With all the stealth of a lizard, the servant crept to the top tread of the steep stairway. Then, hunching down and stretching out his neck as much as possible, he peered fearfully into the upper chamber.
There he saw a number of carelessly discarded corpses, as the rumors had said, but he could not tell how many because the lighted area was far smaller than he had thought it would be. All he could see in the dim light was that some of the corpses were naked while others were clothed. Women and men seemed to be tangled together. It was hard to believe that all of them had once been living human beings, so much did they look like clay dolls, lying there with arms flung out and mouths wide open, eternally mute. Shoulders and chests and other such prominent parts caught the dim light, casting still deeper shadows on the parts lower down.
The stink of the rotting corpses reached him, and his hand flew up to cover his nose. But a moment later the hand seemed to forget its task when a powerful emotion all but obliterated the man’s sense of smell.
For now the servant’s eyes caught sight of a living person crouched among the corpses. There, dressed in a rusty-black robe, was a scrawny old woman, white-haired and monkey-like. She held a burning pine stick in her right hand as she stared into the face of a corpse. Judging from the long hair, the body was probably a woman’s.
Moved by six parts terror and four parts curiosity, the servant forgot to breathe for a moment. To borrow a phrase from a writer of old,1 he felt as if “the hairs on his head were growing thick.” Then the crone thrust her pine torch between two floorboards and placed both hands on the head of the corpse she had been examining. Like a monkey searching for fleas on its child, she began plucking out the corpse’s long hairs, one strand at a time. A hair seemed to slip easily from the scalp with every movement of her hand.
Each time a hair gave way, a little of the man’s fear disappeared, to be replaced by an increasingly violent loathing for the old woman. No, this could be misleading: he felt not so much a loathing for the old woman as a revulsion for all things evil—an emotion that grew in strength with every passing minute. If now someone were to present this lowly fellow again with the choice he had just been mulling beneath the gate—whether to starve to death or turn to thievery—he would probably have chosen starvation without the least regret, so powerfully had the man’s hatred for evil blazed up, like the pine torch the old woman had stood between the floorboards.
The servant had no idea why the crone was pulling out the dead person’s hair, and thus could not rationally call the deed either good or evil. But for him, the very act of plucking hair from a corpse on this rainy night up here in the Rashōmon was itself an unpardonable evil. Naturally he no longer recalled that, only moments before, he himself had been planning to become a thief.
So now the servant, with a mighty thrust, leaped from the stairway and, grasping his sword by the bare hilt, he strode forcefully to where the old woman crouched. Terrified at the sight of him, the crone leaped up as if launched by a catapult.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he shouted, blocking her way. Panic-stricken, she stumbled over corpses in an effort to flee. She struggled to break past him, but he pushed her back. For a time, the two grappled in silence among the corpses, but the outcome of the struggle was never in doubt. The servant grasped the old woman’s arm—sheer skin and bone like the foot of a chicken—and finally twisted her to the floor.
“What were you doing there?” he demanded. “Tell me now, or I’ll give you a piece of this.”
Shoving her away, he swept his sword from its scabbard and thrust the white steel before her eyes. The old woman said nothing. Arms trembling, shoulders heaving, wide eyes straining from their sockets, she kept her stubborn silence and struggled to catch her breath. Seeing this, the servant realized that this old woman’s life or death was governed entirely by his own will. The new awareness instantly cooled the hatred that had been burning so violently inside him. All he felt now was the quiet pride and satisfaction of a job well done. He looked down at her and spoke with a new tone of gentleness.
“Don’t worry, I’m not with the Magistrate’s Office. I’m just a traveler who happened to be passing beneath the gate. I won’t be tying you up or taking you away. I just want you to tell me what you’ve been doing up here at a time like this.”
The old woman stretched her wide eyes still wider and stared hard at the servant. Her red-lidded eyes had the sharpness of a predator-bird’s. Then, as if chewing on something, she began to move her lips, which seemed joined with her nose by all her deep wrinkles. He could see the point of her Adam’s apple moving on her scrawny neck, and between her gasps the voice that issued from her throat reached the servant’s ears like the cawing of a crow.
