Memoirs of the Warrior Kumagai. Donald Richie
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these were found to be in the Taira manner and became the fashion.
So overweening was this new regard that when Kiyomori took up with a young dancer named Gio, other young dancers began calling themselves by such names as Gini and Gifuku and Gitoku and Gichi. Equally, there was a gradual move of the capital to the east of the city, where stood the Rokuhara, now a palace in itself with a splendid new bridge leading to it. Property around the Kiyomori estate, in particular the Gojō gate, became extremely expensive as the gentry bought to build.
In consequence the western part of the capital, never much, became even more unfashionable. It was here that the beggars found their homes. They swarmed everywhere but were mainly about the temples. Guards had to be posted to protect the faithful in their prayers, since those in need of alms became more and more demanding.
Yet, for those already prosperous, these years of peace were indeed rich times. Money (newly minted, ordered by the new premier) was to be made from almost every enterprise, and the newly rich set about aping their ruler. Here the house of Kiyomori set very high standards. Take, for example, the sudden fad for learning it engendered.
As I remember, it began around the first year of Eiryaku [1160]. Younger officers were encouraged to visit the Imperial Academy and there read the Confucian classics, long moldering in their old Chinese bindings. Few, of course, could, but such is the power of fashion that there shortly appeared an entire race of military scholars whose sole purpose was to make simplified adaptations into the native tongue and to indulge in learned disputation on this arcane point or that.
The officers passed the fad onto their men who shortly memorized a few tag-lines with which they now decorated their observations. From here the craze descended to members of the merchant class. Having soon become learned as well, they in turn passed it on, and eventually even the cooks and postillions could supply a sage quote if so required.
I remember that ladies' letters—I was paying some attention to a daughter of the minor gentry at the time—became almost impossible to read. Due to the cost of paper, they were always crammed with afterthoughts, but they now became even more illegible, since the new learning had to be given a place. Confucian precepts, historical quotations, Chinese poems—the letter would arrive so scribbled over that it would appear entirely black.
Attempting to read one of these indecipherable missives was doubly difficult for me in that I knew no more Chinese characters than did my correspondent. I could read kana script but my rural upbringing and her sex had kept us both from learning the cumbersome kanji When I answered her, I had to go to a common scribe, and perhaps my correspondent was forced to a similar extreme.
I, however, unlike her, could otherwise better my estate. With the rage for learning burning so brightly, it was simple to receive permission for further schooling and easy to find a teacher. I again chose a priest and he was happy to get the money. In return, this elegant personage, much given to aphorism, weekly drilled me in the intricacies of our written language.
Consequently, I could at last finally get through one of those letters of hers in which she elegantly remembered on the back of page two to remind me to honor my parents and observe the laws of society, all in Chinese characters. And I thought how wise of Kiyomori to have insinuated these conservative observations of the venerable Confucius, since, if followed, they made ruling an easier task than it might otherwise have been. Such a thought was mine alone, however. One does not question the naturalness of a new fashion—its very attraction lies in its apparent spontaneity.
There was, however, nothing spontaneous about Kiyomori and the men with whom he now surrounded himself. Everything was nicely calculated. And he who commanded two emperors had small difficulty in ruling a willing and bemused populace.
For so doing he fashioned many tools. One of the most effective was his young cadet corps. This consisted of three hundred boys, all from fourteen to sixteen years old. They had their hair cut in a distinctive bobbed fashioned and they wore a special costume—a quite dazzling shade of purplish-blue elegantly called azure. These lads were the rage of the city, feted, dined, welcomed everywhere, since it was they who in large part created the various diverting fashions that kept everyone agog.
It was well known, of course, that they were also spies and that it was through them that Kiyomori and his court learned of covert happenings in the capital. But it made small difference to the populace that the boys were little tattletales, puffed up with their own importance. And the small spies could also be used for benefit as well. If Kiyomori heard a lot that the merchants would prefer he had not, he also heard much that they wanted him to. Since the Rokuhara lists of preferment were based largely on the reports of the boy-spies, it was merely proper management for merchants and the middle classes to court them and then send them home with messages of exemplary faithfulness and undying fidelity.
We in the army did not take so well to this effective little corps. They were always running about self-importantly in their azure outfits, combining within themselves the sullenness of adolescence and the stupidity of childhood. They were all uncommonly good looking, it is true, but none were to be trusted.
Nor did they much take to us. Hence I was surprised when one of their mentors—all of whom had been pages or red-robed spies themselves—came to the barracks to call upon me. Several years younger than myself—I was then in my later twenties—he looked to be plumply dissipated and seemed to be full of himself.
Though his ostensible purpose was to speak of a minor matter concerning a certain platoon, his questions were so pointless and his methods so circuitous that I soon realized that it was I who was being investigated.
Such had become routine and, as I afterward learned, I was up for a promotion and this always required routine investigation. In the platoon in question was a soldier who was friendly with two of the young men in the retired emperor's imperial guard. Official suspicion of myself was, however, unwarranted. I knew none of the people involved and was, perhaps consequently, promoted.
During our talk, my interlocutor sat there staring at me and fanning his bulk with his fashionable red-lacquer fan. Did I not remember a certain night, the night the Heiji War began? Think now, didn't I remember?
It was little Tamamaru whom I had befriended some dozen years before, now quite unrecognizable. I should never have known him had not some impulse made him tell me. He lowered his eyes, then looked up through his lashes.
If this casual and by me almost forgotten episode was known to Rokuhara, then what, indeed, was not known? Tamamaru had been sent to me because of our casual meeting when we were boys. Though disturbed by the implications of the investigation, I was nonetheless moved by admiration for Premier Kiyomori and his administrative system. He had become truly successful.
* * *
Since I had been in the service of Kiyomori for nearly a decade now, my fortunes had risen with his. From a provincial foot soldier turned troop leader, I became a subaltern and, eventually —my fidelity tested by Tamamaru—I was made lieutenant.
Among the reasons for the appointment was that it was discovered, with some help from myself, that my family had long been firmly Taira. Also, that my imperial-guard grandfather had indeed been forced into suicide by the scheming Fujiwara. Making me officer to the near-imperial Premier Kiyomori was a way of righting ancient wrongs and, at the same time, affirming the benevolence of the current reign.
Further, I had learned to put myself before my superiors, to be always there, always seemingly occupied with my duties. Lord Kiyomori liked his men to be busy, to serve long hours, to prefer to remain on post even when nominally free. Having little otherwise to do, I often stayed behind the others and this after a time attracted admiring notice. I kept my men on an uncomfortably short leash and was obviously dedicated.
The promotion to lieutenant meant more money, a new uniform, increased prestige, and not much more responsibility. It did not, however, increase my popularity with my men. Rather than congratulate me upon my success in my chosen profession, they made yet more jokes about bumpkins in uniform. For this they received welts upon their naked backs and were thus encouraged to slander more quietly. But I never became a popular officer.
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