by Ivan Morris
One day when he was walking along an unfamiliar back street he came upon an old woman with a fruit stall. She was selling dried persimmons and oranges; on the shutters of the house behind the stall she had hung a large cluster of gourds.
“Can I have a look?” said Seibei and immediately ran behind the stall and began examining the gourds. Suddenly he caught sight of one which was about five inches long and at first sight looked quite commonplace. Something about it made Seibei’s heart beat faster.
“How much is this one?” he asked, panting out the words.
“Well,” said the old woman, “since you’re just a lad, I’ll let you have it for ten sen.”
“In that case,” said Seibei urgently, “please hold it for me, won’t you? I’ll be right back with the money.”
He dashed home and in no time at all was back at the stall. He bought the gourd and took it home.
From that time on, he was never separated from his new gourd. He even took it along to school and used to polish it under his desk during class time. It was not long before he was caught at this by one of the teachers, who was particularly incensed because it happened to take place in an ethics class.
This teacher came from another part of Japan and found it most offensive that children should indulge in such effeminate pastimes as collecting gourds. He was forever expounding the classical code of the samurai, and when Kumoemon, the famous Naniwabushi performer, came on tour and recited brave deeds of ancient times, he would attend every single performance, though normally he would not deign to set foot in the disreputable amusement area. He never minded having his students sing Naniwabushi ballads, however raucously. Now, when he found Seibei silently polishing his gourd, his voice trembled with fury.
“You’re an idiot!” he shouted. “There’s absolutely no future for a boy like you.” Then and there he confiscated the gourd on which Seibei had spent so many long hours of work. Seibei stared straight ahead and did not cry.
When he got home, Seibei’s face was pale. Without a word, he put his feet on the warmer and sat looking blankly at the wall.
After a while the teacher arrived. As Seibei’s father was not yet home from the carpenter’s shop where he worked, the teacher directed his attack at Seibei’s mother.
“This sort of thing is the responsibility of the family,” he said in a stern voice. “It is the duty of you parents to see that such things don’t happen.” In an agony of embarrassment, Seibei’s mother muttered some apology.
Meanwhile, Seibei was trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible in the corner. Terrified, he glanced up at his vindictive teacher and at the wall directly behind where a whole row of fully prepared gourds was hanging. What would happen if the teacher caught sight of them?
Trembling inside, he awaited the worst, but at length the man exhausted his rhetoric and stamped angrily out of the house. Seibei heaved a sigh of relief.
Seibei’s mother was sobbing softly. In a querulous whine she began to scold him, and in the midst of this, Seibei’s father returned from his shop. As soon as he heard what had happened, he grabbed his son by the collar and gave him a sound beating. “You’re no good!” he bawled at him. “You’ll never get anywhere in the world the way you’re carrying on. I’ve a good mind to throw you out into the street where you belong!” The gourds on the wall caught his attention. Without a word, he fetched his hammer and systematically smashed them to pieces one after another. Seibei turned pale but said nothing.
The next day the teacher gave Seibei’s confiscated gourd to an old porter who worked in the school. “Here, take this,” he said, as if handing over some unclean object. The porter took the gourd home with him and hung it on the wall of his small, sooty room.
About two months later the porter, finding himself even more hard pressed for money than usual, decided to take the gourd to a local curio shop to see if he could get a few coppers for it. The curio dealer examined the gourd carefully; then, assuming an uninterested tone, he handed it back to the porter saying: “I might give you five yen for it.”
The porter was astounded, but being quite an astute old man, he replied coolly: “I certainly wouldn’t part with it for that.” The dealer immediately raised his offer to ten yen, but the porter was still adamant. In the end the curio dealer had to pay fifty yen for the gourd. The porter left the shop, delighted at his luck. It wasn’t often that the teachers gave one a free gift equivalent to a year’s wages! He was so clever as not to mention the matter to anyone, and neither Seibei nor the teacher ever heard what had happened to the gourd. Yes, the porter was clever, but he was not clever enough: little did he imagine that this same gourd would be passed on by the curio dealer to a wealthy collector in the district for six hundred yen.
