by Osamu Dazai
The real story always begins where the love story ends. In most films, the word Finis is flashed on the screen the moment the happy couple are joined together, but what we, the audience, want to know, is what sort of life begins for them at that point. Life is by no means a drama consisting of one thrilling moment after another. We are born to spend most of our days in the midst of bland, bleak reality. Our prince and Rapunzel, who, though still mere children, had experienced a powerful bond of affection during the brief moment they were thrown together, discovered during their separation that they were unable to forget each other for a single instant, and after years of tribulation they succeeded in reuniting as adults. But that is far from being where the story ends. What remains to be told, what needs to be told, is the story of their life together from that point on. Though the prince and Rapunzel had escaped hand in hand from the enchanted forest, crossed the vast wilds in a night and a day, forgoing food and drink and conversation, and finally succeeded in reaching the castle, a hard road still lay ahead of them.
Both Rapunzel and the prince were exhausted when they arrived at the castle, but at first there was no time to rest. The king, the queen, and all the servants were overjoyed to see the prince safe and sound, and they bombarded him with questions about his latest ordeal. When it became obvious that the extraordinary beauty standing modestly behind him with her head bowed was none other than the girl who’d saved his life four years earlier, their joy only doubled.
Rapunzel was treated to a perfumed bath, dressed in a lovely sheer gown, then shown to a bed with a mattress so thick and soft as to conform to every curve of her body, where she fell into such a deep sleep that she scarcely even seemed to be breathing. She slept a very long time, and when she’d finally had all the rest her body needed and awoke wide-eyed, like a ripe, juicy fig falling to the ground with a plop, she found the prince standing beside her pillow in full regalia, his vitality thoroughly restored.
Rapunzel was frantic with shame and embarrassment. She sat up and said: “I’m going home. Where’s my dress?”
“Silly girl,” said the prince complacently. “You’re wearing it.”
“I mean the dress I wore in the tower. Give it back. My mother sewed that dress for me out of the finest cloth, cloth she gathered from every corner of the earth.”
“Silly girl,” the prince said again in the same carefree tone of voice. “Do you miss her already?”
Rapunzel nodded. And then emotion welled up inside her, and she began to weep. It wasn’t that she couldn’t face being without her mother in a castle full of strangers—she’d resigned herself to that before fleeing. Nor could anyone say that the old woman had been a good mother to her; although even if she had been, it wouldn’t have mattered. The nature of any young woman is such that as long as she’s with the one she loves, her birth family is only a secondary concern. Rapunzel wasn’t weeping out of loneliness, but out of shame and frustration. Having fled blindly to the castle, she’d been dressed in that exquisite sheer gown and shown to that soft, downy bed, where she’d fallen asleep, dead to the world; then, on awaking and seeing the situation with clear eyes, she’d been struck by the realization that she, the daughter of a despicable witch, was out of her element, a realization that made her feel demeaned and humiliated. Was this not why she’d blurted out that she was going home? It seems that she did indeed still retain some of the recalcitrance and willfulness she’d evinced as a child. The prince, for his part, having never known real hardship, was not likely to understand these feelings of hers. He was bewildered by Rapunzel’s sudden tears.
“You’re still tired,” he decided offhandedly. “And you’re hungry. We’ll have them prepare breakfast.” And with that he breezed out of the room.
Five ladies-in-waiting came for Rapunzel and gave her another perfumed bath, then dressed her in a crimson gown of thick velvet. They powdered her face and hands lightly, skillfully bound up her cropped golden hair, and secured a string of pearls around her neck. When at last Rapunzel rose serenely to her feet, the five let out a simultaneous sigh of admiration. Never before had any of them seen—nor could they imagine ever seeing again—such an elegant and stunning young lady.
Rapunzel was shown to the dining room. The king, queen, and prince stood by the table, waiting for her with radiant smiles.
“You look lovely,” the king said, spreading his arms wide to welcome her.
“Doesn’t she, though?” The queen nodded contentedly. Neither she nor her husband was the least bit arrogant or pretentious; both were gentle and compassionate people.
Rapunzel smiled somewhat sadly as she returned their greetings.
