Vendetta*
Prologue
In the domain of the Hosokawa clan of Higo Province, there was a samurai by the name of Taoka Jindaiyū. In the past he had served the Itō clan of Hyūga and then been masterless, but then upon the recommendation of the Hosokawa clan’s tax collector, Naitō Sanzaemon, he had been summoned attached to Shinchi, a samurai commanding an annual stipend of a hundred and fifty bushels of rice.
However, in the spring of 1668, the seventh year of the reign of Emperor Kanbun, upon the occasion of a martial arts tournament for the whole clan, he knocked down six samurai who had become his opponents with his superior spearmanship. In this tournament, Hosokawa Tsunatoshi, governor of Etchū, himself attended, along with Lord Rōshoku Ichidō. And as Jindaiyū’s spear was rather marvelous, he desired a fencing bout. Bamboo sword in hand, Jindaiyū smacked another three samurai. The fourth to become his opponent was Senuma Hyōe, who instructed the young warriors of the clan in the art of the Shinkage-ryū fencing style. Jindaiyū, knowing the prestige of the instructor, thought to throw the fight with Hyōe. However, it was not as though there were no signs that betrayed his throwing the fight. While he ran at Jindaiyū, Hyōe discerned this feeling, and then he suddenly developed disgust for his opponent. So while Jindaiyū played defense, he resolutely slipped a thrust in. Jindaiyū was caught hard in the throat and fell there, face up. While Tsunatoshi had awarded him a prize for the spear, after this bout he gave not a word of thanks to Jindaiyū and a look of severe displeasure was etched on his face.
Jindaiyū’s manner of losing soon became the target of gossip. Rumors spread at once to every member of the clan. “What would there be for Jindaiyū to do were the head of his spear broken on the battlefield? Pitiful, really, that an adult cannot fence with even a wooden sword.” Mixed in with these rumors, of course, was some portion of the jealousy and envy of Jindaiyū’s peers. However, when Jindaiyū tried to make himself useful to Naitō Sanzaemon, who had vouched for him, it was impossible for Naitō to remain silent on the issue. Therefore he called for Jindaiyū, and spoke with great harshness: “That unsightly loss of yours cannot be chalked up to just my own lack of judgment. Shall you again be subjected to a series of three matches, or shall I apologize to the lord with my own life?” Being a warrior, Jindaiyū would not ignore the whisperings of the clan. Heeding Sanzaemon’s meaning, Jindaiyū submitted a written request indicating his desire to fight a second series of bouts with Senuma Hyōe.
It was decided that in a few days, the two would fight before Tsunatoshi in a formal bout. In the first match Jindaiyū struck Hyōe’s glove. In the second match Hyōe struck Jindaiyū’s face. But in the third match, Jindaiyū again struck Hyōe’s glove. To reward Jindaiyū, Tsunatoshi ordered that the samurai’s annual stipend of rice be increased by fifty bushels. Hyōe, stroking his now-swollen arm, departed Tsunatoshi in low spirits.
Then, three days later, on a rainy night, Kanō Heitarō, a samurai of the same clan, was beset outside Seigan Temple by an unknown assailant. Heitarō was attached to a fiefdom of two hundred bushels, and was an accomplished old scribe. No one bearing a grudge could be determined by his usual behavior. But the next day, when it was made clear that Senuma Hyōe’s had fled, the assailant was made clear for the first time. Jindaiyū and Heitarō surely varied greatly in age, but in stature they were rather similar. In addition the family crest of both of them was the same leaves of ginger in a circle. As for Hyōe, his attendant was first deceived by the crest of the lamp illuminating the rainy right road, and then by the figure of Heitarō holding an umbrella over his rain gear. In his rashness he killed the old man, mistaking him for Jindaiyū.
Heitarō had a legitimate heir, seventeen years at that time, named Motome. Motome, with explicit permission, embarked on a vendetta (as was the custom for warriors at the time) with a foot-soldier named Egoshi Kisaburō. Jindaiyū, perhaps not feeling relieved of responsibility of Heitarō’s death, requested that he go with as a guardian. Additionally, Motome was engaged in a mentorship with an older samurai, Tsuzaki Sakon, and he petitioned to lend assistance. Tsunatoshi, thinking this a remarkable undertaking, permitted Jindaiyū’s request, but did not listen to Sakon’s reasoning.
