by Ivan Morris
This was Lord Tadanao’s first experience, since being born into this world as a daimyō, of the strange fascination of eavesdropping, and, despite himself, he listened intently.
The two men had apparently halted by the spring, not more than six yards from the pavilion. Sadayū was speaking, in a confidential tone.
“Tell me, what do you think of the master’s skill?”
Ukon’s reply was spoken with a certain jocular bitterness.
“Gossip about his lordship! It’s suicide for us both if we’re heard!”
“We gossip about the Shogun, too, on the sly. Come, what do you think? His lordship’s prowess in arms…. What is your real opinion?” Sadayū sounded in earnest. He was completely silent for a moment, as if waiting tensely for Ukon’s assessment.
“Well, it’s as they say. He’s pretty good.” Ukon paused abruptly.
Lord Tadanao felt as if, for the very first time, he was hearing himself praised without deceit by a retainer. But Ukon continued.
“I allowed him the victory, as usual, but I didn’t exactly exert myself.”
There was a significant silence, during which the two men were doubtless smiling wryly at each other.
Ukon’s words, naturally enough, had a devastating effect upon eavesdropping Lord Tadanao. A great whirl and tumult of emotions suddenly raced within his breast. Lord Tadanao had never known this feeling before. It was as if he had been trampled on and kicked from head to toe by muddy feet. His lips quivered, and the blood in every vein of his body seemed to be boiling over and rushing to his head.
Ukon’s brief words, with their indescribable shock, had hurled Lord Tadanao down from the loftiest heights of human dignity, from the pedestal on which he had stood exalted until this moment, and cast him ignominiously into the dust. His mood was certainly near to violent rage. But it was very different from the violent rage which stems from a heart bursting with superabundant strength. His anger raged furiously on the surface, but it arose from the sudden creation, at the very core of his soul, of a terrible, desolate emptiness. He was overwhelmed by the bitter discovery that the world was a fraud, that his whole life until now, and all his proud boasts, had been built upon a false foundation.
For a moment he felt an urge to take the sword from his page boy’s hands and kill the two men on the spot; but the strength for such desperate resolutions was no longer within him. Besides, it would only double his humiliation. For a lord to pride himself on false victories granted in flattery by his own retainers was shame and folly enough. But was he to cut down these two men now and reveal to his whole household that he knew of his own stupidity? Lord Tadanao fought against the tumult of emotions in his breast and tried to consider calmly what course of action might be most fitting. But, because the experience had come upon him so unexpectedly, and because, to make matters worse, Lord Tadanao was of such an excitable disposition, his emotions continued for some considerable time longer in wild disorder, refusing to be arranged.
The page, who had been squatting at Lord Tadanao’s side all this while, as motionless as a piece of furniture, was a boy of some intelligence, and he was not unaware of the critical nature of the present situation. If, he felt, he failed to warn the two men of their master’s presence, there was no knowing what might happen. Noting in alarm the thunderous expression on his master’s face, he coughed lightly, three times.
The page boy’s coughing was, on this occasion, most efficacious. Ukon and Sadayū, realizing that someone was nearby, abruptly concluded their seditious conversation. As if at a prearranged signal, the two men hurriedly departed in the direction of the great hall.
Lord Tadanao’s eyes were flashing with anger. But his cheeks were ominously pale. The whole world of emotions in which he had lived since boyhood had gone wonderfully bankrupt at a word from Ukon.
As a child, in childish pastimes, he had always been cleverer than any of his companions. When he shot his toy arrows he had always scored more bull’s-eyes than the others. During calligraphy classes the old teacher had frequently patted him on the knee and praised his brushwork. These, and other such incidents, came momentarily back to his mind now as unhappy memories.
It had been the same in military arts. As a swordsman, or with the spear, he had reached in an amazingly short time the stage of defeating any of his retainers who offered to oppose him. And he had believed in himself right up to this moment. He had had the firmest faith in his genuine ability. Just now, for instance, even while listening to the derogatory remarks which Ukon and his friend were making behind his back, he had almost been able to convince himself that this was merely their chagrin at defeat.