* * *
Seibei is now engrossed in his pictures. He no longer feels any bitterness either toward the teacher, or toward his father who smashed all his precious gourds to pieces.
Yet gradually his father has begun to scold him for painting pictures.
TATTOO
BY Jun’ichirō Tanizaki
TRANSLATED BY Ivan Morris
Jun’ichirō Tanizaki was born in Tokyo in 1886. He belonged to the old Japanese merchant class, which had developed during the Edo period; his father was a rice broker. Despite his deep roots in traditional ways, he was from an early age fascinated with the West and its innovations; this dualism was to play an important part both in his life and in his writing. Tanizaki studied classical Japanese literature at Tokyo Imperial University and during his student days he and a group of literary friends published a magazine called New Thought. Many of Tanizaki’s earliest stories, including “Tattoo,” appeared in this magazine. These stories were mostly written in a strongly romantic vein and showed the full force of the contemporary reaction against naturalism. Their publication brought the author’s name to the attention of the critics and, together with Kafū Nagai, Tanizaki soon became known as a leader of the so-called neo-romantic school.
“Tattoo” exhibits many of the European influences, notably those of Poe, Baudelaire, and Oscar Wilde, that helped to shape Tanizaki’s early writing and to direct his romanticism into sensual, aesthetic channels. At this period Tanizaki was obsessed with cruelty, sexual aberration, and the mysterious “demonic” forces that had fascinated Poe. Japanese critics, with their fondness for classification, lost no time in labeling Tanizaki as a “satanic” writer.
The stories of the early period are marked by a rather un-Japanese form of aestheticism, liberally flavored with hedonism and sadomasochism. One of the principal motives appears to have been a sensuous adoration for women—adoration of a type, it may be added, that is rarely found in Japanese literature. The girl in “Tattoo” is typical of Tanizaki’s early heroines: she possesses a peculiar sensuous beauty which, combined with her latent sadism, is capable of arousing a perverted form of excitement in the artist-observer.
Tanizaki lived in the Tokyo area until the great earthquake of 1923, when he moved to the gentler, more cultured region of Kyoto. It was here that he steadily became absorbed in the Japanese past. In the following years he seems to have lost some of his fascination with the West and also to have abandoned his pursuit of “satanism.” The brilliant, sensuous writing of his early years gave way to a more subdued and natural style. It should not, however, be suggested that there was any profound break in Tanizaki’s literary development. His increasingly Japanese, conservative outlook did not mark the end of his interest in the West. Indeed, the conflict between the lure of Western innovations and the nostalgia for traditional Japanese ways received its finest, most sensitive treatment in Tadé Kuu Mushi (“Some Prefer Nettles”), published in 1928.
After 1931 Tanizaki wrote a series of short novels, many of which were inspired by nostalgic, traditionalistic themes. Traces of the earlier aestheticism and sadomasochism still remain in works like Shunkinshō (“The Tale of Shunkin,” 1933), which tells the story of a blind woman musician whose pride
and arrogance are coupled with strong sadistic leanings and of her life-long admirer who finally blinds himself out of love for her. Among Tanizaki’s major literary works is his masterly translation into modern Japanese of the great eleventh-century classic, “The Tale of Genji”; this was started before the war, but only recently completed. The literary success of this immense undertaking was largely a result of the purity of style that characterizes all Tanizaki’s best work. The theme of nostalgia dominated Sasameyuki (“The Makioka Sisters,” 1934–38), another of Tanizaki’s lengthy novels. This is a roman fleuve which gives a meticulous recreation of middle-class life in pre-war Osaka. Like much of his fiction, it has a pronounced autobiographical element. Tanizaki’s most recent novel Kagi (“The Key,” 1958) describes the marital relations of a middle-aged couple; its preoccupation with certain perverted and grotesque aspects of sex is in some ways reminiscent of the writings of his youthful period.
