Oishi Kuranosuke on a Certain Day

Warm sunlight streamed onto the shoji screens, tightly shut, and the shadow of an ancient plum tree, rugged and grand, claimed the bright expanse of several bays from the far right clear across to the far left, vivid as a painting.

Oishi Kuranosuke Yoshio, formerly a retainer of Lord Asano Takumi no Kami and at that time held in the custody of the Hosokawa house, sat with his back to the screens, knees neatly folded beneath him, absorbed for some time now in reading. The book was probably one volume of the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, lent to him by one of the Hosokawa retainers.

Of the nine men in the room, Kataoka Gengoemon had just gone out to the privy. Hayami Tozaemon had gone to talk in the lower room and had not yet returned. The six remaining men, Yoshida Chuzaemon, Hara Soemon, Mase Kyudayu, Onodera Junai, Horibe Yahei, and Hazama Kihei, seemed to have forgotten even the sunlight falling on the screens; some were deep in their reading, others were writing letters. Since all six were old men over fifty, the room, though it was still only early spring, was quiet almost to the point of chill. Now and then someone coughed, but even that made scarcely enough sound to stir the faint smell of ink drifting through the air.

Kuranosuke suddenly lifted his eyes from the Three Kingdoms. Gazing as though at something far away, he quietly held his hands over the brazier beside him. Beneath the wire grate, among the carefully banked charcoal, a beautiful redness glowed brilliantly, lighting the ash. Feeling that warmth, Kuranosuke found his heart filling once more with a peaceful satisfaction. It was the very satisfaction he had felt when, on the fifteenth day of the twelfth month of the previous year, after avenging his late lord and withdrawing to Sengakuji, he had composed the poem:

"How joyful now, my burdened heart at last made clear; casting away this body, I see no cloud upon the moon that hangs above this sorrowful world."

Since leaving Akō Castle, for nearly two years how had he spent his days except in anxiety and stratagem? It had been no ordinary labor merely to restrain the hotheaded impatience of his followers and wait calmly for the right moment to ripen. Meanwhile the spies sent out by the enemy house had constantly hovered about him. He had to feign dissipation in order to deceive their eyes, and at the same time dispel the suspicions of his own comrades, who were themselves deceived by that dissipation. When he thought back on those days of secret plotting at Yamashina and Maruyama, the hardships of that time rose once more in his mind. But now it had all gone where it had to go.

If anything still remained unsettled, it was only the shogunate's decision concerning the forty-seven men of the league. But that decision, too, could not be long in coming. Yes, everything had reached its destined end. And not merely in the sense that the revenge itself had been accomplished. Everything had been accomplished in a form almost perfectly coinciding with his own moral demands. He had tasted not only the satisfaction of completing the enterprise, but also the satisfaction of embodying morality. And that satisfaction, whether judged from the aim of revenge or the means employed, was not clouded in the least by any prick of conscience. What greater satisfaction could there be for him? ...

Thinking this, Kuranosuke relaxed his brow and, perhaps weary of reading, called across the brazier to Yoshida Chuzaemon, who had closed his book and was tracing practice characters with his finger on his knee.

"It seems very warm today."

"Indeed it does. Sitting here like this, one almost feels drowsy from the warmth."

Kuranosuke smiled. Suddenly there came to mind a verse Tomimori Sukeyemon had recited on New Year's Day that very year, drunk on three cups of toso: "Even today in spring, a sleeping warrior need not blush." Its feeling was no different from the satisfaction Yoshio was now experiencing.

"I suppose it is the loosening of the spirit that comes of having fulfilled one's purpose."

"Yes, that too, no doubt."

Chuzaemon picked up the pipe at hand and modestly enjoyed a puff of smoke. The smoke wavered faintly in the early spring afternoon, then vanished pale blue into the bright stillness.

"Neither of us expected that we would ever spend so peaceful a day as this."

"Quite so. I never dreamed I should live to see another spring."

"We must be men of extraordinary good fortune."

