by Dazai, Osamu
“Inexperienced though I may be at this sort of thing...” Saying only this much to introduce his art, he flips open his iron-ribbed fan with a flourish and strikes a pose, glaring unflinchingly up at the moon. After several long moments of this, he lightly taps the ground with one foot and slowly begins to moan his song:
I am a monk, passing the summer
at Naruto in Awa....
With that, he turns ever so slowly, then once again freezes in position, glaring up at the moon.
The Oni were puzzled and frightened.
One by one they jumped up and fled
back into the forest.
“Wait a moment!” the old gentleman shrieks, and chases after them. “You can’t leave me now!”
“Run! Run! It’s Shoki, Queller of Demons!”
“No, no! That’s not who I am!” The old gentleman finally catches up to and prostrates himself before one of the Oni, clinging to its leg. “Please, I beg of you! My wen!”
“What? The wen?” The ogre, confused by all the excitement, misunderstands him. “That’s a treasure we were holding for the other old man, but—all right, you can have it. But no more dancing like that, please! You ruined a perfectly good drunk, and now we’ve got to find a new spot and start all over. Let go of me! Hey, somebody give this crazy old man that wen from the other night! He says he wants it!”
The Oni attached the other wen
to his right cheek.
Now the old man had two wens,
one dangling from each side of his face.
How heavy they looked as he
trudged back to the village!
What a sad ending. You have to feel sorry for the second old man. Most of our children’s stories end with the perpetrators of evil deeds getting what’s coming to them, but this old gentleman did nothing wrong. He tried to perform a dance that, owing to a case of nerves, turned out rather disturbingly weird, but that’s the extent of his crime. Nor was anyone in his family particularly evil. And the same can be said for the sake-loving Ojii-san and his family, and for the Oni of Mount Tsurugi as well. None of them did anything wrong. And yet, although not a single instance of wrongdoing occurs in the story, people end up unhappy.
It’s difficult, therefore, to extract from this tale of the stolen wen a moral lesson for daily life. But were an indignant reader to demand to know why, in that case, I even bothered to write the damn thing, I would have no choice but to reply as follows: It’s a tragicomedy of character. At issue here is an undercurrent that winds through the very heart of human existence.
Urashima-san
Apparently a man named Urashima Taro actually lived once, long ago, in a place called Mizunoe, on the Tango Peninsula in what is now northern Kyoto Prefecture. They tell me you can still find a shrine dedicated to Taro there, in a poor little village on the coast. I’ve never visited the place myself, although I understand it’s about as desolate a stretch of beach as you’re likely to find.
At any rate, that’s where our Urashima Taro resides. He doesn’t live alone, of course, but with his mother and father. Also a younger brother and sister. Not to mention a large number of servants. He is, you see, the eldest son of an old and highly respected family. Now, eldest sons of respected families have had, from ancient times to our own, a certain characteristic in common: namely, a sense of style. Some might describe this stylishness favorably, as refinement, and others less favorably, as prodigality. But in Taro’s case the prodigality, if it can be so called, was of a sort entirely distinct from that associated with wine and women and what have you. Among second and third sons one often finds that variety of prodigal who overindulges in liquor and pursues women of lowly birth, muddying his own family’s name in the process, but the number one son is generally quite innocent of such abominable behavior. Because he is responsible for the wealth and property accumulated by his ancestors, the first-born male comes naturally to acquire a certain steadfast stodginess and to conduct himself in an impeccably proper and genteel manner. Rather than the intense floozies-and-booze version favored by his younger brothers, therefore, the eldest son’s prodigality is more of a sideline, a series of frivolous diversions. All he asks of these diversions, furthermore, is that they cement his reputation for possessing the taste and gentility that befit his station in life.
“Dear brother, you just don’t have any sense of adventure,” the younger sister, an impertinent thing of sixteen, tells him one day. “That’s what’s wrong with you.”
“No, that’s not it,” their coarse and rebellious eighteen-year-old brother chimes in. “He’s too pretty, is what it is.”
The younger brother is dark-complected and strikingly ugly.
