Seven Japanese Tales Page 5

  Teaching birds are trained from the beginning in this artificial way, and famous ones have names, such as Phoenix or Eternal Companion. So when it is learned that a certain gentleman has a marvelous nightingale, other nightingale fanciers come from far and wide, bringing their own birds to be “given a voice” by it. This training usually occurs early in the morning, and goes on day after day. Sometimes a teaching bird is taken out to a special place, and its pupils gather around it, like any singing class. Of course each nightingale has its own unique qualities, its own kind of song: there are infinite degrees of skill at turning a melody, or holding a long, trailing note, even when it comes to producing the same call. First-rate nightingales are hard to find, and, in view of the profit from training fees, command a high price.

  Shunkin gave the finest of her nightingales the name Tenko, or Drum of Heaven, and loved to listen to it from morning till night. Tenko's voice was really superb. Its clear, ringing high notes made one think of some exquisite musical instrument: it was a voice of steady, sustained power, as well as of great charm and sweetness. And so, Tenko was handled with meticulous care, every precaution being taken as to its diet. Now, a nightingale's feed is prepared by parching soy beans and unpolished rice, grinding them together, and adding rice bran to make a “white meal,” after which a “carp meal” is made, by grinding up dried carp or dace or other fresh-water fish; then the two are mixed (in equal parts) and thoroughly blended with the juice of grated radish leaves. And besides all this, which is trouble enough, the bird must be given a few insects every day — the insects living in the stem of the wild grape vine are the only ones that will do — in order to improve its song. Shunkin had about half a dozen birds that required this sort of care, and one or two of her servants were kept busy looking after them.

  Since nightingales never sing while people are watching, they are housed in special cages of paulownia wood, closely fitted with sliding paper screens which admit only a faint glow of light. These screens have decorative panels of rosewood, ebony, or the like, elaborately carved, or worked in gold lacquer and inlaid with mother of pearl. Some of the cages have considerable artistic value — even now people often pay large sums of money for them. Tenko's cage was fitted with handsome panels, said to have come from China: the frames were rosewood and the lower part was set with jade plaques of landscapes and palaces in delicate relief. It was a very elegant piece.

  Shunkin kept this cage in the window beside the alcove in her sitting room, where she could listen to Tenko whenever it sang. Since Tenko's lovely voice always put her in a good humor, the servants would do their best (even dashing water over it) to get the bird to sing. It sang best on sunny days, so that Shunkin's mood brightened with the weather. Tenko's voice was heard most frequently from late winter through spring; by summer its silences began to lengthen, and Shunkin became more and more gloomy.

  Nightingales are often long-lived if properly cared for, but they require constant attention. Left to an inexperienced person they soon die. As pampered as it was, Tenko died at the age of seven, and Shunkin, like most owners who lose their birds, tried to find a worthy successor. After several years she managed to train another splendid nightingale, which she also called Tenko and prized as highly.

  Tenko the Second, too, had a voice of such marvelous beauty that it might have sung in Paradise. Shunkin loved the bird dearly and kept its cage by her side night and day. She used to make her pupils be quiet when it sang, and then admonish them in this fashion: “Listen to Tenko, all of you! It was only an ordinary fledgling at first, but you can see what long training has done for it. No wild nightingale has a voice as beautiful as that. Some people may say that it is merely an artificial beauty; nothing is more lovely, they will tell you, than the song of the wild nightingale bursting suddenly out of the mist over a stream, as you wander through deep valleys looking for the flowers of spring. I cannot agree with them. It is only the time and place that make the call of the wild nightingale so moving; if you stop to listen, you realize that its voice is far from beautiful. But when you hear a bird as accomplished as Tenko, on the other hand, you are reminded of the tranquil charm of a secluded ravine — a rushing stream murmurs to you, clouds of cherry blossoms float up before your eyes. Blossoms and mist alike are within that song, and we forget that we are still in the dusty city. This is where art rivals nature. And here too is the secret of music.”

  Often she would make the slower pupils feel ashamed, asking derisively if even the little birds had not penetrated the mysteries of art. “You are really no match for them,” she would say.

  To be sure, there was a degree of truth in what Shunkin said. Still, Sasuke and the other pupils must have found it trying to be so often — and so unflatteringly — held up for comparison with a bird.

  Next to her nightingales, Shunkin was fondest of her larks. It is the instinct of this bird to soar up to the heavens; even within its cage it always flies as high as it can. That is why lark's cages are built tall and narrow, as much as four or five feet high.

  For the true appreciation of the lark's song, however, one must release it from its cage, let it fly up out of sight, and listen to it sing as it soars among the clouds. That is what is called its “cloud-piercing” virtuosity. Usually a lark will come back to its cage after remaining in the air for a certain fixed length of time, between ten minutes and half an hour; the longer it stays aloft, the better the lark. Hence, when contests are held, the cages are lined up in a row, their doors opened simultaneously, and the birds released. The last one to return to its cage is the winner. Inferior birds sometimes fly back to the wrong cage, and the worst of them alight as far as one or two hundred yards away. But larks seldom make mistakes of that kind: no doubt it is because they fly vertically up into the sky, hover in one place, and then descend vertically again, that they naturally return to their own cage. In spite of the term “cloud-piercing,” larks do not actually fly into clouds — they only seem to because the clouds drift past them.