“I—I was pulling—I was pulling out hair to make a wig.”
The servant was startled, and disappointed at how ordinary the woman’s answer turned out to be. But along with his disappointment, the earlier hatred and a cold contempt came back to fill his heart. The woman seemed to sense what he was feeling. Still holding in one hand the long hairs she had stolen from the corpse, she mumbled and croaked like a toad as she offered this explanation:
“I know, I know, it may be wrong to pull out dead people’s hair. But these people here deserve what they get. Take this woman, the one I was pulling the hair from: she used to cut snakes into four-inch pieces and dry them and sell them as dried fish at the palace guardhouse. If she hadn’t died in the epidemic, she’d still be out there selling her wares. The guards loved her ‘fish’ and they bought it for every meal. I don’t think she was wrong to do it. She did it to keep from starving to death. She couldn’t help it. And I don’t think what I’m doing is wrong, either. It’s the same thing: I can’t help it. If I don’t do it, I’ll starve to death. This woman knew what it was to do what you have to do. I think she’d understand what I’m doing to her.”
The servant returned his sword to its sheath and, resting his left hand on the hilt, listened coolly to her story. Meanwhile, his right hand played with the festering pimple on his cheek. As he listened, a new kind of courage began to germinate in his heart—a courage he had lacked earlier beneath the gate: one that was moving in a direction opposite to the courage that had impelled him to seize the old woman. He was no longer torn between starving to death or becoming a thief. In his current state of mind, the very thought of starving to death was so nearly banished from his consciousness that it became all but unthinkable for him.
“You’re sure she would, eh?” the servant pressed her, with mockery in his voice. Then, stepping toward her, he suddenly shot his right hand from his pimple to the scruff of her neck. As he grasped her, his words all but bit into her flesh: “You won’t blame me, then, for taking your clothes. That’s what I have to do to keep from starving to death.”
He stripped the old woman of her robe, and when she tried to clutch at his ankles he gave her a kick that sent her sprawling onto the corpses. Five swift steps brought him to the opening at the top of the stairs. Tucking her robe under his arm, he plunged down the steep stairway into the depth of the night.
It did not take long for the crone, who had been lying there as if dead, to raise her naked body from among the corpses. Muttering and groaning, she crawled to the top of the stairway in the still-burning torchlight. Her short white hair hung forward from her head as she peered down toward the bottom of the gate. She saw only the cavernous blackness of the night.
What happened to the lowly servant, no one knows.
(September 1915)
IN A BAMBOO GROVE
The Testimony of a Woodcutter under Questioning by the Magistrate
That is true, Your Honor. I am the one who found the body. I went out as usual this morning to cut cedar in the hills behind my place. The body was in a bamboo grove on the other side of the mountain. Its exact location? A few hundred yards off the Yamashina post road. A deserted place where a few scrub cedar trees are mixed in with the bamboo.
The
man was lying on his back in his pale blue robe with the sleeves tied up and one of those fancy Kyoto-style black hats with the sharp creases. He had only one stab wound, but it was right in the middle of his chest; the bamboo leaves around the body were soaked with dark red blood. No, the bleeding had stopped. The wound looked dry, and I remember it had a big horsefly sucking on it so hard the thing didn’t even notice my footsteps.
Did I see a sword or anything? No, Sir, not a thing. Just a length of rope by the cedar tree next to the body. And—oh yes, there was a comb there, too. Just the rope and the comb is all. But the weeds and the bamboo leaves on the ground were pretty trampled down: he must have put up a tremendous fight before they killed him. How’s that, Sir—a horse? No, a horse could never have gotten into that place. It’s all bamboo thicket between there and the road.