The two smiled at each other with their eyes, contented. If, at that moment, a shadow had not appeared on the shoji behind Yoshio, if that shadow had not laid a hand on the pull and vanished, to be replaced by the sturdy figure of Hayami Tozaemon entering the room, Yoshio might have gone on savoring forever the pleasant warmth of the spring day together with his proud sense of fulfillment. But reality came between them without ceremony, accompanied by the rich smile rising to Tozaemon's ruddy cheeks. Of course, they did not notice that.

"It sounds rather lively in the lower room."

As he said this, Chuzaemon took another pull at his tobacco.

"Denuemon-dono is on duty today, so that may be why the talk is especially animated. Kataoka went over there a little while ago and ended up sitting down among them."

"So that explains why he's been so long."

Chuzaemon choked on the smoke and laughed painfully. At that, Onodera Junai, who had been busily moving his brush, looked up briefly as if wondering what had happened, then lowered his eyes to the paper again and resumed writing industriously. He was probably composing a letter to his wife in Kyoto. Kuranosuke, too, smiling with the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened, asked:

"Was there some amusing story?"

"No, nothing but the usual idle chatter. Though a little while ago, when Chikamatsu spoke about Jinzaburo, even Denuemon-dono listened with tears in his eyes. Aside from that... no, come to think of it, there was an amusing story. Since we struck down Lord Kira, it seems that something like vendettas has become fashionable all over Edo."

"Ha, that is the last thing I would have expected."

Chuzaemon looked at Tozaemon with a puzzled face. For some reason the man seemed extremely pleased with himself for being able to tell this story.

"I just heard two or three such stories over there. The funniest was one that happened near Minato-cho in South Hatchobori. It began when the owner of a rice shop in that neighborhood got into a quarrel at the bathhouse with a dyer's apprentice from next door. No doubt it started over some trifle, splashing hot water or something of that sort. In the end, the rice dealer was thoroughly beaten with a bucket by the dyer's man. Then one of the rice shop's errand boys took it as a grudge, lay in wait at dusk for the apprentice to come outside, and suddenly drove a hook into his shoulder. And while he did it he shouted, 'This is for my master's revenge!' ..."

Gesturing as he spoke, Tozaemon related this laughing.

"That is outrageously violent."

"The apprentice was badly hurt, it seems. Yet the talk in the neighborhood favored the errand boy, which is the strange thing. And there were more stories, one in Torimachi Sanchome, one in Shinkoji-machi Nichome, and another... where was it? In any case, they say such things are happening everywhere. And all because they are imitating us. Isn't it absurd?"

Tozaemon and Chuzaemon looked at one another and laughed. To hear what effect the deed of revenge had had upon the people of Edo, however small the matter, could only be pleasing. Only Kuranosuke, with one hand lightly touching his forehead, remained silent with an unamused expression. Tozaemon's story had cast the faintest, strangest shadow over the satisfaction in his heart. Not, of course, because he thought himself responsible for every consequence of what he had done. Even if vendettas had become fashionable all over Edo since their revenge, that was plainly something entirely unrelated to his conscience. Yet despite that, he felt as though some measure of the warmth of spring had ebbed from his heart.

The truth was that at that moment he was merely a little surprised that the influence of what they had done had rippled out to so unexpected a place. Ordinarily he would have laughed it off with Tozaemon and Chuzaemon, but in the fullness of his present satisfaction the fact became, somehow, a seed of discomfort. Probably that was because his satisfaction, secretly at odds with logic, had taken on the self-indulgent character of affirming not only his act but all its consequences as well. Of course, no such analytical thought entered his mind then. He merely felt a thread of icy coldness within the spring breeze and, without quite knowing why, was displeased.