The present story (Irezumi in Japanese) was first published in 1910, when the author was twenty-four.
THESE THINGS HAPPENED at a time when the noble virtue of frivolity still flourished, when today’s relentless struggle for existence was yet unknown. The faces of the young aristocrats and squires were darkened by no cloud; at court the maids of honor and the great courtesans always wore smiles on their lips; the occupations of clown and professional teahouse wit were held in high esteem; life was peaceful and full of joy. In the theater and in the writings of the time, beauty and power were portrayed as inseparable.
Physical beauty, indeed, was the chief aim of life, and in its pursuit people went so far as to have themselves tattooed. On their bodies brilliant lines and colors were raveled in a sort of dance. When visiting the gay quarters, they would choose as bearers for their palanquins men whose bodies were skillfully tattooed, and the courtesans of Yoshiwara and Tatsumi gave their love to men whose bodies boasted beautiful tattoos. Frequenters of the gambling dens, firemen, merchants, and even samurai all had recourse to the tattooer’s art. Tattoo exhibitions were frequently arranged where the participants, fingering the tattoo marks on each other’s bodies, would praise the original design of one and criticize the shortcomings of another.
There was a young tattooer of outstanding talent. He was much in fashion and his reputation rivaled even those of the great masters of old, Charibun of Asakusa, Yakkohei of Matsushimachō, and Konkonjirō. His works were greatly prized at the tattoo exhibitions and most admirers of the art aspired to become his clients. While the artist Darumakin was known for his fine drawings and Karakusa Gonta was the master of the vermilion tattoo, this man Seikichi was famous for the originality of his compositions and for their voluptuous quality.
Previously he had achieved a certain reputation as a painter, belonging to the school of Toyokuni and Kunisada and specializing in genre paintings. In descending to the rank of tattooer, he still preserved the true spirit of an artist and a great sensitivity. He declined to execute his work on people whose skin or general physique did not appeal to him, and such customers as he did accept had to agree implicitly to the design of his choosing and also to his price. Moreover, they had to endure for as long as one or two months the excruciating pain of his needles.
Within this young tattooer’s heart lurked unsuspected passions and pleasures. When the pricking of his needles caused the flesh to swell and the crimson blood to flow, his patients, unable to endure the agony, would emit groans of pain. The more they groaned, the greater was the artist’s strange pleasure. He took particular delight in vermilion designs, which are known to be the most painful of tattoos. When his clients had received five or six hundred pricks of the needle and then taken a scalding hot bath the more vividly to bring out the colors, they would often collapse half dead at Seikichi’s feet. As they lay there unable to move, he would ask with a satisfied smile: “So it really hurts?”
When he had to deal with a fainthearted customer whose teeth would grind or who gave out shrieks of pain, Seikichi would say: “Really, I thought you were a native of Kyoto where people are supposed to be courageous. Please try to be patient. My needles are unusually painful.” And glancing from the corner of his eyes at the victim’s face, now moist with tears, he would continue his work with utter unconcern. If, on the contrary, his patient bore the agony without flinching, lie would say: “Ah, you are much braver than you look. But wait a while. Soon you will be unable to endure it in silence, try as you may.” And he would laugh, showing his white teeth.
* * *
For many years now, Seikichi’s great ambition had been to have under his needle the lustrous skin of some beautiful girl, on which he dreamed of tattooing, as it were, his very soul. This imaginary woman had to meet many conditions as to both physique and character; a lovely face and a fine skin would not in themselves satisfy Seikichi. In vain had he searched among the well-known courtesans for a woman who would measure up to his ideal. Her image was constantly in his mind, and although three years had now elapsed since he started this quest, his desire had only grown with time.
