So confident was Kurahara’s declaration that his companions became ill at ease, but he was not a man to take ready notice of such reactions.
Viscount Matsudaira was warming his smooth white hands over the fire. They had turned a delicate pink, all the way back from the well-trimmed nails. Gazing intently at the ash of the cigar he held at his fingertips, he began a story whose evident intent was to dismay.
“This is something I once heard from a fellow who was a company commander in Manchuria. It impressed itself on my memory because I had never heard such a tragic story. One day this officer received a letter from the father of a private in his company who came from a poor farming district. The family, the father wrote, was crushed by poverty and tormented by hunger. Though there was no way that the father could make amends to his dutiful son for so wishing, he nevertheless hoped for his death in battle as soon as possible. For, without the bereavement payment they would then receive, the family had no means of surviving. As might well be expected, the company commander didn’t dare to show this letter to the son but hid it away. And just a short time later, he told me, it happened that the son died a heroic death in battle.”
“This really happened?” asked Kurahara.
“I have the story from the company commander himself.”
“Really!”
The sap from the logs sputtered in the flames of the fireplace in the silence that followed Kurahara’s response. After a few moments, Kurahara took out his handkerchief, and the sound of his blowing his nose attracted the attention of the others. They saw several tears, bright in the firelight, rolling down over the heavy flesh of Kurahara’s creased cheeks.
These enigmatic tears had a strong emotional effect on all present. The man most startled to see them was Viscount Matsudaira, but he was content to congratulate himself on his story-telling ability. From Marquis Matsugae, however, Kurahara’s tears drew still more tears. That so unsentimental a man would weep in sympathy with another could perhaps be explained only by concluding that his thoroughly egoistic cast of character had been unable to maintain itself before the advance of age. But as for Kurahara’s tears, which would remain something of a mystery in the face of all explanation, perhaps Baron Shinkawa alone was able to view them accurately. Since the Baron’s heart was cold, he ran no risk in any situation. Tears, however, were dangerous. Supposing they did not necessarily proceed from the approach of senility.
The Baron, then, was somewhat moved, somewhat taken aback, and as a consequence, though he made it a practice to discard his cigars half-smoked, neglected to toss the one he was holding into the fire.
16
ISAO MADE UP his mind that, when he had his audience with Prince Toin, rather than express himself in personal terms, he would bring with him The League of the Divine Wind. Since there could be no question of merely lending this to the Prince, he would buy a new copy to present to him. For the first time, he found his mother’s talents to be of some use. He asked her to make a brocade cover for the presentation copy, choosing a pattern as conservative as possible. She went to work with her needle at a pitch of enthusiasm.
The matter, however, came to the ears of his father. Iinuma summoned his son and told him that he was not to see the Prince.
“But why not?” asked the startled Isao.
“Because I said so. There’s no need for an explanation.”
His son had no way of knowing how tangled was the skein of Iinuma’s emotions and to what deep and obscure region it led. Still less could he know the part that Prince Toin had played in the events leading to the death of Kiyoaki.
Since he realized that his anger was impossible to explain, Iinuma himself grew more and more uncomfortable with it. Though he was well aware that the Prince’s role in the affair was obviously that of an injured party, nevertheless, whenever Iinuma traced events back to the remote causes of Kiyoaki’s death, he invariably found himself vexed with the image of a man he had never met, Prince Toin. If there had been no Prince, if the Prince had not been present at that particular time and place . . . Iinuma’s complaint always moved toward this same conclusion. The truth was that if there had been no Prince Toin, Kiyoaki’s irresoluteness would have been still more likely to prevent him from winning Satoko even for a time, but, knowing little of the particulars, Iinuma tended to fasten his resentment doggedly upon the person of the Prince.
Iinuma was still tormented by the long-standing discrepancy between his political tenets and the turbulent emotions that were their source. For the burning, emotional loyalty that had taken form in Iinuma in his boyhood—a loyalty that at times had been shot through with anger and contempt, at times had poured down like a waterfall, at times had erupted like a volcano—this loyalty that was so much a part of him was a loyalty wholly to Kiyoaki. To define it still more precisely, one might well say that it was a loyalty dedicated to Kiyoaki’s beauty. It was a loyalty swerving almost to betrayal, a loyalty ever choked with a dark anger. And for that very reason it was an emotion to which one could give no other name.
He called it loyalty. Well and good. Yet it was something quite other than being dedicated to an ideal. He struggled against the ineffably beautiful temptation that would lure him far from his idealism. He was intensely eager to reconcile idealism and beauty, both of which had such a hold upon his heart, and moreover his emotion flowed from a kind of powerful need to reconcile the two. His was a loyalty that from its inception had the character of a lonely, single-minded fidelity. It was an emotion fated for him from boyhood, a dagger that had been thrust into his grasp.
In teaching his classes, Iinuma was fond of using the expression “love for the Emperor.” Whenever these words passed his lips he felt a surging power go out of him which made his students tremble with emotion and their eyes sparkle. Clearly the source of this inspiration was some experience of his own boyhood. Otherwise, where could it have come from?