Yet Kuranosuke's failure to laugh did not especially attract the attention of the other two. Indeed, good-natured Tozaemon probably assumed that, since the story interested him, it must naturally interest Kuranosuke as well. Otherwise he would surely not have gone back to the lower room and deliberately brought over Horiuchi Denuemon, the Hosokawa retainer who happened to be on duty that day. But Tozaemon, diligent in all things, said something like, "I'll call Denuemon-dono over," glancing at Chuzaemon, and at once opened the sliding door between the rooms and lightly went downstairs. Before long he returned, still wearing his usual smile of satisfaction, accompanied by Denuemon, who looked as rough-hewn as ever.

"Ah, I am sorry to trouble you so far."

Seeing Denuemon, Chuzaemon smiled and said this on Yoshio's behalf. Ever since their confinement had begun, Denuemon's simple and sincere character had long bound him to them with the warmth of an old friendship.

"Hayami-shi insisted that I come over, so although I feared I might be intruding, here I am."

When Denuemon took his seat, his thick eyebrows moved, and the muscles in his sunburnt cheeks twitched as if they might break into a smile at any moment while he looked around the room at everyone in turn. At this, those who had been reading and those who had been writing all offered their greetings. Kuranosuke too bowed courteously. The one somewhat comic sight among them was Horibe Yahei, who had been dozing with spectacles on and an open copy of the Taiheiki before him; the instant he awoke he hastily removed his glasses and bowed with elaborate politeness. Even the grave Hazama Kihei apparently found this very funny, for he turned toward the nearby screen and struggled to suppress a laugh.

"It seems, Denuemon-dono, that you dislike old men. You hardly ever come in here."

Kuranosuke said this in a joking tone unusual for him. Though somewhat disturbed, the feeling of satisfaction from a moment ago was still flowing warmly in the depths of his heart.

"No, not at all. But the gentlemen over there always detain me, and before I know it we are deep in conversation."

"I hear there was quite an amusing story just now."

Chuzaemon put in from the side.

"An amusing story? You mean..."

"That story about imitations of vendettas becoming fashionable all over Edo."

Saying this, Tozaemon compared Denuemon and Kuranosuke evenly with a beaming smile.

"Ah yes, that story. Human feeling is a very curious thing. When people are moved by the loyalty of you gentlemen, even townsmen and peasants feel the urge to try the same sort of thing themselves. Who knows how much the dissolute manners of high and low alike may be corrected by it? At a time when all that is fashionable is things one hardly cares to see, joruri and kabuki and the like, this is very much for the best."

The conversation seemed to be moving once again in a direction that Kuranosuke found disagreeable. So he tried skillfully to deflect it, speaking in a deliberately grave tone and offering words of self-deprecation.

"I am grateful that you praise our loyalty, but by my own lights shame comes first."

He said this, then looked around the company.

"Why do I say so? Because in the whole Akō domain, where there were so many men, those you see here are, as you know, all men of humble rank. At first even such chief retainers as Okuno Shogen joined in our discussions, but midway they changed their minds and at length withdrew from the league. There is nothing for it but to call that regrettable. Others, too, such as Shindo Genshiro, Kawamura Denbei, and Koyama Gengozaemon, ranked above Hara Soemon, while Sasa Kozaemon stood above Yoshida Chuzaemon in station, yet as the day of action drew near they all changed their minds. Some among them are even my own relatives. In view of that, is it not natural that I should feel ashamed?"

With these words from Kuranosuke, the atmosphere in the room lost its previous lightness and abruptly took on a serious tone. In that sense, it was fair to say that the conversation had shifted as he intended. But whether the new direction was in fact a pleasant one for Kuranosuke was quite another matter.

When they heard his reflection, Hayami Tozaemon was the first to speak. Rubbing the fists he had formed with both hands against his knees two or three times, he said:

"Those fellows are every one of them beasts in human shape. Not a single one is fit to stand among samurai."

"Exactly. And as for Takada Gunbei, he is worse than a beast."

Chuzaemon raised his brows and looked toward Horibe Yahei, as though seeking agreement. The passionate Yahei, of course, did not remain silent.

"When I met that fellow on the morning after we withdrew, I felt I would not be satisfied even if I spat in his face. Not only did he brazenly show himself before us, he even said he was overjoyed that we had fulfilled our cherished wish."

