Saigo Takamori

This is a story about Mr. Honma, who graduated from the university’s Department of History two or three years before I did. Many readers will know him as the author of several interesting papers on the history of the Meiji Restoration. Last winter, exactly a week before I moved to Kamakura, I happened to hear the story when the two of us went out to dinner.

For some reason it has remained in my mind ever since. By setting it down now, I mean to discharge my obligation to the editor of Shin Shōsetsu. I later learned, however, that the tale is known among his friends as “Mr. Honma’s Saigō Takamori” and is one of their favorite stories. It may therefore already be surprisingly familiar in certain circles.

When Mr. Honma told it, he said, “Whether it is true or false is for the listener to decide.” Naturally, I need not assert what even Mr. Honma declines to assert. The reader has only to follow these lines with the same casual attention one might give an old newspaper report.

• • • • •

It must have been seven or eight years ago. Late March had come, and the single-flowered cherries at Kiyomizu were nearly in bloom; yet the night was bitterly cold, with rain mixed with sleet. Mr. Honma, then a university student, sat in the dining car of an up express that had left Kyoto shortly after nine, a glass of white wine before him, idly puffing an M.C.C. cigarette. The train had just passed Maibara and must have been approaching the border of Gifu Prefecture. Beyond the window everything was pitch-black. Now and then a tiny light streamed past, though he could not tell whether it came from a distant house or from sparks flung out by the locomotive. Through it all, the monotonous patter of half-frozen rain against the window mingled with the clamor of the wheels.

A week earlier, Mr. Honma had used his spring vacation to come alone to Kyoto, partly for pleasure and partly to examine materials from the years surrounding the Restoration. Once there, however, each investigation suggested another, and the number of places he wished to visit kept growing. Amid all this activity, his holiday dwindled before he knew it. The new term would soon begin. Fond as he was of the Miyako Odori and of rafting down the Hozu River, his conscience would not let him spend any more days idly gazing at Higashiyama. At last he tore himself away. Though the rain was falling, he packed his luggage, summoned a rickshaw at the entrance of the Tawaraya, and had himself conveyed to Shichijō Station, looking brisk and capable in his student uniform and cap.

But when he boarded, the second-class carriage was packed so tightly that one could scarcely move. A train attendant took pity on him and found a patch of seat, yet sleep there seemed impossible, and every berth had of course been sold. For a while Mr. Honma sat squeezed between a drink-reeking army officer of prodigious girth and a lady who ground her teeth in her sleep. Hunching his shoulders as narrowly as he could, he surrendered himself to a young man’s shapeless reveries. One by one, however, even those fancies ran out, while the pressure of his powerful neighbors seemed steadily to increase. At last he had no choice but to rise, leave his uniform cap to mark the vacant space, and take refuge in the dining car coupled ahead.

The dining car was almost empty; it held only one other passenger. Mr. Honma chose the table farthest away and ordered a glass of white wine. He had no desire to drink. He wanted only to pass the time until he grew sleepy. So when the surly waiter set the amber wine before him, he merely touched it to his lips and immediately lit an M.C.C. Blue rings of smoke rose at their leisure into the brilliance of the electric lamps. Stretching his legs far beneath the table, Mr. Honma felt that at last he could breathe freely.

His body relaxed, but his spirits remained oddly low. As he sat there, he had the uneasy sensation that the darkness beyond the glass doors might suddenly pour into the car. The plates and glasses arranged so neatly on the white tablecloths seemed ready to slide all at once in the direction of the train’s motion. When these fancies, together with the pounding rain, began to weigh upon him, Mr. Honma raised his eyes as though startled and involuntarily looked about the car. A mirrored cupboard, electric lamps burning as they swayed, a glass vase filled with rapeseed flowers—each object rushed into his sight as if jostling the others and crying out in a voice too high to hear. Yet more than any of them, his attention was caught by the solitary passenger at the opposite table, his elbows planted before him as he sipped what appeared to be whiskey.

The passenger was an elderly gentleman with grizzled hair. Sparse whiskers grew over his ruddy cheeks, giving him a faintly foreign appearance, an impression deepened by the iron-rimmed pince-nez perched on his sharply pointed nose. He wore a black suit, but even at a distance it was plainly not a fine one. Just as Mr. Honma looked up, the old gentleman also raised his eyes and let them wander in his direction. At that instant Mr. Honma gave a faint inward exclamation: “Why—!”