But, when he had considered the circumstances under which they were spoken, he had known that Ukon’s words were neither jest nor lie. Even Lord Tadanao, with all his buoyant self-confidence, had felt obliged to accept what he heard as a statement of the honest truth.
Ukon’s words were with him still, echoing loudly in his mind. Lord Tadanao tried to calculate just how much of each splendid feat today had been due to himself, and how much to deceit. But it was no use. And it was not only about today that he would never know. Among all the countless victories and distinctions he had gained since childhood, in every variety of contest or skill, he would never know what had been the proportion of reality and of pretense. The thought was an agony, tearing at his heart. Not everything had been sham, he knew. Not all his retainers had given him victories which were not his by right. No, by far the great majority of his opponents had been fairly beaten. But the taint was there. Simply because there were people, insolent people, like Ukon and Sadayū, every one of those past triumphs was now tainted with an aura of impurity. He felt himself beginning to hate Ukon and Sadayū.
But the wound went deeper. Even the glory he had won three months ago on the Osaka battlefield seemed now no longer wholly credible. And as he recalled that fine title which had been his pride—“the Fan Kuai of Japan”—he began to wonder whether even this did not carry with it the sort of exaggeration which makes a man ridiculous. He had been humored like a child by his retainers. Had he also been manipulated like a puppet by his grandfather? At this thought Lord Tadanao’s eyes began at last to dim with tears.
III
The banquet continued informally long after Lord Tadanao departed, but when the castle bell tolled the hour of midnight all the young warriors accepted it as the signal to rise and prepare to retire. At this moment, however, a chamberlain came hurrying into the hall from the lord’s apartments.
“Gentlemen!” he cried, raising both arms for silence. “Your attention please! His lordship has this moment ordered a change in the plans for tomorrow. In place of the hunt which he had previously announced, there will be tomorrow, just as today, a great tournament of spearmanship. The time and the combat arrangements are to be as before.”
There were some who felt a little disgruntled at the prospect. There were some, too, who smiled to themselves. His lordship, it seemed, was eager to enjoy today’s triumph in duplicate. But the majority, pleasantly exhilarated by the wine, accepted the change with great good humor.
“Let it go on for days and days,” they cried. “All the more wine to celebrate on! Tomorrow, again, we can get gloriously drunk.”
* * *
On the following day the castle drill-hall was once more swept spotlessly clean, and white and red awnings were draped along its walls. Lord Tadanao, as before, occupied the seat of honor, but throughout the proceedings he gnawed ceaselessly at his lower lip, and his eyes blazed.
There was little difference in the results of the contests. But, with yesterday’s victory or defeat still fresh in the memory of each contestant, most of the bouts were, for one of the parties, battles to redeem lost honor, and a far fiercer note was detectable in the shouting and challenges.
The Reds fared, if anything, even worse than they had on the previous day. When their commander, Lord Tadanao, took the field, there remained six members of the White te
am, including the commander and deputy commander, who had not yet been called upon to fight.
Lord Tadanao displayed a curious tension which at once puzzled the spectators. He seemed almost delirious with excitement as he stood there whirling his great leather-tipped spear wildly about his head. His first two opponents approached him as gingerly as if they were feeling the region of an ulcer, but were quickly dealt savage blows which sent them reeling to the floor. The next two were no less overawed by their lord’s terrible ardor, and offered only a formal show of resistance.
The fifth to appear was Ōshima Sadayū. Sadayū entertained certain private misgivings, slight though they were, as to the causes which underlay Lord Tadanao’s seemingly eccentric behavior this day. Of course, he did not imagine for one moment that it might have been his lord himself who had been standing nearby the previous night, listening to that conversation. But he did wonder, a little anxiously, whether the owner of that cough, which had sounded last night in the darkness of the garden, might not have reported what he had heard. It was with a bow of even more than usual solemnity that he now saluted his lord.
