Seven Japanese Tales

by Junichiro Tanizaki

  It must have been about seven o'clock when the banquet began. Casks of saké had gone to all the watch-towers as well as to the main hall, and the cooks had prepared the finest dishes they could. Many marvelous delicacies were produced; soon everyone throughout the castle was eating and drinking to his heart's content. Of course, the most splendid feast was in the main hall: there, on a fur-covered dais, sat Lord Katsuie, with Lady Oichi beside him and her daughters next to her; sitting just below them were such famous warriors as Bunkasai and Lord Wakasa. Lord Katsuie offered the first cup of saké to his wife. Since he had graciously told all the personal servants to join the party, even I was sitting not far away. I heard that all the ladies and gentlemen were turned out in brilliant fashion, since this was to be their last night. Lord Katsuie and his retainers wore dazzling, many-colored robes and armor; they vied with each other in the splendor of their weapons and their dress, and bore themselves with immense dignity. Even the ladies in waiting, determined not to be outdone on this last occasion, were dressed in their finest apparel. Yet Lady Oichi, they say, far outshone the others. Her rouge and powder were applied a bit more heavily than usual; her milk-white skin was set off by a luxurious gown of white figured silk with a sash of thick gold-flecked brocade, over which she wore a Chinese brocade outer robe with a pattern embroidered in gold and silver and a variety of colors.

  As soon as the first round of saké was over, Lord Katsuie declared: “We can't just sit here drinking in silence! The enemy will scorn us for being so gloomy at the prospect of saying farewell to the world. I want to astonish them by spending this whole night in elegant amusements.”

  Just then the beat of a small drum resounded from a distant watchtower, and we could hear someone singing a lively song, which seemed to be accompanied by dancing. “There!” Lord Katsuie cried. “Those fellows have the right spirit! Let's join them!” And he launched into the song of Atsumori:

  “Our brief span of fifty years . . .”

  This song had been greatly loved by Nobunaga; they say he sang it at Okehazama, where he won such a decisive battle, and so it has always been auspicious for the House of Oda. But this time it made everyone feel sad to hear Lord Katsuie singing it in his strong, resonant voice:

  “Our brief span of fifty years

  Is like an empty dream.

  Who of us can hope to live forever?”

  They found themselves remembering the days when their former lord was alive, and they grieved to think of the endless changes of this uncertain world. All those brave armor-clad warriors were moved to sudden tears. After that Bunkasai and Ichirosai each sang a passage from a No play, and Wakadayu danced. But many of the others present were also highly accomplished; and as the saké cups were filled and refilled they all wanted to display their artistic talents — to dance one last dance, to sing one last song before they died. It was a wonderfully gay party, and the longer it went on, the gayer and livelier it became. There was no telling when it would end.

  At last, in a voice so beautiful that the rest of the company fell silent, a man began to sing these lines:

  “As lovely as pear blossoms wet with rain,

  Pear blossoms wet with rain . . .”

  The singer was a warrior-priest called Choroken. This gentleman was skillful at all the arts, and played the biwa and the samisen extremely well. That was how I happened to know him, and I had long admired his singing, too. But a strange feeling came over me as I listened closely to the words of his song, recognizing it as a song in praise of the Emperor Hsuan-tsung's favorite, Lady Yang Kuei-fei:

  “. . . Pear blossoms wet with rain,

  Eyebrows like the green willow in the Palace garden,

  Lips like the crimson lotus in the Imperial pond.

  Truly, the painted beauties of the Inner Palace

  Seem wan and pale beside her.”

  Perhaps Choroken had no such thing in mind, but to me, as I listened, he seemed to be praising Lady Oichi's beauty. Alas, I thought, is such a lovely flower to be soon destroyed? At that moment I felt another sharp pang of regret.

  Then Choroken said: “Listen! The blind one over there can play the samisen! Let's have him sing something for us, with Lady Oichi's permission!”

  “Go ahead, Yaichi!” Lord Katsuie called out at once.