Together, Motome and Taoka Jindaiyū, upon the conclusion of the ceremony following the seventh day of Heitarō’s death, departed the Kumamoto castle, where the cherry trees of that warm climate had already shed their petals.
Act I
Tsuzaki Sakon, once his offer of guardianship had been rejected, shut himself in his house for two or three days. That the vow he had sworn to the gods had been rendered null and void appeared to be rather painful to him. Besides, the anxiety that his comrades might be whispering about him behind his back was not altogether absent. And furthermore, what was even more unbearable was that his partner had been entrusted to Jindaiyū alone. Therefore, on the night when the group seeking revenge departed the castle, he at last left his family a sealed letter, and to follow after them he ran away from home, telling not even his parents.
He overtook the party once he crossed over the provincial border. The party, at that time, had been taking a break in a tea house by the mountain checkpoint. Sakon first placed his hands on the ground in forgiveness before Jindaiyū, and begged to join them over and over. At first, Jindaiyū showed no sign of simply acknowledging him, saying bitterly, “Do you think my martial prowess unreliable?” But in the end he conceded, and with a contemptuous glance at Motome, he took the opportunity to smooth things over with Kisaburō and agreed to Sakon’s going with. Motome, his bangs betraying his woman-like weakness, could not conceal his wanting Sakon to go with the party. Sakon, crying tears of great joy, repeated words of gratitude over and over to even the lowly foot-soldier.
The party of four, knowing that Hyōe’s sister’s husband belonged to the clan of Asano, first crossed the Mojigaseki Strait and journeyed, via the Central Highway, all the way to the outskirts the Hiroshima castle town. However, during their stay there to search for the whereabouts of their enemy, they heard rumors from a seamstress who worked in the house of a samurai belonging to the Asano clan. They learned that after Hyōe had come to Hiroshima, he had departed in the night for Matsuyama in Yoshū, where there was a close friend of his brother-in-law. Therefore the revenge party boarded the first boat across the sea to the province of Iyo and arrived in good health near the castle town of Matsuyama in midsummer of 1668.
Every day the party crossing Matsuyama roamed in search of their foe’s whereabouts, bamboo hats worn low over their heads. However, Hyōe’s strict precautions meant that such information was not easily let slip. Once Sakon had seen some monk with a Hyōe-like figure and investigated him thoroughly, but in the end it became clear that he was a total stranger with no connection. Before long the winds of autumn began to rise, and outside the windows of the warriors’ houses, in the algae-clogged gutters, the blue of water gradually spread. And likewise did thoughts of impatience stir in the hearts of the revenge party. Sakon, in particular, was impatient for an encounter, and almost every night he stalked and prowled the streets of Matsuyama. He wanted the first slash at their foe. If by some chance he was overtaken by Jindaiyū, his samurai honor could not withstand abandoning his parents and joining the revenge party.
A little over two months since they had come to Matsuyama, Sakon’s efforts bore fruit. One day while he was passing by a beach near the castle town, he came across two soldiers accompanying a palanquin hurrying on some fishermen and readying a boat. Before long it appeared that preparations were complete, and the samurai inside exited. He quickly donned a bamboo hat, but the glimpse Sakon got was undoubtedly of Senuma Hyōe. Sakon hesitated for an instant. That Motome was not now beside him was tremendously unfortunate. But if he did not strike at Hyōe now, he would flee to somewhere else. And furthermore were he to flee by sea, it would surely be impossible to overtake him. He would have to declare his own name and take him alone. At once Sakon decided at this course of action. He had not quite enough time to outfit himself, so he cast off his bamboo hat and proclaimed, “Senuma Hyōe! Do you recall the apprentice of Kanō Motome, and assistant to him, Tsuzaki Sakon!” As he spoke he unsheathed his sword and charged. However, his opponent showed no sign of distress as he looked as Sakon, his hat still on his head. “Calm yourself, whelp! You have mistaken me for someone else!” Sakon hesitated in spite of himself. In that instant, as soon as the samurai’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword, Hyōe’s broad, large sword cut through Sakon with a grandiose swipe. As Sakon fell backwards, he could clearly see for the first time the face of Senuma Hyōe beneath the braided hat.
