers, he spoke about the preparations for attacking China. Hakata was now the focus of Hideyoshi’s attention, replacing Sakai in prominence. “It’s Hakata this and Hakata that,” Sōkyū complained. “Of course, for dealing with China, Hakata is the most convenient place. But Sakai was once of great service to Kampaku-sama, especially at the time when he needed gunpowder. Hidenaga-sama surely understood this. But now that he’s dead, Kampaku-sama might change his mind again, like a weather vane.”

  Rikyū kept silent. His eyes, half-open like a statue of the Buddha, were wet. Sōkyū’s words resonated in him, but his reaction to Hidenaga’s death was as a tea master, not a merchant. Although Rikyū’s grief was as deep as anybody else’s, as had been his worry over Hidenaga’s illness, he buried his grief like the mud beneath a river. Despite the occasional subtle psychological battles, he didn’t doubt Hideyoshi’s trust in him. Rikyū knew—as Hideyoshi openly admitted—that for Hideyoshi tea was just a pastime rather than a serious practice, and he would never commit himself to learning about the depth of tea. Nevertheless, he needed Rikyū. Rikyū also never forgot that his special status had been due in large part to Hidenaga’s support.

  Rikyū was sitting in front of Sōkyū, who didn’t seem as if he would stop talking any time soon. Rikyū coughed slightly and touched his eyes with a piece of paper, giving the appearance that he was weighed down with deep sadness and didn’t hear anything that Sōkyū said. The truth was that Rikyū was purposely ignoring him. Something could hit him so hard that it even eclipsed his grief for a while.

  Pages announced Hideyoshi’s return. The magistrates and retainers who had been waiting dispiritedly rushed to the front of the house to greet him. Hideyoshi, with his small build, had always been good at riding, and was proud of it. Now, at fifty, he had the grave presence that befitted his title Kampaku-sama, but he still looked nimble as he swung down from his gold-trimmed saddle. His eyes were dry, but also red and swollen, showing that he had cried hard at his mother’s house.

  It wasn’t unusual for Hideyoshi to openly show joy and anger, but recently he had been even more emotional than usual—for example, in the way he doted on Tsurumatsu.

  Hideyoshi went ahead into the big room where they had
been meeting before the sad news arrived. Just before he stepped into the room, he stopped and looked back at Mitsunari, who was following right behind him.

  “Did Danjō leave right away?” Danjō was the magistrate who had married Hideyoshi’s wife’s sister. Because of his status as Hideyoshi’s brother-in-law, he had been sent to Kōriyama Castle with Hideyoshi’s message of condolence.

  In a clear, businesslike voice, Mitsunari informed him that Danjō had left the gate on his three-year-old horse even before Hideyoshi’s horse left the stable.

  “Hmmm.” Hideyoshi moved his chin slightly and started to walk again. But then he stopped again, and shouted, “Sōeki, Sōeki.”

  Rikyū hurried from the rear of the line of retainers and put his knees down on the hall floor.

  “I’ll leave for Kōriyama soon, but first I want to have a cup of tea. Go prepare.”

  “Yes.”

  “And send a message to the temple and tell the monk to go to Kōriyama immediately. I will meet him there.”

  Hideyoshi didn’t need to say that the temple was Daitokuji and the monk was Kokei. Rikyū acknowledged the order and moved back as smoothly as he had come forward. His eyes never rose above the level of Hideyoshi’s short silk riding pants and brocade socks. He didn’t see Maeda Gen’i, the magistrate in charge of temples and shrines—who was fat like Ōmura Yūki but more graceful than the playwright—tilt his monk-like face toward Ishida Mitsunari, who was standing next to him. Although Mitsunari had simply stood and listened as if he didn’t care what Hideyoshi said to Rikyū, now he looked down at Rikyū coldly. His huge ears hung over his thin neck, functioning as special auditory devices that could detect even an ant’s mumble.

  Rikyū didn’t see this, but he could feel the exchange with his whole body. Hideyoshi still favored Kokei despite the monk’s exile. Hideyoshi hadn’t forgotten how Kokei had conducted Nobunaga’s funeral, which had a serious political significance. He wanted the same respect for Hidenaga, and since Hidenaga and Kokei were close it was natural that Hideyoshi would ask Kokei to organize the funeral. It would show his love for Hidenaga, and also help to console his mother. But in his impatience, he ignored Maeda Gen’i, just as he had during Nobunaga’s funeral. Maeda hadn’t forgotten. This new slight left a heavy residue of hard feeling against Kokei, Daitokuji Temple, and Rikyū.

  Seven days later, Hidenaga’s funeral was held at Kōriyama Castle. As Hideyoshi had ordered, Kokei presided as chief monk. Officially, Maeda Igen was supposed to give instructions, but in fact Rikyū and Kokei conducted the services. Everything was handled in the same way as Nobunaga’s funeral.

  The nineteenth year of Tenshō was a leap year. In order to bring their lunar calendar back into harmony with the solar year of the seasons, they had to repeat January again. The weather was just as bad the second time around. Even when they went three or four days without snow or sleet, the mountains around Kyōto remained hidden. It was early spring, and bright patches of near-sunlight appeared among the steel-colored clouds, but there was an occasional light snow. Even though there had been a great deal of snow that winter, it was typical weather for the Kyōto basin. In a normal year, the first chirping of the nightingale would have been heard in the clear, light-blue sky. This year, the brave camellia blooming beside Fushinan was frozen like a grain of pale red snow. The weather chilled everyone to the marrow and lingered on. To make matters worse, a virus was raging through the city. Many people were heard coughing throughout the halls and the main rooms of Jurakudai.

