Their conversation ended.
At times, when her husband was out, Tokiko took pleasure in visiting the local temple to worship. She hesitated to take part in the hundred journeys from Buddhist stone to altar. However, she often washed a small stone Buddhist statue. She made a habit of buying sweets at the tea shop within the grounds of the temple and presenting these as snacks for her husband.
Soon a rumor about Tokiko’s frequent visits to the temple was circulating throughout the neighborhood. Jūkichi was unaware of the rumor.
MORI ŌGAI
Toward the end of his career, Mori Ōgai (1862–1922) turned to writing stories based on his vision of the intellectual, emotional, and moral life of those who had lived during the preceding Tokugawa period (1600–1867). He did so partly as a means of discovering the hidden connections between the past and the rapidly changing society in which he now lived. Ōgai’s story “The Boat on the River Takase” (Takasebune, 1916) is a moving account of the nature of both justice and mercy.
THE BOAT ON THE RIVER TAKASE (TAKASEBUNE)
Translated by Edmund R. Skrzypczak
The takase boats are small craft that ply the Takase River running through Kyoto. During the Tokugawa period, whenever a Kyoto criminal was banished to a distant isle, his relatives were summoned to his prison and allowed a farewell visit with him. After that, the criminal would be put aboard a takase boat and transported to Osaka. The official who escorted him was a constable under the command of the chief magistrate of Kyoto, and it was customary for the constable to allow a close kinsman of the criminal to accompany him in the boat as far as Osaka. This was not according to the law, but it was connived at—a sort of tacit abridgment of the law.
The criminals banished in those days to distant isles were people found guilty of grave offenses, of course. This by no means meant the majority of them were vicious characters, such as would commit murder or arson for the sake of robbery. Most of the criminals who rode the takase boats were people who had committed their offenses unintentionally, through some miscalculation. To give a common example, you had those cases where the male partner in an attempted love suicide, of the type then called “death by mutual consent,” had killed the woman but he himself had survived.
Setting out with such criminals aboard about the time the evening bells were gonging, the takase boats would speed eastward—the dark houses of Kyoto in sight on either bank—cut across the Kamo River, and descend to Osaka. In the boats, the criminals and their relatives would discuss personal affairs the whole night through. There was always the same old litany about its being too late to undo the past. The constables whose task it was to escort them would overhear it all and could learn in detail all the wretched circumstances of house and home that had produced the criminals—circumstances of which the officials who listened to the formal affidavits in the magistrate’s office or read the depositions at their office desks could never even dream.
Differences of temperament could be found even among constables. While some were heartless men whose only desire at such times was to stop up their ears so they did not have to listen to the “noise,” still others were deeply moved by the human pathos and, though not showing it outwardly because of their official capacity, grieved inwardly and in silence. When a particularly maudlin, softhearted constable happened to be escorting a criminal and his kin who had been the victims of extremely miserable circumstances, the constable would be unable to check the spontaneous flow of tears.
Hence it was that escort duty on the takase boats was heartily disliked by the constables of the magistrate’s office as an unpleasant assignment.
When it was, I’m not sure. It might have been in the Kansei period, when Lord Shirakawa Rakuo1 was head of the government in Edo. Toward dusk one day in spring, as the cherry blossoms of Chion Temple fluttered down to the gonging of the evening bell, an unusual criminal, of a type not seen before, was put aboard a takase boat.
He was named Kisuke, about thirty years of age, with no fixed abode. Since he had no relatives who might be summoned to the prison, he was alone when he got into the boat.
Haneda Shōbē, the constable assigned to accompany him aboard the boat, had heard only that Kisuke had killed his younger brother. From what he had observed of the pale, slender Kisuke while he conducted him from the prison to the dock, the man was very docile and meek, respectful to him as a government official, compliant at every turn. What is more, his was not that attitude one often met among criminals of feigned docility and fawning before authority.
Shōbē thought it singularly strange. Even after they were on the boat, he kept a careful eye on Kisuke’s movements—with a watchfulness that went beyond the mere call of duty.