The Testimony of a Traveling Priest under Questioning by the Magistrate
I’m sure I passed the man yesterday, Your Honor. Yesterday at—about noon, I’d say. Near Checkpoint Hill on the way to Yamashina. He was walking toward the checkpoint with a woman on horseback. She wore a stiff, round straw hat with a long veil hanging down around the brim; I couldn’t see her face, just her robe. I think it had a kind of dark-red outer layer with a blue-green lining. The horse was a dappled gray with a tinge of red, and I’m fairly sure it had a clipped mane. Was it a big horse? I’d say it was a few inches taller than most, but I’m a priest after all. I don’t know much about horses. The man? No, Sir, he had a good-sized sword, and he was equipped with a bow and arrows. I can still see that black-lacquered quiver of his: he must have had twenty arrows in it, maybe more. I would never have dreamt that a thing like this could happen to such a man. Ah, what is the life of a human being—a drop of dew, a flash of lightning? This is so sad, so sad. What can I say?
The Testimony of a Policeman under Questioning by the Magistrate
The man I captured, Your Honor? I am certain he is the famous bandit, Tajōmaru. True, when I caught him he had fallen off his horse, and he was moaning and groaning on the stone bridge at Awataguchi. The time, Sir? It was last night at the first watch.1 He was wearing the same dark blue robe and carrying the same long sword he used the time I almost captured him before. You can see he also has a bow and arrows now. Oh, is that so, Sir? The dead man, too? That settles it, then: I’m sure this Tajōmaru fellow is the murderer. A leather-wrapped bow, a quiver in black lacquer, seventeen hawk-feather arrows—they must have belonged to the victim. And yes, as you say, Sir, the horse is a dappled gray with a touch of red, and it has a clipped mane. It’s only a dumb animal, but it gave that bandit just what he deserved, throwing him like that. It was a short way beyond the bridge, trailing its reins on the ground and eating plume grass by the road.
Of all the bandits prowling around Kyoto, this Tajōmaru is known as a fellow who likes the women. Last fall, people at Toribe Temple found a pair of worshippers murdered—a woman and a child—on the hill behind the statue of Binzuru.2 Everybody said Tajōmaru must have done it. If it turns out he killed the man, there’s no telling what he might have done to the woman who was on the horse. I don’t mean to meddle, Sir, but I do think you ought to question him about that.
The Testimony of an Old Woman under Questioning by the Magistrate
Yes, Your Honor, my daughter was married to the dead man. He is not from the capital, though. He was a samurai serving in the Wakasa provincial office. His name was Kanazawa no Takehiro, and he was twenty-six years old. No, Sir, he was a very kind man. I can’t believe anyone would have hated him enough to do this.
My daughter, Sir? Her name is Masago, and she is nineteen years old. She’s as bold as any man, but the only man she has ever known is Takehiro. Her complexion is a little on the dark side, and she has a mole by the outside corner of her left eye, but her face is a tiny, perfect oval.
Takehiro left for Wakasa yesterday with my daughter, but what turn of fate could have led to this? There’s nothing I can do for my son-in-law anymore, but what could have happened to my daughter? I’m worried sick about her. Oh please, Sir, do everything you can to find her, leave no stone unturned: I have lived a long time, but I have never wanted anything so badly in my life. Oh how I hate that bandit—that, that Tajōmaru! Not only my son-in-law, but my daughter… (Here the old woman broke down and was unable to go on speaking.)
Tajōmaru’s Confession
Sure, I killed the man. But I didn’t kill the woman. So, where did she go? I don’t know any better than you do. Now, wait just a minute—you can torture me all you want, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know. And besides, now that you’ve got me, I’m not going to hide anything. I’m no coward.
I met that couple yesterday, a little after noon. The second I saw them, a puff of wind lifted her veil and I caught a peek at her. Just a peek: that’s maybe why she looked so perfect to me—an absolute bodhisattva of a woman.3 I made up my mind right then to take her even if I had to kill the man.
Oh come on, killing a man is not as big a thing as people like you seem to think. If you’re going to take somebody’s woman, a man has to die. When I kill a man, I do it with my sword, but people like you don’t use swords. You gentlemen kill with your power, with your money, and sometimes just with your words: you tell people you’re doing them a favor. True, no blood flows, the man is still alive, but you’ve killed him all the same. I don’t know whose sin is greater—yours or mine. (A sarcastic smile.)