  I couldn't refuse — indeed, it was just what I'd been hoping for. Quickly I took up my samisen and began singing one of the little songs she liked so well:

  “The cold winter rains and the snow

  Only fall now and then —

  But because of you, my tears

  Are falling constantly.”

  “Ah,” cried Choroken, “he's as good as ever! Now let me try one.” Borrowing my samisen, he began to accompany himself as he sang about the moon shining on the Bay of Shiga. I listened carefully, paying special attention to the long instrumental passages which he inserted here and there. Choroken played these passages with the most exquisite tone, but I noticed that certain queer phrases, twice repeated, were mingled with them. Now, there is a secret code that all of us blind samisen players know very well. Since each string of a samisen has sixteen stops, the three strings together have forty-eight: when you teach a beginner how to play the instrument you help him memorize these stops by marking them with the forty-eight characters of the i ro ha alphabet. Everyone who studies the samisen learns this system; but we blind musicians, since we can't see the characters, have to learn it by heart — we associate each note with its proper letter quite automatically, as soon as we hear it. So when blind musicians want to communicate secretly they can do it by playing on the samisen, using this system as a code. Well, when I listened to those “queer phrases” of Choroken's the notes seemed to be telling me something like this:

  “A reward is waiting.

  Is there no way to save your mistress?”

  I must be deluded, I thought. How could one of our men be saying such a thing? Even supposing I'd heard correctly, the syllables must have formed that sequence purely by accident. But while these thoughts were running round and round in my brain, Choroken once more began to sing:

  “What can I do?

  The path to my love is barred

  And the gatekeeper won't let me pass!”

  Although his samisen accompaniment was entirely different from that of the earlier song, he still inserted those strange phrases here and there.

  Suddenly my heart began to pound. Ah, I thought, so Choroken is a spy for the other side, or else he's turned traitor! In any case he is following Hideyoshi's orders, and trying to deliver Lady Oichi to the enemy. Help had come when I least expected it — but I was amazed to think how strong Hideyoshi's love must be, since he still refused to give her up!

  Then Choroken returned the samisen to me. “Come on, Yaichi,” he said. “Give us another song!”

  I wondered why he was relying so heavily on a poor blind minstrel like me. Had he seen what was in my guilty heart and realized that I would go through fire and water for my mistress? To be sure, I had the advantage of being the only manservant who was allowed in the ladies' quarters. Then too, I knew every nook and corner of the castle, all its many rooms and passageways, better than anyone with sight; in an emergency I could scamper through them as freely as the mice! The more I thought of it, the more it seemed to me that Choroken had done well to put his confidence in me. It was because I wanted to perform just such a service that I had allowed my worthless life to drag on this long. Now I would do my utmost to save Lady Oichi — if I failed, I had only to die in the flames with her! In that instant I formed my plan. Without hesitating, I took up my samisen and began to sing:

  “If I could only tell you

  What is in my heart

  And show you my tear-drenched sleeves. . .”

  As I pressed the strings with trembling fingers, pretending to improvise new interludes of my own, I used the secret code to give Choroken this answer:

  “When you see smoke,

  Come to the fo
ot of the tower.”

  Of course, none of the others who were listening so attentively had any notion that we were exchanging these messages. Meanwhile, I had devised a scheme for saving Lady Oichi's life. You see, she and Lord Katsuie were to climb to the top of the castle tower at dawn and commit suicide there, after which the dry grass that had been heaped up would be put to the torch. So it had occurred to me that by careful timing I could set the fire just before they were to kill themselves. In the midst of all the confusion I could lead in Choroken and his confederates; and perhaps, by force of numbers, my mistress could be separated from her husband.

  Now, I have to admit that I'm a born coward, and I'm no good at all at deceiving people. I couldn't help being horrified at my own plan to set fire to the castle and then abduct my mistress in collusion with an enemy spy. But what made me decide to go through with it was the thought that it would be an act of loyalty, after all, since I was doing it solely out of my desire to save her life.