He felt that he had seen the old gentleman’s face somewhere before. Whether he had seen the man himself or only a photograph, he could not say; but the face was certainly familiar. He hurriedly began running through the names of everyone he knew.

Before he had completed the search, the old gentleman sprang to his feet. Bracing himself against the rocking of the car, he strode over, dropped casually into the chair across from Mr. Honma, and hailed him in a voice as vigorous as a man in his prime: “Well! Excuse me.”

Mr. Honma had no idea what was happening, but deference to an elder made him smile without meaning and bow with deliberate composure.

“Do you know me? No? Well, it makes no difference if you do not. You are a university student, I take it—and at the College of Letters. You and I practice much the same trade. Perhaps you are even a fellow member of the guild. What is your field?”

“History.”

“Ah, history! Then you are another of those despised by Dr. Johnson. According to Johnson, a historian is no more than an almanac-maker.”

With this, the old gentleman threw back his head and laughed aloud. He was evidently well into his cups. Mr. Honma made no reply, but smiled while carefully taking stock of him. The man wore a low collar and black tie, and a thick silver watch chain hung grandly across a waistcoat worn thin in places. Yet poverty did not appear to account for the shabbiness. His collar and cuffs, conspicuously white against the hard flesh, were fresh and clean. He probably belonged to the scholarly class and was simply indifferent to dress.

“Almanac-makers—yes, precisely. Though in my opinion even that description gives them too much credit. But never mind. What, in particular, do you intend to study?”

“The history of the Meiji Restoration.”

“Then your graduation thesis will also fall within that field?”

Mr. Honma began to feel as though he were undergoing an oral examination. There was something strangely inquisitorial in the man’s manner, and he vaguely sensed that it might lead him into some preposterous trap. As if suddenly remembering his wine, he lifted the glass and answered with studied brevity, “I intend to take up the Satsuma Rebellion.”

The old gentleman appeared to feel a sudden need for refreshment. Twisting halfway around, he shouted, “Waiter, a whiskey!” Then, without waiting for it to arrive, he turned back to Mr. Honma. A trace of mockery appeared behind his pince-nez as he began to speak.

“The Satsuma Rebellion? Interesting. An uncle of mine joined the rebel army and was killed in action, so that connection once led me to investigate the facts myself. I do not know what sources you mean to use, but an extraordinary number of false reports surround that war, and many of them pass quite respectably as accurate records. Unless you choose among your sources with the greatest care, you may fall into errors you never imagined. That is the first thing you should guard against.”

From the man’s manner and tone, Mr. Honma could not decide whether the advice deserved gratitude. He sipped his wine and gave some thoroughly noncommittal answer such as “Indeed.” The old gentleman paid no attention. He moistened his throat with the whiskey the waiter brought, then drew a china pipe from his pocket and began packing it with tobacco.

“Though even the greatest care may not save you. Forgive my saying so, but the records of that war contain a remarkable quantity of doubtful material.”

“Do they?”

The old gentleman nodded in silence, struck a match, and lit his pipe. The red flame illuminated his foreign-looking face from below, while dense smoke brushed his sparse whiskers and filled the air with the fragrance of Egyptian tobacco. For some reason the sight made Mr. Honma suddenly dislike him. He knew, of course, that the man was drunk; nevertheless, to sit meekly through a barrage of irresponsible nonsense would have disgraced the gold buttons on his uniform.

“I confess I see no reason for such exceptional caution. On what grounds do you hold that opinion?”

“Grounds? I have no grounds; I have facts. I examined the records of the Satsuma Rebellion one by one, with the utmost care, and discovered many falsehoods among them. That is all. But surely that alone entitles me to say what I have said?”

“Certainly it does. Then perhaps you will tell me one of the facts you discovered. It should be of considerable use to a student like me.”

The old gentleman fell silent for a moment with the pipe between his lips. Turning toward the dark window, he made a curious grimace. A station, where several passengers stood waiting, flashed dimly past through the darkness and rain. Watching his companion’s expression, Mr. Honma was tempted to mutter inwardly, “That has stopped you.”