Act II
Sakon having been struck down, the three samurai, for almost two years, traveled all over, from the most ancient central provinces to the great Tokaidō highway between Kyōtō and Edo in their search for the path of their sworn enemy Hyōe. But never again did they hear anything of Hyōe’s whereabouts.
In the autumn of 1670, the party set foot on the dirt of Edo for the first time, just as the wild geese were departing. Being that Edo was a place where the young and old, rich and poor of many provinces gathered, it seemed that there might be many advantages in inquiring into their foe’s trail, as well. Therefore, once they had first established a temporary dwelling in the alleys of the Kanda neighborhood, Jindaiyū took the role of a fallen samurai beggar chanting dubious prayers; Motome became a trader delivering supplies to the merchants of the town; and Kisaburō entered into the yearly service of the shōgun’s vassal Nose Sōemon as the master of footwear.
Every day Motome prowled around the capital without Jindaiyū. While the experienced Jindaiyū received coins with his battered fan, he patiently combed the pleasure districts, showing no signs of losing interest. But even when he crossed through beautiful autumn Nihonbashi, the heart of the young Motome, his thinning face hidden by a bamboo hat, was liable to sink into the desolation that their vendetta would end fruitlessly.
Before long the cold winds began blowing in from the mountains of Ibaraki, gradually chilling the air, and Motome began occasionally running a fever due to a cold. Still, he braved the illness and did not stop going to the merchants, cargo upon his back. When Jindaiyū saw Kisaburō, he never failed to speak of his gallantry, and it always made the foot-soldier who had so much concern for his master cry. However, neither of them understood Motome’s loneliness in being unable to quietly keep up his work.
The spring of 1671 arrived at last. Motome, unbeknownst to his companions, had been going to the pleasure district in Yoshiwara. His partner was Izumiya Kaede, who in those days might have been called a courtesan. But she exhausted herself over Motome not for business, but out of love. While Motome was with Kaede, he too felt faintly free from the feelings of loneliness.
On the second floor of a bathhouse, awash with talk of Shibuya’s famous Konō cherry blossoms, Motome grasped Kaede’s devotion and at last revealed the matter of the vendetta to her. Then, Kaede mentioned that not one month ago, a samurai of Hyōe’s description had come to visit the courtesan with a group of warriors from the Matsue domain. Fortunately, Kaede, who had drawn straws and ended up with said samurai, had rather clear recollections of it all, from his face to his personal belongings. Furthermore, she had even heard whispers that he was going to stay in Edo for a couple of days and then he intended to head towards Matsue, in Izumo. Motome, of course, was delighted. However, in order to again depart on their vendetta, Motome would have to leave Kaede for the time being—or perhaps forever. This thought, naturally, kept Motome’s spirit heavy. On that day, when he was with Kaede he was in an drunken stupor that was altogether unlike him. Once he returned to the inn, he immediately vomited up a great deal of blood.
Motome was bedridden the next day. However, for some reason he said not a word to Jindaiyū about discovering their foe’s whereabouts. In between his begging, Jindaiyū exhausted himself caring for Motome. However, one day when Jindaiyū had been out begging around the theater in Fukiyachō , he returned at dusk to see Motome, with a final testament in his mouth, before a lantern which had long gone out. He had ended his life with a blade through his belly.
Jindaiyū, in shock, somehow managed to open the testament. Within were written their foe’s whereabouts and the reason for his suicide. “Being that I am both weak and disease-ridden, and I am aware that accomplishing this long-desired vendetta is difficult…” That was all Motome had written of his reasons. However, there was another letter wrapped in the blood-stained paper. Once Jindaiyū had let his eyes slide across the letter, he solemnly lit the lantern, and then fed the letter into the fire. The flames of the letter illuminated Jindaiyū’s anguished face.