  And so the party went on, but all too soon the brief night of early summer was ending. Already the sound of distant temple bells came echoing to our ears, and we could hear thrushes singing in the garden. At this, Lady Oichi asked for paper, and wrote a poem in the classical style:

  Even before we sleep

  On this summer night

  The voice of the thrush reminds us

  To bid it a last farewell.

  Next, Lord Katsuie wrote one:

  The dreams of a summer night

  Are fleeting —

  Mountain thrush, soar to the sky

  With the name we leave behind.

  Bunkasai read both of these aloud to us, and said: “I, too, will write a poem.” This was what he composed:

  Bound by earthly ties

  I will accompany you

  On the road to Paradise

  And serve you in the life to come.

  I could only admire how elegantly nonchalant they were, even on such a painful occasion.

  After that everyone retired to his appointed place, to prepare for suicide. The ladies in waiting and I attended our master and mistress as they went at last to the castle tower. However, we were ordered to stop at the fourth level — only Bunkasai and the three young daughters went along to the top. Deciding that this was the critical moment, I crept stealthily halfway up the stairs to the fifth level, where I listened, holding my breath, and heard everything that went on overhead.

  First of all, Lord Katsuie had Bunkasai open the windows on all four sides. As the morning wind swept through the room, he remarked how refreshing it felt. Sitting down, he said with formal dignity: “Let us drink a last cup of saké among ourselves in farewell.” He had Bunkasai serve it, and exchanged cups once again with Lady Oichi and her daughters.

  When they had finished, he addressed his wife in these words: “The unfailing love which you have shown me has made me very happy. Had I realized what the future held in store, I would not have married you last autumn — but there is no use talking about that now. My one desire was for us to be together always, as husband and wife; but after long and careful thought I have come to believe that because you are the sister of my late master, and furthermore because these little girls are the children left behind by Lord Nagamasa, my real duty is to save you. A warrior who is going to die is not obliged to take his wife and children along with him. If I were to kill you here, people might say I did it in a burst of pride, forgetting both duty and compassion. Please try to understand, and leave the castle. I am afraid this is all very sudden for you, but it is something to which I have given a great deal of thought.”

  His words took me completely by surprise. He must have been in inner turmoil as he spoke, but there was not a trace of it in his quiet, steady voice. As I heard him I thought: Ah, how splendid! Just as they say, a true warrior has a tender heart — it was my own contemptible nature that made me harbor a grudge against him, not realizing what a fine gentleman he was! Shedding unexpected tears of gratitude, I clasped my hands reverently and bowed in the direction of his voice.

  But the next moment I heard Lady Oichi reply: “After coming this far, what you ask of me is more than I can endure —” She broke off, weeping. Then she said: “Even while Lord Nobunaga was alive I considered myself a member of the family I had married into — not of the Oda family. And now today, when I no longer have my brother to depend on, where would I go if you abandon me? I know from bitter experience that to escape death would mean to leave myself open to humiliation worse than death. That is why, from the day I married you, I have been determined that this time I would never let myself be separated from my husband. Our married life has been short, but if we can die together as husband and wife, half a year of marriage is as much a lifetime as a hundred years. It is cruel of you to tell me to leave. Please don't ask that of me!” Her voice came to me in broken, uneven phrases, as if she had buried her face in her sleeves.

  “But have you no pity for your daughters?” Lord Katsuie objected. “If they die the Asai line comes to an end. Will you not have failed in your duty to your dead husband?”

  “You are very generous to the Asai!” she exclaimed, and began weeping harder than ever. “I want to stay with you; but I will take advantage of your kindness to save the children so that they will be able to pray for the spirit of their father, and for mine too after I die.”

  But this time Ochacha cried: “No, no, Mama! I want to stay too!”

  “So do I! So do I!” cried Ohatsu and Kogo, clinging to their mother from both sides. All four of them sobbed together.