“So it’s you, Sadayū!” Lord Tadanao gave the impression of a man striving to sound unconcerned. But his voice was strangely shrill.
“Sadayū! Be it sword or spear, unless it is a real sword or a real spear we can never know our true skills. Combats with leather-capped practice spears are fake combats. If we can lose without suffering injury, then we may, perhaps, permit ourselves to lose too easily! Tadanao is tired of false battles. I propose to use the spear which served me so well at the siege of Osaka. And it is my wish that you, too, shall this time face me with a naked weapon in your hands. You are not to think of me as your lord. If you see an opening, strike without hesitation!”
Lord Tadanao’s eyes smoldered with rage and his voice trembled as he spoke these last few words. Sadayū paled. Onoda Ukon, too, standing a little behind Sadayū, grew pale.
The family retainers in the spectators’ seats were completely at a loss to understand what possessed Lord Tadanao. Many were seized with a sudden fear that their master had lost his reason.
Lord Tadanao had had his fits of temper before this. He was, by nature, highly strung, and there were times when he was excessively rude. But he had never, in the slightest degree, shown himself tyrannical or cruel. Observing Lord Tadanao’s behavior today, his retainers were, not unnaturally, aghast.
But, although it was true that in calling for the use of real weapons Lord Tadanao was activated by a consuming hatred of Sadayū and Ukon, he was moved also by the hope that at last he might discover what were his true capabilities. If obliged to face up to a real spear, even these two might not so readily suffer defeat. They would use every art they knew to defend themselves. And then he would know the truth about his own skill. He might, of course, have himself to admit defeat. But even that, he felt, was infinitely better and cleaner than foolishly exulting over a prearranged victory.
“Ho there! Get ready a spear!” At Lord Tadanao’s order—so promptly that it seemed they must have been well prepared in advance—two small page boys brought forward a great spear, seemingly no easy weight for them to carry, and laid it between Lord Tadanao and his retainer.
“Sadayū, use that!” said Lord Tadanao, and at the same moment he removed the sheath from the blade of his own trusted, six-yard weapon. The murderous glint leaping from the seven inches of steel tip, the work of the master spearsmith Bingo Sadakané, cast an oppressive chill upon the spirits of the whole assembly. At the uncovering of the blade Senior Councilor Honda Tosa, who had chosen to overlook his lord’s behavior until now, rose suddenly from his place and hastened before Lord Tadanao.
“My lord, have you taken leave of your senses? To expose your valued person in such reckless sport with naked weapons, and to court injury from your own retainers! If the Shogun hears of this it will be no light matter! I beseech you to desist.” The councilor wrinkled his old, tired eyes and pleaded desperately.
“Old man, it is useless to interfere,” said Lord Tadanao, with an air of stern finality. “I am resolved upon fighting today with real weapons, even if it cost me Tadanao’s three-and-a-half-million-bushel province. It is utterly impossible to stop me.” There was a crushing authority in his manner, and one might as well have sought to argue away the autumn frosts. Thus absolute, in his own household, was the will of Lord Tadanao. The councilor offered no further advice and retired dispiritedly.
Sadayū had already made up his mind to raise no objection. This, he was now convinced, was a punishment for his talk last night, which must have reached the ears of his master, and there was nothing further to be said. As a retainer he had no alternative but to accept his punishment. And when he considered that it was to be administered secretly, under the pretext of a contest with naked weapons, he even felt that in this Lord Tadanao was showing him considerable favor. To die on his lord’s spear would be an atonement, a noble death, and it was now his only wish.
“My lord,” he said firmly, “no matter what the weapons, Sadayū is ready to oppose you.”
There was a murmur of disapproval from the spectators at Sadayū’s disloyal presumption. Lord Tadanao smiled bitterly.