“If there were no political consequences, I should gladly tell you. But suppose the secret leaked out and reached Prince Yamagata’s ears. The trouble would not end with me alone, you see.”

The old gentleman spoke slowly, as if weighing each word. He adjusted his pince-nez and searched Mr. Honma’s face. No doubt the contempt already visible there caught his eye. Draining the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, he suddenly thrust his whiskered face forward, brought his liquor-scented mouth close to Mr. Honma’s ear, and whispered as though he might bite him.

“If you promise not to repeat it, I will disclose one fact, at least.”

This time it was Mr. Honma who frowned. The thought that the fellow might be mad flashed through his mind. At the same time, having pressed the man this far, he was reluctant to let the supposed fact escape him. Some childish pride was also at work: he was not the sort to retreat before so feeble a threat. He dropped the shortened M.C.C. into the ashtray, straightened his neck, and said distinctly:

“Very well. I shall tell no one. Please let me hear this fact.”

“Good.”

The old gentleman sent up a dense cloud from his pipe and fixed his small eyes on Mr. Honma. Only now did the student notice that they were not the eyes of a madman. Nor were they the ordinary eyes of an ordinary person. They were intelligent and kindly, bright open eyes that seemed always to be smiling at something. Facing him in silence, Mr. Honma became aware of a strange contradiction between those eyes and the man’s words and behavior. The old gentleman, naturally, seemed unaware of it. When the blue smoke had drifted past his pince-nez and vanished, he slowly let his gaze leave Mr. Honma and follow it into the distance. Tilting his head slightly back, he uttered, almost to himself, an outrageous statement.

“There would be no end to minor discrepancies. Let me give you the greatest false report of all: Saigō Takamori did not die in the Battle of Shiroyama.”

Laughter suddenly welled up in Mr. Honma. To conceal it, he lit a fresh M.C.C. and forced himself to answer soberly, “Is that so?” There was no need to ask what came next. All reliable records agreed that Saigō had fallen at Shiroyama, yet the old man calmly numbered that death among the false reports. That alone revealed the true nature of his “facts.” He was not mad after all, but merely one of those innocent provincial eccentrics who identify Yoshitsune with Genghis Khan or declare themselves an illegitimate descendant of Hideyoshi. Amused, irritated, and somehow disappointed all at once, Mr. Honma resolved to end the exchange as quickly as possible.

“Not only did he escape death at Shiroyama. Saigō Takamori is alive to this very day.”

The old gentleman said this with a proud glance at Mr. Honma. Of course, Mr. Honma responded only with an absent “Indeed?” A mocking smile touched the other man’s lips, and he deliberately asked in a quieter voice:

“You do not believe me. No, there is no need to protest; I know you do not. But tell me—why do you doubt that Saigō Takamori is still alive?”

“You said you had investigated the Satsuma Rebellion yourself, so I imagine there is little need for me to explain. Since you ask, however, I shall tell you what I know.”

Annoyed by his companion’s infuriating composure and eager to bring the comedy to a swift conclusion, Mr. Honma prefaced his answer in this somewhat childish fashion and launched into a rapid defense of the accepted account of Saigō’s death at Shiroyama. There is no need to reproduce it here. It is enough to say that, as always, his citations were exact, his reasoning thorough, and his conclusion decisive. Yet the old gentleman, listening through the smoke of his china pipe, showed not the slightest sign of retreat. Behind the iron-rimmed pince-nez, his small eyes still held their gentle light and ironic smile. Somehow those eyes blunted the edge of Mr. Honma’s argument.

“Yes. Granted certain assumptions, your theory is correct.”

When Mr. Honma’s argument came to an end, the old gentleman replied with perfect calm:

“And your assumption is that the records you have just cited—Kajiki Tsuneki’s notes on the siege of Shiroyama, Ichiki Shirō’s diary, and the rest—state facts beyond dispute. But to me, who rejects those sources from the outset, your splendid argument is nonsense from beginning to end. Now, wait. You can defend the accuracy of those documents from any number of angles. I, however, possess decisive evidence that overrides every such defense. What do you suppose it is?”

Somewhat bewildered, Mr. Honma hesitated to answer.