  At Odani, her daughters had been only infants, unaware of the tragedy they were living through; but now, when even little Kogo was almost ten, there was no way to soothe them. Lady Oichi herself, with all her fortitude, was so moved by the tears of her beloved children that she could not control her weeping. In all these years I had never known her to be so distressed. But time was running out — how would it end?

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Bunkasai's voice scolding the children: “Now, now, don't behave like that!” He seemed to be forcing himself between Lady Oichi and her daughters, trying to separate them from her. “Come along, you're making it hard for your mother to carry out her duty.”

  When I heard these words I knew I couldn't afford to wait another moment. Pulling out a bundle of the dried grass that had been stuffed under the stairway, I set fire to it with the flame of a lamp. At that time, the only other people on the fourth floor of the tower were the ladies in waiting, all of whom, dressed in ceremonial white ready to die, were fortunately too busy intoning loud prayers to the Buddha to notice what I was doing. Hastily I went around touching off heaps of dried grass everywhere and scattering firebrands against all the paper doors and windows. Then, choking from the smoke, I began shouting: “Fire! Fire!”

  Since the top windows were open, a strong draft of wind blew up through the tower, spreading the flames quickly through the tinder-dry grass. Soon the crackle of burning wood became a terrifying roar; and the moans and shrieks of women in panic, not knowing how to escape, were mingled in my ears with the fierce hissing of the flames. Then a large group of men came running upstairs through the smoke, shouting: “Our lord is in danger!” and “Watch out for traitors!” After that, I was caught in confused fighting: fighting between the castle's defenders and Choroken's men, who seemed to be trying to force their way up the narrow stairs. As I was buffeted about, shoved from one side to the other, a hot wind scattered stinging showers of sparks against me, and it became harder and harder to breathe. As long as I have to die in the heart of this inferno, I thought, I want to be with my mistress when the fire consumes us. But just as I began to grope my way up the steps, someone — I don't know who it was — called out to me: “Yaichi! Take this lady down!” And he lifted a young girl to my back.

  “Lady Ochacha!” I cried, realizing at once who I was carrying. “What has happened to your mother?” I called Ochacha's name over and over again, but s
he seemed to have lost consciousness in the swirling smoke. But why would a samurai entrust her to a blind man like me, instead of carrying her to safety himself? No doubt he had loyally made up his mind to die here with his master. And I too felt I should stay to see my mistress through to the end, instead of running away. Yet if I didn't save her child, she would hate me. Suppose she took me to task for it in the next world, saying: “Yaichi! Where did you abandon my precious daughter?” Such a deed would be unpardonable. I was convinced that Ochacha had been given to me because I was the one destined to save her.

  But to tell the truth there was something else, an even stronger feeling, that made me want to rescue her. The instant that Ochacha settled heavily against my back and I put my arms behind me and clasped her firmly around the buttocks — in that instant I had an odd, sweet sense of familiarity. Her youthful voluptousness reminded me all too keenly of how her mother's body had felt under my hands years ago. How could a notion like that have come into my head, at a moment when any delay or hesitation meant the risk of being burned alive? A man has the strangest thoughts at the strangest times! I'm ashamed to admit it, but I suddenly recalled that when I went into service at the castle and was summoned to massage Lady Oichi for the first time, her arms and legs had had just that same resilient young flesh — yes, beautiful as my mistress was, the years had stolen up on her. Memories of happy days at Odani began coming back to me, one linked to another. Not only that, when I felt the soft pressure of Ochacha's body it seemed to me that somehow I too had returned to my youth of ten years before. It was disgusting of me, but my desire to live flared up again at the thought that serving this young lady would be just like serving Lady Oichi.

  All this sounds as if I hesitated a long time; but the fact is, the whole thing flashed through my mind with incredible swiftness. And no sooner had I made my decision than I began running through the smoke, dodging the others as best I could. “I'm carrying one of the young ladies!” I shouted at the top of my voice. “Clear a path for us!” Being blind, I had to force my way ruthlessly, pushing people aside or trampling over them as I dashed headlong down the stairs.