Sensuality

There was a great lover called Heichu. Court ladies were nothing to him; there was hardly another man’s daughter whom he did not contrive to see in secret.

Not one escaped his notice.

Uji Shūi Monogatari

While he fretted, thinking, “How can I let matters end without meeting this woman?” Heichu fell ill.

He suffered so greatly that he died.

Konjaku Monogatari

This is what it means to be a lover of women.

Jikkinshō

I. A Portrait

Beneath an eboshi whose graceful gleam suits an age of peace, a plump-cheeked face looks out at us. The vivid flush upon those full, rounded cheeks is no rouge artfully shaded there. A smooth complexion, rare in a man, naturally lets the color of his blood show through. Beneath his well-shaped nose—or rather, at either side of his thin lips—only the faintest trace of a moustache remains, as though brushed on in pale ink. Above his glossy sidelocks, even the blue of a cloudless sky casts a delicate reflection. At their edges one sees only the slightly lifted lobes of his ears. Their warm, clam-shell color seems to come from the gentle play of light. His eyes are narrower than most, and a smile continually hovers in them. It is so bright a smile that one might imagine fragrant branches of cherry blossom forever floating in the depths of his pupils. Yet closer attention may reveal that happiness is not the only thing dwelling there. It is a smile filled with longing for something far away, and at the same time with contempt for everything close at hand. Compared with the face, the neck might almost be called too slender. The collar of a white under-robe draws a fine line against the collar of a rapeseed-yellow suikan faintly perfumed with incense. What is dimly visible behind the face? A curtain woven with cranes? Or a paper screen painted with small pines at the foot of tranquil hills? Whatever it is, a pale light like tarnished silver spreads behind him....

This is the portrait that rises before me from the old tales: Taira no Sadabumi, “the greatest lover under heaven.” He was the second of the three sons of Taira no Yoshikaze, and for that reason was nicknamed Heichu. This is the portrait of my Don Juan.

II. Cherry Blossoms

Leaning against a pillar, Heichu gazed absently at the cherry blossoms. The tree pressed close to the eaves, and its prime seemed already past. The long afternoon sunlight cast intricate, interlacing shadows from branch to branch across the flowers, whose reddish color had begun to fade. But though Heichu’s eyes were on the blossoms, his thoughts were elsewhere. For some time he had been idly thinking of Jiju.

“The first time I caught sight of Jiju—”

Heichu continued his reflections.

“The first time I caught sight of Jiju—when was it? Ah yes. She said she was going to worship at the Inari shrine, so it must have been the morning of the First Horse Day. She was about to enter her carriage just as I happened to pass by—that was how it all began. I glimpsed her face only beneath the shadow of her raised fan, but over layers of crimson plum and fresh green she had thrown a purple robe. There was no describing the sight. And because she was just stepping into the carriage, she held up her trousers in one hand and bent slightly at the waist—the pose itself was irresistible. The Minister of the Hon’in has many ladies in his household, but not one can compare with her. No one could blame Heichu for falling in love—”

For a moment Heichu grew serious.

“But am I truly in love? If I say I am, it seems so; if I say I am not, then I am still—The more one thinks about such things, the less one understands. Let us say I am in love after a fashion. Still, being myself, even love for Jiju has not blinded me. Once, when Norisane and I were speaking of her, the fool remarked knowingly that her hair was regrettably too thin. I noticed that at the very first glance. A man like Norisane may play the hichiriki passably well, but when the subject is love—well, leave him aside. Jiju alone is what I wish to consider. If I were to ask for still more, her face is perhaps too lonely. Mere loneliness might give it the refined air of an old picture scroll, but there is something oddly composed in it, lonely yet seemingly cold-hearted, and that is hardly reassuring. Women with faces like hers are often more cunning than one expects. Nor is she especially fair; if not dark, her skin is at least amber. Yet whenever I see her, she always has an arresting brilliance that makes one want to tremble and embrace her. That is an art no other woman could imitate....”