“Saigō Takamori is aboard this very train with me.”

The old gentleman delivered the words with almost solemn force. Even Mr. Honma, who was not easily startled, was taken aback. Yet reason, once threatened, does not surrender its authority so cheaply. Lowering the hand that held his M.C.C., he slowly drew in another mouthful of smoke and silently studied the region of the man’s pointed nose with suspicion in his eyes.

“Beside a fact like this, what do your historical records amount to? Every one of them becomes a scrap of wastepaper. Saigō Takamori did not die at Shiroyama. The proof is that he is now riding in the first-class carriage of this up express. What fact could be more certain? Or do you trust words on paper more than a living man?”

“Well—even if he is alive, I will not believe it unless I see him myself.”

“Unless you see him?”

The old gentleman repeated Mr. Honma’s words haughtily, then leisurely knocked the ash from his pipe.

“Yes. Unless I see him.”

Recovering his confidence, Mr. Honma pressed the challenge in a deliberately cool voice. It seemed to make no particular impression on the old man. Still maintaining his arrogant air, he gave an exaggerated shrug.

“Since we are on the same train, you may see him even now if you wish. Master Nanshū may already be asleep, but his first-class carriage is immediately ahead of us. Even if the visit proves fruitless, you will not have gone far out of your way.”

With that, the old gentleman put the china pipe in his pocket, signaled to Mr. Honma with his eyes to follow, and rose with ponderous dignity. At this point Mr. Honma had no choice but to stand as well. His M.C.C. between his lips and both hands in his trouser pockets, he reluctantly left his seat. He followed the imposing old gentleman between the two rows of tables toward the connecting door. Behind them, the glasses of white wine and whiskey cast pale translucent shadows upon the white cloth, and those shadows trembled forlornly amid the rain battering the train.

• • • • •

About ten minutes later, the surly waiter’s hand once more filled the wineglass and whiskey tumbler with amber liquid. Nor was that all. Around the two glasses, the old gentleman in pince-nez and Mr. Honma in his student uniform had resumed their former seats. At the next table, replacing them in their absence, sat a fat man in an informal kimono and a woman who appeared to be a geisha. They seemed to be picking at fried shrimp or something of the kind. Their smooth Kansai conversation flowed on, punctuated by the ceaseless clatter of forks.

Fortunately, Mr. Honma noticed none of it. His mind was filled by the astonishing sight he had just witnessed: the olive-brown seats and curtains of the first-class carriage, and between them a huge white-haired man, massive as a mountain, asleep. Could Mr. Honma truly have been mistaken in recognizing the noble bearing of Master Nanshū in those imposing features? The light there, perhaps only in his imagination, had seemed dimmer than in the dining car. Yet the distinctive eyes and mouth were unmistakable even from a distance. Beyond all doubt, it was the face of Saigō Takamori—the face familiar to him since childhood. …

“Well? Do you still maintain that he died at Shiroyama?”

A radiant smile spread over the old gentleman’s flushed face as he waited for Mr. Honma’s answer.

“…”

Mr. Honma was at a loss. Which was he to believe: the countless documents accepted by everyone as accurate, or the magnificent old man he had just seen? To doubt the former was to doubt his own reason; to doubt the latter was to doubt his own eyes. His confusion was perfectly understandable.

“You have now seen Master Nanshū with your own eyes, and still you wish to believe the records.”

The old gentleman lifted his whiskey and continued in the tone of a lecturer.

“But first consider the nature of these records you wish to believe. Leave aside for the moment the claim that Saigō died at Shiroyama. Nowhere will you find a record accurate enough to justify an infallible historical judgment. Whenever anyone records an event, he inevitably selects some details and discards others. He does so even when he has no intention of doing so; it is unavoidable. By that very act he has already moved away from objective fact. Such records look trustworthy, yet in truth are anything but. The story of Walter Raleigh abandoning his history of the world expresses the matter perfectly. You know it, of course. In reality, we do not understand even what occurs before our eyes.”

To tell the truth, Mr. Honma knew nothing of the story. But while he remained silent, the old gentleman apparently decided that he did.