Since Iinuma had little self-awareness, he was quite capable of forgetting all that pertained to the distant source of his emotions. Freely transcending time, he directed the fire within him wherever he wished, setting blazes where it pleased him, letting himself rest in the flames, letting himself taste the burning ecstasy and suffering no significant pain in the process. Yet if Iinuma had been more honest with himself, he would undoubtedly have noticed that he used an excessive number of metaphors having to do with emotion. He would undoubtedly have recognized himself as one who had indeed once lived out the original poem but who now made do with mere echoes of it, constantly applying the images of the moon, snow, and blossoms of long ago to scenes that were altering with every passing year. What he did not realize, in short, was that his eloquence had grown hollow.
Thus with regard to reverence for the Imperial Family, though he, Iinuma, should have been ready to cut down on the spot anyone who cast doubt upon this virtue, a chill shadow, like the wavering but constant image of rain flowing down a glass roof, fell upon his own sense of reverence—the name of Prince Toin.
“Who is it that was going to take you to see Prince Toin?” asked Iinuma in a somewhat quieter and roundabout manner. The boy said nothing.
“Who? Why don’t you answer?”
“I can’t answer that question.”
“Why can’t you answer?”
The boy fell silent once more. Iinuma grew furious. To say “Don’t see Prince Toin” was for him an order from father to son. There was no need for explanation. But, to Iinuma, for Isao not to tell him the name of his intermediary was equivalent to rebellion against his father. The truth of the matter was that Iinuma, as Isao’s father, should have been able to explain the basis of his repugnance for the Prince so that his son could have readily understood it. He should have been able to say that Isao was not to see the Prince because he had been involved in the circumstances that had driven to his death the young master whom Iinuma had served. Shame, however, like a rock glowing red with heat, blocked Iinuma’s throat and prevented all explanation.
&
nbsp; And for Isao to go against his father like this was most extraordinary. In his father’s presence, Isao had always been reticent and deferential. For the first time Iinuma realized that there was an inviolable core within his son, and now he, who had failed in attempting to form Kiyoaki, in another time and in quite different circumstances, felt the same enervating frustration with Isao and could not stem a sudden rush of anguish.
As father and son thus sat confronting each other, the light of the setting sun, brilliant after an early evening shower, shone from the puddles scattered through the garden outside the room, and the green foliage sparkled as though the trees and shrubbery were growing in the Pure Land. The breeze was cool and refreshing as it blew across their faces. Isao’s anger was sharply defined, like something lying at the bottom of a clear brook. He sensed its presence like a stone that he could place on a Go board wherever he wished. But the emotions that raged within his father were, as always, opaque to Isao, beyond his understanding. The cicadas kept up their solemn chant.
The copy of The League of the Divine Wind in its sober rust-and-green brocade cover lay on the table. Isao abruptly picked it up and got to his feet, intending to leave the room without another word. His father was too fast for him. He snatched the book away from his son, and he, too, got to his feet.
For one instant their eyes met. Isao saw that his father’s eyes were utterly cowardly, that no courage shone in them. But in those eyes, like distant pounding hoofs drawing closer, anger was rushing up from the depths of his heart.
“Have you a tongue in your head or not?”
Iinuma threw the book into the garden. The gleaming orange surface of one of the puddles was rent as the book meant for a prince splashed into it and came to rest. The instant that he saw the muddy water close over the object that he had invested with so sacred a character, Isao felt a shock of anger, as if a wall had suddenly burst before his eyes. He clenched his fists without realizing it. His father trembled. He slapped Isao across his face.
At the sound, Isao’s mother came into the room. To Miné the figures of the two men standing there seemed gigantic. The next instant she noticed that her husband’s kimono was in disarray, while that of her son, whom he had just slapped, was not. She looked beyond into the garden sparkling in the glow of the setting sun. Miné remembered her husband’s violent passion at the time that he had beaten her half to death.
Slithering across the tatami floor, Miné interposed herself between the two of them and cried out: “Isao! What are you doing? Apologize to your father. How dare you show such a face to him! Bow down before him and apologize this instant.”
“Look at that,” said Isao, paying no attention to the blow he had taken on his cheek. He knelt on one knee, and, tugging at his mother’s sleeve, directed her gaze toward the garden. Above her head, Miné heard her husband panting like a dog. Contrasted with the bright garden, the interior of the house was very dark. Miné had the feeling that something was floating in that darkness, filling it—something so uncanny that she could not bear to keep open her upturned eyes. Half in a dream, Miné was thinking of that long-ago time in the library of Marquis Matsugae. And still, as though in a delirium, she kept saying: “Apologize. Apologize at once.”
Slowly she opened her eyes. The object that took clear form before them was of glittering green-and-rust brocade half-sunk in a puddle of water. Miné was aghast. The brocade that sparkled in the evening sun from the midst of the muddy water affected her so that she felt it was she herself who was being punished. As for what kind of book it might be, not the faintest inkling crossed Miné’s mind.