Heichu raised one knee beneath his trousers and gazed dreamily at the sky beyond the eaves. Between the clustered blossoms, the sky rested in a tender pale blue.

“Still, is it not stubborn beyond endurance that she has never answered, however many letters I send? Most women I write to yield by the third letter. Even a rare steadfast one has never required five. The daughter of the Buddhist sculptor Egen fell to a single poem. And the poem was not even mine. Who wrote it? Ah yes—Yoshisuke. They say when Yoshisuke sent that same poem, the young lady ignored him completely; but when I write the words—although Jiju has ignored even mine, so perhaps I ought not boast too loudly. At any rate, my letters always bring an answer; an answer leads to a meeting; a meeting leads to an uproar; and the uproar soon begins to weary me. That has always been the settled course. But in barely a month I have written Jiju some twenty letters, and not a word has come back. Even my style in love letters is not inexhaustible, and I am nearly out of fresh devices. Today, though, I wrote, ‘Show me at least the two characters that say only seen,’ so surely this time she will answer. Or will she not? If there is nothing again today—ah, until recently I was not so feeble a man as to torment myself over such a thing. They say the old fox at Burakuin changes into a woman. Being bewitched by that fox must feel exactly like this. The fox of Narazaka turns into a cedar three arm-spans around. The fox of Saga becomes an ox carriage. The fox of the Kamo River becomes a little girl. The fox of Momozono becomes a great pond—never mind foxes. Now, what was I thinking about?”

Still looking at the sky, Heichu quietly stifled a yawn. From the flower-buried eaves, white petals sometimes fluttered through the slanting sunlight. Somewhere a dove seemed to be calling.

“In any case, that woman will defeat me by sheer endurance. Even if she refuses a meeting, let her speak with me just once and I will surely win her. If I could spend a single night with her—Settsu and the Lesser Captain both passed for man-haters before they knew me. Yet once I took them in hand, look how amorous they became. Jiju is no bronze Buddha; she too must be carried into ecstasy. Still, when the moment comes, she will not be shy like the Lesser Captain. Nor is she the sort to put on strange airs like Settsu. She will raise her sleeve to her lips, smile only with her eyes, and—”

“My lord.”

“It will be night, of course, with a trimmed lamp or something burning. The firelight will fall across her hair—”

“My lord.”

Heichu turned his eboshi-crowned head with a slightly startled air. A page had appeared behind him and stood with lowered eyes, offering a letter. The boy seemed to be straining with all his might not to laugh.

“A message?”

“Yes, from Lady Jiju—”

Having said this, the page respectfully withdrew from his master’s presence.

“From Jiju? Can it be true?”

Almost fearfully, Heichu unfolded the letter of blue tissue-thin paper.

“Could this be a trick by Norisane or Yoshisuke? Those idle fellows delight in nothing more than such mischief. But no, this is Jiju’s hand. It is certainly her letter, yet—what sort of letter is this?”

Heichu flung it away. He had written, “Show me at least the two characters that say only seen.” On the blue paper she had pasted only those two characters—“seen”—cut directly from the letter he himself had sent.

“Ah, ah! So much for Heichu, whom they call the greatest lover under heaven, if he can be mocked to this degree. What an infuriating, brazen woman Jiju is! Just wait. I shall show you yet....”

Still clasping his knees, Heichu stared blankly up into the cherry branches. Several windblown petals had already scattered across the fluttering blue paper....

III. A Rainy Night

About two months later, on a night during a spell of long rain, Heichu went alone in secret to Jiju’s chamber in the Hon’in mansion. The rain roared as though the night sky were melting and falling. The road was not so much muddy as indistinguishable from a flood. If he took the trouble to come on such a night, even the cold-hearted Jiju must naturally pity him. Thinking so, Heichu crept to the entrance of her chamber, rattled his silver-faced fan, and cleared his throat as if asking to be announced.