That day the wind had died down after sunset; a slight overcast obscured the profile of the moon; it was a night when the heat of approaching summer seemed to be rising in vapors from the earth on both banks and even from the soil of the riverbed. As soon as they left south Kyoto behind and cut across the Kamo River, they were surrounded by stillness. The only sound was the ripple of water cleft by the prow of the boat.
Prisoners were allowed to sleep during the night trip, but Kisuke showed no interest in lying down; he gazed up in silence at the moon playing hide-and-seek through the layers of clouds scudding across it. His countenance glowed, and there was a gleam in his eyes.
Shōbē did not look at him directly, yet he did not take his eyes off Kisuke’s face. He kept thinking: “Strange . . . passing strange.” For Kisuke’s face radiated nothing but happiness; it seemed as if—were it not for the presence of an official—he would break into a whistle or start humming.
Shōbē reflected: “I don’t know how many times I’ve been in charge of this takase boat till now. The criminals we put on it have always looked so miserable I couldn’t hear to look at them. Yet this man. . . . What’s wrong with him? From the expression on his face, you’d think he was on an excursion boat. They say his crime was killing his brother. No matter how bad a fellow his brother was, or the circumstances that led to killing him, if he’s at all human he shouldn’t be feeling so happy. Is this thin, pale fellow such a rarity, even as no-goods go, that he completely lacks human sentiment? Not likely. Is he out of his mind, maybe? No, no. There is none of the madman’s incoherence in his speech or actions. What’s wrong with this fellow?” The more Shōbē thought about Kisuke’s demeanor, the more he was puzzled by it.
After a while, unable to contain himself any longer, Shōbē spoke up: “Kisuke. What are you thinking about?”
“Sir?” Kisuke replied and glanced about him; afraid the official was finding fault with him for something, he drew himself up and studied Shōbē’s face.
Shōbē felt he had to explain the sudden question and indicate his desire to talk with him in an unofficial capacity. So he said, “Not that I had any special reason in mind when I asked you. . . . To tell the truth, for a while now I’ve been curious to know how you feel about going into exile. I’ve sent a lot of men off to exile on this boat. They were men with widely assorted histories, but every one of them took going into exile pretty hard. They always wept the whole night through, together with the kin who rode along to see them off. Yet to judge from the way you look, it seems you aren’t the least bit upset about going into exile. What are your feelings?”
Kisuke smiled. “Thank you for the compliment. I’m sure that going into exile must be a distressing thing for other people. I can well imagine how they’d feel. But that’s because they’d been enjoying a comfortable life in society. Kyoto is a nice place, I can’t deny that, but I don’t think I’ll ever have to endure anything like what I suffered there, no matter where I go. The authorities have been kind enough to spare my life and send me into exile. Even if the island is a rugged place, it’s not going to be a den of demons. I’ve never in my life been in a place I’ve found to my liking. Now the authorities have ordered me to stay on an island. I’m almost grateful for being able to settle down in a place
where I’ve been commanded to stay. Besides, frail as I am, I’ve never been sick; no matter what hard work is waiting for me on the island I don’t think my health will suffer. On top of that, for being sent into exile I have even received the sum of two hundred mon. I have it here.” As he said this he patted the front of his kimono. Giving the sum of two hundred copper coins to anyone sentenced to exile was the law in those days.
Kisuke went on. “I’m ashamed to confess this, but I’ve never before carried in my pocket such a sum of money as two hundred mon. I used to roam around hoping to find some work somewhere, and when I did, I worked as hard as I could. The money I received always had to pass into the waiting hands of others. And the times I could buy some food for cash, I considered myself well off; most of the time I paid back a loan only to borrow again. But now since being put into prison, I’ve been fed without having to do any work. For that reason alone, I feel as if I’ve been taking terrible advantage of the authorities. And yet when I leave the prison, I get two hundred mon. If I go on eating food provided by the authorities like this, I can keep all of the two hundred mon without spending a one. Having money of my own is something new to me. Until I get to the island, I can’t tell what kind of work there’ll be for me, but I’m looking forward to using this two hundred mon as capital to get me started there.” At this point he fell silent.