The letter said that Motome had sworn that he would exchange wedding vows with Kaede this spring.
Act III
In the summer of 1671, Jindaiyū and Kisaburō came to the castle town of Matsue. Standing upon the city’s great bridge, looking at the reflections of the towering clusters of clouds upon Lake Shinji, the two men felt such great emotion as if it had been agreed upon in advance. This was the fourth summer since they had departed their homeland and left Kumamoto behind.
They first rented a room at an inn near Kyōbashi, and the next day they began their usual work of investigating their foe’s whereabouts. As autumn crept in, it became apparent that that a samurai of Hyōe’s description was being housed in the residence of one Onchi Kozaemon, instructor of the unorthodox Fuden-ryū style to the Matsudaira family. Jindaiyū and Kisaburō thought that this time for sure their ultimate ambition would be attained. No, it was unquestionable. Jindaiyū, in particular, had had irrepressible thoughts of rage and joy since the day they had learned the news. Hyōe was no longer only the foe of Heitarō, but the foe of Sakon and the foe of Motome as well. And furthermore he was also Jindaiyū’s own sworn enemy. When Jindaiyū, who for these three years had tasted so much hardship on account of Hyōe, thought of this, he was of a heart to head immediately to Onchi’s house and end it once and for all, thoughts entirely different from his usual composure.
However, Onchi Kozaemon was renowned throughout the San’in region for his fencing. And that was not all; his many students were as attached to him as his own limbs. Jindaiyū, though fearful, had to wait for Hyōe to go out alone.
That opportunity did not come easily. Hyōe appeared to have shut himself inside the premises day and night. Before long weeds had scattered over the garden of their inn, and the sunlight that fell on the pavestones gradually weakened. In unbearable impatience, they observed the anniversary of Sakon’s death, whom Hyōe had beaten at his own game. That night, Kisaburō called at the nearby Shōkō Temple and had the priest perform a memorial service. But he did so without giving Sakon’s name, if by some chance it were to leak out. There, Kisaburō unexpectedly came across memorial tablets with Sakon’s and Heitarō’s names on them. Once the service was over, Kisaburō, feigning unconcern, asked about the family of those tablets. And what was all the more surprising was the answer: a parishioner attached to Onchi Kozaemon came to pray on the monthly anniversary of both of the deaths. Unawares, the disciple even said, “I saw him early today.” As Kisaburō exited the temple gates, he could not shake off a feeling of reassurance, as if it had been sent from the souls of Sakon and the Kanōs.
Listening to Kisaburō’s tale, Jindaiyū both celebrated this fateful clue and regretted not being aware of Hyōe’s visits to the temple.
“Come another eight days, it will be the anniversary of our master Heitarō’s death. That our enemy will come on such a day must be some kind of karma!” Kisaburō concluded happily. Jindaiyū shared his feelings. From then on, the two of them, surrounded by lanterns, chatted about the good old days of Sakon and the Kanōs. However, they completely forgot about Hyōe’s own commemoration.
The days passed one by one to the anniversary of Heitarō’s death. They waited quietly for the day, sharpening their swords. It was no longer a question of the success or failure of their vendetta. All that mattered was just that day, just that moment. Jindaiyū had thought just up until his escapes plan after conquering his ultimate goal.
At last the day arrived. While the sky was still dark, Jindaiyū and Kisaburō dressed by the light of their lanterns. Jindaiyū was clad in a black kimono with an iris pattern, over which he wore a thin leather strap and a jacket emblazoned with his family crest. The weapon he wore was a Raikunitoshi short sword forged by Hasebe Norinaga. Though Kisaburō wore no jacket, he wore extra layers. After they exchanged a glass of cold liquor and settled the day’s bill, they left the gates of the inn, full of vigor.
There was not yet any foot traffic outside. Nevertheless the two wore their bamboo hats as they headed to the gates of Shōkō Temple, their predetermined place of vengeance. But they had not put more than one or two blocks between them and the inn when Jindaiyū suddenly stopped and said, “Wait! I was shortchanged four mon when I settled the bill this morning. I will go back and collect the outstanding change!” Kisaburō, irritated, said, “You intend to return for a paltry four mon? It is unnecessary to return.” He immediately tried to proceed to Shōkō Temple, which was right in front of them, but Jindaiyū would not listen.