The Prince had informed Lieutenant Hori that he would receive them on Sunday evening, and the Lieutenant took Isao with him to pay their respects at the Toinnomiya residence in Shiba. The Prince’s family had been visited by a series of misfortunes. After his elder brother, who had never enjoyed good health, passed away, so also, within a short time, did his father and mother. Thus the sole heir of the Toinnomiya family was the vigorous Prince Harunori. When he was away on duty, his wife and children had the mansion to themselves. And since his wife was a lady of extremely quiet disposition who came from a family of the court nobility, a lonely stillness, as might be expected, hung over the residence most of the time.
Isao had had great difficulty in obtaining a third copy of The League of the Divine Wind, but at last had found one in a secondhand bookstore, and he carried it under his arm as he walked along in his Kokura summer uniform beside Lieutenant Hori. He had taken care to wrap it in good paper at least and to draw in ink the characters designating it as a gift. In leaving the house this evening, he had used deception against his father for the first time.
The huge gate of the Toinnomiya mansion was closed, and only a dim light burned before it. There was no indication that the master of the house was in residence. A small door beside the gate was open, and a guard light shone down on the gravel. When the Lieutenant stepped through this door, the scabbard of his sword rattled as it brushed lightly against the frame.
Though the guard had been informed ahead of time of their coming, he took care to inform the house by an inside phone, and in the interval Isao, noticing how clearly he could hear the wings of the moths, the small beetles, and the other insects fluttering about the light that hung from the eaves of the old guard post, became aware of the profound silence that brooded over the trees surrounding the mansion and the sloping gravel road that shone a brilliant white beneath the moon.
A few moments later, they were climbing the gravel road. The heavy, sucking noise of the Lieutenant’s boots echoed as though he were on a night march. Isao felt a faint warmth still in the gravel, a reminder of the torrid heat of midday.
In contrast to the altogether Western-style Yokohama villa of the Toinnomiyas, this mansion was in Japanese style. Above the broad expanse of gravel, white in the moonlight, where vehicles pulled up, there rose the heavy roof of a Chinese gable over the entrance.
The mansion’s administrative office was apparently to the side of the entranceway, but no lights were burning there this late. The old steward came out to meet them and, after taking charge of the Lieutenant’s sword, escorted them into the house. There was no sign of life anywhere within. The corridor was spread with a maroon rug, and one of its walls was wainscoted in Western style. After opening a door to a darkened room, the steward flicked a switch. Light struck Isao’s eyes, the radiated brilliance of a massive chandelier hanging in the center of the room. Its countless fragments of glass floated in the air like a glittering mist.
Isao and the Lieutenant sat stiffly in linen slipcovered armchairs as the breeze from a sluggish fan brushed their cheeks. They heard the rustling sound of the insects that fluttered against the window. Since the Lieutenant kept silent, Isao, too, kept silent. After a short wait, a servant brought them some chilled barley tea.
A huge Gobelin tapestry depicting a battle scene hung upon the wall. A mounted knight was thrusting his lance through the breast of a foot soldier bent back by the force of the blow. The tapestry had faded with age, and the gushing blood that blossomed at the man’s breast was tinged with the russet color of an old furoshiki. Blood and flowers were alike, Isao thought, in that both were quick to dry up, quick to change their substance. And precisely because of this, then, blood and flowers could go on living by taking on the substance of glory. Glory in all its forms was inevitably something metallic.
The door opened and Prince Harunori, wearing a white linen suit, came into the room. Though there was nothing pretentious about his entrance, and though its very lack of ceremony brought a measure of warmth and ease into the somewhat tense atmosphere of the room, the Lieutenant at once leaped from his chair to a position of rigid attention, and Isao followed his example. For the space of a moment, Isao studied the Prince, the first member of the Imperial Family whom he had ever been so close to. His Highness was not especially tall, but his physique gave a decided impression of sturdiness. His suit bulged at the mids
ection, putting a strain upon his jacket buttons. His shoulders and chest were so well fleshed that his white-suited figure with its knotted tie of reddish yellow might at first glance seem to be that of a politician. But the beautifully tanned complexion, the close-cropped head, the splendid, rather aquiline nose, the majesty that shone from the long, slender eyes, and the carefully trimmed jet-black moustache all revealed that, beyond a doubt, here was a man who combined a commanding martial presence with the graceful bearing of the nobility. The Prince’s eyes were bright and lively, but he gave the impression of seldom shifting his penetrating gaze.
The Lieutenant introduced Isao at once, and he bowed deeply.
“Is this the young man you spoke to me about? Well! Sit down then, make yourself comfortable,” said the Prince affably. “As far as young men today go, I haven’t met a single one outside the military. And so I thought, if this lad’s a civilian and truly a young man worthy of the name, then I want very much to meet him. Isao Iinuma, is it? I’ve heard of your father.”
Since the Lieutenant had told Isao to say whatever came into his mind, he asked abruptly: “Your Highness, has my father ever had an audience with you?”
When the Prince replied that he had not, the riddle of his father deepened and became more complex. Why should he harbor such feelings toward a man whom he had never met?
The Prince and the Lieutenant began to tell old stories with a freedom that came of their both being military men. Isao watched for an opportunity to present his book. He had little hope that the Lieutenant would make the effort to offer him such an occasion. Lieutenant Hori seemed to have forgotten all about the book.
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