“Have a seat.” The prince took Rapunzel’s hand and led her to the table. “You can sit here,” he said, “right next to me.” The expression on his face was so triumphant as to be almost comical.
The king and queen took their seats, smiling their gentle smiles, and soon they all began to enjoy a congenial meal—all, that is, except Rapunzel, who was quite at a loss. She had no idea how to go about eating the succession of dishes that were served. Even when, by stealing glances at the prince beside her and imitating what he did, she managed to get the food to her mouth, the strange taste of the royal delicacies only nauseated the girl who’d grown up eating her mother’s salads of caterpillar innards and maggots boiled in soy sauce. She did think the egg dish quite good, although the eggs of chickens struck her as no match for those of the forest crows.
There was no lack of topics for conversation at the table. The prince told about his terrifying experience of four years before and boasted of his most recent adventure, and the king, deeply impressed with each incident his son recounted, nodded emphatically and drank toast after toast, the upshot of which was that before long her was so thoroughly drunk that his wife had to carry him piggy-back out of the room.
As soon as Rapunzel was alone with the prince, she spoke to him in a quiet voice.
“I’d like to step outside. I don’t feel very well.”
She was deathly pale, but the prince was in such high spirits that it didn’t even occur to him to be concerned. It seems that when people are in a state of euphoria, they don’t always notice the suffering of others. Rapunzel’s wan complexion didn’t worry him in the least. He stood up and light-heartedly said: “You ate too much. All you need is a walk in the garden.”
It was a lovely day outside. Though summer was long past, a variety of flowering plants were in bloom in the castle garden. At last Rapunzel smiled.
“I feel much better now. It’s so dark inside the castle, I thought it was nighttime.”
“Nighttime? You were fast asleep from yesterday afternoon until this morning. You slept so deeply you hardly seemed to be breathing. For a moment I thought you were dead!”
“It would be fine if the girl from the forest had died and awakened to find herself transformed into a lady of quality... but when I woke up I was still the witch’s daughter.” Rapunzel said this with genuine sorrow, but the prince took it as a joke and laughed heartily.
“You don’t say. Ha ha! You poor thing!”
When they came to a spot in the shadow of a hedge of thorny shrubs where small, pure white, and very fragrant flowers were blooming in profusion, the prince stopped suddenly, and the look in his eyes grew serious. He took Rapunzel in his arms and squeezed her as if trying to crush every bone in her body, and then, without further warning, he began to do something that seemed like the act of a madman. Rapunzel bore up patiently. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. He’d done the same sort of thing three times during the sleepless night and day they’d fled the forest and crossed the wilderness.
“You’ll never leave me now, will you?” the prince said softly, once his passion had subsided and he and Rapunzel were strolling along again side by side. They stepped out from behind the thorny shrubs and headed toward a little pond where water lilies bloomed. His question struck Rapunzel as a queer one, and she laughed.
“
What? What happened?” The prince peered at her face. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you act so serious, I can’t help laughing. Where could I possibly go? I waited four years in that tower for you.” When they reached the edge of the pond, Rapunzel felt tears welling up; she collapsed to the green grass and sat there looking up at the prince. “Did the king and queen give us their blessing?”
“Of course.” The prince put on his carefree look once again and sat down next to her. “After all, I owe my life to you.”
Rapunzel buried her face in his lap and unleashed a torrent of tears.
A few days later an extravagant and lavish wedding party was held at the castle. That night the trembling bride looked like an angel who’d lost her wings. And as a month, then two months went by, the prince only fell all the more deeply in love with this exotic, wild rose whose upbringing had been so different from his own. He grew ever more fascinated with her outlandish thoughts, her almost savagely spirited manner, her fearlessness and courage, and her naive, childlike questions.
The cold winter had passed. It was growing warmer by the day, and the first flowers of spring had begun to open their petals. Rapunzel and the prince were strolling side by side in the garden once again. Rapunzel was with child.
“It’s strange... It’s really so strange...”
“Here we go again. Another one of your questions, right?” The prince was twenty-one now and seemed a good deal more mature and sure of himself. “What sort of question is it this time, I wonder. The one the other day was a real gem: ‘Where is God?’”
Rapunzel bowed her head slightly and giggled. Then she looked up and said:
“Am I a woman?”