Of course, if you can take the woman without killing the man, all the better. Which is exactly what I was hoping to do yesterday. It would have been impossible on the Yamashina post road, of course, so I thought of a way to lure them into the hills.
It was easy. I fell in with them on the road and made up a story. I told them I had found an old burial mound4 in the hills, and when I opened it it was full of swords and mirrors and things. I said I had buried the stuff in a bamboo grove on the other side of the mountain to keep anyone from finding out about it, and I’d sell it cheap to the right buyer. He started getting interested soon enough. It’s scary what greed can do to people, don’t you think? In less than an hour, I was leading that couple and their horse up a mountain trail.
When we reached the grove, I told them the treasure was buried in there and they should come inside with me and look at it. The man was so hungry for the stuff by then, he couldn’t refuse, but the woman said she’d wait there on the horse. I figured that would happen—the woods are so thick. They fell right into my trap. We left the woman alone and went into the grove.
It was all bamboo at first. Fifty yards or so inside, there was a sort of open clump of cedars—the perfect place for what I was going to do. I pushed through the thicket and made up some nonsense about how the treasure was buried under one of them. When he heard that, the man charged toward some scrawny cedars visible up ahead. The bamboo thinned out, and the trees were standing there in a row. As soon as we got to them, I grabbed him and pinned him down. I could see he was a strong man—he carried a sword—but I took him by surprise, and he couldn’t do a thing. I had him tied to the base of a tree in no time. Where did I get the rope? Well, I’m a thief, you know—I might have to scale a wall at any time—so I’ve always got a piece of rope in my belt. I stuffed his mouth full of bamboo leaves to keep him quiet. That’s all there was to it.
Once I finished with the man, I went and told the woman that her husband had suddenly been taken ill and she should come and have a look at him. This was another bull’s-eye, of course. She took off her hat and let me lead her by the hand into the grove. As soon as she saw the man tied to the tree, though, she whipped a dagger out of her breast. I never saw a woman with such fire! If I’d been off my guard, she’d have stuck that thing in my gut. And the way she kept coming, she would have done me some damage eventually no matter how much I dodged. Still, I am Tajōmaru. One way or another, I managed to knock the knife out of her hand without drawing my sword. Even the most spirited woman is going to be helpless if she hasn’
t got a weapon. And so I was able to make the woman mine without taking her husband’s life.
Yes, you heard me: without taking her husband’s life. I wasn’t planning to kill him on top of everything else. The woman was on the ground, crying, and I was getting ready to run out of the grove and leave her there when all of a sudden she grabbed my arm like some kind of crazy person. And then I heard what she was shouting between sobs. She could hardly catch her breath: “Either you die or my husband dies. It has to be one of you. It’s worse than death for me to have two men see my shame. I want to stay with the one left alive, whether it’s you or him.” That gave me a wild desire to kill her husband. (Sullen excitement.)
When I say this, you probably think I’m crueler than you are. But that’s because you didn’t see the look on her face—and especially, you never saw the way her eyes were burning at that moment. When those eyes met mine, I knew I wanted to make her my wife. Let the thunder god kill me, I’d make her my wife—that was the only thought in my head. And no, not just from lust. I know that’s what you gentlemen are thinking. If lust was all I felt for her, I’d already taken care of that. I could’ve just kicked her down and gotten out of there. And the man wouldn’t have stained my sword with his blood. But the moment my eyes locked onto hers in that dark grove, I knew I couldn’t leave there until I had killed him.
Still, I didn’t want to kill him in a cowardly way. I untied him and challenged him to a sword fight. (That piece of rope they found was the one I threw aside then.) The man looked furious as he drew his big sword, and without a word he sprang at me in a rage. I don’t have to tell you the outcome of the fight. My sword pierced his breast on the twenty-third thrust. Not till the twenty-third: I want you to keep that in mind. I still admire him for that. He’s the only man who ever lasted even twenty thrusts with me. (Cheerful grin.)
Rashōmon and Seventeen Other Stories Page 6