But Urashima Taro never loses his temper, even when tested with such uninhibited criticism from his younger siblings. “To allow one’s curiosity to get the better of one is a sort of adventure,” he tells them. “And to control one’s curiosity is also a species of adventure. Both are risky propositions. There is a thing called destiny to which all men are subject.”
Exactly what he means by these words is anyone’s guess, but after pronouncing them with a calm, composed, and enlightened air, he clasps his hands behind his back and strolls out to the seashore. There, ambling aimlessly along the beach, he mutters fragments of refined and elegant poetry.
Scattered by the wind
like the tattered ends
of a worn rush mat—
the fishing boats!
“Why can’t people get along without criticizing one another?” Urashima shakes his head as he ponders this rudimentary question. “Never have the bush clover blooming on the beach, nor the little crabs who skitter o’er the sand, nor the wild geese resting their wings in yonder cove found fault with me. Would that human beings too were thus! Each individual has his own way of living. Can we not learn to respect one another’s chosen way? One makes every effort to live in a dignified and proper manner, without harming anyone else, yet people will carp and cavil and try to tear one down. It’s most vexing.”
He breathes a little sigh.
“Excuse me,” says a small voice at his feet. “Urashima-san?”
This, of course, is our famous and problematic tortoise.
I say “problematic” because, although I don’t wish to appear pedantic, I feel compelled to point out that turtles come in a great number of varieties, and that fresh-water turtles and salt-water turtles are naturally built to different specifications. The turtle we see in paintings of the goddess Benten, stretched out by the side of the pond drying its shell in the sun, is the creature I believe most of us refer to as a tortoise. And it is this same tortoise upon which in picture books we sometimes see Urashima Taro perched, one hand shading his eyes as he peers off toward the distant Dragon Palace. But were a tortoise of this sort to dive into the ocean, it would in fact choke on the salt water and promptly expire. It is usually this type of land tortoise—and not a sea turtle or soft-shelled turtle or hawksbill—that we find, along with a crane, on those ornamental stands that represent the Isle of Eternal Youth. The crane lives a thousand years, it is said, and the tortoise ten thousand, which accounts for their presence on wedding decorations and what have you, and perhaps it’s the auspicious nature of tortoises that causes illustrators of picture books to assume that Urashima-san’s guide too must have been one of these (the Isle of Eternal Youth and the Dragon Palace being similar sorts of places), but one can’t help but think it’s a bit much to ask us to imagine a land tortoise slashing away at the water with its clumsy, clawed feet, struggling toward the bottom of the sea. No, we definitely need something along the lines of a hawksbill turtle, whose wide, fin-like appendages would permit it to glide a bit more gracefully through the deep.
I must point out, however—at the risk, once again, of appearing pedantic—that this leaves us with another thorny problem. It is my understanding that the only places in the Empire where the hawksbill turtle is found are the southern islands—Ogasawara, the Ryukyus, Tai
wan, and so forth—and much as I regret to say this, it’s simply not likely that a hawksbill might emerge from the Sea of Japan at a beach on the northern coast of Tango. Such being the case, and since one might argue that tales of this sort are, after all, mere flights of fancy, I considered making Urashima-san a native of Ogasawara or the Ryukyu Islands, but since ancient tradition holds that he hailed from Mizunoe, and since by all accounts an Urashima Shrine actually exists on the coast of Tango, I feel duty-bound to avoid any such indiscriminate tampering with the facts, if only out of deference for the sanctity of the Japanese historical record. No, it would appear that we must somehow impose upon a hawksbill or some other amphibious reptile of similar construction to make the long journey up through the Sea of Japan. And yet I’m reluctant to invite the scorn of persnickety zoologists who might step forward to point out the absurdity of this assertion and to denounce the appalling lack of scientific spirit displayed by irresponsible literary hacks like me.
