A spring-time case

by Jun'ichiro Tanizaki

JUNICHIRO TANIZAKI, the author of “O-Tsuya Koroshi,” presented here under the title of “A Springtime Case,” is a man just turning the age of forty. His appearance on the literary stage of Japan some eighteen years ago, made with a sensational, because so sudden, burst into fame, and his steady climb since to the pinnacle of a literary career, where he maintains himself to this day, with the unchallenged glory of Phœbus’ own orb,—will preclude argument against singling him out as one of the most popular, and even remarkable, authors of present-day Japan.

He is remarkable for a two-fold reason. First, because his popularity and fame have shown such endurance as rarely seen in this country, where the mind of the people is so fleeting and fickle as the very God of Fortune they are wont to bewail of in their life and literature. A new artist on the stage to fawn upon the smile of the public,—for a moment,—only to slink off as swiftly never to return. Not the fault, perhaps, so much of the artist himself as of the public which is riding upon a tide too fast to catch its breath or pause to scan whither it is bound. It has been swept on into an eddy that occurs where the inexorable in-flow out of the West meets against the thought-current of its own, still flowing on its course with a force out of its many centuries. Under the sway of its own mind divided betwixt a mad rush for the new and a guard over the old, it scarce knows yet where to plant its feet and cast for bearings for the course for its mind to pursue for the future. And the artist who wishes to cull his fortune amidst such existing orders of life, is left all to himself to cast about and make shift for himself the best he knows how; and his judgment proves as often in error as his effort turns out futile. The position Tanizaki has held for a period of nearly two decades with unwaning power, is in itself an eloquent tribute to his own achievement, if the mass is any judge of literary quality.

He is remarkable also for the perspicuity and independence of his mind, which has absorbed the manifold light of the new age only to flash back a light, all its own, that takes in its clearness the colour of all that upon which it falls, in its sweeping flight of imagination, and exalts it with touches of exquisitely variable play and radiant depth. His achievement is the work of a mind wherein the true artist of his race rules with predominant force the domain of beauty over which he has come to hold empire; it is a voice out of the past and a voice to the new, raised in the praise of that romance which his people have treasured since their time-old days. Influence of the Western art which has been accepted by the younger writers of the country only to swamp out their own creative effort, has in his case served to broaden his outlook on life and quicken his appreciation of life, often in such aspects as had had to remain screened from his forbears.

Himself a wide reader of Western literature, a student of Poe, George Moore, Baudelaire, Gautier, Balzac, and other masters, he has always shown a capacity for range and depth; a quality excelled only by his faith in the tenets of the school of which he is the creator. Such influence as he has gleaned out of the West, appears to have been hitched to his vehicle, a servant of his work and purpose, scarcely discernible save in a happy blending with the colourings of his own.

Earlier works of Tanizaki came forth when the literature of his country was passing through the most dismal period in its recent history. Against a school of writers who were desperately holding together against the inroad of new influence, there was a section of younger minds which was daubing in imbecile imitation of the worst that the canons of Continental literature had to offer. The public had turned its back upon this tribe of writers, slow to think and clumsy of hand. It was in those days of the country’s literature at its lowest ebb that Tanizaki stalked forth and proclaimed to set up what he conceived to be new deities in art.

Many of the writers who find themselves to-day in the fore rank of Japan’s literary activity owe their success, directly or indirectly, to the stimulation, and even inspiration in not a few cases, given by Tanizaki’s work; and some of these were amongst those who were the first to rally under the standard hoisted by the new prophet of the hour. Indeed, he is due for a large measure of credit for the new age on which the literature of Japan has now entered with a fair spurt of vigor and a supreme confidence, an age of not a few achievements of intrinsic value, with promises of even greater things for the future. This accrediting is but fair acknowledgment of the work of the writer who has been a decidedly predominant force amongst those helpful in ushering in this new age.

Beyond this, it would perhaps be difficult to go in estimating the position of the writer who is now at the zenith of his career, and has still “so many springs and autumns,” as the native phrase goes, to turn out the work of his maturing mind, as even he continues to do.

Broad of sympathy and versatile of mind, Tanizaki has turned his hand to more than one form of literary work. Scarcely less successful in drama than in novels or tales of smaller scope, it would probably be best to turn to his dramatic work to seek for his expression on life. However, it is in his briefer stories that his artistic self seems more congenial with itself, and certainly more enticingly attractive. The subject of the present translation, chosen from such a point of view, may not be precisely typical of his mind, but typical certainly is it of his art.

A work of a dozen years ago, “O-Tsuya Koroshi” has been followed by products where the author has excelled himself at his own method, where his artist hand created characters of more compelling force, where his imagination has woven tapestries of finer colours,—works of deeper feelings and more polished craftsmanship; yet, amongst such an array of brilliant records, does the present story stand out, for the artistry of its own no less than for the sustaining power of popularity it has displayed. A happier selection of the subject may have been possible for the introduction of the present author abroad; but scarce none, I am almost convinced, wherein to show to better advantage the artist Tanizaki. The plot of the story develops under circumstances that must be those of strange unfamiliarity to the Western reader, and the characters are sometimes concerned with problems that must be of no less peculiarity, if not lacking in a quaint appeal of their own. These are, however, details slightly to be treated, certain not to be an obstruction in following the thread of the narrative, making almost negligible demand on the imagination of the reader.

For the translation itself, many apologies are due, no doubt; but less explanation will be necessary, I trust. If it has not been done with the deftness of one “to the manner born,” of which I am more than convinced, it has at least been kept faithful, so much so as to present the process of thought and the mode of expression in the order it was originally conceived and expressed by the author. The translation in itself is an acknowledged defeat in its purpose, for it falls below the artistic heights attained in the original.