“Well then, you are a true retainer of Lord Tadanao. But do not think of me as your lord. If my guard is down, do not hesitate. Strike!” Lord Tadanao withdrew five or six yards, brandishing his spear as he spoke, and took up his position.
Sadayū now picked up the spear brought by the pages and removed the sheath from its blade.
“Your pardon!” he cried. And he stood at the ready, facing his lord.
All eyes were fixed upon the scene in dreadful fascination and horror. The watchers sat tensed and breathless, as if entranced, following every move in the battle being fought to a finish between master and man.
Lord Tadanao was obsessed by one thought. If he could only find out—find out with certainty—the real extent of his strength and skill, he could want nothing more. He was not conscious of himself as daimyō of a province, nor did he think of his opponent as a retainer. He merely fought, with courage and determination.
But Sadayū had, from the outset, determined the issue. After three brief exchanges he took the point of Lord Tadanao’s spear high on his left thigh, toppled backward, and crashed to the floor.
The spectators, one and all, heaved a deep sigh of relief. The body of the wounded Sadayū was quickly borne from the arena by a group of his colleagues.
Lord Tadanao, however, felt no joy of victory. Sadayū’s defeat, he saw only too clearly, was of the same self-inflicted variety as his defeat of yesterday, and in Lord Tadanao’s heart there was now an aching loneliness far worse even, than last night’s words had brought. The realization that the wretched Sadayū was ready to feed his lord with false victories, even if it cost him his very life, had reimplanted at the core of Lord Tadanao’s being, even more deeply than before, his terrible uneasiness, loneliness, and sense of lost faith. He felt bitterly toward his true inner self which, even if he imperiled his own person and sacrificed the lives of his retainers, he could never know.
At Sadayū’s fall Ukon had taken up the discarded spear; with this in his hand, he now stood at the ready. He showed no trace of fear. His face, it is true, was pale, but his eyes blazed with fierce resolution.
Lord Tadanao felt that Ukon, at least, the man who had dared to speak so frankly last night, would surely offer a determined resistance, and summoning back his will to fight, which had been fast evaporating, he turned to face him.
But Ukon, no less than Sadayū, was deeply moved by a sense of his own guilt. And he too was resolved to expatiate his crime upon his lord’s spear.
In the course of five or six exchanges Lord Tadanao noticed that his opponent repeatedly contrived to leave the vital region of his breast unguarded. This fellow too, he realized with a sudden mortifying return of his sense of loneliness, was prepared to throw away his very life to cheat his lord to the end
. The idea of vanquishing an opponent who thus artfully assisted him was a sickening absurdity.
But Ukon, as if sensing that he must accomplish his wish without further delay, suddenly maneuvered his body into the path of a feint from Lord Tadanao’s spear, and was pierced through the right shoulder.
Lord Tadanao had most wonderfully vented his rancor of last night. But it had merely created a new sadness in his heart. Both Ukon and Sadayū, at the risk of their lives, had maintained their pretense.
When Lord Tadanao heard late that night that the wounded Ukon and Sadayū, upon being carried to their respective homes, had both, at a chosen time ripped open their stomachs, he lapsed into a mood of even deeper despondency.
Lord Tadanao pondered the matter carefully. Between these men and himself there stretched a solid, dividing tissue of deceit. This tissue, this barrier of pretense, they were striving desperately to keep in existence. The pretense was no idle one: it was something to which they were irrevocably committed. Today, with his naked spear, Lord Tadanao had made a supreme effort to pierce this tissue, but these men had repaired the gaps at once with their blood. And now, between himself and his retainers, the tissue stretched as intact as ever. Beyond it men were living as men, in genuine human relationships with each other. But if any of these men turned for a moment to face their lord, they at once dropped down before themselves this protective tissue of pretense. As Lord Tadanao suddenly realized that on his side of the barrier there was absolutely no one but himself, the terrible sense of loneliness redoubled its strength and invaded every corner of his being.
IV