It was on a summer’s evening while walking in the Fukagawa district that his attention was caught by a feminine foot of dazzling whiteness disappearing behind the curtains of a palanquin. A foot can convey as many variations of expression as a face, and this white foot seemed to Seikichi like the rarest of jewels. The perfectly shaped toes, the iridescent nails, the rounded heel, the skin, as lustrous as if it had been washed for ages by the limpid waters of some mountain brook—all combine to make a foot of absolute perfection designed to stir the heart of a man and to trample upon his soul. Seikichi knew at once that this was the foot of the woman for whom he had searched these many years. Joyously he hurried after the palanquin, hoping to catch a glimpse of its occupant, but after following it for several streets, he lost sight of it around a corner. From then on what had been a vague yearning was transformed into the most violent of passions.
One morning a year later Seikichi received a visit at his house in the Fukagawa district. It was a young girl sent on an errand by a friend of his, a certain geisha from the Tatsumi quarter.
“Excuse me, sir,” the girl said timidly. “My mistress has asked me to deliver this coat to you personally and to request you to be so good as to make a design on the lining.”
She handed him a letter and a woman’s coat, the latter wrapped in a paper bearing the portrait of the actor Iwai Tojaku. In her letter the geisha informed Seikichi that the young messenger was her newly adopted ward and was soon to make her debut as a geisha in the restaurants of the capital. She asked him to do what he could to launch the girl on her new career.
Seikichi looked closely at the visitor who, though no more than sixteen or seventeen, had in her face something strangely mature. In her eyes were reflected the dreams of all the handsome men and beautiful women who had lived in this city, where the virtues and vices of the whole country converged. Then Seikichi’s glance went to he delicate feet, shod in street clogs covered with plaits of straw.
“Could it have been you who left the Hirasei restaurant last June in a palanquin?”
“Yes, sir, it was I,” she said, laughing at his strange question. “My father was still alive then and he used to take me occasionally to the Hirasei restaurant.”
“I have been waiting for you now for five years,” said Seikichi “This is the first time that I have seen your face but I know you by you feet…. There is something that I should like you to see. Please come inside, and do not be afraid.”
So saying, he took the hand of the reluctant girl and led her upstairs into a room which looked out on the great river. He fetched two large picture scrolls and spread one of them before her.
It was a painting of Mo Hsi, the favorite princess of the ancient Chinese emperor, Chou the Cruel. Languidly she leaned against a balustrade, and the bottom of her richly brocaded gown rested on the steps of the staircase leading to a garden. Her tiny head seemed almost too delicate to support the weight of her crown, which was encr
usted with lapis lazuli and coral. In her right hand she held a cup, slightly tilted, and with an indolent expression she watched a prisoner who was about to be beheaded in the garden below. Secured hand and foot to a stake, he stood there awaiting his last moment; his eyes were closed, his head bent down. Pictures of such scenes tend to vulgarity, but so skillfully had the painter portrayed the expressions of the princess and of the condemned man that this picture scroll was a work of consummate art.
For a while the young girl fixed her gaze on the strange painting. Unconsciously her eyes began to shine and her lips trembled; gradually her face took on a resemblance to that of the young Chinese princess.
“Your spirit is reflected in that painting,” said Seikichi, smiling with pleasure as he gazed at her.
“Why have you shown me such a terrible picture?” asked the girl, passing her hand over her pale forehead.
“The woman depicted here is yourself. Her blood flows through your veins.”
Seikichi then unrolled the other scroll, which was entitled “The Victims.” In the center of the picture a young woman leaned against a cherry tree, gazing at a group of men’s corpses which lay about her feet; pride and satisfaction were to be discerned in her pale face. Hopping about among the corpses, a swarm of little birds chirped happily. Impossible to tell whether the picture represented a battlefield or a spring garden!
“This painting symbolizes your future,” said Seikichi, indicating the face of the young woman, which again strangely resembled that of his visitor. “The men fallen on the ground are those who will lose their lives because of you.”
“Oh, I beg you,” she cried, “put that picture away.” And as if to escape its terrifying fascination, she turned her back to the scroll and threw herself on the straw matting. There she lay with lips trembling and her whole body shuddering. “Master, I will confess to you…, As you have guessed, I have in me the nature of that woman. Take pity on me and hide the picture.”