So I gave it a little more thought. Surely, besides the hawksbill, there must be other species of sea turtle with fin-shaped appendages. Wasn’t there something called a loggerhead tortoise? Once, about ten years ago (I too am getting on in years), I spent a summer at the seashore in Numazu, and I remember the fishermen there making quite a fuss about having found on the beach a sea turtle with a shell nearly five feet in diameter. I saw the thing with my own eyes and seem to recall that it was being referred to as a loggerhead tortoise. Perfect. That’s the one for us. If it could crawl up on the beach at Numazu, perhaps we can, without causing too much pandemonium in zoological circles, prevail upon it to paddle around to the Sea of Japan and roll out of the surf at Tango. If, nonetheless, someone insists on raising a fuss about ocean currents being thus or such, well, don’t look at me. I shall calmly reply that it is indeed strange, passing strange, that the creature should turn up in a place common sense tells us it couldn’t possibly reach, and that this is proof that we’re not talking about just your average loggerhead tortoise here. That so-called scientific spirit of yours is nothing to place absolute faith in, my friends. All your theorems and axioms are nothing more than conjectures in their own right, after all. You don’t want to get too big for your breeches.
At any rate, this loggerhead tortoise (since the name is cumbersome and a bit of a tongue-twister, we’ll refer to it simply as “the tortoise” from here on) stretches his long neck to look up at Urashima-san and say, “Excuse me, but you said a mouthful. I know just how you feel.”
Urashima-san is understandably startled.
“What the... ? Why, you’re the tortoise I rescued the other day. Don’t tell me you’re still loafing about on this beach?”
This tortoise, in short, is none other than the one Urashima-san discovered being tormented by a group of children, took pity on, purchased from the children, and released into the sea.
“‘Loafing about’? That’s cold. I’ll remember that, young master. The fact is, I’ve been coming here every day and night since we last met, waiting for you. It seems to me I owe you a favor.”
“Rather reckless of you, I’d say. Or perhaps ‘rash’ is the word. What if those children had found you again? Little chance you’d come out alive a second time.”
“Oh, get off your high horse. I figured if I got caught, I’d just have you buy me my freedom again. Excuse me if that’s rash. I needed to see you once more. It’s a weakness. I’m crazy about you, young master. At least acknowledge my feelings.”
Urashima smiles wryly. “Willful little thing, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?” the tortoise says. “Aren’t you contradicting yourself, young master? Were you not just moaning about how critical people can be? Now you’re calling me reckless, rash, willful. You’re no slouch at criticism yourself, I see. Maybe you’re the willful one. I too have my own way of living, after all. You might try to recognize that.”
A stunning counterattack. Urashima blushes in spite of himself and improvises a desperate, paper-thin defense to the tortoise’s poison dart. “I wasn’t criticizing. I was admonishing. Offering a gentle word to the wise. ‘Good advice is harsh on the ear,’ as they say.”
“You’d be a good sort if you weren’t always putting on airs, you know that?” The tortoise sighs. “Oh, well. Enough talk. Just sit yourself down on my shell.”
“What?” Urashima stares at him agog. “What a thing to say! Do you think I’m some sort of barbarian? To sit on a tortoise’s shell would be— Well, it would be beyond scandalous! Hardly the sort of thing for a man of refinement to do.”
“Never mind all that. I just want to repay you for the favor you did me the other day. I’m going to give you a ride to the Dragon Palace. Go ahead and jump on my back.”
“The Dragon Palace?” Urashima laughs. “Enough of your jokes. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? Of all the preposterous... The Dragon Palace exists only in poetry and fairy tales. It’s not a real place. Do you understand? It’s a dream, or an expression of yearning, you might say, that we men of refinement have indulged in since ancient times.”
The attempt to come across as genteel makes him sound all the more pompous, and now it’s the tortoise’s turn to burst out laughing.
“You kill me. But save the lecture on refinement for later, will you? Just trust me and hop on my back. Your problem is you’ve never had a taste of adventure.”
“Well! Now you’re coming out with the same sort of impudent remarks my little sister is always making. To be sure, I am not overly fond of this ‘adventure’ nonsense. Adventures are rather like acrobatics. Spectacular, yes, but, in the end, boorish and worldly—a form of vice, you might almost say. Adventure has nothing to do with acceptance of one’s fate, or with immersing oneself in tradition. A lover of adventure is like the proverbial blind man who fears not the snake. Someone like myself, steeped as I am in the time-honored tradition of gentlemanly refinement, cannot but hold the quest for adventure in scorn. I prefer to walk the straight, narrow, and tranquil path trod by my predecessors.”