“Now consider the account of Saigō’s death at Shiroyama. That record too leaves ample room for doubt. The sources may agree that Saigō Takamori died in the battle on September 24, 1877. But this means only that a man believed to be Saigō died. Whether the man truly was Saigō is another question. As you yourself observed, there are several conflicting accounts of how his head and headless corpse were discovered. Doubt can enter there as well. And now, while such doubts remain, you have met aboard this train a man who—if you refuse to call him Saigō Takamori—at least bears an extraordinary resemblance to him. Do you still find the records more credible?”

“But Saigō Takamori’s body was certainly found. In that case—”

“The world is full of men who resemble one another. Nor is an old sword scar on the right arm unique to a single person. Do you know the story of Di Qing examining the corpse of Nong Zhigao?”

This time Mr. Honma honestly confessed that he did not. For some time, in fact, the man’s curious logic and breadth of knowledge had been troubling him, and he had begun to feel something almost like respect for the pince-nez before him. Meanwhile the old gentleman again drew the familiar china pipe from his pocket and slowly sent up the fragrance of Egyptian tobacco.

“After pursuing the enemy for fifty li and entering Dali, Di Qing inspected the dead and found among them a corpse dressed in a golden dragon robe. Everyone declared that it was Nong Zhigao, but Di Qing alone refused to agree. ‘How do we know this is not a deception? Better to let Zhigao escape than deceive the court in our greed for merit.’ The words are admirable not only morally but as an attitude toward truth. Unfortunately, the generals commanding the government forces during the Satsuma Rebellion lacked such scrupulous judgment. And so history itself replaced ‘perhaps’ with ‘is.’”

Now completely unable to answer, Mr. Honma made one final, childlike objection in desperation.

“But can one person really resemble another so closely?”

For some reason the old gentleman abruptly removed the china pipe from his mouth and burst into loud laughter, choking on the smoke. His voice was so great that the geisha at the next table turned and stared at him in puzzlement. Still he could not stop. Holding his pince-nez in place with one hand and the lighted pipe in the other, he laughed until his throat rattled. Mr. Honma, unable to understand, merely gazed at him in bewilderment over his glass of white wine.

“Why, yes,” the old man said at last, once he had recovered his breath.

“You saw the man dozing in the next carriage just now. Does he not look remarkably like Saigō Takamori?”

“Then—who is he?”

“He? He is a friend of mine—a physician by profession who paints in the Southern School style on the side.”

“He is not Saigō Takamori?”

Mr. Honma asked in perfect seriousness, then suddenly flushed. The comic role he had been performing until that moment was abruptly illuminated in an entirely new light.

“Forgive me if I have offended you. As we talked, your thinking seemed so honestly youthful that I was tempted to play a little prank. What I did was a prank, but what I said was not a joke. You see, this is who I am.”

The old gentleman searched his pocket and held out a calling card. No title or position was printed on it. But the moment Mr. Honma saw the name, he remembered at last where he had seen the old gentleman’s face. The man watched him and smiled with satisfaction.

“I truly never dreamed it was you, Professor. I am the one who has been inexcusably rude. Please forgive me.”

“Not at all. Your defense of the Shiroyama account was quite a masterpiece. If your graduation thesis is written in that fashion, it should be very interesting. At my university, too, one student is specializing in Restoration history this year. But never mind that. Come—have a proper drink.”

The sleet-filled rain appeared to have eased, for it no longer sounded against the window. After the couple at the next table left, only the rapeseed flowers in the glass vase remained, releasing a faint fragrance into the bright, chilly dining car. Mr. Honma drained his white wine in one gulp. Pressing a hand to his flushed cheek, he suddenly said:

“Professor, you are a skeptic.”

The old gentleman gave the slightest nod behind his pince-nez. He nodded with those same bright eyes that seemed always to smile at something.

“I am content to be a disciple of Pyrrho. We know nothing—not even ourselves, much less whether Saigō Takamori is alive or dead. When I write history, therefore, I have no ambition to produce a history without falsehood. If only I can write a beautiful history that might plausibly have been true, I am satisfied. When I was young, I once considered becoming a novelist. Had I done so, I suppose I would have written novels of that kind. Perhaps it would have been better than what I became. In any case, I am content to be a skeptic. Do you not agree?”

(December 15, 1917)