“Never has money been a problem for us. Yet were a samurai of my caliber to become flustered and make a mistake when paying his bill right before his moment of vengeance, it would bring eternal shame upon me. Go ahead if you will. I shall return to the inn!” With this, Jindaiyū headed back towards the inn. Kisaburō, impressed with Jindaiyū’s resolve, hastened, as he was told, to meet their foe.
However, before long Jindaiyū rejoined Kisaburō as he waited before the temple. On that day thin clouds wandered across the sky, and though the sun shone dimly, rain fell occasionally. At the gate they separated and skulked around the outer fence of the temple, with its yellowing jujube leaves, and waited for Hyōe to make his visit.
However, though it was just about noon, they had not yet seen Hyōe. Kisaburō, irritated, tried asked the gatekeeper casually whether or not Hyōe had showed up. However, the gatekeeper, too, said that for whatever reason he had not shown up yet.
Jindaiyū and Kisaburō, to quell their nervousness, sentried themselves outside the temple. There they paced incessantly, and eventually, the caws of crows who had come to feast on the fruits fallen from the trees echoed lonely through the sunset. Kisaburō, anxious, went to Jindaiyū and whispered: “Shall we pay a little visit to Onchi’s estate?” But Jindaiyū only shook his head.
Before long the sky above the temple flickered with a sparse spread of stars, situated among the creeping clouds. And yet Jindaiyū, under the room, stubbornly continued to wait for Hyōe. In reality, a man who had acquired enemies, such as Hyōe, might even visit the temple in secret in the middle of the night, when nobody was there.
At long last rung the bell for first night watch. And then for second watch, just before midnight. Jindaiyū and Kisaburō, covered in dew, still stood outside the temple.
But no matter how long they waited, Hyōe did not appear.
Dénouement
Jindaiyū and his retainer returned to the inn and aimed to begin their pursuance of Hyōe anew. However, four or five days later, Jindaiyū was suddenly taken in the middle of the night with severe vomiting and diarrhea. Worried, Kisaburō wanted to call a doctor immediately, but Jindaiyū, afraid that this might draw attention, absolutely forbid it.
Bedridden, Jindaiyū sent for over-the-counter medicine daily. However, the expulsions did not stop. Unable to bear his master’s suffering any longer, Kisaburō finally convinced Jindaiyū to have a simple diagnosis from a respected physician. First off, they requested the presence of the family physician of the inn’s proprietor. The owner dispatched someone at once to call for Doctor Matsuki Rantai, whose practice was nearby.
Rantai, who had studied under Mukai Reikan, was renowned as a man of almost supernatural talent. On the other hand, though, he appeared to cast a shadow larger than he was: he was intimately familiar with his alcohol, day and night, thinking not once of petty gold or silver. He treated all, from the highest officials in the domain to beggars and untouchables who struggled for their existence daily. He composed a poem to encapsulate his style of treatment: “Is it not a crane’s lot to both fly above the clouds and wade through mountain streams?”
Rantai had barely taken Jindaiyū’s pulse before he diagnosed him with dysentery. However, though Jindaiyū had been taking medicine from the famous doctor, his sickness stubbornly persisted. Kisaburō, always at Jindaiyū’s bedside, prayed to every deity he could think of for Jindaiyū’s recovery. The sick Jindaiyū, too, prayed every long night, as he took in the smoke from the boiling medicine, that he just live long enough to carry out his ambition of many years.
They fell deeper into autumn. On the way to pick up some medicine from Rantai’s house, Kisaburō often saw swarms of geese crossing overhead in the sky. Then, one day, in the entryway of the house, Kisaburō ran into a samurai’s servant who had come, naturally, to collect medicine. It came up in his conversation with Rantai’s pupil that he was a member of Onchi Kozaemon’s estate. Once the servant had left, Kisaburō turned to the pupil, who he knew well, and said, “Surely a warrior of Lord Onchi’s caliber shall not be felled by disease!”