The prince was taken aback by this question, but chose to reply in a rather pompous tone.
“Well, you’re most certainly not a man.”
“So I’ll have a baby, and I’ll become an old woman?”
“You’ll be a beautiful old woman.”
“I won’t.” There was a smile on Rapunzel’s face, but it was a very sad smile. “I won’t have a baby.”
“Now why would you say something like that?” The prince’s tone was one of easy confidence, as if he were indulging a child.
“I didn’t sleep last night, thinking about it. If I give birth, it will turn me suddenly into an old woman. You’ll love and cherish only the baby, and I’ll just be in the way. Nobody will care about me anymore. I know. I’m a stupid girl of lowly birth, and once I’m old and ugly I’ll be of no use to anyone. I won’t have any choice but to go back to the forest and become a witch or something.”
The prince was scowling now.
“You mean you still haven’t forgotten about that damned forest? Think of your social position.”
“Forgive me. I thought I’d forgotten about it, but on lonely nights like last night it all comes back to me. My mother is a fearsome old witch, but she doted on me when I was growing up. And I know that even when no one wants me any longer, my mother back in the forest will always be willing to hold me in her arms, like she did when I was a little girl.”
“But you have me!” said the prince, exasperated.
“No. You too will change. You’ve treated me nicely, yes, but only because you find me curious and amusing. It’s made me feel so lonely, somehow. If I have a baby now, it’ll be a new curiosity for you, and you’ll forget all about me. I’m really just a foolish and useless person.”
“You simply don’t realize how beautiful you are.” The prince had thrust out his lips in a pout and seemed to moan the words. “You’re saying such ridiculous things. Today’s question is really dumb.”
“You don’t understand at all. You don’t know how I’ve been suffering lately. I’m a savage child with the blood of a witch in my veins. How I despise this baby that’s going to be born! I wish I could kill it.” Rapunzel’s voice was trembling. She bit her lower lip.
The prince shuddered. For all his blustering, he was in fact a rather faint-hearted person, and it occurred to him that a woman like Rapunzel might actually go so far as to kill her own child. Women like this, who live by their instincts and don’t know how to resign themselves to fate, are always catalysts for tragedy.
The elder daughter had written all this fluidly and unhesitatingly, with an air of absolute self-confidence, and having come this far she quietly laid down her pen. She reread the piece from the beginning, blushing at certain passages and twisting her mouth in a wry smile. There were some rather suggestive scenes here and there, and the poison-tongued second son would probably laugh with scorn when he read it, but there was nothing to be done about that. It seemed to her that she’d set down her own feelings in an honest, straightforward manner, and it made her sad to think how that honesty might be received. On the other hand, she also felt a certain sense of pride: Only she, of all the brothers and sisters, was really capable of expressing the delicacy of a woman’s feelings.
There was no heat in her study, and now, suddenly, she became aware of this and shivered: “Brrr... I’m freezing.” Hunching her shoulders, she stood up clutching the manuscript and hurried out into the hallway, where she nearly collided with her youngest brother. He was standing outside her door looking perturbed and worried.
“Sorry!” he said. “I’m so sorry!”
“Kazu, you’ve been spying on me.”
“No, no, nothing like that!” The accusation flustered him even more, and his face turned bright red.
“I know—you’re concerned about whether I was able to continue the story in a satisfactory way. Is that it?”
“Exactly,” he confessed in a small voice, then began to berate himself. “Mine wasn’t any good, was it? I’m just no good at this.”
“That’s not true. This time you did very well indeed.”
“You really think so?” His small eyes lit up with joy. “Did you do a good job following up on it? Did you do right by Rapunzel?”
“I dare say I did.”
“Thank you!” The youngest son pressed his palms together and bowed his head. “Oh, thank you!”
— IV —
The third day.
On New Year’s Day, the second son had come to my house on the outskirts of the city and denounced modern Japanese novels one after another, working himself into quite a state of excitement until, at about sunset, he’d muttered, “Uh-oh. I think I’m running a temperature,” and hurried home. Sure enough, he developed a mild fever that night. The next day he’d spent in and out of bed, and today, having still not fully recovered, he lay gloomily in his futon, resting his heavy head. That’s what happens when you criticize other people’s work—you’re likely to make yourself ill.