A girl of fifteen or sixteen immediately appeared. She wore powder on her precociously knowing face, though she naturally looked sleepy. Leaning close, Heichu quietly asked her to carry word to Jiju.

The girl withdrew, then returned to the chamber entrance and gave this answer, also in a whisper.

“Please wait here. Her ladyship says she will see you when everyone else has gone to rest.”

Heichu smiled in spite of himself. Following the girl’s directions, he sat beside a sliding door that seemed to adjoin Jiju’s room.

“I am a clever man after all.”

When the girl had gone away somewhere, Heichu sat alone grinning to himself.

“Even Jiju has finally yielded this time. Women are always easily moved by pathos. Show them a little devoted tenderness and down they tumble. Yoshisuke and Norisane may say what they please, but they do not know where to press. Wait, though. Being allowed to meet her tonight sounds almost too good. Perhaps—”

Heichu gradually began to feel uneasy.

“Still, someone who had no intention of meeting me would hardly say that she would. Is this merely my suspicious nature? After sending some sixty letters without receiving a single reply, I have good reason to grow suspicious. But if it is not suspicion—on thinking again, it does not seem impossible that it is. No amount of sympathy has made Jiju look my way until now—but then, the man in question is me. Knowing that Heichu has longed for her to such an extent, her heart might suddenly melt.”

Heichu adjusted his robes and peered timidly around. Nothing surrounded him but pitch darkness. Through it the sound of rain alone thundered against the cypress-bark roof.

“If I think it is suspicion, then it seems suspicious; if I think it is not—no, if I keep thinking it is suspicious, perhaps it will cease to be so, while if I think it is not, it may surprisingly end as nothing but suspicion. Fortune is perverse by nature. So I must concentrate on believing it is not suspicion. Then at any moment she will—ah, everyone seems to be going to bed.”

Heichu pricked up his ears. Now that he noticed, mingled with the ceaseless rain came the bustle of ladies leaving their attendance upon their mistress and returning to their separate chambers.

“This is where patience is required. Let half an hour pass, and without the least difficulty I shall satisfy this long desire. Yet something in the pit of my stomach still refuses to be reassured. Ah yes, I remember: if one assumes a meeting impossible, one mysteriously succeeds in meeting. But perverse fortune may see through that calculation too. Shall I think the meeting certain, then? But that is still a calculation, so things will not go as I wish—ah, my chest is beginning to hurt. Better think of something wholly unrelated to Jiju. Most of the chambers have grown quiet. Nothing can be heard but rain. I will close my eyes at once and think about rain: spring rain, summer rain, an evening shower, autumn rain—is ‘autumn rain’ a proper phrase? Rain in autumn, rain in winter, raindrops, a leaking roof, rain umbrellas, prayers for rain, rain dragons, rain frogs, rain capes, taking shelter from rain....”

While he was thinking such things, an unexpected sound startled Heichu. More than startled him: at the sound, his face overflowed with greater joy than that of a devout priest suddenly beholding Amida Buddha’s descent. For beyond the sliding door, he had distinctly heard someone lift the latch.

Heichu tried the door. Just as he expected, it glided smoothly over the threshold. Beyond it spread unbroken darkness, strangely dense with the fragrance of smoldering incense. Heichu quietly closed the door, then crawled slowly forward on his knees, feeling his way deeper inside. Yet in this lustrous darkness there was no sign of anything except the rain striking the roof. When his hands found something, it was only a clothes rack or a dressing stand. Heichu began to feel his heartbeat mounting.

“Is she not here? If she were, surely she would say something.”

As he thought this, Heichu’s hand happened upon the soft hand of a woman. Feeling farther, he touched the sleeve of what seemed a silken robe. He touched the breast beneath it, the rounded cheek and chin, the hair colder than ice. At last, in the pitch darkness, Heichu had found his beloved Jiju lying motionless and alone.