  Hideyoshi’s mother stayed in bed, claiming a sore throat. It wasn’t serious; everyone knew it was grief that kept her secluded. The women of Jurakudai did not forget that the bad weather at the beginning of the year had foreshadowed Hidenaga’s death. Hideyoshi had brought the court lifestyle to Jurakudai, including taboos and fear of evil spirits. When the weather did not clear, they wondered if it might be another ill omen about the sickness of Hideyoshi’s mother. Some of the women became sick themselves from fear.

  Even little Tsurumatsu, at Yodo Castle, had become ill. The young son was three at the new year, and despite being white and chubby he was also physically delicate because he had been so spoiled. He was nervous and peevish. His sickness took the form of a sudden high fever with seizures, and diarrhea that wouldn’t stop.

  Hideyoshi rushed off to see him, bringing the family doctor along. Hoping to see his son smiling and jumping around again, and wanting to feel as if all his power could do something, he ordered temples and shrines in Ōsaka and Kyōto to pray for Tsurumatsu’s health. He dedicated three hundred koku of rice to the Kasuga Shrine in Nara, which had been strongly connected to Tsurumatsu since his birth.

  Despite his worry, he couldn’t stay by his child’s bed. Back in Kyōto, there was a Jesuit waiting for him to open negotiations.

  After attacking Lord Shimazu, Hideyoshi had been shocked to learn that almost all of the territories owned by the Christian lords in Kyūshū had been colonized by Christian churches. Quickly, he ordered the Jesuits banished, and they should have left then, but instead they remained free to move around. The traders were still there, and as the black ships sailed back and forth, Hideyoshi knew that they were helping the Jesuits to maintain a secret presence in Japan.

  Before Hideyoshi had formally banned the Jesuits from Japan, he had met with them at Ōsaka Castle, and again at his camp in Kyūshū. He wanted their support when he sent his troops to Ming China. He even asked them to get two warships from Portugal, on top of the imported goods like gunpowder that he would need for the attack.

  The Portuguese missionary Valignano came to Japan as an emissary from a viceroy in India, even though he knew he was prohibited from entering the country. Hideyoshi welcomed him to Jurakudai and held an extravagant party in his honor, as if he had forgotten about his child’s sickness. Meanwhile, Valignano sent the sons of the lords of Ōtomo, Ōmura, and Arima to Rome as pilgrims. He had plans of his own.

  Even though Hideyoshi ordered the traders to separate from the missions—after all, the work was done by the same Europeans—an official matter is an official matter, and an unofficial matter is an unofficial matter. Thus, Hideyoshi did not forget to acknowledge the Jesuits, and appeased Valignano with the showy party.

  Even as the preparations for war marched on, a rumor was winding quietly through the streets: “Attacking China may not be as successful as getting vengeance on Akechi.” The rumor had mysterious wings that let it fly through doors and walls. The content was serious, the kind of rumor that, when one heard it with the right ear, one might be afraid to whisper to someone on the left. So the idea spread slowly, not like ordinary rumors that fell on everyone at once like dark thunder clouds changing to a sudden shower.

  But the mysterious flapping of wings hit Rikyū harder than a lightning bolt. One day, he came home unexpectedly in the middle of the afternoon. As soon as he greeted his surprised wife—who hadn’t expected him back until late that night—he told her to send a messenger to Yahei. “You know where his studio in Nishijin is, don’t you?”

  “I know approximately.” Officially, Rikyū and Riki had stopped associating with Daikumachi. The house in Nishijin that Yahei shared with his new mistress was referred to simply as the “studio.” Needless to say, Riki had never been there. “What about sending a letter?”

  “No, sending a messenger is enough. Tell the messenger that I want to see Yahei as soon as possible: ‘Please come and see me.’”

  “Certainly.” Hurriedly, Riki sent Kisaku, the servant who had been with Rikyū in Odawara. It had been a very long time since Rikyū had asked to see Yahei on his own initiative. There must be some urgent reason why he would send a messenger to Yahei’s woman’s house. Her chest was tight with worry, but Rikyū’s expression forbade any questions.

  It was not far from Rikyū’s house to Nishijin. Sensing the urgency, Kisaku took a shortcut, and he returned quickly.

  While he waited, Rikyū followed his normal custom and checked the a
rrangement of the four-and-a-half mat tearoom, as well as the three-and-three-quarter-mat and the two-and-three-quarter-mat rooms. Shortly after he finished, Kisaku returned.

  Yahei was not there, Kisaku told Riki. The maid at the house didn’t know when Yahei would return, or even if Yahei had gone to Sakai.

  Riki reluctantly told Rikyū what Kisaku had discovered. “I wonder if my brother might have returned to Sakai. You could ask Kisaburō, but if you’re in a hurry, there may not be time. Yahei gives us so much trouble, doesn’t he?”

  Rikyū did not answer the implied question in her statement. He put one hand on the rim of the black lacquered brazier near his knee. He moved ash around the bed beyond the red charcoal with slender chopsticks made from silver, lost in his own emotions. To an observer, he looked calm and quiet, as if he were deep in thought and not at all worried about whether or not Yahei could be found.

  His head drooped slightly over the brazier. The front of his head, which was usually shaved by Kisaku, had lost its healthy color, taking on a pale tone. Only his stern eyes kept their old vigor. He kept those eyes fixed on something Riki could not see and pressed his lips together, creating a deep, ring-shaped concavity from his cheek to his chin.

  Rikyū was not always in a good mood when he returned from Jurakudai, and he had aged visibly in the past year. He certainly looked like an old man, and sometimes she saw him clinging stubbornly to his opinions like an old man. This was different from his normal hard-grained character. Riki saw the change more than anybody else. When he was in a difficult mood, she knew that it was best to leave him alone. But he looked so different that night that she didn’t leave the room right away.