Shōbē said, “Hmmm, I see.” But since he’d been dumbfounded by everything he had heard, he too was unable to say anything for a while and remained thoughtfully silent.
Shōbē was nearly in his forties; he already had four children by his wife. In addition, his mother was still alive, so there were seven in his family. He led a frugal life for the most part—so much so that people called him miserly—and except for what he wore when he went to work, about the only new clothes he ever had made were nightwear. However, to his misfortune he had married a girl from a wealthy merchant family. The result was that though his wife was sincerely well intentioned about making ends meet with just her husband’s salary, she had been spoiled by her upbringing in a prosperous family and so was unable to live within their means as well as her husband would have liked. More often than not, when the end of the month rolled around, funds were short. Then she would get money on the sly from her parents’ home and balance the accounts. The reason she did this was because her husband hated to borrow money. Her carryings on were not unknown to Shōbē. And since he took it in ill humor even when she’d use one of the five sacred festivals2 as a pretext for receiving presents from her family or the children’s shichigosan festival3 as a pretext for receiving clothes for the children, whenever he found out she had gotten something to cover their deficits, he was none too happy. It was this that was the source of occasional storms in the otherwise placid Haneda household.
After he listened to Kisuke’s story, Shōbē compared Kisuke’s personal history with his own. Kisuke had said that any pay he ever earned immediately disappeared into other people’s hands. Very sad and pitiful indeed. But if you took a look at his own life—what difference was there between Kisuke and him? Wasn’t he also constantly handing over to others the salary he got from the government? The difference between them was only a matter of scale, really. And yet he didn’t have savings on a par with the two hundred mon Kisuke was so pleased with. True, viewed on a different scale, it wasn’t strange for Kisuke to be happy at the thought that he had a grand total of two hundred mon in savings. He could understand Kisuke’s attitude. Still, no matter how you viewed the matter, what was strange was Kisuke’s lack of avarice and the way he was content with what he had.
Kisuke had had great difficulty finding a job in the world. When he did, he worked hard, content just with keeping body and soul together. This was why from his first day in prison, he’d been surprised at getting, for no toil on his part, almost like a gift from the gods, meals he couldn’t get before, and why he felt a contentment he had never experienced before.
Shōbē realized that therein lay the immense gap between Kisuke and himself—it was not a matter of a difference in scale. On his salary, things generally came out about even—despite the occasional deficits. He managed to squeak by. However, he had seldom been content with that. Most of the time he passed the days conscious of neither happiness nor unhappiness. But deep down there lurked an apprehensiveness: At this rate, what would he do if he should lose his post? What would he do if a serious sickness befell him? Whenever he found out about his wife’s getting money from her parents to square accounts, these misgivings rose to the threshold of his consciousness.
Why on earth did such a gap exist? From a superficial view, it would be enough to say that Kisuke had no dependents, while he did. But that wasn’t right. Even if he, too, were single, it was hardly likely he’d share Kisuke’s frame of mind. The root of the difference seems to lie much deeper, Shōbē thought.
His thoughts then turned to such things as a man’s life in general. When a man gets sick, he wishes he were well. When day after day he doesn’t get a square meal, he wishes he always had plenty to eat. When he has no reserve for a rainy day, he wishes he had at least something saved up. Even when he has a little saved up, he wishes it were much more. When you come to think of it, one thing leads to another in this way, and there’s no telling how far a man would go before he’d draw the line. And yet, right before his eyes, was a living example of one who had drawn the line—this Kisuke—Shōbē suddenly realized.
As if seeing him now in a completely new light, Shōbē looked at Kisuke with wide-eyed admiration. It now appeared to Shōbē as if a halo encircled Kisuke’s head as he gazed up at the sky.