"Takada is one thing, but Oyamada Shozaemon is another hopeless fool."

When Mase Kyudayu muttered this to no one in particular, Hara Soemon and Onodera Junai also joined in, all together cursing the men who had betrayed the league. Even the taciturn Hazama Kihei, though he said nothing, repeatedly nodded his white head in agreement with the rest.

"That men of such sort should exist in the same domain as loyal retainers like yourselves is beyond belief. No wonder not only samurai but townsmen and peasants as well speak of them as dog samurai, thieves of stipends. Even Okabayashi Mokunosuke-dono, though he committed seppuku last year, was rumored to have been forced into it by agreement among his relatives. And even if that was not so, when things reach such a pass he can hardly escape the stain of such a name. Needless to say, the others all the more so. In Edo, where people are so quick to rise to righteousness that they imitate vendettas themselves, and given the anger you gentlemen have long felt, I would not say it impossible that someone may yet cut such wretches down."

Denuemon declared this boldly, with an air that made it seem far from another man's concern. Judging by his manner, he himself seemed ready enough to take on the task of cutting them down. Stirred by this, Yoshida, Hara, Hayami, Horibe, and the others all appeared to feel a certain excitement and began denouncing those traitorous villains more violently than ever. Yet among them there was only one man, Oishi Kuranosuke, who sat with both hands on his knees, looking more and more bored, speaking less and less, and staring absently into the brazier.

As the conversation proceeded in this new direction he had himself given it, he discovered a fresh fact: that their loyalty was being praised all the more through the price paid by those former comrades who had changed their minds. And with that discovery, the spring breeze blowing at the bottom of his heart lost some of its warmth once more. Certainly he did regret, and was displeased by, the change of heart among those who had broken faith; he had not defended them merely to turn the conversation aside. Yet he pitied those disloyal samurai rather than hating them. To eyes like his, eyes that had fully tasted both the currents of human feeling and the shifts of worldly circumstance, most of their defections were natural almost to the point of being inevitable. If the word sincere may be permitted, they were sincere almost to the point of pathos. Therefore he had remained tolerant toward them from beginning to end. And now that the revenge had succeeded, what he had left to give them was no more than a smile of pity. The world, however, seemed to think them men one could go on killing forever without being satisfied. Why, in order to make us men of loyalty, must they be turned into beasts? The difference between them and us is not so great as all that. Having already disliked the strange effect their deed had produced among the townspeople of Edo, Kuranosuke now, in a somewhat different sense, perceived through Denuemon, as representative of public opinion at large, the effect it had had upon those who had betrayed the league. It was no accident that his face had grown bitter.

But Kuranosuke's discomfort was still destined to receive a final stroke.

Seeing that he remained silent, Denuemon probably took it to be the result of his characteristic modesty. He admired him all the more. Wanting to express the depth of that admiration, this straightforward samurai of Higo forcibly changed the subject and at once began lavishing praise upon Kuranosuke's loyalty.

"The other day, I heard from a learned man that some warrior in China, I forget who, even swallowed charcoal and made himself mute so that he might stalk his lord's enemy. But surely even that could not have been so hard as what Kuranosuke-dono did, carrying dissipation to such lengths against his own true heart."

With this preface, Denuemon launched into a long account of various stories from the year before concerning the excesses Kuranosuke had deliberately displayed. How painful, for one only pretending madness, those autumn excursions to view the red leaves at Takao and Atago must have been. And the blossom-viewing banquets in Shimabara and Gion too must surely have been painful to a man absorbed in so desperate a stratagem. ...

"I even hear that in Kyoto at the time there was a song in fashion calling you 'Oishi the Lightweight, Stuffed-Paper Stone.' To deceive the whole world so completely could not be done except by a man of extraordinary resolve. When Amano Yazaemon-sama recently praised your deep composure, it was no more than just."

"No, it was not really anything so remarkable," Kuranosuke replied unwillingly.

