A spring-time case

by Jun'ichiro Tanizaki

“What am I to do with my baby boy? Can’t you see how deeply in love I am with you? It doesn’t seem possible that I should ever think of another man, does it? If I were to suit you like that, I might as well kiss a good-bye to my business.” She would invariably dismiss it as if his case merited little more than a flippant laugh.

However, the case of the woman who was oft late to come home had to go still farther. For, now she would fail sometimes to return before the morning, keeping him awake all night long. In face of anything he might say from his mistrustful mind in such events, she would remain in supreme composure, unembarrassed. “There are so many turns and twists to the geisha’s business, and she must be wise to them if she expects to do well. Especially, when she has irons in the fire, it is more than likely that she should have to act,—and act in many foolish ways; sometimes, pretending she’s too drunk to hear the man or to wait on his pleasure, and sometimes, she has to keep this make-believe up until the next morning. It’s all part of her game, and a girl who isn’t capable of that gets the worst of it, to say nothing of fleecing a billy lamb.” This she would hold forth in her effort to confirm her faith with him and the chastity of her conduct. A man of an unsuspecting, frank turn of mind, though with gruesome records against him now, Shinsuké had scarcely initiated himself into the inner knowledge of that peculiar world of the geisha which, for all appearances to the contrary, was really bound fast to an accepted code of honour. What he knew of the geisha or the world she lived in was through Tsuya only. For all his occasional fits of jealousy, therefore, he would always end by his complacent acceptance of her reassurance.

It began to seem that Tsuya stayed out over night more frequently. What was more strange, she never came back from such absences but that she was ready with a full account for the night, going, as she had never done before, into such length and detail in offering her explanation, all the while her bearing betrayed a restive, uneasy mind. One who was of a suspicious bent might have laid to her charge that hers was the manner of one trying to keep to the self a happiness that was almost too uncontrollable.

One night she came back in a very bad condition, leaning against the shoulder of a guest who escorted her to the house door.

“Shin san, this is the gentleman who’s been very good to me, the best master I have in business now. He is not quite a stranger to you, either. Now, come out and make up with the gentleman for what’s gone before,—and thank him much for me!”

There lurked in her tone a trace of a note that was spiteful. The man who was announced as her master was the same Ashizawa, the officer, who was remembered for his deadly fight with the late Tokubey. The impression Shinsuké had carried away from what little was seen of him on that night, was but confirmed now that he was brought face to face with the officer, a man in proper attire of the honoured class, handsome features in lines of refined delicacy, an air of dignity about him that graced his profession and compelled respect of others. “So, this might be the man in the case—” Shinsuké thought instinctively.

“Shinsuké, my greetings and my wish to you that we should consign our memory of that night to the stream of oblivion, and we should be agreeable with one another. You shall be a welcome guest at my country villa of Terashima-mura, and you should accept my invitation when you are so disposed.” And Ashizawa’s thin lips, associable with sharp wits, curled in a slight smile of benevolence. He was seen in a condition scarce better than his escort.

Whilst the flames of jealous anger were consuming him, Shinsuké thought he should hold himself in check and silence, until he should fall upon conclusive proof. Imprudent charge would but give her a chance to make him ridiculous. He was now bent upon catching her red-handed. After continuing his work for one month,—secretly tracing her moves every night, gathering gossip from tea-houses through bribing young ones serving in Tsuya’s employment, Shinsuké was able to confirm himself that he had not erred greatly in his first surmise. However, all that he had procured so far was naught but indirect information that had taken him little way beyond where he was at the start; he had worked in vain to grasp such a chance as he needed. Tsuya, so sure of her own self and of his docile mind, would never fail, on her return from calls, to carry it off, on each occasion, with superb confidence, glib of tongue and full of the memories of people and places that were conspicuous for their absence. She would freely talk of this master and that guest, comment now on one tea-house and again on another; but her time was really spent only in the company of Ashizawa. As Shinsuké began to see it through the veil she meant to draw over his eyes, exasperating because done with self-confidence that was well-nigh a taunt, Shinsuké found himself yielding to the passions of his outraged heart, until he could bear the situation no longer. In the evening of the third day of the New Year, though acting on such weak evidence as he had as a result of his investigation, he brought her to confront the shafts of his examination.

“Now that you speak of it, I might as well tell you. I see you are improving, though perhaps you don’t know it;—you haven’t lived all this time with me for nothing—”

Where he had anticipated a downright denial, she flung her retort straight to his face. Her eyes were vivid with stinging scorn, as she went on—