A spring-time case

by Jun'ichiro Tanizaki

Departures from the original text, which are not so many, have been made only where the translator deemed such to be necessary as inevitable considerations for a right, if not an exact, presentation of the tone conveyed in the Japanese, or where,—and these are few indeed, —a literal translation would result in such ludicrous incongruities as never meant by the author.

In the face of such obvious difficulties, the present undertaking has been pursued, and perhaps, with more or less the proverbial courage of one who treads where the angel dreads, in the conviction that modern Japan, which has forced itself into a worldly recognition in the armed profession, should be weighed for achievement of its mind along some different path, where its passion of a more peaceful sort, though no less strong, and where aspirations of its living mind, are concerned; where its people feel its true honour to be weighing in the balance.

And it is my prayer to the Eight Million Deities that are told to guard over the shores of Japan, that the present work may speed on its way overseas, and, though seen through a filmy screen brought on its face of beauty in the process of recasting in a strange language, may meet with such reception as it merits in those countries where the people have shown themselves so ready with their sympathy in the cases of Hiroshige and Hokusai, of whom Tanizaki, different as the mode may be, chosen for the expression of his artistic soul, is certainly a disciple of no mean distinction.

ZENCHI IWADO.

Kamakura, May, 1927.

AN INTRODUCTION

THE scenes of the present story are laid in the town of Tokyo which in those days was still known as “Yeddo”—a name to-day seldom mentioned save in connection with that period of some two hundred years leading close up to the dawn of the Modern Age of Japan, generally known as the Restoration, when the fine arts and literature of the country, with their centre at Yeddo, reached a state of splendid activity, with few parallels in the history of the country. It were not going too far, in fact, to say that the name of “Yeddo” to-day conjures up a period of peace, with the whole nation glorying in a free and full enjoyment of life, following the dictates of their own hearts and minds, in a complete deliverance of spirit from the black reign of the War God. The nation which had returned to peace some eighty years since, and claimed the rightful heritage of life which had been denied them under war-like conditions prevailing throughout a period of some three hundred years, had by this time developed a civilization quite unique for its romantic fervour. Not a civilization to be considered in terms of “steam whistles and bicycles,” to be sure; but a state of artistic emancipation where the soul of man was honoured and the aspirations of mind exalted. Under the administration of the Shogun Government, the country fared well, and even waxed rich in so far as the welfare of the people was concerned. The piper piped; the people danced. The blade hitherto kept whetted sharp was now allowed to rest rusting in its sheath. The hand hardened in war-like training had now turned to the plough or to the brush and the chisel. Art grew rich and literature advanced. In the age of the Genroku, the new spirit of the country had reached a state of ripened mellowness; its name carries to this day visions of vivid colours and brilliant freedom.

It is back to those times of the “Yeddo” period, deep into the life of that age, that Tanizaki takes us in his present story. If he has treated the subject with a modern touch in some aspects, his canvas is nevertheless done true to the tradition which masters of the age have left in their supreme understanding of colour and line. Tanizaki consistently displays himself an unerring judge of the tools at his service, and is ever sure of the effect to be attained. His colours are striking, if often bold; his lines always forceful, because simple.

The story concerns a great deal with one particular side of Japanese life, as it existed in those days of old, and even continues to this day with but slight changes in certain aspects. It is just the side where the impassive mask of the Japanese stoic is thrust aside in a true enjoyment of life; where the best and sweetest in the Japanese woman is brought forth for the benefit of man. It is a world of the “geisha” which is generally translated as “singing girls,” an epithet so misleading, because whatever vocal talent they may be called upon to display is given not on the stage or in the public, as it suggests, but is given for the entertainment of men who have elected to confine themselves in their private company. Not a community where licensed vice is trafficked; but an institution where the woman’s artistic attainments and wits, no less than her personality, are thrown in direct touch with men within encompassed society,—a system born out of a moral notion that disfavoured open association between men and women.

Here one particular class of girls and women enjoying social freedom in much the same sense as we understand it to-day. So different from their sisters, more honoured but more unfortunate in many points, the geisha are trained in full consciousness of social opportunities, developing such qualities as make their personalties attractively pleasing, and often make possible their own advancement in life marrying into fortune or position. If the men of the country, warped in their view of womanhood by the dictates of certain moral schools, have failed to appreciate their women more fully than they have done in the past, they have here, at least, developed a society of unique arrangement to do more justice to their women, limited though they are in number, and offer them such opportunity as is denied to the ordinary woman. Nor would it be too sweeping a statement to say that much of the best in Japanese womanhood has been brought out only in the girls and women of the geisha class, who are, at the least, the real moving spirit of social life of the country.