“Poo!” The tortoise explodes with laughter again. “What do you think the path of your predecessors was, but the path of adventure? Of course, ‘adventure’ is a poor choice of words, I suppose. You probably associate it with blood and gore and swashbuckling libertinism and heaven knows what. Let’s call it, rather, ‘the power to believe.’ On the far side of the valley, beautiful flowers are in bloom. He who believes this won’t hesitate to seek them out, though it means climbing across on slender wisteria vines. Some will call it acrobatics and applaud; others will revile the man as a show-off. But in fact that man has nothing in common with the tightrope walker at the circus. He braves those slippery vines merely because he wants to see the flowers on the other side. He’s not thinking vainglorious thoughts or admiring his own adventuresome nature. It’s absurd to imagine that adventure is something one might use to feed one’s pride. The climber simply believes. He’s convinced that there are beautiful flowers on the other side. Bystanders watch him and speak of adventure, for want of a better word. To lack a sense of adventure, then, is to lack the power to believe. Is it boorish to believe? Is it a vice?
“The problem with you men of refinement is that you actually seem to take pride in your skepticism. Skepticism isn’t wisdom, young master. It’s something much baser, and meaner. Miserliness, you might call it. Proof that you’re obsessed with the fear of losing something. Well, relax. Nobody’s after your possessions. People like you don’t know how to accept the kindness of others at face value. All you can think about is what you’ll have to do in return. ‘Gentlemen of refinement,’ my eye. Stingy bastards, is more like it.”
“I beg your pardon? What a nasty thing to say! I come down to the seashore after having my younger brother and sister treat me with the utmost disrespect, only to be criticized in the same insolent manner by the tortoise whose life I recently saved! It seems to me that those who are unconcerned with their own ancestry and proud traditions tend to b
e unduly free with their tongues. I suppose it stems from a sort of reckless desperation. I know exactly what you’re trying to do here. It’s not for me to say, perhaps, but it should be obvious to the meanest intelligence that I have a loftier destiny, a higher calling, than people of your ilk. This is something that was decided at birth, and I am not to blame for it being so. It’s Providence. But you people hold a grudge, and I happen to know that for all your convoluted arguments, you’re really only trying to drag my destiny down to the level of your own. Mortal beings cannot alter heaven’s dispensation, however. You feed me this outlandish tale about taking me to the Dragon Palace in an attempt to associate with me on equal footing, but, my dear fellow, you’re wasting your breath. I know exactly what you’re up to. Cease this nonsense at once and go! Swim back to the bottom of the sea, where you belong. My having gone out of my way to save you will all have been for nothing if those children catch you again. People like you don’t know how to accept the kindness of others gracefully.”
Undaunted by this diatribe, the tortoise laughs again.
“Ha! ‘My having gone out of my way to save you’—I like that! It’s a perfect example, young master, of what’s so hard to stomach about you gentlemen of refinement. You think that your own acts of kindness are proof of a higher morality, and deep down inside you feel you deserve some sort of reward. But if someone shows you a little kindness, you’re mortified. God forbid you should have to associate with someone like me as if we were equals, right? Ah, young master, you disappoint me! All right, then, let me put it to you straight.
“The only reason you helped me out was because I’m a tortoise and my tormentors were children. To intervene between a tortoise and children isn’t likely to bring about much in the way of repercussions. What did you give them—five coppers? That’s big money to a child, but it’s not much skin off your back, is it? I thought you’d put up a bit more than that. Miserly isn’t the word. How do you think it makes me feel? Five coppers for my life. For you it was just a whim of the moment. ‘A few coppers to rescue a tortoise—oh, hell, why not?’ But suppose it wasn’t children teasing a tortoise but, say, a group of rowdy fishermen tormenting some sickly beggar. Would you have offered so much as a single copper? Hardly. You would have scowled and hurried past, not wanting to get involved. Gentlemen like you despise having your faces rubbed in raw reality. I guess it makes you feel as if your lofty destiny is being dragged through the gutter.