This was no dream or illusion. Jiju lay in abandon beneath a single robe, close enough for her face almost to touch Heichu’s. He crouched there and began to tremble uncontrollably. Still Jiju showed no sign of moving. He felt that he had surely read of such a scene in some old tale. Or perhaps he had seen it years before in a picture scroll by the light of a great oil lamp.

“How grateful I am. How grateful! Until now I thought you heartless, but from this day forward I shall devote my life and soul to you before even the Buddha.”

Drawing Jiju toward him, Heichu tried to whisper these words in her ear. But however urgently he wished to speak, his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth and no proper sound emerged. Meanwhile the scent of Jiju’s hair and the strangely warm fragrance of her skin surrounded him without restraint. Then he felt her faint breath upon his face.

One instant—had that single instant passed, the storm of desire would surely have made them forget the rain, the incense, the Minister of the Hon’in, and the young attendant. But at this perilous moment Jiju half rose, brought her face close to Heichu’s, and spoke shyly.

“Please wait. The latch has not yet been fastened on the other screen. I shall go and secure it.”

Heichu merely nodded. Leaving fragrant warmth behind upon their bedding, Jiju quietly rose and went away.

“Spring rain, Jiju, Amida Buddha, shelter from rain, raindrops, Jiju, Jiju....”

Heichu lay with his eyes wide open, thinking a confusion of things he himself could not distinguish. Then, in the darkness beyond, came the click of a latch dropping into place.

“Rain dragon, incense burner, judging women on a rainy night, reality in the black-jewel darkness is no clearer than a dream, even in dreams—what is wrong? I thought the latch had already fallen—”

Heichu raised his head. Around him was only the same elegant darkness scented with smoldering incense. Wherever Jiju had gone, not even the rustle of her robes could be heard.

“Surely not—unless perhaps—”

Heichu crawled out of the bedding and felt his way, as before, to the screen on the far side. It had been firmly latched from outside the room. When he strained his ears, he heard not a single footstep. All the chambers lay silent and asleep amid the heavy rain.

“Heichu, Heichu, you are no longer the greatest lover under heaven—or any sort of lover at all.”

Still leaning against the screen, Heichu muttered as though in a faint.

“Your beauty has faded. Your gifts are no longer what they were. You are a contemptible coward, lower even than Norisane and Yoshisuke....”

IV. A Dialogue on Sensuality

The following is part of an idle conversation exchanged by two of Heichu’s friends, Yoshisuke and Norisane.

Yoshisuke: “They say even Heichu has proved no match for that woman Jiju.”

Norisane: “So the rumor goes.”

Yoshisuke: “It serves him right. Unless a woman is an imperial consort, he will pursue anyone at all. A little punishment will do him good.”

Norisane: “Well, well. Have you become a disciple of Confucius too?”

Yoshisuke: “I know nothing of Confucius’s teaching. But I do know how many women Heichu has made weep. And I may add that I know something of how many husbands have suffered, how many parents have raged, and how many retainers have nursed resentment. A man who causes such misery ought to be denounced to the beating of drums. Do you not agree?”

Norisane: “It is not quite so simple. Heichu may indeed cause trouble throughout the world. But surely the guilt is not his alone to bear.”

Yoshisuke: “Who else should bear it?”

Norisane: “Let the women bear it.”

Yoshisuke: “That would be cruel to them.”

Norisane: “Is it not also cruel to put it all on Heichu?”

Yoshisuke: “But Heichu was the one who seduced them.”

Norisane: “Men cross swords on the battlefield; women cut throats in bed. Does the guilt of killing change?”

Yoshisuke: “You defend Heichu strangely. But this much is certain, is it not? We do not torment society, while Heichu does.”

Norisane: “Even that is uncertain. For some reason of karma, we human beings cannot live a single moment without wounding one another. Heichu merely torments the world more than we do. For a genius like him, that is an unavoidable fate.”

