Memoirs of the Warrior Kumagai. Donald Richie
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somewhere or other. Often a traveling platoon would present itself at the door and demand to be fed. While eating our millet, they would sometimes tell us of the great things going on in the capital.
I was, of course, wild to join these youthful troops. Though the fish in the streams and the animals in the woods were more real to me than all the grand families of the capital, I knew that merely shooting at the deer with my child's bow would not advance me in the greater world.
Having learned to use a sword, a rusty old blade, its edge long dulled, I already longed to be a soldier and was happiest dueling with the farm children, with their equally cast-off weapons. We would go into the fields and announce ourselves to our opponent, giving name, family, and rank. I, Kumagai Jirō Naozane of the Taira ... I can still hear my adolescent voice. Then the farmer's boy would invent some name for himself and after such formality we would begin hacking away at each other.
That was the way men fought back in the old days. It was formal. One knew whom one was fighting. Not like now—masses of men milling anonymously about. To be certain, this formality was exercised only by the leaders, grand warriors all. Nowadays, when there are so many grand warriors, they no longer have the time for such lengthy preambles.
Back then no soldier—not even an officer—was considered grand. Rather, these new soldiers were all despised. They were thought to be useful only for settling land disputes and keeping order in the provinces. The imperial house was perhaps grateful for their protection, but the Fujiwara regents held the new soldiery in disdain.
Nobles and Fujiwara leaders alike used this new military then as we use servants now, with the difference that we order our good domestics carefully while back then the artistocracy exerised no care at all. They simply sent their soldiery into small and local battles where they were eventually butchered, and the roads made safe for the tax collectors. These warriors were, after all, only simple boys who merely hoped for spoil and, like myself, an escape from the farm.
How different now—a mere lifetime away. The warriors' estate is high indeed. There are ranks, and ranks within those ranks. There is protocol and something of an imitation-of-court ceremony. The peasant's son is now a high-ranking officer and has learned to use the new recruits as he himself was once used. And there is a rise in prestige as well. The warrior is now truly grand and even the rich merchants are in awe. Different indeed from the scruffy lot that first shuffled into the capital.
All this occurred during my time, one that destroyed a world and created another. Two strong military clans—the Taira and the Minamoto—each holding some claim to authority, finally turned against each other, and it was during these years that I played my part and attempted to rise in this world—I who as a boy had once stood in the paddy and called out: I, Kumagai Naozane of the Taira. . . .
* * *
Perhaps I should here say some words about myself and my character. I was born with good health and was blessed with a strong constitution which has not, until recently, failed me. I am of middling height and middling appearance and am unexceptional in most things.
In one, however, I am not. I have a temper, which I frequently lose, and doing so has lost me a number of advantages that ought to have been mine. It has consistently worked against my best interests.
My best interests are devoted to making a career for myself in climbing to the top of my chosen profession. That I have now had several—farmer, soldier, lay priest—would indicate perhaps that my success has been partial. Indeed, I so regard it. However, as my deposition indicates, I still attempt to reach the top. My aim right now is to get to the highest paradise.
This life of striving has, I must admit, been questioned. Hōnen, my mentor in matters religious, himself wondered why the opinion of the world should mean so much to me. He thought, you see, that my aiming at eminence was to ensure regard. It is not, however, the opinion of the world that matters to me. Rather, it is my opinion of myself. And it is with this that my famous temper interferes.
It—and another weakness. I am all too often able to look behind or beyond the proffered motive, able to see the other side. This makes me needlessly question. It may also lead to a kind of fellow feeling—a sentiment continually curbing my advantages. Try as I have to reform my character I have not been able to do so. It is the stubborn beast, a mind of its own, upon which I am forced to ride.
And finally, to end this list of afflictions, there is a regard for truth which will not be subdued, no matter how I try. An example of this is the dilemma I experience when I find myself credited with the head of Atsumori. Truly, I took it, and the fact is noted in the military lists. My argument is that I do not wish to see myself regarded as a villain—although one who, according to rumor, attempted a kind of restitution. I am not a bad man— in fact, I am a worthwhile one, and I desire to be known as such. At the same time, however, rumor gets the matter wrong and it is this which upsets me, even though getting the manner right would perhaps go against my best interests.
This is what I am like, always working against my true aims in this life. Having ruined my chances for the military life, I am sitting here plotting the ruin of an ecclesiastical career as well. For in these times, to be discovered writing so plainly of the past, as I intend to, would result in serious censure.
Yet here I sit, scribbling away, and for the most paltry and impractical of reasons. I want to make some sense of this past, and of myself; and I want to tell the truth. Is this not ridiculous? But, then, I am like that.
And now I have dwelt enough upon the sage person I have become. Let me return to the unformed youth that I was.
* * *
After a number of such military visits—bands of warriors on the road—we in the provinces understood that both the Taira and the Minamoto were gathering troops and that something important was about to occur.
Something did—a war. It began in the first year of the Hōgen era [1156] in the autumn. To it went my fencing instructor, an excellent man named Kurō. He was accepted by the Minamoto to train recruits. Having long looked with envy at the passing soldiery, fine youngsters off to make their fortunes in the world, I took advantage of Kurō's going to join him.
My adoptive uncle, Naomitsu, had no objection; indeed, he was pleased to see his expensive little charge go off. And so, one ripe day in early autumn I set out with a sword but no mount, walking the curving country road between the orchards of glowing persimmons, on to where I had never before been.
The road led to the Minamoto encampment, the only one in our part of the country. There I joined Kurō and made myself useful. It might now be thought strange that a Taira boy should attach himself to a Minamoto camp, but back then we did not yet know that the two clans would finally seek to destroy each other. Rather, we saw our families as united in seeking to protect the imperial house from the rapacity of the Fujiwara regents. It was thus not unusual for brothers to attach themselves to these different houses, or for father and son to join their respective troops only shortly to find themselves on opposite sides.
Clan loyalty was, unlike now, unimportant. Opportunity was what counted. If, as one strode into the capital to defend his imperial majesty, one could attach oneself to a rising officer— no matter his clan—then one's fortune was made. Thus, I saw that becoming a soldier under a Minamoto officer was of practical value. At the same time, however, this customary lack of family loyalty led to complications.
My own commander, Minamoto Yoshitomo, was the only member of his family who had close relations with the Taira. These he was later to demonstrate when, during the Hōgen War, he was the only Minamoto to side with Taira no Kiyomori. Consequently, in order to protect the emperor, Yoshitomo (as we will see) besieged the imperial palace at the very time that his own father and brother were defending it.
Though I too, through Kurō's influence, found a place in Yoshitomo's ranks, I was too young and too low ever to move close to our leader. He was then in his early thirties and going about his business with that air of earnest preoccupation, which I now recognize as a family trait. Nonetheless, I thought him a great man (since my own fortunes were now so attached to his) and longed to prove myself of worth. I followed him about with shining eyes.