  On a beautiful spring day those who lived near Shunkin's house in Yodoyabashi often saw the blind music teacher go out on her rooftop drying-platform and send one of her larks up into the sky. Sasuke would always be standing there beside her, along with a maid who took care of the cage. When Shunkin gave the order, her maid would open the cage door and the lark would rush out joyously, singing tsun-tsun as it climbed higher and higher, until it vanished into the spring haze. Shunkin would lift her head to follow the bird's path with her bund eyes, and then listen in ecstasy as the long, wailing melody came down through the clouds. Sometimes other bird lovers would join them, each with his favorite lark, and they would amuse themselves by having a contest.

  On such occasions the people of the neighborhood would go up to their own rooftops and enjoy the singing of the larks. But some of them were not so much interested in the birds as in the good-looking music teacher. Although the young men who lived nearby must have seen her the year round, there were the inevitable libertines among them, who, as soon as they heard the larks, would hurry up to the roof, thinking: There she is! Perhaps it was her blindness that fascinated them, stimulating their lecherous curiosity. Or perhaps she seemed especially beautiful when she was flying her larks, since she was then so animated and smiling, instead of glum and silent as when Sasuke led her out to give a lesson.

  Besides larks and nightingales, Shunkin often kept robins, white-eyes, buntings, and other birds, sometimes half a dozen each of a number of different species. All of this entailed a good deal of expense.

  Shunkin was the sort of person whose bad temper is reserved for home. Away, she was surprisingly pleasant; when invited to dinner, for instance, her whole manner was so gracious and appealing that no one would have taken her for the woman who, in her own home, tormented Sasuke or scolded and slapped her pupils. When it came to her social obligations she tended to be ostentatious. Her gift-giving at the Bon Festival or at the New Year, or on any occasion whatever, displayed all the generosit
y that one might have expected from the daughter of a prosperous family. Even her tips to teahouse maids, palanquin bearers, and ricksha men were astonishingly liberal.

  Yet it should not be supposed that Shunkin was a reckless spendthrift. Osaka people have frugal habits. Their apparent love of luxury is unlike the out-and-out extravagance of people in Tokyo: they maintain a tight control over their affairs, and economize whenever they can do it unobtrusively. And Shunkin too, as the daughter of an old merchant family of Dosho-machi, had her wits about her. Her fondness for luxury was combined with miserliness and greed. It was because of her naturally competitive spirit that she vied with others in extravagance; she never squandered her money unless it served that purpose. Rather than wasting money, or frittering it away on a moment's impulse, she planned her expenditures carefully. In that respect, she was cool and calculating. But sometimes her competitiveness turned into sheer rapacity. The fees which she charged her pupils, for example, were quite out of keeping with those of other women teachers; she demanded to be paid every bit as much as a master of the first rank.

  Moreover, Shunkin let it be known to her pupils by persistent hinting that she expected the traditional midsummer and year-end presents to be as substantial as possible. Once she had a blind pupil whose family was so poor that he often fell behind in paying his monthly fees. At midsummer, because a suitable gift was entirely beyond his means, he brought a box of rice cakes as a token of gratitude. Appealing to Sasuke to intercede for him, he said: “Please ask my teacher to accept this insignificant present.”

  Sasuke felt sorry for him, and timidly apologized to Shunkin on the boy's behalf. But she paled with anger, and declared: “Perhaps you think I am being greedy when I insist on having the proper fees and gifts, but that is quite wrong. The money itself means nothing to me: it is only that unless standards of some kind are set, the correct relationship between teacher and pupil cannot be established. That boy even neglects to pay his monthly fees, and now he has the insolence to bring me a miserable box of rice cakes! I can hardly be blamed for thinking that he lacks respect for his teacher. It's too bad, but if he is as poor as all that, he really has no hope of accomplishing anything in music. Of course if he had exceptional talent I might even teach him without charge. But he would have to be a prodigy with a brilliant future in store for him. Very few are able to overcome poverty and win success in the arts — you can't do it by hard work alone. The only thing outstanding about that boy is his impudence, I can't believe he shows any special promise. How presumptuous of him to ask for sympathy! Instead of shaming himself and troubling others, he should quit the field. If he still wants to keep on studying there are plenty of good teachers in Osaka — let him go elsewhere. But this is the end as far as I'm concerned. I don't want to have any more to do with him.” And Shunkin was as good as her word. Further apologies were of no avail.

  However, when someone brought her a particularly expensive present, Shunkin relaxed her usual strictness. All that day she would smile at him, and flatter him, until the favored pupil began to feel distinctly uneasy. “Madam's compliments” became something to dread.