Yoshisuke: “Do not be absurd. If Heichu counts as a genius, the loaches in this pond will turn into dragons.”

Norisane: “Heichu is certainly a genius. Observe his face. Listen to his voice. Read his letters. If you were a woman, spend a night with him. Like the priest Kūkai or the calligrapher Ono no Michikaze, he came from his mother’s womb already endowed with extraordinary powers. If he is no genius, there is not a genius under heaven. In that respect, men like you and me are no match for Heichu.”

Yoshisuke: “But listen. Genius does not merely create sins, as you suggest. When one sees Michikaze’s calligraphy, one is moved by its exquisite force; when one hears Kūkai recite a sutra—”

Norisane: “I never said genius creates nothing but sins. I said it creates sins as well.”

Yoshisuke: “Then that differs from Heichu. Sins are all he creates.”

Norisane: “We are in no position to know that. To a man who can scarcely write the kana, even Michikaze’s calligraphy must seem dull. To someone without a trace of faith, a puppet-player’s song may be more entertaining than Kūkai’s sutra chanting. One must possess the proper qualifications to recognize the blessings of genius.”

Yoshisuke: “What you say is true enough, but the blessings of Saint Heichu—”

Norisane: “Why should Heichu be different? Only women can know the blessings bestowed by such a genius of love. You asked how many women Heichu has made weep. I would ask the opposite: how many women have tasted supreme joy because of Heichu, how many have felt deeply that life was worth living because of Heichu, how many have learned through Heichu the preciousness of sacrifice, how many women, because of Heichu—”

Yoshisuke: “No, that is quite enough. With reasoning like yours, even a scarecrow becomes an armored warrior.”

Norisane: “With jealousy like yours, even an armored warrior looks like a scarecrow.”

Yoshisuke: “Jealous? Well, that is unexpected.”

Norisane: “You never condemn a wanton woman as harshly as you condemn Heichu. Even if your mouth condemns her, your heart does not. Because we are men ourselves, jealousy somehow enters into it. All of us secretly harbor, to some degree, the ambition to become Heichu if we possibly could. That is why Heichu is hated more fiercely than a rebel. When you think of it, he is pitiable.”

Yoshisuke: “Then do you wish to become Heichu?”

Norisane: “Me? Not especially. That is why my view of Heichu is fairer than yours. As soon as Heichu wins one woman, he tires of her. Then he becomes absurdly infatuated with someone else. It is because the image of a beauty beyond all mortal kind, like the goddess of Mount Wu, always hovers before his mind. Heichu forever tries to see that beauty in the women of this world. While he is in love, he believes he has found it. But after two or three meetings, naturally, the mirage collapses. So he wanders miserably from woman to woman. And since no such beauty can exist in this latter age of the Dharma, Heichu’s life can only end in unhappiness. In that respect, you and I are far more fortunate. Yet Heichu’s unhappiness, one might say, is precisely the price of genius. It is not true of Heichu alone. Kūkai and Ono no Michikaze must have resembled him. In any case, if one wishes to be happy, there is nothing better than being an ordinary man like the rest of us....”

V. The Man Who Laments, “Even Dung Is Beautiful”

Heichu stood alone and forlorn in an empty corridor near Jiju’s chamber in the Hon’in mansion. The oily color of sunlight on the corridor railing suggested that the heat would intensify again today. Yet beyond the eaves, clusters of pines thrust up fresh green and quietly preserved their coolness.

“Jiju will have nothing to do with me. I too have given her up.”

With his face still pale, Heichu thought these things in a daze.

“Yet however firmly I give her up, Jiju’s form always rises before my eyes like a vision. Since that rainy night, simply to forget this image, I have prayed with all my strength to gods and Buddhas in every direction. But when I go to the Kamo shrine, Jiju’s face appears vividly in the sacred mirror. When I enter the inner sanctuary at Kiyomizu Temple, even the figure of the Bodhisattva Kannon changes directly into Jiju. If this image never leaves my heart, I shall surely pine away and die.”

