by Dazai, Osamu
First the youngest son read his passage haltingly, embarrassed and distracted by the grandmother’s ejaculations of approval each time he paused for breath. In the confusion of the moment, the grandfather drew the whiskey bottle to his side, uncapped it, and began helping himself quite freely to the contents. The eldest son quietly whispered: “Grandfather, aren’t you overdoing it a bit?” But the grandfather replied in an even quieter whisper: “Any connoisseur knows you’ve got to be drunk to really enjoy a good romance.”
The youngest son, the elder daughter, the second son, and the younger daughter all read their contributions in turn, making use of a rich variety of dramatic vocal techniques, and then the eldest brother read his part in the sorrowful screech of someone delivering a fiery patriotic oration. The second son tried not to laugh but finally, unable to contain himself any longer, dashed out into the hall. The younger daughter displayed her absolute scorn for the eldest son’s literary talent by sarcastically feigning wide-eyed admiration and even applauding from time to time. She was, as has been noted, an impertinent thing.
By the time all of them had finished reading, the grandfather was more than a little drunk. “Bravo! Bravo! Very well done, all of you. The part by Rumi [the younger daughter] was especially good,” he said, singling out his favorite grandchild as usual. “However,” he continued, opening his bleary eyes wide and launching into an unexpected criticism. “It’s too bad you all concentrated on Rapunzel and the prince and scarcely touched upon the king and queen. Hatsué wrote a little bit about them, as I recall, but that wasn’t nearly enough. The only reason the prince and Rapunzel were able to get married in the first place, and the only reason they managed to live happily ever after, was because of the king and queen’s generosity. If they had been less tolerant and understanding, no matter how deeply Rapunzel and the prince loved each other, it would have all been for nothing. The story’s incomplete if you ignore the magnanimity of the king and queen. You kids are young yet. You concentrate only on the prince and Rapunzel’s love and don’t notice the forces behind the scenes that make it all possible. You’ve still got a lot to learn. Look at Victor Hugo, for example. I’ve been a fan of Hugo’s works for years, ever since Shinnosuke, your father, recommended them to me. Now there’s an author who overlooks nothing. Old Victor Hugo would never—”
His voice had risen to a near shout when his wife cut him off.
“What sort of nonsense are you babbling?” she snapped. “Just when the children are enjoying themselves!”
The grandfather was not only sharply reprimanded but relieved of his whiskey bottle. Though his critique may have had its merits, the manner in which he’d presented it had been decidedly less than tactful, and no one rose to support him. They all looked on in stony silence. When a dejected shadow fell over the old man’s face, however, the mother, who couldn’t bear to see him like that, quietly handed him the famous silver-coin medal. She’d been awarded the medal on New Year’s Eve, when she’d paid off a certain small debt the grandfather had secretly incurred.
“Grandfather’s going to bestow the medal on the person who did the best job,” she announced, smiling, to the children.
This, obviously, was a means by which she hoped to perk up the old man’s spirits, but he, with an untypically somber expression on his face, shook his head and said: “No. No, I’m going to give it to you, Miyo [the mother]. It’s yours permanently now. Promise you’ll always take good care of these fine grandchildren of mine.”
The brothers and sisters were all quite moved. It seemed to them a very special honor indeed.
Blue Bamboo: Tales by Dazai Osamu
Translated by Ralph F. McCarthy
Translation copyright © 1993, 2012 Ralph F. McCarthy
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