  Shunkin took care to examine every one of her presents personally, even opening and inspecting the smallest box of cakes. Similarly, she would check the settlement of all the monthly accounts, sending for Sasuke and having him run the figures off on the abacus for her. She was clever at arithmetic, and once she heard a figure it stuck in her mind: two or three months later she would remember the precise amount of a rice dealer's or a saké dealer's bill. Her extravagances were purely selfish ones, and the money she spent satisfying her own tastes had to be made up by economies elsewhere — specifically, by victimizing the servants. In Shunkin's household, she alone lived royally; Sasuke and the others had to live like mice in order to cut expenses. Even their daily rice allotment would vary, often dwindling to the point where they left the table hungry. Behind her back, the servants would criticize their mistress. “She tells us her larks and nightingales are more devoted to her than we are. But is it any wonder? Think how much better she treats them!”

  As long as her father was alive Shunkin received all the money she wanted; but after his death, when her elder brother succeeded him as head of the family, she was put on a limited allowance. Today, self-indulgent ladies of leisure are hardly rare, but in former times even aristocratic gentlemen were accustomed to refrain from luxury. Members of fine old families, however affluent, lived in modest fashion, disliking to be classed with the newly rich or thought ostentatious. Shunkin's parents were generous with her out of natural sympathy, since her blindness cut her off from so many pleasures; but once her brother became responsible there was family criticism of her conduct, and a sum was fixed as the maximum for her monthly allowance. Demands for greater amounts were simply turned down. No doubt this helps to account for Shunkin's miserliness.

  Yet her allowance must have been large enough to live on without eking it out by teaching. She could afford to be arrogant toward her pupils. In fact, few came to study under her, and she led a lonely, secluded life, which is why she had so much time to devote to her birds. But Shunkin was not merely being conceited when she regarded herself as one of the leading musicians in Osaka, both on the samisen and on the koto. No one could fairly deny that. Even those who detested her arrogance were secretly envious of her skill, or stood in awe of it. One of my friends is an old musician who, in his youth, often heard her perform on the samisen. Although his own specialty was theatrical music, rather than the lyrical kind that Shunkin played, he told me there was no one alive who could rival her subtlety of tone. And he said that Dambei, who once heard her, lamented that she was not a man, saying: “What a master she would have been on the large samisen!” Did Dambei regret that Shunkin, with all her talent, lacked the strength to play the large theatrical samisen, the noblest of these instruments? Was he, rather, expressing admiration for the masculine vigor of her playing? According to my friend, her tone had the brilliant clarity of a man's. “But it wasn't just a beautiful tone,” he said. “It was so expressive that sometimes she made you want to cry.” She does seem to have been a remarkable performer.

  If Shunkin had been a little more tactful and modest in professional circles she would probably have become a great success. But having been brought up in luxury, ignorant of the problems of earning a living, she behaved so selfishly that other musicians shunned her; her very talent only made more enemies. It was indeed a misfortune, though one largely brought on by herself, that she spent her whole life in obscurity.

  And so Shunkin's pupils were those who were already won over by her artistry, who were obsessed with the idea that she was the only teacher for them, and who came prepared to submit to the most rigorous discipline — even to verbal or physical abuse — for the privilege of studying under her. At that, few put up with it for long. Usually they found that her methods were more than they could bear; the dilettantes among them would quit within a month.

  I suppose that Shunkin's awareness of being a master artist had something to do with the malicious, if not sadistic, punishment she administered. That is to say, because she was known for her cruelty she must have felt that the more she mistreated her pupils, the more she proved her high standing as an artist. Gradually becoming more and more vain, she ended by losing all self-control.

  Shigizawa Teru told me that Shunkin had only a small number of pupils. “Some of them came just because of her good looks,” she said. “That's what drew most of the ones who didn't intend to make a career of it.”

  Beautiful, unmarried, and the daughter of a wealthy family — it is not surprising that she attracted men who were scarcely motivated by a love of music. They say that her severity was partly a means of driving off these pursuers. Ironically enough, her very cruelty seems to have had its attraction. I suspect that even among her serious pupils there were those who found the most intriguing part of their studies to be the strangely pleasurable sensation of being punished by
the beautiful blind woman.

  Now that I come to the second great calamity that befell Shunkin, I regret that, since the Life avoids giving a clear account of it, I cannot be sure why she was injured or who her attacker was. But it seems reasonable to think that she had made an enemy of one of her pupils, and that he retaliated by harming her.

  One incident of possible relevance concerns a young man named Ritaro, the son of a well-to-do grain merchant of Tosabori. Ritaro had long prided himself on his musical ability, and had been taking lessons on the koto and the samisen from Shunkin for some time. Boastful of his father's fortune and accustomed to lord it over others wherever he went, he regarded his fellow pupils with contempt, treating them as if they were his father's shop clerks. Although Shunkin privately disliked him, he gave her such lavish presents that she did her best to be agreeable.

  However, Ritaro began telling everyone that their stern teacher had a weakness for him; and he showed particular scorn for Sasuke, refusing to accept his instruction in Shunkin's place. He became so bold and presumptuous that Shunkin found it hard to put up with him. Early one spring, just as matters were coming to a head, he invited her to a blossom-viewing party in Tengajaya, where his father had built a rustic cottage, set among lovely old plum trees in a quiet garden.