“How are you feeling?” the mother said as she entered her sick child’s room. She sat beside his pillow, put her hand to his forehead, and began to scold him at some length.
“Still a bit of a fever. You’ve got to be more careful. Yesterday you were up and down all day, neglecting your health, eating rice cake and drinking spiced saké... You mustn’t overextend yourself like that. The best thing for a fever is to lie quietly in bed. It won’t do for a person with such a weak constitution to be so strong-headed.”
The second son was in low spirits. He offered no retort but merely listened to his mother’s complaints with a lopsided smile on his face. Of all the brothers and sisters he was the most objective realist, and the owner of a bitingly caustic tongue, yet toward his mother he was, for some reason, as pliant and submissive as a creeping vine. He was incapable of being high-handed in her presence. It may be that deep in his heart he felt guilty about constantly falling ill and being such a burden to her.
“I want you to stay in bed the entire day today. You mustn’t be getting up and wandering all about. You can eat your meals here. I’ve prepared some rice gruel, and Sato [the maid] is bringing some up for you.”
“Mother, I have a favor to ask.” He spoke in a weak, defensive tone. “It’s my turn today. Is
it all right if I write my part?
“What?” His mother looked at him blankly. “What ever are you talking about?”
“You know. The chain story. We’ve started another one. I was bored yesterday, so I talked Hatsué [the elder sister] into showing me the manuscript. I thought about it all night last night, about how to continue. It’s going to be kind of difficult this time.”
“Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it,” the mother said, smiling. “Besides, not even great writers can come up with good ideas when they’re suffering from a cold. Why don’t you let your big brother handle it?”
“Forget that. He won’t do at all. He doesn’t have any talent. Everything he writes ends up sounding like a speech.”
“What a thing to say! Your elder brother always writes the most splendid, manly prose. I, for one, like his pieces best.”
“You don’t understand these things, Mother. You just don’t understand. I have to write the next part, no matter what. I’m the only one who can do it. Please? You’ll let me write it, won’t you?”
“I’m sorry. You’ve got to stay in bed all day today. Ask your brother to take your turn. You can write your part tomorrow or the next day, when you’ve got your strength back.”
“No I can’t. You don’t understand. You think it’s just some silly little game.” He gave an exaggerated sigh of despair and pulled the quilt up over his head.
His mother smiled. “I see. I’ve hurt your feelings, haven’t I? Well, then, why don’t we do this: You lie there in bed and dictate to me at your leisure. I’ll write it all down just as you tell me. All right? Let’s do it that way. Last spring, when you were in bed with a fever, didn’t I write out that difficult report of yours for school, just as you dictated it? I did a surprisingly good job that time, didn’t I?”
The patient simply lay there with the quilt pulled up over his head and made no reply, leaving the mother somewhat nonplussed. It was at this juncture that the maid, Sato, entered the room carrying a breakfast tray. Sato, who was from a fishing village in the countryside, had worked for the Irie family since she was twelve, and, having lived in the house for four years now, had thoroughly assimilated the family’s romantic spirit. She borrowed ladies’ magazines from the daughters and read them in her free time, being a particular fan of the old “vendetta tales” they often featured. She was also thoroughly taken with the maxim “Chastity at all costs,” and was quietly, fiercely determined to put her life on the line to protect her virtue, should it ever come to that. Hidden in her wicker trunk was a silver paper knife the elder daughter had given her. She thought of it as a dagger, to be used on herself if worst came to worst. She had a darkish complexion but nicely drawn, dainty features, and her clothing was always immaculate. She was slightly lame in her left leg, which tended to drag somewhat when she walked, but in a way this limp of hers was actually rather becoming. She revered the members of the Irie family almost as if they were gods. To her, the grandfather’s silver-coin medal seemed an honor of such magnitude that it made her dizzy just to think of it. She firmly believed the elder daughter to be the greatest scholar on earth and the younger daughter the most beautiful woman. But the second son she loved more than life itself. What a thrill it would be to set out with such a handsome young master on a journey to seek revenge! How drab the world was now that people never carried out vendettas, as they had in the past! Such were the idiotic thoughts that often occurred to her.