Heichu let out a long breath.

“But there is only one way to forget that image. I must discover something base in her. Jiju is no heavenly maiden; she must contain all manner of unclean things. If I can find even one, the illusion of her will crumble, like the illusion of a fox disguised as a wife when its tail is discovered. In that instant my life will at last belong to me again. But what in her is base? Where does she conceal impurity? No one will tell me. Ah, all-merciful Bodhisattva Kannon, show it to me—show me proof that Jiju is in truth no different from a beggar woman on the riverbank....”

Thinking this, Heichu suddenly raised his weary gaze.

“Why, is that not the girl from Jiju’s chamber coming this way?”

The clever-looking girl was walking toward him in a sheer robe of layered pinks, its colors like carnations, and deep-colored trousers. Behind a painted fan of red paper she concealed some sort of box. She must be going to throw away Jiju’s excrement. The instant he saw her, a bold resolution flashed like lightning through Heichu’s mind.

His eyes transformed, Heichu blocked the girl’s path. The moment he snatched the box from her, he dashed into an empty room visible across the corridor. Taken by surprise, the girl naturally chased him with pattering feet and cried aloud. But as soon as Heichu leapt into the room, he slid the door shut and swiftly dropped the latch.

“Yes. One look inside will settle everything. A hundred years of love will vanish in an instant, more fleetingly than smoke....”

With trembling hands, Heichu lifted the thin incense-colored cloth draped lightly over the box. To his surprise, it was a new lacquer box of the most exquisite workmanship.

“Inside this is Jiju’s excrement. And inside it is my life as well....”

Heichu remained standing there, staring at the beautiful box. Outside the chamber, the girl’s muffled sobbing continued. Before long, however, it was swallowed by an oppressive silence. Then the sliding door and screens began gradually to dissolve like mist. By now Heichu could no longer tell whether it was day or night. Before his eyes, only the box painted with a cuckoo floated distinctly in the air....

“Whether my life is saved, whether I bid farewell to Jiju forever—it all rests on this box. I need only lift its lid. Yet wait. Is it better to forget Jiju, or to prolong this worthless life? I have no answer. Even if I must die of longing, should I leave the lid unopened?...”

The marks of tears shone upon Heichu’s haggard cheeks as he wavered anew. After brooding for a while, however, his eyes suddenly blazed and he shouted desperately within his heart.

“Heichu! Heichu! What a coward you are! Have you forgotten that rainy night? Jiju may still be laughing at your love. Live! Live proudly! Once you see Jiju’s excrement, you will surely triumph....”

Almost mad, Heichu at last lifted the lid. The box was half filled with pale incense-colored water, and two or three darker incense-colored objects lay at the bottom. Then, as in a dream, the scent of cloves struck his nose. Could this be Jiju’s excrement? No, not even the goddess Kisshōten could pass excrement like this. Frowning, Heichu picked up the two-inch object floating highest and sniffed it again and again until it nearly touched his moustache. Its fragrance was unmistakably that of the finest agarwood.

“What can this mean? The water seems fragrant too—”

Tilting the box, Heichu cautiously sipped the water. It was certainly the clear broth left from boiling cloves.

“Then is this thing fragrant wood as well?”

Heichu bit down on the two-inch object he had picked up. It had a bitter sweetness that seemed to penetrate his teeth. At once his mouth filled with a subtle fragrance cooler than orange blossoms. Somehow divining Heichu’s scheme, Jiju had defeated it by making imitation excrement from incense.

“Jiju! You have killed Heichu!”

With this groan, Heichu dropped the lacquered box with a crash and fell straight forward upon the floor like a toppled Buddha. Within his half-dead eyes there floated the image of Jiju, encircled by a halo of purple-gold,

smiling radiantly at him....

(September 1921)