“No, the patient is not Lord Onchi. It is a guest of his,” replied the personable pupil indifferently.
Since then, every time he had come to collect the medicine, Kisaburō tried to casually bring up how Hyōe was doing. However, what he discovered was that since around the time of Heitarō’s death anniversary, Hyōe had been stricken with the same dysentery which now afflicted Jindaiyū. That was undoubtedly why Hyōe had not come to the temple that day. When Jindaiyū heard of this, his pain became all the more intolerable. Were Hyōe to die of natural causes, the vendetta would be for naught. On the other hand, were Hyōe to live, and Jindaiyū were to die, all of their years of struggles would be for naught. Finally, biting his pillow, Jindaiyū could not help to pray just now for his own recovery, but for Senuma Hyōe’s as well.
However, fate was cruel to Taoka Jindaiyū to the very last. His sickness worsened, and not ten days since he started taking Rantai’s medicine, he began to wonder whether it would be this day or the next. In this state he held fast to his hope of vengeance. In Kisaburō’s mutterings, he could sometimes hear him faintly imploring the god of war. Finally, one night, when Kisaburō offered the medicine to Jindaiyū as usual, Jindaiyū fixed his companion with a stare, and croaked, “Kisaburō.” Kisaburō, hands and knees on the floor, could not even bear to raise his head.
The day after, Jindaiyū quickly made up his mind, and he dispatched Kisaburō to get Rantai. Rantai, in his usual state of drunkenness, set out for his patient immediately. Jindaiyū looked at him and rasped, in thanks for his treatment, “Doctor, a thousand gratitudes for your vigilant care. I am in your debt. However, while I still draw breath, and as you are here before me, I have one last favor to beg of you.”
Rantai nodded heavily. Then Jindaiyū, in a daze, told him all about their vendetta against Senuma Hyōe. His voice was faint, but over the course of the long story, it showed no sign of worsening. Rantai, brow furrowed, listened with a careful ear. However, as the story grew to a close, Jindaiyū said, with one last wheeze, “In the course of my life in this world, I would hear of Senuma Hyōe’s condition. Does he still live?” Kisaburō was already weeping, and when Rantai heard these words, he could not stop his own tears. And yet, Rantai approached his patient, and whispered in his ear, “Be at peace. This old fool attended at Mr. Hyōe’s deathbed at three o’clock this morning.”
A smile came to Jindaiyū’s face, and the traces of cold tears could be seen on his weary face. “Hyōe…the gods sure must love him.” Having muttered these bitter words, Jindaiyū looked as though he wanted to thank Rantai when his disheveled head drooped, and he passed from this world…
In 1681, at the end of October as reckoned by the lunar calendar, Kisaburō excused himself from Rantai, and embarked on the long trip back to his hometown of Kumamoto. He carried cuttings of hair from each of the deceased—Motome, Sakon, and Jindaiyū—in his share of the baggage.
Epilogue
In January of 1682, four memorial markers were constructed at the Shōkō Temple in the town of Matsue in Unshū Province. The benefactor was a great secret, and none knew his or her identity. However, when the markers were built, two priests, holding the bows of plum trees, passed through the temple gates early in the morning.
One of those was the locally renowned Matsuki Rantai. The other priest, though he appeared to have been bent by illness, nevertheless possessed an imposing figure, suggesting he might have been a samurai. They offered their bows before the graves. And then on each of the new markers they sprinkled water…
In later years, at a meeting of the great priest Ōbaku Erin, was present an aged priest who greatly resembled that wasted priest in those days. He was a man about whom nothing was known apart from his priestly name: Junkaku.
(April 1920)
*It was hard coming up with a title for this story. Most literally it would be “A Tale of Revenge,” but the specific word used in the title has a more, perhaps, grave tone to it. About halfway through the story I hit across the word vendetta, which captures it much better. However, “A Story of Vendatta” sounds clunky to me, so I just shortened it to “Vendetta.” I tried to make up for dropping the “Tale of” part by changing all the chapter breaks in Akutagawa’s story to acts. He already used section names such as Prologue, Dénouement, etc, so I thought it was a pretty fair thing to do.