That unassuming manner, free of pride in himself, seemed to leave Denuemon unsatisfied while at the same time making him feel Kuranosuke's reserve all the more deeply. So, having been facing Kuranosuke until then, he turned toward Onodera Junai, who had served for many years on duty in Kyoto, and began expressing his admiration even more earnestly. That childlike earnestness must have struck Junai, reputed the most sophisticated man among the league, as amusing and at the same time endearing. He accepted Denuemon's feelings frankly, and proceeded to tell in full detail the story of how Kuranosuke, to deceive the spies of the enemy house, had put on priestly robes and repeatedly visited Yugiri at the Masuya.

"Kuranosuke, with that earnest look on his face, even wrote a song in those days called Satogeshiki. And it became enormously popular too; there was hardly a place in all the pleasure quarters where it was not sung. Then there was Kuranosuke’s appearance at the time: dressed in black-dyed priestly robes, walking drunk beneath the falling cherry blossoms of Gion while people teased him, calling out, ‘Lord Uki, Lord Uki.’ So it was only natural that the song Satogeshiki should become fashionable, and that Kuranosuke’s wild dissipation should also become famous. Why, whether it was Yugiri or Ukihashi, even the celebrated tayu of Shimabara and Shomokumachi would treat Kuranosuke as a man above all others when his name was mentioned. That was the sort of uproar it caused."

Kuranosuke listened to this sort of story from Jonai with a bitter sense of being almost insulted. At the same time, memories of his former excesses came back to him, unbidden. For him they were memories of strangely vivid color. In those recollections he saw the light of tall candles, smelled the fragrance of kyara oil, heard the sound of the shamisen playing Kaga-bushi. More than that, even the lyric Jonai had just quoted from Satogeshiki, “Surely tears scatter over my sleeves, spilling onto my sleeves, the fleeting bond of this sorrowful life like dew,” rose clearly in his mind together with the sensual figures of Yugiri and Ukihashi, as though they had stepped out of a spring palace. How completely he had surrendered himself to all the wanton pleasures that appeared and vanished in those memories. And how often, amid that life of dissipation, he had tasted moments of easy, drifting ease in which he had utterly forgotten the act of vengeance to come. He was too honest a man to deceive himself and deny that fact. Of course, being a man with a clear understanding of human nature, he could not even dream of calling that fact immoral. Therefore, to hear all his dissipation lavishly praised as a means by which he had fulfilled his loyalty was unpleasant to him, and at the same time it filled him with shame.

So it was hardly strange that Kuranosuke, praised for what people called his feigned madness and self-torment, should have made a bitter face. He felt the spring breeze that had barely remained in his breast after a second blow being swept away before his eyes. All that remained was a chill shadow cast by resentment toward every misunderstanding, and resentment toward his own folly for not foreseeing those misunderstandings. His act of vengeance, his comrades, and in the end he himself as well would no doubt be handed down to posterity just as they were now, accompanied by whatever praise others pleased to bestow. Confronted by that disagreeable fact, he held his hands over a brazier whose warmth was fading, and avoiding Den’emon’s eyes, let out a forlorn sigh.

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Several minutes later, Oishi Kuranosuke excused himself on the pretext of going to the toilet, left the gathering, and stood alone leaning against a veranda post, gazing at an old tree of winter plum bearing clear-cut blossoms among the moss and stones of the ancient garden. The color of the daylight had already thinned away, and from behind the bamboo in the shrubbery dusk seemed ready to spread at any moment. Yet from inside the shoji, lively voices still continued, sounding just as cheerful as before. As he listened, he became aware of a kind of sorrow, wholly his own, gradually enfolding him. Carried on the faint scent of plum, this loneliness seeping into the depths of his sharpened, wintry heart, this loneliness beyond words, where could it possibly be coming from? Kuranosuke stood there motionless for a long time, looking up at the blossoms, hard and cold, as though inlaid against the blue sky.

(August 15, 1917)