Shōbē, his eyes fixed on Kisuke’s face, spoke to him again: “Kisuke-san.” This time he said “san,” but his switch to the politer form of address wasn’t fully deliberate. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized the impropriety of addressing Kisuke in that way, but it was too late to retract them.
Kisuke, who had answered “Yes?” also seemed to feel something was amiss, for he studied Shōbē uncomfortably.
Shōbē regained his composure somewhat and asked, “I may seem to be prying too much, but I understand you’re being sent into exile for bringing about someone’s death. I wonder if you’d tell me how it happened, as long as you’ve told me the rest.”
Visibly confused, Kisuke replied submissively, “As you wish, sir.” Then in a low voice he began to speak.
“It was sheer foolishness on my part, and I have no excuses. When I think back, I find it impossible to explain how I could’ve done such a thing. I was completely out of my mind when I did it.
“Both my parents died in an epidemic when I was small, leaving me and my younger brother. In our younger days, the townsfolk were kind to us, much as one might pity pups born on one’s doorstep. So by doing errands and the like in the neighborhood, we grew up without starving or freezing. Even when we got bigger and looked around for jobs, we tried to stick together, the two of us, as much as possible. We lived together and helped each other in our work. Then last fall he and I both got jobs in the Nishijin textile mill; we were put to work doing figured cloth. After a while my brother fell ill and had to quit work. At that time we were living in Katayama in a place no better than a shanty; I used to cross a bridge over the Kamiya River to get to the factory. When I’d get back home after dark with groceries and things, he’d be waiting for me, and he’d keep apologizing for making me do all the breadwinning by myself. One day I went back home as usual, not suspecting anything out of the ordinary, only to find my brother lying face down, atop the bedding, blood splattered all around him. Surprised, I dropped the packages of food I had in my hands and went to his side. ‘What happened? What happened?’ I cried. At this he raised a ghostly white face smeared from cheeks to chin with blood and looked at me, but he was unable to speak. The only sound he made was a quiet wheeze from his neck every time he breathed. Since I had no idea whatsoever what it was all about, I said, ‘What happened? Did you throw up b
lood?’ and tried to get nearer, when with his right arm he propped himself up a little from the bed. His left hand was pressed tight against his throat, but dark gobs of blood oozed between the fingers. With his eyes he told me to stay away, and his lips started to move. He was barely able to speak. ‘Sorry. Forgive me please. There was no hope of my recovery anyway. I wanted to die quickly, make life a little easier for you. I thought I’d die. I figured I had to go deep, then deeper, so I pushed it in as much as 1 could, but it slipped to the side. The blade doesn’t seem to have broken. I think if you pull it out right, I’ll be able to die. It’s awful painful to speak. Please help. Pull it out.’ When he took his left hand away, his breath once more escaped from the wound. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t make a sound. Without a word I looked at the gash in his throat. It seemed he had probably held the razor in his right hand and had cut across the windpipe, but failing to die from this, he had plunged it in deeper with a slicing motion. Hardly two inches of the handle was showing. When I saw all this, I just stared at him. My mind was all a blank. His gaze transfixed me. I finally managed to say something: ‘Wait, I’m going for a doctor.’ He threw me a look of reproach. Once again he pressed his throat hard with his left hand and said, ‘What good’s a doctor. . . . It hurts. . . . Hurry pull it out . . . Please.’ I didn’t know what to do; all I did was keep looking at him. At such times—it’s strange but true—eyes have tongues. My brother’s eyes kept hounding me and saying ‘Quick, quick!’ Everything was spinning around in my head. His eyes kept up their dreadful plea. Worse, their look of reproach gradually grew sharper and finally turned into a glare of hostile hatred. Seeing this change, I finally decided I had to do as he directed, ‘All right, you win,’ I said, ‘I’ll take it out.’ Immediately his eyes completely changed expression; they became serene, truly joyful. ‘You have to go through with it quickly,’ I thought to myself. I knelt down and leaned forward. He settled himself back onto his side; the arm that had been raised to his throat dropped onto the bed. I got a tight grip on the handle of the razor and pulled it all the way out.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 33